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glorious-blackout · 4 years ago

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Soooo @rock-n-roll-fantasy wanted me to write an essay on my self-indulgent theory that Muse’s ‘Simulation Theory’ and Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino’ are set in the same universe, and my brain rather predictably used this as an opportunity to develop a novel-length crossover fic instead. I’m starting to doubt that the full idea will ever get written purely because life has a habit of getting in the way, but here’s a bit of an overlong teaser in place of your essay! 😉🥰

*************************************

The trek from Room 521 to the ballroom is a long, monotonous one. Not that that particularly matters; even if Mark didn’t know every corridor like the back of his hand, he no doubt would have been guided to his destination regardless, simply by following the growing ruckus of banal chatter overlying soft musical notes. His own band won’t be the ones playing tonight – thank Christ seeing as he barely has the energy to hold a mic for two hours let alone sing into it – but the prospect of spending the evening alone in his room had hardly been tempting. He could have arranged to meet one of the lads for a drink, he supposes, but he hadn’t wanted to impose. They all have lives beyond the hotel after all, whereas he remains tied to its walls like an obedient dog on a leash.

High-ceilinged corridors eventually lure him towards a set of heavy oak doors, the only veil remaining between him and a horde of guests who by now are likely enjoying their third glass of champagne. Muffled conversations become crystal clear for a moment as one guest stumbles onto the corridor looking considerably worse for wear, but the noise is quickly silenced by an exaggerated slam. The guest sways on his feet for a moment, narrowed eyes struggling to maintain focus on Mark’s face, before he huffs and takes the first step of what promises to be an arduous journey back to his room. No doubt he’ll have collapsed in a pool of his own vomit before he’s even halfway there, adding one more job to the cleaners’ already overflowing pile in the process. Mark sighs, already regretting his decision to be sociable, and forces himself over the threshold before he can change his mind.

The ballroom does ignite a certain pride within his chest, he must admit. The spacious hall - resting beneath a curved ceiling kept afloat by granite columns - is a stark contrast to the narrow claustrophobic corridors leading up to it, and the size is adequate enough that the space never feels too crowded. Waiters flit back and forth between packed circular tables on the fringes, offering blessed champagne or scotch from a well-stocked bar, and an elevated platform at the far-end of the hall proudly showcases the evening’s entertainment.

It would appear the choice of dance tonight is a simple waltz. Guests dressed to the nines in elegant frocks and sharp tuxedos glide effortlessly along the polished dancefloor; guided by lilting piano notes as they sway beneath the soft light of a glittering chandelier. As usual, Mark feels no particular inclination to join them. On occasion, he himself will be the one sat by the piano, enticing his guests to dance for him whenever the evening feels a little too stagnant, but it would appear that his influence is not needed tonight. Besides, the only thing enticing him for the moment is the bar.

Despite having to make his way through the masses in order to reach his destination, luck must be on his side for no-one takes the opportunity to disturb him. He must have timed his trip well enough that the drinks are already taking hold, to the point where the hotel owner himself has become an unnoteworthy presence. His short walk to the bar goes entirely without a hitch, so much so that it probably shouldn’t surprise him when he arrives to find that his luck has run dry.

There’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Logically he knows this isn’t an issue; there are plenty of free stools lined up against the horseshoe-shaped counter, but the sight gives him pause nonetheless. For as long as he can remember, that centerfold seat has been his and his alone, and the sight of someone new sitting there has unease coiling in his gut for reasons he cannot explain. If that were the strangest thing about this situation then he could have moved on and settled himself elsewhere without another thought, but what truly makes him gape is the appearance of the man who has seen fit to take his place.

In stark contrast to the stylish formalwear adorning the vast majority of guests, this man seems to have made it his mission to break every rule of fashion there is. The loud red jeans and shiny trainers would no doubt have been bad enough on their own, but in comparison to the gaudy nylon jacket and the lit neon sunglasses which remain fused to his face despite being indoors, the lower half of his body looks positively tame. Intricate circuitry is affixed to the front of the jacket, with wires snaking their way into a large pocket which no doubt houses a switch designed to make the jacket as loud as the sunglasses. Mark can’t help but wonder how this man hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention and has instead been left to cradle his glass of bourbon in relative peace. Perhaps this is the current fashion trend on Earth and someone has simply forgotten to give Mark that particular memo.

Shaking his head once and remembering his mother sternly telling him that staring is rude, Mark clears his throat and gestures to the free stool by his side when a pair of concealed eyes turn in his direction.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asks, well aware that he of all people shouldn’t need to ask permission.

A knowing smile graces the man’s thin face and he nods graciously, removing his glasses to reveal surprisingly gentle blue eyes. He appears more normal up close than Mark anticipated, barring a pair of impressively sharp cheekbones and a hairstyle so haphazard he doubts an intense combing session would tame it.

“Be my guest,” the man offers in an accent which turns out to be English, to Mark’s not unpleasant surprise. Besides the lads, he can’t remember the last time he encountered someone from home. “Though I imagine that’s usually your line.”

A surprised laugh escapes Mark at the lame joke, causing the stranger to grin proudly before taking another generous sip of bourbon. Mark considers calling the waiter over – the impressive display of booze resting before him is enough to make his mouth water – but the man in question appears to be preoccupied with an uptight elderly couple nearby, and besides, his curiosity is already threatening to consume him. The booze can wait.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the man interjects before Mark can ask the question weighing on his mind. The words escape like a bullet, so rapidly that the compliment could easily be dismissed as flippant, but the stranger’s smile seems sincere enough. “You’ve got one hell of a mind, Turner.”

There’s a gravity to his tone that Mark can’t quite comprehend, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

“How did you get here?” Mark asks, aiming for a conversational tone only to flinch when the words emerge as confrontational instead. In an attempt to save face, he adds, “I don’t remember greeting you at the station, is all.”

‘I would have remembered if I had’ goes unsaid, though the implication doesn’t appear to be lost on his new companion.

“Interdimensional portal,” he replies without missing a beat, bringing his glass to his lips once more as he gazes at Mark with mischief in his eyes and a challenge in his smirk.

The ensuing silence is broken almost immediately as Mark bursts out laughing again; an action which appears to serve as an invitation for the other man to join him. The high-pitched giggle is unexpected, but the sound of it is enough to melt some of Mark’s lingering unease.

“I doubt technology’s reached that stage yet,” Mark teases once he’s recovered his composure. “Not unless they’re keeping secrets from me back home.”

“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you,” the man retaliates, that same challenge resting on his lips and a single brow quirked upwards with mocking intent. “How long has it been since you visited Earth?”

The lightness in Mark’s chest vanishes for a moment and his brows knit together as he ponders the question. Strange. Now that he thinks about it, he honestly can’t recall how long it’s been.

When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, his companion simply shrugs before facing ahead once more, demolishing the rest of his drink with a single gulp. It’s impossible to tell how much he’s had already. His current glass barely seems to have touched him, unless his strange approach to conversation is merely the product of drunken ramblings. He makes no move to relinquish his seat however, nor does he signal to the now-free waiter for a refill, and Mark finds himself facing straight ahead as he contemplates the choice lying before him.

On the one hand, this man is clearly strange. The unease which continues to coil in his gut is proof enough of that, and Mark imagines that walking away now would spare him a world a confusion. His eyelids feel heavy enough as it is without his mind being weighed down as well.

On the other hand, he honestly can’t remember the last time he had a conversation that was so... spontaneous. He’s grown accustomed to forced chats about hotel business and band rehearsals, to the point where he can’t remember the last time anyone made him laugh in pleasant surprise. Until tonight that is.

And honestly, what is his alternative? Mingling with the guests and sweeping up compliments about the taqueria, or the pool, or the perfect view of Earth offered by the casino’s transparent ceiling? Having to listen to rich businessmen divulge their recent purchases of eye-wateringly expensive yachts or starships, while wives half their age hang onto their arm and pretend to look interested?

It isn’t really a contest in the end.

Decision made, Mark gestures to the waiter, who approaches with what he suspects is a put-on smile. To the man’s credit, said smile doesn’t falter even when he casts a sideways glance towards his boss’s unconventional choice of companion.

“Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin please, Andrew,” Mark orders with an easy smile of his own. “And one for my friend here as well.”

Andrew hesitates for only a moment before preparing the drinks with practiced ease, applying a crystallised ball of ice to Mark’s glass once both whiskies are poured. At his side, the mysterious stranger eyes Mark with what appears to be surprise at this unprompted display of generosity, but the smile returns soon enough as he takes his drink in hand and thanks Andrew with all the grace of a perfect gent.

“You trying to get me drunk, Turner?” he teases, though if he’s opposed to the idea he doesn’t show it.

“Just hoping for some interesting conversation,” Mark responds with a wry smirk of his own. “Scotch usually helps with that, I’ve found.”

Without further ado, he takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction as the golden liquid instantly works its magic. A pleasant burn trails down his throat until warmth settles in his belly, and any lingering stress drifts away like smoke on a breeze.

“You can call me Mark by the way,” he says, raising his glass as an invitation. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think?”

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crosses over his companion’s face, just for a second, before he returns Mark’s easy smile and brings their glasses together with a soft clink.

“Matthew,” he says, which strikes Mark as such an ordinary name for one committed to looking so extraordinary. “But you can call me Matt. Everyone else does.”

Mark nods in acknowledgement before returning to his drink, and they wile away the following minutes in companiable silence. The band appear to have moved on from classical waltzes and are now playing a smooth jazz number, the seductive groove of the double-bass soothing Mark into closing his eyes and forgetting the hundreds of guests gathered nearby. The chatter has died down slightly since his arrival, but the odd clink of a glass or drunken laugh is enough to assure him that he’s not entirely alone. Not as alone as he would have been had he remained in his room with only the hotel blueprints and a virtual reality mask for company.

In a few more moments he may even have found himself forgetting Matt’s presence, but it isn’t long before his reverie is broken by a now-familiar voice.

“What do you know of ‘Simulation Theory’?” Matt asks flippantly, as though it’s the most ordinary question in the world. The fact that Mark can only stare dumbly for several seconds is likely a sign that his scotch is already beginning to take hold, but he eventually forces himself to give a resigned shrug.

“Not much,” he admits. The name doesn’t sound familiar in the slightest, though he’ll admit that he isn’t known for scouring scientific journals. “I suspect that’s about to change though.”

That statement seems to be invitation enough for Matt, who downs the rest of his drink without so much as a flinch before launching into what appears to be a well-practiced spiel.

Mark can only try to keep up between finishing one drink and ordering another, as Matt starts explaining the concept of computers advancing to the point where they can simulate the laws of physics, so much so that the future of interplanetary travel may end up being achieved via the means of simulated reality - unlimited by the demands of the fragile human body - rather than old-fashioned means such as starships or satellites as ancient sci-fi shows had predicted. The whole lecture is delivered in what must be Matt’s typical rapid-fire delivery; Mark would likely have been left with little breathing room even if he had been entirely sober, which he is becoming less and less so as the evening wears on. With his keen enthusiasm and eccentric hand movements, Mark reckons Matt would have made an excellent physics professor in another life if the concepts escaping his mind weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

“Which of course poses the question,” Matt concludes eventually, pausing to stop for breath. A pleasant buzz is coursing through Mark’s veins by this point, and he rests his head on one hand as he studies Matt with an amused smile. “If we conclude that it is feasibly possible for technology to exist which is capable of simulating reality so convincingly, who is to say that it hasn’t already happened? What if we’re all just cogs in a machine, believing our decisions are our own and that everything around us is real, when in actuality we’re being watched and studied and controlled? Like ants under a microscope?”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders the question as best he can, taking another sip despite knowing it won’t help. It strikes him that the whisky has already rendered him soft and sleepy, whereas Matt doesn’t appear to have been affected at all despite the fact that he’s clearly had more. As quick as his delivery is, Mark can’t even recall hearing a slur. “Like characters in a videogame or summat?”

“Something like that I suppose,” Matt concurs, though there’s a tension in his skinny frame that implies Mark has barely scratched the surface. “What do you reckon would happen if a videogame character realised they were trapped in a videogame? That their entire lives were a fiction and that someone else was in control?”

“I imagine they’d spiral into existential dread,” Mark concludes with a dismissive shrug, polishing off what must be his third glass and placing it face-down on the countertop. It would probably be best if he stops now, seeing as Matt appears to be in a philosophical mood. “Good thing they can’t think or feel anything then, isn’t it? They just do as they’re told.”

An amused smirk graces Matt’s face and there’s a glint in those blue eyes that implies he wants to add something, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. For now at least. Mark uses this window of silence to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before casting a glance around the ballroom. It’s still relatively busy. The band have given no indication that they’re approaching the end of their set, and so long as the drinks keep flowing, there will always be ample opportunity for dancing and conversation. He loses himself for a moment as he observes the movements of the guests gracing the dancefloor; everyone from beautiful newlyweds to elderly couples celebrating their golden anniversaries locked in intimate embraces, with eyes only for each other. Matt’s musings weave their way through his mind and he finds himself searching for flaws in the system; a hint that what he’s seeing isn’t all it appears to be. He scans the faces of the guests to see if he can find any duplication; eavesdrops on nearby conversations in search of generic, repetitive sentences. He feels the warm cotton of his suit and the cool condensation on his glass and the sticky sweat on the palm of his hand, only to conclude that it all must surely be real. He knows all-too-well what it’s like to wander lucidly through a dream, and this isn’t one.

Still, the possibility is fascinating. Ludicrous, but fascinating.

“Let’s say you’re right,” he starts, taking a moment to select his next words carefully. He doesn’t usually feel the need to be so cautious in conversation, but Matt’s ability to spout ridiculous theories with the utmost confidence has left him feeling like he’s playing catch-up. “And let’s say that we’re the ones trapped in this game, or simulation, or whatever you want to call it.”

Matt turns to him as though shocked that Mark’s actually giving his ramblings any consideration, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been shot down in the past. He pauses, half-expecting an interruption, but Matt’s only response is a smile followed by an encouraging nod.

“What if there’s a reason behind the fiction?” he proposes, more confidently now. “What if we’ve been trapped in a game because reality is terrible.”

“And therein lies our conundrum!” Matt says, eyes lighting up with childlike glee as he leans back and slams his hand on the counter. Tending to a guest a few seats away, Andrew side-eyes him warily, perhaps wondering if he’ll be forced to escort another drunk from the premises soon, but Mark’s total lack of concern seems to reassure him. “Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

The hypothetical weight of the question stumps Mark for a moment. Any thoughts which had previously been running through his mind fragment like shattered glass, leaving only a warm fuzz in their place. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to have an all-powerful, all-seeing creature manipulate his thoughts - moulding them like clay - and despite the room’s pleasant warmth, he finds himself shivering. It’s not that he believes Matt’s theories – far from it – but pondering the question elicits the same uncertainty planted by movies like his beloved Blade Runner; makes him contemplate deep, existential ‘What-ifs’ until sleep eludes him and a shiver creeps up his spine.

When the power of speech finally returns to him, he finds the words spilling forth without having crossed his mind beforehand.

“I think we’re both a little too drunk for philosophical discussions, don’t you agree?” he says blankly, though upon hearing the words even he is left utterly unconvinced. He may already be able to anticipate the crushing headache that morning will bring, but he’s managed to remain somewhat lucid so far. Matt, damn him, doesn’t appear to have been affected by the alcohol at all. Nor does he seem willing to let Mark back down; instead he pointedly says nothing as his lips curl upwards in an unspoken challenge.

Mark sighs, before forcing himself to answer the question with one of his own.

“If the fiction is so convincing that you could go from birth to death without realising it is a fiction, does it really make a difference?”

“A fair point,” Matt concedes with a shrug, though Mark doesn’t miss the way his expression darkens. A twitch in his jaw implies that his words have struck a nerve, only he can’t possibly see why that would be the case. He expects Matt to elaborate further – to quash his argument with a clever retaliation – but he simply turns back towards the wall of booze and signals to Andrew to bring him another glass of scotch. The temptation to tell him that he’ll need to be carried back to his room on a stretcher if he carries on like this is momentarily overwhelming, but the words remain glued to Mark’s tongue like resin. His mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and the flurry of unease which had been temporarily dispelled returns with a burning vengeance. All he can do is watch as Matt gratefully accepts what must be his fifth glass and gulps half of it down his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind. A distant memory perhaps; a vague flicker of recognition which had lain buried until this moment. He can honestly swear he has never laid eyes on Matt before today, but it strikes him that their camaraderie has been a little too easy tonight. Almost as though he should know Matt from his previous life on Earth.

But he doesn’t. He knows that for a fact, and any treacherous doubts suggesting otherwise are swiftly cast aside with an urgency he can’t explain.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to polish off his glass, setting it down on the counter with a finality which suggests it’ll be his last of the night. Just as well, Mark thinks. He can feel the evening beginning to wind down already, and he can feel fatigue settling into his bones.

Before he can offer to foot the bill, his companion finally decides to pipe up again. Any trace of his earlier bravado appears to have abandoned him, leaving him crouched and visibly exhausted, his voice impossibly small.

“If nothing is real – if everything around us truly is a fiction - then it stands to reason that there’s no underlying purpose to our existence. Our lives are there to serve as meaningless entertainment for something lurking in the shadows and nothing more. So everything we do or say, everyone we love...none of it matters in the end. Not really.”

He looks directly at Mark then, his once gentle blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back like a frightened child. A silly notion really. Of all the words to describe Matt, ‘threatening’ doesn’t immediately come to mind, but the discomfort lingers regardless. Matt must notice, for he averts his eyes to the floor almost immediately and offers a small, apologetic smile as recompense.

“I just don’t think I could live with that,” he concludes with a certainty that has Mark’s chest tightening. “No matter how beautiful the lie is.”

A beat passes. Then another. Mark becomes all-too aware of his heart pounding in his chest, trying to assure him that he’s okay; that he’s solid and real. It occurs to him that he has forgotten how to breathe, and the discomfort in his chest outweighs the soothing burn the scotch had planted there earlier.

Matt doesn’t say anything else. Instead he runs a hand through his wayward hair, before ultimately deciding that fidgeting with his discarded sunglasses would be a better use of his time. Against his better judgement, Mark allows the weight of his words to sink in and momentarily imagines an existence in which all of his actions are pre-determined, his thoughts carefully filtered. Where everyone he loves are simply figments of expertly-written code. Where any responsibilities he may have are ultimately unimportant.

A simpler existence perhaps, but a wholly purposeless one.

“I don’t think I’d want to live like that either,” he admits quietly, so much so that he’s amazed Matt hears him. He must do however, for the words force him to look at Mark again, his expression unreadable besides a hint of sadness in deep blue eyes.

There doesn’t appear to be anything more to say. Words escape him - even the simple courtesies which usually come so naturally - and yet he cannot bring himself to look away. Matt seems to be in the same predicament. For a moment it’s as though they’re both gazing into a supernova, unwilling to look away despite knowing full well that the sight will blind them.

For the first time all evening he finds himself missing his friends. His Matt would have told him to snap out of it by now and Jamie or Nick would have called him a twat for getting so worked up about meaningless theories, and while Mark may have retaliated with a pointed ‘fuck off’, he no doubt would have felt lighter in their presence.

In the end it’s Matt who breaks the spell first. His eyes are drawn from Mark’s face to something lurking in the background, and a palpable shift overcomes him as thin lips are pulled into a grim line. Beneath soft overhead lights, Matt visibly pales and his pupils dilate with what Mark can only presume is fear, and white fists clench so tightly around his glasses that it’s amazing they don’t shatter. Dread claws into Mark’s chest with no explanation, and before curiosity can swallow him whole, he turns his head to follow Matt’s eyeline.

It only takes a moment to locate what has grabbed his friend’s attention. The new arrivals have barely made an effort to blend in after all. Standing out among the throng of increasingly drunk guests, two men linger at the far end of the hall, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses and twin postures stiff and unyielding. Both are clad in leather jackets which are only slightly less conspicuous than Matt’s own, and once again a treacherous flicker of recognition ignites in Mark’s brain before sputtering into a puff of smoke. The taller man must be pushing six feet, his brown hair cropped short and a 5 o’clock shadow darkening his features as effectively as the scowl on his lips. The smaller man must be around Mark’s height and appears slightly less threatening for it, though from a distance he almost resembles Matt himself with the exception of his dirty-blond hair.

For a moment Mark wonders if the two men are members of his own security team, seeking out Matt on grounds of a misdemeanor which Mark has been blissfully unaware of all night. Matt doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see them after all, though their presence certainly disturbs him. That thought is cast aside quickly, however. Mark has made an effort to familiarise himself with every member of his workforce, and even if these two are last-minute recruits, their outfits don’t resemble any worn by the rest of his staff.

The not-so-concealed carry lurking on their belts is hardly a feature of his security team either.

Blood freezing as two hidden pairs of eyes settle on the bar and its occupants, Mark turns to Matt in a panic; mouth open with the intention of voicing a warning, or demanding an explanation, or both, but Matt is already one step ahead of him. Those awful neon sunglasses are back on his face, albeit he has the good sense not to activate them this time, and he throws some crumpled notes onto the counter before turning to Mark with what is no doubt supposed to be a reassuring smile. It doesn’t work of course, though he imagines Matt is well-aware of that.

As a gesture of goodwill, Matt places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and offers what sounds like a very final farewell.

“It was good to see you again, Alex.”

And then he’s off, wandering past the quickly emptying dining tables and mixing with the assorted bodies on the dancefloor. Fat lot of good it does; he has about as much chance of blending in here as a giraffe does hiding among a gang of meerkats. Casting a glance towards the mysterious arrivals, Mark spots them making their way towards the dancefloor, the only indication of urgency being the grim determination on their faces. They don’t seem to have any interest in him for the moment, but that prospect brings him little in the way of relief. Instead he simply feels nausea crawling up his throat, and as Matt threatens to escape his eyeline, a new madness takes hold and compels him to follow.

Keeping Matt in his sights is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. As much as he stands out among the crowd of dancers, once Mark finds himself trapped within that very crowd, his ability to focus on what’s directly ahead of him falters. The band has gone and a DJ has taken their place, enticing drunk youths to stumble to and fro under the guise of dancing, and Mark finds himself being roughly grabbed more than once by revelers inviting him to join in. One man pointedly tells him to “fuck off” when he manages to free his arm from his tight grip, before swanning off to harass some other poor sod, but Mark forces himself to recover quickly and carries on with his misguided pursuit. Later it will occur to him that he is not usually in the habit of hiring DJs, nor is the ballroom usually so crowded at this late hour as the casino tends to attract the night-owls, but for now all he can focus on is Matt’s retreating back sneaking onto one of the many corridors adjoining the hall.

Mark follows him seconds later, having escaped the horde with his limbs intact; not daring to look back to check if their assailants have located them. It occurs to him that as hotel owner, he could abuse his status and stand in their way in order to buy time, but he’s not sure he trusts them to resist putting a bullet in his head for insubordination. He may not have the faintest idea of what’s going on, but it feels so much bigger than him somehow. Like he’s been handed solid proof that everything he’s achieved – the hotel, his band, his reputation – is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.

He stumbles onto the corridor just in time to spot Matt turning right at the far end, and he follows as quickly as he dares. The next turn is a left, then another left, then a right... an endless maze of blinding white walls and hotel room doors, flanked by sprouting monstrosities emerging from intricately painted plant-pots. After a while it seems like Matt has deliberately chosen this route to tease him, and he begins to wonder if this entire evening has been a devilish ploy, but the thought has barely had a chance to take hold when he finally reaches the end of the line.

There is no turning point at the end of this corridor. Only an unassuming wooden door leading into what appears to be a store cupboard. There aren’t even any hotel rooms remaining in this section; instead the route ahead is lined with marble columns sporting busts with expressionless faces.

Mark only manages one step forward before freezing, as icy fingers of dread crawl up his spine and clutch his heart in a fierce grip.

No being in the universe knows this hotel better than he does. He knows every room, every corridor, every little nook and cranny as surely as he knows his own name. As well he should; he designed every inch of the place.

And yet, he can say with absolute certainty that he has never laid eyes on this corridor before. Not even in a passing dream.

Before he can blame the obvious hallucination on the scotch, or even glance back in search of Matt’s pursuers, the silence is shattered by a blinding red light emanating from the cupboard door, illuminating the corridor in time with a sharp, mechanical whine. Mark raises a hand to his eyes as the light pulses in time with his heartbeat - giving untouched walls the appearance of being drenched in blood - and the accompanying noise slams against his eardrums with unrelenting ferocity. Against his better judgement, he presses onward, cowering as the assault on his senses intensifies with every step. No doubt he will be left with nothing but regret as a result of this choice, but he fears the lack of answers will drive him mad if he doesn’t see what lies beyond that door.

Besides, Matt must be in there. There’s nowhere else he could have gone, and Mark has little desire to leave him for dead.

The pulsating doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. Body trembling in the quiet aftermath, he takes a moment to recover as the light’s echo persists with every blink of his eyes and a sharp ringing assaults his ears. His breathing sounds painfully uneven in spite of his efforts to remain calm, and he can feel his heart hammering away in an attempt to break free from his chest. He finds himself wishing he could explain away these last ten minutes, but his mind feels numb with uncertainty and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping. Has it even been ten minutes since he’d been sitting at the bar? It simultaneously feels like it’s been mere seconds and several hours since he was enjoying his evening without a care in the world.

The cupboard door remains unopened, the handle a seductive enchantress promising answers he isn’t sure he wants. This new silence doesn’t bode well, and his lack of familiarity with this section of the hotel only increases his chances of running into danger on the way back. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s damned regardless of what he does however; he may as well sate his curiosity in the meantime.

A cool trickle of sweat slides down his cheek as a trembling hand curls around the door handle, and he pulls sharply before sanity can take hold, expecting resistance but receiving none.

It seems he will have to settle for not receiving answers either.

The cupboard is empty.

******************************

The details of how he stumbled back to Room 521 and wound up sprawled on his bed are a murky blur. Even as his drunken haze makes way for a pounding headache, he can only recall glimpses of dragging his feet back the way he came; wandering through an almost deserted ballroom followed by similarly empty corridors, before eventually collapsing into bed with a crushing exhaustion. Despite his fears, he never did end up encountering those two assailants on his way back, nor did he glean any further clues as to Matt’s whereabouts. All three men had vanished into the night as mysteriously as they’d appeared, and a numb regret settling over his mind is enough to assure him that he will never see Matt again.

That is, if he even existed in the first place. As the night wears on, he begins to feel more inclined to put the evening’s events down to the drunken hallucinations of a lonely mind. Perhaps if he calls Jamie in the morning, he can put his mind at ease and call him a silly twat, erasing the whole sorry ordeal in the space of one conversation. The urge to pick up the phone now is almost too tempting to resist, but he stays put for now. There’s no need to bother his friend with the drunken ramblings of a madman. Not at this hour anyway.

Reassurance can wait. For now, he desperately needs sleep which is stubbornly unforthcoming.

He misses the presence of moonlight. That notion is so strange that a weak rebellious smile tugs at his lips, before the bitter sting of tears replaces it. Homesickness is unlike him – he has never been inclined to hop on a rocket and return home no matter how easy it would be – but right now his yearning for Earth feels suffocating. He misses the moon’s comforting presence in the sky and the wonder it had elicited from him as a child. He misses it hanging overhead as he wandered along silent streets with friends and lovers, singing and kissing and stumbling drunkenly as joyous laughter broke through the relative peace. He misses waking up with his heart in his throat and a new lyric in his head, only to be soothed instantly by luminous streaks of light.

