#still struggling with getting up and getting things done while fear and the fleeting nature of time and the meaning of life or lack thereof

[shiningnorthernlights]

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[whaleofatjme1920]

Ok so Ik this has already been done with ej, but I’m a toby simp, and I wanted to ask. Reader finding out toby is cheating on them? Maximum of 1k words, a scenario idk, smth. Ty!

-👾

It's Dangerous, To Love the Sun

[Ticci Toby X F!Reader]

[Warnings: angst in general, physical and emotional cheating, violence, language]

[AN: I listened to Brooksie - Not Into You slowed + reverbed while writing this, I hope you enjoyed! Also went a lil over,,, the word count because I kinda liked this,,,,,,,,,,,]

You love Toby. Ever since he came into your life, you’ve been happier with him at your side. He makes you smile, he makes your heart sing. You’ve never felt so complete.

The way he looks at you is akin to gazing at a masterpiece. His eyes are so full of love when he gazes at you from across the room, wondering when you’ll finally break away from your conversation with Jeff to be at his side again.

His touch is gentle, never harsh. Toby’s fingers trace up and down your forearms and back, ghosts, whisper-like kisses of physical affection in an attempt to show you what he verbally cannot express. He’s always so warm, so loving, so whole.

He completes you, is what you’re trying to get at.

The two of you like to sit on rooftops late at night because neither Masky nor Hoodie can stand the two of you giggling at odd hours of the day in their presence. Kate’s not around long enough to actually care. When it’s just the two of you sitting up here, quiet, against each other and breathing in the sweet night air, you feel more complete than you’ve ever felt before.

You hum out, watching the stars twinkle in the sky, a dreamy expression on your face as Toby momentarily stops playing with your hair.

“What’s o-o-on your mind, b-baby?” He asks, a brow raised. Toby shifts on the shingles, his arms wrapping around you like an octopus, bringing you closer and closer into his warmth.

You find yourself blanketed in him and relax. “You’re so good to me, y’know that?” You say.

Toby scoffs and rolls his eyes. “O-Other way around,” he corrects.

You tilt your head and shake it slightly, telling him he’s wrong. “You’ve always been so good to me,” you continue, brushing off his attempts to play down your saccharine words.

He knows you’re not fibbing, but at the same time, he refuses to admit to your claims. “I d-d-did what w-was expected o-of me, you know t-that,” he states plainly.

You take in another deep breath before resting your head on his shoulder, melting into him. You pick up his scent: oak and burning winter, before retorting against him again in a voice a hair above a whisper. “You’re wrong.”

Toby laughs, his lips pressing to the side of your head. “If y-y-you say so,” he murmurs, pressing more kisses to your head and eventually your face. He revels in the sound of your laughter as he does so, leaving no inch of you unkissed.

“I know so.”

The two of you fall back into a pleasant silence.

You’ve always viewed Toby like he has power over the sun, because, as far as being a proxy goes? He does. When you were first plucked from your life and called for something ‘greater’, it was Toby who had taken pity on you, trained you, taught you all you needed to know and the ins and outs of this life. He was the one who shielded you from Masky, Hoodie and even Kate at times.

It was by his hand that you survived, and it is still by his hand that you thrive.

It was such a blinding adoration for a man you believed held dominion over the sun that kept you veiled from the truth of what he had been doing behind closed doors, yet could be seen through the windows.

Naturally, you didn’t want to believe it. Who would? The person you love’s heart has fled the place it used to live with you and taken up residence with someone else. That’s not an easy thing to admit, not when you realize that love truly is not all it takes.

Toby doesn’t want to admit it either. It started out as some strange infatuation, a fleeting crush - someone he would forget.

But her eyes? Her darling eyes? One of them the most beautiful shade of peridot he’d ever seen and the other a literal clock? They say the eyes (in her case, eye) are the window to the soul, and she had absolutely snared his. She was beautiful in a way Toby couldn’t describe, beautiful in a way that had him seeing a sky full of stars in the middle of the day, and beautiful in the sense she was timeless.

Toby knows he should be ashamed, that she’s his little secret, that what he has with Natalie can’t be compared with you, but he knows he can’t let you find out lest you go too far you can’t come back.

That blinding sun made you shrug off the bruises that were too keenly placed to be a victim’s sorry attempt at freeing themself. You shrugged off the scent of roses and wine. You shrugged off how his eyes saw past you, no longer at you. You shrugged it all off, choosing to stay blinded than face the truth.

And you would’ve happily lived in that ignorance if Toby didn’t grow cocky and arrogant and so fucking careless.

You’ve never really felt your world crash and burn until today. You've never been burned by the sun until this moment.

You’re looking into the eyes of a man you think owns the sun and see nothing but fear, regret, and pleading. Pleading for what? That you won’t leave him? That you’ll stay with him? You feel tears well in your eyes as you see him laying in your bed with her. The woman who had been naught but a shadow until now.

“R-Reader,” Toby begins, quickly wrestling up in the sheets, watching as your soul leaves your body in the doorway. “B-Baby, it’s n-no-”

You’re at a loss for words, and frankly, you don’t think he even deserves the right to your thoughts at this moment. Instead, you hold your hand up, silencing him, and turn to leave the temp house. You were out doing work for your fucking boss and get rewarded like this? The man you loved in bed with another woman, looking at her like she owned the moon. You take in a sharp breath and then begin to beeline to the front door when Toby finally gets out of the bed, ignoring the cries of confusion pouring from Natalie’s mouth.

Your heart races when you realize Toby is gaining on you. Your vision blurs through your tears.

He’s calling out for you, his stutter even stronger than before, bones popping louder and louder as he gets hit with the weight of what he’s done to you. “Stop! S-Stop fucking m-m-moving!” He hisses, his calloused hand reaching out for your wrist, successfully grabbing you.

You snarl like a caged, wounded animal, flesh burning at the contact. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you sneer as you attempt to rip your wrist from his iron grasp. In your other hand, you already have the car keys ready. You just want to be anywhere but here.

“I-I’m so s-s-sorry,” Toby says, attempting to pull you into a hug.

You struggle against him harder, hissing to be let go. The keys in your free hand are getting threaded in your fingertips. Your tears feel warm and boil your cheeks as they roll down like waterfalls. The harder he grips you, the more you feel you’ve been burned to a point of no return. “God fucking damn it, let me go!” You shout, not even noticing how Natalie has come out of the room to get Toby off of you. She’s quickly gaining in the hallway, confused on if she should step in or not.

Toby tries harder and harder to pull you into his embrace, and that’s when you strike.

You take your car key filled fingers and punch as hard as you can, the teeth of the keys dragging across Toby’s cheek, successfully shocking him into letting you go. You don’t even consider how badly you’ve hurt him and take the opportunity of his shock to flee the temp house, quickly hopping into the car.

“Reader!” Toby shouts, hand on his right cheek, not even caring about the claw marks you’ve left. “B-Baby, let’s t-talk about t-this-”

You start honking the horn to drown his voice out. Your eyebrows are furrowed, a scowl on your face, glare holding nothing but bullets towards Toby and Natalie as she attempts to wrangle him back into the house.

You watch as her arms wrap around his waist - she’s surprisingly gentle for dealing with such a belligerent man - before peeling out of the driveway, hand still honking the horn and practically waking up the neighborhood while you’re at it.

Your mind overloads as you drive, thoughts of the sun getting eclipsed by the other celestial body that overtakes it in full, swallowing it whole. You mutter angrily to yourself, turning on the radio for just noise as you finally get onto the expressway. And you drive. You drive until your head feels clear again, and when it does, you’re finally able to focus on something other than what’s in front of you on the endless stretch of road.

Autumn is making its way in, that much is apparent. Every now and then, specks of orange and red zip past your high beams. It’s cooler, and you swear you’ve passed a few flowering pumpkin patches.

You look to your left, gazing out the window for a moment or so.

The moon is decidedly absent this night.

You sigh as the fires extinguish in your heart, loneliness, sadness and any other emotion draining alongside it leaving a pit in your chest.

The emptiness quickly takes its place, haunting you like the ghost it is.

[thehomothings]

Analysis of Kite's conflicting moralities, relationship with death, and the toll reincarnation may take on one's psyche

So, today I decided to compile all the thoughts I have had about Kite's interesting worldview since the first time I saw him into one post, mostly for my own sake, really. If you're familiar with the few posts I've made, you know it's gonna be a mess, but hopefully a comprehensible mess.

A heads up, this is going to be spoiler-heavy, and very much deal with subjects of death and dying as a whole. Also, some of these conclusions are drawn from my own experiences and close brushes with death, I'm not going to go into much detail but it might get personal and definitely dark. I'm not even sure if I can call this a meta-analysis, and I'm obviously no expert, so mayhaps take all of this with a grain of salt.

Been getting into drawing lately, and during the more simple and mindless part of the painstaking process of dotting every single star in this, I let my thoughts wander through the latest part of the fic I'm writing, and I got a better grasp on what exactly made Kite such an elusive character to me.

I'm not quite sure why I got so attached to Kite. Perhaps it was the air of tragedy surrounding him, how despite his sordid past he remained still open and gentle even if outlined by a healthy dose of cynicism.

But sometimes, I think it's the fact that he is so paradoxical. He's brave, yet fears death to such a degree that creates a whole Nen ability around it, is a pacifist yet will not hesitate to spill blood for his own sake or someone else's. Despite the many ultimatums and warnings of 'I will not protect you', he gave his arm and then his life to save Gon and Killua. He approaches each hunt and battle with a clear plan of action in mind, but his Hatsu takes the form of a roulette that gives him random weapons which are never what he wants, but what he seems to need for that exact situation, which he cannot dispel without using. When he draws a weapon, the decision is locked in and his or his opponent's fate is sealed. That's why each time he dubbs his weapon a bad roll. Every time he has to gamble, he sees himself as having run out of luck. When it comes to having to choose between himself and somebody else...well, there had never been a choice. In fact his aversion to using it may feed into its sheer power that we, unfortunately, saw too little of.

Let's go over his very first appearance when he saves Gon from the mother Foxbear.

It's not hard to see the strain searching for Ging has put on him; he's rash, prone to anger and punching a child for daring to get into trouble. In his mind, he's failing at his most important task, has not yet earned the right to call himself a hunter despite being in possession of his very own hunter license.

After killing the mother Foxbear and raging about having done so, he says this interesting line:

So yes, he finds killing for any reason rather irksome as most would do, yet I think something deeper caused him to absolutely lose it in this scene:

He had not been aware of Gon's identity, and despite being an animal lover and a naturalist, he made a choice to save the human instead of allowing nature to run its course. In fact, he says: 'No beast that harms a human must be allowed to live.'

How does one weight one life against another? How is the worth of it determined? The value of life... an impossible choice he's faced with and a choice which he seems to regret to some degree.

The Foxbear cub.

Here, he's speaking from experience, a tangible loss he has felt himself, and a hard and bitter life he does not want to impose on the cub.

His backstory is exclusive to the 2011 anime adaptation but there are hints alluding to it in the manga, for example, the fact that he does not seem to know his birthplace, or:

The choice of words is chilling.

Reading between the lines, one could draw the conclusion that he is an orphan. Something supporting this hypothesis is how he visibly deflates after Gon tells him his parents have (presumably) died.

So we see he is willing to go against his own moral code of not killing as to not doom another living being to the life he led, a lonely, hopeless existence that could barely be called one. He saw it best to put down the cub rather than leave it to die a painful, slow death.

The reason Kite himself isn't as cynical and cold-hearted as one would be after witnessing cruelty in its rawest form is those small crumbs of human kindness which he may have found in Ging.

It was not only a chance at an honorable life being Ging's apprentice gave him, but it also 'saved' him from being broken and twisted into what he hated and worst of all, death.

If we take that one minute of backstory as canon to his character-which I find myself inclined to do- these quirks of his make much more sense. He lived on the run. He lived on the knife's edge between giving up or pushing forwards. He lived as so a wrong move could be the difference between survival and the end.

Between rock and a hard place creates a mentality of black and white, absolute good or extreme evil, this or that. Except in reality, it's much harder than that. Deciding who to save and who to strike down is a heavy burden to bear.

It's almost easy to see how struggling to keep surviving could lend itself to a crippling fear of death and subsequently developing a Nen ability which once more goes against his own moral code in order to give himself a second chance...yet something about it strikes me as unlikely when I look at it this way.

Living life knowing it could end at any moment has the opposite effect, at least for me it did. One comes to accept that it is fleeting and while not eager to let it go, when death eventually and inevitably does come, there is no fighting it.

Especially when there is no hope that tomorrow will be a better day than this one.

Frequent near-death experiences numb one's fear in a way, even if it drives them to take precautions that render it unlikely to happen again and results in c-PTSD, but still, it does. It sparks a certain nihilistic view of 'if it all can end so easily, then what's the point of it all?'

Unless there are things to live for, a sure promise of a better future, and Ging gave Kite that. When he faced the threat of losing his second chance at life:

Really, what else could lead someone to develop the ability of 'the hell I'm going to die like this'?

I think a separate event, an even more brutal near-death experience that almost cost him his life as the hunter he so strived to be set him off to develop the secret roll of Crazy Slots, what I call Roll No.0, Ars moriendi. Unlike other weapons, it cannot come up in random and is directly summoned by him, or better said, summon by his overwhelming will to keep going and hopelessness of fighting a losing battle. I don't believe roll No.3 was the weapon that allowed him to reincarnate. I've named that one Wand of Fortune, a sort of armor instead of an offensive weapon since I find it hard to believe Kite, a Conjurer, would not focus on defences as well, and I will go into both mechanisms of these weapons hopefully in his backstory.

Despite knowing this battle to be a pointless one and being acutely aware of his soon to be demise, he did not immediately draw Ars moriendi, no, he stayed back and fought for the sake of the boys, kept Neferpitou occupied until they could reach safety. We can see evidence of this in the aftermath of the battle that seemed to have gone on until dawn, a torn apart landscape only signaling a fraction of the devastation that was Kite's power unleashed. It still wasn't enough.

In the anime sub I watched, when Gon apologizes to Ging about Kite's death, Ging said a sentence that infuriated me, because it belittled the utter suffering of the NGL trio.

"He would not die in your place." (No screenshot, sorry)

And I remember practically shouting at the screen, screaming 'how could you possibly say that? Of course he did. He absolutely did die in their place. How could you not know your own apprentice? Why-'

It was only last night that it hit me why Ging would say that.

Once upon a time, maybe Kite would not have given his life for anybody under any circumstances, even if he had a way out of it all. He would still need to die to come back to life.

His Thanatophobia could be attributed to the (possibly untreated) PTSD of the near-death experience in his later life, being so certain of dying that finding himself alive afterwards drove him to never want to go through that again. He quieted his fear by creating a sort of a loophole, that even if he lost the battle he would remain. Ging remembered that, but as evidence shows, something changed. Maybe he healed a bit, perhaps growing up dulled his fear to a certain degree, but eventually when it came down to his life or another's, he didn't choose himself.

Now, I can hear you saying 'but he didn't die, so what are you going on about??' And so I reply: Yes, he is alive, but he did die. He experienced that painful, horrible moment of staring death in the eyes and thinking 'This is it, this is the end', went through the actual process of having his soul removed from his body. And that moment stretches into infinity, ten lifetimes condensed into the mere seconds before oblivion.

Dying isn't so hard if one stays dead.

It's not so easy to open one's eyes and find oneself alive again after that, no matter how much that is the heart's desire. It's difficult, nigh-impossible to reconcile with life and walk amongst the living when everything had been so final, when death had been accepted to its fullest.

So Kite awakens, the twin of Meruem and back from the dead, his mind and identity both intact and fractured. In that he is Kite is no mistaking, yet he is not the same gentle pacifist whose first reaction upon sensing a monster's aura was to shield two kids from it at the cost of his arm.

I don't think many of you are familiar with Zoroastrian ideology, but Togashi is known for loving his religious imagery, and it's not only Christianism he derives inspiration from (evidence of which can be seen all over Kite's character and resurrection).

In Zurvanism-a branch of Zoroastrianism- there is talk of the twin spirits: Ahura Mazda -epitome of all that is good- and Ahriman -epitome of all that is evil-, the parent god Zurvin decides that the firstborn may rule in order to bring "heaven, hell, and everything in between."

Upon becoming aware of this fact, Ahriman forcibly tears through the womb to emerge first. Sounding familiar yet?

Zurvan relents to this turn of events only on one condition: Ahriman is given kingship for 9000 years, and then Ahura Mazda may rule for eternity.

Meruem ruled for 40 days, his death leaving the throne vacant for ant Kite, wearing a dead girl's face and seeming to be brewing some nefarious plan. No more is there any sign of that unrelenting pacifism and the sanctity of life he held so high, losing his own may have only served to show him how meaningless the pain and suffering he went through had been, dying only to be reborn as a member of the species that killed him. It may be that he has no desire to rule over the remaining Chimera ants or create an army of his own-

Yet I dread to think what a broken mind possessing limitless power might do to the world.

And that's it. If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you found it interesting, stay tuned, as I think a lot and I will make it your problem.

[cafeacademia]

Love Between The Pages | Chapter 4 Finale

Blaise Zabini x Reader

Chapter Summary: You and Blaise slowly come to terms with the feelings that have been hanging in the air, along with the future of the book club.

Warnings: The tiniest dash of angst for about 0.1 seconds, boatloads of fluff.

Word count: Approx 2800

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A/N: Hi loves! Here is the final part of this series! Wow I was not ready for this to be over, I've found this series incredibly comforting to write. It took me a little while to write the last part purely because I just wasn't quite ready to end it yet, but I'm really really happy with how this chapter came out. Additionally, I'm really looking forward to writing more for sweet Blaise and I've been thinking about writing a few standalone pieces that might fit into this little universe. I'm not sure yet!! Let me know if you're interested. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this series, I am so SO proud of it, thank you so so SO much for reading it! 💕

It was a calm, quiet afternoon, the old loft windows in the library were pushed open and secured on their old latches, the smell of fresh air mixed with the ever cosy scent of wood polish and old books making it all the more delightful to spend time in the library. Sifting through your bag, you pulled out the books you needed to return to Madam Pince, wondering what you might pick up this week, deciding that it needed to be something special.

You clocked Theo walking in with Cho and Neville at either side of him, the three of them chatting quietly amongst themselves as they began to make their way across to the table you all usually sat at. Looking over towards them as you placed your books on the library check out desk, you realised that having him there had become normal. Having all three of the Slytherin boys in your group had become normal and you weren’t sure you really wanted it to end.

“All of you have been reading a lot of romance as of late.” Madam Pince observed as she slid the books across the desk so she could stamp the library slips inside of the covers. “It’s spring, it brings out the romance, doesn’t it?” You said, idly fiddling with the closure on your bag, missing the way Madam Pince gave you a knowing look. “I suppose it does.” She replied before stamping your library slip and handing it back to you.

Stepping across the library floor, you made your way through the rows of shelves, passing the tables of students chatting and studying quietly, some of them reading, others getting their homework done before the weekend. But as you continued towards the table near the back where the golden hour of sun glowed so beautifully across the deep chestnut hues of the furniture and the aged spines of books that were all positioned neatly on their shelves, you caught sight of him. Blaise.

