#so i wrote a little angst

[stariiiize]

imagine, one day, just looking at yourself in the mirror and feeling so happy.

you’re not the prettiest, you know that, but you’re happy.

you don’t have the curves or the hourglass body, but you’re happy.

you don’t have a flat stomach, but you’re happy.

you don’t have a thigh gap, but you’re happy.

and you slowly start to realize,

you don’t have a lot of friends, but you’re happy.

not everyone likes you, but you’re happy.

you’re not the smartest, but you’re happy.

you don’t talk a lot, but you’re happy.

you’re not socially active, but you’re happy.

you’re not perfect, but you’re happy.

that day might not be today but you’ll get there, i know you will.

there will be a day in your life where you’ll be happy with yourself.

happy with the way you look, happy with the way you act, just happy with your life.

that day might not be today but it’ll come.

[edgeray]

Arlecchino is a cold person.

(Arlecchino x Reader Blurb)

It's no suprise to anyone. It is simply an objective fact of the matter. She is aware of this. The House of the Hearth is aware of this. The Fatui are aware of this. It's ironic given the nature of her vision, but it nonetheless rings true despite the fire she possesses on her blackened fingertips. She is callous and curt, and underneath her skin there is nothing except frigid ice that envelopes her being like a fitted coat. She speaks with no warmth, acts with the absence of heat, exists in a constant state of cold emptiness--a state in which there is a void inside of her, as if sucking all that is human of her.

Years ago, when she was just a child of the same orphanage she headed, she had naive thoughts of finding companionship, someone who would provide the warmth she sought on lonesome nights. She was barely just an adolescent who dreamed of lying in someone's arms, feel the heartbeat of another so surely, it would remind her that she was indeed alive. For even the briefest of moments, she yearned for someone who would, if not shield, then distract her from the cruelties of this world. She had shed those foolish wishes aside. In the House of the Heart that she was raised in, such notions were admonished, in fact, the wishful thinking was one of the reasons she had nearly lost her life. Never again, she had promised to herself, when she mercilessly beat the backstabber. It was then that she believed when the time came, her tale would end the same way as it began for her: alone. As the years of being a Fatui, then becoming a Fatui Harbinger, hardened her, there was comfort in that view.

That is what she believed in. Until you came.

Iciness wraps her being. It is present in her expression, in her words, in her touch. But that is exactly why she finds solace in your being. Her vision could only grant her a synthetic flame, but, you, you're an everlasting hearth. She melts in your embrace every time she slots herself in your arms, as it feels like a kindling ignited in her heart. It is only with you, that she learns how warmth can be found in.

Arlecchino is a cold person.

It is why you, as a warm one, is perfect for her. You whisk away the most depraved thoughts, ease her of any emotional and mental turmoil, and you do not treat her with the same coldness as the world seems so fond of doing to her. You are her flame, the one that sparks her being and reminds her that she is alive because her heart beats with you, beats for you.

Except you are cold now. It is unfathomable to her how you can be this way when your entire being exists to warm her, but when she touches your skin, you are unbearably frozen. Your body does not tremble like it does when her clawed fingers ever so gently trace your skin. The corner of your lips doesn't quirk up into the usual small smile of yours when she appears in your sight, but they remain ever rigid like the rest of you. Uncharacteristically, your expression doesn't soften with her presence.

You are cold, just like her. And that makes her afraid. Her hand searches for it, prodding your skin for a familiar thumping that is nowhere to be found. You continue to stare at her, unblinking. Here would be the moment where you give her a beaming smirk and you'd cup her face tenderly as if she was glass. And she would let you, because you are her beloved, who has watched her shatter so many times before and wordlessly each shard back together, and it is for that reason that she would lean closer towards your touch.

Because you lie broken in her arms and her hands are stained again with the familiar color of red. Your eyes are glossy and gaze unblinkingly at her. Frozen. Even when you are covered in your blood, you are beautiful, she notes, but oh, so cold that it makes her doubt if you were warm to begin with.

She misses your warmth. Where has it gone? Or has it died along with you?

Her hearth is gone. And as she clings onto your form, her body wracking with a fear and desperation she's never known before, two revelations come to her: that there is no such thing as an everlasting fire, and even after so many years ago, she was right along.

Arlecchino is a cold person. And she will remain always cold.

[lees-chaotic-brain]

bakugou katsuki who isn't a stranger to death due to the nature of his job is at a loss when faced with the death of your father.

after all the deaths in the war you both were suffering, so he was able to share your pain as you comforted each other. after a civilian died on his watch for the first time he came home and allowed himself to fall into your arms as you comforted him. the first time a civilian died on your watch he cooked you a warm meal and told you that some things are out of your control, and it doesn't make you any less of a hero.

he'd like to think he knows death and grief well enough to do something. he'd like to think he knows you well enough to know what to do. but in the face of your insurmountable grief, one that shoves you to the ground and slowly chokes out your will to live, he's lost.

you don't speak for days, just isolating yourself in your room and refusing to eat. it scares him. he knows how to deal with your depressive episodes, but this goes far deeper than an episode.

so he tells you he's there for you, and worries from a distance. days pass, and finally you emerge. standing under the fluorescent lights of your kitchen you finally allow yourself to cry, the force of your tears knocking you to your knees.

he kneels before you and allows you to sob into his chest as you ask if it's always going to hurt this bad, if the grief is always going to be this overwhelming, how you're supposed to move on after losing the only person who supported you since the day you were born.

he doesn't have answers for the first two, but for the last one he tells you what he's heard others say. "for now, you cry. you let yourself grieve. then you take it one day at a time, and let me be there for you when it feels like too much."

they're simple words, but they seem to comfort you a bit. crying into the comfort of his strong embrace, you allow him to hold you up as he sheds a few tears of his own in the face of your pain. he swears, he'll be there for you through it all.

[phantom-of-the-501st]

I'm Sorry

Echo has a lot of things he wants to tell his brother

Tags: @saturn-sends-hugs @inkstainedhandswithrings @the-bi-space-ace @floundrickthewayfarer

You broke your promise.

I trusted you and you broke it. But I guess I broke mine too. I said I'd never leave you. I'm sorry. I get angry at you sometimes, for leaving. I know it wasn't your fault. But you promised me that we'd be together 'til the end and yet you're not here.

I feel bad. I feel bad whenever I get mad at you. It wasn't your fault. And it's hypocritical of me. I left first. And I guess maybe you didn't break anything. You didn't leave me because there was no me left to leave. But I'm still angry. I came back and you weren't there. You left and you took a piece of me with you. I've never been whole since and I get so angry at you because of it. You vex me. You infuriate me. And I hate you for it. And I'm sorry. Because it was never your fault. I wish I could apologise to you but I can't. You're not here. But I'll keep saying I'm sorry. I'll store every apology until I can give them to you. Every single one. We'll make a trade. I give you every "I'm sorry" and you give me that piece of me back. Make me whole again.

I think about you. I think about you all the time. You're not here and yet I can never escape you. I see your sadness in the rain, your happiness in the sunlight between the trees, your anger in the lightning and your laughter in the wind. I see your frustration in the growing tide, your peace in the flowers in the meadows, and that twinkle in your eye reflected in the stars. I see you everywhere and yet I can't see you at all.

The others asked why I never grew my beard out. I said it was because it was too much of a bother to maintain. I lied. It's because I can't bear to see your face every time I look in the mirror, or at my own reflection in a pool of water. You haunt me. Every moment of every day, you haunt me. I hear one of our brothers laugh and I turn expecting to see you. Every time someone walks through the door I hope that I'll see that stupid tattoo of yours again, or that smug look on your face. But it's never you. It never will be.

Remember Rishi? I think about it often. Is it a bad thing that it doesn't hurt as much? We lost our whole squad but it doesn't feel the same. It hurt but we healed, we got better and it makes me sad but I'm okay. At least, just a little bit. But you? I don't know how I'll recover from that. You were my other half and now you're gone. The boys left a hole that could be fixed but you took a part of me with you and never came back.

I wasn't even there when it happened. He was. Sometimes I feel like I remind him of you and that hurts. Maybe I don't have the right to feel bad about this. It was a war. We made stupid promises and I broke mine first. I have no right to be mad at you for breaking yours when you couldn't control it. He was there. He held you as it happened. And he still doesn't get angry at you. He's a better man than me but he always was. He's a better man than all of us. Maybe he would have been happier with you here but there's not much we can do about that now is there?

People say that death is the worst thing in the world. Is it? Does it feel worse than this? I can't imagine it. I feel like my soul has been ripped from my body, like my lungs have been filled with lead. My heart burns with an immortal fire and yet I feel cold. I feel so cold.

You were my warmth. And you left.

She has the same laugh as you. I don't know how. I can't explain it but she does. And a twinkle in her eye. It's not yours but it reminds me of you. She would have loved you. And you her. I wish you could have met. Our younger sister. Our older younger sister. It's strange but when did life ever make sense? I ache knowing she'll never get to meet you. That you'll never know the joy that she brings. She glued a part of me together. Started picking up the shards and putting them back in place. I love her for that. I love all of them for that. For helping to hold me together, just a little bit.

But they'll never make me whole because you still have that piece of me with you.

We always joked about getting old, made bets on who would get grey hairs first, who would need a cane or glasses that hung on a chain around their neck. I always said it was you. You were the oldest. And yet I look in the mirror now and I'm the one who got there first. Not the cane, nor the glasses mind you, but the hair definitely changed. I watched each one. Each silver strand. Every one reminds me that I got here before you. And that you'll never get here. You broke your promise. And you won the bet. And I hate you for it.

I hate you so much for leaving and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

You never wanted to hurt me and yet you broke me. I'm in pieces because of you.

And I'm so sorry, Fives.

[43sol]

i can finally go back into the tiger and bunny tag ヽ(*。>Д<)o゜

[tojisun]

on losing dogs

: mamaguro’s named here again (it’s kaori - adopted from an old fic); just a small vent

you saw her before she saw you two and you knew right away that that’s toji’s ex-wife. she was truly beautiful like what everyone had said.

(“of course you’re beautiful too. it’s just, you know, in a different way,” toji’s friends would assure you but they’ve always shared pointed looks at each other after every confession. you chose to ignore it then, thinking that they’re just being asses like what toji said. but even sleazy jokes ring truths.)

toji marched on towards her without questions, his hand slipping from yours as you neared his ex-wife. still, he was walking along your stride and that had been a relief for you. he didn’t leave you to trudge along, at least, so you batted away the curling paranoia sitting in the pit of your stomach.

“kaori, hey,” toji greeted, his voice gentle and soft, before pulling her into an embrace.

“toji!” she cheered, her face crinkling in delight. she burrowed in his arms, rubbing her cheek on toji’s chest as toji’s body covered her petite figure.

they painted a picture of a perfect couple: sharp jaw mellowed by round cheeks, callused hands cradled in dewy palms. you felt like an intruder. an outsider.

the badge of being toji’s “new beau” that you were stamped with felt like a lie. you felt like nothing of toji’s as you stood there beside them.

when they parted, arms still linked, you watched as they gazed into each others eyes, and saw mirrors of longing looking at each other. but, still, you were in denial. because toji brought you with him, so that must mean something, didn’t it? you told yourself that you were just seeing things that weren’t there; that you were so used to being thrown away that you were projecting these onto toji.

you breathed in, trying to calm your panicked heart. it did so little.

“i’m so glad you’re here!” kaori said. “come, someone misses you- oh. who are you?”

the question startled you and your eyes flicked up, your throat going dry as they both turned to you. there was a flicker of emotion in toji’s eyes before he stepped out of his ex-wife’s arms and stood in the space between you and her.

not beside you, you noticed.

“i’m y/n,” you said, smiling as you offered your hand to kaori’s. “toji’s g-”

“friend,” toji interrupted. you blinked, your body freezing as the pit in your stomach exploded in ice, the paranoia now a screaming anguished cries of betrayal.

kaori’s eyes cleared, her smile getting its warmth back, before she reached out to shake your hand. “nice to meet you, y/n,” she said, voice kind and soft and polite. but your ears were still ringing of toji’s words.

you turned to toji, confused and hurt (there was so much hurt in you), but toji kept his eyes on her.

you cleared your throat. “nice to meet you too,” you said, feeling helpless.

kaori let go, her hands clasping behind her. “you wouldn’t mind me stealing toji, would you? we’re just going to meet family.”

family, she said like toji is still hers.

you shook your head, not trusting your words.