All he has here is thick, empty darkness which seems intent on crushing him down to dust.

Those memories of home seem so distant now. Unreachable; locked away in a chest sporting a rusted padlock and buried deep beneath the realm of consciousness. Perhaps it would be best if they remained buried. Even if Mark were capable of digging them up and freeing them from their prison, the sheer weight of the memories within would surely drown him in an instant.

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes before bitter tears can trail down his cheeks. It would be best not to dwell on such things. His nights are sleepless enough as it is.

It only occurs to him later, as unblinking eyes linger on the ceiling above, that Matt had casually referred to him as ‘Alex’ and that the thought of questioning it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

#writing #long post #simulation theory #tranquility base hotel and casino #muse #arctic monkeys #i am extremely rusty but honestly it's been nice to write something just for myself again #well...myself and @rock-n-roll-fantasy :P #my fic

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bobbyboops · 5 years ago

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Broken Pieces

Hello to this beautiful community! I hope you are all having a great Wednesday! I have written my first ever fanfic. It is an angsty piece about Bobby x MC. Give it a read if you are so inclined! I am also including a link to the playlist I made to go along with it. I hope you all enjoy! https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/broken-pieces/pl.u-r2yBDkqsAV9rDA

Bobby walked into his Hotel room, fresh tears still streaming down his delicate freckles. He had just been voted off of Love Island, and subsequently lost the only girl who had meant something to him in a long time. He closed the door behind him, and was met by complete silence. Something that he hadn’t really experienced in the last 29 days, and something that scared him more than anything because there was absolutely nothing to distract him from the waves of grief that he had been able to hold mostly at bay over the last 2 weeks, but that were crashing down unrelentingly now. He took off his shoes and sat down on the king sized bed cradling his head in his hands. He closed his eyes and once again replayed the last 4 weeks in his mind. Trying to piece together for the millionth time just what had gone so terribly wrong. How he had let his soulmate slip so easily from his hands.

POV: Bobby

I knew early on she was so much more than just a crush. She was my dream girl. Of course she was beautiful to look at, but I was all too familiar with the fact that beauty was only skin deep, and often (though not always) the most beautiful girls on the outside are the ugliest on the inside. The most beautiful thing about MC was her personality, she had banter for days, she treated everyone in the house with love and respect, and when tensions were high she was there putting out all of the little fires around the villa. Best of all she never made me feel like I was a nuisance, she was always up for a chat, or one of my stupid pranks. She never made me feel like I was inferior to the rest of the guys (which I could see I clearly was.) How was it possible that a girl as perfect as her could see parts of me that I had kept so perfectly hidden? She made it so easy to bring down my walls, but at the same time made me want to build them up higher because there was just no way it could be real. I was preparing myself mentally for her to walk away at any time.

I could tell she was feeling a little bit skittish after what Rocco had done to Lottie, she had told me on our date in the vineyard that she was worried it was going to happen to her. She confessed to me that she had been burned in the past, and I could tell there was more to the story, but I didn’t want to push her to tell me before she was ready. Getting called out as the biggest player of the season hadn’t been the best way to instill faith in my character, and I had only made everything worse by playing up to it. I thought everyone would find it as absurd as I had, and therefore joking about it would solve the problem, but I could see MC was clearly feeling anxious about it all. I was almost certain I had blown it, and honestly I wouldn't have blamed her, as someone who had been blindsided and hurt so many times in the past I probably would have understood better than anyone. But for some reason she had still chosen to continue getting to know me, much to my relief.

That relief was short lived though as I could see Lucas wasn’t ready to give up on the chase. I could see him staring at MC all the time, his eyes following her like a predator tracking its prey everywhere she went. MC had never shown much interest in him… at least not in front of me. But at the next re-coupling he stood up and called her name. She wandered over to me first, offering me some reassurance, but I was slowly starting to unravel.

Waking up the next morning to her angelic face letting me know that the girls were going away had only made everything worse. I hadn’t had the chance to have a talk with her and get an idea about where her head was at. Obviously she still fancied me at least a little if she was willing to wake me up and say a private goodbye… right? But what if her head was at least starting to be turned? As she made her way out to the jeeps waiting below it dawned on me that they were most likely headed to Casa Amor. A chill ran down my spine, and I ran down the stairs trying to catch them before they left. I wanted to make sure she would know that I was going to be waiting patiently by the door until their return. That I would be waiting for her, but as I opened my mouth, Lottie slammed the door and the jeeps pulled away, and my cracks were beginning to show.

I couldn’t control my anxiety after she came back from Casa Amor. Though she had shown up single, and she had been so reassuring that first night back even suggesting we couple back up, I was immediately on self destruct mode. I had asked Lottie to share a bed that first night, and I still can’t work out what possessed me to utter that invitation. Seeing the immediate hurt spread across MC’s perfect face kept me up the entire night. Even though Lottie had ultimately turned me down, I knew I had just sewn another seed of doubt in MC’s already cautious mind. I could feel her slipping away, and my anxiety was the driving wedge pulling us farther apart. I just couldn’t pull myself out of it. I had avoided her for most of the next day, I didn’t know what to say, and I was worried I would say something to further damage our relationship.

Later that evening instead of being able to couple up with her, we were forced to save other islanders. She chose to save Lucas, which had only made me spiral further, and wonder if there was more than meets the eye. Maybe Lucas hadn’t been lying when he said that MC had shown interest in him. I had lunged at him at the time, only to be grabbed by Noah and Lucas by Rahim. My head had been such a mess between the guilt I felt over operation NOPE, knowing that had been the catalyst to the disaster recoupling. Also knowing that Lucas was going full force for my girl. I’m not an idiot, I know how dangerous he is in this game. He is the epitome of everything most girls are looking for. Well mannered, successful, good looking with that slight bad boy vibe that seems to bring girls to their knees. I knew I paled in comparison. I am a goofball, poor, and average looking at best. MC had never seemed interested, but maybe she had just been trying to spare my feelings. Maybe I was really just her “pity case and safe choice” as Lucas had so generously pointed out.

The next morning I woke up and asked for a volunteer to help with breakfast, hoping against hope that MC would volunteer, but Lottie’s hand shot up so fast that MC didn’t even get the chance. I tried to not show the disappointment that was exploding out of my chest. MC looked slightly annoyed, but Lottie was always so hot tempered, and didn’t take well to not getting her way. I just didn’t want to get into it this early in the morning, so I wasn’t going to tell her no.

Lottie announced MC entering the kitchen, and I turned around just in time to see MC saunter into the kitchen wearing a leopard print bikini. My heart was hammering out of my chest, and I could barely think straight. “I’m bound to be hit with a sugar rush soon, because that look is so sweet.” Damn that was a lame compliment, but MC took it gratefully. I offered her some pancakes, and Lottie covered them with maple syrup in the shape of a pentagram. MC quickly stuffed a giant bite into her mouth and hummed her approval.

“Bobby, this is delicious. What has inspired all this then?” She said with that dazzling smile of hers.

“I think we all deserve it, and I’m feeling really optimistic.” I replied.

She went on to compliment me by saying the thought what Lottie and I did for Noah and Hope the night before was sweet. I rattled something off about them being the real deal, which I didn’t believe fully. Noah had been insufferable the whole time the girls were at Casa Amor, and Lottie had already saved him. I honestly couldn’t fathom having to spend the rest of the summer with a dark cloud of a pouting Noah around. If my pal enjoyed life on a leash who was I to say otherwise? I had already tried and failed to save him once.

“It will be totally worth it if Noah and Hope get to re-couple, and everyone else is perfectly matched up.”

I wanted to retract the words as soon as they had escaped my lips. Why did I say something so stupid? I saw the confusion and hurt spread across MC and Lottie’s faces.

“Really? What makes you say that?” MC asked with a shaky voice.

“It’s obvious Gary picked Chelsea because he fancies the pants off her.”

Dammit this word vomit that comes when I am feeling anxious and insecure is just digging my grave. I was silently hoping MC would say something, anything just to show me that maybe I still had a fighting chance, but I knew I had just planted the final seed of doubt in MC’s mind. She would never let her guard down at this point. I just had to open my big mouth.

I thought about just swallowing what little pride I had left and try to fix what I had just broken. Let MC know that she was the only girl I had fancied at all this whole time. Tell her that I was falling in love with her but I was terrified I was never going to be enough to keep her. But just as soon as I went to open my mouth Lottie all but tackled me to the ground trying to get to the sink. She was clearly pissed off by my comments about Gary, and when I looked up MC was gone.

I knew then that I had just screwed myself over, I had lost my chance. But if she could be happy with Lucas I couldn’t stand in her way… right? My anxiety was crashing down hard, and my heart couldn’t bear a rejection at this point, not from her. I had successfully friend zoned myself again, resigned myself to live in my own personal Hell and watch the girl that I had fallen head over heels in love with slip from my grasp and into the arms of a man who was never going to love and appreciate her the way I did. And I knew I had no one to blame but myself.

The last week had been utter torture, watching Lucas and MC get closer. Looking through the window of the villa I could see his hands massage her shoulders in the kitchen as she made dinner, I couldn’t peel my eyes away as he kissed her gorgeous full lips. I was drinking shot after shot, just trying to ease my pain.

I couldn’t help myself during my toast, I had already downed too many drinks and my judgment went out the window. I let it slip that Lucas was a lucky man, and MC deserved better. MC had given me a quizzical look, but I was too much of a coward to just admit that being apart was killing me.

Next a new batch of hyenas entered the villa and caused so much unnecessary drama. I knew MC was stuck in the middle of it, because none of the other girls cared enough about anyone other than themselves and it killed me. When I offered to help the girls all yelled at me to get out. I was barely holding it together, and all this fighting was just making everything so much worse. I was desperately trying to hold off the panic attack that I could feel creeping it’s way in. Eventually I found myself by the pool, looking blankly off into the distance and trying to focus on my breathing as the girls screeched at each other in the background.

Finally by some miracle silence fell across the villa, and my ragged breathing began to even out. At least until I heard her soft voice ask if she could join me. She kicked her shoes off, and dipped her feet into the pool. A few strands of her hair tickled against my cheek as a gust of wind made its way through the villa bringing her familiar scent to my nostrils. She was so close to me, and I was struggling to think straight.

I was so grateful for her company, and she had such a calming presence as she reassured me that nothing was my fault, encouraged me to just have some fun. She reached her delicate hand into the pool and splashed me, shaking my head like a puppy I reached down to splash her back. My heart swelled to think she still at least cared about me enough to come try and fix my problems. I told her that she meant a lot to me, which almost made her look sad, but only for a moment. A warm smile quickly etched across her face, and the closeness and familiarity of having her near was putting all sorts of bad thoughts into my mind. Dangerous thoughts. I quickly excused myself, and left her sitting by the pool. She seemed off, but I figured it was probably just all of the fighting getting to her, and as much as I wanted to be the one to fix it for her I just didn’t trust myself to be around her for an extended period of time. I had already ruined our relationship, I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship as well. I couldn’t lose her, not completely.

Lucas chose her at the next re-coupling, Hannah and Henrik re-entered the Villa. Days were starting to blur together. Everyday moving incredibly slow and painful. Finally the final nail in my coffin, watching MC call out Lucas’ name in the final re-coupling. I felt numb inside, I had always been Good at hiding my emotions, tamping them down until I just felt empty inside. That and humor had been my defense mechanisms pretty much my whole life, but no matter how hard I tried my feelings refused to be numbed. It felt like I was bleeding out, but incredibly slowly like death by 1000 cuts.

Hannah chose me, and I tried my best to seem enthusiastic, but this new version of Hannah was even worse than the original. She was clearly here with a game plan, and that was to stir up more drama, get her petty revenge on Lottie, and then play savior when she “was a good friend” and picked her consolation prize in me. I was hoping and praying we would be the next couple out. I wanted so bad to just go home and lick my wounds in peace, but unfortunately Marisol and Graham were first followed by Jo and Ibrahim. How long was I going to have to endure this?

Finally this morning we had found out we were going to be having a Prom. Hannah had volunteered MC to help me write my speech for her, and to my complete surprise MC accepted. This was the closest contact we had had in days and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I was struggling to keep myself in check, she looked so gorgeous, and I just wanted to grab her and kiss her with everything I had. Everything felt awkward, I didn’t know how to behave, and clearly she didn’t either. When I finally made eye contact, her eyes looked so tired, and hollow. All of her playfulness was gone, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was wrong. Didn’t she get exactly what she wanted?

I was so busy trying to figure out what was wrong with MC that my speech was utter rubbish. Every suggestion I made was wrong, and I just couldn’t bring myself to care. All I cared about was MC and trying to figure out what had taken away that signature sparkle out of her eyes. She and Lucas seemed to be getting along well, Lucas sure liked to lay it on thick, and MC seemed grateful for the attention. Maybe there was more girl drama? I couldn’t put my finger on what could have made that beautiful smile leave her face. I longed to see her eyes crinkle as she smiled, hear that beautiful laugh escape her perfect lips, and more than anything I wanted to be the guy that made her do it, but I knew I had to let her go. Let her be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.

Later that evening she came out wearing a beautiful white gown with glittery cutouts all over her torso, and beautifully deep cut to see her perfect chest on display. I could barely breathe. I met her eyes for a moment and smiled before we both looked away. Hannah had given me a death glare so many times because she always caught me staring but I honestly didn’t care.I spent the entire evening downing drink after drink, anything that I thought could numb the pain of watching Lucas’ hands hold so tight to the love of my life. But nothing helped.

Finally we gathered around the fire pit, I was praying they would vote us out. Please God let them send us home. I can’t fathom another night of sharing a bed with Hannah, watching Lucas curl around MC, and pretending that I wasn’t dying inside. The votes came back and by some miracle we were on the chopping block. After 20 minutes of painful deliberation the text came in and it was announced that Hannah and I had been voted out. Relief flooded through me like a tsunami. Finally I was being set free. MC made a b-line directly for me. Throwing her arms around me “I’m going to miss you so much!” “Me too” was all I could mutter. Hannah had asked MC to help her pack. I was desperately hoping she would come help me, so I could say my final goodbye in private, keep some form of dignity, but MC followed Hannah into the dressing room.

We finally made our way outside, and Hannah chided me about only having 10 pairs of boxers to pack after I joked about her taking so long packing. I couldn’t imagine she had that much to pack either… She hadn’t been here that long… Just saying. I couldn’t focus on her speech at all, and honestly I didn’t really care to hear what she had to say. I was desperate for MC to know the truth, and I just knew I had to rip the bandaid off. I knew it was selfish, that I should just let her go, let her be happy. But all rational thought went out the window, and I prepared to let the word vomit ensue.

Tears had already began stinging my eyes as I started my speech. MC was avoiding my gaze, but I had to get this off my chest if I was ever going to recover from this.

“I didn’t find love here, or at least couldn’t hold on to it.” Her eyes shot up to mine in complete shock, and I maintained that eye contact.

“If it could have been anyone, it would have been you.” I leaned in close, resting my hand on her shoulder. “Do me a favor… Win.” Her eyes searched mine for answers I didn’t have the strength to give her, but before she could open her mouth to respond I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and I walked away. I was too much of a coward to let her reject me to my face.

The entire car ride over to the Hotel had been painful, Hannah was furiously raging at me for outing my feelings. She dumped me right on the spot, which was honestly a relief. I didn’t have it in me to let her down gently.

Which brings us back to where we began. I had to stop thinking about this. I was driving myself crazy trying to figure out why I could never be enough. I had clearly been sitting here for a while. I looked at the clock beside the bed. 3:30 AM I got up stretching. I walked over to the window, looking down at the mostly empty streets below me. Wondering what MC was doing, was she awake like me? Did she even care anymore?

I decided to take a hot shower, trying but failing to clear my head of this whole mess. A mess I had created because I was too afraid to be honest with the girl I loved. I had let my insecurities and anxiety drive away the one thing I wanted to hold on to more than anything. I put on my favorite pair of doughnut boxers and flopped down on the bed flipping through the channels until I found the food network. Cupcake wars was on, it had always been one of my favorite shows but I just laid there. Heartbroken, and alone. I must have fell into an uneasy sleep sometime after 5, but I was awoken by a faint knock on my door around 6:30 AM.

POV: MC

The last 2 weeks had been torture. I came back from Casa Amor and hoped against hope that my perfect baker boy was still single. When he walked out of the Villa I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding. My heart burst out of my chest, and we both just sat there beaming at each other. I honestly didn’t care at all when Lucas walked out with that bitch Blake. I couldn’t have cared less, they honestly probably better suited each other.

Lucas was attractive, and definitely the kind of guy that every girl dreams of taking home to her parents. A successful doctor, smart, polished. But I just didn’t have much of a spark with the guy, and he honestly kind of rubbed me the wrong way sometimes. He was selfish and calculating. Even if there was a physical attraction there, I knew it would never work out with him long term. He would grow tired of my peacemaking, and careful heart. My sense of humor would annoy him no doubt, and he was just so… posh. I didn’t feel like I could be 100% myself with the guy.

I had dated boys like that before, but I didn’t like the way they made me feel about myself, like somehow what I brought to the table was just never enough. Boys had always gravitated towards me because of my looks, but usually never stuck around for long. I had been cheated on so many times, and the ones that didn’t cheat always made me feel like they were doing me a favor by sticking around, or tried to change me. I had such a hard time letting down my walls, but with Bobby it was so easy. He would smile at me and suddenly it was like I had never been hurt before. I just wanted a partner that would laugh through life with me, and appreciate me for what I am. Someone who cares deeply about the well being of those around me, who doesn’t take life too seriously, has a silly sense of humor, and just wants everyone to get along. Just once I want to love someone, and have them love me back wholeheartedly and I thought I had finally found that in him.

When I finally got Bobby alone that night I was so excited and thought we were on the same page! He seemed so genuinely happy when I suggested we couple back up, but then that night he asked Lottie to share a bed. I was taken aback, and honestly a little hurt. I thought we were both feeling what I was feeling. Fear and doubt started to trickle into my mind… He had been called out for being the biggest player of the season. Was he just using me? Did he just want to string me along, while still exploring his other options? I couldn’t make sense of anything. He had avoided me pretty much the whole next day, barely speaking to me.

Then that night we were forced to couple up with someone to save them. Lottie immediately took Noah leaving me with the choice of Jakub, who honestly I would rather die than couple up with that laundry sack full of meat. Elijah, who was so insufferable. He talked about himself nonstop and refused to accept the fact that he was a hairstylist, not America’s next top model. If I thought Chelsea actually fancied him I would have saved him on her behalf, but I knew her bringing him back was purely because of the comments Gary had made on the video package we received. Finally Lucas, he certainly seemed like the least terrible option, but I wasn’t really thrilled to be honest. I explained to Lucas that we were partnering up purely on a friendship basis, which he seemed bummed about, but I wasn’t ready to shut the door on Bobby.

The next morning Bobby said he was going to make pancakes and was looking for someone to accompany him. I was ready to volunteer when Lottie’s hand shot out of the duvet, I know she didn’t mean to get in the way, but I was annoyed to say the least. He was already borrowing lip balm from her… am I missing something there? Maybe they are each others back up plan? Lottie had been so stuck on Gary, but maybe she wanted some form of security. She had always seemed more into Gary than he was in to her, and now Gary was partnered up with Chelsea. I tried to shake off the fear, but I just needed some form of reassurance. Bobby could be really hard to read sometimes, between him constantly pushing me to go on dates with the other guys, to barely batting his eyelashes at guys blatantly hitting on me in front of him. I thought we had moved passed all of that, and that we were in a really good place, at least until Lucas came out of nowhere and picked me in the disaster re-coupling… But there was always that nagging feeling in the back of my mind that maybe he just saw me as a summer romance at best, and at worst a place holder until someone he actually fancied walked in.

As I entered the kitchen he spun around to greet me, and immediately complimented me, as he always did. He was so good about that. It felt like we were maybe getting back to normal. But then I complimented him and Lottie on saving Hope and Noah, and he responded by saying he thought everyone was perfectly matched up. When I asked why he felt that way he just said something about Gary fancying the pants off Chelsea. My heart sank, I knew it, I knew he had been trying to politely tell me that he was not interested in continuing whatever relationship we were building. How could I be so blind? The signs had been there all along. He was just too nice to tell me to my face that he just didn’t feel the same way. Lottie was furious and on the war path, but I couldn’t be the one to fix it not this time. My heart was breaking, the boy I was in love with didn’t feel the same way, I had come up short yet again. I gathered what little pride I had left, and exited the kitchen as fast as I could.

I had learned long ago to never let them see you cry, so I sulked away to go cry in the bathroom. The hard thing about being such a tenderhearted person is that you care about everyone around you and you will do everything in your power to fix something for somebody else, but often times people just don't reciprocate the sentiment, and you are often left to lick your wounds alone.

I decided to try and make a go of things with Lucas, he seemed eager to make things work, and I was eager to forget about Bobby. I didn’t want to hurt anymore, but the harder I tried to make things work with Lucas, the more Bobby was on my mind. I wanted to hate him, I wanted to feel anything other than longing. I threw myself into the mercy of all the drama in the house, these new girls were closer to feral cats than women. I had zero interest in being friends with them, but the constant fighting was really getting to me. I was suffering enough, I just couldn’t bear the dumpster fire that the villa had become with all the fighting.

Eventually I found myself by the pool with a downcast Bobby. He was sitting there looking like an abandoned puppy. Like me he gets stressed out by all of the contention. He was blaming himself for everything which just made no sense. The girls had practically hissed at him when he was just trying to help. I tried to pull him out of his head by splashing him with water. A surprised smile crossed his face, and his smile could light up the whole villa. He splashed me back, and told me he was grateful that I came to check on him, that our chat meant a lot to him, and that I meant a lot to him too. I knew better than to get my hopes up, that he just meant as a friend. I tried to keep my composure, giving him a small smile, but whatever bandaid I had managed put over my heart had been ripped off all over again, and all that remained was the fresh raw wound. He looked me in the eyes one last time, and I desperately wanted to throw myself in his arms. Kiss every square inch of his beautiful face, but he got up and excused himself quickly. Once again I found myself crying alone under the cloak of night but this time Chelsea found me. She didn’t ask any questions. I think she already knew the answer anyway. She just held me, and let me cry.

Henrik and Hannah re-entered the villa. Henrik had been such a nice boy, granted I had never shown any interest in him before because I was set on Bobby. But he did bring a certain puppy like energy to the Villa, and it was nice to feel sincerely pursued by someone, but I could never cheat on Lucas. I have always been a loyal person, and my heart honestly just wasn’t in it anymore.

At the final re-coupling I stood up at the fire pit, and announced Lucas as my choice. Hannah announced that Bobby was hers. I tried not to wince as she announced that she was just “being a good friend.” Like somehow Bobby was just some consolation prize. He deserved more than that How dare she make him feel like he wasn’t a worthy companion. Lucas pulled me in for a cuddle and told me he was so happy I picked him. I smiled but didn’t even bother to respond. We only had to get through the next few days, and then time and distance would eventually pull us apart, and I would be able to properly grieve without the constant fear of being caught, and without having to see the ghost of once was strolling through the villa on a daily basis. I was going through the motions at best, but luckily I learned to hide my emotions pretty well. Lucas honestly didn’t seem to care, I think he saw me as a ticket to 50,000k more so than a real prospect.

The baby challenge was such a mess. I have always loved children, and always pictured being a mother. Lucas however turned out to be the biggest diva about it. He whined and complained the entire day, which it’s fine if you don’t see yourself with children. I wasn’t asking him to knock me up, but it was a challenge. I saw Bobby playing with Dale across the pool having so much fun as he tossed him in the air. I stifled a laugh as Bobby attempted a trick shot with the poor doll and ended up on the ground with Dale crashing down after him. My mind betrayed me thinking about how much fun we could have together during this challenge. Thinking about having children of our own. Remembering the time when we ended up on the floor after a make out session and he told me it was something to “embarrass the grand kids with.” It took everything inside of me to push those thoughts out of my mind. He wasn’t mine to fantasize about, not anymore.

Then this morning we were woken up with a text announcing that tonight would be prom. The girls were all excited about the thought of picking out new gowns, and dancing around with their partners. I tried my best to be excited too, but my mind was always halfway out the door these days. When we got the text announcing that we would be writing speeches about our partners, I honestly didn’t even know what to say. I liked Lucas as a person. I could see myself being friends with him after this maybe, but it felt so hollow to say that now.

I wrote my speech as quickly as possible just wanting to escape when Bobby entered the room looking for help. Hannah quickly volunteered me to help him, and I couldn’t help myself. I hadn’t been close to him in days, and I longed for his calm and comfort so I agreed. As we entered the roof terrace I could tell he was so uncomfortable, neither of us knew what to say. He rambled off his ideas for his speech and nothing made sense. It was like he had never met Hannah before. He had seemed excited when she picked him, but looking at him now he just seemed like a caged animal. The happy go lucky boy I had known was no where in sight, his signature smirk was gone, his bright eyes seemed dull, and it seemed like he couldn’t wait to get away from me, but at the same time longed to stay. I didn’t understand why he was so determined to keep me at arms length.

When I came down in my dress I saw Bobby’s eyes on me, but he quickly looked away, and so did I. He looked strait out of a Miami Vice episode, his outfit was so fitting for him. I chuckled to myself thinking about all of the banter we could have been bouncing off of each other, and I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked. Lucas had gotten a bit snippy though when he caught me staring. Then when we were by the fire pit it was announced that Bobby and Hannah, and Lottie and Gary were up to be eliminated, Lucas knew exactly who he wanted gone. Bobby and Hannah. He rattled off his reasons, and as much as I hated it, I knew the next day would be easier for me if Bobby wasn’t here. When the text came through Bobby looked so relieved. I once again couldn’t control myself and I ran into his arms. Hannah asked me to come help her pack, I was genuinely surprised by that because I had never really considered the girl as a friend, and even though I wanted to go with Bobby I felt like I couldn’t say no and trudged into the dressing room behind Hannah.

Once we got out front Hannah spat her annoyance at Bobby because he made a joke about her taking too long. I was instantly annoyed. She didn’t have that much to pack either… she had only been here for like 4 days. She was just busy playing the victim with her whoa is me act. Hannah would never appreciate him for who he was, and he deserved to have someone who saw the real him, and love every inch of him.

When it came time for his farewell speech I couldn’t even look at him. Tears were already starting to stream out of my eyes, and I was fighting a losing battle trying to keep it to a trickle and not a full blown flood. But then he said “I didn’t find love here, or at least I couldn’t hold on to it.” and my eyes shot up to find his eyes fixed on mine. “If it could have been anyone, it would have been you.” He leaned in close and whispered. “Do me a favor… win.” I thought I must have imagined it, that I had finally gone completely crazy. I stood there with my mouth agape like a fish but there was no mistaking it, he had looked me right in the eyes and laid it all out. My mind was reeling, but I didn’t even have time to respond at all before he grabbed his suitcase and made his way to the SUV waiting.

Nothing made sense, what did he mean?! He had all but told me he didn’t want me… right? He always seemed so chill and easy going about everything. Nothing ever seemed to phase him. Had it been possible that he was feeling every bit as insecure as I had? That we were both too hurt and scared from our pasts to give each other the reassurance that we both needed? Everyone made their way back into the house like Bobby hadn’t just dropped a whole ass bomb on his way out. Chelsea and Gary both gave me sympathetic looks as Lucas led me back into the villa.