You wondered if he hadn’t noticed you first, his eyes seemingly already on your approaching figure, his smile bright and lopsided, a sight you had gotten fast used to and yet did not want to lose so quickly in the matter of an hour. “There you are.” He said, stepping over towards you with a book in hand. “Here I am.” You smiled, looking up at him with a sweet smile on your lips, trying your best to conceal the way his smile and his voice made your heart leap.

You had not yet forgotten the way his hand had felt in yours just a week prior, the way he had brushed his fingers against yours and held you with such a gentle grip. Was it too much to ask for that again? To feel the fluttering of something akin to love in your chest or the light airy feeling of something new, something delightfully thrilling.

“What are you reading this week?” You asked quietly as he placed the book he had been looking at back on the shelf. “What would you have me read?” Blaise asked, watching as you pulled your bag off your shoulder and pulled out a chair to set it down on. “Me?” You almost gasped, sounding a little surprised by the question. “Well is there anyone else I’d ask for book recommendations?” Blaise teased, stepping a little closer to you and placing his hand on the back of the chair you had placed your bag on. Smiling shyly and struggling to meet his gaze, you giggled softly. “I suppose not.” You replied, shrugging off your robes to get more comfortable.

“Jane Eyre.” You suddenly said, looking up at him. “You should read Jane Eyre.” You added, awkwardly fiddling with your robes as you draped them over the back of your seat. “Is it romance?” He asked. You knew by now that he was very fond of romance, especially period romance and while it surprised you, it also warmed your heart to know he loved a genre you enjoyed too. “Yes, it’s a classic romance.” You replied. Blaise smiled. He always found himself gazing at you with an uncontrollable smile, it was impossible to keep his usually controlled demeanor in check around you. Perhaps it was your shyness that just seemed so sweet, or maybe it was your kind, gentle nature that made him inexplicably happy.

“Show me where to find it?” Blaise asked, holding out his hand for you. Glancing down at his hand, you felt your heart flutter. What if this wasn’t all a one off feeling between you, perhaps he too was immersed by lingering thoughts of love and attraction. “Of course.” You replied, gently placing your hand in his. Your touch was hesitant at first, his eyes capturing yours for a moment as he carefully grasped your hand in his. Blaise was gentle and soft, his touch just as exhilarating and sweet as the previous week and you felt your breath hitch in your throat before you met his eyes with an amative gaze.

Gently you closed your fingers around his hand and led him towards one of the many sections of muggle fiction within the library. As you both dipped between a couple of bookshelves, you watched as Hermione and Draco rushed in with Ginny in front of them, Hermione hissing at them both about how they were late and it was all Malfoy’s fault.

And while Blaise snorted at their antics, the two of you overhearing Hermione whisper yell as they all began to settle down at the nearby table, you trawled through the shelves in search of a copy of Jane Eyre, all while his hand held yours.

“Here it is.” You spoke softly, reaching up to grasp the copy, a soft dusty pink clothbound spine with a beautifully imprinted and silver embossed title. Blaise smiled at you as he gently took the book from you with his free hand, still holding onto you with the other. “Let me pick one out for you?” He asked, watching as you nodded, smiling rather uncontrollably. How was it that he knew just how to fluster you? All you needed was a sweet boy to hold your hand and talk to you about books and here Blaise Zabini was, doing those exact things and making it seem so romantic.

If only he knew how it made you feel. How he made you feel.

A soft, pale powder blue copy of Arabella was passed to you moments later. “Theo told me this was a good book.” Blaise said, watching as you smiled down at the book in your hands. “Did he now? I never thought Theo would be interested in Regency romance.” You mused, peering around the edge of the bookcase to catch a glimpse of the Slytherin sitting side by side with Neville, who now he seemed closer than ever with, along with Cho who seemed to have warmed up to him. You smiled, watching as Theo read a book over Neville’s shoulder. You managed to see which novel it was they were reading when Neville shuffled around a bit, revealing the lovely old illustrated cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Neither did I, but he seems to be full of surprises.” Blaise said softly as he leaned over you, his hand landing gently on your upper arm, the warmth of his presence behind you nearly melted you, nearly made you want to lean back into him. But you were not more than friends with the odd soft touch and longing gaze. In truth it felt as if it could be more, but knowing this was his last week that he would have to attend your book club, you were still unsure if this was something fleeting.

You found yourself perfectly comfortable beside Blaise as you read together in a comfortable chair, his arm resting over the back of the seat behind you while he held his book in the other hand. You tried hard not to lean into his side and you stayed comfortably close.

And while the bell tolled lowly in the background, signalling the turn of the hour, you still had hope that the boys might stay, because it truly would not be the same without them.

Getting up from your seat, you began to walk back towards the table, though you were stopped in your paces when you felt Blaise’s hand rest softly on your shoulder.

“Sweetheart.” Blaise’s low voice rolled through you, warm, sweet and yet there was an edge to it that scared you, that scared your heart. Turning in his grip, you faced him shyly, the sweet name he used for you making your chest warm and your thoughts hazy with adoration. Adoration that you quickly pushed aside. But it all seemed like a helpless attempt when Blaise reached up, gently brushing the backs of his fingers against your cheek. You leaned into him, into his warm touch, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, breath hitching at the intimacy of the moment. And you looked up at him, eyes softening with something akin to fear and something deeper, something that looked as if it swam deep below the surface.

“What is it?” You asked, clutching the book tightly against your chest. “There’s something on your mind.” He prompted, watching as you looked shyly down at your feet. “This is all fleeting. You’ll leave and- this will have been no more than part of your detention.” You voiced your worry, somehow confident enough to let your feelings air, ones you had been hesitant to even acknowledge for several weeks now; though you still could not meet his eyes no matter how easy it had been to say the words.

There was a soft sigh, heavy swallow before his fingers gently lifted your chin. “You truly think I’d leave after all this club has brought me?” Blaise asked. “It’s much more than just books and an hour of reading in company each week.” He said. “It’s friendship,” Blaise tilted his head towards Neville, Theo and Cho. “And the way your club brought out the better in all of us.” He smiled softly, his eyes now on Draco as he read quietly with Hermione and Ginny, the three of them sharing the odd bit of chatter now and again. “And for me it’s something else. You make me feel,” He paused, the words resting on his tongue. Wonderful. Accepted. In love. “You make me feel like I’m meant to be here. You make me feel.” Blaise stopped. Because you did make him feel. You made him feel everything. Others might have stunted his feelings in the past, things slowly adding up to prompt him to build his mask of stoic temperament. But it was your passion and your love and kindness that brought out the things in Blaise that he long had forgotten. You made him feel energetic, as if there was nothing more amazing in the world than being in your presence and sharing a moment with you.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m not leaving after this week. I’m not leaving as long as you’ll allow me to stay. This club has become my escape just as books always have been and you have been my guide.” He explained. “You’ll stay?” You asked, barely above a whisper. “As long as you’ll have me.” Blaise spoke softly to you, your eyes meeting his, wide with the warmth of adoration and the softness of simple romance.

And where his words failed to express what he truly felt in his muddled moment, encased in worry and a desperate rush to get it all out, he made up for with gestures of his feelings instead. Leaning in, Blaise gently pressed you against the bookcase, carefully taking the book you held in your grasp and placing both of your books on the shelf beside you. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, words brushing softly against your lips, your heart fluttering and racing with the wild, unequivocal feelings of love. “Please.” It was a whisper, one that was not desperate nor rushed, but soft and sweet and accompanied by the way your lashes fluttered, eyes slowly sliding shut as Blaise closed the gap between you, his lips meeting yours with a gentle touch.

His kiss was slow and sweet, his thumb coming up to rest against your cheek as he held you, one hand at the nape of your neck and the other resting at your waist. His lips captured yours in a moment of slow, amative bliss, kissing you tenderly until you found yourself breathless, your delicate fingers grasping at the edges of his Slytherin robes.

Slowly parting from you, just enough to catch your gaze, Blaise smiled softly. You felt stunned, but in the best of ways, mind reeling with thoughts and feelings of love. You supposed there had always been something so peaceful about sharing time together to read, but even more so now that you had allowed your feelings to feel.

“I got you something.” Neville said shyly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he held out a beautiful old copy of The Secret Garden for Theo to take, the brunette grinning at his friend before taking it from him. “You shouldn’t.” He shook his head, unable to stop himself from beaming at the kind gesture. “Thank you. I’ll read it with you next week.” Theo said, gently patting Neville’s shoulder. “You’re not leaving the club?” Neville asked, his voice full of hope. Theo glanced around the group, his eyes landing on Cho and Neville. “Nah, I have a feeling that even if I tried to leave I’d end up back here anyway.” He grinned, the three of them sharing great delight as Neville pulled Theo in for an unexpected, though appreciated hug.

“I suppose you’ll go back to bullying us again, will you?” Hermione asked Draco as she began to pack her bag. Draco eyed her, his glare softening. It was not love he felt, more something like the beginnings of a friendship. His eyes travelled around the room, falling onto you and Blaise for a moment and then over to Theo and his new found friendships. Attending the club had been a punishment and while Draco had acted as if he hated it, he knew that beyond his usually brooding and snarky behaviour, he had begun to hold the club in high regards. “No.” Draco said simply. “No?” Ginny asked, looking up at him with a challenging stare. “I can’t bully people I like, can I?” He sneered, and while it came out rather unfriendly, they all knew that he was being sincere. That Draco had actually grown fond of you all. “Will you come back next week?” Hermione asked. “We’ll see, Granger.” Were his last words to her before he pulled his bag onto his shoulder and took his leave.

“I’ll walk you back to your common room, sweetheart.” Blaise said, waiting until you had pulled your robes back on before he gently took your hand in his. “And perhaps we can plan a date?” He added, watching as your smile became uncontrollable and you giggled in your flustered, shy state, overwhelmed but in the best of ways. “I’d love that.”

And with that, Blaise pulled you close. He put his arm around your shoulders, his hand leaning down to hold your hand as you made your way out of the library as a pair, but not for the last time. There would be many more times, your hand in his each time. And you counted yourself lucky, because you had found love between the pages and it was undeniably real.

Blaise Zabini Taglist (OPEN):

@paintballkid711 @megantje123 @chaotic-fae-queen @slytherinwh0re @frecklesandfirecrackers @starofthedawn @mingyuahjumma @dracosaccount @90smalfoy @fuckingdraco @loving-life-my-way @cpetrova @miraclesoflove @struggling-bee @weasleywhore @little-me204 @dreaming-about-fanfictions @eli-malfoy-asf @ur-local-reality-shifter @voidmalfoy @wh0re4blaise @cherie-draco @lazypeachsoul @sistheselenophile @sw33tgirl

[shaynawrites23]

Pianissimo 27.12 - Initials carved into a tree

Pairing: adult!Remus Lupin x reader

Word count: 2126

Prompt: Initials carved into a tree

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, but happy ending

Written for @darlingdelacour’s 12 Days of Angst challenge!

Moodboard is by my amazing bestie @ghosts-of-hogwarts! If you think this was good, check out her fics 😉 you won’t be disappointed!

Christmas. Usually a time of joy; of unbridled happiness inside that made you feel giddy, so much joy that you felt like you’d overflow at any moment. Yet here you were, a deep, melancholy pit having replaced the warm pot of happiness.

Christmas. A time to be with friends and family; to share the love and joy that came pouring from a seemingly endless supply in your heart. Yet here you stood, alone in the snow, with not a living soul to be seen.

Christmas. A time of warmth, a time to be carefree as a bird, to let the stress and worries of your daily life melt away like the snow falling from your boots upon entering. A time to enjoy the pleasures of life without a single vexing thought nagging at you in the back of your mind. And yet, as the first tear trickled down your cheek and you fought to keep the cracking dam holding them at bay intact, you wondered if you’d ever get to have that again.

Snowflakes floated down on the icy wind, some getting caught in your hair while the rest fell at your feet. You shivered, pulling your – or actually, your fiancé’s – beige shawl tighter around your neck, but made no move to leave, to go to a warmer place. Your eyes remained fixed upon the thick trunk of the tree before you, one of many trees standing scattered hither and thither on the snowy carpet.

The tree looked almost identical to all the rest of them, but it was only this tree which held one of your most treasured memories.

Your hand reached out to touch the wood, fingertips tracing the heart carved into the bark. The heart symbolizing your love and the promise of forever, of a life together, further reinforced by the initials carved inside it. Yours and his; Remus Lupin and (y/n) (y/l/n).

Your touch lingered over his initials. You came here daily since he passed, in an attempt to hold on to everything you had. When you stood here, even though the branches of the tree were bare, even though the landscape resembled little more than a barren wasteland, it felt as if Remus were still here, standing beside you with one arm slung over your shoulders.

You still remembered the exact day you made these markings together. The memory of that wonderful summer day in the little forest near your parents’ house was something you’d cherish forever.

Remus pulled you along, both your hands held tightly in his warm ones. You were both laughing, the happiness rolling off of you in waves.

You knew exactly where he was taking you; you went there every chance you got. It was quiet and secluded, and beautiful too. It was your peaceful shelter, your little woodland kingdom, your escape from the world. It was your spot, something only the two of you knew about.

His beautiful honey brown eyes held you captive, captive in a prison you never wanted to escape from.

You had forgotten all the little unimportant things you talked about that day. Deemed irrelevant by your brain, they had been discarded in favor of setting the most beautiful moments in stone so you’d never forget.

At one point, you were sitting between his legs as he leant against the tree, wrapping you in his warm embrace.

“Remus?” you asked tentatively.

He hummed, a signal for you to continue.

“Will- will we still be together in ten years? Like, long after we’ve left Hogwarts?”

“Always, (y/n),” his soft voice murmured in your ear. He knew about your fears, that someday he’d get bored of you or you’d fall out of love, and he was always very patient in reassuring you. “I promise that I’ll always love you. I’m not leaving, not unless you want me to.”

Why did he have to be so sweet? The surge of love you felt for him made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. It felt like your heart was going to burst out of your chest so you could offer it to him on a silver platter. You knew he wouldn’t drop it.

Instead, you settled for kissing his jaw, as it was the only part you could reach. You felt his blush before you saw it, his skin becoming even warmer than usual beneath your touch.

“You’re adorable,” you giggled, patting his burning cheek. A whine was all you received in reply as he hid his face in your neck.

“Yep, adorable.”

Perhaps you should have suspected something when he didn’t respond, but you were blissfully unaware of his intentions. Suddenly, he dug his fingers into your sides, grinning mischievously.

“Remus!” you squealed, squirming in his hold as you tried to shove him off.

He moved with you as you struggled to your feet, all the while trying to pry his hands off of your waist. Your merry laughter rang through the air, frightening away some birds, but that was the least of your worries.

At last he relented, letting you shove him back against the tree. You took a moment to admire him as you caught your breath; his grin was so bright it could rival the sun, the moon, and all the stars put together. His eyes caught the light and for a split second, they looked the exact color of spun gold. If only you could take a picture of him in that fleeting moment, cut it out and put it into a locket, and never take it off.

His face lit up even more if that was possible; lit up with an idea.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, fishing his pocket knife out of his pants pocket. “Watch this.”

And that was when he carved your love into the tree trunk; a declaration of the intense feelings you harbored for one another. A promise, a wish, a plea for a lifetime like this, a lifetime to love each other.

When he turned back towards you, stuffing the knife back into his pocket, you wasted no time jumping into his arms. He caught you, and you proceeded to press kisses to every part of his face you could reach, in the hopes that it could at least convey a fraction of your love for him.

A warm kiss on the lips spoke all the words you needed.

‘I love you too.’

Warmth. Remus meant warmth. From his natural body temperature to his smiles; from the way he looked at you with those mesmerizing honey brown eyes to the warmth of his embrace; from his favorite sweaters to the way he made tea and hot cocoa; from his love for you to all the memories you had together, everything about Remus Lupin meant warmth.

Where was the warmth now? Ever since you had received news of Remus’s passing, the warmth had disappeared. It died together with your fiancé, the love of your life. Now, everywhere you looked, everywhere you turned, you were met with nothing but bitter cold.

“(y/n)?”

You froze. That voice…

“Love?”

There it was again. You couldn’t have imagined it; there was no way you’d torture yourself like that.

You turned around then, slowly, almost afraid of what you might see. There, not even ten steps away from you, stood the spitting image of Remus Lupin.

How was this possible? He was dead, had been for the past half year. It was no figment of your imagination either; he looked real enough to touch.

“Remus…” you whispered, and he felt his heart soar.

Six months. It had been six long, trying months since he had last seen you. You looked every bit as beautiful as he remembered you. All he could hope for now was that you didn’t hate him.

After the mission, the circumstances didn’t allow him to come home, or to contact you. It was nearly torture for him to be away from you for so long. He longed to have you in his arms once more, praying to whatever deity would listen to let him return home. He endured all of it patiently, for you.

He took a couple steps closer to you, arms reaching for you tentatively. As if shaken from a trance, your entire demeanor changed and you shield away from him.

You saw the confusion and hurt in his eyes, and you hated yourself for causing it. ‘It’s not him,�� you reminded yourself. ‘It’s not him.”

“(y/n)-”

“Stay away from me.” Drawing your wand, you took a deep, shaky breath and pointed it at him. “Don’t touch me.”

He expected this, expected you to be angry with him. How could you not be, after he disappeared for so long without a trace? It stung; it felt like someone had decided to use his heart as a pincushion, but if he had to earn your forgiveness, so be it. He was determined to do anything for it.

Remus dropped to his knees, his honey brown eyes pleading for a chance. A chance to explain, a chance to love you again, a chance for… anything, anything at all.

“I know you’re angry with me, and you have every right to be, but please hear me out.” His hand slowly rose to push your wand aside, his eyes not leaving yours. “If I had the chance, I would have come back, or at least sent you an owl. But it was too dangerous. I couldn’t risk you getting hurt.”

“Don’t pretend to care about me,” you snarled, swatting his hands away and aligning the tip of your wand with his throat once more. “Now leave. Get out of my sight or I’ll hex you.”

You were perfectly capable of that. Your voice might be trembling but you could hex him in the blink of an eye, and both you and Remus knew this.

Neither of you moved for several moments, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

And he did.

Catching you off guard, he lunged forward, prying your wand out of your hand. You tried to pull your wrist out of his grip, but he was too strong, easily succeeding in wrestling you down to the snowy ground.

“(y/n), it’s me,” he pleaded, his own voice cracking. “It’s me, Remus.”

“No!” you cried, tears welling up in your eyes, and Remus felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. “Remus is gone; he’s dead, he’s never coming back and you’re just here as a cruel prank!”

For one vital moment, Remus froze in shock, allowing you to flip him onto his back and hover over him as he had previously done to you. You had snatched up your wand from the snow as well, knowing full well you’d otherwise be no match for his strength.

Was that what they’d told you? No wonder you were so hostile towards him. Remus stared at you, speechless. You believed he was dead; that he had perished on the mission. How much grief that must have caused you… it was unimaginable.

“(y/n), love, it’s really me. Who told you I died?”

“Prove it,” you snapped. “Prove that you’re really my lover and not and apparition or some shapeshifter. Prove it.”

“Remember… remember the first time I tried to ask you out? I scribbled a note in the corner of the first page of the textbook I borrowed from you and you just missed it completely. That’s when I learned you never look at the table of contents.”

You lowered your wand, and he took it as a sign to continue.