“great!” she cheered before turning to toji, her arm linking with his. toji still did not meet your eyes as they walked away, something that was so symbolic and yet so apparently truthful.

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

Maybe instead of getting better after Starcourt, instead of healing and mending that which has been broken, Billy just gets worse.

There’s no more playful grins behind cigarettes or keg stands held in good fun. No more speeding down empty backroads or engines revving in parking lots. He gets quiet, and that’s the scary part.

Because as soon as someone presses him to talk, he gets mean.

He outright says no when he’s asked to keep an eye on Max, because there are no repercussions anymore — his wounds from the “fire” haven’t healed just yet, and if he shows up in the hospital with new bruises over freshly cracked ribs, the doctors will suspect something.

So the most he gets is a glare from Neil and a stern do it or else.

And Billy, a believer of malicious compliance, picks himself up a walkie-talkie. Does whatever the fuck he wants while the thing sits on his dresser.

If any voices come through, he shuts it off, or at the very least tunes it to a channel that only he and Max use.

She knows better than to use it.

Things between them aren’t any less tense than before, but it’s different now. Now he knows.

So the playing field is even.

He doesn’t meddle in Max’s business, who she hangs around, and Max doesn’t burden him with asking for rides and things alike. Not that he could really do much with his car sitting in the junkyard — Harrington has taken over the task of chauffeur anyway.

Harrington, who apparently also picked himself up a walkie-talkie.

And who somehow managed to learn about Billy and Max’s private channel.

“Hargrove? You there?”

The voice is staticky over the radio, but not out of range. After the brief moment of shock passes, Billy rolls his eyes at the thought of Harrington parked down the block, sitting behind the wheel of his Beamer listening intently for a response.

Rather than reach over to his nightstand, Billy rolls over to face the wall.

His sheets have become more of a nest as of late. Gathered around him in piles because he prefers the chill on his skin to sweating beneath scratchy blankets.

He hasn’t changed the bedding in weeks. Hasn’t opened the blinds or really even left his room at all this summer — the pool has likely already filled his position. Not that he’d be going back any sooner than a year or two from now.

If he ever feels comfortable taking his shirt off again.

“Billy? Look, I know you’re there, man. Max said that this was the channel to reach you on, and—“

Billy snatches the walkie-talkie and holds the button down.

“Go fuck yourself. Over.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then static pours through. Likely the air conditioning in Harrington’s car.

“Touchy,” he tuts. Exhales a heavy sigh and blows a raspberry. “Don’t always have to be such a dick, y’know.”

“Being a dick isn’t something all of us have to try at, rich boy, so put your shit in gear and get off my block.”

There’s another brief pause.

“How’d you know I was in your neighborhood?”

“Walkies don’t work out-of-range, fuckhead.”

“Damn, okay,” Harrington huffs. “Sue me for wondering how you were doing.”

Wondering how I’m doing?

“Wondering how I’m doing?” Billy repeats.

He stares up at the ceiling, brows pinched together.

“Yeah? Y’know, like checking up on you?”

“Why?”

For months, Billy has done nothing but rot in his bed. Too sore to move, too short-fused to bother talking about it.

Too guilty to open any of the get-well-soon cards that he’s received.

Among the poorly-addressed ones with crayon scribbles from his former swimming students, he recalls one almost equally as poorly-addressed dawning the signature Steve Harrington at the bottom.

It was the only envelope he’d bothered to open. Practically had to rip it up with his teeth because of the lack of dexterity in his fingers, though, he never worked up the nerve to dial the number scrawled at the bottom.

Harrington scoffs over the channel.

“It’s like you’ve died or something, man. It’s worrying.”

Disregarding the flush spreading across his cheeks, Billy rolls his eyes and spreads out more atop his comforter.

“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you just ask Max?”

“If she answered my questions, do you think I’d be on this channel right now?”

Billy presses his lips into a line.

He knows he hasn’t been the best brother. Quite the opposite, actually.

But it still aches to learn that Max apparently refuses to so much as talk about him. Makes his limbs sink deeper into the mattress like gravity has doubled down on him.

Makes him want to shut his walkie off and never turn it back on.

“Well, you’re a few months too late on your check-up, Harrington,” Billy rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head at the sound of his own voice coming out so wet and pathetic. “Walking corpse at this point.”

A beat of silence persists. Then the static comes through again.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I have a therapist that already doesn’t help, thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Harrington trails off. He holds the talk button down for a long beat, absently tapping his fingers against the door panel in his car. Then, he sighs. “Is it okay if I use this channel again?”

Billy’s vision blurs and he sniffles. Thankful that it can’t be heard by anyone but himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes with it.

And that’s how Billy’s radio goes from being dead silent to constantly filling his room with chatter.

It helps and it hinders all at once.

Billy smiles for what feels like the first time in over a year, and laughs, even. But each time Harrington tells a little joke or giggles over the channel, Billy’s heart starts to ache more deeply.

It opens up old wounds.

He feels like Neil knows, somehow, when they’re both in the kitchen together. Accompanied by nothing but silence.

Neil asks if he can babysit for the weekend, and Billy drops the mug that was in his hand with a shaky wrist, fearing an entirely different question that doesn’t even get asked.

When Neil would normally berate him, he simply watches the way that Billy flexes his fingers. The way that he makes a weak fist, unable to straighten his fingers completely once he relaxes them, and his brows pinch in mild worry.

“Still havin’ trouble?” Neil asks.

His voice is gentle enough that Billy’s eyes well with tears as he nods. Bites his lip to keep it from wobbling.

Neil pulls him into a hug and Billy sobs into his shoulder. Not because of the pain or disability, but because he thinks he’s let a hint of love creep back into his life after all this time.

Which should be a good thing.

For once, Billy agrees to watching Max, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to snark back right now. Neil pats his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Asks if he’s sure, like it’d be no issue at all for him and Susan to cancel their weekend plans.

Billy can’t help that he huffs a laugh. Can’t help that it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

Why be accommodating now, after a lifetime of neglect and maltreatment? He shakes his head to himself, and his expression must give his thoughts away.

Neil digs his thumb hard into his shoulder, earning a stifled whimper and another influx of tears.

Billy cleans up the broken mug and wipes the liquid away from the floor by himself, knelt on his achy knees while he’s watched like a hawk from the doorway. Like he might shove the glass under the counter if he’s left unsupervised for even a second.

Over the weekend while their folks are away, Billy takes Max out to pick up a couple of movies and get a few snacks with Susan’s car.

Since he so scarcely leaves the house, he turns a few heads when people recognize him.

None so much as Harrington, who gawks at him from behind the fucking desk at Family Video. Billy glares hard at Max when she smirks at him before disappearing to the horror section.

The brunet is a bit more rugged than Billy recalls. Has a stronger jawline and more hair. Lots more hair.

It makes Billy feel especially pathetic, draped in a t-shirt that used to fit his figure well, but now swallows him more than anything.

That heavy feeling droops his shoulders down. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away nonchalantly when Harrington abandons his station, leaving Buckley behind the counter floundering at the register.

“Look who’s out ‘n about,” Harrington chuckles. He has no issue reaching out and setting his hands on Billy’s biceps, moving close as if to inspect him. “Have I always been this much taller than you?”

Billy flushes red and straightens his posture. Brings himself back up to eye-level, which spurs a dull pain in his spine. He must not do well in terms of hiding it, because the brunet’s brows furrow.

“Do you wanna sit down?”

Rather than respond right away, Billy huffs and waves Harrington off of him. Shoots Max another glare when he spies her watching the exchange from behind a shelf.

“All I fuckin’ do is sit,” Billy grumbles. “If I knew I was gonna get a pity parade I would’a just sent the shitbird in.”

Harrington nods to himself. Takes half a step back and smiles.

“Alright with standing, then. Got it.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes never leaving Billy for even a second. “Your hair’s grown out a lot.”

His gaze is a fond one. Like they aren’t in public right now. Like Billy is his damn girlfriend on prom night, and he’s seeing the gown for the first time.

Billy shrugs. Absently toys with one of the curls that dangles over his collar bone.

That weird pit is back in his stomach. The one that leaves him crying in the dark when Harrington signs off after hours of chatting about everything and nothing at once.

Billy wonders where he parks his car when they talk for that long. If he’s right outside or in the deep quiet of the woods, where the stars can really be seen and the train shakes the ground.

He’d rather Steve just climb through his window.

“I like it,” Steve adds. Nudges Billy’s elbow with his own. “It’s a soft look. Fits you really well.”

“Are you this nice to all the girls that come in here, or just the ones you wanna pork?” Billy teases.

Steve laughs, and it sounds so much better in person. Billy wants nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.

Before the brunet can come back with a snide little joke of his own, Max meanders up to them. Holds up a few tapes for Billy to approve. Without really looking them over, he hands her the cash, and they all move back to the register together.

Steve rings them up. Max pays. Everything is so much slower than it should be going, like he’s trying to prolong the encounter as much as he can.

Billy understands the feeling.

When Steve slides Max the receipt, he’s less smiley. Billy turns to face the door, but doesn’t miss the way that Max nabs a pen and scrawls something on the slip of paper before sliding it back towards Steve.

Billy decides not to pry. Fears that if he asks, he’ll find that it’s some secret nerd shit that he can’t be privy to.

Fears that the heavy feeling will bear down on him again.

He doesn’t have to ask, turns out. The phone rings later that night, and Billy’s blood pressure spikes when Steve’s voice pours over the line.

“You should come out more often,” he says easily. “Really need some sun.”

Billy just tsks. They wind up sitting on the line for a little under half an hour. Billy wishes it lasted longer.

But he’d rather not explain the minutes away when his father shows him the phone bill.

Just before they hang up, after giggling at each other nearly the entire time, Billy barks out, “Don’t call here again.”

Then he hangs up.

Steve, naturally, gets on the radio not a few seconds later. Giggles and says, “Okay, dick. You can call me from now on.”

They stay up for practically the rest of the night talking.

Billy stares up at the ceiling and wonders how long this little thing between them will last.

He starts to question it more when Steve actually, by some miracle, convinces him to come out a handful of times.

The brunet is really touchy. Always has an arm around Billy’s shoulders or a hand on his back, and constantly bumps their knees together when they’re sitting down. Billy feels stupid for wanting more.

Why, he doesn’t know, because he’s fairly certain that he could ask for anything at this point.

Steve never calls again and that’s okay.

Billy prefers hearing whispers over the radio anyway.

It’s one evening in particular that Max is out of the house for the night, away at the Chief’s place for a sleepover, that the pit in Billy’s stomach turns into a black hole.

Steve has been ranting about his manager for the last half hour, only stopping to mention how a movie cover reminded him of Billy. How he couldn’t even wait to get home before he turned his radio on and pressed to talk to him.

The black hole consumes Billy before he can catch the words leaving his mouth.

“Do you like me?” he hears himself ask.

His voice gets choked up, and the second he lifts his finger off of the button, he rolls over and screams into his pillow. Quiet enough that Neil and Susan won’t hear, but hard enough to let a fraction of the tension out.

“Obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be friends with you?”

Billy presses his face harder into the pillow.

He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Feel the blistering heat of fresh tears and the throb in his temples as he huffs a strangled sigh into the pillow. Before he can even decide between turning the walkie off or fabricating a response, static pours through.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, he means do you have feelings for him,” Max groans.

There’s a beat of silence.

“What? Rea—“

“What the fuck are you doing on this channel?” Billy interrupts.

He can feel the veins in his neck straining from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Can practically see red when giggles pour through the radio.

A red hot flush of shame paints Billy’s face when he realizes that Eleven is listening in too.

“What are you still doing on this channel? If you didn’t want us to eavesdrop, you should’ve switched forever ago.”

“How long have you been listening to us talk?” There’s a beat of silence. Billy huffs. “Max. How long?”

“How long have you and Steve been talking?” Max asks.

Her rhetorical question is accompanied by giggles that are cut off when she lifts her finger from the button.

There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then two.

Billy’s vision blurs as he sets his walkie down on his nightstand. The cold fingers of embarrassment wrap around him and drag him down, lower than he’s ever been drug before.

He’s ruined everything.

His sister not only hates him, but she knows about him now, and the only guy he’s ever let himself truly like is going to want nothing more to do with him after this.

Not for the first time since Starcourt, he wishes that monster had killed him.

“Billy?” Steve asks gently. When there’s no response, he sighs. “Look, we can figure out the channel thing some other time, but… was she right? Is that what you were trying to ask me?”