I got ready for bed, but I just couldn’t make sense of anything. Lucas had tried to start something with me, but I told him I was exhausted, which was true, but I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. I laid there awake for hours the ceiling turning into a projector in my mind as I watched our entire relationship play out like it was an old re-run of a tv show. Analyzing every little detail.

Around 3:30 AM I got up and quietly made my way to the producers room to wake them. I knew what I had to do. I explained to them that I wished to leave, that I had to go after Bobby. They tried for an hour to talk me out of it, “its the last day MC!” “He will be here tonight. Confront him then.” But I just couldn’t wait that long. I demanded they let me go and finally they begrudgingly relented. Next I had to break the news to Lucas. I silently wandered over to his side of the bed and woke him up asking if we could talk out on the couches. I knew he would not take it well, and I was right. He was furious, his face turned beet red, and he hurled all of his anger at me.

“Are you serious MC? How could you do this to me, to us? You are going to abandon everything that we have built together to chase after that.. that. Loser!?” He was waving his arms like a madman. “I mean it makes no sense! I can offer you the world MC, and you know that! What does he have to offer? Cupcakes and jokes?” The insults left his mouth like snake venom.

“How dare you!” I snarled back at him. Feeling brave for possibly the first time in my life. “Bobby is kind, funny, loving, loyal, and he cares about the people around him! There is so much of Bobby that no one in this house has seen, because they never put in the effort to see it.“ I was in his face at this point. “I don’t think you are honestly even mad about losing me, if you are mad about anything its about losing to him… why? Because you are so much better than him right? Or are you just upset about the fact that you definitely won’t be winning the 50,000 now?”

Lucas looked taken aback by my sudden outburst, I think he had expected me to recoil. But I was honestly so tired of listening to everyone in this damn villa talk about Bobby like he was some joke.

Retreating Lucas coldly responded with “How could you be so selfish?”

I knew I was being selfish, but for the first time in my life I was absolutely OK with it. I knew in my heart I was making the right decision for me. “I’m so sorry Lucas, truly. I never wanted to hurt you. I just know if I don’t follow him now I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“So you have made up your mind then? You are just going to walk away?” He looked at me exasperated. “Well I can’t wait to see this blow up in your face MC.” There was an animalistic spark in his eyes. He had me right where he wanted me, and he was ready to go in for the kill. “Because he doesn’t really want you, you know that right? He’s just looking for the next best opportunity for himself. Leaving as the heartbroken goofball makes for great television doesn’t it?” He practically spat at me. A self satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “If he wanted you he would have said so any time in the last 2 weeks, not as he was leaving like some coward. You are just making a fool of yourself.”

My word that man knew how to pack an emotional punch. I felt all of the air leave my lungs. I knew he was hurting, lashing out with words he didn’t really mean, or maybe he did. But I knew I didn’t deserve what had just been thrown at me. Tears were streaming down my face, there was no stopping the flood gates once they had opened. I did the only thing I knew how to do. Run.

I ran up the stairs into the dressing room dumping all of my possessions in to my suitcase as quickly as I could. With all of the fuss Lucas was causing everyone else was awoken as well I could hear them all questioning Lucas about what was going on. Chelsea, and Gary were the only people who weren’t shocked, they quickly made their way upstairs helping me pack, which was unsurprising since they were the only people I considered true friends at this point. Everyone else was either siding with Lucas, or just staring at me like I had 5 heads sprouting out of my body. I could feel the joy oozing out of Hope as she realized that her only real competition had just self eliminated. But I didn’t care, I had made up my mind, and there was no turning back now. I gave Chelsea and Gary meaningful hugs and made my way to the SUV waiting to take me to the hotel.

The ride there was excruciating. What if I was too late? What if he didn’t really mean it? What if Lucas was right? Could he have just been using his exit for his own gain? What if I just made a total fool of myself on television for the whole world to see? So many disaster scenarios playing through my head. I felt like I was drowning, but I was fighting like hell to push those thoughts out of my head. There was just no way that the Bobby I knew would ever purposely hurt me and use me like that. I timidly entered the hotel and approached the front desk. I got his room number and made my way there. It was 6AM. It’s too early, he was most likely still asleep I told myself. I knew that was probably a lie, Bobby was always an early riser, but I just didn’t have the balls to knock. I paced in the hallway outside of his room for a half an hour, trying to get the courage, and practicing what I wanted to say. Finally I rapped my knuckles halfheartedly against his door. I heard movement on the other side and fought against the thoughts in my mind telling me to just run away. He opened the door and had clearly been asleep. His caramel eyes staring at me blearily, but instantly snapped to full attention.

POV Bobby

I woke up to the sound of light knocking. I wanted to ignore it, I just wasn’t in the mood or head space to be messed with by production, I was so mentally and physically exhausted, but I knew they wouldn’t go away. The knocking would just continue. I opened my eyes enough to get a good look at the clock. 6:30 I rolled my eyes throwing the covers off of my body and trudged my way over to open the door. Would these hounds ever just let me rest? Had they not seen that I have suffered enough?

Nothing could have possibly prepared me for the sight before me when I opened the door. I stood there in disbelief, surely this was a dream and MC was not standing outside of my hotel room right now. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all, I could see dried up tear trails cascading down her flawless skin. She was in her cherrygate pajamas with a grey sweatshirt loosely hanging over her shoulders. I couldn’t find words, I just stood there eyes wide and mouth agape. “MC?!”

“Hi.” she practically whispered. Failing to maintain eye contact.

“Hi.” I returned confused. “MC what are you doing here?” I was fighting the urge to grab her and just hold her close, she looked like a puppy that had been kicked.

“I left the show.... I left Lucas.” she replied blankly.

“You what?” I stammered out in shock.

“You left me no choice… Bobby… did you mean what you said last night?”

I look at her in disbelief. “MC you left the show? I don’t understand. You know walked away from the chance to win 50,000k? You walked away from Lucas?” My brain couldn’t process the scene in front of me, between the lack of sleep and the fact that I was still trying to wake up.

“Don’t change the subject! She snapped. “Did you mean what you said last night? Do you want to be with me?”

She was almost yelling which was surprising. She looked desperate, manic almost, and like she was ready to burst back into tears at any moment. She awkwardly shifted her weight from foot to foot and took a few deep breaths before gaining the courage to continue.

“Because I want to be with you, Bobby… More than anything.” Her voice was back to a whisper.

All of the air was instantly knocked out of my lungs. My mind was racing a million miles and hour, how is it possible that this angel is standing in front of me asking if I meant what I said? Asking if I want to be with her? Surely I am just imagining this, but even so I can’t contain myself any longer. A genuine smile forms on my lips for the first time in what feels like years, it feels almost foreign at this point. But I finally blurt out

“I meant every word... and I have been an absolute wreck without you... I have never needed someone in my life as much as I need you, and it scares the hell out of me because I know I’m not good enough.”

Tears begin to fall down her soft cheeks, and I notice that they are streaming down mine as well. She throws herself into my arms

“You are more than good enough Bobby, how can you not see that you are perfect?” She pulls back to look me in the eyes. “You are everything that I have been looking for my whole life, and you appreciate me for me… imperfect as I am.”

My heart is beating out of my chest, please let this be real. Please don’t let this be some cruel dream. I pull her back and cup her face to look into her beautiful eyes stroking her cheeks with my thumbs. The signature crinkle and sparkle of her eyes has returned. “I love you MC. More than I ever knew was possible.”

“I love you too!” she sobs into my neck. “So much. “Please never leave me again. I honestly don't think I would survive it.”

“I don’t think I would survive leaving you again either.” I smile at her “I just don’t understand how you could possibly love an idiot like me.”

She smirks at me and answers by crashing her lips onto mine. I hoist her legs up and around my waist and carry her into my room. Shutting the door behind me, and for the first time in my life everything makes sense, and everything is perfect. Maybe two broken pieces have finally found their perfect match, the match that will make them whole, the one who won’t look at them like a broken piece at all.

#litg #litgbobby #love island the game #loveislandthegamebobby

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idealistsinc · 4 years ago

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04 // clinch

wc: 2,097 content warning: abuse, suicidal ideation

The study door was locked that day.

There were once times when Father never barred that door. By his word alone he kept his wayward sons out of his possessions, his authority a fortress more impenetrable than any ordinary lock and key; to enter the study without Father’s express permission was a transgression akin to desecrating some holy grounds of old Gelmorra, if the pricelessness of the artefacts Father housed there was to be believed. But he had done away with those days of unlocked doors, explicit trust, his status as his father’s unseen-unheard right-hand man.

Rin drew a shaking breath. “Father?” he said.

A silence. Eventually, Senan’s voice wafted from within. Rin imagined him immured at his desk among dusty tomes and crumbling papers, nursing a cup of tea. “I am working, Rin.”

“It’s important.” Please.

Rin could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating a cannonade in his chest. He forced himself to calm. Finally, a book slammed shut. Footsteps padded softly from the desk to the door, and it swung open to reveal his father, brow furrowed, nursing not tea but an after-dinner cognac that, judging from the scent that lingered about his clothes, had actually been more than one. Behind him, documents flooded his behemoth of a mahogany desk. Although Senan’s manner was as cold and restrained as it ever was, the subtle pull of his mouth indicated his impatience; Rin knew he expected an explanation for the interruption at once. He did not waste any time.

“My sister Luma—Isha’a found her. She’s in Limsa Lominsa.”

But his soul sang, She’s alive.

He had been called into Mr. Kawaguchi’s office at midday. Isha’a’s former Doman teacher, the Roegadyn ferried Isha’a’s messages where he could, as Senan would not allow him to speak to his brother since the incident; this day, he had handed Rin Isha’a’s letter and then, unusually, left the room to preserve Rin’s privacy. It was a moment of astonishing foresight in retrospect. Rin had only gotten as far as the first line before, rocked by the tidal wave of feeling he’d stymied since the day his sister was taken from her family at the tender age of fifteen, he had started to cry.

Rin had no expectations as to how Senan would react to the news. Senan had never met his half-sister, and he did not generally think well of their mother’s side of the family. But what he wasn’t expecting was for Senan to say, in a tone like a droning lecturer, “Our arrangement was that you were not to contact your brother.”

“I—” Shock lamed his voice. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. He had to contact me. Father, I have to go see her.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Senan. There must have been something horrid in Rin’s expression to match the roiling storm in his gut, because Senan softened. “I understand you’re relieved that she’s well. So am I. But your marks have yet to recover from last term’s failures. You’ve not the time to travel.”

Isha’a had said once, before he realized his complaints fell on his brother’s deaf ears, that arguing with Senan was like trying to argue with the Twelveswood’s elementals. Rin hadn’t understood what he meant, then—in fact had taken such violent offense to the comparison that Isha’a had never dared to mention it a second time—but he did now, with the dizzying sense that he was staring up into the distant canopy of those warped and ancient trees, and no matter how loudly he spoke or how much he prayed, the deity with aegis over his life would never hear.

“But—but she’s my sister.”

Rin never argued with Senan. An imperiousness crept into Father’s bearing. “You stole from me, you’ll remember. You betrayed my trust. Travel is a privilege; I thought we agreed that you do not currently possess that privilege. I’m sorry.”

Senan began to close the door. Father had spoken, and it would be done, and it didn’t matter that it was his sister, it was Luma—Luma who took him aside and showed him the shapes and colors of the forest, Luma who danced like she would die if she didn’t, Luma who loved him in violet—and before Rin knew what he was doing he had jammed his foot in the doorframe and followed Senan into the study, something hot and sick and brittle crawling up his throat.

“Privilege?” said Rin, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. “Father, I thought—I thought she was dead. And you’ll not allow me to see her, on account of a bloody emerald and an orchestrion roll—”

“You’re acting like a child, Rin. It’s a punishment.” He scolded him like an errant toddler; though there was beginning to be a hint of irritation in his voice, Rin noticed his father’s tail didn’t so much as twitch. He’s still in control, Rin thought. When he shouted at Isha’a, he was always— “Do not whine as though I am being unfair; you agreed to my terms.”

“Perhaps if the punishment was at all proportionate to the crime—”

“You had the opportunity to make your appeals. The matter is closed.”

Somewhere else, Rin was thinking, Was Senan in control then? When he had screamed in his face about the emerald, threatening to cut him off, threatening to pursue legal action against him, threatening to send Rin an itemized bill of every gil Senan had ever spent on his upkeep until Rin was a sobbing puddle on that plush Thavnairian carpet, had he even been angry? Or had he simply used his anger the way he used everything else—as a tool to get what he wanted?

“If you are truly repentant, tell me how you should be punished.”

“Please, Father—”

“Tell me. Tell me right now, or you will not be welcomed back in this house.”

“Appeals!? This isn’t a courtroom, Father! She’s my fucking sister!”

The study rang. Somewhere else, Rin looked upon himself as though he were a stranger—the flush of his face, his panting breath, anger a heat that boiled the blood in his veins, and knew with the cynicism of experience that none of it mattered. This game they played, the dance he’d danced for a decade to earn his father’s acknowledgment—none of it would have ever made any difference.

What Isha’a had learned long before he did: that anger simply didn’t work.

“If you are going to speak to me that way,” said Senan, low, “we have naught to discuss. You are dismissed.”

And yet…And yet Father was still a person.

“Wouldn’t you have dropped everything to see grandmother again?”

Senan had told him the story once and only once in a tenuous string of intimacy, on a day Rin had cried for Luma’s loss when he was yet a little child, home- and heartsick for the life he had left: a long time ago, Senan’s mother had vanished upon visiting family in Gyr Abania, walled off from Eorzea and almost certainly killed in Garlemald’s lust for conquest. Rin knew he should not have mentioned it, and knew it better when Senan suddenly grabbed him about the shoulders as though to shake him, his countenance a twisted ruin of something Rin had never seen before on his father’s face: grief.

And then just as abruptly Senan released him, the mask once more in place, emotions contained. Rin recognized it, because he had done it himself as often as there were grains of sand on Hydaelyn.

Gods, I am really…

“No,” said Senan, finally, like a glacial wind. “That woman abandoned her family for the sake of a few xenophobic and ignorant tribespeople who would have just as soon eaten their own shite as bring themselves out of their squalor—as your brother has done. I would not mourn for such people.”

Rin understood, then, why he was not permitted to leave.

When he was very young, Mama used to tell him and Isha’a the story of their birth. The labor pains had come upon her, she said, and she’d barely had the time to so much as rest her back against a withered pear tree before they were out of her, first one and then the other. “How you shrieked!” she had laughed, ruffling their hair. “Nobody could hold just one of you; it had to be both, or you would just cry and cry and cry.”

His brother. His twin. Senan feared Rin would follow in his brother’s footsteps—and he was right to, because even after years of distance, after years of Rin doing his damndest to make Isha’a hate him, Isha’a had been there when the scaffolding collapsed underneath him. Isha’a had held him like when they were children and still shared half a name, and he had told him, with all the patience Rin didn’t deserve, “Senan is hurting you.”

What Rin thought Isha’a had meant to say, now: “He had hurt me, too.”

Had Isha’a felt like this? When he fought with Father, had Isha’a wanted to shout his voice hoarse? Had he wanted to knock all the Gelmorran artefacts from the etagere just to get Father to say something, to show something other than that indomitable mask? Maybe it had been like that for him, too, the crushing pressure in his chest in front of an examination he knew he’d fail, long hours spun out staring at the ceiling, vomiting dinners into wastepaper baskets and the miserable daydreams of throwing himself off the bell tower just to get it all to stop—

And it was that last thought, that thought and the sudden accompanying horror that perhaps Isha’a had felt that way, had stared down that same dim hallway and made the only choice he could live with, that made Rin say, from the depths of a well of bitterness so deep and so dark it would have taken him ten years to plumb to the bottom, “My brother wouldn’t have left at all if you had been a better father—”

Senan slapped him hard across the face.

His head filled with static. Rin staggered, more from surprise than pain, and saw Senan stagger, too—saw the flush of rage in his cheeks drain white, saw his lashing tail still, saw something terrible come into his eyes as he realized just what it was he had done. It was the most feeling, he thought, he had ever seen from Senan in his entire life.

“Rin,” said Senan, after a silence that might have spanned a year and in a voice that did not sound like Senan at all. “Rin, son, I—”

They stared at each other as if across a great divide. Rin brought his hand to his face.

He felt—he—

He could not rationalize this away. So Rin did what he had always done: he pushed it, pushed it all down, down, down into that rusted old lockbox at the bottom of the well. A distant part of his mind was astounded at how easy it was for him to feel absolutely nothing about this development, as though Senan hitting him was simply another characteristic of their relationship to one another, as though this transpired every day (because that’s what Father had taught him to do—)

Rin straightened. Then he said, very evenly and as though nothing at all had happened, “I’m going to see my sister in Costa del Sol. I’ll need gil for an airship ticket.”

Senan didn’t respond.

“Father, I said—”

“I heard you.”

There was another beat of hesitation. Finally, Senan moved to his desk for the gil he kept in the left-hand drawer. He moved very oddly—in a shuffle, like an old man with too many moons weighing down on his shoulders. Somewhere very far away, someone was screaming in a high, sustained note. Senan handed Rin the pouch, too full for Rin’s purposes, and said again, “Rin—”

Rin left the room. As far as the stairs, he walked with all the dignity he could muster, back straight chin up ears alert, until at once some critical faultline cracked within him and he ran, sprinting out the doors and gulping in the balmy sunlight of summer’s last gasp, clutching the gil and saying to himself, Luma, Luma, Luma. He had it. He had gotten what he came for. But the sun seemed a cold and distant thing, just then. And as he looked about him, the whole world was as a stranger.

Though he didn’t know it yet, Rin would never return to his father’s study again.

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #ffxiv rin weise #my writing #well this is a thing that i wrote #poor baby ;u;#not totally happy with it but que sera sera

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elfnerdherder · 7 years ago

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Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 24

[Read on Ao3] [Support My Work]

Chapter 24: The Oval Portrait

Saul found Beverly out by the pond a little while later, devoid of a nosy journalist. His arms wrapped around her waist, snug and secure, and his head rested on her shoulder with the sort of familiarity that came with time and a soulmate connection. The agitation in the set of her jaw lessened somewhat at it, made her relax against him in acceptance of his affection.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “Dr. Lecter is off to meet Clark Ingram.”

“Did he need me to go with him?”

“No, he just said that you should keep an eye on Will since Francis and Howard can’t.” Saul smiled against her neck and kissed it. “I thought to say something about Will not wanting to touch you with a ten foot pole, but…well, I didn’t.”

“Not everyone gets your jokes,” Beverly said affectionately.

Loving Saul was easy when he was closeby. When his skin was against her, it was enough to quiet the voice in the back of her head that demanded that she snap his neck and dump the body. Chemicals and all, and she’d learned to hide that aspect of herself from him.

That part wasn’t easy. It was never easy to hide from a soulmate.

“He’s got a black eye,” Saul said. “I think Will hit him.”

“Well…we knew it wouldn’t be easy,” she said. “I’ve lived with him long enough that I knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”

“The others…have you heard the others, Beverly?”

Beverly turned around, causing him to let go of her. His arm swung, wavered, and she responded in kind, reaching out to clasp it so that he felt grounded. She’d never considered herself the grounding rod for someone, but Saul needed it.

How in the hell he’d gotten roped into following Lecter’s every word, she’d never truly understand.

“What are they saying?”

“They’re happy because he connected –Lecter said that he could create an environment in which staggered connections could occur, but…a lot of them don’t like Will Graham.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what they like,” Beverly said evenly. “What matters is what Dr. Lecter wanted.”

“Do you think they’ll do what Matthew did?”

“Saul, Matthew was supposed to attack Will,” she said impatiently. She felt the sting of her words along his emotions, and she tried to soften her tone. “The half-connection…that just made it more realistic. But he was going to attack Will no matter what. That’s the job Lecter had planned for him.”

“So he…wanted Matthew to die?”

“He wanted Will to embrace the darker aspects of himself that he’s kept so firmly locked away. To do that, he had to...make regrettable choices.”

Saul had nothing to say to that. Once upon a time, he’d been a person of interest, someone to truly watch and follow as he carried out Lecter’s orders. The letters one of her guys had intercepted had been almost poetic, Saul’s words fluently conveying his admiration for the artwork that Lecter displayed. He asked how it’d felt, consuming one’s art, how it’d felt to see one’s desires and actually follow through.

Beverly supposed that his faith in Hannibal Lecter stemmed from the fact that his own confidence and assurance were both sorely lacking. He’d looked to someone that needed no validation from anyone, and that was his messiah of sorts.

“Saul, you trust Dr. Lecter, don’t you?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “I just wonder…what if we…traded someone for Matthew, and that someone never thinks of this place as his home?”

“He got Will’s eyes to change in a month,” Beverly said with a kind laugh. She kissed him on the mouth, marveled at the fact that his kisses never failed to make her heart pound. Having a soulmate…just felt so right. “He’ll get Will to come around. He’ll be able to see this as his home. Give him time.”

“I love you,” Saul said softly, kissing her again.

“I love you too,” Beverly replied, and her smile was utterly sincere.

It’s a shame that I’m going to have to kill you.

Loving Will Graham was like loving a house of mirrors; with each and every angle, you’d see another facet of yourself reflected back at you with careful distortion.

Molly did anyway, though. From his rumpled hair to his well-loved leather coat that smelled of fresh earth and kindness, she loved him with a fury that burned deep in her belly and made the aches and pains of her lost love ease. He wasn’t anything like her late-husband, but that was alright. There was something steady in the way that he looked at her, like he’d already found a way to strip her down and actually liked what he saw beneath.

She didn’t have time to introduce him to Wally before Hannibal Lecter got ahold of them, though. Hell, he didn’t even know that there was a Wally.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, juggling a few grocery bags and her cell phone. It was pressed tight to her ear as she fiddled with her house key, and when she found the door already unlocked it was an irritating surprise. Wally always forgot to lock the door.

“Barring working late, yes.”

“You know, you work so much that it’s becoming concerning,” she teased, and she nudged the door shut with her foot, elbow catching the light switch to the side. “Workaholics are a thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” she continued, “if you don’t come, I may be forced to bring someone else with me, and we all know how much I hate having to invite Tiffany.”

“Tiffany’s nice,” Will offered lamely.

“You hate Tiffany.”

“She’s not my friend, so I’m given leave to dislike her.”

It was always like that, with Will. The way he looked at people was so acutely good. He had a way of knowing their turn of mind, of knowing their thoughts and personality without really having to engage too much with them. The first time he’d met Tiffany, he’d nursed a whiskey all night, maybe sharing four or five words at a time before sitting in a dour-like silence.

On the way back to his house, he’d admitted that her jealousy of Molly felt like, to him, a thick scab that’d been picked far too soon. Alcohol gave him mildly loose lips where sobriety normally kept his thoughts behind a steel wall.

“Right, right, you’re allowed to dislike her,” Molly agreed, and she turned on the kitchen light as well, setting the groceries down. Wally’s lack of presence was an irritant; likely upstairs on that X-Box that one of his friend’s mother’s said that he ‘just had to have’. “I’m just saying, I’d like you there with me instead.”

“I’ll do my best,” Will said with a warm laugh, “barring tackling my boss on my way out of the door.”

“That’s all I ask,” she teased, and she sighed. “I’ve got to go.”

“Have a good night, Molly,” Will said warmly. “Have sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

It wasn’t until she hung up that she turned to holler for Wally, and as she sucked in a deep breath to do so, it was cut short, something that left her reeling as she stumbled back against the counter and scrambled for the mace that she kept on her keys.

The man sitting at her dining room table with a gun leveled at her barely blinked.

“If you reach for that mace, your son will die,” he said dispassionately. His mouth fumbled with the ‘s’. “The son that Will Graham is unaware that you have.”

Silence. That was what sat between them as Molly’s hands pressed down flat against her keys and contemplated his threat. There were many people that froze as a deer in the headlights when they were afraid –Molly always hated that comparison. Deer didn’t just freeze in the headlights; when they saw them, they had a brief moment of shock before they almost always, always attempted to run because animals were flight or fight and as prey animals it would always be flight, only they flew right out of the pan and directly into the fire. Deer didn’t die because they froze in the headlights. For the most part, they died because they tried to run from the headlights.

Rather than run, Molly held very, very still.

“Where is my son?” she asked slowly. Her voice shook, but she couldn’t fix that. Fear was natural as she eyed the gun that he held, not with a casual demeanor, but with taut and careful deliberation.

The man tilted his head slightly to consider her, then gestured with his free hand. “Come closer. Away from your things.”

Molly took a couple of steps closer. She felt dread as the sweat that prickled along her hairline, mussing the foundation she’d laid over her skin with careful strokes of her brush. She paused a few paces before the chairs, but he crooked his hand and gestured closer. She gulped an unsteady breath, then took another deliberate step.

“Where is my son?” she repeated, a little stronger.

“Not far. Sit.”

She thought of Wally, afraid and in a place he didn’t know, and her fear ebbed in the wake of a gust of fury that rippled along her spine as she sat, locking her in place next to a stain on the varnish from the one time Wally had gotten into her acetone. That day was a smudgy memory, but Wally had learned that acetone did more than just eat away nail polish; her hand protectively covered the spot, as though she could hide his mistake.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My identity isn’t important right now. You are Molly Foster, widow with a young son that had to watch his father die of cancer. Tragic.”

Molly glared at him, palm pressed flat to the sore spot on the table.

“Cancer is an ugly way to die,” the man continued, unflinching. “The body rejects liquids. It secretes. The smell is unbearable. The hair falls out, and there is no end to the vomit. They are weak, frail. They Become, but it is a wasted becoming. The family is left worse off, not with the death but with the time wasted trying to prolong a pitiful life.”

“Stop.”

The man stopped, potentially due to the level of fury that rippled with her voice. He tilted his head the other way, and in the dim kitchen lighting Molly could faintly see the healed scarring of what once was a cleft palate. It explained the faint lisp that made his brows twitch to a frown as he spoke.

“You are dating Will Graham,” the man began again, after a moment. “My boss is rather interested in that.”

“And just who is your boss?”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

Hannibal Lecter? Molly recalled the newscast on him –serial killers weren’t really always what the news went to, anymore. It was bad publicity about ‘who the public should really fear’ in truth, so they were mostly quiet. Their focus was more on terrorism from the Middle East, gun control debates, and the polarized elections that kept everyone up in arms. When it was revealed that he was cannibalizing them, though, they’d been all over that.

And Will Graham had survived him.

“He’s in prison,” she said faintly –her voice was tinny, far away.

“His reach extends past his bars,” the man assured him, as though she needed that assurance as he pointed a gun at her. “And you are dating the one person that he currently has any form of interest in.”

Molly saw quite a few options, in that moment, sitting across from a man and what looked to be a rather capable 9 mm XD. She wouldn’t say that she was necessarily a professional in dealing with stress, but losing her husband slowly –painfully –had taught her a lot about separating her mind from her emotions. She’d overcome that grief; this was no different. In the quiet that was too quiet because Wally wasn’t upstairs playing his X-Box that’d been a gift after her husband’s passing, she took a breath and made a choice, something that felt too heavy for a setting like a low-income household with poor laminate on the floors and a scuffed table she’d found at a Habitat for Humanity for five bucks and some change.

“If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t have abducted my son,” she said slowly. “A wasted expense.”

“A waste,” the man agreed.

“What do you want, then?” Her voice trembled. “Will Graham?”