“And the first time our times of the month aligned. Sirius and James were so scared they waited on your every command. If I remember correctly, you also ate almost all of my chocolate stash.”

He noticed you were starting to believe him, and he took the opportunity to flip you over again so he was on top.

“When you invited me over to meet your parents and I was ready to cry because of how nervous I was and how accepting they were. The time we decided to buy this house together and you told me you’d always dreamed of a house in the middle of nowhere. When I left on the mission, and you begged me not to go… but I went anyway. I’m sorry, love, I’m so, so sorry.”

Your tears finally flowed freely down your cheeks. It was him, really, truly him. He was alive, and back, and… You couldn’t form words or thoughts, you just clung onto him as you sobbed.

He wrapped his arms around you protectively, whispering soothing words in your ear.

“I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//lunch date memories. sakusa kiyoomi//

Request:  c-can I ask for some Omi fluff or anything actually🥺 Up to you- my brain diededed- lmfao hahhaa It's just fully shut down hue- ily Maddi 🥺

Warnings: None bby ;-; just pure unadulterated fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Notes: Me: ah yes.  Let’s do some nice, short fluff.

Me, 6 pages later: 0-0

“Omi, did we really have to come all the way up here for a picnic?” You pant, struggling to climb the steep slope of the trail.  You were far behind your boyfriend who seemed less than bothered at the hike.  Yet, you had sweat dripping down your face, knees weak from the constant attempt to keep up with Sakusa’s long strides.  

“It’ll be worth it, I promise,” he says, turning to give you the faintest hint of a smile.  He stopped, letting you catch up to him before slowing down his pace, helping you not-so-elegantly scramble over some of  the particularly large rocks blocking the hiking trail that proved to not be a setback for Sakusa’s incredibly long legs, letting him easily step up and over any of nature’s obstacles.  

And you know what?  He was right.  It was worth it.  The view from the top was the most beautiful thing you had seen in a long time. Trees surrounded you, letting the sunlight filter through layers of leaves, stippling the ground with tiny golden beads of light.  Clumps of wild flowers settled around the edges of the clearing, swaying daintily in the warm summer breeze.  

As you catch your breath, wiping sweat from your chin, Sakusa lays the blanket down on the ground, smoothing down the fabric.  In the least graceful fashion possible, you both flop down.  You lay back, chest still heaving with ragged breaths.  Your boyfriend only hums, looking down at you as he sets out to unpack the bag that carried the bentos he had prepared that morning.

“How are you not even the slightest bit exhausted?” You whine, rolling over onto your stomach, untying the soft purple cloth around your bento as Kiyoomi set two water bottles between you.

“It helps that I’m not a shortie,” he claims, tweaking your nose softly between his fingers.  

“Hey!” You huff, holding your nose and shooting him a soft glare.  He says nothing, just opens his own lunch and begins eating in silence.  For many moments, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, letting the soft gusts of wind tousle your hair in every which way as it brings the sweet scent of flowers towards you.  

Sakusa’s eyes are soft as he examines you.  You’re lost in your meal, lazily scrolling through social media, every now and then lips shifting up in a little smile at a silly meme.  Strands of hair flitting gently as the sun’s rays shined against your skin, casting a warm glow on your delicate features.  It looked like a scene straight from a cheesy rom-com, but it’s not like Sakusa complaining.  He’d happily be the lead in any movie if you were right there with him.  It was beautiful.

You were beautiful.

If someone had told Sakusa when he was in high school that he’d be in love, he would’ve laughed in their faces.  It’s not like he never wanted to be, sure, he had crushes, but most of them were just fleeting interests, lasting only a short amount of time and never really going further than a crush.  Yet, here he was, five years later, sitting across from you.  The first person he had ever truly fallen in love with.  And hopefully, the last.  

It was here, three years earlier, that he kissed you for the first time, holding your soft cheeks between his hands, letting his lips move over yours.  It was awkward and clumsy, noses colliding more than once, and not at all what he had imagined a kiss being like, but it was nice and your lips felt so warm against his.  He never wanted to pull away and if it weren’t for his lungs screaming for oxygen, he never would’ve. 

He had been panting, face flushed, eyelids refusing to open in fear that this was all just some fervent dream.  But, you had softly spoken his name and he had opened his eyes to stare down into yours.  Eyes so full of life and love.  Love for him.  He had to move his thumbs across your skin, just to make sure one last time that this wasn’t a dream.  The feeling of your face underneath his worn fingers brought a smile to his lips.  

He had brought you here for a picnic, just like the one he had set up for today.  But, you had made the lunches that day, promising that you washed everything properly while preparing them.  Sakusa had noticed your small sigh of relief when he willingly took second, third, fourth bites until it was inevitably gone.  Conversation had been much like it was now, nearly non-existent, preferring to revel in one another’s company than having meaningless discussions about things like the weather or the view.

If Sakusa Kiyoomi had been told in high school that in five years, he would be getting engaged, he wouldn’t have believed it.  He would have just rolled his eyes, walking off, unamused by the conversation.  But, now, there’s a small weight in his pocket and hundreds of pounds of pressure weighing down on his shoulders.  Yet, the thought of it kept bringing a soft smile to his face, the mental image of you smiling down at him as he put the little diamond on your finger brought the familiar warmth to his heart.  It was a warmth that he felt every single time he looked at you, thought about you when you were apart.

Bentos had long been pushed aside, crumbs being the only remnants.  You had moved so that your head was laying against his thigh, every now and then poking his chin to get his attention to show him something that you thought he would enjoy.  Kiyoomi’s long fingers were threaded in your hair, reaching for the right thing to say.  He was sure that if you had a clear view of his face, you would be asking a million questions, trying to get inside his head and figure out what was with the weird look on his face.

“Hey,” he started, looking down at you.

You lock your phone, putting it down beside you, smiling up at him.  “Hey.”

“Can I show you something?”  When you just nod, he just shakes his head and tweaks your nose again.  “You have to get up, shortie.”

Your lips settle into a cute pout at the nickname, but you sat up anyway, letting him pull you up from the blanket.  He tugged you towards the edge of the clearing where the sun shone through the canopy in the breathtaking way.  Kiyoomi wasn’t really sure what he was pointing at, but he led your gaze to something in the distance.  Yet, even if there was nothing to look at, you still pretended to be mesmerized, whispering softly, “Oh, Kiyoomi.  This is incredible.”

Sakusa pulled the little silver band from his pocket.  He had been waiting for just the right moment for weeks now and it was here.  He had every ounce of courage possible coursing through his body.  

While you were distracted by nothing, Sakusa Kiyoomi sank down to a single knee.  The happiness of just being here with you, ready to move your relationship forward, pushed any of those annoying thoughts about the filthiness of the dirt to the back of his mind.  He didn’t care. You were the only thing that mattered to him right now.  

It was the lack of his presence that made you turn your head side to side, looking around wildly for him.  You stepped backwards, eyes wide in shock as you looked down into his deep brown eyes.  Your boyfriend reached out his hand, taking yours so he could pull you closer towards him.  

When he hadn’t even said a word and saw the tears streaming down your face, he was convinced that he had done something wrong.  He was already getting up to wipe your cheeks, but you just shook your head, pushing him back to the ground.  “No- No, I’m sorry.  I’m just- I’m really happy, Omi.  You can go ahead.  I promise, I’m fine,” you say, smiling wide as you try to dry your eyes.

“Are you sure?” He asks, sinking back down, concern swimming all over his features.

“Yes, baby.  I promise.”

He just nods, taking a deep breath.  “I’m not really the best at words, but you’ve probably realized that by now.  I didn’t really prepare a speech or anything, so this is likely not going to be the proposal you envisioned.  The thing is, I have never felt like this with anyone else before.  Every time I see you or think about you, I just get so stupidly happy and it took me a really long time to figure out what I was feeling.  But, I realized that what I was feeling was love.  I was in love with you and I don’t want to be in love with anyone ever again.”  He pauses, brows furrowed tightly together as he breaks eye contact with you.  “Wait- that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

You shyly shrug as if to politely say yes, but even he can’t miss the breathy laugh escaping your lips.

“Let me try that again-  I don’t want to fall in love with anyone else.  Was that better?” Sakusa quickly waves those thoughts away.  “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I love you.  I love you so incredibly much.  I love every moment that we get to spend together and I want more of those moments.  I don’t know if you remember, but we had our first date here.  I kissed you right here in this clearing for the first time.  It- It really only felt natural to do this here, where everything started all those years ago.  I want to marry you and I hope that you’ll have me as your husband, so that we can share more moments like this.  Y/N, will you marry me?”

“Of course, Kiyoomi.  I would love that more than anything,” you say, smiling down at him, holding his face in your hands.  “Or, should I say, shortie,” you tease, pinching his own nose in retaliation.  

Your boyfriend, or rather, your fiancé slowly got back to his feet, looking down at you from his incredible height.  “What were you saying, shortie?”  There’s a gentle smile on his face as he  takes your left hand, placing the ring on your finger.  “I love you, honestly,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you more, Omi.”

And just as it had begun, this chapter of your life ended with lips connected. But this time, less awkward and significantly more graceful.  There was no clumsy bumps of noses, but even after all these years, Sakusa Kiyoomi found himself unwilling to pull away.

[shortkingzuko]

title: the ocean on a gentle night

relationship: bato/hakoda

post-canon, mutual pining, 3 +1

for day 1 of @bakodafleetweek !!

summary: 3 times Bato and Hakoda pine for each other and the 1 time they don't have to -- For all the fear and terror the ocean inspires, Bato thinks that she tries to make amends with nights like these.

read under the cut or on AO3 for the rest of my tags! :~)

 3.

 The sea shouldn’t be as comforting as it still is. They’ve spent years out on her endless waters, away from families, safety, away from the simple joy of being in their homeland. They’ve lost dozens of men while out on the chaotic waves, have lost a good few just to the waves themselves - taken by the sea’s cold embrace, her damp claws clutching their lungs and hearts. Whether it’s the uncertainty that she possesses - her penchant for turning smooth horizons into the greatest storms - or because her damp fog brings with it illness and coughs, Bato knows that he should be tired of the sea, be disillusioned of her and her power.

 Yet, he isn’t. For all the fear and terror the ocean inspires, Bato thinks that she tries to make amends with nights like these. Nights that have just a slightly cloudy sky, with the barest hint of wake, and stars shining so beautifully that it couldn’t be anything except an apology or a love letter. He thinks of the sea not as a terrible mistress but more like a petulant lover, one who, despite the fits she throws, does love them with all her heart.

 He tells this to Hakoda, who stands silently, contemplating beside him. The theory earns him a chuckle, as he hoped.

 “When did you become such a poet?” Hakoda asks, tilting his head to catch Bato’s gaze as he raises an eyebrow.

 “Maybe I always was, and you just weren’t paying attention.” Bato huffs in fake offence, before breaking out into a grin. The decks of the ship are mostly silent, a few tribesmen milling around, but giving their chief and second-in-command a wide berth. They’re expecting to dock their ships soon, and their intelligence hasn’t indicated any sightings of Fire Nation fleets, so there’s a slightly unusual calmness in the air. A star twinkles down from the sky. Hakoda sighs.

 “What’s wrong, Koda?”

 He shrugs. “Nothing.” He catches Bato’s unamused expression. “Really, it’s nothing. I’m just, you know.”

 “Thinking of Kya?” Bato asks, feeling his heart clench at her name. Even after all this time, Bato feels the loss of her presence like a missing limb, like a piece of ice pressing on the inside of his chest. He may not have loved her like Hakoda did (not like he loves Hakoda), but Bato loved Kya fiercely, with all his heart and soul. He only wishes he could think of her without feeling sorrow.

 “Yeah, I’m thinking of Kya,” Hakoda confirms, smiling a bit at the sky. “She used to love nights like this.”

 “I recall.”

 Hakoda hums. “Remember that time she made us get on a canoe and ride out that iceberg to watch shooting stars? That night was a lot like this.”

 Bato nods at the memory. Kya acting as a navigator at the front of the canoe, Bato and Hakoda both making the boat spin in circles to annoy her. Their laughter rang through the night and attracted the attention of tired seals and curious birds. When they made it to the glacier that Kya was trying to lead them to, the moon was high and bright in the sky, and stars rained across the dark canvas of space. Hakoda and Kya were already dating by then, and Bato looked away every time they kissed, ignoring the dark curl of envy that squirmed between his ribs and coursed through his veins. Ignoring Kya’s apologetic looks that she gave him in between fits of giggles and jokes. He regrets the feelings of resentment he harboured at the time, especially towards her. The envy was long gone by the time Sokka was born, but even now, thinking the anger he felt towards her brings with it a wave of shame.

 “She was so mad when we kept rowing backwards,” Bato says, after a few seconds too long of silence. Hakoda laughs, tilting his head to bump it against Bato’s bicep.

 “Spirits, she was! You’d think with all her shouting at us that our parents would have caught us.”

 “They did catch us, Koda,” Bato reminds him, dryly. Hakoda rolls his eyes.

 “Yeah but not because of her.” Hakoda presses his head against Bato’s arm again, and this time he leaves it there. After a moment Bato brings his arm around Hakoda’s shoulder, softly brushing some of Hakoda’s hair behind his ear. The strands are coarse by nature and by the salt spray of the sea, yet they feel soft and smooth beneath his roughened fingertips. They fall out of place, refusing to go where Bato directs them, prompting him to try again and again.

 “I think she would have made us do something similar on a night like this,” Hakoda says. He doesn’t mention Bato’s hand in his hair or the fact that Bato is gripping him tighter. Wherever her spirit is, Bato hopes that Kya would be okay with this, that she wouldn’t be upset with how he still feels.

 “Yeah,” Bato agrees, feeling Hakoda shift to look up at him. “I think she would too.”

 “Maybe you would have more fun this time around.” Hakoda looks back to the sky, and Bato feels like a fish on the end of a line, mind reeling as he tries to decipher what Hakoda could mean by that. Before he can ask - before he can even think of      how    to ask what he means by that, one of their warriors approaches them, tearing them away from the beautiful sky and the safety of their memories. The warrior tells them that they’re approaching the town they mean to dock in.

 Hakoda nods, steps out of Bato’s embraces as if it’s nothing (and, really, isn’t it nothing?) and goes to do his duties as chief. Bato looks at the sky once last time, looks at the playful waves, and the winking stars, wishing that he had done so all those years ago, before turning and stepping away too.

2.

 Bato’s memories of Sokka and Katara are a bit jarring. He remembers them as young children, toddling around, needing help and saving from everything -      especially    each other. He remembers them as grief-stricken, forced to grow up too soon. They stayed like that in his mind for many years, unchanging, ungrowing, even though every year he and Hakoda tried to send at least a letter home in time for their birthdays. Neither of them is sure if they ever made it. And then, suddenly, the two of them appeared in front of him at the Abbey, so much older, taller, and wiser than he could have ever dreamed. Such little mirrors of their parents, certainly having inherited their attitudes. It almost made Bato feel guilty when he remembers that he got to see them again before Hakoda.

 He knows that Hakoda struggles the same way he does when he thinks of his children. Despite their rational understanding that they’re older now, that they’ve fought hard battles, survived out in the world      alone    and without adult supervision, it’s so hard to separate that from the urge to treat them as the children they were, and still are.

 It causes more than a little friction, and whether it’s because Sokka and Katara see Bato as part of their family (after all, he      is    over for dinner more than anyone else), or whether they would be willing to drag their heels in the snow in front of anyone, they’re not afraid to start arguments with Hakoda in front of Bato.

 He tries to stay out of it but sometimes he just can’t help it.

 “You can’t go boating tomorrow - it’s set to storm,” Bato says, replying to Katara and Sokka’s request to go out. Hakoda had already given a tentative no, but the two of them kept pushing for an answer.

 “So? We’ve dealt with worse weather before,” Sokka says, raising an eyebrow and leaning his head against a hand.

 “You don’t know that,” Bato replies, already regretting getting involved when he sees Katara’s pursed lips and drawn-in eyebrows. “You two      know    how hard it can be to navigate during a storm in the ice fields. And the other times you’ve piloted through bad weather it was in the sky, with other benders. Tomorrow, all you would have is Katara.”

 “I can handle it,” Katara says confidently, crossing her arms across her chest.

 “I’m not questioning your skill,” Bato tries to placate, knowing it won’t help him. “But all you need is to get caught off guard for a moment and that’ll be enough to throw you off or to capsize the boat. No matter how skilled you are, the water is cold enough to knock you out quicker than you can regain control.”

 The two of them are silent for a moment before each of them launches into a spell of arguments and rebuttals. Bato sighs and glances over at Hakoda, who seems to have enjoyed his moment out of the hot seat, though his eyebrows are furrowed in thought. He catches Bato’s eyes, and smiles slightly, before looking back at his children, waiting for them to run out of things to say. It takes a minute.

 “If Bato doesn’t think it’s a good idea, then it’s not a good idea,” Hakoda says, with a rare finality that shuts makes the teens huff and grumble, but not argue back. His gaze sweeps over the table, landing on Bato and softening, warming, like a frozen river in the spring. “I trust him. His judgment, I mean.”

 The admission is enough to warm Bato’s face, making him get up and take his dishes outside to wash in the snow, to avoid having to deal with the pounding in his chest. As he leaves, he can hear Hakoda saying, “You      know    we both just care about you two-”

 It storms the next day and when Bato battles his way through the wind and snow to go to Hakoda’s house to do some work with him, he sees Sokka and Katara sitting by the fire, annoyed but safe, and Hakoda looks at Bato like he’s the sun.

 1.

 The two of them barely get a moment alone anymore. Between having Sokka and Katara within arms reach now, and all the work that has to be done has to be approved, has to get      started,    it’s not uncommon to have at least one or two people in the room with them at any given time. Hakoda isn’t so childish as to be upset about this; he’s ecstatic about the fact that he has his children again, that his mother was waiting for him when he returned, and that there are so many willing and eager members of his village that want to help rebuild their strength.

 But he does miss the quiet nights alone with his best friend. Misses the soft, innocent touches that he received when there were no prying eyes. Every time he thinks he’ll get a moment of peace with Bato, a moment to maybe sit down and      talk    and      think    about what they’re doing after all these years, something gets in the way. A proverbial - or sometimes real - fire that needs him to put it out. It would be kind of funny if it wasn’t so frustrating.

 Because, and it’s shocking to admit it to himself, Hakoda      wants    to talk to Bato about the soft, innocent touches they used to share. He wants to talk about the playful, happy loving gaze that Bato looks at him with when he’s found something that Hakoda has done particularly amusing. He wants to talk about it because, as much as he hates to admit it, he feels old, too old to be playing this ‘will they, won’t they’ game that they’ve been playing for years - probably more years than Hakoda wants to admit or have even noticed.

 How ironic, he thinks to himself when he’s awake too late into the night, with only the sounds of his family sleeping peacefully to remind him that he isn’t the only person left alive, that feeling too old is what stopped him from pursuing his friend for so many years, and now it’s what compels him to settle the matter once and for all. For so long, too long, Hakoda felt the weight of his wife’s death, the weight of his children’s lives, the fate of his village, pressing down on him, ageing him down to his bones, and pulling him away from the thought of finding another lover.