Silence. Then, giggles.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Max teases.

“Radio silence,” Steve snaps. “Now.”

His tone is stern. Brotherly in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t, really.

“Signing off…” Max says dejectedly.

Astonishingly, the channel falls silent. Billy sniffles as he reaches over to paw at his nightstand, curling his fingers weakly around the radio.

He doesn’t press the button. Tries to swallow his silent sobs in a failed attempt to compose himself first.

“Billy?” Steve coos, voice much softer now. “If you don’t wanna talk over the radio, that’s fine, but—“

“Yes,” Billy rasps.

A beat of silence.

“Yes?”

“She was right.”

Billy winces at how broken his voice sounds. A whistle pours through the radio.

“Oh, man,” Steve chuckles, and Billy’s heart sinks. “The boy of my dreams wants to know if I have feelings for him? Are you dense?”

There’s a crisp millisecond of confusion before Billy presses the button.

“What?”

“Of course I like you, dude.”

Billy inhales like he just resurfaced for air for the first time in years.

“Why?” he breathes.

“You’re funny, smart, surprisingly sweet, and pretty easy on the eyes. Just for starters.”

If his heart was thumping fast before, it’s going light-speed now. All he can do for a few beats is focus on controlling his breathing.

“You don’t like me,” he murmurs. “Trust me, Steve, I’m fucked up.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up.” Steve hums a laugh to himself. “And I do like you. You’re not gonna be changing my mind about it anytime soon.”

“What if I told you to go fuck yourself?”

“I’d tell you that you don’t always have to be such a dick.”

A tiny hint of a smile creeps its way onto Billy’s face when he hears Steve chuckle.

His eyes are dry. The pool of dread in his belly has begun to drain, and he feels the slightest bit hopeful.

“If you’re so sure, then I guess picking me up for dinner and a movie sometime won’t be difficult for you, will it?”

Steve sighs fondly at the notion.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you accepting?”

There’s a brief pause. Billy’s unable to keep from smiling giddily to himself.

“Depends,” Steve lilts. “Gonna open your window?”

There’s a light tap on the glass. Billy pushes himself up and draws the blinds, revealing a grinning brunet standing about a foot below, holding his walkie-talkie.

Billy tosses his on the bed before he opens the window and leans his elbows against the ledge.

“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my hair?” he teases.

Steve chuckles, but furrows his brows as he steps closer to the house.

“Were you crying?”

Taken aback by the question, Billy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Shrugs nonchalantly, which doesn’t seem to be the answer that Steve was looking for.

“I was expecting things to go a bit differently,” Billy admits.

Steve frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He reaches up. Settles his hand on Billy’s forearm, smoothing his thumb back and forth against his skin until Billy shifts to dangle his arm out the window.

The pads of Steve’s fingers are soft where he holds Billy’s hand, clasped and suspended in the air together.

Billy really does feel like Rapunzel for a moment.

“I can be a little thick-skulled sometimes,” Steve says softly. “You’re always talking about yourself like you’re some unsalvageable disaster, so when you asked me if I liked you, my mind instantly went there. I wanted to make you sure you knew for certain that I do.”

He gives a little half smile. Billy squeezes his hand gently. Hopes that Steve doesn’t notice how weak his grip is.

“It’s not like I really gave you any context clues.”

“True. You didn’t.”

“I am a bit of a disaster, though. Feels like I’m only good at messing things up sometimes,” Billy sighs. “Max already hates me, and when I thought for a second that you might too, everything felt so lost.”

Steve makes a face.

“I would never, and I’d like to point out that Max doesn’t either.”

Billy blinks. Huffs amusedly, and as always, it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

“Pretty sure she does. You’ve said yourself that she wouldn’t even talk when you asked about me.”

After thinking on it for a brief moment, Steve laughs.

“Yeah, man, ‘cause she bites the head off of anyone who asks about you. Definitely told me to mind my fucking business more than once.”

Again, Billy just blinks.

He never considered that maybe it was a protective thing and not a shame thing. The revelation has a surprising amount of weight lifting off of his shoulders.

“Definitely sounds like her,” he says.

They share a chuckle. Billy flattens his other forearm against the windowsill and rests his chin against it.

“Thanks for trying to lift me up earlier?” he muses. “Didn’t really work in the moment, but still.”

Steve softly swings their hands from side to side and sighs.

“I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy.”

“Should’a seen me the other night.”

The brunet cocks his head to the side in mild confusion.

“What happened the other night?” he asks. “Didn’t mention anything while we were talking.”

“It was, ah… after we signed off for the night. It’s no big deal, really. I cry after most of our talks.”

Billy looks away. Steve squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Billy rasps.

His eyes prick with tears again and Steve steps closer. Drops his walkie-talkie in the grass and reaches up with his free hand to cup Billy’s cheek.

“Oh, you’re just a big crybaby, huh?” he coos. Billy chuckles sadly and leans into his touch. “If I’d known, I would’ve snuck over here sooner.”

“My old man checks in on me sometimes, so it’s probably better that you stay in your car.”

“Well, do you have a curfew? I’d love to steal you away every now and again and kiss your cute, stuffy nose.”

Billy sniffles, and chuckles again. Wipes his eyes with his free hand and shrugs.

“Haven’t really had anywhere to go ‘till now,” he says.

Steve nods.

“You eaten yet?”

A smile cracks across Billy’s face. Steve mirrors the expression.

“You buying?”

“I’ll spend my entire paycheck on burgers and fries if it gets you outta this fuckin’ room. I swear sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

They share a chuckle, and Billy sits up. Flushes red when Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Gimme a sec.”

Again, Steve nods. He’s slow to release the blond when he pulls away, and Billy can’t help that he’s grinning like an idiot as he opens the door and pads out of his room.

He finds Neil and Susan in the living room watching tv. Makes up some lie about a few friends having a kickback. Even goes as far as to apologize for the short notice.

His folks share a look. Susan spreads a big smile and sets her hand on Billy’s bicep.

“No worries, sweetheart. Go ahead,” she says. “Have fun, alright?”

“Will you be coming back tonight?” Neil asks.

Billy stays quiet for a moment. Then two, just processing, and eventually shakes his head.

“It’ll probably be too late,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have somewhere else lined up, though.”

He winces at his own words, regret beading on his skin like a cold sheen of sweat.

Neil nods. Turns his attention back to the tv.

“Just stay outta trouble.”

And that’s it.

Nothing more is said, but Billy still stands there like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

When nothing does, he nods curtly and pads back down the hallway to his room, deciding not to press his luck by letting them think too hard on it. Once he has the door shut behind him, he’s immediately leaning out the window again.

Steve has his walkie back in his hands, rocking back and forth patiently on the balls of his feet while he waits. He smiles when he notices that the blond has reappeared.

“What’d they say?”

“Go get your car, I’ll be ready by the time you pull up.”

Billy leans back. Grabs the window and shuts it just as Steve nods enthusiastically. Turns on his heel and jogs off of the lawn and back towards the street.

Giddy, warm feelings pool and buzz in Billy’s stomach as he digs through his drawers for jeans that he hasn’t worn in forever. Already has a date-worthy outfit in mind as he unfolds a pair.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when static pours through the radio still sitting idly on his bed.

“Update?” Max asks.

Billy rolls his eyes. Moves to grab it when another voice comes through.

“We’re goin’ steady,” Steve informs, out of breath.

“Yes!” Max shouts.

Then, a third voice comes through.

“Finally! Jesus,” Dustin huffs.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by Steve panting when he presses the talk button.

“How many of you dickheads are on this channel?”

“Just two?” Mike says. “Technically, since we’re only using two walkie’s.”

There’s laughter over the radio, and Billy rolls his eyes. Can’t really find it in himself to be mad right now with all of the butterflies swirling in his tummy.

“You’re all banned from the front seat of my car,” Steve huffs. “And the wedding, when it happens.”

“No! I wanted to be the flower girl!” Eleven whines.

“I was gonna walk you down the aisle,” Dustin adds.

“Good luck finding another officiant, then, I guess,” Lucas says with a scoff.

More laughter is had. Max and Mike chime in with various jokes about ring-bearers and bridesmaids, but they’re cut off when Steve presses to talk again.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I highly recommend switching channels.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Max muses.

Billy can practically hear the smirk in Steve’s voice when he speaks next.

“‘Cause I’m gonna start using this one for sex stuff, and it’s gonna get real weird real fast, so be warned.”

Multiple groans and sounds of disgust pour through the radio.

“Yuck,” Max says. “Switching channels.”

“Ditto,” Dustin adds.

Then silence. True silence.

Billy grabs his walkie.

“We really gonna have phone sex over the radio?” he muses.

Steve laughs. The subtle rumble of the engine is audible from the street as his car pulls up to the curb.

“Not if you hurry up and get your ass out here already.”

The blond bites his lip. Can’t believe for the life of him how light he feels. How, for once, he feels better for having survived car wrecks and slimy monsters in the dark.

Feels like letting someone new into his life won’t cause him grief this time around.

“On my way, pretty boy.”

[jenna-louise-jamie]

thinking about yassen gregorovich instead of sleeping (because i love him) and how he is a catalyst. yassen stabbs ash -> ash kills john rider -> ian rider raises alex -> yassen kills ian rider -> mi6 blackmails alex into becoming a teenage spy.

i have so many thoughts that i can't properly articulate. obviously this is a simplified chain of events, but yassen and his choices set off a chain reaction of the world's most unfortunate dominos. especially when you read russian roulette. to be clear im not necessarily trying to blame him for everything because that feels very mean. he was also just a 14 year old kid when everything in his life went wrong, just like alex. only difference being yassen literally had no one.

i think i should write an essay about this because i haven't even gotten into my thoughts about what yassen and alex's dynamic would look like past eagle strike. i would imagine it'd be similar to ellie and joel from the last of us part 2.

where obviously yassen loves alex and alex on some level cares for yassen back but struggles to reconcile that with the fact that yassen is responsible for his uncle's death. a very unforgivable act. it would be so messy and complicated and angsty, because on one hand here is an adult who truly cares about him and has a connection with him through his father. yassen could tell alex about john, and trust that yassen truly wants whats best for him. but he killed ian, and he cannot take that back.

while alex reels from those feelings, yassen is also trying to reconcile his love of alex with the knowledge that he on some level is responsible for the suffering alex endured at the hands of mi6. and possibly even the fact that alex's godfather is the one who killed john and helen.

[imekitty]

Today I worked on:

Disillusioned: 303 words

Last sentence written:

Yes, that was right, down on the floor like a good—

[nejackdaw]

(reads my own fic) woah. I'm so good at my job

[purpleqilinwrites]

better than.

a/n: i fell in love with danmeshi over the weekend! i have so many thoughts and feelings about chilchuck and his wife and their daughters, so i wanted to write something about them. i wish we knew her name! since there's no canon name for her (yet??? please! i'm manifesting), i gave her one mostly for ease of fic writing but also because i think she should have one haha.

fandom: dungeon meshi

pairing: chilchuck tims / chilchuck's wife

genre: angst, general

info: told from the perspective of the wife; she is named (junnimay); takes place pre-canon

warnings: might not be canon-compliant

synopsis: for the better, she comes to learn that moving with the tides of life is a mercy in itself.

word count: 3.3k

Chilchuck Tims / Chilchuck's Wife

The apple trees were starting to clothe themselves in pale pink blossoms, releasing a sweet fragrance into the air. Kahka Brud took it as a sign of the winter's end, shedding off the furs and double-lined coats of the coldest months, and so did Junnimay. Reaching for one of the thinner woollen cloaks hanging by the front door, she whispered, "I'll be back soon, Fler," to her still-sleeping daughter before setting out for an early morning walk.

A contrary breeze made it difficult for her to shut the door quietly, a rather unceremonious slam of wood against wood following a series of laboured grunts from her lips. Fler had always been able to sleep through even the most turbulent of autumn storms; a little noise a ways from her bed surely wouldn't stir her from her needed rest.

Junnimay wiped her palms down on her cloak even if they weren't sweaty, and she started on the unpaved path that led to one of the larger streets of Kahka Brud.

At the place where the narrow local paths merged into the cobblestone main street, she greeted the elderly gnome couple having breakfast in their front yard. The younger of the two women stopped her with a shout in Gnomish and then waved for her to come closer. She approached the line of potted miniature trees that formed a makeshift fence between the public walkway and the gnome couple's property, and the elderly gnome pressed a still-warm bun into her cupped hands.