“We want you to keep dating him,” the man said. “And we want you get close to him.”

That took her aback. “…Why?” Better yet, “No, where’s my son? You’re holding my son hostage so that I keep dating Will Graham?”

“In due time,” he assured her. “If you comply, your son will be safe. Get close to Will Graham. Keep him under your thumb emotionally; Dr. Lecter said that he takes on the emotions projected around him. Love him. Give him a sense of peace that he has never known.”

Her mind twisted, wrenched. She thought of Will on the first night they’d met; drunk, swaying, and so sad it somehow made her want to tuck him in close and hold him until the pain trickled away from skin that smelled like pine needles and regret. She thought of the way he’d followed her from the bar, his words awkward and fumbling but so sweetly tender that it made her laugh. They danced in his front room to music playing from tinny laptop speakers cranked far too high, and in the darkest part of the night she let him strip her clothing from her body, inch by inch as he kissed her skin and left marks that she admired the next morning rather than felt shame for.

He asked if he could call her when they were sober, and she’d said yes.

“If I do this,” she said quietly, “are you going to hurt my son?”

“No.”

“Are you going to hurt Will Graham?” she pressed, insistent.

“No.”

“He doesn’t talk about what happened to him,” said Molly, scathing. “But I see how it marked him. How it follows him. You think that if or when he finds out what you’re asking me to do, it won’t hurt him?”

“There are many kind of pain, Molly Foster,” the man said. The cursed gun hadn’t moved even a centimeter. “Some pain buds new growth. When roses die in winter, you cut back their stems to the dirt, that they grow anew. The flowers that come after are somehow more vibrant from the harsh but necessary attention.”

“You’d compare him to a fucking flower,” she sneered, “he is a human being.”

“You struggle with nature versus nurture,” he noted. “Is this your final answer?”

It wasn’t, and he damn well knew it. Molly could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he didn’t move to put his finger on the trigger because he knew he didn’t have to shoot.

“I want proof of my son’s life,” she said, curt. “I want to know how you’re containing him, and I want to speak to Dr. Lecter myself.”

Wordlessly, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved what looked to be a cheap version of a smart phone. He tapped a few icons on it, then set it on the table.

A video of Wally played with the small speakers on as loud as they could go.

“So…you knew my dad?” Wally asked. His voice was small, so small. It’d been a couple of years, but God did it feel so fresh sometimes that it took her breath away and made her tongue feel fat and heavy in her mouth.

“He was my cousin,” a man with sandy hair and green eyes said. “I was sad when we drifted apart…then when I heard he passed, I had to give my condolences.”

“When’s my mom going to meet with us?” Wally asked, all innocence and wide eyes of a child.

“Oh, soon,” the man assured him with a laugh. “If I’m lucky, I can maybe be part of your family. Would you like that, Wally?”

“If mom likes it,” Wally decided. He held the same tone that every small child did –what mom liked, they liked. What mom disliked, he abhorred. “We’ll see.”

“You’re a smart kid, Wally,” the man decided.

“Yeah,” Wally agreed.

Molly lunged for the phone, but it was snatched from her grip. The sob that tore from her was barely stifled by her furiously shaking hands, and she glared at the man in front of her as he exited from the app and tucked the phone away.

“That is a live video,” he explained. “I have access to your son at all times, Molly Foster.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” she hissed.

“Do we have an agreement?” he asked. His lip curled.

“How often do I get to see him?” she demanded. “How long until this is over?”

“In due time,” the man said calmly. It belied the hawkish stare he’d settled on her, as though she could lunge at any moment. Fuck, but she felt like it, that need to take her son and run and run and run. Her foot twitched, and her muscles clenched and unclenched, waiting.

“I’ll do it,” she said, and it hit harder than it should have, that feeling of giving in. It sounded so innocent, ‘watch Will Graham’ but she knew it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be so fucking simple. “I’ll do it, but only if you let Wally think it’s really like that. That we’re one big family, and he doesn’t have to know the truth of the monstrous things you’re planning on doing.”

“We’re doing,” he corrected, softly.

“What do you want? Information, access; I don’t believe that it’s really just to make Will-fucking-Graham feel like the most important person in the world.”

“Information, naturally. A way to keep him from straying too far. You are to be his anchor, and his place to go when the darkness bites too hard. It should be easy for you, I’m certain. There is already a foundation of affection between the two of you, as it’s been noted.”

“Fine, done,” said Molly curtly. “Are we finished?”

The man smiled, something small and cruel. “Yes, for tonight. Dr. Lecter thanks you, Ms. Foster, for your cooperation. I’ll inform him of your desire to communicate.”

Molly had nothing to say to that, and he didn’t seem to care to wait for a reply. He kept the gun leveled calmly at her, and when he saw himself out of the back door, he locked the bottom knob behind himself as the door closed. A jab, in truth. She had no doubt he had every way and means of getting back in, should he want to.

It was only once he was gone and the smell of his aftershave faded that she allowed herself to tuck her face into her hands and honestly, truly let the horror of what’d just happened sink in. Molly wasn’t much of a crier –childhood, she supposed. There was always a threat from her parents that if she didn’t stop fucking crying there’d be something to really cry about, so instead she gulped. Molly Foster, widow at the tender age of twenty-three was very much a gulper, so she gulped. She gulped down the sob that was hammering nails into her throat, the sob that she could already feel echoing in her ears, a sob she felt would one day rip from her despite the breaths she struggled with now. She thought of Will Graham and how he always looked a breath away from a bad decision, how he seemed both dangerous and safe at the same time, and she wondered if that sob would come when she least expected it, when he was holding her close and whispering his sweet poetry into her ear; she’d let out a scream so horrendous that even he’d run from her, then where would she be?

Where would Wally be?

She sat there with her face in her hands for a long time, gulping. The house felt too open, too invasive, and after a couple of hours she found her way back to the counter where the milk was getting to room temperature and the lettuce was looking a bit soft.

Will answered on the first ring.

“Miss me that much?” he joked. Will had a deep, mellow sort of voice that softened around words that ended in harsh consonants. Her throat tightened, burned enough to make her gasp out a breath.

“Yeah,” she said, and she pressed her hand to her eyes. “I…yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

Did he always pick up on everything so fucking quickly? “…If I came over and stayed the night, would you be mad at me?”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah…you know, you don’t talk much about Dr. Lecter. And by much I mean…ever.”

He stayed silent at that, ever an impenetrable wall after what’d happened.

“And you know that I…you know, sometimes grief just sets in,” she said with a strangled laugh. “You know how that is, don’t you? How you’re looking at an orange, and maybe you think ‘oh, wow, Dr. Lecter used to eat oranges before each session’ and suddenly you’re feeling everything you thought you’d put behind you?”

“He didn’t eat oranges, but I know what you mean,” Will replied gently. “Come on over, Molly. I’ll tell Beverly not to lock the door.”

Molly’s steps echoed with sharp, staccato taps after she’d put the groceries away and saw herself out of the bleak, dark house. It was a house, not a home without Wally in it, and throughout the entire drive to Will’s, throughout the evening where he held her and didn’t try to pry words from her lips, throughout the night as she gulped against his chest and tried to sleep, Molly wondered just how safe Wally could really be if she dared to open her mouth and tell Will what really was leaving her puffy eyed and stoic during an episode of their favorite show.

She ultimately gulped the words down, though. It wasn’t safe otherwise.

Molly gulped down a shuddering breath at the sight of the man that climbed out of the passenger side of a rather austere and spacious car. There are some things that a person knows because they’re told; there are some things they know because they are quick enough to stay quiet and observe. Some things, though, are complete and utter instinct, and despite the fact that Francis Dolarhyde of all people was a complete and utter monster to Molly Foster, she found herself taking a minute step closer to him at the sight of Clark Ingram, hands planted on her hips to steel herself.

The man looked like a rapist. Cold, empty eyes, even red-rimmed from hangover, conveyed a deep-seeded and utter dispassionate care of women as he glanced over her, then along the rest of their small group thoughtfully. The woman beside him, Emma, gave him a careless glance before she tucked her keys into her coat pocket and lingered by the headlights.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter, in the flesh,” Clark Ingram said with an amiable smile. He extended his hand to shake Hannibal’s, which was returned with a professional, thin-lipped smile.

“Clark Ingram. Welcome,” Hannibal greeted. “With me are my associates: Agent Francis Dolarhyde, Ms. Molly Foster, Mr. Howard Chapman, and of course you know Miss Emma.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Clark said with a grin. “This is…wow. You really had me jumping through hoops, you know.”

“Did I?” Hannibal asked. His brow lifted briefly, a flicker so fast that Molly almost hadn’t caught it. Seeing it, though, filled her with a sort of dread that nothing but instinct could give.

“Yeah, the back roads, the FBI, the whole thing was really exciting, but that last leg was just a doozy.”

“A doozy,” Hannibal echoed, and he smiled just enough to flash incisors that seemed entirely too sharp on a human. “But here you are, now.”

“Here I am, and I’m ready for whatever else you’ve got for me, Dr. Lecter. You can ask Emma; I did my job.”

“Oh, yes, the job,” Hannibal agreed amiably. “Only, Mr. Ingram, you didn’t do the job.”

The cold wind whistling was the only noise that accompanied his words. Clark Ingram frowned, something confused and mildly childlike. Petulant.

“I don’t understand,” he said at last.

Hannibal nodded, as he’d expected this. “Your job was to kill Agent Zeller. You didn’t.”

“I did,” Ingram returned irritably, “and he bled like a stuck pig.”

“Agent Zeller is currently in my basement awaiting questioning, actually,” Hannibal returned pleasantly. It was the sort of sweet that made one’s stomach ache. “My informant in the FBI informed me of his location, and he was retrieved from a hospital where he’d just been taken out of surgery.”

Shock was something Molly was more than used to seeing. She’d had her own twists and turns with Dr. Lecter in regards to shock and how one both registers and reacts to it. Seeing it on Clark Ingram was mildly cathartic, as she was more than aware of his track record and the things he’d done to women whose only mistake was being fooled by a pretty face and a 100-watt smile. First, he paled; his cheeks turned a ruddy sort of red, then the air squeezed from him with a slow and painful look to his ribs, like they’d soon break.

“Bull shit,” he said shakily. “This is ridiculous. I did my job, and now I want my payment for it.”

“Payment,” Emma echoed, and there was a smirk to her voice that didn’t register on her granite face. “Are you so stupid that you didn’t notice the circles I drove you around while I waited for the word from Dr. Lecter?”

“You really were invaluable, thank you,” Hannibal agreed, glancing to Emma.

“I stuck him good, and I strolled right by that god damn FBI agent, and he didn’t even notice! What the hell did I risk everything for? I made that fucker bleed for you, and this is the thanks that I’m going to get?”

“In reality, it turns out that he is one of the few to know the location of a person in question that I wish to meet with, so I am relieved to find that he is very much alive; that being said, however, I’m in no position to allow you into this house and its sanctuary.”

“You promised me women, you god damn-”

“Oh, yes, the women.” Hannibal nodded thoughtfully, and it was that sort of aloofness that made the hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stand on end. “Emma?”

The silencer on the end of her gun muffled the shot, although it was nothing like Hollywood. Suppressed shots sounded more like something far, far away, with the impression of an echo from a canyon that reverberated back to the ears and left one feeling somehow wanting. It was not the first time Molly watched someone die, nor was it the first time she’d watched someone shoot them to do it. Over the years, enough experience had given her the sort of schooling to keep her features calm, even as Emma’s eyes grazed over her with an acute level of scrutiny, assessing.

Years had given Molly something that she wasn’t sure Emma had –a perfectly controlled, shuttered face. Not even Will could see past it, it seemed. She stood alone with her thoughts, the craggy rocks against an unrelenting ocean.

“Lovely, as always, Emma. Where you were the one to engage with him personally, I thought the honor should be yours,” Hannibal said warmly. The false tone of affection was grating. “If you’ll have Mr. Hobbs take care of this, we’ll be back inside where it’s warm in no time.”

“He lost his wallet,” Emma said curtly. “I didn’t notice a tail, but there could be problems.”

Hannibal glanced to Francis, who nodded grimly.

“Without Matthew at the sheriff’s department, I haven’t heard much chatter,” he said after a moment. “Someone could come sniffing if he doesn’t show up to work soon.”

“Someone that could have a missing wallet and a hunch?” Molly asked.

Francis nodded. “I’ve lost word from the other house. No report yet,” he said.

“Emma can deal with Matthew’s disappearance,” Hannibal decided. “And we’ll double security at the perimeter. Will is particularly…displeased with the notion of what’s occurred. We need to be prepared for him to attempt something rash.”

Rash, like attempting to carve out your eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like the faint bruising around Hannibal’s eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like how it felt for Molly to see him with mismatched eyes, the one person in the world that she felt couldn’t have possibly ever been moved by Hannibal Lecter.

God, and she’d led him right to him. Hook, line, and fucking sinker.

They headed back, and she lingered towards the back of the small procession, alongside Francis. She thought of the way he’d looked, following after Will who’d swayed and shook after his stunt with the phone. Pained. Afraid. Disgusted.

“You must be happy,” she said, quiet.

Francis hummed non-committedly.

“No, really. All of your planning…your watching, your meticulous notes and careful actions…it all finally came true. Hannibal Lecter has his soulmate because of you.”

She wasn’t quite sure what it was, her poking at him. She’d witnessed the Red Dragon surface before, and it’d left nightmares that clung to her eyelashes and stuck whenever she tried to blink. Perhaps she, too, was feeling rash now that everything was spiraling.

“When you took him to the bathroom,” she said, softer, “to clean him up after killing Matthew, what’d you say to him?”

At that, he did speak. Francis didn’t speak unless necessary, unless there was something ultimately important that he felt the need to convey. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He wet his lips, almost a nervous gesture, then tried again. He stared straight ahead, gaze fixated to the house. She knew that he had no love for Matthew Brown, the same way that she had no love for Matthew Brown.

“I said that he had to survive us.”

“Survive,” she murmured, and she nodded. “And now you have to survive watching him be a soulmate to Dr. Lecter.”

Francis stopped walking and fixed his intense, probing stare to her. She thought of that fateful night, when she’d first turned and found him at her table with a gun trained on her. He’d somehow seemed so untouchable, then, so formidable. Now, facing her with that same look, it didn’t seem so black and white. If anything, lurking beneath that dangerous edge, there was a glimmer of fear, of utmost uncertainty.

“Say what is on your mind, Molly Foster.”

Molly stopped and met his gaze head on. “I’m just wondering how you’re going to live kow-towing to Hannibal Lecter while he tries to twist and manipulate his soulmate bond to get Will Graham into his bed. First I fucked him, and soon enough Hannibal will try, too…it must be difficult for you.”

If it stung him, it didn’t show. Francis blinked lazily, then reached calmly into his jacket pocket and produced a cheap-looking, poor man’s smart phone. A fancy burner phone, all things considered. He tapped on the screen a few times, then lifted the camera to show an angle of one of the parlors.

Wally sat beside Abigail, coloring.

“I still have complete and total access to your son at all times,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Your position as Hannibal Lecter’s romantic proxy to Will Graham means ultimately nothing now that he has what he wants. You and your son are disposable.”

He left her with that haunting reminder as he smiled kindly and put his phone away. Left alone on the gravel path back to the house, Molly shivered in her coat and glanced to the doorway, unsettled to find Hannibal looking back at her, the light of the house silhouetting him and leaving his expression in the shadows. She could hazard a guess to what it was, though. Cold. Calm. Calculating. Cruel.

Clark Ingram was disposable, too. She gulped down the same sob she’d been holding back for four miserable, haunting years, and she hurried into the house to find Wally.

A special thanks to my patrons: @sylarana, @frostyleegraham, @jenacar, @starlit-catastrophe, @matildaparacosm, Laura G, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, Mendacious Bean, @frostylicker, Cecily, and @evertonem <3

#Hannibal #LiaS scribbles #Where the wicked walk #hannigram #hannibal au #hannibal soulmate au #someone help will graham #molly graham #ladies of hannibal #beverly katz

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honeyedhoseok · 7 years ago

Text

Noona |02|

word count | 5.1k

genre | noona x jungkook; college au

warnings | profanity, smut (in the future)

summary | There’s no denying the sexual tension between you and Jungkook that developed over the summer, and all thanks to social media. But now that he’s a freshman at your university he expects something more than a flirty text from you–and you’re not so sure if you’re ready to give it to him yet.

| Part One | Part Two | Part Three |

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you muttered, closing your eyes before you lost your shit.

You were laying in bed, scrolling through your morning feed and catching up on last night’s Instagram posts when Jungkook snapped you, a confident smirk adorning his face with the caption see you tonight noona under the picture. The conversation from the night before came flooding back to you immediately and you groaned, throwing your phone to the side to avoid having to respond.

What the fuck was wrong with your drunk brain? It always went way left and got you in trouble, but this time was different. You’d promised Jungkook something in return for all the teasing that had been going on for the past few months—and you were positive he was more than ready to cash in.

You rolled out of bed, the sunshine beaming in through your windows and illuminating your room in bright light due to the fact that you’d slept past noon. Yujin was at the kitchen counter, hunched over a bowl of cereal and looking like the dead.

“You’re awake?” you asked, going over to the coffee maker to start a fresh pot. “I’m honestly surprised. The amount of vomit last night…” You trailed off, shuddering at the memory. “Linda Blair would have been jealous.”

“Yeah? Well I feel like I’ve been exorcised, so I can see the resemblance.” Yujin dropped her spoon in her half-full bowl, rubbing at her temples tenderly. You reached into the cabinet above the counter, grabbing a bottle of pain relievers and shaking out two for Yujin before you popped two into your own mouth.

“Take these,” you muttered between pressed lips, filling a glass of water from the tap. Hopefully they would work fast enough to give you an adequate response to Jungkook. Your head and heart pounded in rhythm at the thought of him, each one working overdrive due to its own cause.

As if he could read your thoughts, your phone dinged on the counter beside you: another snapchat from Jungkook.

“So while you were trying not to die last night, I may have done something really stupid…” you said, watching as Yujin dry-swallowed her Tylenol, making you wince at the sight.

“This is about you cradle-robbing, isn’t it?” She narrowed her eyes at you, picking up her spoon and thrusting it in your direction. “You’re an idiot.”

“I didn’t even—I am not cradle-robbing! He’s a grown man!” You crossed your arms. “That’s besides the point. I told him he should come to the party tonight, and I may have mentioned…us getting together…alone…”

Yujin was already shaking her head by the time you finished, grabbing her still half-full bowl and pouring the milk down the sink, leaving behind the soggy remains of her cereal to throw in the trashcan. “So you’ll get what you want. What’s the big deal here?”

You pressed your lips together in thought. She was right in a way. So why did you feel so anxious whenever you thought about it?

“I’m just—I’m scared of what this means, you know?” you said, exasperated. “I don’t know if Jungkook actually likes me or just thinks of me as a cheap fuck or—what if he does like me? What am I supposed to do? And then if he doesn’t like me and we fuck–”

Yujin whipped around in place. “Wait, are you saying you want to be with him?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t think so? I don’t see him like that but—” Your headache was definitely starting to come back, the Tylenol doing the opposite of their job as you felt a tightening around your temples. “This is stressful. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it this hard…it’s Jungkook for fucks sake.”

“Exactly,” Yujin said, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms. “Why are you thinking about it so much? I thought you wanted this. In fact, you’ve been wanting this, ‘cause I’ve been hearing things about his possible dick size since that pool party we went to over the summer.”

“That was theoretical! This is real!”

Yujin sighed. “I’m going to my room. I need to prep if we’re going out again tonight.”

She left you with a feeling of irritation settling into the joints of your fingers as you picked up your phone, opening the latest picture from Jungkook. His legs were stretched out in front of him on the couch, the thick muscles of his thighs visible through his sweats—the same ones he was wearing in the picture he sent you the night before. There was no caption, just a picture merely to remind you that you hadn’t responded to his first one.

You typed out a response: go take a shower and change your clothes you bum

Jungkook couldn’t keep his mind off you. All he needed was a distraction, something that would keep his mind busy for hours at a time until he could see you tonight–which is why he found himself on the couch, un-showered, with Taehyung absolutely beating his ass in a game of Call of Duty.

“Stop with that fucking camping shit, Tae. If I get sniped walking across the grounds one more time I’m gonna fucking throttle you.” Jungkook sent a menacing glare across the room to the other couch, where Taehyung sat with an obnoxious head set on, his eyes glued to the flat screen tv that sat on the entertainment system. He answered without looking away.

“That’s the name of the game, kid.”

Jungkook was trying hard to concentrate, letting his tongue rest between his lips as he pressed the buttons harder on his controller. He rounded the corner of a building, looking around for Taehyung up high just as his phone dinged on the couch beside him, breaking him out of his trance. He glanced down, giving Taehyung ample opportunity to kill him one more time, running full speed at him on the game and giving Jungkook no chance to aim his gun.

“Fuck yeah!” Taehyung exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air as he watched Jungkook’s character fall to the ground in the final kill cam, signaling the end of the game. Jungkook could care less as he swiped his thumb across the screen, your reply on snapchat popping up.

go take a shower and change your clothes you bum

He smirked a little, exiting the app and returning to his normal texting app. I’ll shower if you join me ;)

“Jungkook, you down for another round?” Taehyung asked, removing one headphone from the side of his head so he could hear his friend’s reply. “Dude?”

“Huh? What?” Jungkook asked, too engrossed in the flirty conversation that was about to develop as you replied back. “Nah, Jimin can take my place.” He got up from the couch, passing Jimin as he came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his damp hair.

He heard Taehyung mutter an annoyed comment about being whipped just as he shut the door to his bedroom, stretching himself across his bed as he read your latest message: Nope, I’m already clean

Text message sent 1:29pm

I’ll make you nice and dirty tonight, don’t worry

Noona

Text message received 1:32pm

Okay yeah sure

What are you doing for the rest of the day?

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed at your obvious attempt to deflect his flirty line. Normally you were all up for some playful banter, what was going on?

Text message sent 1:34pm

Just chilling until the party…probably gonna unpack some more. you?

Noona

Text message received 1:35pm

Nothing

You were being short now. Something was definitely up. Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to ask you, too scared that you were going to tell him that you weren’t coming to the party tonight—or worse, that you weren’t interesting in fucking him anymore.

Text message sent 1:36pm

Do you wanna come chill over here?

Taehyung knocked on his door twice then, busting in without waiting for Jungkook to tell him to come in. He frowned at his friend over his shoulder, irritation lacing his voice. “What the fuck?”

“We’re going to grab some lunch on campus. You coming?”

“Yeah, just a sec.”

As Taehyung shut the door, Jungkook glanced down at his screen, seeing that you’d read his message, but the typing bubbles to let him know you were in the midst of replying didn’t pop up.

You spent the rest of the day doing things around the apartment—unpacking the rest of your clothes, setting up the kitchen and the bathroom, cooking dinner for you and Yujin—basically anything you could to get your mind off things until it was finally time to start getting dressed for the party.

You’d sent Jungkook a lame excuse about an hour after he texted you asking about coming over, and then filled your day with mundane tasks so that you wouldn’t feel bad about blowing him off. If you told him you were busy and then did things around the apartment, that technically wasn’t lying, right? Even if you didn’t have to do those things? He’d responded with an ok so you figured he was fine with it, ignoring the fact that his shortened answer seemed a little peeved in nature.

Yujin came out of her room in a cloud of perfume, already sipping on a red-cup concoction she’d thrown together in your kitchen about thirty minutes before getting dressed. She believed in pre-gaming to the fullest just in case there were lame drinks at the party—like beer—and most of the time she convinced you to do the same. She pulled the edge of her skirt down, willing it just slightly past the curve of her ass and you rolled your eyes.

“Nice outfit.”

“It shrunk in the dryer, I swear!” she complained, struggling to yank the unyielding fabric down once more. “I just bought this!”

You shook your head at her, frowning. “Just wear something else, you don’t wanna be fiddling with that all night.” You glanced down at your own outfit—a pair of jean shorts and a black keyhole tank top—that looked lackluster in comparison to Yujin’s. What would Jungkook think?

Yujin walked back in her room to rummage through her drawers for a few more minutes so you went into the living room, your wedges dangling from the fingers of one hand as you scrolled on your phone with the other. Jungkook had posted a snapchat to his story forty seconds ago and you clicked on it, glancing over the video of him, Jimin and Taehyung taking a shot in someone’s kitchen that you didn’t recognize.

“Jungkook is already there! Hurry up!” you yelled to Yujin. Your stomach flipflopped as you stared at the video on loop a little longer, catching a glimpse of the pale expanse of Jungkook’s neck as he tipped back the shot glass contents.

“The Uber will be here in five minutes, let’s go.”

There were other girls standing around outside when you got downstairs, each dressed in their own form of party gear, giggling with their friends and talking loudly about anything and everything. The scent of cheap cigarettes and Victoria’s Secret perfumes filled the air around them, and you sidestepped one of them as she stumbled back from the group, adding action to the budding story she was in the middle of telling. You and Yujin stood off the side quietly, still sipping from your red solo cups as the Uber app updated you that the driver would be there in two minutes.

Upon seeing a red Chevrolet pulling around the corner, you downed the rest of your drink and Yujin took your cup, placing it inside her own and tossing it into the bushes beside your apartment complex.

The Uber driver made small talk with the two of you as you drove off-campus. You were mostly grateful for it because you couldn’t deny that Uber drivers creeped you out. They were hit or miss—either nice and normal or total wack jobs that really shouldn’t have decided to be a driver in a college town. But, the conversation kept your mouth busy and therefore your mind.

Five minutes into the ride, just as Yujin was talking about restaurants she enjoyed downtown, a popping noise was heard over the sound of the talking, followed by the car unsettling itself and shaking everyone up. You gripped the side of your seat, looking over at Yujin with panicked eyes.

“What the fuck just happened?” she asked.

The uber driver sighed, pushing a button on the dash for the hazard lights and pulling over slowly to the side of the road. “The tire just blew. Sorry, ladies.”

Jungkook took his phone from his pocket, hitting the lock button to light up the screen so he could check the time again—it was the third time he’d done it in ten minutes. Each time the screen mocked him with its emptiness: no messages, no snapchats, no nothing from you.

He sipped from the solo cup in his hand, clicking on snapchat to see if you’d updated your story with anything that would let him know you were on the way but that was a bust as well. Where the hell were you?

Jimin tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the guy that was handing out fireball shots at the counter, rounding up a group of people to take one with him. They quickly followed in suit, plucking a tiny solo cup from the stack on the counter and letting him fill it with the cinnamon-flavored liquid, enjoying the burn in their throats as they went down.

Jungkook was feeling good, but he wanted to feel better. He wanted to get the jitteriness out of his stomach for when you did show up so he could be sure he wouldn’t fuck things up with you.

Jimin suggested they go find Taehyung and set up at the beer pong table, but Jungkook needed another shot. So he took another. And another. And then he grabbed a cup of party punch to sip on. Jimin shot him a you-better-fucking-slow-your-roll look but he just grinned, sipping from his cup and leading the way through the house.

The party was in full swing now, the walls of the house vibrating with the music pumping from the stereo system. People leaned close to each other to talk, bodies congregated into sectioned areas of the house—the kitchen where the drinks were, the living room where the music was, and the foyer where the games were—as well as people littering the lawn and back porch.