 He had a life, he often told himself, a wonderful, happy life, with Kya and Sokka and Katara. It would be selfish, foolish, to ask for a chance at another one, to try and fan the spark in his chest into the burning ember that lived there now. Lovesick pining and pursuits were a young man’s game, a game meant to be played when the stakes were low and an endless war wasn’t raging.

 Of course, Hakoda hadn’t banked on the war ending, certainly not in his and Bato’s lifetime, and with both of them surviving. Nor did he bank on the spark in his chest growing into a constant warm glow. And yet, here he is, survived a war with his family alive, and unable to get a moment’s worth of quiet to try and piece together feelings that he’s      certain    he and his friend have shared for decades.

 Hakoda is so focused on his inner turmoil, that he almost doesn’t notice when he walks into a tent and finds it empty, save for Bato. The taller man looks up from his work, smiles when he sees Hakoda and jerks his head to tell him to come and sit.

 “Where’s everyone?” Hakoda asks, almost wincing at the question. Just like him to look a gift ostrich-horse in the mouth. Bato shrugs and scoots over so that Hakoda can sit on the floor cushion next to him.

 “Some hunting groups went out and decided to show some of the foreign ‘diplomats’ around.” Bato rolls his eyes at the word ‘diplomats’, happy to not have to fake respect that he doesn’t hold. “Everyone else, I think, saw this as an opportunity to relax with their families for a day.”

 Hakoda hums as he sits down next to Bato, all too aware that he’s close enough that he could bump knees with the other man. “What do you think it says about us that we’re here?”

 Bato snorts. “It says that we’re some of the only men that came home and didn’t immediately sire more children.”

 Hakoda lets out a small laugh at that, leans over the chabudai to get a closer look at what Bato is working on. They work in relative silence for a while, Hakoda passing his work over to Bato to be looked over, sometimes commenting on some of Bato’s, both of them trying to make some headway in the mountain of reports, requests, and agreements that need to be looked over and approved. If it wasn’t all necessary, Hakoda doesn’t know how he would stand it all.

 It doesn't mean he has to like it. He groans in exhaustion, leaning over to rest his head on Bato’s shoulder, burying his nose in the soft fabric. Bato lets out a hum in acknowledgment before tilting his head slightly to get a look at Hakoda.

 “Something the matter?” His voice is soft, gentle in a way that it so rarely is, such a departure from his usual deep candour. From this angle, Hakoda can see his face in such fine detail. The dip and deep colour of his lips, chapped and stress-bitten. The fine wrinkles that adorn his face, proof of a life hard and well-lived. The darkness of his hair, slightly wavy and soft, only now starting to get a hint of shining silver in the roots. Hakoda thinks back to Bato as a teenager, his face slender and smooth, hair dark and finely braided before it was shaved, eyes and wit sharp enough to stop anyone from arguing with any of his decisions. It’s almost funny how so much has changed, and yet Hakoda can so clearly see the ghost of their pasts in every detail of Bato.

 “No, nothing is wrong,” Hakoda whispers, finding himself so much closer to Bato’s side than he remembers. He feels the whisper of Bato’s hair brushing his cheek, the warmth of his breath against his nose, and yet he still finds himself leaning closer, can feel Bato tilting his head down to meet him.

 Hakoda feels a soft brush of lips against his own, gentle and shy despite the roughness. For a moment, Hakoda thinks that that might be all there is, before Bato leans down again, pressing himself against Hakoda with more force, more warmth, more      everything    . A hand goes up to cup Bato’s cheek, thumb rubbing the cheekbone gently, and he feels Bato’s slender fingers as they slide through his head, tugging it slightly before it comes to rest behind Hakoda’s skull.

 The kiss is gentle, exploratory, and feels well won, less like a dam bursting open, more like a meadow receiving sunlight after a long, dark winter.

 And like a cold snap, the warmth is gone, and Hakdoa feels Bato pulling away, trying to remove his hand from Hakoda’s hair without hurting, but certainly with a panic that wasn’t there before. He stands up quickly, without looking at Hakoda’s confused and hurt face and starts to leave.

 “Bato,” Hakoda tries to call out, knowing that his friend’s stubbornness will stop him from turning. “Bato, come back-”

 “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Bato calls over his shoulder, voice a strangled mix of hurt, worry, and regret. “Just. Just let me think.”

 He’s out the door before Hakoda can reply, and he sighs, body slumping against the table. The room already feels colder without Bato by his side, though his heart still beats fast and the flush remains on his cheeks. Everything haunts him. The ghost of the war, of the men that he boarded his ships with who never returned, the ghost of Kya, the ghost of his children who have grown up so much without him. He thinks that the feather-soft feeling of chapped lips against his own, the burning heat of breath on his mouth, the stillness of the air between them; he thinks that feeling with be another ghost that haunts him

 Hakoda remains slumped against the table for a while longer before he finally pulls himself up to return to his home. He looks out at the sky when he leaves, the wind brisk but gentle, the horizon clear. It feels like a shame to waste what will sure be a beautiful night on self-pity.

 +1

 The night sky glitters with stars, shining through the faint layer of cloud, and the tide is gentle, waves batting playfully against the side of the canoe. There’s a chill in the air - standard for this time of the year, this far south - but even after years being home, the years at war have tricked Bato into thinking that warmer weather was the norm.

 A part of him is certain that he’s too old for this, to be rowing a boat so late in the evening, when the wind wants nothing more than to worm its way inside his parking, gnawing at his sore joints, in a way that he knows will be miserable tomorrow morning. He’s too old to have allowed himself to be goaded out onto the water.

 Hakoda turns to look at him and he smiles so brightly that the stars look pale by comparison. Bato can’t help but smile back.

 “I don’t think we’re going to find the glacier,” Hakoda admits, bringing his orr back into the boat, twisting himself so that he sits facing Bato.

 “Of course we’re not,” Bato says, voice as dry as winter winds. He brings his oar into the boat as well, only barely resisting the urge to smack Hakoda with it. “It’s been, what? Twenty? Twenty-five years since we last went out to it?”

 Hakoda huffs crosses his arms across his chest in a way that makes him a perfect mirror of his teenage self (and both his kids, Bato thinks, amused). In a voice that Hakoda would never allow Bato to categorize as a whine, he says, “I know.”

 “Then why drag me out onto the water?” Bato pushes. Hakoda lets out a sigh and looks up at the sky again. His hair falls away from his face, the light highlighting the peaks and valleys of his face. He’s filled back out, now that they aren’t rationing food and being starved, and his strong cheekbones produce graceful shadows across his face. In the moonlight, Bato can only see the faintest hints of the wrinkles, crows' feet, and laugh lines that he’s memorized.

 “I thought it would be nice, you know? To get back out on the water on a night like this.”

 “A night that Kya would have liked?”

 “Yeah.” Bato remains silent, but he too looks up at the sky. There are no shooting stars, no arctic lights in the sky, but it’s beautiful in a way that Kya always appreciated, and above all else, Bato and Hakoda both loved everything that Kya loved.

 Maybe they loved more of what Kya loved than they thought.

 “She would have liked this,” Bato finally chokes out. The wake of the sea feels comforting, like a mother rocking a child to sleep. He sees Hakoda tear his eyes away from the sky to look at him. “We would have had fun on a night like this.”

 Gently, Hakoda brings his hand to Bato’s knee, letting it rest there for a moment. Bato freezes, unsure of what boundaries exist between them now. So many people think that his silence is one of understanding, yet after their kiss, after      everything    , Bato feels nothing but hopeful confusion.

 “Even you?” Hakoda asks. “Would you have had fun too?”

 “I always had fun with you and Kya,” Bato defends, finally bringing his eyes away from the heavens and back to Hakoda. He sees Hakoda’s raised eyebrow and sighs. Almost shyly, like he’s a teenager on his first date again, and not the old man that he is now, he places his hand on top of Hakoda’s. “Yes, Hakoda. I would have had fun.”

 Hakoda smiles. Bato thinks that Kya would have smiled too.

[border-spam]

Leech Lord - When it's cold

TW: Dark thoughts, existential dread

Tyreen has always acted like coming here was the best decision she’s made for them, it’s pissed him off more than she’s ever appeared to notice, but then again her pretending like she isn’t picking up on his frustrations is nothing new.

She’s spent years singing this planet’s praises, how she loves everything about it and he should be thankful that his sister got them out of the cage that was their home, but she can’t lie to her twin. Never could, even though it’s not once stopped her from trying.

Troy knows her better than his own scars, and for all her intense skill in bullshitting, he sees through her every time. Even the times he really wishes he didn’t.

She fucking HATES Pandora as much as he does. Hell, maybe even more, her rage always tracked deeper through her bones than his could muster. He’s too tired to hate the way she does, it’s exhausting to burn with that dark a fury for so long.

He told her to her face the day they landed here that this planet was a shithole. He told her he wanted to go home, that staying here was not going to pay off the way she insisted it would for them. He’s told her the same thing practically every day since in one way or another, but she shrugs it off, twists it into a joke, reassures him in that silky smooth purr that it’s not that bad, that the filth of old blood in the sand and choking dry heat is worth it for what they have become.

Stars.

And maybe it would have been worth it if they had just stayed stars like she’d originally wanted, but things have changed over the years. He hates himself for believing her when he knew, just like he always did, that she was lying. Now that goal he worked so hard to reach for them both has been ripped from his grasp, now he’s stumbling behind her again as she demands he turn his cunning towards her new target - to be Gods, and Troy’s not sure he actually wants to be a God… not on Pandora.

He’s heard enough about the deities of this place from the natives to know whatever Pandora sees as holy is something far beyond his pathetic being. Shuddered as Jak-Knife wove myth of the great flood and the hunger beneath the sands, felt nausea snake through his stomach as they described something both terrible and disturbingly familiar. The eyes. The maw.

The great hunger of the mad song.

That’s not who he is even if the thrill of fear that runs down his spine when he considers it is almost pleasure, and it’s not who he wanted to be, if he still remembers correctly at least. The Troy he wanted to be is probably dead now, another desiccated corpse claimed by survival on Pandora. The possibility of that life is gone, he thinks. He’s not even really sure if he’s alive - the Troy he became in the end.

Tyreen says “We” will be Gods when she snares him so kindly in those manipulations whispered like love. “We” used to mean him and her back when they were two parts of the same whole and Mom would remind them how that would never change, but he’s started to really question if it has.

Tyreen’s “We” now rings with the dread of something he can’t quite place.

Nekrotafeyo was beautiful. Cool, rich blues marring into the same violet black you’d catch behind your eyelids just before drifting into sleep. The sky was so many colours at sunset, and plants, animals, all living things gently pulsed with a bio-luminescence that meant night was never true darkness. 

Pandora is dead.

It’s just.. sand and jutting rocks in formations that don’t track naturally, that gave him fever dreams for the first couple of years about the things that must have shaped them. The air tastes like chemicals. The dirt is laced with oil, it’s vile. It’s sticky, ravenously hot, freezing cold, and it doesn’t want you to live on it.

He won’t rule Pandora as a deity, he can’t. It’s not made for that. 

Pandora is a tomb, and in the back of God-King Calypso’s mind, he’s pretty sure he’ll die here just like the thousands who’ve gurgled his blessed name through their last breath in honor to their Holy Father. He won’t go in a blaze of glory, those are for the good and he’s anything but, he’ll just probably be a corpse his sister uses as a stepping stone to lurch towards her divinity.

That sounds about right for someone like him, and as the years go on, as he realises Seifa is not coming back and his friends are cracking under the burden of his existence in their lives, he thinks about it more and more.

Sometimes, on those icy cold Pandoran nights when he can’t sleep, when he’s been awake days and his eyes feel like their full of grit and joints ache with every breath, he goes outside.

Sanctum is docked near the pinnacle of the Grand Cathedral, like a thorn jutting from the tower of the twin’s shared cloister. It’s so high that the screeching noise of the night city below is almost drowned out by the wind that whistles through the gothic parapets, and sometimes when his kingdom is laced in glittering frost reflecting the glaring neon of the lights that dot the streets, he scales it.

Awkwardly clambers up the side of his ship as the dead weight of that horrible arm pulls at his spine with each twist, fingers fumbling for grip in the little rivets of freezing sheet metal as he hauls his heavy, exhausted body up inch by inch till he reaches the flat of the hull and crawls to the centre.

Throws his coat down and sits on the pooled fabric, pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes, and waits as he focuses on the distorted music and crowd chatter that manages to filter from the metropolis so far below.

Lets the freezing cold air goosebump his bare skin as it leeches his warmth and creeps through the iron of his bracer, straight into his bones. Waits for his lungs to start stuttering out puffs of steamy breath as he begins to shiver under the clear night sky. Waits, and thinks about not having been born.

When he gets just cold enough, he can’t feel his broken body anymore, but he can think so clearly and he wonders if this is what it would be like. Not being in pain. Not living under the mental fog of the cocktail of drugs he relies on now just to ward off the nightmares. Not holding so much pathetic regret inside his ribs.

Not dying, that’s something else, being alive and then deciding to not be is very different and he’s not a coward. He’s not. Just… not having existed in the first place at all.

That’s not the same. That’s very easy to imagine even if you’re not a coward. 

If he’d never been born so many people would be so much happier.

Tyreen would be... whole. She’d be pure, wouldn’t she. If he hadn’t taken half of her power the way he did, she wouldn’t be the way she is now. She’s told him that plenty, how it’s his fault. All of it.  Mom would never have died. Dad would have stayed full of sunshine and jokes and love. Where would they be now as a family, them and Ty? Travelling the universe? Seeking out siren lore?

Leda wouldn’t be dead. Typhon wouldn’t be abandoned. Tyreen wouldn’t be whatever the fuck he’d helped turned her into. A monstrous god of her own making, or a sad child crying for her parents. He’s not sure which.

Troy has damaged so many people by being alive and there’s no goodness from it. There’s no payoff, no benefit. What’s the point of it? He’s broken. The power he stole doesn’t even work, so what was it all for? What’s he done bar cause pain and death just by existing?

Is that not exactly what a parasite does?

The COV wouldn’t exist if he’d never. The billions they’d affected would be all the better for it really, despite what they tell each other about “bettering” the lives of Pandora’s lost and the galaxy’s lonely. 

Eli and Ven would have found someone better to seek help from, wouldn’t they. The Oracle wouldn’t be the shadow of himself that he is now, exhausted and so sad. Jak-Knife would probably be leading their own clan, not babysitting a pathetic excuse for a man that worked them to the bone while simmering with jealousy towards how much he wished he was them.

Seifa… 

If he’d died on Seifa’s ship, where would she be? Somewhere warm and nice where when it rained the water was refreshing and not a slurry of red dust. With someone who deserved her.

He knows where she is now, a station he wouldn’t punish someone by exiling them to… and it was his fault she was there.

The back of his mind agrees that he is the crux of so much pain. He’s the one that’s the cosmic mistake.

Sometimes he’d like to ask Leda, she’d know the answer. Mom had known everything when they were small, had the answer to every curiosity or confusion from little minds, so he tries to. Whispers a question he doesn’t even understand to the stars through chattering teeth. He wishes she could hear him.

He’s always relieved when she can’t.

The cold defeats him in the end, every time. His body forces him to struggle to his feet and stiffly begin the climb back as the city below starts to quiet, shimmying slowly down the hull between handholds that bite into his icy fingers as the wind howls. 

There’s a fleeting thought whenever he’s slowly picking his way down to the entry port that it would actually be really easy to slip, and he’s surprised it hasn’t happened yet. THAT would be the kind of ending he’s going to get anyway, one stupid little mistake from a hand he can barely feel, and all that would be left of him would be a mess for some poor fucker below to clean up. 

He smirks at it, but knows in reality his traitorous wings would save him. 

The port airlock hisses open and he stumbles into the warmth of his ship every time, he doesn’t fall, he doesn’t cease, he just passes out in the cocooning dark of his bedroom.

It’s survival instinct that does it, that makes him move and forces him back inside, but he still goes outside on those freezing nights, because maybe one night... it finally won’t.

Not that he’d get to be that lucky, he’s got a cult to run in the morning, and Tyreen would never forgive him anyway.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

April Contest Submission #27: Chocolate is love.

Words: ca. 2100 Setting: canon Lemon: no CW: Borderline insanity, helplessness, regret, angst

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—

I lurch upright up to the harsh sound of pounding on my wooden door.

Door pounding. Head pounding. Heart pounding.

The steady pitter-patter of rain calms me to think. I slow my thoughts trailing with fleeting tails of dreams.

I let out a held breath and grip the bedsheets below me, my current lifeline to reality. The faint sound of thunder mocks my dreariness from afar.

My mind is swirling in subconsciously concocted memories from another existence, one where I relive the daunting past endlessly. In all my omnividence of every dream, I saw no way to avoid the inevitable. I hurt her.

Fear overwhelms me in every dream. Fear that I could not control my powers, I told myself. (Cursed with these powers—I lied to whom?) 

But I know the truth. Truly, it was frightening, envisioning an event where I could not control—my powers. Myself. Fear that I would make a mistake. Fear that I would hurt Anna.

But I know Anna loves me.

I dream of the past, a harmful, distressing past. I wake up to the present, secluded as to not relive history. But I avert my gaze from the future.

Sleep never was easy and never lasted long. Insomnia, the books called it; writers made it sound like a disease, something I could cure. Can you cure one who inflicts pain upon themself?

Initially, I attempted to prevent nights like these: Keeping the room fully lit. Asking Kai to wake me at the slightest stir. Resting my head on a stack of pillows. Being so tightly wound in furs—and fears—that I could not release myself. But sincerely, I knew that these physical actions would not be a remedy.

And, like every night, the familiar realization hits, bittersweet, like the final note of a perfectly played piano composition.

Awake or asleep, I can never escape the nightmares. 

A muffled sniff, and then repressed sob. As always, the dismal sounds originated from the figure outside the door.

Why does she come to me? I rarely spoke to her, and if ever, I drive her away. This girl lacks discouragement.

Does she know Elsa loves her?

Because I truly do. With all my heart. Not once have I stopped loving her. But how would she know?

Why do I look forward to her visits? Because I know Anna loves me. Thunderstorms, cloud, snow, and a slight drizzle—my migraine grows with my ambivalence towards allowing myself to love Anna.

She cries outside my door time after time, so often that it has always felt peculiarly familiar. And yet my dreams always manage to reflect my current state of mind, like a warped mirror would display its host in a cloudy, grotesque light. But I took it for truth. What else could I do, other than hurt people? What else could I be, other than—

The room flickered with lightning, and thunder followed—the inevitable boom and rumble, louder than the last. When lightning strikes, thunder follows. No power of man can stop this action of nature. The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside my mind, my heart. The rain, indifferent to the turmoil, poured harder, attempting to drown out the cracking noise of its older brother, thunder. Her crying continued. 

The queen, stoic, impassive, erudite, didn’t not care. I really did care, and believe I still do care. But my act must remain phlegmatic as ever, to stay strong. I shed not a single tear. Fear would lead to fragility, and I could never, would never face the shattering impact. I absolutely cannot give in. If I were to make that single mistake, consequences would follow with terrifying repercussions. Papa, is there no other way?

Conceal.

“Elsa… I’m scared,” came a trembling voice from the door—nonetheless, a voice sweet as honey, but tainted with fear. A voice as heartwarming as the fire of a blazing furnace, capable of warming an entire castle. But tonight, the fire faltered.