With a smile, she thanked the women in Gnomish, biting into the bread and telling them how delicious it was before she continued down the main street. As she chewed on a particularly large cluster of candied orange peel bits in her next bite, she pondered visiting the farmer's market on the way home so that Fler could have some candied orange buns to share at the tailor shop where she worked. It would be good to make a larger batch to share with the neighbours, too.

A splash of deep reddish brown dragged her attention to the present, the burst of colour out of place among the blush-pink apple blossoms and the grey-brown tree barks and the yellow-streaked blue sky. Junnimay almost dropped the last bit of the bun gifted to her, eyes wide as she took in the sight before her.

There were two half-foots under the large apple tree at the end of the street that opened to the southern market district. One of them shook out a grey bedroll that was much too large to have been designed for half-foot use, and the two of them took turns scooching into it and then reclining to watch the clouds.

The taller of the half-foot pair sported an uncannily familiar head of auburn hair, poking out of their shared bedroll that was made for one tall-man but could apparently fit two half-foots comfortably. She chucked what was left of the bun into her mouth before she took slow steps towards the mouth of the market district, keeping her eyes on the half-foot couple the whole time.

They paid her no mind, even if her gaze never left them minutes and minutes after coming from behind them to appear in front of them. They were too in love to notice her.

Chilchuck was lying in bed next to her, but his back had never felt so far.

Even when Junnimay was a child relentlessly chasing after him and his older siblings in a game of tag melded with hide and go seek, the distance of rows upon rows of tomato plants between her parents' house and his was tiny in comparison to the hand's breadth that separated Chilchuck's sleeping form from her. The entirety of the vast tomato field was easily crossed under her quick and stubborn feet, possible to traverse. She didn't feel the same way about stretching her hand out to touch her husband.

When she had yelled something or the other about getting caught in the tomato vines, Chilchuck would've instantly turned around and run to her. He always did, even if it meant that he would lose to his older brother, the person he hated losing to the most. She remembered that being the reason why she liked him; when she called for him, he made haste to come to her.

If she woke him up at this point in their lives, years and years after playing games with ever-changing rules in the tomato field that belonged to everyone in the village, would he be quick to awaken and ask her if there was anything troubling her? If there was anything he could do to help?

Chilchuck shifted as if her thoughts were so loud that they woke him. She squeezed her eyes and mouth shut, pretending to sleep the way their daughters did when they were still red-faced in the way half-foot children usually were in their most tender years. His blanket swished when Chilchuck pulled it tighter around himself, curling in on himself and inching all the more away from her. All was still on his side of the bed after.

She fell into a true sleep as she pretended. While pretending, she was trying to remember the last time her husband broke out into a run coming to her simply because she had called his name.

The neatly placed line of dark bottles filled with various alcohols that Chilchuck accumulated over the years never looked so inviting to Junnimay.

Between her and her husband, he was consistently the more avid drinker. Since she first discovered she was pregnant with Mei and Fler, she found that she hadn't had the same taste for alcohol that she once had as an adolescent. She used to sneak sips from her father's hidden stash of ales from time to time, careful never to take more than a single large mouthful off the top of the bottles that were full.

With Chilchuck out accompanying yet another party of adventurers to one of the dungeons scattered around Kahka Brud and her three daughters asleep, Junnimay thought it was a better opportunity than ever to indulge in a little alcohol. It has been years since the last time she partook, after all.

She tiptoed to grab hold of the bottle she felt was most appealing, the scarlet label on the front boasting that the mead within contained floral honey from a well-known apiary on the Southern Continent. Pouring herself an economical portion into a dark glass cup, she settled into the alcove overlooking the sea and cracked the window open to feel the salty night-time winds on her face.

"Mama," came a sleep-addled voice from past the kitchen and down the hallway. Junnimay made it to the dining table when she found her firstborn daughter rubbing her eyes at the threshold that separated the kitchen from the rooms.

"Mama," Mei said again, sounding a little more awake than she did the first time. "I think Dad's not coming back yet."

The staunchness in her daughter's statement made her inwardly flinch, and she tried her best not to show it on her face. Mei had always been an unusually perceptive child, and it worried her that her daughter might be picking up on the growing unhappiness between her and Chilchuck. She wouldn't be able to bury it from her girls forever, but she wanted to keep any marital issues hidden from their young and still innocent eyes. The world should be sunny and kind when they gazed upon it, more beautiful and right than when she was the one looking.

Junnimay put on a smile, approaching her daughter and putting her arms around her, stroking at her head of wild ginger hair. It soothed her somewhat when Mei immediately buried her face in her chest, her comparably smaller fingers clutching at the cotton of her sleeping tunic.

"Not for a while, little heart," she said, vacantly running the fingers of her right hand through Mei's hair to untangle the knots. "But he'll be back."

It had only been two days since Chilchuck left for his most recent dungeon expedition. He had never been one to complete a job sooner than he said he would, diligently seeing to it that the task he agreed upon beforehand was carried out as promised. It made him an excellent addition to any adventurer's party, but she realised it also made him an absent father and an unavailable husband.

"He'll miss my birthday again," were the condemning words Mei chose for Chilchuck, muffled from the way she was pressing into her mother and clinging. Junnimay's heart twisted at the disappointment in her daughter's voice, as if her father had let her down for the final time.

Mei suppressed a sniffle and tried to mask it with a sound of exasperation, little fingers starting to pinch at her flesh beneath the fistfuls of fabric already within her hold.

It reminded her that Mei, while able to pick up on subtle things that most children weren't, was still a child. It reminded her that Mei still needed her protection.

It reminded her that she was failing quite miserably.

Chilchuck was at the door for the first time in almost three years, and it was akin to seeing a ghost when she swung the door open, not quite knowing if it was definitely him after hearing his voice on the other side. Junnimay blinked twice, squeezing her eyes shut as she quickly completed a simple incantation of protection taught to her by one of the gnome neighbours, and then opened them once again. He was still there, so she moved aside so he could come in.

"The girls are all out today," she said, leaning against the closed front door to resume lacing up her work boots. "Puck's staying with a work friend in the meantime, so you won't be seeing her until she comes back at the end of winter."

He seemed rather displeased at her lukewarm reaction to his return home, but he didn't mention it. Mirroring the burgeoning pile of her grievances about their marriage, she kept silent when he pretended there wasn't anything to complain about. It was a complicated dance that the two of them had perfected over the years, intimately familiar with each step.

"Where you are headed?" Chilchuck asked, sweeping his eyes over her attire as if he were scanning his lock-picking toolkit for signs of wear and tear. She hated it, and it was bitter when she swallowed the feeling with an increasing level of ease, automatic.

"To the bakery," she said, needlessly undoing the fastening tie of her cloak and doing it up again, tighter the second time around. "My shift ends late, so don't wait up for me. There's leftover cured meat and cheese from Mei and Fler's birthday dinner last week in the pantry, if you want to eat."

Chilchuck crossed his arms rather aggressively as she spoke, and she felt validated at his show of displeasure. She was starting to become suspicious that he believed their marriage to be as intact as it was when they were walking away from the ceremony, but it gave her a twisted sense of unity that they were both looking at the same cracks and being afflicted with the same unpleasant feelings.

"The one along Third Street, right?" he asked.

It sounded to her like he was running out of things to say, and it made her all the more eager to get out of the house and fall back into the safety of her daily routine in which he was entirely absent. She had become comfortable as a mother of three daughters whose father's only contribution was a pouch of gold coins every full moon, delivered to the door by an administrative employee of the local Adventurer's Guild.

The money he provided for her and for the girls has been slowly and steadily increasing over the years, and she was glad that he appeared to be making a name for himself as a skilled locksmith. There was a sudden jump in the weight of the pouch put in her hands a few months ago. She wanted to ask about it since Chilchuck was here, but ultimately decided not to, keeping her questions about his work and his time in the dungeons of Kahka Brud close to her heart instead.

There was once that he had snapped at her for being too curious about his work, and that one time was enough for her to become unnecessarily cautious when speaking to her husband about the jobs he undertook.

She nodded, putting a hand on the doorknob and finding solace in the coolness of the metal against her skin. The silence between her and Chilchuck felt awkward with how large it was, taking more space in the house than even the house itself. When it became apparent that he had indeed run out of things to say, she pushed the front door open and stepped out.

"I'm off," she said, expecting him to regroup with a new adventurer's party on yet another dungeon expedition by the time she returned from her own work at the bakery.

In the early hours of the morning when she found herself home again, Mei and Fler were asleep in their beds. They left a note for her on the dinner table, saying that they ate at the tavern close to the main street and that they brought back a portion of wild boar stew for her in case she was hungry.

For once meeting her expectations at the exact line where she drew them, Chilchuck was nowhere to be found.

Mei was taller than her now.

It was obvious that her daughter was bending at the waist to give her a greeting hug, the height difference between them further exaggerated by the thick soles of Mei's work boots. A bittersweet sense of awe nipped at Junnimay as she was reminded once again how much Mei resembled her father.

"Mama," Mei said, linking her arm with her mother's as the two of them wandered the Central Market on an impromptu stop on the way to Fler's home. Junnimay thought it would be nice to take a long walk with her firstborn, since Mei had taken the opportunity to surprise her by picking her up from the bakery on one of her rare free days. "You deserve to be happy, you know?"

Junnimay froze mid-appraisal of the many kinds of honey on display at the store on her left, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as she turned her head to face her daughter. Where was this coming from? Briefly, her thoughts led her to the husband she recently left, and it brought to the forefront of her mind once again her every reason for finally acting upon what was in her heart.

Mei seemed to be taken aback by her mother's inarticulate but apparently tumultuous contemplation, so she cleared her throat, eyes darting to the side as she visibly mulled over her next words. "I saw you talking with a gnome uncle at the bakery. Your smile was so bright," she said, beginning to pick at the unoccupied holes in her belt with her free hand. "And I can't remember the old man ever looking at you the way the gnome does. I think you can be happy with him, now that the old man's out of the picture."

Bodies were skimming the pair of them in the passing as they stood in one of the many footpaths in the Kahka Brud's largest market. There were many sights to behold and smells to contemplate, and there were even more wares on sale. She had to be mindful of pickpockets in a crowd as thick as the one that eternally thronged this market, but she could only focus on the determined jut of her daughter's chin.

"I'm just saying," Mei said, making eye contact with her after allowing her a moment to ponder. "I want you to be happy. Fler and Puck, too. You deserve it more than most people."

Junnimay moved her arm from its curled position around Mei's and used it to pull Mei into a one-armed hug, squeezing. The wet warmth of tears pricked at her eyes, and she gave her daughter the widest smile she could muster in an attempt to keep her face from crumpling the way it did when she cried.

"I am happy, little heart," she said. "But I think I'm not made for a second marriage."

She watched the gears turn in Mei's head from behind the screen of tears in her eyes. Wiping at her face with the back of her other hand, she apologised instinctively to a male voice that yelled a phrase in Elvish for her to move from somewhere in the mass of people behind her.

Mei sported a scowl as she scanned the crowd over her mother's head to see who was intruding on their conversation. Junnimay laughed, making sure to steer herself and her daughter closer to the wall between the honey store and the one beside it.

"Did the old man ruin it for you? Marriage, I mean," Mei said, after her sweep of the crowd proved unsuccessful. The majority of the market-goers were tall-men who unintentionally blocked her view of the offending elf, lost in the commotion.

Junnimay felt the need to put on a smile, but remembered that Mei was too old to fall for it. Mei had been too old to believe her fanfare of a reassuring smile since she was just a child.

"His father told us that since we liked each other, we should marry. So we did," she said. The memories trickled into her mind's eye slowly, obstructed by years and years of trying to fill the space of both mother and father for her girls. Looking back on her childhood in a small village where everyone was a half-foot was akin to looking into an old spyglass, trying with much difficulty to spot something on the far horizon.

Chilchuck's father was far more authoritarian than hers ever was; if he said something was to happen, everyone around him made sure it happened. Her father, while affronted by the other half-foot's demand, was agreeable to the match and gave her his blessing since she had insisted that she liked Chilchuck enough to marry him.

"I wanted my parents to be happy, and I liked the idea of marriage at that time. I didn't stop to think about if marriage was the right thing for me," she said.

Noting Mei's silence and hoping to assuage any anxieties her daughter might have, Junnimay gave her another squeeze, smiling without the express intention of consoling. "But I don't regret marrying your father. Because of him, I have you and Fler and Puck. I gained the world's best daughters."