Jungkook couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place. He’d been to a party before, but nothing like this. He saw you at these all the time, looking like you were having the time of your life but at the moment he didn’t feel like that at all. He wondered if it was because he only knew two people there, or if he just needed to drink some more and fucking relax.

He sipped from his cup and followed his older friends as they gathered another person for a beer pong tournament. When they finally started, he realized he was pretty good. After two games, he and Taehyung had found their rhythm and were running the table, winning 3-0. Everyone else was too plastered to make the cups. Jimin was trying hard to carry his team on his back, but one plastered guy and one sober stood no chance against Tae and Jungkook’s competitiveness.

Jungkook was still only slightly buzzed though, the very faint feeling of lightness in his head wasn’t satisfying to him. He needed more and he needed it now. So, he trudged back into the kitchen, in search of a clean shot glass and some vodka.

Yujin and you sat on the sidewalk, watching your Uber driver attempt at fixing his own tire. He swore he knew how to do it, but he was currently watching a tutorial on his phone for step by step instructions, his tools laid out beside him on the ground.

“There’s no way to cancel the fucking ride once it’s started,” Yujin said, smacking her lips and placing her phone back in her bra. “We literally have to sit here and get our money’s worth.”

Cars passed by, some slowing down like there were going to help, but upon seeing the driver looking like he knew what he was doing, they sped up again and went on about their nights. If it were just you and Yujin pulled over on the side of the road, you were sure about ten people would have stopped to offer help—mostly guys because of your attire, but hey, anything would have been better than this.

“Sir, we would help you,” you called out, ignoring the way Yujin muttered a fuck no we wouldn’t under her breath. “But we don’t know shit about changing a tire.”

“That’s okay, ladies. Just a few more minutes…”

“He’s said that like five times now.” Yujin stood up, dusting off her skirt and holding a hand out to you to hoist you from the ground with her. “If I don’t have tequila swimming in my veins in the next thirty minutes I’m gonna kill someone. Probably him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow, how un-selfish of you, Yu. Way to go.”

Yujin went to stand close to the street in the hopes of flagging a car down, but the array of forty-year-old moms that went by in their minivans didn’t give two shits about a party girl in a leather skirt with her thumb out.

A few more clinks, twists and grunts later, and your driver had finally fixed the tire. He was all nice and sweaty by then and the car reeked of his perspiration but neither you or Yujin tried to dwell on it. You were over an hour late for the party by now, and you both knew everyone there was going to be well into their drinking by the time your sober asses showed up.

And you were certainly right.

There were already evident signs of people reaching their limits—some were staring off into space on the front porch as you passed, some were clutching their stomachs vomiting in the azaleas. The sight made you annoyed more than it did disgusted. It was going to take you forever to catch up.

Yujin dragged you straight into the kitchen the minute your foot stepped over the threshold, where she grabbed two shot glasses and a random bottle of rum off the counter and filled them up. You clinked, tapped your shot on the table, and then downed it before urging her to fill it up once more. It wasn’t that either of you were trying to get wasted, it was just that parties were a lot less fun when people were intoxicated around you and you weren’t. You tended to notice things you wouldn’t, such as the uncomfortable heat that was settling over the house due to the packed bodies, or the horrible rap music that was blasting through the speakers, or the array of drunk guys that were crowded around the beer pong table making way too much noise for a dumb game.

“What the fuck is going on over there?” you asked, pointing in the direction of the crowd of bodies.

“Testosterone, maybe?” Yujin shrugged. “Let’s go find out.”

The two of you crept up on the crowd, sipping on cups of party punch and trying to peek over the tall shoulders that were blocking your view. You found a hole in the circle and edged your way through it, finally taking in who was kicking ass at the table.

Jungkook, poised with a ping pong ball in hand and one eye closed as he aimed, was shooting towards the last cup at the opposite end of the table. The side of the table nearest to him still had all ten, which was the cause of all the noise. The boys were getting so hyped at winning a game without letting the other team get a chance to try that they were literally salivating at the mouth. You didn’t get the hype over games like this, but they were fun to watch nonetheless.

“Alright!” Jungkook yelled over the crowd, his words slurring a little bit. “If I make this fucking cup you motherfuckers are running a naked lap around this place!”

The crowd yelled, whooping and hollering at the thought of their own guy friends having to take their clothes off. Jimin, who was on the losing team, was shaking his head before Jungkook could finish his sentence. “I’m not fucking doing that. No way.”

“Scared of showing everyone your baby dick, Jiminie?” Taehyung teased.

Yujin was beside you at this point, leaning towards your ear to murmur, “Either way, I’m down to see it.”

You rolled your eyes, focusing back on Jungkook. He looked good—way better than you remembered. You two hadn’t seen each other in about a month, and despite the array of pictures he’d sent you during that time, nothing could compare to the sight in front of you. Although, you had to admit, he was more drunk that you’d ever seen him–his steps slurred and un-calculated, his speech dragging and his eyes glazed over all gave away the amount he’d had tonight before you got there.

Despite all of this, he launched the little white ball in his hand towards the other side of the table, his jaw squared in arrogance as it splashed into the cup with ease. An eruption of noise sounded, yells and screams and whoops with the guys all jumping up and down as Jungkook slapped Taehyung’s hand in congrats and returned high fives. A few were chanting “naked lap” over and over again but Jimin’s brow was furrowed in irritation, his eyebrows drawn together angrily as he yelled, “I’m not fucking doing it! I didn’t agree to that!”

Amidst the craziness, you felt Jungkook’s eyes somehow fall on yours, his expression equal parts surprised and giddy as his gaze raked over your entire body before coming to land back on your face. You gave him a small smile and a wave in return.

“Noona?”

He walked over, pushing through bodies to envelope you in a hug, his strong arms wrapping around your upper body and squishing your face to his chest. You breathed in the scent of his jacket, fighting the growing butterflies in your stomach with everything in you. It was just Jungkook. Why did seeing him in person after all this time make you so fucking nervous?

His leaned a little too much of his weight on you and you stumbled back a step, placing your hands on his chest to push him back up straight. “Jesus, kid, how much have you had?” you giggled. Yujin had disappeared to refill her cup and probably go see if Jimin was going to get naked, leaving you along with Jungkook in the foyer.

He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “Enough. I had to wait for your slow ass to get here!”

“It’s not my fault. The Uber driver got a flat!”

You moved to allow space at the table for a much quieter game of beer pong, pushing yourself into a corner with Jungkook standing in front of you.

“You left me hanging again,” he frowned, hiccuping slightly. “Now you owe me.”

“What do you want?” you asked, trying to ignore the fire erupting in your belly as Jungkook stared down at you with half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, and you knew the words that were going to come out before he even said them.

“A kiss.”

His breath smelled like alcohol and his cologne was overbearing due to his proximity, but it was all you could do not to reach up and grab the back of his head and smash his lips against yours. He placed one hand on the wall behind your head, effectively trapping you in his presence.

“Whaddya say, Noona?”

“I say,” you stalled, looking down at your cup, “I need some more drink.”

You went to duck under his arm but Jungkook was quick, moving his body to the side to block you. You cursed the wideness of shoulders and chest under your breath, hating the way your small frame was completely swallowed by his bigger one.

“You scared of me or something?” he taunted, smiling widely. “Come on.”

Your pulse was racing underneath your skin despite the irritation lacing your tone. “I’m not scared of some big, dumb freshman. Will you move?”

“Not until I get what I want.”

“Jungkook–”

“Just one little kiss?” he pleaded. “Don’t you wanna kiss me?”

“Stop asking questions! If you want a kiss, why don’t you just take it?” And stop making me make the decisions!

“Whoa, Noona. I mean, if that’s what you like, then I can,” he chuckled. “I just thought I would let you make the first—”

You reached up, interlocking your fingers in Jungkook’s hair to snatch him down to you and crush your lips against his. The kiss was angry—mostly because you didn’t want to be forced to kiss Jungkook like this, you wanted to do it on your own time and preferably when you’d had a few drinks—but he didn’t seem to mind in the least. He snaked his arms around your waist, pulling your chest against his and digging his fingers into your back as he tilted his head and closed his eyes. His tongue snaked into your mouth immediately, rolling against your own and filling your mouth with the taste of the many shots he’d had already. The kiss was warm and wet and messy and pretty hot, if you were being honest. You tugged on his hair to get him to pull away, tugging on his lip roughly with your teeth until it popped back against his own with a wet sound.

He smirked, but leaned down to press his against yours once more, this time softer and for just a few seconds—enough to leave your heart racing and a small sigh to escape from your lips. “Thanks.”

His eyes closed for a second too long and he swayed a little, pressing his forehead against yours to steady himself.

“Kook? You okay?”

As he pulled away from you he hiccuped a little, air passing through his nostrils as he breathed deeply and brought one hand up to cover his mouth. “I think—ugh—I think I gotta—”

He was tearing away from you then, stumbling through bodies until he was out the sliding doors in the kitchen that connected to the back porch, leaning over the railing to puke into the empty garden bed down below. You sat your cup on the counter as you rushed after him, your hand coming out to pat his back in small circles as he heaved up everything he had in his stomach.

“I’m glad there weren’t flowers down there,” you murmured, turning away from the sight below that was slowly but surely wafting its way up to your nostrils.

“Fuck the flowers—” Jungkook spat, just before another wave of puke rocketed itself out of his system. You winced. This was not at all how either of you had wanted this night to go, but you couldn’t help but be a little grateful at the situation.

“What the hell?” Yujin asked, stepping outside at that moment and coming over to you two. “I left you alone for like fifteen minutes—wait, is that Jungkook? What a pussy!”

“Hey, fuck you!” Jungkook croaked, taking one hand off the railing to stick his middle finger up at Yujin behind him. You patted him on the back a few more times before reaching to snatch an unopened bottle of water from beside you on the railing.

“Drink this.”

Jungkook straightened, lifting a hand to wipe at his mouth before he swished some water around and spit it over the side of the deck. He was avoiding your eyes now, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight in front of you. Cocky Jungkook was probably gone now that he’d embarrassed himself in front of you.

“Why is it always me that gets stuck babysitting the weaklings?” you teased. “First Yujin last night, now you. When am I gonna get to have some fun?”

“I’ll give you some fun, alright,” he growled, looking at you from under his lashes as he crouched to sit with his back against the railing and sip his water.

You crossed your arms. “Sure you aren’t too sick for that?”

“I’m never too sick to dominate you, since that’s your kink.” He grinned up at you in a way that had you narrowing your eyes. “Right, Noona?”

“Okay, ew,” Yujin said, rolling her eyes. “On another less disgusting note, they’re trying to get every one to go home. There’s a rumor that someone called the cops.”

Jungkook groaned. “I’ve gotta get out of here, then.” When you and Yujin looked down at him blankly he added, “I’m underage?”

“Oh yeah, shit.” You pulled out your phone to order a ride but the prices were skyrocketed since it was so late at night. “Fuck, it’s like twenty-five dollars right now!”

“Where are Jimin and Taehyung? If we round them up that’s like five bucks a person.”

While Yujin disappeared back inside to find them, you crouched down beside Jungkook, making sure there were no bits of sick on the porch before you sat down. “You feeling better?”

“Kind of.” He shrugged. “I wish you’d gotten here earlier.”

“Me too. It’s more fun to get wasted together,” you grinned. “Well, except I don’t get wasted ‘cause I’m a pro.”

“Oh really? I recall seeing you plenty of times where you looked pretty wasted on Snap.”

You batted your eyelashes at him. “Not me? You must have me mistaken with some rookie who can’t hold their alcohol!”

“Whatever. Next time we’ll get here and drink at the same time, okay?”

“For sure. There will be tons of parties before the end of the semester.”

In addition to that, plenty of more time with Jungkook. And plenty more chances for him to cash in on your promise–which you tried not to think about too much in order to keep the heat from settling into your belly again.

As if he knew what you were thinking, he added in a low voice, “Yup. And lots of opportunities to get you alone.”

As if his hormones knew no boundaries, his eyes instantly darkened, his tongue coming out to swipe at his bottom lip as he stared into your eyes. You had to look away first to calm your racing heart and find something else to focus on.

Man, were you screwed.

#busanboysnet #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts scenarios #bts smut #bts jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #helloblamebts

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saikostories · 4 years ago

Text

MHA - In for The Long Haul pt1

His head hurt. He was pretty sure he had a concussion, a mild one, but a concussion nonetheless. He groaned in pain. His arms ached and he wearily sighed when he realized that they were strung up above his head by chains. He wasn't sure how long he had been out, but based on the chafing on his wrists, it had been awhile. He noted that his legs were free, but that hardly did him any good in this position.

He was sitting against a wall made of stones that dug into his back. It was pitch black, so he couldn't make out any details, but the damp chilliness of the air around him made him believe he was underground. There was a throbbing, pulsating buzz that irritated him, but he wasn't sure if that was just from his head or something in the room.

He tried to change positions into something more comfortable, but was pulled back by an onslaught of dizziness. With his head reeling it was almost impossible to think, but he forced himself to breathe and just calm down. If he wanted to get out of this situation he would have to keep his head clear, or as clear as he could. He tried to think about what had happened, but everything was a foggy mess of clipped and hazy images that didn't make sense in the context they appeared in. The last thing he remembered was walking back to the U.A. dorms from his mother's house. He had felt another presence then…nothing. It was fuzzy.

He tried to summon One for All, but an onslaught of dizziness wracked his body, making him want to vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on clearing his head.

His head grew heavy as if lead were pooling inside of it, dragging him down into the void of unconsciousness. The pull was strong and he fought against it, knowing that being caught unaware in this situation would only hurt him in the future. Unfortunately, the concussion was merciless and it ravaged his mind, forcing him into submission. His eyes slid closed and he slumped, embracing the oncoming darkness.

Far too soon, he was jerked awake by a stinging sensation. It wracked his nerves, forcing them into overdrive. His body spasmed, twitching as muscles were forced to expand and contract repeatedly without his consent. In comparison to other types of pain he has endured, this wasn't painful so much as it left a tingling sensation all throughout his body rendering him exhausted and weak. However, as the shock continued it started to fray his nerves raw, leaving him in a numb pain that slowly evolved from bearable to excruciating.

He struggled to breath normally as the shock continued, only managing a few unsteady breathes before gasping in pain.

All too suddenly lights flooded the room, leaving him blind as his eyes forced themselves to adjust to the brightness.

There was still that incessant buzzing sound, but blearily he was able to make out a sickly sweet voice, "Oh, look. He's awake…Ika, you can stop the shock therapy now, there will plenty of time for that later."

All too suddenly the shocks stopped, but the lingering pain and fatigue remained, causing him to pant while taking in harsh breaths of air. He still couldn't see very well, the harsh light sending rivulets of pain through his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he thought he made out two figures standing before him.

Someone forcibly grabbed his chin, turning his face upwards; he opened his eyes as much as he could in order to send a glare at the stranger. With that same sickly sweet voice, she purred, "Hello, Midoriya-kun~." Her eyes were yellow orbs brimming with dark delight. "Now that you're awake, the real fun can begin."

It was her voice, he realized, the chipper tone that promised pain, that sent him on edge more than anything. She sounded too happy, delighted even, to be in her position. And her eyes, they were striking, poised with a playfulness that hid her killer intent. He didn't like the giddiness she expressed and the overall daunting feeling that spread throughout him, but he refused to show his trepidation. He wouldn't break, no matter what they did, he refused.

Inko didn't know what to do. She had sent her baby boy home after he had come to visit for the weekend and the next thing she knew she was getting a phone call asking her the last time she had seen him. That was Monday night though, and it was nearing the weekend.

She sat on her couch, eating away her stress and watching the news. U.A. had tried to keep Izuku's disappearance on the down-low to avoid the press and not instigate the people who took her son. She had been against this in the beginning, wanting everyone out looking for her son, but relented when Aizawa had talked to her about the potential consequences if the public caught wind of this kidnapping.

She wanted to find her son, but the implications that exposing his kidnapping might push the kidnappers to be more drastic sent her thoughts reeling. So she sat watching the news, hoping she would get the phone call telling her they found her son, but it never came.

There was a loud knock at her door. She jumped, then upon realizing what a knock at the door meant, she ran to open the door.

All Might, or rather, Toshinori stood, looking haggard, at her doorstep. He had been coming over more and more lately. Inko knew he felt guilty over her son's disappearance, but she had insisted that it wasn't his fault. And, really, it wasn't. Izuku had been walking home late on Sunday because of her. She had kept him later than she should have and he had decided to walk home, saying he would be fine. He wasn't.

"Don't just stand there. Come in." She ushered him in and he silently obliged. Once he had settled in he looked down ,not able to meet Inko's eyes. Inko's sighed, "Any news?" She knew the answer, but she was still hopeful.

Toshinori met her gaze with a pain riddled look, "...No. We still have no idea as to the whereabouts of young Midoriya."

She nodded sadly, she had been expecting this, but still. She just wanted to know that her baby boy was okay. "Well," She looked at Toshinori, a spark filling her green eyes, "We just need to keep looking. I know my son, and he's a fighter. I bet he's giving those villains that took him a run for their money as we speak." She turned her head and Toshinori could have sworn that he had seen tears glisten at the corner of her eyes.

He nodded, before verbally confirming her words, "I couldn't have said it better myself." He felt as if that was a lame thing to say, but at the moment he felt incredibly lame. In his current condition, there wasn't much he was able to do besides offer comfort.

To say Ochako was worried would be the understatement of the century. She was pacing back and forth in the commons of the dorm, biting her nails, head down, as she tried to stifle her cries.

It had almost been a full week since Midoriya had gone missing and she couldn't stand idle while he was gone. He could be hurt. Her pacing back and forth picked up speed and she started mumbling to herself. It was a habit that she unconsciously started ever since they had learned that Midoriya wasn't just skipping class and no one actually knew where he was. Nobody blamed her for it, they were all equally as worried, save for Bakugou who just seemed angry at his disappearance.

"Uraraka." Iida put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her track, "Maybe you should sit down. We're all worried, but working yourself up over it isn't going to help anyone." He was trying to cover up his own worry over the situation.

"But Iida—" she cried frantically, "What if he's hurt? What if he needs our help?"

Todoroki, who had been quiet thus far, turned to her, "Standing here, pacing and worrying over it isn't going to help him." His voice was deadpan, but there was a shadowed pain in his eyes, "We don't have any leads as to where he could be and we were instructed not to leave campus."

Ochako didn't look convinced, "That didn't stop you when Bakugou was taken—"

Something fierce overtook Todoroki's eyes, "That was different," a look almost akin to shame washed over him, "Yaoyorozu placed a tracker on one of them…We knew the general vicinity of where they had taken him. We know nothing this time." He turned away, obviously upset with the reality of the situation.

"Deku." Ochako looked down sullenly. She knew he was right, there was nothing they could do at the moment.

As much as they wanted to help, there was nothing they could do. For once, they were forced to leave the situation in the hands of the adults. They knew that the clock was ticking though and they didn't know how much time they had left.

***

It had been forty-four days. One month and two weeks. Ochako couldn't believe it had been almost two months since Deku had gone missing, since she had last seen his smiling face. He had told her he would see her later.

Liar.

She shook her head before forcing a smile on her face as she left her dorm room. She sent a quick text to Iida saying she was ready, and would meet him in the commons before they both headed to school.

Even if they were still on U.A. grounds, since Deku had gone missing, the buddy system had been implemented for all students. Most of the students weren't happy with the new rule, but understood the reasoning for it. Still, there were a few students who were against it completely—mainly Bakugou.

Ochako didn't mind it as she liked the company, but she still had moments when she found it annoying. She felt bad whenever she got annoyed with it though, reminding herself why, exactly, they had had to put forth the new rule in the first place: because Deku had gone missing.

She made her way down to the common area to meet Iida. He was waiting, as always, for her by the door. She waved to him when he looked her way, "Hey, Iida, ready to go?" She didn't wait for an answer as she started to walk towards the door.

The weather had been off and on for the past week. Yesterday had been a picture perfect day, with a clear sky and moderate winds. Today, though, the clouds loomed low, a dark presence that made itself known through low rumblings and cold drizzling rain. To Uraraka, today was a perfect representation of her inner mood, dull and lifeless.

Normally, it'd take a good five minutes to reach the school from the dorms, but with the terrible weather they ran the entire way, meaning it only took Iida and Ochako roughly two minutes. While they both had umbrellas, they had somehow managed to get drenched on the way to school. Ochako blamed it on the harsh wind that had whipped the ice-like rain into them. With sullen expressions etched onto their faces, they made their way to class 1-A.

Usually, one would be able to hear the antics coming from class 1-A from all the way down the hall. It was a rowdy class filled with aspiring heroes, so it wasn't uncommon to hear them from down the hall; however, lately, their cheerful banter had withered away until an almost gloomy aura settled in the classroom.

Ochako and Iida were always early, but when they entered the classroom, there were only a handful of students missing. Ochako glanced at Deku's desk, noting how bare and sad it looked. She missed seeing Deku in class, mumbling to himself about hero statistics and, more often than not, scribbling down notes in his messy scrawl. His continued absence was like knife that drove itself into the very core of the class.

"Hey Iida—" Kirishima stopped when he got a good look at them. "Why are you sopping wet? Didn't you bring an umbrella?" Kirishima took in the drenched forms of Iida and Ochako as they stood in the doorway.

"Ah, yes, well you see…" Iida tried, and failed to explain how the wind had rendered their rain gear useless, but Ochako tuned him out. Instead, she opted to quietly take her seat.

She didn't like this. How could anything ever be okay if Deku wasn't around? How could they sit here doing nothing while he was off somewhere, no doubt suffering? She felt a fierce pressure at her eyes. She blinked, willing the tears to go away. Crying wasn't going to help anyone; crying wasn't going to help Deku.

A tap on her shoulder caught her off guard, "Ochako-chan? Are you okay?" Tsuyu's concerned voice brought her back to the present.

She looked up with tears brimming her brown eyes, "Y-yeah, I'm fine…just," her gaze wandered to Deku's desk.

Tsuyu, understanding what she meant, nodded solemnly. "You know the Pro's are doing everything they can to find him." She paused, before affirming her previous statement. "They will find him."

Ochako didn't answer, letting the silence hang between them. She knew the Pro's were working hard to find him, but that wasn't good enough. She didn't need people looking, promising her they would find him. She needed them to find him.

As the rest of the students ambled into class, their usually enthusiastic personalities were subdued. The classroom, no matter how full it was in reality, felt empty.

Aizawa entered the classroom, looking worse for wear, and all eyes turned on him. He was early. That never happened. Especially as of late. Aizawa was known for being late, and ever since he had been assigned to one of the search parties looking for Deku, he had come to class even later than usual. His mood had steadily decreased with his obvious lack of sleep, but today was different. Today, he had shown up five minutes before the last bell rang.

He didn't acknowledge the class, just walked forward with a forced calmness. He was stiff, exhausted, even more so than usual. Everything about his demeanor spelt tension and pain, like a weight had been pressed on him that was dragging him down.

Something wasn't right.

He was facing the class, eyes intent on glaring at everyone in the room.

No one said a word, this was unusual and so unlike their stoic teacher.

"So…" He sighed, it felt so heavy. Everyone waited with baited breath for what he had to say.

Shouta's quirk was best suited best for stealth and search missions. Those types of things never garnered much media attention, which suited him just fine seeing as he hated to be in the public's eye anyhow. The media only ever made things worse. They exploited every piece of information they obtained, and more often than not they ruined things. Whether that be the privacy of someone or the integrity of another, the media held no qualms stomping over people to get a good scoop. It was for that reason that Shoutaconsidered the media to be just as much a villain as a local thief.

Midoriya's disappearance was something that the school had tried to keep under wraps, both for the sake of the boy and for the reputation of U.A. They already had one student kidnapped during the year. The news would have a field day if they found out another had been taken, even if he hadn't been taken from school grounds or during the school week. The media didn't care about those details.

Shoutahad thought that keeping something like this from the media was a recipe for disaster—it was bound to be found eventually. The backlash they would receive for trying to cover it up would surely destroy them.

Naomasa, a detective who was close friends with Toshinori, was able to help them keep this information from privy eyes extremely well. Shoutahad been surprised at how well Naomasa had been able to help the Pro heroes in their search for Midoriya.

If it weren't for him, they never would have gotten the location to where Midoriya was being kept.

They had only sent a few Pro's. Sending too many would have been suspicious. The location had been too public to elicit a large scale investigation. What they had found hadn't been a pretty sight.

Shoutahad seen a lot of gruesome things in his time as a Pro hero; he had seen the worst side of humanity and it sickened him to his core, but he had always been able to maintain his composure. The breaking point for him, though, had been when it was his student who was on the receiving end of this cruelty.

Seeing Midoriya, bloodied and limp, slumped against a wall with his left arm shackled to said wall had shook him to his core. He had looked lifeless, and for a moment, Shoutawondered if he was dead, before he saw the slightest rise in his chest. In that moment, rules be damned, Shoutawanted to kill whoever had dared to harm one of his students.

They—Shoutaand two other lesser known Pro heroes—had been able to secure Midoriya and had called in for backup without any issue; Midoriya had been in a near catatonic state, not reacting to any outside stimulus. It made removing him from the bonds that held him easy, but it was unnerving to think of what that meant for the boy's mental state.

The entire ordeal had left him drained in more ways than one. He dragged a hand down his face, wearily sighing as he realized this was only the beginning.

He took out his cell phone and started making phone calls. Today was going to be a hectic day.

It hurt. Everything hurt, but it was a foggy, far away pain. Wait… pain wasn't right. Ached was more precise, because if he thought about it, this wasn't pain. No, he had endured the monstrosity that was actual, tangible pain and this couldn't hold a candle to that. That had been agony, a sharp, slicing sensation that demanded his attention; Compared to that, this was more like a whimper.

Right now, he felt relatively good. Relative meaning that his mind, at the moment, wasn't trying to split him in two with the searing, stabbing sensation he had grown accustomed to. Nor was his body boiling with a burning fire that he didn't believe actually existed. At the moment, his mind felt listless and his body felt rather dull, as if everything were toned down, submerged in lukewarm water, leaving him with nothin but a far away ache. A low, thrumming ache that kept him grounded whilst simultaneously dragging him into the depths of his own despair.

He heard sounds and felt sensations come into being that felt out of place. Warbled, disjointed, like they were coming from underwater or far away…distorted, but painfully familiar. People were talking, mumbling about something that he felt he should know. He should know, should understand them, but they were too far away and the gray unbridled fog was drowning out their voices, leaving him to feel lost and alone. He didn't like it. He felt trapped, stuck inside the fog of his own muddled self.

He didn't like it.

A ghostly touch wisped throughout his body, sending chills down in tendrils. The phantom chills slowly transformed. An itch raked across his skin that slowly morphed into a burning sensation. The burning was bearable at first, steadily rising in degrees until he was thrashing, trying to escape the fire in his veins. The scorching, flaring pain was becoming too much. The pain tore at him, no longer content with being in the background of his mind. It hurt; it burned. It burned. ItburneditburneditburnedItBurned.

Everything blurred in a haze of ash and smoke. It burned his eyes and he started to wheeze from the embers embedded in his lungs. It wasn't real, he knew that, but he could feel it. He could feel everything. How could this not be real?

He was scrambling in a panicked frenzy, searching for something, anything to ease his worries. He was on fire, he could feel the heat, see the red flames, smell the smoke and ash. He heard the flickering sparks of the flames as they licked at him, savoring his anguish. It was too real to just be in his head. The smoke curled around him like a snake, squeezing the air from his lungs, crushing him. Everything was black; He was trapped by the opaque gaseous substance.