My sister was frightened. Presumably because of the storm. But why come to me of all people? Because we are biologically related and supposed to comfort each other?

“Please, Elsa, just let me in…”

I didn’t budge. I never did. But yet this charmingly frowzy-haired, stubborn girl was almost, dare I think, adorable. But in time, she would make her way back up to her room, undoubtedly hurt by her older sister. When lightning strikes, thunder follows.

Yet I always considered that one forbidden possibility…

I can’t. She would be even more hurt if I opened that door.

Did she want in to comfort me? Did she think I was frightened? Are her motives of selflessness, while I wanted her in out of selfishness?

But I know Anna loves me.

Head pounding. Heart pounding. Door pounding.

Anna was furious or in terrible distress. Rarely did she ever pulverize my door as she did now. My concern rose as swiftly as my ice spread across the room.

And with a resounding crack, I heard her sweet voice, corrupted with insanity.

“—this goddamn door! Elsa! Let me in!”

My concern turned into terror. Anna never resorted to such violence, not even with a slab of wood. Was something wrong? Is Anna (physically) hurt? Have I done something (unusually) wrong?

I wait. Hold my breath. Count to ten. Pray that Hell or Heaven lets me in.

I briskly stood up due to the lack of noise on the opposite side. Why is she so irrational today? My heart—bursting through my chest; my head—imploding due to my overwhelming thoughts. Please be okay, Anna.

I took a few steps away from my bed.

Head pounding. Heart pounding. Yet the door remains silent!

I quickened my pace. She needs me.

Suddenly, the most wretched sound reached my ears. Disturbed my mind. A whisper of a broken, fractured, wounded, “…please…”

And I stumbled. Inadvertently, I had tripped over my own fears and hit the ground hard. And the world darkened. Thunder chuckled.

And fear took the liberty to enter my head.

It’s hard to mask the pain.

Acting as a queen is not easy.

I push it away.

Pain.

I’m content, am I not?

The floor inflicts pain.

My head is topped with pain.

A flurry of emotions.

My thoughts bring pain.

My heart twists with…agony.

Shallow breaths. I know Anna loves me.

Days in the snow.

Memories.

Sledding over a mound.

Clarity.

The fjord where we snuck off to skate.

Slippery.

She giggles. The laugh is soft, squishy.

My feeble hands yank at my hair.

Why must I feel misery?

I desperately claw at the floor. 

Why do I partake in a horrifying state of mind?

Teeth gnashing. Breaths shallow.

Suffering.

Why do I speak when my words are blood?

I am vile.

Why do I think when all my thoughts bring pain?

Make it stop. Stop.

Why do I breathe when my breaths are knives, in my lungs, in my heart?

I beg for numbness.

Why do I live?

All I feel is anguish. I can’t take it.

Why do I love?

Screaming,

they can’t get to me,

they can’t get to me.

They can get to her through me.

It really does hurt.

Does she bring hurt?

She likes warm hugs.

I like warm hugs.

I push her away because I don’t like warm hugs.

No.

I push her away because I hate

myself.

Distress.

And a deep, choking gasp. But I know Anna loves me.

Separation 

Conceal. 

is agony.

Loneliness

Get up.

is agony.

Self-hatred 

Don’t feel. 

is agony.

Chocolate

No.

is

AGON—

No!

The eye of the storm. I splintered, wrecked, like a chandelier of ice crashing on the ground.

Tears streamed down my face. Depressingly pudding on the floor, like a storm that would not cease its melancholic precipitation. Eyes tightly closed, jaw clenched shut. My pathetic form writhed on the floor.

I did not shriek. I did not wail.

I silently shattered. I could not let her know I was suffering. Nonetheless, I needed to feel warmth from an embrace. From Anna. Do I really know Anna loves me?

For the first time in my life, I was cold.

I longed for the feel of her arms around me. I shivered. Wrapping my arms around me I shook. With the cold, with fear, with sorrow. Getting up is difficult.

“Elsa… I’m sorry for anything. Whatever I did, please forgive me.”

I speak, in my mind. If only I could tell her. You’re not hurting me. You’re the only thing keeping me grounded to the world. I’m only still living because I believe Anna loves me.

Her voice cracking, “I-I know you don’t even care about me—” a sniff, “—or if you’re even listening to what I’m saying right now.”

Anna… you couldn’t be more wrong. I care about you because…I know Anna loves me…?

“I came tonight as my last chance. To see if I was wrong.” A depressing chuckle, as twisted as a deliberately wound rope.

Her final plea at Gethsemane.

“I wasn’t.”

A long sigh. The turmoil of rain slowed, softened.

“I want the best for you. Don’t…don’t worry about me…” a sob. “I want you to live your life. Leave yourprison of a room. If you won’t see your own sister, at least…please…”

She slowed her breath, calmed herself, and controlled her thoughts and words.

“If I leave your life, will you be happy?”

No. I’m not hiding from you. I’m hiding myself from you… I know Anna loves me, right?

Selfish as it was, I needed her to say it.

“I-I know I’m a burden, and I just want you to be happy.” A breath as sharp as a knife—I hear it tainted, corrupted. “You’ll never have to see me again. Ever. Kristoff will take me somewhere far.

"And if somewhere deep inside, you do care about me…don’t feel bad for me. At least you won’t have to be hurt…”

A pound of a heart.

“…when I’m away from you.”

No. She wouldn’t leave me. I need to know if Anna loves me.

It was a struggle. Like starting a fire on wet lumber. I manage to pathetically whisper, “Please…say it…out loud.”

She didn’t hear. I need to know. I need to know before anything. 

I know—

“Know I loved you Elsa.”

A strike to my heart.

Her tears fell to the floor like blood dripping from a fresh wound. Dripping, dripping…

A pause on her end. She was waiting for something, for anything, a sign that I even heard her.

And I would not respond. What could I do? Open the door and destroy everything I had struggled to attain, nested in this room for years for?

Her footsteps receded into the vast expanse of the castle. She was a tiny speck in Arendelle. She believed she was a minute portion of worthless life in the entire world. Because of me.

And realization hit for the second time tonight. My eyes snapped open with absolute terror. For once in my life, I had to look to the future. If I didn’t act, Anna would not be there to love me. She wouldn’t come back to my room door, and I would truly be alone.

But I couldn’t move. My body was frozen. My mind was numb. 

She wouldn’t. I know Anna loves me.

Awake or asleep, I can never escape the nightmares. 

I call out, “…Anna,” but my voice yields barely a whisper. I manage to sit up. My breaths grow faster. I slowly stand up, wobbling, and manage to stumble over to the door.

“Anna.”

I know Anna loves me. A breath. I frantically jerk the door handle trying to get it open. Shove my feeble stature against the door. 

“Anna!”

I know Anna loves me. A gasp. My sister is on the other side. She’s going away. I need this door open, open please, please, please. I begin to pound on the door, desperately trying to get it open. My deranged state leaves me helpless, as Anna’s departure does. My powers fail to get past my frenzied emotions and dissipate.

“Anna!”

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—

Anna’s ears were invaded by the pounding on Elsa’s door. She would never forget that sound. Head pounding, heart wounded, tears streaming down Anna’s eyes, she ran. Ran from the desperate cries of her sister who knew Anna loved her—and she didn’t look back.

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—

The rain ceased to fall. Lightning did not strike. Thunder did not follow.

Elsa, Queen of Arendelle, was alone. Doused in pain. Cursed to suffer. Internally screaming. Frozen by distress. 

The sweet treat tastes bitter. Where there once was love, now rests…

Agony.

Door silent. Head silent. Heart collapsed.

[sonderthroughthestreets]

Splitting Universes

Here is the sobbe fic that I wanted to write for their anniversary last friday but obviously im late for it lol

Someone said that Sander said “In every universe” because it comforts Robbe with his multiverse theory and that Robbe said “At least in this universe” because it comforts Sander who believes that life is what you choose to make of it. Sooooo, here is Sander painting on Robbe’s back while talking about the universe and brown-haired Sander asking Robbe to marry him. Hope you enjoy!

“Hold still, will you?” Sander’s voice faltered into a chuckle.

He was sitting on the floor, back to the edge of the bed, legs crossed, holding Robbe as he tried to glide his paintbrush across the skin on his back. The two of them had summer break before the start of the next year and they’d somehow found themselves fooling around, dancing in Sander’s room and finally settled into a spark of an idea in Robbe’s mind to let him paint his back. His shirt was gone and he’d sunk into the floor, crossing his legs too, leaning forward instead of letting himself lean back in the comfort of Sander’s arms.

“The paint is cold. I’m cold ok,” Robbe scoffed, turning his head to try to meet his eyes with a smile. But Sander smirked with half-lidded eyes and pushed his head back into place. He let out a breath of the tiniest laugh.

It was killing Robbe not to look at him. Especially not after he grew out his hair. Sander had cut it a few years ago and let it go back to its natural brown, let the bleach blond wash out and wash away. It was terribly short then, but now it had grown out in longer locks that he just had to style every morning. Today, it was tousled in a messy-but-every-hair-was-perfectly-in-place kind of way. It looked similar to when his hair was bleached but darker roots had replaced the white wash. Some days Robbe could swear he’d seen Sander like this his whole life and others he felt like he was looking at a whole new world.

He also wished that he could see his face right now, the concentration he wore when a creative mood strikes.

“Are you almost done?” Robbe asked.

“Not even close,” Sander answered, his fingers moving swiftly, changing between brushes and colours.

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

“Mmhhh,” he mused. “It’s something we talk about a lot.”

“That could literally be anything,” Robbe pouted. He wanted to know what Sander envisioned across his back.

“Let’s talk about it now,” he dipped his brush in water. “You think that when someone makes a decision, the universe splits itself,” he said. Nothing more. Silence as Robbe contemplated.

“You’re painting me the universe?” Robbe shifted to try to look back at him.

“Hold. still.” Sander gripped his shoulders.

“What kind of universe?” Robbe pondered. He lazily ran a finger down his own palm as he awaited his answer, the fan humming in the summer heat.

“I don’t know” he smiled, though Robbe couldn’t see it. “Any universe you want.”

The way he said that made Robbe smile too. The way that when he said it, he meant all the universes, that he could have any universe because in all of them, one way or another, they were together.

“Hhmmm,” Robbe murmured in contentment. He stared around Sander’s room: the Bowie posters spread across the walls, his camera laying on his disorganized desk, papers and drawing utensils scattered, his easel in the corner, the dresser off to the side, his clothes neatly folded on the bed. The open window let the warm breeze through and the sky made everything in his room glow the softest, palest blues, greys and greens. Robbe’s eyes finally landed on his shirt discarded on the hardwood floor and he felt shivers all over again as cold paint slid on his skin.

It was moments like these where they talked some, then fell into silence, talked some more and finally fell into each other’s touch that eased both their minds. Sander was very quiet now.

“What are you thinking?” Robbe asked.

A sort of sad smile crossed his face, one that he couldn’t see.

“Sander.”

And Sander knew that tone all too well. He delicately placed a hand on Robbe’s neck, softly smiled into his hair and kissed his head. Once, twice, a third time for good measure.

“Do you remember our first night at the hotel?” he asked softly.

“How could I forget?” Robbe sighed happily. But his fingers weren’t on him anymore and Robbe actually felt heat dissipate from behind him as Sander leaned back a bit. He turned his head the slightest, hesitant to look at him for fear he might actually ruin the work on his back. Robbe waited patiently. He recognized his insecurities at play but he wasn’t quite sure of what.

“I know that..” Sander started. “I know that that night I wasn’t...but I meant every word...and I know that I asked once already...”

He was grasping for courage to say what he wanted. Robbe knew he could be ever so confident in his words, even more so in his touch, but sometimes it faltered and he saw him sheepish and insecure. Things started to click in Robbe’s mind. They hadn’t exactly talked about this since that night. At least not seriously. It was always fun banter, like an inside joke or like the continuation of an ongoing plan that may or may not ever be seen through. They were so busy living in the moment, the future had seemed so far away.

It had been

“When we get married I’m painting everything in the house. We’re not buying prints”

“When we get married?”

“We’re getting married right now”

It had been

“Mr. Driesen”

“Oh, we’re married now?”

“In my mind we are”

It had been

“Do you think I should get another ring?”

“Depends. Do you want to be called Mr. Ijzermans?”

It had been

“You’re making croques again? Marry me”

“Okay”

Laughter and kisses always followed. Comfort in agreeing a million different ways was always found. But a concrete, tangible answer was never there.

Robbe understood now why Sander had seemed hesitant and unsure with all this talk of the universe and decisions. They’d been together for more than two years now yet they hadn’t really made official plans for marriage. They were still studying in uni which meant of course, they’d wait until after, but it was never a conversation that lasted very long. While Robbe had talked about all his theories, Sander had made sure to tell him that he’d choose him in every universe. But sometimes it seemed he became overwhelmed with that many versions of them and he didn’t want to think of a world where they might not choose each other every day. Robbe shifted his legs carefully and placed a hand on Sander’s knee, feeling the fabric of his shorts cling in the heat. A signal, a sign, a plea to carry on. They could both feel a nervousness set in, their hearts fluttering in this fleeting moment.

Sander sighed.

“Robbe Ijzermans” he said. “Will you marry m-“

He didn’t even get to utter the question before Robbe turned around, took his face in his hands and connected their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss.

 When someone makes a decision, the universe splits itself.

 Sander had a lot of time the past couple of years to think of this. Robbe loved to talk about the multiverse theory, the parallel universes, and the alternate dimensions. He talked his ear off about how each can be so different and in one he’d find himself being a skater or a gamer, in another he’d find himself studying anthropology, and in another he may even have gone to an elite school. Or more so maybe he could’ve been the one studying art instead. Or how he could be in one where he didn’t meet his friends, in one where he didn’t have to miss his mama so much growing up, or one where his dad made different choices. Choices. Decisions. It always came back to that. If we all made different decisions, life could’ve been very different, Robbe had said. And once we make a decision, there are two worlds, one where you chose one thing, another where you chose different.

Whether Sander wanted to admit it or not, that scared him a lot. It scared him to think there could be a world where he continued on with Britt or worse, one where he hadn’t met Robbe. And with each decision solidifying closer and closer a world where Sander and Robbe stay together, he had wondered if living in this universe was enough. If not thinking of the other worlds and staying here together was enough. 

Robbe had soothed his worries, tapped the worry lines on his forehead, kissed his temple and had run fingers softly through his auburn hair. He had reminded him of his own theories of life becoming what you choose to make of it. He had reminded him that they were together in this universe.

But nothing was reminding him of that fact more than this kiss they were now sharing.

Sander’s fingers tangled in Robbe’s hair, now a bit longer and fluffier, his mouth softly tracing unspoken words into his lips. He felt Robbe’s hands slide from his face to his neck to grip his black t-shirt and pull them up as they both rose to their knees, a more comfortable position than before. They both let each other fill their lungs up in this hot, searing kiss, somehow both passionate and gentle. Sander breathed out as he broke apart first.

“Will you?” he teased.

“Yes,” Robbe pulled him in for another kiss. “Yes.”

And just like that a decision was made, a world was created.

Sander broke the kiss again.

“I don’t have a ring for you,” he smirked.

“I don’t care,” Robbe’s mouth etched up as he drew closer, searching his lips. Both of their eyes twinkled in an enticing, tantalizing manner. Instead Sander leaned back and smiled, standing up to get his ring from the dresser.

“Here,” he slipped it onto Robbe’s slender finger.

“Thank you. It doesn’t fit,” he snorted because sure enough, it was a little loose and sliding off his hand. This proposal was far from the real thing Sander had planned, especially since they were still students, struggling to keep afloat in the midst of studies and spending time together, but this moment was finally real.

As Sander took back the ring and slid it on his own hand, Robbe asked,

“Did you really paint the universe on my back?”

Right. He’d almost forgotten what prompted him to think about their future together in the first place.

“Come,” he tilted his head in the direction of the bathroom in the hall. He took Robbe’s hands and lead him to the mirror where he turned him around and showed him.

It was a galaxy of stars and sparkles, colours of blacks, dark purples, greens, pinks and blues all mixed into a combination of an ethereal light. It was everything Sander had been thinking about with Robbe. His fears, his doubts, his joy, his love.

“In every universe, right?” Sander entwined his fingers with Robbe as they both stared at his back in the reflection. Robbe took the time to stare at it a while longer.

“Yeah,” he said. Then he looked at Sander with dark, dilated eyes, squeezing his hand. “But especially in this universe, too.”

[magneticmage]

Drabbles again :)

~The Seawolf and her little Spitfire~

Aelynne Cousland, lanky even at fifteen, crossed her arms and frowned at her mother as she watched her release dozens of arrows into the target across from them, giving step by step instructions.

She'd been giving such lessons since Aelynne had found her own bow and brought it to her during a dinner meeting with the banns to demand to be taught at the age of six. It was well past her bedtime. Furthermore, her older brother, Fion, hadn't even started his own training since he was eight and even her eldest brother, Fergus, had barely started his at ten. Bryce, her father, had choked on his drink alongside Arl Rendon Howe's own chest-pounding sputtered protests. Bann Edmund of the Sapphire Hills had raised a brow at all of this and expressed his support of the legendary Seawolf's legacy continuing with her daughter. To her mother's shock and her father's laughter, she proudly declared that she would be more than her mother's legacy, just like her mother did with her own parent, the Storm Giant. Needless to say, her mother was rather miffed at the fact her young impressionable daughter had learned of her raider history. At least until it came out that she'd only found the bow while looking for her broken doll in her mother's things and didn't, in fact, know anything about it.

"Ma," Her gray eyes moved towards the arrows as another barrage followed, "Where did you learn that? You said ladies needed to be..." Her red brows scrunched as she struggled to recall the words and tilted her head, "'Refined and gentle and well-mannered'. Isn't this the exact opposite of that?"

Eleanor sighed and lowered the bow to fix a firm steely gaze on her only daughter, "You know I fought in the war against the Orlesians alongside your father and King Maric. I grew up on your grandfather's ship with your aunts and uncles. I learned to fight with the best of them, perhaps even better than all of them."

"So that old song is true," Her eyes gleamed like silver coins in the early light, "About you and Father?"

"Maker preserve me," Her mother grimaced and set a hand on her face, "How many of those verses have you heard, Aelynne?!"

"Enough," She hedged simply. Aelynne raised her own weapon and widened her stance. She didn't look where her first arrow went but did for the second to hit the bull's eye, "Do you think I can do it?"

The Seawolf looked up at her daughter. Hair as red as fire and eyes the color of blades with lily white skin despite the training outdoors this summer, her daughter was her spitting image at that age. And yet traces of Bryce still showed through in her posture and expressions. The bright warm smile as she sent another arrow towards its target, the power braced in her body from long hours of effort and conditioning. The easy confidence and charisma she'd used to win over everyone around her, even getting Arl Howe to smile at a few of her bold antics. She wasn't built for the battlefield, though. Her limbs were long and stocky and she would sooner climb a tree to snipe at her foe than march in armor.

Perhaps, she should add some extra lessons in close combat just in case.

Aelynne smiled at her hesitantly, "So, you don't think I can. Even Father has his reservations, it seems."