Mei chuckled at her bold proclamation, sighing affectionately when she leaned up to press kisses to her daughter's cheek. "Mama, you say embarrassing things sometimes," were the words that Mei spoke, but Junnimay knew her well enough to hear the words she actually wanted to say. She smiled into Mei's jaw.

"Are three daughters better than a husband?" Mei asked, a cheeky glint lighting up her eyes.

Junnimay squeezed her yet again, a tense fist of unease inside her chest loosening with the surrender of a long-kept confession that bared her heart. Even the golden afternoon rays of sun became brighter and more beautiful, her secret feelings being received most graciously by her firstborn. She was sure they would be received similarly by Fler and Puck too; the three of them were all warm-hearted women whom she was proud to have birthed and raised.

"By a thousand tall-men leaps and bounds, three daughters are infinitely better than a husband."

[lostinthewalls]

TLT Chapter 5

Breaking Blaire

TW for this chapter: Panic attack, angst, swearing

As always, story under the cut!!

It would be a harsh lie if Evan said he was totally fine right now. Staring in the mirror, the tips of his hair soaking wet and glued to his forehead, he felt...odd.

The feeling wasn’t exactly anxiety. Unless it was...and he just didn’t know it. It was a strange knot in his chest, tucked deep in the depths of his internals where he couldn’t reach it. He took a deep breath, flinging his hair back and splashing more water onto his face.

He grabbed his glasses from the marble counter, folding the arms in and holding them in one hand while he made the slow, agonizing walk back to his room.

Each step made the knot in his chest tighten. Each sound of his socks thumping on the hardwood floor only made the teen more hyperaware of his brand-new houseguest. A shiver ran down his spine, and he dragged his free hand down his face.

He stood around the corner for a moment before walking into the room, his blurry vision darting over to the top of the dresser. The signature tuft of white hair wasn’t there. A jolt of shivers ran down Evan’s spine before he quickly remembered he had moved him to the bed nest he had totally forgot making in the first place.

He was still in a pretty bad trance as his eyes glazed across the blankets, blinking tiredly. It looked like Blaire was there...

Just for good measure, he unfolded his glasses, shoving them onto his face. He was glad he did, because when he looked back, Blaire was nowhere to be seen.

“Uhm- Blaire-?” Evan nearly whispered, his eyes searching the room. Until he found it, a small shape huddled close to the wall, only a few feet away from the nest.

Blaire. His instincts kicked in and he stepped over to the wall, crouching down for a better look, pushing his glasses further onto his face.

Blaire instinctively threw his hands up to shield his face, scrambling against the wall like a scared mouse as his injured ankle stayed splayed awkwardly, still perfectly wrapped in the splint.

Evan’s eyes widened but he didn’t move towards him. He got to his feet again, taking a step backward and sitting down a foot away from him, hugging his knees to his chest, resting his head on top of them.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Blaire almost growled at him after a painfully long bout of silence. Evan was confused. What did he mean do something...?

“What?” He responded, keeping his voice low. Blaire sucked in a breath and barked a strained laugh, tugging at the ends of his hair.

“You IDIOT! DO SOMETHING YOU HUMANS NORMALLY DO!! SCREAM, YELL, TRAP ME, I DON’T CARE. JUST DO SOMETHING. DON’T JUST SIT THERE.”

The pure ferocity in Blaire’s tone made Evan flinch back in alarm. Blaire seemed to get his courage, though, as he pulled himself to his feet, limping towards him, pointing an accusatory finger at him as the sound of barely held back sobs made his speech more pathetic by the minute.

“ALL THIS TIME YOU’VE BEEN- BEEN ACTING LIKE- LIKE A SAINT OR SOMETHING. LIKE YOU- YOU'RE ACTUALLY TRYING TO HELP. I’M NOT- I'M NOT FALLING FOR IT.”

“But- I am actually trying to--”

“Shut UP. JUST SHUT UP. I KNOW WHAT THIS IS- IT'S- IT'S A PLOY. A TRICK. IT ALWAYS IS. IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN.”

Evan practically glued his mouth shut as Blaire struggled to find his next words through choked back tears. The little teen coughed, taking a few steps backwards to collect himself once his rant was finished.

The two sat there for what seemed like eons while Blaire paced in frantic circles, screaming profanities and insults just to cover up his shaky breakdown. Evan carefully drew his phone from his pocket, checking the time. Almost 1 AM. He’d be in trouble.

But he told himself that didn’t matter right now, quietly sitting there, the sympathetic knot in his chest clawing its way up to his throat, gagging him, leaving him stunned.

He picked at the sleeve of his turtleneck for a minute before finally making his decision. If Blaire was so scared of him, maybe he could make this better for both of them. Even if it was just for one night.

“I- I’m actually trying to help. I hope you know that...” He began, his tone barely a whisper, forcing his own sob down his throat, averting his eyes.

Blaire’s puffy, red eyes snapped over to him, wide with fear and filled with a primal hatred. His hands shook as he clenched them into fists, about to respond, before he bit his tongue and held himself back.

Maybe this was a good time for some self-control.

Evan made no attempt to reach for him, swallowing thickly before continuing with his shaky request.

“Just- stay here. Just for tonight and a bit of tomorrow morning. Just so I can make sure you're okay. Tomorrow afternoon- you can go back home- wherever your home is. I’ll never bother you again.”

He hoped against all odds Blaire would accept the compromise, and he brought his eyes up to stare at him once more.

Blaire averted his eyes first this time, steeling himself, taking a more confident stance, almost like his breakdown never even happened.

“...Fine. Deal. Tonight, and tomorrow morning- that's it.” Blaire scowled a half-confident response that Evan was thankful for, turning his head towards the nest still laying peacefully on the floor.

Now that adrenaline had worn off, he was exhausted. Between running for his life and ditching his whole facade to save his life, it truly had taken its toll on him.

“That’s it.” Evan confirmed, standing back up, starting to organize the blankets on his own bed, trying not to turn back and glance down at Blaire, though his instincts urged him too.

He heard Blaire hit the ground after a few minutes, however, and that was the cue to turn around. He whipped his head around, craning his neck downwards.

Sure enough, Blaire was sitting, legs extended in front of him as he furiously tried to tighten the splint keeping his ankle intact. Evan faltered, watching him before walking back over.

“Here- move your arms...” He whispered, and thankfully, Blaire quickly put them behind his back, watching him with a careful gaze.

He bent down, untying the already loose knot, tying it again tighter than before, pausing to glance to Blaire.

Their faces were so close...Blaire could almost reach out and tap the tip of his nose. Evan chased away the thought, clearing his throat.

“Is this tight enough...?”

“Yeah...should be fine.” Blaire muttered in a hoarse tone, squeezing his eyes shut as Evan retied the knot, making it more stable this time.

Once he was done, he held out his hand towards Blaire, an offer to help him to his feet.

Surprisingly, he accepted it, latching both hands around his ring finger, pulling himself to his feet.

“Thanks.” The smaller teen said quietly, making the journey back to the nest in the corner as Blaire climbed into his own bed, grabbing the LED light remote.

“Have a nice night, Blaire. I’m-- sorry about all this.” Evan spoke to the ceiling, powering off the lights and setting the remote on the floor again.

No response came, not that he needed one, though, But, once he was fast asleep, one eventually did, ringing out in the quiet room.

“It’s okay.”

END NOTES

Oh dear...the final chapter of our boys being relatively peaceful before we get into the depths of the story. Don't worry! They'll be okay!! Although...something is bound to happen soon... wonder what it is?

[heart-of-roses-and-quartz]

Feelings? Ew.

Shilou tries to run from his feelings.

His feelings catch up.

It all started the day after he'd met Aventurine.

He wasn't even sure of how it all started; he injected himself into a conversation about cat cakes and asked him to keep them away from him—damn his allergies—to which Aventurine apologized for.

'Why is he apologizing to me?'

Within the next few days, Aventurine found his way to his office and gifted him a cat cake plush, decorated to look exactly like him.

He took care not to snag any part of it on his joints as he examined it, his eyes welling with-

'What? Why am I...'

And after that day, Aventurine found any opportunity he could to be around him.

"Mr. Rose Quartz! There you are~"

"Rose Quartz, good to see you~"

"Good morning, Rosie~"

At first, he took it in stride. It was only silly nicknames, possibly infatuation with his robotic limbs—he was more than used to that—so he thought nothing of it.

Until he started inviting him out.

It started small. Inviting him out to dinner, to go to the casino just for fun, to hang out together while on a mission, "Just for a little while! You've gotta learn to relax, Rosie~"

He was wary. Of course he was, Aventurine was his superior, why wouldn't he be wary?

Was he trying to get under his skin?

Trying to butter him up?

So he could use him and then discard him?

He tried to keep his distance, he really did.

But those eyes of his...

And it didn't help that Dr. Ratio accompanied them practically everywhere they went.

He was always there, following close behind Aventurine with a constant displeased look—when he didn't have his bust on—and making small, snide remarks every so often towards him.

He didn't like him at first.

But as more time passed, more days he dragged himself along on their adventures, Ratio grew on him.

The way his eyes softened when Aventurine did something slightly stupid, the adorable smile that graced his face from time to time, looking at Aventurine.

Oh, and Aventurine...

His eyes practically commanded his attention, drawn to them every time we was around him. They were so unique, so pretty—so unlike his own.

He was so unique, so—

Oh.

Oh no.

He couldn't be.

He blinked, and suddenly realized.

"Am I...catching feelings?"

That wouldn't do.

He began avoiding Aventurine and Ratio like the plague. He almost ran the other way when Aventurine was nearby, refusing to make eye contact with him.

He couldn't risk being pulled into the enchanting siren song of his eyes.

He avoided his messages from Aventurine, didn't pick up any calls, despite his heart hammering in his chest every time he saw Aventurine's contact light up his screen.

He couldn't risk it.

He couldn't risk contact with Ratio, either. He was equally as beautiful as Aventurine, that dammned smile of his captivating him to no end.

This went on for only another week before Aventurine finally cornered him, Ratio not far behind, and started asking questions.

"Rose Quartz, what's the matter? Why have you been ignoring us?"

"Is everything alright?"

"Please, talk to us."

"Rose Quartz?"

"Rosie?"

He kept his head down, not looking at them. He couldn't, he couldn't risk it. If he looked into Aventurine's eyes, saw Ratio's smile, saw them- he'd be done for, he'd—

"Rose," Aventurine spoke softly, calmly, as if he wasn't speaking to Rose Quartz. As if he was speaking to... "Please. Is everything okay?"

He came closer, gently cupping his head in his hands, lifting him up to look at—

He was gone almost immediately.

The second they locked eyes, Shilou's fate was sealed. His face went red, fingers twitching. He wanted to grab onto him, pull him closer and yet push him away, kiss him and yet slap him, hold him close–

"I-I love you," He mumbled almost immediately, not even recognizing his own voice for a moment. "I– I love you. Both of you. And I'm scared."

Aventurine blinked, looking back at Ratio for a moment.

He—for once in his life—looked dumbfounded.

Aventurine looked back at Shilou, tears threatening to spill over—and ruin his makeup, he spent hours fixing it this morning—and gave him a soft smile, rubbing his cheekbones with his thumb.

"Is that all?" He asked, almost amused. "We thought there was something really wrong..."

He stayed silent, trying to will the tears away. He couldn't cry, not only would it ruin his perfect makeup, but he would be crying in front of his superior, it would make him seem weak—

Aventurine pulled him into a hug, and the dam broke.

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Aventurine's, digging his fingers into his back as he silently cried, mumbling apologies for staining his jacket with his tears.

Aventurine shushed him, only hugging him tighter. He looked back at Ratio and gave a small nod and smile, to which he smiled back and approached, enveloping Shilou in a hug from behind.

It was so warm.

It was the best feeling in the world—which, to him, was confined to just the three of them in that moment—and he reveled in every second of it, despite the tears that stained Aventurine's jacket.

He'd never felt so loved.

And he wanted to keep it that way.

@serendipminie

thought you would wanna see it hehe :33

[giggly-squiggily]

The Little Things (Bungo Stray Dogs)

Don't mind me, I'm just gonna-

*drops a near 6k word count fic on y'all all about Shin Soukoku cause I can while dancing to Super Mario 2 music sped up version*

Kay bye! *leaps out window*

...Nah but seriously. Heyo everyone! Awhile back I wrote this for a friend while we were yelling about these two (You know who you are- hi bestie! :D) I originally sent it to them via google doc, but given how easy the links to those fics are to lose (The amount I've lost...gone but not forgotten *cries*) I've decided to post it here!I hope you like it!