He could hear them, his friends, his mom, everyone, burning. Burning because of him. It was his fault. Hisfaulthisfaulthisfault. They stared at him, those eyes, demonic in their accusations. He thought he knew them. He had thought they were friendly eyes. He thought they were friends…so why? Why was it him who was burning everything? It was a trick, it had to be. There was no way he would do that. Todoroki was his friend. So, why? Why did it hurt so much to see those flames, angry and explosive, protruding from his friend's left side.

Blackness burned the edges of his consciousness. He was scared. He wasn't sure why, but this dreadful feeling of horror flung itself at him. Suddenly he wasn't seeing the fire, he was staring into the faces of his mom, and Uraraka, and Iida, and Toshinori, and… and Todoroki, but they were disfigured.

They were melting from the fire, their skin was wax and their eyes were voids of dole nothing. They were crying out to him, pleading for him to save them. Asking why he let this happen. Why couldn't he save them. They were blaming him. And He…Todoroki was laughing. His face was melting, causing his demented smile to be all the more disturbing. His left side was a burning inferno of white hot flames that whipped around, lashing at everything. Why was he laughing? He thought they were friends, but his wicked grin promised only pain and torment.

Despair. This was despair. Despairdespairdespair.

They were taunting him because it was his fault. He was weak and nothing. He was a failure. He couldn't even save himself, let alone save anyone else. They knew that, used it as leverage to shake his will. They wanted him to break and he was teetering off the edge, holding on with all his strength.

His thoughts rampaged. Too many for him to distinguish, not that he was too keen on listening to his thoughts. As of late they had only served to haunt him, to cause him even more anguish.

It destroyed him.

He wanted to give in, but something kept him from releasing his grip on his sanity. He couldn't give up. There was a reason, but… what was it?

There was a beeping noise, it had been faint, but now it rang clearly. It echoed in his mind and he felt like it was important, like it was signalling something that he should be aware of, but he wasn't. He wasn't aware of anything but his increasing panic. The beeping grew louder, a jarring screech that infiltrated his mind. It drove him crazy. It relentlessly drove into him, hammering through his skull in a steady rhythm.

Once.

Twice.

It continued. His thoughts raced around his mind, entangling it with a ribbon of excruciating thoughts. It sliced his mind like a thin razor, lacerating him with sharp precision. He couldn't bear it any longer. The incessant beeping racked his mind, intermingling with a familiar buzzing noise. It was too much. He couldn't take it anymore. The noise, the haunting jeers of his own subconscious…the fire.

It hurt.

He hurt.

Everything fell apart and his mind ceased all processes; he screamed.

Midoriya Inko was stubborn lady. She was slow to anger and very forgiving. She didn't like confrontation and often became flustered when embarrassed. If there was one thing that Inko was above all else it was a caring mother. She fretted over her only child like he was the last good thing on earth, and to her, he was. There was nothing she wasn't willing to do for him. All she wanted was for him to be happy.

She remembered how ecstatic he had been when he was accepted into U.A. and how nervous she had been because her baby boy was growing up. She recalled how he would always come home with a new injury, but would always be wearing that same bright smile that made her heart melt. As long as he was happy and safe, she could bear with any injuries he wore. However, when she got that phone call, what seemed like ages ago, asking her if she knew the whereabouts of her son, her world came crashing down on her.

She had worried non-stop. Not willing to rest until her son was found. The first week had been the worst. Her nerves had been frayed and she was on end, paranoid about every stray noise she heard. It wasn't healthy, she had known that, and yet, she couldn't have cared less. Her precious baby was gone; nothing else mattered but finding her son.

By the second week, the reality of the situation hit her. Whoever had taken her son had done so with a purpose. If anything, that knowledge seemed to ignite a fire under her and she was determined to do all she could to help aid the heroes in their search for her son.

Her anxiousness only increased as the days did. Still, she never gave up hope that her son would be found. She wouldn't allow herself to even think about any other possibility; Izuku would be fine and all would be right in the world.

It wasn't until a month and a half had passed that her hope had been rewarded. She remembered the moment in a deafening clarity. It had been early morning, before even the sun had risen, when her phone rang. She had answered it, a little annoyed at being woken up at such an early hour. When she heard the voice on the other line she froze. Her eyes went wide, a green pool of unfiltered relief. She nearly dropped the phone in her shock, but caught herself at the last second.

It took her less than five minutes to be ready and racing out the door.

They found him. He's alive.

Those two thoughts consumed her mind the entire way to the hospital. She didn't care about anything else at that moment, only that her precious baby boy had finally been found.

She arrived at the hospital in record time, her appearance was horridly disheveled, but that had hardly mattered at the moment. She needed to see her son.

She had been told he was in surgery—her heart dropped, a cold stone nestling uneasily in the depths of her stomach.

Her baby was in surgery? Why did he need surgery? What was wrong with him? These thoughts had swirled in her head like a cyclone, twisting and growing in strength as all her worry and stress slowly bored upon her. A nurse had to come and calm her down.

After she had calmed down, the nurse had given her an approximation on how long until she would be able to see her son. Inko had nodded her head wordlessly.

She had sat for hours in the waiting room, hoping that she would be able to see her baby boy soon.

When she had finally been allowed to see her son, she had tried to prepare herself for what she would see when she entered the room. She had been told that he had been given Benzo, which was essentially a minor tranquilizer, to help him sleep so she shouldn't expect him to wake up for a while.

Inko wasted no time in entering the room, eyes immediately locking onto her son's form on the bed. She gasped, tears welling at her eyes, at the sight.

Izuku was pale, paler than she had ever seen him, and he looked so much thinner. His right foot was in a cast. She had been told that they had to re-break his ankle to set it correctly, but that it would make a full recovery. Her eyes wandered to his right arm, which had been casted and bound to his chest as to keep it from being jostled. She gulped, remembering how the doctor had told her, following his operation, the condition of his arm—the damage had been extensive. They weren't sure if he would ever be able to regain use of it.

She found a chair and brought it up next to his bed. She sat there for hours until she eventually dozed off.

She had been half asleep in a chair when she heard the scream. It was ragged, coarse, and the utter primitive nature of it sounded so distressed.

The heart monitor was going crazy, signaling to its occupant's elevated heart rate. She was awake in a second, franticly gazing over the form of her son. He looked worse than she had ever seen him before.

His breathing was heavy and labored, even with an oxygen mask on. His eyes were shut tight, as if he were in pain. He was thrashing about as much as his condition allowed, which wasn't really very much. She blinked away her exhaustion, and ran up next to her baby boy. She didn't know what to do. He had been resting peacefully due to the Benzo the nurses had given him earlier, but it had obviously worn off now. It struck a terrible chord with her, seeing her baby look to be in so much pain and her not being able to assuage him.

She was barely aware of the nurses rushing in. It wasn't until one of the nurses escorted her out of the room, telling her in a calm voice that she would be allowed in as soon as they had calmed him down. All Inko could think was that her precious baby was hurting, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to ease his pain. She felt helpless.

"W-what happened?" she questioned in a panicked voice, pointing at her son's room. She wanted, needed, to know what was going on. After a month of not knowing anything, she felt a inexplicable need to know everything that happened to him now.

The nurse sighed before looking at her with woe filled eyes. She was a young nurse, inexperienced with these kinds of things. She couldn't help but let a little of her own frustrations and sadness, masked as anger, slip through. "The Benzo wore off and he became lucid is my guess. He was having a night terror."

Inko sniffed, a few tears running down her face. She had never been good at controlling her emotions, and now more than ever, she wasn't able to reign in the torrent of emotion that stampeded through her. Her baby had been through so much and now, now his own mind was against him.

The nurse gave her a sympathetic look. "We're going to give him another dose of mild Benzo. Once he's settled down you can go back in to see him." She tried to give Inko a cheerful smile, but it fell when she caught sight of the tears falling down Inko's face.

"I-I feel like a terrible mother…" Inko looked downcast as she said it. She felt horrible. She knew that it wasn't her fault, but Izuku had gone missing on his way back to the dorms from her house. She had kept him later than he was supposed to stay because she missed him and now…now he had had to endure something terrible because of it.

"Hey now," The nurse, Jackie, she realized upon looking at the nurse's name tag, put her hand on Inko's shoulder. "You're here, right now, staying by his side, and he needs that more than anything. He needs to know he's safe, and that there are people he can rely on." She paused shortly, giving Inko time to let her words sink in. "I know you think it's not enough, but it is. Being here for him is going to help him dramatically in a way no medicine will be able to do."

Inko gave Jackie a slight smile before nodding her head. No matter what happened from here on out, she was going to be there for Izuku every step of the way.

Jackie smiled at her once again before going back into Izuku's room to check his vitals now that he was sedated again. Inko didn't like that they had to sedate him, but she was told it was the only way his body would be able to heal. It pained her to know that her baby had been hurt to the point where he needed to be sedated in order to rest. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the extent of the damage done to him. She wasn't sure she would be able to handle it.

When Jackie returned, Inko had calmed herself down a bit and was waiting anxiously outside of Izuku's room. Jackie told her he was resting again, and that she could go back in if she wanted to. That was all the confirmation Inko needed to race into the room and find her spot right beside Izuku's bed.

"The Benzo should last for a few hours, but if you see him stirring at all, just press the call button and someone will come and check up on him." Jackie had taken on a more professional tone now that she had a patient to deal with. Inko nodded mutely as Jackie left to go about her other duties.

In truth, Inko was beyond exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. How could she, knowing her baby was so lost within himself that he needed to be put to sleep with sedatives and medications just for his body to heal properly? He looked so worn down, as if he were dead. That terrified her. She could see the rings, deep and prominent, under his eyes, signaling to his lack of sleep. His pale complexion and atrophied muscles told her that wherever he had been must have been dark and constricting.

Her heart clenched at the thought of how scared he must have been. It was a thought she couldn't bear to think about. How could someone do this to a kid? Her baby was barely even sixteen and already he had faced horrors most heroes only had a glimpse of in their careers. It just wasn't fair.

She heaved a sigh as she rested her face in her hands, trying not to cry. She was vaguely aware of someone entering the room, but didn't pay any mind to them, too lost in her own thoughts to acknowledge the presence of anyone else.

"How is he?" A voice called out to her tentatively. She sighed at the voice before turning to meet the owner.

"He's…" She looked away, not willing to say anything to the boys hero.

Toshinori took Inko's lack of response as a bad sign. He couldn't help but feel as though he had let the boy down. It had taken them almost a month and a half to find him and when they did…the condition he was in was not good. He was stable, but he had been told that the damage was extensive. It had made him physically ill to imagine the state young Midoriya had been in when they got to him.

He stood awkwardly next to Inko. "He looks to be resting nicely now…" he ventured, not sure how else to start a conversation.

Inko finally tore her gaze away from her son and looked at Toshinori with big, sad green eyes that reminded him so much of young Midoriya's eyes. She sighed before turning away from his sight, "Yeah…a little while ago they gave him Benzo."

Toshinori bit back a gasp at that knowledge. He shouldn't have been surprised, after going through such a traumatic ordeal, it would be odd if he didn't need some form of medication to keep him calm and subdued, but for something like this to have happened to young Midoriya, who wasn't even a pro hero yet, it made his heart clench. "I-I…See."

"…Yeah, he," she paused, "He was having a panic attack of some sort. I-I saw him start to heave and I—it was heartbreaking." She started to sob, not able to contain her sorrow when reciting the terror she had seen prior to Toshinori's visit. "He was still asleep, but I could-I could feel it. He was terrified. I don't know what they did to him, but he was scared. He must have been so scared. All alone—"

"Hey," Toshinori cut her off, overwhelmed with a need to calm down the grieving woman, and paralyzed by the knowledge of his mentee's state of mind. "Calm down. You need to breathe, okay?" He put a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Okay…" Inko tried to breathe calmly, but it was hard. She was never one to have good control over her emotions, a trait she had passed down to Izuku. Right now that inability to reign in her feelings was causing her unbearable strife.

They stayed quiet for quite awhile. Listening to the rhythm of the heart monitor as it steadily beeped. She prayed that her son would wake soon, and that the damage that had been done wasn't irreparable.

***

Tenya didn't know what to think.

Midoriya had been found…but it had taken them six weeks to find him. Who knows what could have happened to his friend in that amount of time. Just thinking about it unnerved him; he knew what villain's were capable of, what they could do. His brother was a prime example.

He didn't want to think the same thing could have happened to one of his friends, but here he was, faced with that reality: Midoriya had been captured by villains and had been kept for six weeks. He hadn't been able to do anything. He hated it. He was supposed to be a hero in training, and he had been able to do nothing, absolutely nothing.

He felt useless.

He was shaken from his thoughts when Uraraka tapped him on the shoulder, "Hey, Iida?"

He blinked, in an effort to clear his mind, and regarded her, "Yes, Uraraka?"

"Are you okay? You've been really quiet all day, since homeroom…" She left the implication up in the air.

"I'm fine…" He wanted to believe that what he said was the truth, but the look Uraraka gave him showed that she doubted him, and he couldn't help but agree with her. "It's a lot to take in, is all." This time he wasn't lying. It was a lot lot take in.

The mien of the classroom had been heavy this morning. Everyone had been in a bad mood, it seemed as though the unfavorable weather made its way into the classroom, with the invisible dark cloud that lingered in the room.

Then Aizawa had showed up to class five minutes early, earlier than he had ever been, and the entire class had felt the shift in mood.

Aizawa was never early, and he had never had that look on his face. It was pensive and calculated, with an exhaustion ironed into his sharp eyes, but what had really unsettled the class was the haunted visage his eyes held.

His eyes had bored into everyone, making it clear that he demanded their attention. He had sighed. It was a heavy, exasperated sound. Everyone had waited eagerly, if a bit hesitant for him to say something. When he had, nobody knew what to do. It had shaken everyone to their core.

Midoriya had been found.

There was a beat where no one moved.

All hell broke loose after that.

Everyone had erupted into a frenzy of cheers, until he continued and told them the condition Midoriya was in. The cheerfulness had fizzled out into an expanse of worried questions and solacing remarks. Some had been concerned over Midoriya's condition, while others—mainly Uraraka—had been exuding nothing but positivity. She had been determined that he would be fine, that he was fine, because he was Deku.

Tenya had thought otherwise. Midoriya was tough, he was resilient to just about everything, and Tenya admired that, but six weeks was a long time to be held captive for. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to know what had happened to his friend. He wasn't sure he'd be able to take it if something irreparable had been done to him—it would be too similar to his brother.

He shook his head of such thoughts. It wouldn't do him any good to think about something that he didn't yet know the extent of.

He glanced around the lunchroom, and he took in the muted, false cheeriness of the conversations going on around him. Uraraka was engaged in a conversation with Todoroki and Tsuyu, but it seemed strained, like she was trying to reign in her emotions.

Tenya was about to join them when he noticed Monoma sauntering towards them. Uraraka and Todoroki seemed to notice as well, because they halted their conversation, and gave a wary in his direction.

Monoma had his usual smug grin plastered on his face. Everyone at the table—Iida, Uraraka, Todoroki and Tsuyu—tensed, a foreboding aura hanging in the air. "I hear they found your classmate."

Tenya nodded hesitantly. Monoma had never been supportive in the past towards class 1-A, and Tenya didn't trust him. After all, Monoma had been the first person to tell them that the school would have to replace Midoriya's spot in class if he wasn't found soon. While that had been a legitimate concern, Tenya had found that comment to be unwarranted, and thus, as class president, he had reported Monoma to the staff.

Since then, Monoma hadn't bothered them.

Monoma continued, not caring about the warning glare he was being given by Todoroki, "Six weeks is a long time to be held captive, especially by some no-name villains. I would have expected better from someone in class 1-A. Aren't you guys supposed to be the best? I bet if it were someone from class 1-B, then-"

Todoroki cut him off, "Leave." His tone was cutting; the intonation of it was sharp and threatening. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a demand. It was low and menacing, a lingering threat.

Monoma took a step back, but didn't stop, "What? I'm just saying that for someone who is supposed to be-"

Todoroki stood up, a glare with so much heat behind it Tenya could practically feel the fire. His voice had dropped an octave, "Leave. Now. I won't ask again."

Monoma took a step back, a timid look flitted in his eyes, like a wounded animal, before returning to normal. He huffed and turned heel and walked away.

After Monoma left, Todoroki cooled down, and went back to his seat. Tenya turned to face his friends, who all wore the same indignant expression as he did. He couldn't believe that Monoma would stoop so low as to make light of a classmate having been captured for such a long time. Uraraka was fuming, a dangerous visage replaced her usually cheery one.

"How dare he say something like that." Uraraka was trembling slightly from her anger. "Deku…He's- He's strong, stronger than most people in our class…So those villains, they must have been really strong if they were able to keep him for so long. Monoma doesn't-"

"I completely agree with you, Uraraka," Tenya interjected. "Monoma was out of line, and I will talk to the U.A. staff about his inappropriate behavior." In truth, Tenya was livid. Monoma was intolerable, and that type of behavior was unbecoming of a future hero, but as class president, he had a duty to handle these type of situations in an orderly fashion, even if all he wanted to do was smash Monoma's smug face in.

Tsuyu ended up being the one to steer the conversation to something else, "Aizawa said that Midoriya was at the hospital and in stable condition, maybe we could go visit him today after classes- kerro?"

The idea of visiting their friend lightened the mood significantly.

They spent the rest of lunch making plans to meet after school and visit the hospital. They planned on asking Aizawa if he would accompany them seeing as they would need to get a pass to leave campus, and they thought he might want to see Midoriya as well.

Aizawa had been one of the members of the search team that had found him, and they could tell that he was worried. It had showed in the way he held himself all day—always tense, a little more snappish, and noticeably more worn out than usual. As much as Aizawa tried to hide it, Iida, and the rest of class 1-A, could tell that he cared deeply for them.

They had asked if anyone else wanted to visit Midoriya after class with them and everyone—including, surprisingly, Bakugou—had stated that they wanted to visit him.

When they had told Aizawa, he had stated that while he thought it was a good idea for them to visit, having everyone visit him at once might be overbearing, considering the condition he was in. He said they would be better off going in small groups, so as to not overwhelm him.

In the end, they decided that Uraraka, Tenya and Todoroki should be the first to visit him, along with Aizawa who claimed he was only going to make sure they didn't get into any trouble on the way there. Tenya suspected that he was genuinely concerned about Midoriya's condition as well, and probably felt the need to make sure they all made it to the hospital safely, after all, the last time a student was off campus unattended, things didn't go well.

Inko hadn't slept since Izuku's night terror. Everytime she tried all she could see was his convulsing figure that seemed so small, and hear his anguished scream. Her baby was hurting, and there wasn't anything she could do.

That realization just about killed her.

So instead, she sat, and watched his small figure as he slept, chest rising and falling almost hypnotically.

Her emotions were all over the place, an amalgamation of worry and relief. She couldn't quell her worries though. How could she? Her baby had been gone for so long. Six whole weeks. Even if he was back, the damage had been done. She didn't know the extent of it, she had only been informed of his physical condition, but even thinking about it sent her into a frenzy.

In all honesty, she was still coming to terms with the fact that her son had been captured by villains, and that he had been hurt by them to such an extent. This brought on a whole new level of anxiety for her.

It was a lot to take in—she had been so worried before, but now an entirely new kind of worry rolled over her like thunder clouds, drenching her in sorrow and bombarding her with fears.

What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to take this? How was she supposed to help him? There were so many questions she had and so little answers. She was terrified. Things were going to be different now. Things were going to have to change now, because whether she liked it or not, her son had been put through something extremely traumatic, and she didn't know what to do about that.

Inko was in no way a violent person, but she did have a breaking point, and she was at that point. There was nothing she wouldn't do for her son. What had been done to him was unforgivable, and she would do everything in her power to find justice for him.

She took a moment to let her gaze linger over the form of her son, who was resting. He looked peaceful now, but she knew that peace was fake, a peace brought on by the sedatives coursing through his system, and soon he would be brought out from that forced restful slumber. She didn't dare think of the horrors that would now plague his mind when he woke up.

A fierce green fire burned in her eyes at the thought of people hurting her son. She was beyond frustrated with her inability to do anything, but she knew that detective Naomasa was investigating the circumstances surrounding her son's abduction thoroughly. She knew Naomasa would do everything in his power to find Izuku's captors and Inko was grateful for that.

A slight stirring caught her attention. She turned her gaze towards the bed where her son was lying. She saw his facial muscles twitch, a sure sign that he was waking. She held her breath, waiting.

It was foggy. Everything felt dull, muddled even. He could hear voices far away, and a rhythmic beeping noise penetrated the darkness in his mind.

Slowly, as if his senses were just waking up, he started to take in his surroundings. He could smell something sterile, clean…like antiseptic. He could feel a scratchy pressure around his torso. Something pricked his left arm, and he felt…light? He could still feel the throbbing of his injuries, but they had lessened, a stagnant pain that was pushed to the recesses of his mind.

Sluggishly, he tried to open his eyes. It took a lot more effort than he would like to have admitted. He blinked slowly, trying to disperse the darkness his eyes saw.

"I-Izuku?" He heard the familiar, timid voice that unmistakingly belonged to his mother.

He turned to face the direction her voice had come from. He blinked once more in an attempt to dispel the inky blackness.

Everything remained dark.

Fear seized him. Why was it dark? He couldn't see…was this another trick? Something intended to break him? His breathing hitched.

"Izuku, is something wrong?" There was worry in her voice.

This wasn't right. Something was different…

This wasn't right.

He could hear her. He could hear his mom, her voice, her painstakingly familiar voice, but it couldn't really be her, could it?

His eyes were open, but all he saw was a desolate ebony hue. There was no splotchy shapes or blinding light. It was all black.

This was wrong. Everything about this situation screamed wrong, but he couldn't be sure what was wrong. He wasn't safe—he couldn't be—but still…There was no air of danger here. This darkness, it was different from before. It didn't feel forced; this blackness felt too natural, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. How could a blackness feel natural, or unnatural? Black was black, wasn't it? He didn't know, but trying to sort it out in his head just made him more and more panicked.

He racked his brain, pulling at all memories, and vaguely, he recalled something. A snippet, short and disjointed, but there nonetheless.

Darkness. Pain. Alone. All alone; he was all alone. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. Everything hurt, shifting positions aggravated the fresh wounds on his back, and staying still caused his thoughts to reign free. Neither option was desirable.

He heard something far away…Voices…Wait voices?Why were there voices…Commands. That came from the door…Crashing. What was going on? This was different. This was too disjointed for it to have been planned. They never let him hear them coming…Not like this.

Suddenly there were more voices, some familiar, others not, but they all seemed so…concerned? Rushed? They were…worried. Why were they worried? Did something happen? What was going on?

Everything happened so fast, and he was in so much pain. He was confused, this wasn't like all the other times…These voices were asking questions. They were frantic almost, not calm and crazy like he was used to. They were asking about him? He didn't know, but he felt strong arms grab him. It grated his injuries, but he felt…safe. They were trying to move him, remove the bonds that held him immobile, but he felt oddly dissociated from it. He couldn't really feel them all that much. It was too obscure.

He heard a voice. It sounded familiar, painstakingly familiar. Who was it? He felt he should know the answer, felt as if it was right in front of him, taunting him, yet it evaded him. It was addressing him.

He was only hazily aware of what was going on around him.

"We've finally found you. You're safe." For the first time since he had been thrown into this endless darkness, he felt a sense of comfort wash over him. He felt safe.

Had that actually happened? Had he been rescued? Why was he still cast in the dark if he had been rescued? Why? If everything was different, if he was really safe, then why was he still in the dark? No...it was a trick. It had to be.

His breathing picked up. The beeping that had been steady, now began to accelerate. His memories were telling him he was safe, but the situation at hand offered nothing absolute, and without that certainty he felt lost. He didn't know what was going on. Panic was starting to set in. A buzzing noise started to ebb its way into his subconscious, its incessant sound bringing forth even more panic.

He heard something shuffle. "Izuku," the voice that sounded so much like his mom sounded closer, practically in front of his face. "I need you to calm down." Her voice was soft, worry etched into it, but grounded. He clung to it, not knowing what else to do—even if it wasn't real—because how could it be? He was still alone, in that awful place—it was soothing, and warm, and familiar.

The droning buzz started to recede, until it had all but faded away entirely.

A hand was placed tentatively on his shoulder, as if asking permission to comfort him. It was an odd sensation, but the firm grip kept him in place, mentally. He felt…safe?

"Izuku." He lifted his gaze towards the sound. It sounded like his mom, it really sounded like her, but it couldn't be…could it?

He thought about it. The forced numbness of his body, the prick in his arm, and the smell—everything was still a tame sensation, as if his body didn't know how to handle them, but it was there—it all reminded him of his many times in the infirmary at U.A. It was warm, too, he noticed for the first time, not the numb chilling coldness of that place. He still couldn't see anything—that was about the only thing familiar about this situation—but it felt wrong, like that shouldn't be the case.

He tried to calm his breathing, knowing that panicking in this situation wasn't going to help him. Panicking never helped anything; it always made things so much worse.

He felt the hand on his shoulder shift, and was reminded that someone was there, someone who sounded so similar to his mom. He swallowed heavily, "M-mom?" His voice sounded hoarse, and it grated on his throat. He hated how desperate his voice sounded, but he needed this voice to be his mom. He really, really needed her to be here with him.

He didn't want to be alone anymore. He couldn't be alone anymore.

There was an intake of breath. He trembled, not sure what that meant. There was no verbal response, instead they pulled him into a crushing hug. He tensed, not used to such a soft touch. He had forgotten what it meant to be touched without pain following. It felt so comforting, something akin to hope flooded his senses. He felt light, not shrouded by this cloak of despair and hopelessness, and this tight embrace was so familiar.

It was painstakingly familiar.

This was his mom.

There was no doubt that this was her.

White hot tears made rivers down his cheeks. He was safe. Safe. The word felt foreign after being in his position, but at that moment, with his mom crushing him with a hug, he didn't think there was a better word for it.

He tried to move his arm—the left one—to return the hug, but found his mobility to be disoriented. There was static coursing through his arm when he tried to move it, pins and needles running rivulets down the appendage.

He settled for smothering his face in her shoulder—or he assumed it was her shoulder.

It was overwhelming. Soon his tears gave way to harsh sobs, but she never lessened her grip on him. She moved a hand to his hair, stroking it and whispering soft reassurances. It made him sob even more.

At that moment, with his mother there, by his side and oh, so real, it didn't even bother him that he couldn't see her, because she was there, and she was real, he could deal with not seeing her right now. She wasn't a cruel trick or an illusion meant to break him. She was corporeal, and tangible, and right there.

She was here, and at that moment, it was enough.

All the fear and the dread that had wrapped around him like a blanket for such a long time was finally falling away, and he felt safe.

He wasn't sure how long they had sat there embracing each other, but too soon, he felt her slowly release her grip.

"Izuku…" He could hear the sorrow in her voice, the worry that practically dripped from his name as she spoke it.

He flinched slightly, and part of him wondered what it was about her tone that had elicited such a response, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as he swallowed thickly.

Suddenly, not being able to see became a much bigger problem than he had thought it would be. He hadn't really been able to see much of anything for the past however long, and had grown accustomed to the dark, but this…this was something else entirely.