Eleanor had a sudden moment of clarity-and premonition. If she gentlly pushed her daughter away from this bloody path now, then that would be the end of it. She would go on to turn her attention to her duties and studies, contenting herself with sewing work and managing the Terynir. She would find a good lad and marry him and have children of her own. If she did support her now, the embers of her potential would grow into an inferno capable of destroying everything in her path one day. She would take to the tools of war and sea and battle like a mabari imprinting on its master. Her daughter spat fire now as easy as breathing, but once she learned to temper it, to direct and hone it....

"You'll do it." She said.

Aelynne lifted her head and beamed, and Eleanor could have sworn she felt the full heat of the future flames that would shape her into a true force to be reckoned with. The ghost of those fires' smoke clouded her eyes and she felt a strong fierce feeling growing in her breast. She couldn't tell if it was fear or pride or both. She could taste the joy and fulfillment her daughter would find on a ship of her own, hunting down other men through storm and sea alike with a crew that answered to her without fail. Perhaps, that ship would grow into a small fleet of its own. An army and Aelynne Cousland at the helm. With a nerve of steel and a temper to be feared. A beauty as deadly as it was awestriking.

But it had not yet come to pass.

The Seawolf pulled her little Spitfire to her and held her tightly, as if such an action would shield her from that future for a bit longer, "You'll do it, my girl. You've as much my blood as your father's. The Couslands are not the only warriors in this family."

Aelynne wrapped her arms around her mother, as if sensing the delicate and fleeting nature of the moment in her mother's voice. Her eyes were so full of burning passion and light already, it was almost blinding. Eleanor's eyes stung from the intensity. Aelynne told her earnestly, "I'll make you proud, Ma."

She tucked a loose strand of flame behind her daughter's ear, "I am already proud of you and that will only grow as you do. Your path is yours to carve and chart as you wish. Just remember to come home when you're done. I don't like to be kept waiting, you know. And don't forget that I love you."

Her Spitfire seemed to burn all the brighter, "I'll always remember that."

[libradusk]

5 For Fives | (2)

Chapter Title: Rusted Protocol

Word Count: 9,466 (sorry!)

Pairing: ARC Trooper Fives x Reader

Summary: You kept your word, even after it entangled you in a web of emotions you had long since choked back

Warnings: Death and injury resulting from the Battle of Kamino, Anakin smuggles alcohol to his beloved troops and they get rowdy

a/n: Its time for lots of mutual pining and the physical fallout that results from it

Chapter 1

You stayed true to your word about looking out for him.

At first it had been unintentional and you hadn’t expected to run into him again so soon, but fate seemed to have other plans to weave complications within your military career. After the events on Rishi your superiors had deemed it optimal for you to continue your work amongst the front lines. Now not only were you expected to continue your expected obligations as a knight of the order, but you were also tasked with ensuring the Kaminoans were supplied with frequent updates and reports on the 501st’s development as a unit - all in an effort to ensure both Rex and Anakin had the additional support they needed as the war effort intensified, they had assured you. Between your placement with the 501st and your long standing commitment to helping Shaak Ti on Kamino, your wartime life had fallen into a solid routine at this point - easily trumping the short-lived serenity that the military base inspections had once granted you.

It wasn’t unwelcome, you could even have stretched to describe it as providing a sense of security you had lacked before- with your role in the war demanding your constant shipment between battalions prior to Rishi upheaving everything. You couldn’t deny that being almost constantly surrounded by recognisable faces was a pleasant distraction to the fog of dread that unrelentingly constricted around your chest as of late - even though you now found your days busier than ever before.

Easing into your newfound role was helped by the fact you already knew how Rex and his General treated their boys, so becoming accustomed to the antics of the 501st did not take long at all. The war had all but torn whatever tranquillity the Jedi Order had once represented away from you by now, but it still felt pleasant to be immersed within a new form of close-knit brotherhood all the same.

Anakin had even quipped several times that you made an excellent babysitter for Ahsoka when he wasn’t around, suggesting that perhaps he should even think about transferring her tutelage to you after the war was done with. These snide but ultimately harmless comments always concluded by putting the sharp-tongued Padawan into a foul mood, or having her turn to you to stand in as the voice of reason when only your little trio was present for their spats- you found yourself feeling Obi Wan’s absence much more deeply in these moments.

But joining Skywalker’s battalion was so different to how it had been for you before. Warm and reliable, even a little unconventional compared to other Jedi-led battalions - but above all else, it felt so wonderful to fight alongside two generals that you knew valued the lives of their comrades as deeply as you did.

It was just as heartening a bonus to know that your troops returned that same sentiment to you.

Despite the newfound joys your found-family has granted you however, there remains a constant distraction pecking incessantly at the strings of your heart. As guarded as you have been trained to force it to be, it can’t help but flutter with the knowledge that, hiding amongst the ranks of brothers, lay Fives and his charming smirk.

---------

You’re in the middle having lunch with Ahsoka when you finally get to see his face again.

The Coruscant base mess hall is practically buzzing with activity, the sight of which had initially been a little overwhelming the first time the young Padawan had dragged you by the wrist for a lunch date away from her master - but by now you had become accustomed to sharing the close quarters with so many other bodies. It had been around a month since the Battle of the Rishi Moon and though the events that had transpired formally were still raw in your mind, the rest of the army appeared to, at least at a surface level, have settled back into steadfast adaptation - business as usual you supposed, though it didn’t make the thought taste any less bitter each time the memory played over your thoughts.

Your quickly blossoming friendship with Ahsoka had helped the transition back to normality considerably. She was always so excitable and eager to learn from you, yet the teen also carried a sweetness and indisputable intelligence that had made it all the more easy for you to become attached to her. In certain ways she reminded you of how you had once been - a little more naive and inexperienced and completely starstruck to be working under Master Ti for the first time. Growing up during the wartime would never be an easy experience for any teenager, but even so, you hoped it never jaded her the way you feared it had you and many of her other seniors.

It's the wave of Ahsoka’s fingertips that leads your gaze to him and you actually jump a little internally at the realisation of who exactly it is you’re looking at. Fives sits a mere few tables over from your own, seated alongside Echo - who you recognise from the hand-print staining his cuirass, as well as several other clones that you struggle to distinguish with the same ease. The young togruta in front of you senses your lapse in concentration almost instantly, quickly silencing the tale she’s spinning about Anakin’s recent misadventures with an irritated frown. She huffs as she shoots a glance over her shoulder at the distraction that you have so rudely favoured over her epic tale, the striped lekku framing her face whipping slightly with the force of the movement. You bite back a cringe at how the action catches the eye of several troopers surrounding you - noting internally that you ought to suggest Anakin to add subtlety to Ahsoka’s list of lessons.

This thought quickly dissipates as your eyes lock with Fives’. The first thing you note is that his beard has properly grown in now, it curves over his chin in what you can tell is a meticulously sculpted goatee. Normally you would consider the style ridiculously vapid - but it suits him in a way you can’t quite articulate - especially considering he has the literal same face as each of the boys sat around him. His smile is just as you remember it to be however, as he shoots it your way with sparkling recognition. For a fleeting moment Echo seems to mimic Ahsoka in the way he reacts to his brother’s own distraction, lifting his hands mid-sentence in frustrated exasperation. Though once his eyes register that there are two Jedi staring in their direction, the realisation in his squint gives way to wide-eyed panic. Echo’s palms make contact with the table so violently that it startles the man next to him enough for him to choke on his meal. Fives remains unphased by Echo’s outburst however, his attention unwavering from you even as his tightly-strung brother yells for him to stop slouching over his dinner and sit up straight in the presence of a Jedi.

A trooper sporting cobalt blue lines tattooed across his face turns to the flustered clone before you can intervene. You don’t catch whatever it is he mutters as his elbow digs into Echo’s ribs, but the comment reduces the whole table to boisterous laughter. Judging by the way Echo’s cheeks flare red, you can only assume it was made at his expense.

Even with the pandemonium erupting in front of him and the threat of being struck by a trigger-happy spoonful of potatoes, Fives’ honeyed gaze remains transfixed on you.

It's only when Ahsoka’s own incredulous expression turns to face you with a snort once more that you’re able to tear your own away.

---------

At the bequest of Anakin’s orders, Ahsoka had been banned from leaving the Coruscant military base that following evening. This of course meant that while he was out on “business” - the vague nature of which had not gone unnoticed by you or Ahsoka - he had instructed you to make sure his apprentice kept her focus on her studies and out of trouble. You hadn’t worried much, recognising that despite what protest she offered, Ahsoka was disciplined enough to be left to complete her own evening tasks - despite the few past examples that would have argued otherwise. Content with that knowledge, you had retreated to your quarters to complete the last of your own evening duties, though by the time you sent off your last report to Shaak Ti on Kamonia the evening hours had long since fallen.

You stand from the desk with a sigh, mind still buzzing with numbers and jargon. You were confident that you could still see the lines of data detailing the training progress of the 501st behind closed lids, the glare from the data pad still stinging as you paw at your eyes.

There was no point in trying to sleep just yet, not while your mind was still so alive with the knowledge of casualties and combat drills - what you needed was fresh air - that was for certain.

It was a mercifully short walk from the wing where your quarters were situated to one of the base’s exits. After navigating across the dimly lit courtyard, you slip away to the outskirts of the base, settling yourself on a stretch of banking that looked out towards the neon skyline of Galactic City.

Coruscant was a bizarre paradox of a planet - boasting a population of over a trillion and a bustling cityscape to cater to tastes across the entire galaxy… and yet its night sky always seemed so lonely as it shrouded the base each night. The stars shine coldly against an inky backdrop, distant and dying - peacefully burning out in blissful ignorance to the violence that continued to rage around them.

You almost envied them, cliché as it may be.

You remain that way for a while longer, resting upon folded legs, almost in a state of tentative meditation under the starlight. All the while your mind continues to swim with thoughts of battle and responsibility and recurring nightmares of cold, cold metal corridors that stretch endlessly sterile and looming each time you dare to close your eyes.

And then, like a lifeline, you feel it shifting through the force around you. Gilded and bubbling with a distinct energy you hadn’t felt properly since Rishi.

“Come out from the shadows, I know that you’re there.”

You don’t turn to face them as you speak, but you feel the prickle of shock that flashes through their aura. Only when the sound of a familiar breathy chuckle tickles past your ears does your gaze spin from the cityscape.

One could have mistaken Fives’ behaviour as bordering sheepish as he steps towards you, arms raised in a limp mock-surrender. He cracks a toothy grin and you find yourself smiling back despite the tenseness that has settled instinctively across your posture.

“You really should know better than to sneak up on a Jedi, what if I had mistaken you for an assassin and cut you down?” your tone is purposefully light and he laughs, daring to venture forward further, rolling out his shoulders as he does so.

“Guilty as charged,” Fives’ hands fold behind his back now as he stands to his full height, there's at least a foot between you still and you suppose it's his way of maintaining a semblance of propriety, “Guess I’ve still not quite gotten the hang of following orders yet.”

It's your turn to laugh now, the noise that leaves you is short and breathy but it appears to relax him a little more nonetheless.

“I suppose that makes you the perfect candidate to work alongside Master Skywalker then.” You stand to face him now, smoothing out your robes and nodding to the cleaning rag that is currently wedged down the side of his utility belt.

“Unless this is a new uniform protocol I wasn’t notified about, I’m going to assume you should be finishing munitions cleaning duty and not skulking around outside base - am I correct with my assumption, Fives?”

You have to bite down on another giggle as the trooper’s face flashes with panic for a second before its forced back behind a smirk, ochre eyes now gleaming with impish fortitude. You can sense him attempting to push down his hesitation as he strides to stand directly beside you now, gazing out towards the city where your own focus had rested prior. You risk a prolonged glance at his profile as he does, admiring the way dark lashes frame his eyes and cast feathered shadows across his cheekbones in the moonlight. There's an odd, but not uncomfortable silence in the moments that follow between you before he speaks again.

“There’s something on your mind to drag you out here, isn’t there?”

You note that he’s dropped the ‘sir’ honorific now and you’re not sure if it's an attempt to make you feel more comfortable, if he’s testing his limits with you or if he just doesn't give a damn.

Whatever it is in actuality doesn’t end up mattering in the slightest, because his words crack your composure all the same. Soon the words begin spilling forth without a semblance of control in sight, and you proceed to spend the next precious few hours unloading everything to him.

The futility of war, your growing disenchantment with the Jedi order and frustrations with the Republic's involvement in its affairs - hypocrisy, fear and grief - it all tumbles from where it's been forced to keep hidden for months on end - coaxed out by Fives’ patient encouragement and kind eyes. By the time your self-discipline finally catches up to snuff out the fire in your chest you feel hollow with exhaustion. Your body is all but folded in on itself as you kneel atop the banking with the city continuing to burn ever brighter in the distance behind you.

A nudge against your thigh alerts you to the way Fives’ knee is pressed warmly against your own from where he is seated beside you. The feeling is almost electric, but it is quickly strangled by the guilt that crawls over you as your senses return.

“I should not have done that,” your voice scratches from your throat and you realise that at some point during your one-sided conversation you had started silently crying, “that was not right of me - as your Jedi and… as a person you don’t know properly - it was most inappropriate and I’m so sorry.”

Those burning eyes never stray from your face, steadfast even as you duck your head to scrape a clammy hand over your cheeks. You clear your throat and move to stand, ready to march back to your quarters and await the morning, with which you will no doubt be court-martialed for inappropriate conduct and blaspheming both the Jedi and the Republic in one spectacular meltdown once word gets out.

A warm tug against your wrist halts you mid stride. The shadow of a gloved hand grips you firmly, and you follow the path of the armour that begins at its own wrist, your gaze slowly climbing over the lines of Fives’ forearm before resting on his chest - unable to meet his eyes for fear that more secrets would slip from your lips.

“But you are a person I know,” you don’t need to see his face to know that he's smiling again, it's sinking into his words like honey, “- or at least a person I would like to know, Jedi or not.”

You find the courage to meet his gaze now, blaming the utter brazenness of such a loaded statement for your change of heart. His expression is the warmest you’ve ever seen it, haloed by the skyline that now miraculously appears even further away than it had before. Another lump swells in your throat at the sight.

“This war is hell and I don’t need to be a veteran like Rex to see that much - don’t have to be an expert to know that it can’t be healthy having to keep everything you’re feelin’ locked away in the name of some order either.”

His free hand comes to settle on your shoulder. The gesture feels all too familiar to the one he gave you aboard the Resolute after Rishi and you’re stunned to silence with the fear that if you were to answer him, you would begin to cry once again. Fives’ thumb runs tenderly over your shoulder blade before he squeezes it comfortingly, his smile stretching to a thin, pursed line as he appears to retreat into his thoughts for a moment afterwards.

“Anyway, considering us clones are literally engineered to withstand emotional trauma, ‘least I can do is lend an ear to the person that helped save mine and my brother’s lives on Rishi, eh?”

He says it with such frivolous conviction that you can’t help but shake your head in disbelief, but a smile finally fights its way back on your face once more.

“You’re bizarre Fives, wonderful but bizarre.”

He grins so widely at the comment that you’re surprised it doesn't reach up towards the tattoo on his forehead. He lets go of your wrist to shoot you a haphazard salute and your own hand curls around it to replace the lost contact, as if trying to preserve the warmth his palms provided.

Stop it. Your mind all but screams at you in warning. You know that attachment is forbidden.

But for the first time in forever you decide to push the voice back, filing it away amidst the rest of the baggage that has yet to crawl its way out. It sparks a contrasting mixture of solace and apprehension in your gut that you’re not sure you’re ready to confront, but choose to embrace anyway.

It ends up being the first of many nights you spend cloaked under the Coruscant night together in the weeks that follow, serving as a secret respite in which you don’t need to be a Jedi knight and he doesn’t have to play the part of a soldier.

You are just yourselves: two companions framed by the glow of Galactic City, and that knowledge is as liberating as it is utterly terrifying - though it is never enough to prevent your hands from edging closer together still with each night that passes.

---------

When the time called for your return to Kamino you found yourself missing your midnight rendezvous terribly. As wonderful as it felt to be reunited with Shaak Ti - and the validation that came coupled with knowledge that she had personally requested your assistance - you had hoped that your return to the aquatic planet would have provided more of a distraction to your feelings, as they continued to grow more troublesome the longer your feet were planted on Coruscant soil.

Kamino at first glance did indeed grant you the neutral, reflective space you had hoped for, with its sterilised atmosphere and focus on regimented routine. In an idealised reality this would have concluded by leading you back to your senses once more - ensuring your return to conforming to the Jedi belief that your role left you with no room for attachments, the same conduct that had been rooted within so many others before you and would continue long after you were gone.

But it became quickly apparent that your heart and ingrained principles were locked in a war of their own. Try as you did, it seemed that no matter how often you meditated, how hard you pushed your training or how much time you dedicated to aiding Master Ti with her research within the cloning facility, the rawness of your emotions refused to cooperate alongside your conscience.

The fact that the night sky across Kamino seemed so dull compared to Coruscant’s only helped strengthen your yearning to return to the urbanised planet - regardless whatever indifference you had once painted it with.

Though by now, you knew deep down that it was pointless to attempt to convince yourself that homesickness for the planet was the main target of your pining.

You can only hope that he misses you too.

---------

It isn’t until months later, amidst the threat of another Separatist invasion, that you get to reunite with the 501st once more. It's almost poetic in the most ridiculous way, with how it's the droid army that drags you together again.

Master Ti seems to sense your growing anticipation from the moment you both receive the news that it's the 501st that are being deployed to strengthen the blockade.

“You are not guarding yourself well enough, young Jedi.” Her tone is stern, but it's laced with gentle concern as you both walk towards the airfield. The sky is sombre and overcast with navy bunches of clouds, they hang forebodingly over the platform where Kenobi and Skywalker are currently occupied unloading their troops. It takes effort to fight back a sigh of frustration as you peer at her from the corner of your eye. You can feel her glancing back against the confines of her own periphery.

“You have no need to be nervous. After all, you have fought alongside the clone army countless times now, have you not?” the edge of her robes brush against you as she edges slightly closer, the fabric billowing elegantly with the wind. A serene smile graces her features and it contrasts starkly with the quizzical expression the Prime Minister sports as he leers at you over the peaks of her montrals.

“The 501st know your strengths as you know their own. Your anxiety has no place amongst allies and friends.”

You force a smile in her direction, nodding absentmindedly before turning your attention to the bearded General striding towards you both, Skywalker in tow close behind him. The pleasantries exchanged between your groups are mercifully brief, with Lama Su dictating most of the course of conversation with the Jedi. Everyone seems oddly calm given the circumstances that Kamino currently faces, but you can’t deny that it is nice to see the familiar faces of the two men once again - though you can’t help the twinge of disappointment that flickers as you note Ahsoka’s absence between them.

It's eventually decided that you are to be stationed within the cloning facility, to protect the key route towards the barracks from the inside. The irony of protecting the process responsible for commodifying your living troops isn't lost on you, but you continue to bite your tongue the same way you had been for what seemed like eons now, and make haste on your retreat back towards the base after dedicating best wishes to each of the generals. It is going to be a bloody battle and you’re confident that everyone around you can feel it too. There's an unease penetrating the air of the base and you catch yourself scanning over the waves of men as they begin to fill the monochrome hallways. It is impossible to not wonder how many will lose their lives just to ensure that more of their brothers can be spawned to replace them while their armour still held warmth.