CW: Swearing, violence, guns, self-loathing, angst, wasted food (RIP Pork Buns), mentions of the Port Mafia Boss and Elise

Summary: In between assignments and tasks, Atsushi and Akutagawa find time to enjoy the little moments within their strange relationship.

~Chocolate~

“Is that cake?” Atsushi raised a brow at the small slice of chocolate cake Akutagawa pulled from his plastic bag. It looked homemade- maybe someone in the Port Mafia made it?

The idea of anyone there baking sweets was wild.

“No, it’s a bomb.” Akutagawa deadpanned, peeling at the plastic wrap around the plate. “Watch yourself- it just might blow up.”

Atsushi started. Did Aku just make a joke?

At the silence, Akutagawa offered the first forkful in silent inquiry.

“Oh, no thanks. I hate chocolate.” He smiled, fighting down a laugh at the brief look of shock on Akutagawa’s face. “Never been a fan. You however-I didn’t know you liked sweets.”

“Is that an issue?” His expression went hard.

“Not at all. It’s just…unexpected.” Atsushi held up his hands, smiling sheepishly. “Do you like all kinds of sweets or do you have a favorite?”

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes at him, suspicion rolling off his tensed frame like waves. For a moment. Atsushi wondered if he just blew their lunch date-meetup. Then he sighed, turning back to his cake.

“I like chocolate.” There was the barest hint of a blush on his cheeks. Akutagawa shoved a forkful of cake in his mouth with a slight grimace, refusing to look his way.

As if he couldn’t get any cuter.

…..Huh? Atsushi felt himself flush.