Before the darkness had been just a means to hurt him; they hadn't blinded him, but they had effectively taken away his sight just the same, only allowing him to see when it suited their needs. Now though, now that darkness should have ebbed away. His eyes should be able to see…something, but the blackness ensued.

"M-mom…Why-" he didn't want to ask it, because he knew the answer, "Why is it so dark?"

He could sense the shift in her facial expression. He couldn't see anything, but he knew her face had morphed from worry to horror.

"W-what do you mean by that? T-the lights are on." He guessed she was gesturing around the room to emphasize how not dark everything was, but he was oblivious to it if that was the case.

Suddenly, Izuku was overwhelmed. It was as if the reality of his lack of sight had finally hit him. He could have just pretended it was extremely dark out, and that was why he couldn't see anything, even if that sounded stupid and implausible, he could have convinced himself that that was what was going on…He had convinced himself of that, but when his mom confirmed that that wasn't the case, well, his flimsy excuse vanished.

He didn't understand why. Why couldn't he see anything? His eyes hadn't been damaged, had they? What had happened to cause this?

He didn't know.

That scared him. A lot.

"I don't- I can't…I don't understand. I can't- It's- Everything is just black," he shuddered, his voice a mixture of terrified and frustrated.

She took a deep breath, and he could feel the sadness attached to it. It was impossible to miss, even if he currently couldn't see. Even now, when he was safe, he was still only causing worry for his mom; it made him nauseous.

"I can't see… I can't see anything," he whispered in a hushed tone that he wasn't even sure his mom could hear it.

"Izuku," her voice sounded strained, as if she couldn't believe it, "What d-do you mean?'

Was his sight just…gone? Was he blind?

He didn't want to even think of that possibility. That wasn't something he was willing to accept. He refused to believe that he would always be lost in this eternal blackness. So, instead of voicing his thoughts, he just went with, "I- I just can't see anything."

He jumped slightly, when he heard the door open, and strained to hear more. He didn't like not being to see this new person. It aggravated him—scared him a little too. How was he supposed to know if they were a threat or not?

Since he had been captured, the use of his eyesight had been limited, but his eyes had still held the capability to see. It had just been cut off. Now though, he should be able to see, there was no outside force stopping him from seeing, and yet, all he saw was an ocean of black. He was drowning in it.

The words 'can't see anything' swirled around Inko's head like a cyclone, washing out every other thought. She didn't understand it. His eyes hadn't appeared glassy or fogged over. They were still that brilliant hue of green, but she had seen no recognition in them—even when expressing unfiltered terror, his eyes hadn't been searching for her in an attempt to seek comfort. They had remained off center. It broke her heart.

The doctor had come into the room, and had addressed Izuku, but she wasn't paying attention much. She hazily noted that the doctor was asking Izuku something to which Izuku hesitantly nodded.

Her mind was still stuck on those last words. Her baby was scared and suffering, and she couldn't even give him a reassuring smile because all he saw was the darkness.

She was pulled from her thoughts when the doctor called her name.

"Y-Yes?" she asked.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The doctor smiled apologetically at her.

She nodded automatically, not really understanding why she had to leave, but one glance at Izuku told her all she needed to know. Even if he couldn't see her, he had turned his face away in shame, something she knew he did when he was trying to hide something from her. She guessed that the doctor had some questions that he didn't want her to know the answers to, and while she was saddened by that, she at least understood.

Izuku was a headstrong person. He didn't like having to rely on others or ask for help. He liked to face things on his own and come up with solutions by himself. She understood that, even if she was against it.

She could never think less of him, and whatever horrors he had faced at the hands of those villains wasn't something he should be ashamed of, but she knew her son. He put too much pressure on himself, acted as if the world was on his shoulders. He cared about everyone else much more than he cared about himself.

Still, it scared her to think that he had willingly pushed her away in order to spare her feelings, because he didn't need to do that. He shouldn't have to do that, but it was a very Izuku-like thing to do. That eased her mind, if only slightly. It showed that the old Izuku was still there, and that, maybe, everything would be okay.

She waited in the hallway, not willing to leave her son's side, even if she couldn't stay in the room. She had to know what the doctor had to say about his eyesight. Of course she was worried about more than just that, but if Izuku was blind, his entire way of life would have to be rearranged; she wouldn't even know how to start with that.

So, she waited—fretted—in the hallway for a long while, until she heard a group of people walking towards her. She looked up and saw Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki and Izuku's homeroom teacher, Aizawa, making their way towards her.

She gave them a soft smile.

Uraraka was the first to say something, "Midoriya-san, why are you waiting out here?" Her face contorted from curiosity to unease, "Is something wrong?"

Inko was shook her head, "No, the doctor is just checking up on him now, and asked me to leave." She gave them a tired smile, hoping to appease their worries.

Uraraka beamed, "Oh, does that mean that Deku's awake?"

Inko nodded. "Yes, he woke up about an hour ago." She sighed heavily, recalling how he had had a near panic attack upon waking, and then an emotional breakdown in her arms. "He's- Well, quite honestly, I don't know how well he's doing. The doctor came in about ten minutes ago, and I haven't gotten word since, but I'm-" She cut herself off, not sure how to express her concerns.

How was she going to tell them that Izuku couldn't see? That he might be blind? She was lost; she didn't know what to do. She could feel the pain in her eyes welling up, but she tried to reign in her emotions.

Uraraka came up and pulled her into a tight embrace, soon followed by Iida and a reluctant Todoroki. No words were said, just a silent comfort that somehow made her feel ten times better.

Izuku had such great friends, everything would be fine, she reasoned, because they would all stick with him through the thick of it. She let herself break down, basking in the comfort Izuku's friends offered.

Aizawa shifted his footing, alerting the group to his presence—which they had forgotten about—and they all turned to meet his gaze. He still looked worn, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "So, Midoriya-san…" he ventured, keeping his cool, but also conveying his worry, "How is he doing? You said he was lucid?"

Inko nodded hesitantly, "Yes, he woke up, but he didn't say much… just…" She lingered on the words, reluctant to tell them the reality of the situation, but knowing they deserved to know it nonetheless.

They waited with bated breath, curious to know what Izuku had said.

She steeled her resolve, and stared them in the eyes with a fear filled gaze. She whispered it, but in the deafening silence, it was heard as loud as a scream.

"He said he couldn't see."

***

"How are you feeling, Midoriya?" The doctor asked in a calm manner

Izuku flinched at the name—he had gotten used to associating that name with pain—but otherwise gave no reaction or inclination of a response. He didn't know how to respond. He wasn't quite sure how he was. He heard the doctor move beside him and tensed. He was alone with this man, someone he didn't know. He knew he had been the one to send his mother off, but that was besides the point; she didn't need to know everything the doctor would need to know. Still, he didn't like that he couldn't even see them. It was unnerving and had him on edge.

"I-I'm fine." He didn't sound fine, and he knew it. His voice grated on him, and it felt as if he had swallowed gravel every time he spoke. It hurt, but it wasn't something that he found to be unbearable.

He heard a scuffle to his left and turned in that general direction. The shift in positions aggravated the wounds on his back, but they were still a dull throb, most likely due to the painkillers that were no doubt running through his system, so he paid it little attention.

"Your injuries aren't bothering you at all?" His voice was jovial, but calm and hinted at a seriousness. In a way, it eased Izuku's mind, if only slightly.

"N-not really…" Izuku gulped, a question weighing on his mind. He needed to know, even if he wouldn't like the answer, this was something he needed to know. "Umm…What-did s-something happen…" He looked down, even if he couldn't see it, he could feel the doctor's eyes on him, "Did something happen to my eyes?"

There was silence for a moment, before he got a response.

"No. Is there a problem with them?" The doctor sounded concerned…and unsure.

Izuku's brain stopped for a moment. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. He didn't expect the doctor to not have the answer.

What's wrong with me? Why can't I see?

"I can't—" he cut himself off, he didn't want to say it, "I can't...see." It felt bitter on his tongue.

He heard shuffling and tensed. Where is he going? Why is he moving? He didn't like not being able to see where people were, it put him on edge.

"Midoriya," the voice was right in front of him, "Can I have you look up?"

He hesitated, startled by the voice being so close to his person without him knowing, before he reluctantly looked up. He didn't know where to hold his gaze, so he just tried his best to guesstimate where he was supposed to be looking.

"He said he couldn't see."

Shouto just stared, unable to process that information. That just wasn't possible. That wasn't fair. Midoriya didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of this.

Shouto could recall his first impressions of Midoriya. He hadn't thought much of him. He looked plain and overall unimpressive. Then the sports festival had come around, and Midoriya had proven to be a force to be reckoned with—not only had he proved himself to be strong by making it to the final eight, but he had single handedly saved Shouto from himself. He had shown Shouto that his power was his own, and Shouto had been grateful to him ever since.

In a sense, Midoriya had shown Shouto the light…but now, it seemed as though fate was determined to take that light away, literally.

This wasn't right. How could this even be happening?

He watched in shock as Uraraka and Iida gave Midoriya's mom a hug; he couldn't move, frozen in place by this new knowledge. Wasn't it bad enough that he had been missing for six weeks, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he or anyone else was able to do about it? Hadn't Midoriya suffered enough? On top of that, now he couldn't even see. It was too much, and Shouto needed to breathe.

He had to forcibly draw air into his lungs and just…breathe. He made himself calm down, now was not the time to freak out. Midoriya needed them right now, more than ever, and he needed them to be calm and collected, not a mess.

Shouto felt Aizawa's eyes on him, asking him if he was okay. He wasn't, he really wasn't okay in any sense of the word, but he had to be. For Midoriya. He would keep his cool and be the friend Midoriya needed, because he knew, he knew, if their situations had been swapped, he would do the same.

Midoriya was the type of person to push aside his feelings and fears for others. He wouldn't hesitate to throw himself into the fray if it meant that his friends would be safe. Shouto admired him for that—it took a special kind of person to be able to do all that Midoriya had done—and he strived to be that kind of person.

So, he pulled himself together and waited in earnest with everyone else for the doctor to come out and give them the news.

It was only a few minutes later when Midoriya's door opened and out walked a doctor. He looked around forty years of age with rustic brown hair that looked as though it had been recently cut and piercing brown eyes that hid behind his glasses. He held himself with an air that put Shouto at ease, knowing that Midoriya seemed to be in capable hands.

He turned to address Midoriya's mom.

"H-how is he?" Her voice conveyed all the worry that she was feeling.

The doctor looked at her and smiled gently, in a way, it soothed the entire atmosphere. "Well, I'm going to be calling in a neurologist to take a better look at his eyesight, because I didn't find any physical signs that would suggest blindness. Everything else seems to be in order. His vitals are fine, and he said that the pain is manageable. I feel it would be in his best interest, given the circumstances in which he was admitted, if he were evaluated by a psychologist before we discharge him. We want to make sure he doesn't present a danger to himself or others."

Shouto's breathing hitched. The doctor had just confirmed that Midoriya was blind. Blind. How are we supposed to take this? The thought struck him, and he immediately berated himself for thinking something so selfish. Nevermind them, how was Midoriya supposed to deal with this? How could he be a hero if he was blind? What did this mean for his future?

"What-what exactly is wrong with his eyes? They didn't-they looked fine." Midoriya's mother continued, with fear etched into her voice.

The doctor regarded her with a doleful gaze. "Honestly, I can't say for sure, which is why I'm calling in a friend from the Neurological department. She has more insight on these types of matters. This isn't my are of expertise, and so I don't want to give you any false information. I'll let the neurologist do a more in depth evaluation before we diagnose anything," he sighed, knowing that explanation didn't help.

There was a beat in which no one said anything.

"Can-can we see him, now?" Uraraka asked hopefully.

The doctor turned to her, but addressed everyone, "Yes, you may visit him, but I will advise you to be mindful of his current state. He cannot see, so he may be on edge."

Everyone tensed at that, but nodded all the same.

Shouto took a sharp intake of breath as he took in Midoriya's current state. He looked so thin and pale. His green hair fell limply around his face, lacking any vivacity, and Shouto couldn't be sure, but he thought it looked a little more pale, especially around the roots, than it had been before. He was looking at them with a startled expression, but his gaze was off; he wasn't looking at them, rather in their general direction.

"Deku!" Uraraka had been the first one to call out to their friend, her voice teetering in between excitement to finally see him again and worry at the condition in which he appeared to be in. Midoriya winced at the noise, shifting his gaze a little to appear as though he was looking at her directly—he was still a little off center from her.

"U-Uraraka…?" His reply was timid and broke in several places. His eyes filled with fear for a second, before he was able to mask. "H-how many-who's here?" He bit his lip, a sign of his uncertainness and unease with the situation.

Aizawa spoke up, "Midoriya—" They all stopped when they noticed how Midoriya flinched at the mention of his name.

Midoriya seemed to have noticed how Aizawa—and subsequently everyone else in the room—had stopped after saying his name. He turned away from them, his left hand clenching into a fist. "I-I," he stuttered meekly, "Sorry…"

He sounded frustrated, and Shouto realized how humiliating this must be for him. He had been taken by people—villains—and held captive for a long time. Now, even if he was safe, there were many scars that remained and had yet to heal, both physically and mentally—it was no doubt frustrating for him, having his friends see him in such a state.

"You do not need to apologize," Iida proclaimed a little too forcibly, "We are your friends, and we're all here to support you."

"Iida…" Midoriya said, his tone was steady, if a bit unsure.

"That's right, Deku! We're all here for you." Uraraka exclaimed.

"Iida is right." Shouto refrained from using his name, but he still noticed the slightest change in posture when he had spoken—it was if he were afraid of something…or someone.

Midoriya's breathing hitched. Iida and Uraraka thought it was because he was overwhelmed, but Shouto saw the fear in his eyes when he had spoken. Shouto saw how his demeanor shifted the moment he had spoken—at first it had been shocked, but it quickly morphed into a frightened stance, with tense shoulders and eyes warily looking for something, but seeing nothing.

He barely registered Aizawa giving him a pointed glance, as if to ask if he was going to be okay. He must've looked more startled than the others. Truthfully, he wasn't sure how he was feeling at the moment; shock and curiosity were bubbling within him, but more than anything he felt…numb. He felt as though a icy, intangible weight had ghosted itself through him.

"Izuku?" Midoriya's mother, who had been standing behind them, shoved her way past them to get to her son, who was currently on the cusps of having a panic attack.

Midoriya turned his head to the source of his mother's voice. His eyes, though still void of any recognition, were searching frantically for her. His breathing was all over the place, the heart monitor a testament to that fact with its rapid beeping. While Uraraka and Iida tried to calm Midoriya down, Shouto stood frozen in place, after all, he knew why Midoriya was acting like this—they didn't notice it, but he did. Midoriya had been fine, albeit a little tense when they had announced their presence, but as soon as he had spoken, something had changed in Midoriya's demeanor. Gears had shifted, and fear had replaced unsureness.

Fear directed at him.

The thought that his voice had done this, that his mere presence had offset Izuku so much that he needed his mother to calm him down, was too much for him. Midoriya was his friend—his closest friend—so for him to now be…afraid of him. It was difficult to comprehend. Why? Why was there fear in his unfocused gaze? What was it about him that elicited such a response from Midoriya? What did they do to him?

He watched in muted horror as Midoriya's mom calmed him down. It was a little disheartening to watch, Shouto had never seen Midoriya look so…distraught, so broken before. He didn't like it.

He watched, silently, as Midoriya slowly pulled himself together and apologized to them for freaking them out. It was such a Midoriya thing to do, and Shouto found that disturbing—he shouldn't be apologizing to them for anything; rather, they should be apologizing to him for not saving him sooner, for not being there for him when he needed them to be.

Uraraka quickly assured Midoriya that it was fine, and he shouldn't apologize to them. Iida went on about how he should take things slow and recuperate properly. They spoke about miscellaneous things such as the most recent Hero news and class 1-A antics. For a moment, they could all just pretend that Midoriya had been in the hospital for doing something reckless. He was still a bit hesitant, and any unexpected noise sent him on high alert, but he was there, and it was all so vividly real. Shouto watched, he had decided that it would be best if he didn't speak, lest he cause another relapse from his friend. He noticed the odd looks Iida and Uraraka were giving him, but he just shook his head. Midoriya's mother gave him a sad look, but again, he just shook his head and remained silent. Even Midoriya seemed to notice his absent presence, but something kept him from speaking out against it. Though, Shouto knew what it was: fear. So he said nothing and let them have their moment of peace.

Suddenly, Midoriya looked up. His face grew contemplative, "Aizawa-sensei, you-you're here, right?" His voice held a tinge of desperation, as if he was unsure of himself.

Aizawa arched an eyebrow and took a small step forward, "Yes, is there something you wanted to ask?"

His brow scrunched up and nose wrinkled in a way that suggested he was thinking about something important. He then turned to Aizawa, or at least to his general direction, "You…umm, you were the one to…" Realization dawned on his face, before he swallowed thickly, and his expression turned into a more somber one. "I was-how long was I…" his voice tapered off, before he took a deep, controlling breath and regained himself. "How long?"

"You were missing for a total of six weeks." Aizawa stated plainly.

Midoriya gulped, but said nothing for a long while. He blinked slowly, his green eyes looking vacantly ahead. "I-I see…That-that's a long time…" he trailed off, and Shouto wondered what he was thinking. "I'm sorry. I must've worried you guys a lot, huh?" His voice trembled slightly, holding back a myriad of emotions.

Uraraka and Iida halted for a second. Nobody wanted to be reminded of the reality of the situation. Midoriya had been missing for a long time, and they had no idea what had happened to him in that time.

"D-Deku…" Uraraka started, but couldn't finish.

"There's no need to apologize, Mi—" Iida cut himself off, remembering the reaction Midoriya had had to the mention of his own name.

Shouto nodded his head in agreement, but still said nothing. He wasn't willing to break the peace that they had, not with how shaky it was right now.

It wasn't long after that that they had to leave. They had only been there for a short while, but they could tell that Midoriya was tired. His drooping eyes gave them enough indication that he needed rest. They promised to visit him again as soon as possible. He smiled weakly back at them. It wasn't much of a smile, more like a grimace, but they all understood the implications anyway.

Shouto wasn't satisfied with that visit. He had thought seeing Midoriya alive would help stifle the fears that had crept through him since he had gone missing. However, if anything, seeing Midoriya look so lost and vulnerable had shaken him even more than not knowing anything. Then there was the fact that his mere presence had seemed to offset Midoriya, that hadn't sat well with him at all.

He couldn't see anything, and he hated it. Everything was dark, and while he thought that it might be dark out anyway, he hated—hated—not being able to know for sure. It was the uncertainties of the situation that had him on edge all the time, which in turn, only served to exhaust him.

He thought back to earlier today—how much earlier he didn't know, telling time was difficult for him now. His friends had visited, and as thrilling as it had been, it had left him exhausted. Not to mention Todoroki…He had thought he could handle at least hearing his voice, but even that had sent him back to that place. Hearing his voice and not being able to see him, to confirm that he wasn't grinning that maniacal smirk that promised only pain, had upset him more than he thought it would. Todoroki was his friend…and yet, the only thing he could do was stare at his voice in fear, mind consuming him with awful memories of burning fires that weren't real—that had never been real. He could feel the traces of the burns on his skin as they ate away at him only to then be revealed as nothing more than a mirage, an illusion on his mind.

He had been too afraid to say anything to Todoroki, and that made it so much worse. Todoroki was suffering too, and he couldn't even acknowledge his existence because it had been too much for him to handle. How could he do that? What kind of friend did that make him? Why was he so…so weak? Todoroki had been there, had really been there in flesh and blood, and all he could do was ignore him. Todoroki hadn't said anything either, he was probably mad at him, angered that he would react to his voice in such a way…but that wasn't like Todoroki. He wouldn't have done that…he couldn't have done that. He shook his head of the thoughts, not letting himself fall into that hole.

He was alone, alone with his thoughts, which only made matters worse. His mom had left to go get food from the cafeteria, but promised she would be back as soon as she could. That was fine—he wanted his mom to eat. He needed her to be okay. He needed her to take care of herself; he knew she had been beyond worried about him, and that she would forgo her own care in favor of helping him, but he didn't want her to do that. She shouldn't have to stop her life just because his had stopped. Still, he wished there was someone else here, because being all alone in the dark only brought about bad memories—memories he wished to forget all together.

He tried to focus on the heart monitor, something the doctor had said he didn't need any longer, but he had insisted he stay hooked up to it. It was the only thing he could latch onto now, the only thing that kept the buzzing away—when he was left by himself, that was. Without that one tie to reality, he would be lost to the horrors of his subconscious—the horrors of his own memories. The monotonous beeping helped to keep him grounded—helped keep the buzzing away.

He shifted his position so that he was sitting up instead of lying down. It took more effort than he cared to admit, simply because it was still difficult for him to move his left arm. He couldn't feel his right arm, and absentmindedly wondered if it was even still there, but the slight pressure against his chest confirmed that he still did have the appendage, even if he couldn't feel it.

His stomach growled, signalling that he needed to eat, but food was the farthest thing from his mind at the moment. The nurses had brought him lunch a short while after his friends had left, but he hadn't touched it yet. He hadn't had the appetite to. He knew he needed to eat, but couldn't bring himself to do it, not unless he was at death's door—he absolutely hated that he thought that way; he knew it was wrong, but couldn't force himself to think differently. He wouldn't—couldn't—do it unless he would physically collapse otherwise. He knew, because it had happened before, and he he hated that he knew that. Even thinking about food made him nauseous, causing his stomach to roil and lash out at him. He thought he might be sick. The thought of food, its acerbic foulness, made him want to heave. He forced himself to not think about it.

The heart monitor sped up.

Do. Not. Think. About. It.

He was safe, not in that place. He didn't have to worry about the food anymore…and yet, it still haunted him. He tried to control his breathing..

Breathe in.

One…

Two…

Breathe out.

He clutched his chest, trying to stifle his beating heart. The heart monitor slowly returned to a normal pace.

One…

Two…

Repeat.

After repeating this process for a good five minutes, Izuku was finally able to calm himself down.

He hated this. Absolutely despised it. He couldn't even think about something as mundane as food without being brought back to that place, that hell. What was wrong with him? Why, if he was safe, did he still feel trapped? Why couldn't he just move on, move past this?

He shuddered, taking in a shaky breath as he calmed himself. He was so frustrated, but working himself up over it wasn't going to help.

He sighed, a deep, morose exhalation.

There was nothing to do here. It was boring and left him with nothing other than to dwell on his thoughts—something he tried not to do nowadays. His thoughts had betrayed him long ago, giving into the nightmare that had been his reality for six weeks, six whole weeks. He had been trapped with them for six weeks. Part of him wondered how he had even managed to survive for so long. Why had they even kept him alive for so long? It didn't make sense. He couldn't dwell on it now. His thoughts wouldn't allow it; they were at war with him as it was. He didn't need to add another enemy to the fray.

What happens now? I can't be a hero-no-I'm still going to be a hero.

How can someone like you be a hero? You can't even feel your arms anymore.

My arms will heal! Recovery girl can- Can what? You have no feeling in your right arm, and you haven't for too long now. Her quirk speeds up the healing process, it can't reverse damage that excessive. Face it, you're just Deku now.

I refuse to believe that!

It's true, and you know it. You can't even see now. How are you supposed to be a hero?

I-I will be a hero. My eyes, they never did anything to them. I know they didn't. So, it has to be something else, it has to be…

Heroes are supposed to save people, you couldn't even save yourself.

I-I…What do you want me to say? That I'm giving up? Because I won't—I can't— I refuse.

There was a knock at the door. It startled Izuku out of his war torn thoughts, for which he was oddly thankful. He hesitantly glanced at where he thought the door was, "C-come in." His voice sounded meek, and he hated it.

There were so many things he hated nowadays.

Mostly, he just hated how weak he had become.

He heard the door open, perking his ears to listen for the footsteps. He heard something click, and a soft hum ran through the room. He figured the lights had been turned on, but his world remained the same: dark and completely void.

Toshinori ran—well, walked at a rather fast pace—through the hospital hallways to young Midoriya's room. He had been here earlier, but had been pulled away by Naomasa earlier to get some food, and review the ongoing investigation. He had learned some pretty interesting, if gruesome, details about Midoriya's time in captivity. None of it sat well with him. Whoever had taken Midoriya had done so with a specific purpose—this hadn't been a crime of opportunity. They had targeted Midoriya.

He was nervous, to say the least. He wasn't sure if Midoriya was even awake yet, and some part of him hoped he was still resting. As much as he wanted to talk to Midoriya, he had seen the state he had been in earlier, and he knew the kid needed rest more than anything right now.

He paused once he was at Midoriya's door, fear having taken him hostage. He wasn't sure if he should disturb him right now, maybe it wasn't a good time. Still, despite his fears and anxieties, Toshinori's curiosity won out. He knocked on the door slightly, he heard a hesitant voice tell him to come in, and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, with the curtains drawn and the lights turned off. Toshinori thought that was odd, considering the kid was definitely awake and lucid. He flipped the light switch and watched as the room was enveloped in the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital. He noticed how Midoriya had gazed slightly to his left and wondered if the boys sight had been impaired at all.

"Young Midoriya—" he stopped mid sentence when he noticed how Midoriya seemed to flinch at the name slightly. His heart dropped for a second. He decided he'd drop the name for now, "—Kid, how are-how are you feeling?"

It physically hurt him to see Midoriya like this, to see him so afraid of…of everything. He had even flinched at his own name, and Toshinori couldn't help but wonder if the flinching had been a conditioned response—something he had learned through…through torture. It wouldn't have surprised him if that was the case, but it was still a heartbreaking sight.

Midoriya, or rather Izuku—he wondered if he would prefer to be called that now, since calling him by his surname seemed to elicit fear—looked to his left, and Toshinori seriously wondered if the kid was seeing clearly—his eyes looked fine, that same brilliant emerald hue, but they weren't focused on anything—before speaking hesitantly. "I-I…" he looked down, as if ashamed of himself, "I don't-I don't…I'm not—" He stammered; his voice was barely a whisper, but Toshinori had heard it s if it were scream.

Toshinori gulped, hurt and pain flashing through his blue eyes before he took a hesitant step forward. Izuku was a headstrong person, he knew, and to see him look so-so defeated physically hurt him. Right now, he looked as broken as he had sounded. He was so small, thin and skeletal, with a pale complexion that spoke of darkness. Toshinori couldn't be sure, because of the bandages wrapped around his torso, but he thought he saw scars, red and healing peeking through from under the hospital garb. His right arm was in a sling; it didn't even twitch when he shifted positions, it just sat there, dead. His eyes though, were the worst. They were ringed by black and blue, signalling his lack of sleep, but what really scared Toshinori was how haunted his green orbs appeared. They no longer held that bright light of determination, instead they were dull, a green pool of murky despair.

"That's-well, that's understandable." He started to walk forward slowly, mindful of the tense posture Izuku was regarding him with. "Afterall, you were put through quite the traumatic—"

"That's not-I…" Izuku seemed at a loss for words, his gaze, which was fixed somewhere above Toshinori's left shoulder, appeared to be so distraught, and all Toshinori wanted to do was give Izuku a hug and tell him that everything would be alright, but he stopped himself. Something told him that physical contact right now would be a bad thing.

Tears formed at the base of Izuku's eyes, washing out the despair with frustration. "I-I need-I mean…I'm a-" he ducked his head again, "I'm a failure."