It's during that miserable train of thought that you finally feel it again: a familiar marigold warmth that bubbles and spikes through the force with an intrepidation that you know can only belong to one particular person. You’re drawn to it like a bee to nectar as you weave through the sprawling hallways.

This time it's Fives’ turn to be surprised as you slip easily behind where he and Echo idle as they happily wave off the shrinking figure of an elderly maintenance worker. The bearded trooper visibly startles at the call of his name, almost hurtling his helmet at the back of an unlucky droid’s head in the process. Echo instantly stiffens his posture in your presence, though the chuckle he bites back at his counterpart’s expense does not go unnoticed by either you or Fives. The sourness instinctively tainting his face quickly dissolves as he turns to face you, that signature smile creasing across his features in its wake. The trooper appears almost dazed as he exclaims your name breathily, as though your very presence has knocked the wind from his lungs.

Echo shoots him a flabbergasted expression in response, clearly past the point of correcting his brother for his lack of decorum. The thought alone pulls a chuckle of amusement from you. You find yourself almost lost for words for a moment then, as amidst the happiness it dawns on you just how much you have missed the 501st, how much you have missed Fives.

So much for not forming attachments.

“I take it you’ll be fighting alongside us again then, sir?”

The answer to Fives’ question is so obvious that you elect to let Echo’s facepalm answer it for you. The way his ears tint pink at the comment betrays the confident smirk that has yet to fade from his lips. It paints such a charming picture that you can’t help but laugh a little louder at his detriment. Surprisingly, it only seems to stretch his grin wider, that same rosy hue flaring across his cheeks in tandem with it now.

“I’ve missed that sound.”

His voice is uncharacteristically small this time, so much so you’re not sure the thought was intended to be spoken aloud. You’re grateful that Echo manages to distract Fives with a well aimed elbow jab to the armpit - right where the armour cuts off - because you’re certain that after processing that comment your face has flushed a colour to rival his own.

“Di’kut! You’ll get yourself court-martialed if you keep speaking so improperly to every General that talks to you!”

Fives seems largely unphased by his brother’s fretting, simply cocking an eyebrow at the uptight trooper before shooting you a quick knowing look, nursing his new injury all the while.

The two of them certainly paint a colourful picture with their interactions, it's a beautiful contrast to the barren ambience of Kamino.

“I am not your general, Echo,” your tone is soft as you step closer to the pair, “I ask that you think of me as a fellow soldier-in-arms, as your brothers do - at least for this fight if nothing else.”

Your smile wilts as you glance past the two men to take in your surroundings once more, noting the abundance of young cadets being shepherded in formation through the crowded space - each of their expressions resolute, yet still hinting towards the fear you knew dwelled beneath them. There's a pregnant pause before you force yourself to speak again, but neither of the brothers make any move to interrupt.

“I’ve spent countless months on Kamino throughout this war, I’ve helped Master Ti to train hundreds of your brothers and I’m sure that I’ve produced enough reports to put the entire Kaminoan government to shame by now.” Your focus wavers as you mull over the words on your tongue, head now clouded with more unpleasant truths than you were prepared to speak of, “I suppose… this place is as much my second home as it is yours at this point.”

The last of your words hang hollow in your throat. How many of their brothers had you seen born here in two short years? How many had you overseen the training of, only to stand back in complacency as they were shipped off as cannon fodder before they even had the chance to develop a proper personality?

All in the name of duty and war.

The anxiety permeating across the base suddenly begins to buzz so loudly that it deafens you.

“With respect, sir - we appear to have lost you.”

Fives taps his knuckles against your own so subtly that you truly only register it when his aura is close enough to wrap around yours. It's just enough to ground you back to reality and as a deep breath pushes itself from your lungs, you finally notice the set of concerned golden eyes locked on your own. His face is trained in a look he's given you all too often by now, but under the sharpness of the lighting it makes your blood flare with hot, fresh shame.

---------

The battle itself erupts quicker than anyone in the base expects, and it soon becomes all too apparent that Grievous and his forces have plans that extend beyond just an aerial assault on the blockade.

You had been ordered by Shaak Ti to remain strictly within the cloning complex and to concentrate on protecting the branching pathway that led towards the cadet barracks, though as things currently stood, it seemed that the majority of the action was taking place on the upper levels. By now the entire building was under lockdown, its previously monochromatic hallways now dark and looming, bathed only in the bloody flow of the emergency lights. The dulled atmosphere tightened your senses considerably, and through the blaring of the alarm system you could make out the sounds of combat erupting in the levels above you, as well as the screams of your men as they fell. Your grip around your saber hilt tightens until it's almost painful and you attempt to focus on the sensation to quell the pounding instinct to climb up to the upper floor and join the fight there yourself. There was a shortage of manpower across your particular sector, so you knew the importance you held in remaining as their main line of defence.

The rhythmic sound of metallic footfall halts you before the urge truly vanishes, dominating even the scream of the alarm in your ears. A sizeable squadron of droids approaching from your northern flank, you deduce. The sounds of combat are almost deafening at this point, only seeming to increase in pitch with each pulsation of the alarm above you. It all makes it incredibly difficult to get a clear sense of exactly how many droids you’re faced with, or what equipment they are sporting. You trust your competency in battle enough to see you through the majority of them, cutting down battle droids was nothing new at this point after all - but with the nearest troopers occupied with holding down the barracks hidden further down the base and evacuating the cadets stationed there, you’re painfully aware that if things were to go south the way they had on Rishi, your chances of rescue were much slimmer.

A grenade detonates atop the overlooking bridge and the resulting force is enough to shake even the ground beneath your own feet and send a cloud of smoke rippling down through the ceiling. You steady your stance, unflinching even as the grip on your weapon bites your knuckles white against the skin. Your heart thumps to the beat of an army’s march within your chest, the sound counting down to the second you’ll be forced to pounce.

It's at that moment that another set of footsteps echoes throughout the crumbling hallway that branches off behind you. You whip around towards its source, igniting your saber and slicing through the billowing clouds of dust and duracrete particles. Your heart drops to your stomach the moment a terrified group of young cadets come into view. The one closest flinches at the bright glow of your weapon, its light casting across his face and highlighting the shimmer of fresh tear tracks marred across his cheeks. The rest of the group are clustered behind him, herded together like lost lambs trying so desperately to dress themselves as brave wolves in the face of danger.

The clanking grows ever closer as you stare at the children, a lump hardening in your throat at the sight of them before it is replaced by a hot rush of fury.

They will not die here, you will not allow it.

You silently gesture at them to keep moving, praying to the stars that the path down the corridor would give way to more of their older brothers with the power to spirit them away to safety.

Run. Please for the love of the maker just run and don’t look back - you are children, not heroes. You can only hope that your stare brands the thought into their minds as you raise a rigid finger to your lips, each and every muscle wound tight with queasy apprehension.

Your posture slacks slightly with relief as the cadets file away down the passageway despite the flash of reluctance that threatens to halt their movements. One of them, the shortest of the group - an oddity that would consider him a malformation by Kaminoan standards - glances back over his shoulder at you as he runs. You attempt to smile in response - grateful that the distance and poor visibility means that he cannot see the tremor dance across your hands as you raise your stance once more.

A sea of glowing eyes pierces through the murky corridor the second the cadets are out of sight. You inhale deeply and attempt to calm your mind and ease the blood thumping in your ears until only one thought continues to echo through your mind like a mantra: the less of them that make it past you, the more chance your troops have of fending them off. The barracks are no doubt their prime target and you’re all too aware that the Republic defence is spread incredibly thin across this section of the base. Cornering the defenceless and the young is low, even for the Separatists. The thought fuels the force behind your wrist as you jerk to cleave into the durasteel coated wall beside you, nerves snapping to attention and priming themselves for battle. The footsteps and phantom lights halt as the sound of your saber tearing across the surface ripples through the air, accompanied by a crescendo of molten amber and sparks as you step slowly forward - all in an attempt to create as much noise and attract as much of their attention as possible.

The metallic bite of adrenaline fills your mouth as you leap to cleave into the first droid, it takes mere seconds after that before the scream of the alarm is drowned out by the sound of blasterfire.

---------

Fives’ head continues to spin even after the barrack’s air supply runs clear enough for him to remove it from the confines of his helmet. It had been a hard-won victory over the Separatists, the state of the base, as well as the numerous body bags littering the compound were evidence enough of that. His heart ached with the knowledge that 99 had sacrificed his life to assist him and his brothers, yet the pain twisted deeper still knowing that the elderly clone’s life would no doubt fade into obscurity alongside his thousands of fallen kin before him.

His ears are still ringing despite the ceasefire and he’s pretty sure there’s a bruising lump forming where he had hit his head dodging a stray bolt of enemy fire. At least now he could fully appreciate why Rex was so fond of his helmet, though his tattoo would likely need retouching where the skin had split on impact.

More pain, great.

Beside him the cadets he and Echo had taken into their care marched with thinly veiled excitement, the adrenaline still fresh from their first taste of real combat. It was difficult for Fives to return the shy grin one flashed at him with the sterile glare of a freshly laid shroud framing the background behind the boy. Maintenance droids had stacked the corpses like dominoes against the walls and try as he might, it was difficult for Fives not to see it as a macabre premonition of things likely to come for the young soldier. The helmet under his arm felt more like a lead weight now.

Fives knew as well as any other clone that they were bred to fight and die for the glory of the Republic - that there was no choice but to make peace with the fact they would always be seen as mere numbers by both their creators and enemies alike. But there was something that sat uncomfortably cold behind his subconscious as he watched the cadets, barely tall enough to wield the blasters they had been given earlier without struggling, jive and stumble alongside each other amidst the bodies and debris that littered their path.

Perhaps his favourite Jedi and their frustrations over the commodification of his brothers’ lives had rubbed off on him more than they should.

The panic didn't set in until his group passed through a forked corridor, its walls sporting the telltale scorch marks of a lightsaber blade that had prompted a particularly outspoken cadet to speak up. His voice is disturbingly calm as he mentions that it had been thanks to a lone Jedi that he and his squadron had managed to escape safely. The comment is delivered in an almost offhand manner that only serves to spiral Fives’ thoughts downwards as he recalls you mentioning where exactly you were being stationed before the fight had begun.

Fives’ anxiety increases tenfold as his eyes meet with the sheer carnage splayed amongst the walkway. Droids of varying models lay dented and bisected, scattered and still smoking in places across the metallic graveyard. The floor beneath them is so marked by blasterfire that his footprints leave sooty marks as he navigates around them, the taste of blaster residue hanging bitter on his tongue.

There are almost as many as his entire team faced at the barrack’s entrance.

He can hear the heaviness of his breathing even without the helmet amplifying the sound.

“There doesn't appear to be a body amongst the droids.”

Echo’s statement may have sounded hollow by anyone else’s standards, but Fives could quickly deduce the intention behind his brother’s statement, even with the visor of Echo’s helmet obscuring his face.

It did little to ease the dread poisoning his heartbeat as he continued to will himself forward towards the exit of the facility.

There was blood mixed within the oil that stuck to his boots.

---------

He can barely hold back a shaky laugh of relief when he spots you across the airfield. You’re propped up atop a pile of supply crates that are currently functioning as a makeshift medical bay, the more severe battle casualties being loaded onto the ship directly behind you.

Echo is scarcely able to stop him before he takes off running the entire length of the platform it takes to get to you, hissing all the while that they should both hurry to regroup with Commander Cody and Captain Rex who no doubt had already finalised their own reports to their Jedi Generals - his concerns remain unheeded.

Any protocol sewn into his mind is quickly pushed aside the moment your face comes into clear view once more, your name slipping past his lips alongside a thankful prayer that you’re alive and in mostly one piece.

You’re clearly worse for wear after what Fives assumes was your one-man show against a droid squadron: your clothes are singed with blaster fire and your entire body appears to slump with a heavy fatigue, chest still heaving from the strain of battle. Fives can't help but recoil backwards slightly as his eyes wander to the large bacta-dressing that Kix has just finished applying to your shoulder.

“Slippery droid clipped my bad shoulder and I took a few more shots as a result - but I’ll be fine, it's nowhere near as bad as what I took on Rishi, I can promise you that.” you smile up at him and even with Kix’s tattooed head obscuring half of the expression from his view Fives still thinks you look beautiful, the way the Kaminoan sunset bathes your skin in its glow only serving to quicken the pace of his heartbeat even further. For once in his life, Fives is lost for words. He's only able to shake his head in awestruck disbelief, relief and affection manifesting in an exhale that carries the bundle of emotions across his entire body.

“Yep, nothing good ol’ bacta can’t fix.” Kix’s voice rings triumphant as he pulls back from his work, clearly pleased with the notion as he gathers his tools from atop the supply crate next to him. Fives’ eyes catch yours as you flash him a knowing grin, eyes twinkling with undeniable mirth despite the exhaustion clouding them.

It takes every ounce of his self restraint to hold him back from kissing you right then.

Ironically enough it's also your voice that grounds him back to reality.

“You really should go and report to Rex and Cody, Kix mentioned that they were looking to tell you something important.” A nod of your head alerts Fives to the cross-armed figure behind him and the realisation that Echo has been standing there impatiently the entire time.

“Besides, Echo looks like he’s about ready to implode with how long you’ve kept him waiting.”

---------

It was honestly surprising to find yourself back on Coruscant so soon after the Battle of Kamino’s conclusion, and at Shaak Ti’s orders no less. You were certain that now of all times she would need your continued assistance, at the very least for the cleanup process if nothing else. Yet despite it all she had been insistent that the 501st needed you more, having noted with an uncharacteristically wry smile that there were now two new ARC troopers she needed a report conducting upon and that you were the perfect candidate to fulfil her request - and you certainly weren't going to argue with her any further after that, lest you read too much into it.

The 501st wasted no time in celebrating Echo and Fives’ promotion to ARC trooper status. The doors to the barracks had barely sealed shut before they had begun to parade the boys and their new armour around the crowded space. It sparked a sense of relief in you seeing them gallivanting around with boyish glee, clearly intent on making the most of what leave they had been granted. Hopefully it provided some updraft to their morale following their efforts to defend Kamino, they had all certainly earned it.

Rex had even dipped his boots into the festivities, making a lighthearted jest when you pointed out how the boys’ new armour components contrasted so blatantly with their older, more battle-worn kit. The captain claimed that they would soon grow into it the same way they had with their “shiny” uniform on Rishi (though he did lament the lack of Rishi eel blood to stain Echo’s armour with this time around). You vividly recall having to swiftly duck out of the way as someone spun Fives around a little too suddenly, resulting in the collision between his new pauldron and an unfortunate trooper sending the latter man stumbling your way. Rex hadn’t been as fortunate, and you were positive that the look his face sported as he found himself flattened to the ground would continue to make you laugh for as long as you remained alive - not that anyone would ever get away with bringing it up again.

You had a suspicion that the bottle of liquor the boys had passed around after Rex had left was smuggled in by Anakin himself, and you had made a note to blame him for the universal groan of disappointment that followed when you politely declined the invitation to share it. Hardcase was especially apparent with his dismay, practically throwing himself at your feet in protest.

“But you’re an honorary member of the 501st! You have to drink with us!” he had sloshed the bottle towards you as if he were a drunken senator emphasising his point to an equally inebriated audience. You were certain your clothes still smelled faintly of sunfruit liquor in places where the rowdy soldier had splashed you with it.

You also didn't miss the way Fives’ molten gaze had followed the stray droplets that had landed on your neck, nor the way he licked his lips as they cascaded down your collar.

You excused yourself for the night shortly after that, reminding the men to behave as best they possibly could as you did. You all knew that wouldn't be the case - they needed to let off a battalion’s worth of steam and had every intention of painting Galactic City red with the force of it.

Sleep continuously evaded you even long after the last of the troopers dragged themselves in from 79’s. You made the decision to take up post at your usual spot overlooking the city skyline, seating yourself upon the banking with an amused smile and a rare sense of contentment running through your veins. The chill of a passing breeze prompted you to pull the thick covering of your cloak closer to your body, its material providing the only warmth besides what little your sleepwear did. You hadn't bothered to change before wandering outside, confident that you would remain undetected as you always did - with the on-duty guards too preoccupied with ensuring their drunken brothers didn’t wake up the rest of the base with their shenanigans to concern themselves with a sober Jedi minding their own business. The murmur of hushed voices below you steals your attention moments later and you can just about make out the figure of a trooper as he leans in to kiss a blue-skinned twi’lek goodnight. You raise your eyebrows at the sight, a knowing smile stretching across your face despite there being no one with you to share the secret with.

Or so you thought. A fumbled curse echoes through the shadows and your heart leaps for a second at the sound, hands twitching automatically to your waist until you realise who it is that is responsible for it.

“I’m honestly surprised you’re lucid enough to come and find me, Fives.” You hope that your lighthearted tone hides the self consciousness that comes with being found in your sleepwear with little more than a cloak to hide behind. If he's clocked on to your embarrassment he doesn’t show it, his attention locked onto the bottle between his fingers as he stops to take a particularly hearty swig of it. You don't bother to hide your laughter as he almost stumbles over a loose rock while traversing towards you, though a surprised shriek almost tears from your lungs once he gets close enough that you can make out what he's wearing.

“Where in the kriffing hell did you get that?!” the pitch of your question rises to a quiet scream between bubbling laughter as you attempt to muffle yourself behind your palm.

Fives stands before you in his tight-fitting blacks, sans armour but sporting the addition of a very threadbare and crumpled civilian jacket that you know for a fact he didn't get from the base. He blinks a few times before raking his eyes over your own figure and tilting his head shamelessly at the sight. Heat flares across your cheeks at the gesture and locking eyes with him reveals that he’s really quite coherent despite what your first impression suggested otherwise.

“You talkin’ about the liquor or my disguise?”

He strikes what you think is meant to be a seductive pose as he angles his head and peers at you from behind his lashes, grin glinting under the starlight.

What an absolute buffoon this man is. You must be in love.

“I’ve never seen you wear that before and I hope I never have to see it again! That thing looks like it stinks.”

He slaps a hand over his chest in mock-offence at the scathing critique, but the stupid lopsided smirk he wears gives him away instantly.

“I’ll have you know, sirrr-” he drawls out the honorific almost mockingly as he leans closer towards you before attempting the sentence over again, “I’ll have you know that I washed this fine garment by hand in 79’s refresher myself!”

He looks so proud of himself as he says it that you can’t help but feel another swell of ridiculous affection bloom in your chest. You shake your head in disbelief and somehow he seems to take it as an invitation to join you, lowering himself inelegantly into the spot beside you. Both of your knees touch together, as they always do - but without the layer of armour his body seems to burn as it presses against your own. It's not an unwelcome sensation by any means.

Fives nudges the half-empty glass bottle towards you eagerly and you grasp hold of it with a sigh. It’s surface feels surprisingly clammy to the touch and it makes you wonder just how long he's been nursing the drink before seeking you out.

“Persuaded the cantina owner to bet it on an arm wrestlin’ match.” the explanation rolls off his tongue with ease, as though he was merely describing the weather. A snort escapes you at the absurdity of the thought.

“And the jacket?”

He bobs his head for a moment, brow trained on the ground as he appears to mull over his options for an explanation. He settles on capturing you with a smug expression as a gloveless finger taps against the side of his nose, eyes gleaming with tipsy glee all the while.