“Hm.” Was all the weretiger responded with, taking a long drag of his teacup, ignoring the raised brow Akutagawa sent him.

~~~

“Hey, Akutagawa! Here!” Atsushi shot his arms out before the other could stop him, pressing a small handkerchief wrapped box into his chest. It was hastily wrapped- as if he was tying it while running to their usual meetup spot. “This is for you!”

“....Huh?” The wide eyed shock on his face was priceless. Atsushi resisted the urge to laugh as he watched Akutagawa handle the box like one handled a baby- careful and slightly terrified. “This is…?”

“Open it!” Atsushi encouraged, resisting the urge to bounce on his feet in his anticipation. “I didn’t knot it that bad!”

“Okay, okay, settle down.” Akutagawa’s lips twitched as he gently pulled at the knot, going especially slow, much to Atsushi’s chagrin. When the ends of the cloth fell away, it revealed a little plastic box, within it a variety of chocolates.

“Oh?” Akutagawa stared, seeming to freeze. Atsushi felt himself sweat, tugging at his shirt hem.

“I know it’s not much of…well, anything- I just remembered a while back you mentioned you liked chocolate, and I had some lying around and figured you’d like it- of course if you don’t, I can always take it back-”

“You remembered.” It wasn’t a question. Atsushi blinked. Something soft was in Akutagawa’s expression, and his hands trembled some as he held the small box of treats. Atsushi felt his heart squeeze. “I didn’t think you would…”

“Of course I did! I remember everything you tell me.” Then he flushed, eyes wide. He said too much. “For the missions! And our tasks! Ehe…”

“Yes..having a good memory for those things is important.” That faint blush was back, and Akutagawa wouldn’t look at him- not directly, anyway. “Ehem…This is…” Then he paused, brows furrowing.

“Wait- where’d you get this?” Akutagawa finally met his gaze, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you hated chocolate?”

Seems like Atsushi wasn’t the only one remembering details about each other.

“I do…but like I said- I just happened to have it on me, hehe.” He grinned, deciding not to mention where his source was. He’d bring Ranpo a fresh box of chocolates on his way back from this meeting. With all the snacks he keeps on hand, he wasn’t likely to miss it before he got back.

Akutagawa raised a brow, not entirely believing him. Then he looked back at the box of chocolates, that content expression returning. “I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a gift…so thank you. It means more than you know.”

Atsushi swelled, feeling rather proud of himself. He would make this a habit he decided in that moment; all to see that soft expression.

Though he’d probably have to start buying his own chocolates.

~Rain~

“Ugh, no way…” Atsushi groaned miserably as the sky began to cry. Raindrops dropped in a slow mist at first, but within minutes it began to pour, flooding the alleyways they snuck through. He could already feel his shoes fill with water, making his toes curl unpleasantly.

“Hm, how troublesome indeed.” Akutagawa mused, brows furrowing as he came to join Atsushi beneath the thin railings of the alley. His shoulders felt damp already, and a chill shot down his spine from the icy droplets. “Walking back in this will be rather annoying.”

As of late, it seemed like he and Atsushi couldn’t shake each other. Whether it be on impromptu missions Dazai set them up on, or just little moments like running errands and returning home- somehow in this big city, the demon and the weretiger were never far from each other.

A part of Akutagawa couldn’t deny he liked it that way. That however was a part he’d rather strangle until blue with Rashomon before ever admitting.

“Man, I should have brought an umbrella! I figured it’d rain while we were inside the warehouse and stop after, but I guess the universe has it out for me…” Atsushi shoved his hands through his bangs, groaning in his hands. “This is revenge for Ranpo’s snacks, isn’t it, world?” He mumbled.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little water, weretiger?” Akutagawa shrugged, Rashomon shooting out of his back and forming a shelf above him, shielding him from the continuous onslaught of rainwater. “Though I suppose it’s expected, given what you are.”

“Shut up! I’m not a cat- I just happen to turn into one!” Atsushi glared, rubbing his arms with a slight tremor when the rain began soaking his shirt. In an act of defiance, he took a step out into the elements.

And immediately regretted it.

“Oh my god, that’s COLD!” Atsushi flew into Akutagawa’s shelter of Rashomon, clinging to his coat and shivering. Then he glared, cheeks pink. “Not a word.”

Akutagawa didn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. This close, beneath the immediate smell of rainwater and warehouse dust, the weretiger smelled like tiger lilies. He could see the strange ombre in Atsushi’s eyes, the way they went from a rosy pink to a warm gold- like a sunrise. The way his lashes framed those odd but pretty irises of his.

So unfairly pretty. Akutagawa forgot how to breathe.

“Hey? Is something wrong…” Atsushi began, only to flush a brilliant red and jump back into the rain. “Oh god- I’m so sorry, how invasive of me- Ah, this rain! I uh…”

Maybe it was how pitiful he looked, soaked and embarrassed. Maybe it was the way he looked at him just now, with those damn sunrise eyes.

Maybe that part of Akutagawa’s heart wasn’t so small after all.

Slowly, as if it were a machine coming back to life after many years, Rashomon extended outward, creating an umbrella-like cover beside its owner. The space was…tight, but it would give Atsushi room to walk with him. “Come on, before you catch your death.”

The weretiger blinked, eyes wide. Akutagawa could feel his face heating; he pretended it was from irritation while waiting for the other to make a decision. “Hurry up before I leave you here.”

“Oh! Right- thank you.” Atsushi ran over, standing within the cover. This close, he could smell tiger lilies again. Did he wear perfume? Would it be weird to ask?

Would it be weird to just reach out and hold his hand-

“Don’t mention it. Just- come on.” Akutagawa made his voice as curt as he could, hoping it hid the fluster he felt himself slipping into. In silence the pair walked back, Akutagawa’s hands shoved in his pockets while Atsushi continued rubbing his arms, trying to warm up.

When he peeked, the weretiger looked equally flushed.

Must be getting sick, he told himself.

Yeah. That’s it.

~Blackout~

When he got back to the agency; Atsushi decided, he was going to murder Dazai.

Just a simple task, he said. Scout out the scene for us to make sure it’s safe, he told him. There shouldn’t be any trouble, he insisted.

Of course, Dazai forgot to mention the literal Mafia meetup being held in such a place.

 Atsushi knew he should leave- turn back before any of the Port caught a glimpse of him hovering near a dirty window. It was fairly high up- the main reason why Atsushi was sent on this particular request was due to his cat-climbing skills- so the chances of being caught were slim.

He should go, had he not caught sight of a familiar face. Stoic as always, black fringe fading into white that framed his pinched face, hands shoved in his pockets. Akutagawa.

He was standing by with a short redhead- Chuuya, he assumed. Dazai had mentioned a redhead in the Port who he’d encountered a few times before. He looked especially irritated, whomever they were meeting up with apparently was late.

Finally, after around half an hour, two grungy looking guys came through the large metal doors, their footsteps echoing across the filthy floor. Between them a smaller man led, his body bent forward and his hair a halo of thinning grays around his wrinkled face.

“I take it your boss sent you with what I wanted?” He asked, and Atsushi felt himself straighten. Despite appearances, the man’s voice boomed and carried, demanding respect with each word. Within the room, even Akutagawa and Chuuya straightened, the latter glowering upon realizing it.

“Yeah. You got what we want?” He demanded, waiting. There was a tense silence before the old man gestured for one of what Atsushi assumed to be his guards. The man opened his jacket, revealing a tightly wrapped parscal.

“Toss it over, we’ll do the same.” Chuuya commanded, straightening to his full height. The old man chuckled, clearly amused.

“Kids these days- never learn to respect their elders. Fine then.” He nodded, and the parscal went flying. Rashomon was out in seconds, catching it with ease. Bringing it to his eyes, Akutagawa peered within, face grimacing.

“This is it. Boss’ order.” He didn’t sound too thrilled about it though.

“Good grief. Alright, here.” Chuuya kicked the box by his feet towards the men, his gravity control making it sail easily across the floor. It landed with a loud thump by the guard’s feet. “I’ll take it this should cover it?”

The guard peered within the box, nodding after confirming the contents. Atsushi couldn’t help but wonder what was in it. Money? Jewels? And what was in the parscal?

No time. He really had to go. He watched Chuuya and Akutagawa turn to leave.

Just as the remaining guard pulled out a gun.

“TURN AROUND!” He heard himself scream. Shit! The old man’s eyes flickered to the window-

And suddenly there was a boom of red. Rashomon exploded out of Akutagawa’s back, sending the guards flying. Interesting enough, the old man remained unfazed. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. Rashomon bounced around him like water hitting a rock.

“His ability- it’s a shield!” Chuuya yelled, already jumping into action. He crossed the room in seconds, taking the two guards on. Despite the size difference and being outnumbered, Chuuya was easily the better fighter. He dropped low, kicking the goon with the gun in his hand in the ankles. As he fell back, he grabbed his fallen gun, pointing it at the other one. He pulled the trigger-

But the bullet bounced! Seems this old man’s ability expanded beyond just himself. The guard smirked cruelly as he charged, tackling a surprised Chuuya dead on and sending him flying.

Akutagawa started, Rashomon shooting out to catch Chuuya before he could hit the wall. Too late. The old man was upon him. He moved so fast, an elbow flying to Akutagawa’s windpipe as he brought a knee to his gut. Rashomon quivered as Akutagawa wheezed, gasping for air.

Chuuya shot out of the rubble with a roar, flying at the guards. His gravity power saved his life, but just barely- Atsushi could see he was wounded- crimson against orange hair, bruises forming on the side of his face.

Akutagawa stumbled, the old man hooting softly as he watched the boy drop. “Such a shame- the Port Mafia really has let themselves grow weak if this is the best they can offer.”

Hot rage shot through Atsushi's veins. Just who did this old creatin think he was? He got up, ready to jump into the fray- and stopped.

Why was he getting involved? This wasn’t a mission assigned to him by Dazai or the boss back at the agency. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. Right now would be the ample time to leave; to use the chaos within to slip away before anyone else saw him.

Saw him.

Saw…

Atsushi’s eyes dropped down to the breaker box just outside the warehouse, an idea already forming in mind.

Within the warehouse, it was chaos. Chuuya had disposed of one of the guards, his body crumpled in the background as he fought the one still guarding. From the looks of things, the shield only protected from the front. Right now- the redhead was trying to get around and go for the back, but the guard stayed on him like glue.

Akutagawa and the old man were fighting once more- this time however, Akutagawa was prepared. Rashomon bounced again and again off a shield, keeping him at bay. He couldn’t land a hit, but neither could the old man. It seemed he needed his arms held up in a specific way to keep it on, leaving them in a stalemate.

Just one moment. A second was all Akutagawa needed. He looked up-

Their eyes met. Atsushi mouthed only one word. Blackout.

Then he tore out the breaker box with his claw.

The warehouse went pitch black, blending in with the night sky. Atsushi rolled down the wall as gunshots exploded from within, the faint sounds of two men crying out before everything went eerily silent. For a short, heartstopping moment, Atsushi was scared one of them was Aku.

Then the doors opened, Chuuya and Akutagawa stumbling out, bruised and wounded, the parscal in hand.

“Next time that creepy bastard wants us to pick up dolly dresses, he better get them through Amazon.” Chuuya growled, limping as he dragged himself down the quiet streets. Akutagawa seemed to be half listening, nodding along as he rolled his shoulder. His throat was bruised, and he was covered in small cuts, but he was alive.

Atsushi felt himself breathe again.

“Are you even listening? Ugh, forget it.” Chuuya waved him off, walking ahead as he carried on complaining about their boss. Akutagawa paused then, turning his head.

And directly looked at Atsushi.

The weretiger didn’t call out. He didn’t say a word. He merely looked back at him, watching. Akutagawa blinked once. Then twice.

Then the rarest thing happened. He smiled.

It was small, nearly unnoticeable and a bit pained, as if it hurt to move his face. Judging by the bruise blossoming on his cheek, it must have been.

Still- that smile. It erased it all. The injuries, his messy hair, the torn clothes- all of it faded away as Akutagawa smiled at him. It was like he was a god, so painfully beautiful it was near impossible to look directly at him, and yet Atsushi did. He didn’t care if his face was on fire, or if he was gaping like a fish. All he wanted to do was get lost in that beautiful smile.

And then Akutagawa looked away, and reality came back. He was gone in minutes, fading away in shadow, leaving Atsushi sitting there, still thinking about that smile.

~Piano~

Akutagawa hated instruments.

More specifically, he hated the piano.

The boss was so insistent he’d learn to play it. Think of how useful of a talent it’d be if you ever found yourself needing to blend in. Blend in where, the orchestra? Good luck with that. They all knew the real reason why Mori wanted him to learn to play.

Because Dazai used to play.

Not the piano- but the Violin. Akutagawa remembered watching him play a few times- the way he’d stand tall, the instrument like an extension of his body as he ran his bow over the strings. His songs were always so sad sounding; they never failed to make someone cry- usually Chuuya, even if he’d never admit it. When Dazai left, Mori burned the instrument, and music was snuffed out, much like those who betrayed them.

Apparently he was now back in his music phase and decided Akutagawa would be the next musician. Had it not been for Gin and her soft encouragement for him to learn- “Ma and Pa would have liked it, I think” she told him- he’d probably set the grand instrument ablaze himself. Just what would he play on it, anyway? Songs of sorrow and anger? Christmas tunes? Suppose he could play a quick death march before a bullet lodged into his brain or a knife to his jugular.

Wasteful. The worst part? He was a natural talent. The lessons flew by and before long he knew all the cords and how to work them into songs. Gin liked them- she would lay across the top like those women in the movies, face in her hands and feet kicking while he practiced. Sometimes she’d sing- her voice soft and delicate. It was those moments that he liked best.

And then Mori asked him to play for him and Elise when they’d marry. He stopped playing it after that.

Now he found himself lingering by a different piano- dusty but well loved, sitting in the corner of what he assumed to be a church. It was abandoned now- the room stale with lack of movement. His fingers glided over the top, making streaks against the smooth black surface.

Like magic, he felt himself back at the music room with Gin, playing a song and her singing-

“Nothing of interest here- hey, is that a piano?” Atsushi’s voice shook him free from his memory. The weretiger joined him, his shoulder bumping gently into Akutagawa’s as he took a seat. “I love the piano! I wonder if it’s in tune?”

Things have been…interesting, these past few encounters with the weretiger. Since the warehouse incident, they’ve been less stiff, more relaxed. Atsushi didn’t jump away if he got too close, and he smiled more easily at him. Their once harsh word exchanges melted into soft bickering, and more than once Akutagawa felt himself fighting down laughter whenever they talked. Not mean, condescending one but genuine mirth at the little things he’d say and do.

What the hell was happening to him?

“I know like- one chord. There was this woman at the orphanage; she was the only nice adult there. She tried to teach me to play, but I never quite picked it up.” Atsushi made a big show of cracking his knuckles, wiggling his fingers. “Okay, let’s tickle these ivories!”

More like make them scream, Akutagawa soon learned. He winced as Atsushi slammed his fingers down into the keys, hitting random clumps and creating what he could only describe as “mindless noise”. He sang along with it, the words lost in the sound as he swayed with his chaos.

“Oh, there once was a cat named Piccolo! He was the fattest cat anyone ever known! He rolled and he cried, and he’d spit in your eye, so the village chief ordered him to-”

“Weretiger!” Rashomon shot out, grasping Atsushi’s wrists and preventing him from hitting more keys. The church rang with the noise. “What happened to knowing only one chord?” He growled through gritted teeth.

“Oh, right! It was…um…” Atsushi looked at the keyboard. “You know- I can’t remember. But it was one of them I just played, I’m sure!”

“That wasn’t playing- that was slapping.” Akutagawa pulled Rashomon back, shaking his head. “I don’t think I heard a single chord in any of that.”

“Oo, you can hear chords, can you? Alright, Yiruma- it's your turn.” Atsushi stood, offering the piano. “Let’s see what you can do!”

Akutagawa stared, first at the piano, then at Atsushi. A mix of nostalgia and disgust filled him when he thought of playing again; Mori ruined any enjoyment he had with it.

And yet…Atsushi was giving him those eyes. The ones that presented a challenge. And Akutagawa had a hard time turning down challenges.

He also had a hard time turning down Atsushi.

What-

He sat down in the warm seat before those intrusive thoughts came back. Stretching his fingers, he let them rest on the cool ivory, wondering where he should begin. “Any requests?” He asked, be it a tad sarcastically.

“Whatever you wanna play.” Atsushi smiled, leaning against the side of the piano. Akutagawa hated how attractive he looked like that- FOCUS AKU! “I’m all ears.”

At first, he simply pressed keys- not the way Atsushi did it- this was far gentler, and actual cords. The weretiger’s smug grin melted into a look of surprise, making the other smirk. “Show off.” Atsushi grumbled. Akutagawa fought down a chuckle.

Then he was moving his fingers against the keys more intentionally, a song coming to mind. He didn’t know all the words- he only heard a chunk of it once when he was walking with Gin through the city. He did know the chords though.

Soft music played throughout the church, Akutagawa’s fingers playing out the beats in a steady rhythm, getting lost in the sound. He felt himself right back with Gin again, her smile encouraging and kind- the few beckons of light in the awful world of the Port Mafia.

Then he was singing. He probably sounded terrible; but he kept hearing Gin encouraging him to, so he gave in.

“If you had it all, would it be enough?

Can you find the way and still be lost?

I write songs about being someone else

That say fuck the world, you’re not angry enough.”

Beside him, he heard Atsushi suck in a breath. Be it from surprise or relation to the song, he didn’t know. Akutagawa kept going.

“Yeah everybody tells me it’s alright.

Everybody tells me I’ll be fine

Everything is not o-fucking-kay,

Oh but they can’t tell me why.

I put the picture on the shelf

Leave the memory behind

But the truth is I can’t say goodbye.”

Was he getting too real? Maybe. Atsushi was quiet beside him, not interrupting, just listening. He took that as a sign to keep going.

“So I made friends with all my demons

Let ‘em sink their teeth in

Got used to the feeling of letting it go

So give me something to believe in

Or throw me in the deep end

It all feels the same with your eyes close

So you can throw me in the, Deep end

Deep end

Deep end, Deep end”

And..that’s all he knew. The rest of the song was lost to him. He dared a peek up at the weretiger, waiting to see him fighting off laughter or wincing at Akutagawa’s singing.

Instead, he was leaning into the piano, eyes misty and something incredibly soft in his expression. There was no disgust, no second hand embarrassment, none of that. Only the look of a man who found something he was fond of, the smallest of smiles on his lips that took Akutagawa’s breath away.

Surely he must be thinking of someone else. There was no way he was looking at him like that.

The idea that Atsushi was thinking of another made his chest ache, a strange hollowness within tearing at his insides. In a haste, he slapped his hands onto the keys, startling the other out of his reverie. “I don’t know the rest- really, I hate the piano; we shouldn’t have done this. We have to go before the cops show up-”

“Aku.” Atsushi’s voice made him pause, halfway out of the seat. He was focused again, the expression he was wearing tucked away and replaced by his usual smile. “That was amazing. Truly.”

His chest ached again.

“It was just a thing I learned at the mafia. That’s all.” His voice sounded foreign to his ears, cold and distant. In the corner of his eye, he saw Atsushi wince. “Just forget about it.”

“Aku-”

But he was already out the door; the cool air of the city blowing on his warm face as he stumbled out. He walked at first, but then he was running. And then he was bolting. He needed to get away- to go somewhere else. He found himself flying down alleyway after alleyway, stumbling over his own two feet before crashing hard on his knees, coughing in his hand.

When he pulled it back, it was wet. However, it wasn’t blood that made it so. When did his vision get so blurry? He blinked, shaking when he realized it was tears.

He was foolish. A complete idiot! How could he let himself fall for the Weretiger? A Detective Agency member- the Mafia’s enemy. They’d never work out; and soon- he’d leave him. Just like how Dazai did all those years ago.

It would never work. Nothing ever did in the Port Mafia. They were sewer rats- destined to live and die among the filth they waddled in. And Atsushi…he didn’t deserve someone like that. He deserved someone who could stand in the sunrise with him, who could see how it matched perfectly with his eyes. Someone who could listen to his songs and jokes and antics and laugh freely alongside him. Someone who could make him happy.

And that wasn’t Akutagawa.

Curling up, he wrapped Rashomon tightly around himself. In past experiences, he found his ability rather sound proof. It was only then did he finally let himself sob.

~Kiss~ 

Atsushi sighed as he leaned back into a park bench, head still reeling. It had been a few days since the church incident, and there was no Akutagawa in sight. He could be busy, but Atsushi was sure he was avoiding him. It hurt- the sudden shut down from the other. Atsushi recounted the event in his mind hundreds of times, trying to figure out what exactly he did that made him flee.

He truly meant it when he said Akutagawa’s playing was amazing. Really- he was referring to his everything; the way he played, the words he sung, the way they broke something within his chest as he found each lyric incredibly relatable. That last moment, when the song ended and Akutagawa turned to look at him- there was so much…vulnerability in his gaze. Was he waiting for Atsushi to say something then?

Oh dear- perhaps he failed him afterall.

Pulling the bag of pork buns closer to his hip, he stood, deciding to head back to his apartment. It was probably dumb, waiting here for him. They hadn’t agreed on a meetup spot; Atsushi had hoped if he remained at the same location for the past three days, he’d pop up. So far, it proved fruitless. He made his way to the entrance.

And found himself staring at Akutagawa.

Silence so thick it could be cut with a knife, the two stared at one another; frozen. The rest of the world seemed to go silent, the people walking by shut off like a mute button. Akutagawa seemed stunned, and Atsushi doubted he looked any better.

For a brief, terrifying moment, he was scared Akutagawa would bolt. He remained standing. Then-

“Weretiger I-”

“I bought Pork Buns-”

They had spoken at the same time. Akutagawa blinked, startled. Atsushi felt himself return to reality.

“I uh…I bought Pork Buns. At the local convenience store? I remembered you liked them and..” He waved the bag in the direction of his apartment. “It’s probably not a good time, and if not you can just take them but…do you want to come over and eat? I bought too many…”

Akutagawa stared, the look making Atsushi squirm. Then he spoke once more. “I’m not busy…sure.” Relief flooded Atsushi’s chest.

“Great! Come along then.”

~~~

The walk back was terribly awkward. Neither spoke, but it was tense this time around, words heavier than steel stuck in their throats as they finally arrived at Atsushi’s place. Fumbling for the key, the weretiger pushed open the door, flicking on the light. “Pardon the mess, I didn’t get to clean up this morning.”

Removing his shoes, Akutagawa looked around. If he noticed the messy futon and leftover ramen cup, he didn’t say. Instead, he nodded. “Thank you for having me over.”

“Yeah, yeah- sure.” Atsushi smiled, hating how polite everything felt. He wanted so badly for Akutagawa to point out something- to make a comment on his tiger plushie that the other gave him in return for the chocolates- to tease him about knocking things over on the counter. He wanted anything else but this super quiet, super polite version of Akutagawa. “Erm, let me go put these down-”

“Weretiger. I must apologize.”