Toshinori's mind stopped, and his breathing halted. This wasn't something he was prepared for. He suddenly felt very lost. This wasn't supposed to happen—something like should never have happened to Izuku. He didn't deserve this.

"Kid-Izuku, no…" he kept his tone gentle as he put a hand on Izuku's shoulder. The sudden jolt from Izuku surprised him. It had been so forceful, so fear filled. He retracted his hand immediately. "How could you ever, ever, feel like a failure?" He was genuinely curious. He knew enough about trauma victims to know that this wasn't an uncommon theme—feelings of defeat and failure—but Izuku was so determined, so resilient and incredibly brave. He had thought—hoped—that he would think of himself as strong for surviving so long, for continuing to live and not give up, but of course, fate was not kind.

"I am though…a failure. I couldn't," he squeezed his eyes shut, tears running rivers down his face, "I couldn't escape. I was there for so long and I didn't-I couldn't even fight back, couldn't escape. And then-then…" his voice rose, cracking in several places. It was clear to Toshinori that he was at his limit. "I can't even feel my arm anymore…and what's worse-what makes this even worse is…" he lingered. Then turned his gaze to Toshinori, though it was off center, "I can't see." his voice trembled, a tribute to how earth shattering this news was. "How am I-" his voice and resolve broke. He fell into a whisper. "How can I be a hero now?"

A chill spidered its way up his spine and to his neck. The utter defeat and lifelessness in Izuku's tone as he spoke those words would plague his mind. It was only after that chill had passed that the reality of what Izuku had just said sank in. His arm, he couldn't feel it…and his eyes, his eyes could no longer see. Just what the hell had they done to this kid, to his kid?

Toshinori staggered back. He needed to sit down for a minute—though he didn't. If he sat down he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his composure-he would fall apart completely. His mind reeled. He needed time to think, to pull himself together.

"I just-I tried to defy them, but it never—" there was an inhale of breath, "I was just so…so weak."

Toshinori's mind frayed out. All processes stopped. "No," words were leaving his mouth before he had a chance to think about them, "don't ever think that, Izuku. You were-are not weak. They had a plan. This wasn't something done on a whim. They planned accordingly, and didn't give you a chance to fight back. So don't-I don't ever want to hear you saying that you are weak or a failure." His tone was bordering on desperate now. He wanted—needed—Izuku to understand: this wasn't his fault.

"But—" the inflection on his voice spoke volumes for the words that refused to leave his lips. He didn't believe him.

"Izuku," Toshinori had regained himself enough to say this, because he knew it needed to be said. "What happened to you was in no way your fault. You did what you had to in order to survive. Don't ever forget that."

Izuku turned away from him, shamefaced. Tears were falling, unbidden, from his cheeks, and Toshinori could tell that the dam was about to break.

"You don't understand." There was a finality to his voice, an edge that dared Toshinori to deny it.

Toshinori sighed heavily, a cold, dead weight, falling into the pit of his stomach. "I-I…No, I don't understand. You're right, but you have to know…you are strong. You survived because—"

He was cut off by Izuku's harsh reply, "No, that's not-I don't mean it like that."

"Then…what do you mean?"

"I-they…those people. The ones who had me-they, they wanted information."

Toshinori had assumed this was the case, but there was something off about Izuku's voice when he said that, as if that wasn't all there was to it. "That would make—"

"But," he spat the word out like venom, "It's one thing for them to hurt you because you're withholding information…"

Toshinori paled slightly, not liking where this conversation was going.

"It's another when they-when they…just hurt you because they can, because it's fun."

He froze. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised—he knew the people who had taken Izuku had been sick and twisted, but it still hurt. It hurt a lot, to see Izuku in so much pain, to see him struggling so much.

"Izuku—"

Izuku swallowed thickly, "I-I just-you know," he turned to look at him, though his gaze was focused a little to the right of his actual face, "When they want something from you, it's like a small victory everytime they hurt you, because-because you know, you know that they're only hurting you because they're frustrated with you…but when they do it, and they don't want information there's just-there's nothing. Absolutely nothing you can do, and you feel so weak and powerless and pathetic."

"You're not-you know you're not any of those, right? You're not weak or pathetic. You're incredibly—"

"None of that matters when they're hurting you! Who cares how strong you are? It still hurts! And-and you still feel pathetic afterwords for crying out-because it hurt…It just hurt so-so much." His voice twisted halfway through the sentence, morphing from a frantic shout to a pained hiss.

Toshinori opened his mouth then immediately snapped his jaw closed, cutting off anything he was about to say. How was he supposed to respond to that?

He vaguely noticed a dampness cascading down his own gaunt cheeks, but that didn't matter right now. The only thing that mattered to Toshinori at the moment was making sure that Izuku didn't blame himself for this. For any of it.

He strode up to Izuku's bedside and ignored the slight flinch that Izuku gave at the sound of his footsteps—something he would later berate himself for, but right now he needed to do…something—anything to let Izuku know he wasn't alone, that it wasn't his fault. He knew Izuku had formed some sort of aversion to physical contact, but he needed to show Izuku that he was there for him, that he would always be there for him. He pulled Izuku into a hug and held him tightly.

Izuku flinched slightly, again, Toshinori would reprimand himself for that later, but right now…right now Izuku needed this.

"I'm so sorry…" Izuku sobbed into his shoulder, no doubt dampening the shirt Toshinori was wearing, not able to keep himself together once the comfort was there. "I-I failed-I failed you. I'm a failure of a successor."

"No. No, you're not. You could never fail me." Toshinori consoled as best as he could.

"I can't-how can I be a hero? How can someone like me, blind and weak," he said the words with such revolt that Toshinori's heart froze, "be a hero?"

Toshinori gripped him harder, "We'll figure it out. I promise. I promise. I'm not giving up on you, kid, no matter what. So you can't give up on me either, okay?"

"I-I" Izuku stammered between sobs, overcome with emotion.

"I don't care what obstacles we face. I chose you to be my successor for a reason, and this," he didn't move his arms to emphasize, but his inflection spoke for him, "this doesn't change anything. We will figure it out. So don't keep blaming yourself. You can't keep blaming yourself for this."

Izuku sniffled and clung to him tighter, but said nothing else. They remained that way for a long while, neither Toshinori nor Izuku willing to leave the comforting embrace. It was nice, and for the time being, Toshinori had no doubt that Izuku would be able to heal. It would take awhile, but he could—he would do it.

Izuku was exhausted. His day had been…hectic, to say the least. It was all a bit much for him to comprehend if he was being honest. Too many things had happened today for his liking, and he just wanted to…rest, to fall into dreamless sleep. He doubted he'd be able to, nightmares were a common companion to him now, but the thought of sleeping was so endearing, he thought he might give it a try.

He hoped that sleep would give him time to just assess everything. Time to process his current situation. Time to heal his body…his mind. Time to just…put himself back together, pick up the broken pieces because that's what he was right now: broken. He needed to be okay, to know he was safe, to just not be…what he had become in that place.

He just…He needed time.

He needed to process everything.

He was still trying to sort through the information the neurologist had told him when she had come to visit him sometime after Toshinori had left. Her visit had been fairly short, but it had left him with more anxieties than comforts.

She had been very kind and understanding, keeping her voice gentle, and talking him through everything she did. It had been comforting to not have to guess what the people around him were doing. It was something he hadn't even thought of, but when she did it, he noticed how much safer and how much more relaxed he had been, even if it was only slightly. He still tensed whenever a random sound invaded his hearing, but she was always quick to give an explanation and never got frustrated with him, even when he had been rather difficult to deal with.

She had explained to him what she thought was wrong. She had told him that there was nothing physically wrong with his eyes. That had sent him into a spiral. How was it that his eyes were fine, and yet, all he could see was an eternal night, an endless sea of black?

She had explained that a possible explanation could be what was referred to Functional Neurological Symptom disorder, or more commonly known as Conversion disorder. He hadn't known what that was, but she had explained it to him with practiced ease. It wasn't common, but it did happen, and more often than not, it appeared in people who had been through trauma.

Like me, he thought dejectedly.

She had told him that it could go away, that stress was usually a factor in its stability, so there was hope that he would be able to see again. That knowledge had put him in a better mood. His eyesight wasn't gone permanently. There was a chance that his eyesight would return —that it could return as soon as a couple days. Though she did warn him that this was a tricky thing, something there just wasn't a lot of solid research on. She couldn't give him an accurate estimate on when, or if, his eyesight would return. There were still a lot of unknowns, and that left him slightly panicked.

I could be blind for a few days…or forever.

For now, he decided to just let it be. His body ached, but he was able to ignore it in favor of resting. His entire being wanted to just fall into oblivion, and yet, it refused. His body longed for sleep, having been deprived of it for such long bouts of time, but his mind couldn't stand the thought of sleep—sleep equated to nightmares and even more twisted horrors. Even if sleep hadn't been a solace for him lately, he knew his body needed it, and hopefully, his mind would allow him this one grace.

Today had been harrowing. Inko was well aware of that fact. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since her baby had been recovered and already so much had happened—too much for her worried self to handle.

She watched as Izuku slept, exhausted from the days events. Watching the simple rise and fall of his chest comforted her; watching him sleep reminded her that he was alive, that he was safe now.

She thought back on the days events with a heavy heart. She was honestly surprised that Izuku had been as coherent as he was, considering what she had been told of his condition. The doctor had said they wanted to keep him here for a few more days to monitor his health and wait until he could get a psych eval before discharging him. Even if she understood why they needed to do that, she still didn't like it. The thought that her baby could have been hurt so much that his sanity was in question—the rational part of her mind told her that that was not the reason they wanted to give him a psych eval, and that it was just a standard procedure for trauma victims—had her mortified.

She shoved those worries down. There wasn't any point in her worrying over it right now. She needed to be strong for Izuku right now. She needed to be there for her baby now more than ever before. It was imperative that she remained calm and collected.

Another issue pressed at her now. What was she going to do about Izuku's schooling? Obviously, he wouldn't be going back to school for a while still, not until he was deemed in good enough health, both physically and mentally, but she wasn't sure if she wanted him to remain at U.A. She knew he loved it there, but this—this had happened because he was a U.A. student. He had been taken on his way to the dorms and just being at U.A. made him a target for villains.

However, she thought about all his friends. How they had come to visit him today, and how grateful he had seemed to see them. They had made him happy—they had been there for him when no one else had. They had helped him in so many ways before, and she couldn't just rip him away from that. She couldn't—she wouldn't.

For now, she wouldn't think about it. She would just focus on Izuku and his healing. He needed her, and she was going to be there for him no matter what. With determination set in her mind, she sat and watched her son sleep. She wouldn't think about the horrors he had faced, was still facing, instead she was going to focus on helping him, on making sure he was okay.

She was reaching out for that silver lining in the clouds.

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limpblotter · 8 years ago

Text

Liked, Well Liked

a/n: John Adams and Thomas Jefferson basically went on man/bro dates while he was in England and I live for it. Also they were two lame nerds. John, especially. Keep in mind, a lot of historical facts are smudged a bit, it is fiction after all but I tried to keep in canon-era. Twas fun. summary: At the start, things were bright. Even Thomas had to admit, John had his own personal charm about him. warning: canon era references to Sally Hemings. (if you don’t know who she is, please look her up. She, among so many, put up with too much to not be known) w/c: 3518

“Sir.” A beautiful black woman handed over a letter to Thomas. “It's from Mr. Madison, sir”

“Another?” Thomas turned his head and grabbed the letter from Sally’s hand, his fingers lingering on her wrist as he looked it over. He popped the wax seal with his thumb and the letter opened up vomited over the mind numbing words of a frantic, youth in the middle of a government he felt was on the brink of exciting a war. “I swear these secret letters are going to be the death of him...he worries so much of what a few minds think” if Thomas could make a pretty pence off how many times Madison mentioned Hamilton and the uprising Federalists, Thomas would be able to buy all of Virginia. “Burn it.” He handed the letter back to Sally. She tucked it into her bosom with a nod, keeping her eyes on the carriage floor.

Thomas had no time to worry about America. The fight as over but that wasn’t the worse. Thomas left when the worse came, the worse was building a foundation out of nothing. Thomas surely had laid the bricks along with other great minds. He had the utmost certainty that when he did decide to return to America, all would be well. He had other business to attend to, soothing the international tensions the war had brought about. England sore from its loss, the French awaiting their aid soon. Thomas was on the intellectual forefront of securing his country, the rest would wait for him at home.

Upon his arrival in England, France had shown him great promise. He met a beautiful Italian musician who soothed his days between taking over where Franklin had left off and speaking verbal agreements other French ambassadors. Drafting the declaration of Man and Citizen with his good friend, who to his dismay, also spoke of America...constantly. It wasn’t that Thomas disliked America. He was so pleased to hear how a young French man learned to love the land, the people, the ideals so wholeheartedly but America was still a grim reminder of all he had lost. He was not ready to face his sweet home. Not yet at least. Instead he relished in the strange bureaucracy of European. Made note, what he did not want for America was to mirror these elitist views. Sure, Thomas himself was elitist but the government they had fought against should not be mirrored in their own. Or else what liberty did they really win if they were only meant to copy England’s flawed rule of Parliament.

Government prattle aside he was excited to be here, discussing what their next steps should be towards peace. Moreover, the smugness he felt being a newly liberalized American in their former Motherland. Such sweet victory, he turned his head to Sally who stiffened feeling him draw near. “I will see to it you have a safe trip back to France, your brother must miss you a great deal.” He smirked watching her recoil away from him. Thomas leaned away as the carriage hopped along cobbled streets. Distractions, that's all these women were. Even when he tried to be kind, he was only subjecting Sally to reciprocate for fear of her own life. A life that in his eyes was less than his. Still, if he were to be honest, all women were less in comparison to the one he lost. His hand went to his chest, under the ruffled fabric his fingers grazed the outline of her locket. He felt a hollow sting travel from his chest to the base of his head.

“Sir?” Sally sheepishly went to grab him a cloth for the sudden cold sweat when her hand was slapped away. In times like this nothing would ease Thomas, the carriage stopped in front of a home and Sally perked up. Finally, she would be rid of her oppressor even if it was for only a few weeks, months if she was lucky. “We’ve arrived.” Sally immediately got up and walked around opening the door for Thomas. He took a minute to recollect himself and placed his hat over his head, tossing over his cane as he stepped down from the ride. Sally got back in, she couldn’t wait to be away from him.

Thomas, was not too torn up but her eagerness, was looking forward to reunited with a good friend, Abigail Adams. Strangely enough, he remembered little of her husband. Truth, they had been together when drafting and signing the declaration. They shared little chatter, though they had once shared an eye-roll as Philip Livingston when on and on about some little rat he had sworn his brother had taken in as some sort of step brother. Aside from that mutual gag inducing moment, Thomas didn’t keep up with John but with his wife. Dangerous territory for any man who wasn’t careful with his pen but Thomas was more than careful. He referred to Abigail in only as his ‘dear neighbor’ and other distant formalities.

Like him, Mrs. and Mr. Adams were stationed in England for diplomatic reasons. Thomas pulled his jacket together a little tighter as the March winds ran a chill up his spine. He knocked on the door to a charming Tudor style home.

“Mr. Jefferson” A woman, slender and bright eyed smiled up at the man giving him a small head bow. “What an absolute pleasure to see you, Sir.”

“Please, Mrs. Adams.” Thomas took her hand and placed a chaste kiss over her pasty knuckles. “My neighbor, please, refer to me as Thomas. I feel as though we are familiar folks after all our letters.”

“Thomas then” she agreed, blushing at his elegant charm. Thomas was a tall and graceful man, it was easy for people to feel at ease around him. “Please, come in, let me take your coat before you catch a chill out here.” Abigail made quick work of his outerwear and ushered him inside the warm, toasty home.

“Lovely home, fine wood furnishing.” Thomas looked it over, “imported no doubt.”

“The English style is far from my taste, I long to be home and I count the sunrises until we can reunite on our free land.” She beamed, “Mr. Adams is in the tearoom, please make yourself known and at home.” And just like that the little woman disappeared. Thomas looked around, keeping all his comments to himself. He agreed the English style was not for him. He preferred the light and Parisian tastes of France, the pastels and elegant patterns… Thomas wandered into the tea room where he found a man sitting by a table decorated with various teas. Yes, John Adams, how he long forgotten the face since his time away. Thomas looked over at the black leathered bound book and knew exactly what he was reading.

“Bible so early in the day, Mr. Adams?” Thomas bowed his head a little, he looked and John was now looking at him. The first time he noticed his physical appearance, Thomas found himself met with electric blue eyes. They were quick and twitchy, as if on the brink of dilating. Unsure what to make of his wild eyes, Thomas zoomed out from his eyes and took in the rest of this man. Wispy brown hair, portly, stocky, strangely resembling a ...piglet. Yes, round in the face, small and warm. He looked like a man who could do no harm so it was humorous to Thomas’s surprise Adams sported a cold frown.

“I don’t have time to visit any churches this time of year.” He responded with an aloof like grunt. His eyes went back to the book making sure he remembered the passage he was on before he closed the book. He got up to show some hospitality to his wife’s ‘friend’ in question. He humored her guest, only for her sake and hers alone.

Thomas was amused, was he hated so soon? Surely his letters could only be perceived as innocent. Even Mrs. Adams herself couldn’t find a thing to hide. Still John looked so cold, Thomas could only wonder what was going on in that mind. “Why is that? Does the Christian church not suit you? Are you more of a Roman Catholic? Protestan?”

“No.” He answered curtly, rubbing a finger under his sniffling nose. “Chills don’t sit well with my spirit. I get down easy...even in Boston autumns got through to me.”

“I see...I have a friend, similar standing. Small” He began shooting a subtle insult. “Sickly most of the time but one of the most brilliant young men I have ever known.” Thomas mused a bit as he walked a bit closer. “Weak bodied, strong minds must be a common thread. Those are the type of men I prefer in my company. They truly embodying one of my favorite French thinkers…”

“Cogito ergo sum” Adams looked up at him, and found a truly disarmed Thomas. “I think therefor I am”

“You know Rene Descartes?” Thomas’s grace fell. In it's place was a softly gaped mouth.

“A man of your theory and shameless Francophile? I would think nothing less than referring to Descartes.” Adam’s allowed himself a small smirk, a knowing smirk that he had surprised the elite, the revered Thomas Jefferson. “Personally, I do not need to adore the country of France to realize some of their thinkers are beyond their time...it's a shame our nation rewards our warring heroes over our intellectuals...we’ve nearly been forgotten, dimmed by a the glory of war.”

“Nevertheless, wartime glory is short lived. Once those who fought subside to society and people begin to find comforts in peace the war heroes will be gone, stories nothing but bedtime tales for their kin. Real legacies begin here.” Thomas tapped his temple, taking a seat. John took a long moment, looking over Thomas. His fleshy cheeks took a rosy color, joining Thomas for a seat.

“Then we are in agreement.” John took the cup of tea he had been served and drank from it. “Would you like some?”

“We are and I would.” Thomas smiled. “Shame tea isn’t served with a spot of whiskey, that would warm these homesick bones.”

“My darling keeps a bottle or two in the kitchen for home remedies.” John’s eyes were dashingly playful. “I don’t see why we can remedy our cold with a spot.”

Thomas licked his bottom lip, how strange John Adams was. His emotions darted from cold to warm in seconds. He could see why Mrs. Adams would have never strayed, he looked capable of warmth. Surely a man his side was as soft as he looked. His cold facade was a painfully obvious mask. The gooey, soft inside behind the mask, now that was worth seeing. “My all means, Mr. Adams lead the way.”

“Please, Call me John.”

Hours went by, Abigail had been knitting away in her corner of the house, a small window looking out. She looked up and noticed her husband and Thomas were dressed, hats and all, moving up the street. “What in heavens…” She wrenched open the window and called out to the men. “Thomas? John? Where are you going, it's cold out!”

John turned and looked up at Mrs. Adams with that lovely warm smile of his, a smile she had only seen him sport around her and family. She melted a little as John started to excuse their sudden outing. “Thomas hasn’t seen the English Gardens, surely in all his diplomatic time here he won’t have a free moment like this for sometime.” He turned as Thomas gently smiled a bit in agreement.

“I’ll be sure to deliver him back in one piece and good health before supper, Mrs. Adams” Thomas began to walk off. John hurried to his side, his body struggling to keep up with Jefferson’s long, lanky strides. “Such a lovely little wife you have.”

“She is nothing less than a doll.” John agreed though he was frowning, was Thomas...perhaps interested in his sweet Abby?

“Cherish her for always…” Thomas spoke softly. John detected a hint of sadness in the base of his soft voice. Though Thomas’s face revealed nothing, it was calm, a reserved expressionless calm. “The good Lord knows no mercy when it comes to good wives…”

“I see…” He nodded a bit leading Thomas down cobblestone streets, watching as the English folk dressed so bleakly admired Thomas’s brightly colored casual clothing. “I’m...deeply sorry for your loss…”

“Past apologies...no need…” He shook his head a bit, “I should apologize, my deep respect for you as a colleague had put me off less formal meetings with you, Adams. You are a character...I do not remember you to be so...warm.”

“My mother had a funny spectrum of emotions. Our first meeting, crowded room, different ideals...I was a tad under the weather as well. Know the respect was mutual. I am grateful my wife kept correspondence with you.” He smiled a bit, “I do enjoy watching her write, I take pride and joy she is a quick little thing…”

“Yes, wives should mirror some of their husband’s best qualities. She writes sweetly.” They both shared a love for their wives. Though it was a bitter topic that started chip away at his exterior. Soon Thomas stopped speaking altogether. John Adams felt the silence between them drift them apart.

They walked their ways to the English Gardens, beautiful public park with various Grecian inspired architecture mixed with late Gothic influences. Archways by babble fountains, lined with acres upon acres of flower beds and fields. Hidden ponds and bridges were couples strolled on summer days, a true sight for new eyes. John waited to hear Thomas’s upon but he seemed to look right through the natural marvel. “Come, I know just the place for you.” Adams began marching towards one of the main archways.

“These have a strange French feel to them...the romanticism of marble…” He ran his hand over the arch, though he still seemed lost in his own mind. John warmly ran his hand as well along side Thomas’s. “Forgive me if I speak of France too often, my daughter is bound to be there...it has been my escape...my home away from home.” The only thing that seemed to give him peace of mind these days.

John nodded, “No need though ...I was surprised when I was there.” Thomas arched his eyebrow, “...a dinner ...years back, I heard women speak so openly about…” He coughed a bit, both chill and embarrassment. “The male body” he shifted his weight a little, clearly a little more than uncomfortable. John was far from a looker, he was short and round, sick and aging faster than he looked. Abigail was truly with him out of love than lust. “Asking about...intercourse while the prior conversation had been about trivial matters of weather and religion. I nearly fell out of my chair trying to cover my wife’s innocent ears.”

Thomas laughed a bit, his hidden perversion made him immune to such...delicate embarrassments when he overheard talks of pleasure. Thomas was no stranger to it, he found his nerves lied in other places. Facts of love, lust and pursuit of arousal was not one of them. “If I had been younger, back when I met my wife, I would have the same reaction. But years of experience taught me to indulge in the French’s love of Marquis de Sade.” He watched as John’s knowing cheeks went even redder. Oh...how Thomas loved to subject those beneath him in flushing moments. “Have you read any of his material? I am ...personally finishing up his piece, Juliette.”

“Good sir, are you a Christian or are you a Sadist!” John couldn’t take the heat that gathered in his round face. He pulled his hand away and muffled a few more coughs into his gloved fist.

“John, I am a good God loving and fearing man, but I also am a man of literature. I simply picked up the piece out of recommendation from my personal friend Marquis de Lafayette...but...my opinions vary on the subject.” Thomas looked over John who was staring down at his feet, kicking up some of the stones around the ground. What a strange jolt of energy Thomas got from Adams. He was really a strange character. Their first meeting wasn’t bad but it wasn’t hardly anything worth noting for the rest of his life. This...this was different. “Come now John, a man like yourself can’t be too strange to intimacy, your wife is a lucky woman.”

“I do not take lightly to jesting” John frowned, his personal perception of himself was painfully low.

“Please, a man like yourself? You exude loving and warmth. That is something Sade rarely depicted. Warmth, now that's a physical type of love that last through the ages. Never mind your emotional instability, friend, I find you to be charming.” Thomas started to walk again with more of a pep to his step. He looked over his shoulder and saw John looking at him with a soft surprise to his face. Similar to the one Thomas sported earlier in the tea room. Revenge was sweet and well worth seeing his soft face grow even softer with affections. “Are you coming, friend?”

The walked the length of the garden, speaking like teenage flames. They hung on every common ground they had, bantered playfully on the differences. Thomas surrounded himself with exceptional people, people he was sure would last the test of time found himself wondering if John knew how obscure he seemed at first. He wondered if he...could somehow help John Adams stake a real claim on this Earth. Yes, that would be grand. He would like to see what a man like him would do with some power. Another ally in his corner. Another man he could dub worthy of his upscale friendship.

John in return found someone who was leaps and leagues beyond him, handsome, tall and surely a figure who would be remembered. Now taking interest in him? As a friend, as an ally. John knew it was silly but he was developing quite the little crush on Jefferson. A small admiration that fluttered his already weak heart, from every comment and shy smile. It seemed John’s warming personality was chipping the Southern man’s reserved nature and revealing someone ...brilliant.

“There are times I wonder if I had done enough…” John admitted, suddenly his warm smiles grew saddened. Thomas wasn’t sure what changed, they had been speaking with only the tenderest smiles. John took a turn for the somber. “What is my contribution to this world, Thomas? What have I done noteworthy...to be worthy of anything…” He sneered before coughing weakly into his fist.

“John Adams, are you so hog minded you forgot your own place?” John took a step back from Thomas’s sudden abrasive tone. Jefferson took a few steps back mentally and regained his normal speech. “Forgive me, I was taken back...by your sudden...John listen, what of the Braintree Instructions you wrote? Or the additions to the Gazette? Your quotes to the Jury after what events took place in Boston, let alone may I remind you of the Declaration? Do not doubt yourself John. Let the world see you for who you are, judge you, scale you up as the man you’ve become...I, for one, think you to be a lot brighter than I had originally remembered. For that, I am truly sorry…”

John felt a dryness in his throat, his heart sputtering as Thomas laid out a sweet and calming defense for his image. Adams nodded, placing his hand to his cheek he felt as though his face was on fire. Thomas approached him place a hand on John’s chin lifting him up so they could meet at eye level. John’s quick eyes dilated as he pulled his head back only enough to escape Thomas’s grasp. Not out of disgust, no, out of fear his face was going to melt off from the boiling blood. His face, was no doubt, noticeably the shade of a rose. Thomas who seemed so indifferent and calm, who dressed brightly yet...casually. He didn’t give an air of confidence but still somewhat elitist. Adams was not sure what to make of Thomas’s character. What he knew, what he liked him.

Much more than he began.

Thomas withdrew his large and and stood upright again, His elegant standing crippled by poor posture for having constantly being in company of those shorter than him. There was a flash of Thomas’s true nature. He shakily brought his hand to his neck and rubbed, nervous and pained. A brief awkwardness came between them when a blush stained the tip of Jefferson’s iconic, angular nose. “I should lead you back to your home, I’m sure your wife resents my visit after I’ve forced you to drink and into this spontaneous outing.” Thomas’s thin lips curled up into a smile, as John looked for the right argument to combat Thomas placing the blame of the outing on himself. “Nevertheless...I think my weeks here in England shall be ...more than memorable"

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