Atsushi froze, scared to turn around. Oh no, was he leaving already?

“The other day- I left without a word to you. That was incredibly rude of me, and I’m sorry.” Akutagawa sounded…choked. Like there was something else there he wasn’t mentioning. Atsushi figured he’d let it be.

But then, would anything actually change if he did?

“You ran pretty far after you left. I didn’t see where you went, you just kinda- disappeared.” Atsushi turned, facing him. “I never got to finish what I was saying.”

“I didn’t want to hear it.”

Ouch. Okay. Atsushi tried to hide the hurt with a smile. “Fair enough.”

“Wait- no. Fuck, this is hard.” Akutagawa ran a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. “That’s not what I meant. Sorry. I mean- I was…” He struggled with the words, waving his hands. “Weretiger, I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

Another dagger. Atsushi felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Doing what?”

“The whole- whatever this is. It’s killing me.”

A third. Atsushi felt his eyes sting. “Just say it, Akutagawa.” He sounded harsh in his own ears. Good.It’ll make him leave faster. “Say it and be done, already.”

Akutagawa flinched as if struck. Then he straightened, eyes intense.

“I’m in love with you, Weretiger.”

The buns hit the floor.

“I’m in love with you- I’ve been in love with you since- I don’t know how long now. Everytime I close my eyes, I see you. I hear you laughing in my dreams; I see you smiling at me when the pain’s at its worst and it’s killing me because I’m not good enough for you. I’m not the kind of person you deserve- a sewer rat who’ll only stain you with my filth-”

“Shut up.” Atsushi sounded strange. Akutagawa stared.

“Shut the hell up, you son of a-” Atsushi stormed across the room, grabbing the front of his coat.

And then he was kissing him. His lips crashed into Akutagawa's like a man craving water. At first, Akutagawa was frozen in shock. Then he was kissing him back, clutching the other tightly, pulling him in against his chest like he couldn’t get enough. He tasted like chocolate. For once, Atsushi found himself liking it.

When they pulled away, flushed and breathless, Atsushi reached up, gently pulling at the fringe framing the other’s face.

“Now you listen to me, Aku.” He tugged, earning a mild wince from the other. “First of all- you don’t get to decide who deserves me. I decide who deserves me. Second of all-” He released his hair, poking a finger into his chest. “I don’t want to ever hear you describe yourself as a sewer rat ever again. If I get stained, I get stained. Despite the white fur, I’m not some pristine tiger figurine.” He moved the hand poking his chest up to cup Akutagawa’s cheek, running a thumb against the smooth skin. “Finally- I never got to say what I wanted to say the other day. So you better listen.

“I think you’re amazing. The way you carry yourself; how you’re still so you even after everything you’ve been through in the Port Mafia. How you have these cute little quirks about yourself and how you’ve got so many hidden talents. I think you’re amazing, and I’m in love with you too. I’ve been in love with you for a long time now.” He smiled at the wide eyed stare he got, watching the hope in Akutagawa’s eyes meld into soft happiness.

Then he pinched his cheek, pulling slightly.

“But if you ever just up and run off on me again, I’ll kick your ass. I’m a weretiger- we like to eat little sewer rats who drive us nuts.”

“Sorry.” Akutagawa said through a deformed mouth. Atsushi released his cheek, leaning up to kiss it. “I thought you'd be in love with someone else.”

“Who else is there? Ranpo?” Atsushi raised an eyebrow. Then he looked thoughtful. “It would make getting you chocolate easier…”

Akutagawa couldn’t stop it. The laugh he fought down so hard bubbled over, then another. Before long, he was leaning into Atsushi, laughing for the first time in what felt like forever. The weretiger stood stunned, then he was giggling. Next thing he knew, he was laughing just as much, clinging to the other and squeezing tightly.

“Ohhohoho my god. I fuhuhucking love you, Weretiger.” Akutagawa wheezed out, wiping away a combination of happy and mirthful tears.

Atsushi looked just as teary, his cheeks warm and smiling like sunshine. “I love you too, Aku.”

Thanks for reading!

[godsfavoritescientist]

Building off of what I wrote in my fic "Sparks," I'm really compelled by the idea of Ford genuinely no longer being interested in sailing around in a boat with Stan by the time they were seniors in high school.

I like the idea of it not being just a symptom of the resentment that had been building between them, nor it being a dream of Ford's that only paled in comparison to west coast tech, but it being a genuine loss of interest on Ford's end. I think it complicates things even further in some really juicy ways.

Like, imagine going through high school slowly losing more and more interest in the dream you've shared with your twin and only friend ever since you were little kids. How do you break it to him? How do you explain it to him without making it sound like a rejection of him? Without it making him hate you?

How do you explain it without it feeling like a spit in the face to all the hard work he's put into a plan that started out as a way of him comforting you by telling you "it doesn't matter what people say about you, you're going to be an adventurer who sails away into the sunset and never has to hear their mockery ever again, and there will be babes and treasure and heroism, and then they'll all see how cool you really are!"

And all through high school you think to yourself, "he's going to move on to more realistic dreams any day now, and then I won't have to say anything about it!" But no matter how many times you mention something else he could do with his life that he seems interested in, or bring up the challenging logistics of traveling around long-term in a boat, he sounds just as committed to the childhood dream as ever, and completely oblivious to how apprehensive you sound.

So resentment grows, little by little. Because that's easier than confronting the soul-crushing levels of guilt that are building up inside of you, every time you don't take an opportunity to tell him you don't want to do the plan anymore. You don't have a single person in your life who modeled how to have difficult conversations for you. As far as you know, having this conversation with Stan would crush him into tiny little pieces and then he would hate you forever, and you can't stand the idea of losing the only friend you've ever had.

So tensions grow. A lack of interest turns into a bitter resentment that, if you were really being honest with yourself, is directed more at yourself than it is at Stan.

And then the falling-out happens, and it seems like you were proven right. Stan hates you now, and he's never going to forgive you for giving up on his dream. But two can play that game, so you try to hate him too. Because if you hate him too, then maybe it won't hurt as much that he never came back. That he never even turned up at school, or by the boat, or in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night. He knows what dad's like, and how he says impulsive exaggerated things when he's angry, and haven't you both dealt with his harsh words countless times before and been able to dust yourselves off and joke about it later? So why isn't he back at home, joking with you about how absurd your dad acted that night, being impossible and belligerent about ruining your dream, but at least now you're even, because you've ruined his dream too.

-

And now imagine you find out he risked the lives of everyone in existence to bring you back, right after you had accepted your fate was to die killing Bill. It would be terrifying and confusing and infuriating. If he cared so much, why didn't he do something to reconnect with you sooner? Why did he ignore you in favor of trying to make it big without you? Why didn't he take the infinitely safer and simpler action of reaching out to you without you having to track down his address and send a desperate plea for help? You were convinced that he didn't care enough to bother with you unless you had an important enough reason for him to come. But even then, he thought your plans were stupid. He didn't want anything to do with you, not even with the world at stake.

Did he save your life out of guilt? Does he pity you that much? It doesn't add up with what he did in the decade leading up to shoving you into the portal. And the dissonance between the version of him in your head that hates you, and the man who held out his arms to welcome you back to your home dimension, is so strong that you feel like you're being lied to again, like you're back in the depths of gaslighting and manipulation that Bill put you through, even though there's no way that's what Stan is trying to do... right? You can't figure it out, so you run away from it. You don't want to know the answer to whether or not Stan hates you, because you don't know which answer would hurt more, so you try to make him hate you more than ever, because at least then you would know for sure how he feels.

And in the end, after he sacrifices his memories for you, and for the world, things seem clearer. The layers upon layers of confusion and anger and hurt seem to have washed away like drawings in the sand, leaving behind the simple truth: that you two had an argument, and didn't move past it for forty years, and despite everything you put each other through, you both still want to re-connect.

So you sail away in a boat together.

And at first, it's wonderful. It's exactly what you want. It feels like an apology to Stan, and a thank-you for saving the world, and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to heal the rift between you two, and it's good to be back on earth, and you wonder why you ever doubted the dream you two once had.

But then, after the first long journey you spend on the sea together, when you get back home to dry land, Stan is already talking about planning your next adventure out on the open sea. He recaps every adventure you had on the first trip, over and over again, and he wants to chat with you all through the morning and long into the night, and you don't have the words to explain to yourself that you don't have enough social battery for this, and suddenly you're slipping back into the horrifyingly familiar feeling of Stan being overbearing and needing space from him and how could you think that? How could you think that about him after everything he's done for you and everything he's forgiven you for? But the longer this goes on, the more you realize that you still don't want to spend the rest of your life sailing around with Stan. It's great fun in moderation, but the idea of your whole life revolving around Stan and going on adventures with Stan and being in a boat with Stan with no time to be by yourself thinking about your own things and figuring out your own dreams makes your skin crawl with a claustrophobic kind of panic that you still don't know how to put into words forty years after the first time this feeling grabbed you by the throat and ruined your friendship with Stanley.

But the first time this happened, it nearly ruined his life forever. You can't let yourself feel this. You don't feel this. You're happy to spend the rest of your life fulfilling Stan's lifelong dream, and making up for the time you crushed his dream, and sure, maybe he crushed your dream once too, and maybe it would be nice for him to support your dreams like you're now doing for him, but you can't say that. He saved the universe, and it would be horrible and ungrateful and cruel for you to try to voice these feelings, especially when you don't know how to voice your feelings without it making other people feel like you twisted a knife into their gut. So you try to pretend the feeling isn't there.

You go out on a boat with Stan again. You planned out another incredible journey together, and this should be fun, and you should be happy about this, but the unspoken feeling you shoved as far down in yourself as it could possibly go is eating you alive. The worst part? Stan is starting to notice. You have never been good at hiding your emotions. The trick to it has always been to convince yourself you don't feel it at all, and not think about it, and that has always worked like a charm. But whenever the emotion claws its way back up to the forefront of your mind, you can tell Stan knows something is wrong. So you can't even give him the happy ending he deserves. You can't even convince him that you want to be here on the open seas forever with him, like he deserves. And you keep trying and trying to hide it, but Stan keeps asking in roundabout ways, like "You're being awfully quiet, sixer," and "whats that look on your face?" and eventually it comes exploding out of you like a shaken-up soda bottle dropped on its cap.

And then it's like you're back at home in New Jersey again, standing in the living room while dad grabs Stanley by the shirt. It all comes pouring out of you, in the worst possible way, with the worst possible phrasing, like a pandora's box of monstrousness, and Stan tries to fight back against the sting of your words, but you're made out of acid and you're burning through him and you can see it on his face, and there's never any coming back from this, not this time, you'll just have to either jump into the ocean or become a monster forever, so Stan can hate you more easily again, and-

-and at the end of the outburst, you're still on a boat in the middle of nowhere in the ocean with your brother, in dangerous waters, and you have things to do to keep the boat running smoothly.

You can't run away from him. He can't run away from you. You're stuck here for at least a couple more weeks, even if you turned around and sailed back towards shore right away.

-

And the thing that compels me so much here, despite how unbelievably angsty it all is, is that it sets up a situation wherein the Stans might end up forced to actually address the decades of resentment and confusion and wanting-to-reconnect-throughout-it-all that they thought they could gloss over and heal with enough time spent adventuring together on a boat. They might end up forced to actually address the crux of the issue that drove them apart in the first place: Ford wanting a little more space to feel like his own person, and to feel like he's able to have his own dreams, too.

It wouldn't happen easily, nor right away, but if they were stuck together on a little boat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by magical creatures they have to protect each other from in order to make it back home alive, then after they had one fight where they brought up all the things they silently agreed to never bring up again, it would probably happen many more times, and each time it would leave them both angrier at each other than ever, until eventually something honest slipped through amidst all the saying-anything-except-what-they-mean bickering. And once enough of these honest moments slipped through, then they would have a thread to tug on to start to unravel the gargantuan knot of their decades of unresolved conflicts.

And then, eventually, maybe Stan could learn that he can have a good friendship with his brother without needing to be glued to him at the hip, and Ford needing a certain amount of alone time doesn't mean he dislikes him or wants to abandon him, and Ford could learn that he can be honest and have a meaningful connection with someone without it driving them away and making them hate him.

[seventh-district]

7am, eating cold leftover teriyaki stir-fry for breakfast and crying over blorbos