“Now that is a secret I will take to the grave. But what I can tell you is that our distinguished Captain does a terrible job of checking the barracks, ‘cos I’ve had this little number stashed away for weeks.” He slaps the surface of his thighs to mark an end to the anecdote before rocking against you, a wicked grin sliding over his face as he does.

“Now are you going to finally join me in celebrating my promotion or what?”

You scoff in good humour before raising the bottle towards your lips, Fives’ focus flickering between your mouth and eyes as you do.

“Unbelievable. You are truly the most unique man in this army Fives, I don’t think I’ll ever meet another person like you ever again in my lifetime.”

The liquor burns as it slips down your gullet and your lips continue to buzz even as you choke back the last of the mouthful. It's certainly not sunfruit flavoured and you splutter pathetically for a moment before recoiling backwards to glare at the offending bottle.

“Stars above! Are you sure you weren't duped into drinking speeder fuel? I can hardly feel my lips now!”

Fives has to plant a hand into the ground beneath him to support the belting laughter wrecking through his lungs. You can feel the vibration of it rattling across your own body with the way he's curled up against you and it feels wonderful, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of entertaining his mockery. Instead you childishly jab your fingers into his ribs, a giggle slipping past the reaches of your own smile as he lets a squawk of protest at the intrusion.

It's then that you realise that somewhere amidst your laughter you’ve both ended up lying on the ground. Fives’ face twists into a pout when you lift a finger to his lips to quieten him.

“Shhhhh, what would Echo think if he caught you sneaking alcohol to your disciplined Jedi knight?”

Your smile is twisted with challenge as you whisper, the alcohol settling into a warm buzz across your stomach and mind now. He cocks a dark brow in response and you feel his bottom lip twitch under your touch.

“I think that Echo is passed out in his bunk - alongside the rest of the 501st.”

A shiver passes through you as the heat of his breath wraps around your digits. It's still not enough to make you relent.

“And why exactly are you not with them? I expected you to come back in an even worse state than they have, especially considering it's meant to be your big night too.”

His expression drops to something warmer then and the way he looks at you makes your heart pound ever more loudly in your ears.

“...’cos I wanted to make sure I was sober enough to come ‘n see you.” He murmurs in a voice that seems small and ill fitting for the Fives you know, but it still makes your pulse skyrocket as it reaches your ears. He’s staring at you so intensely now that you aren’t sure you can just blame the alcohol for making you feel so vulnerable. There’s a charged silence that falls between you as he slowly reaches to curl his fingers around your wrist and guide your hand from his face. With the barrier between you snatched away you feel even more naked than before, but a glance over his face in the close proximity reveals he’s blushing just as deeply as you are.

“Wonder what General Skywalker would say if he saw his fellow Jedi knight fraternising with his own ARC trooper?” his tone is still playful, but it quivers slightly and gives away just how nervous he is beneath the bravado. The grip he has around your wrist flexes as you shuffle closer towards him in an act so bold it threatens to catch you off guard.

“Anakin Skywalker owes me for covering for him far too many times as it is.”

That certainly wasn't a lie, but your conviction was at least enough to shake a chuckle across the stiff slopes of Fives’ shoulders. You catch the way his Adam's apple bobs with anticipation for a moment before he leans in even closer, lips practically brushing your own as he speaks,

“Well I suppose we’re as guilty as each other then. A perfect match, I’d say.”

A tilt of your head is all it takes to finally close the gap between you both. Your mouth slots against his own with a desperation that encompasses the months of yearning and unspoken affection that had been brewing between you for far too long. He groans in satisfaction against your lips before threading his fingers in a hold across your jaw to pull you almost bruisingly close. It's all you can do to fist your hands in the material of his blacks as the air is stolen from your lungs, clawing at his chest as his tongue dips hotly against your lower lip. He tastes sharp and smoky with the remnants of the liquor that sticks to his tongue - and in that moment you decide that it has suddenly transformed into your favourite taste across the whole galaxy.

You’re convinced you’ve branded him with a piece of your very heart because it aches when you’re forced to pull away, the need for oxygen finally too overwhelming. Fives looks awestruck as he stares back, breathless and dumbfounded for a beautiful moment before he pulls you close again, narrowly avoiding knocking your foreheads together as he laughs with such delight that it almost brings a sentimental tear to your eye.

“Wow, just… wow,” his voice is giddy with happiness, “I've dreamed of doing that forever, never dared dream it would ever be as amazing as that though.”

You let out a snort of air that morphs into a chuckle as his nose scrunches in protest at the sensation.

“I’m not sure if I should be offended or take that as a challenge from you Fives.”

You capture his lips once more, effectively cutting off whatever snarky response was brewing behind them. He melts into the embrace, the hand that cupped your jaw now grasping the back of your neck to keep you locked against him - he needn’t worry, for you’re certain it would take an entire army’s force to ever pry you from his hold again. His other arm winds itself around your waist, the gesture carrying a sense of security with it that soothes the weariness netted in your muscles. A sigh is coaxed from you as his kisses drift to mark a clumsy pattern across your jawline and neck, the roughness of his goatee grazing your skin and leaving a prickle of goosebumps in its wake.

“I love you,” the confession vibrates against your flesh, Fives’ face searing with heat as he tucks it in the crook of your shoulder. His heart hammers against his rib cage as he curls around you,

“call me naive or drunk or - or whatever you want, but it's true and I mean it.”

You can't help but try and tug him closer still as adoration flutters over you in golden waves, swearing that in that moment even the barren ground beneath you seemed to ripple with the force of it.

The bottle lays long forgotten off to the side of you both, the last of Fives’ winnings trickling stickily over the edge of the banking to sink into the cliff side below.

[priorireverte]

Congratulations Hollie!

Your application for Remus Lupin has been accepted. I adore how much potential there still is to this Remus. He may be an old soul, but how much has he really lived? It isn’t going to be an easy time having that second chance.

Please look to the checklist for the next steps and reach out if you have any questions!

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME & PRONOUNS: Hollie. She/her

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: varies, but i tend to post multiple times a week

ANYTHING ELSE: tw body horror involving living things

CHARACTER DETAILS

NAME: Remus Lupin

BIRTHDATE: March 10, 1960

DEATHDATE: May 2, 1998

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Male, He/him, pansexual

BLOOD STATUS: Half blood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

OCCUPATION: Returned

FACECLAIM: Hugh Dancy

CHARACTER BACKGROUND

POSTBELLUM

Survivors guilt was bad enough even before somehow returning from the dead. He has no idea why he gets to return when so many others don’t get the option. Even worse Remus  feels guilty for feeling guilty. He should be grateful for the chance to come back. Grateful for the few things that had been returned to him. Especially, if nothing else, for the opportunity to raise his son. A son that doesn’t even remember him, and (with no job or magic) he can’t even provide for. Yet another hurdle to overcome. Then there’s that bitter part of him that manages to feel angry, somehow grieving his chance to escape the pain that has always ensconced his life. Loss, at least, he managed to numb himself to. He only wishes he could numb himself to the wolf. Neither marauders nor wolfsbane had ever been enough to numb him to that. Death would have finally been an escape,  a chance at freedom. But somehow, just like everything else, even death had been denied him.

PERSONALITY

On his surface Remus Lupin is a calm and collected man with a good sense of humor. He comes across as the bookish sort, and while none of this is an incorrect assessment, there is far more to him beneath the surface. No innocent bystander in his friends’ childhood schemes, Lupin has plenty of a mischievous side of his own. Very often it was his contributions that allowed some of the Marauders’ grander ideas to even become a reality. There is also a lot of self deprecation to the man, as well as a constant need for control over himself. The nature of his condition makes it important for him to control his image, and beyond that he struggles to distinguish in his own mind between himself and the wolf, especially when it comes to any flares of temper. Shame, regrets, and guilt all weight heavily on the man. He is many layers of complexities, none of which feel any easier with his return from the grave.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY

Growing up was difficult for Remus, given his condition. His parents did everything they could for him, but they were constantly moving and he was unable to have any friends. Remus was closest with his mother, likely due to the strain caused by Lyall’s guilt regarding Greyback, but both parents cared deeply for their son and would have done anything to protect him. His mother passed first, and he stayed in contact with his father, but eventually he passed away as well. The only family Remus now has remaining are his son, and the mother-in-law who has been raising him. He can only be grateful for what she’s done, but guilt eats at him that she has to be witness to his return when her own daughter is still lost.

HISTORY

Until Greyback’s attack Remus had grown up with starry eyed ideas of what it would one day be like to go to Hogwarts, just like his father. Dreams that were quickly snuffed and replaced with nightmares that literally tore him to pieces on a monthly basis, and left him and his family with no hope that he would ever get to become a proper wizard or anything more than a monster prowling beneath the skin of a frightened boy. It was Dumbledore that brought those dreams back to life, giving Remus hope once more. Hope he clung to and was terrified of ruining if the secret of his condition ever got out.

While at Hogwarts, Remus managed to find friendship in the Marauders. A friendship that was hard won at first, but Remus was far from immune to the magnetism of these wild boys that drew out the parts of Remus that he hid behind innocent features and a bookish demeanor. The Marauders discovering his secret was a rollercoaster of emotions from fear to elation. The discovery only brought the boys closer, and Remus would have done anything for the other boys. Even to the extent of sometimes keeping quiet to some of their worst antics when he shouldn’t have done so. But through thick and thin, they had become as tight knit as any family.

A family that did their best to weather leaving Hogwarts. A task that would have been difficult enough had they been any normal kids setting out for the first time on their own. But the war wore them thin. Loss and desperation took over their lives as they fought the oncoming evil of Voldemort, washing them in pain and brewing distrust among their numbers. His own missions with the wolves leaving no room for any attempts at darning the threads of their lives back together. It was always the thought that things would get better after the war, but by the end of it he was the only one left.

Remus disconnected after the war. For some time the pain was too much and he allowed it consume him. He got by from job to job, only just skimming through life. He wasn’t really aware of when he managed to surface from it all, perhaps it wasn’t ever really anything that happened all at once. It was slow and gradual, and he didn’t even notice until around the first time he was able to take wolfsbane for the full moon. He wasn’t able to obtain it for long due to price, but it brought him up for air just long enough for him to realize he was no longer drowning, even if you couldn’t properly call it living.

Becoming a professor was a bittersweet thing for Remus. A proper job, access to wolfsbane, getting to teach Harry. All of these things gave him some small spark of joy that was hard to come by. But Hogwarts was also riddled with memories, joyful memories that had been tainted with pain and betrayal. Then that betrayal flipped and convoluted, a friend regained and another lost for a second time in a way that turned his entire life upside down. He was unable to keep his job, and a war that should have been over was looming over them like a pack of dementors trying to drain until they were left with nothing.

The war was a time of great confusion and turmoil for Remus. So many painful memories were brought to the surface by it all. All of this was supposed to be finished, and the loss was supposed to be done. But the hits kept coming. He found comfort with Tonks, but even that couldn’t just be simple for him. He wasn’t right for her, and he shouldn’t put her through being with him. He fought so hard to try to do what he thought was right or her, but in the end he had been convinced.

Convinced and stupid, because he became too wrapped up in finally having something that he wanted that he’d become careless, and Tonks had become pregnant. No one would choose to bring a child into a war, but it was done and he was so afraid of what would happen. His fear both times caused him to make foolish mistakes that cost him precious time with the woman he loved. Time he should have known better than to waste, but he thought he was doing the right thing when really he was just afraid. He returned in time at least to see his child born and have that precious little time as a family. Time that was so very fleeting.

OOC EXPLORATION

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

I love the concept of the plot and how it provides a bit of chaos for all the characters to contend with. There’s a lot of room for both joy and pain, as well as a whole spectrum of other emotions. Regarding Remus I’m looking forward to dealing with everything from his survivors guilt, raising his son, getting back one of his best friends, as well as dealing with new losses and other challenges.

[septic-skele]

US - For Want of Love

Summary: When Sans heard that he was going to be a big brother, he was absolutely thrilled. Of course, that was before the new sibling stole everyone's attention and affection from him.

When Sans had first been informed that he was going to be a big brother, he was nothing short of thrilled. With another child in the lab, all of the adults would realize just how mature and helpful Sans could be.

No longer would he be the one told that he was “too little” for important jobs! At long last he would be the one to fetch Gaster’s steaming, sweet-smelling drinks, without being babied and told that he could have burned himself. He would be the one to stay up late, get more sweets, grow into cool new clothes—and naturally his new sibling would have no choice but to admire him for all the things he could teach them! He had so many secrets to share about the world.

They would be a sort of…personal assistant, he decided, to prove how cool and independent he could be. With the new arrival being small and silly and inexperienced, Sans could win the trust, thanks, praise and affection he deserved. Not to mention that with them around, he would have someone to play with when the adults were too busy with boring science things.

Of course, that was before Sans had realized that his new sibling was one of their boring science things. The day that his dad had given him permission to see the little one, he had practically flown into the lab, eager to introduce himself as the more magnificent sibling who would show them how it was done.

It was rather anticlimactic to introduce oneself to a squishy, discolored cluster of half-formed bones floating in a tube.

Was that really what Sans had looked like once? He was forced to fight off an uncertain scowl at the thought. Given that he couldn’t remember ever looking this gross and helpless, he could only conclude that he had come into the world with all the necessary components right away, walking and talking and—well, actually having a proper face. His sibling was the anomalous one. Even its soul looked odd, nothing but a fist-sized lump that shimmered weakly amidst the bubbles.

Everything changed when he reached out to knock on the glass. Before his knuckles could make contact, a sharp smack to the dorsum swatted him away.

“Did I give you permission to touch?” Gaster reproached. “Look with your eye sockets, not your hands.”

“Ow, Papa!” Sans protested, more startled and offended than hurt as he clutched his hand protectively to his chest.

“Don’t disturb the maturation chamber.”

That would only be the first of the many scoldings he received in the coming days, not just from his father but from the other adults Sans had once assumed to be his friends. His plan of becoming the one they could rely upon was backfiring splendidly; no matter how he tried to offer his help, it went wrong.

“Sans, we can’t get this done with you underfoot.”

“Please, go play somewhere else.”

“Sans, we really don’t have the time.”

“Hey, put that down! It isn’t a toy!”

“Not now, Sans, we’re very busy.”

“Ask someone else.”

“Quiet down!”

“Don’t you have other ways to occupy yourself?”

“Shut the door behind you!”

It would have been hurtful enough if that was all they said, but whenever he managed to duck into the lab unnoticed or he got scooted to the corner out of their way, he couldn’t help but overhear all of the remarks they made about his new sibling. “Fascinating,” they called it. “Intriguing. A breakthrough, a wonder of science.”

How could it be? Sans wondered irritably as he was steered out of the lab yet again. The lump of bone in the chamber didn’t even do anything special! A few days ago, the only will it could muster was to twitch a few malformed fingers and all of the doctors rushed about making notes and breathing sighs of delight and relief. Some of them had even applauded the little thing and it didn’t even have a full mouth to smile or thank them.

Whatever happened to the days when Sans would get a pat on the skull for pushing the door open on his own, or the times the lab assistants would cup his cheekbones and coo over his starry eyes and sparkling smile? He couldn’t remember the last time any of them had smiled back. These days they were all stressed and skittish and snappish with him and even with each other from time to time, but they treated his sibling as if it was spun from glass.

In his free time (which he had quite a lot of, now that nobody wanted to acknowledge his existence) Sans had taught himself how to perform a cartwheel. It was much more impressive than whatever the lump was doing, he fumed as he thumped his forehead against the empty breakroom’s observation window.

Maybe he wouldn’t tell any of them that he’d learned—not even Gaster. Maybe he would keep it to himself until he could do two or three cartwheels in a row so that when he eventually demonstrated, they would see how much of his coolness they had missed out on.

His eyelights burned faintly at the notion that followed. Maybe they still wouldn’t care, even if he did tell them. There was no telling when they would have time for him again.

The lump had even taken bedtimes from him. Sans had gotten to stay up later, just as he’d wished, but in his soul he knew it was only because Gaster had forgotten that he needed to be put to bed. One night he had peeked into the lab once to see his father slumped over in front of his sibling’s chamber, skull bowed wearily against folded hands.

Sans couldn’t quite tell if he was asleep or simply thinking so he had crept in quietly, hoping to request a proper tucking in and a bedtime story.

Stumbling in the darkness and knocking over a pile of folders on the nearby chair was a sorry way to get his attention. Gaster had startled and lunged out of his chair in an instant, eyelights flaring.

“Sans! What are you doing in here? You—Oh, now look what you’ve done! Those took us weeks to chart and file and you’ve—”

“I-It was an accident! I’m sorry, Papa, I just—I wanted—” he stammered, huddling down to scoop up the nearest fallen papers. Gaster had sighed harshly as he approached, kneeling across from him.

“Never mind, never mind. I’ll take care of this,” he groused, a trifle less sharply, but Sans could still see the frustration lurking under his dark-rimmed sockets. “It’s late, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I just…” Sans had gulped as he watched him. Gaster’s attention wasn’t on him; he was peering down at the scattered notes, muttering to himself. Shoulders slumping, Sans had crept away and let him be. All he cared about was clearing away the mess.

If Sans had nightmares that night, he would never admit it. Gaster hadn’t been at breakfast to inquire of him anyway.

With an exasperated whine Sans thumped his fists against the window for good measure, earning a few pointed glances from the scientists within who were distracted by the noise.

That didn’t matter. What mattered was the chamber where his sibling sat in the spotlight and did nothing exciting. It was a little bigger now but the more it grew, the uglier it seemed. Couldn’t they see how wrong it looked, limp and reedy and angular? Its soul still hadn’t changed a bit, a misshapen, twisted flicker of fragile light with half a dozen tubes latched onto it. Why the tubes were there, Sans didn’t know, but they didn’t make it any more flattering.

Jaw set, Sans glowered at it, hoping it could sense it through the glass.

“You’re stupid,” he muttered. “You’re stupid and horrible and I don’t want you anymore. It’s your fault everyone’s been so mean to me. Why can’t you just go away so everything can be how it was before?”

 ______________________________________

His sibling was sick.

His sibling was very, very sick.

His sibling was…

Sans had startled out of a fitful sleep to the distant sound of alarms ringing and his father’s booming voice. When he scurried from his room and to the lab entryway to find out what the problem was, he had discovered them all clustered around the chamber—the normal state of affairs these days, he mused with a fleeting huff—but the frantic flurry of snatching hands and scrambling feet was unusual. Once he registered the bare, open panic on his father’s haggard face, he knew something was truly wrong.

“Papa?” he called out fearfully as he gripped the doorframe, going unheard as one of the assistants piped up urgently:

“0.9 percent, sir!”

Gaster spat a curse that made Sans flinch in disbelief, but he didn’t have time to vie for his attention again. Another alarm began to wail as the bones in the chamber began to lurch and judder to and fro. It was the most Sans had ever seen them move, but nobody was applauding anymore. It seemed to strike the fear of stars into them; everyone began hollering over each other.

Beyond the blaring of the monitors, it was hard to make out everything they were saying, and even then most of it was scientific chatter that he couldn’t understand. All he heard were snatches of “integrity,” “HP” and “still dropping.” When strung together, that alone was more than enough to make his eye sockets go empty and his knees fall weak.

“Sans? Kid, you can’t be in here! You gotta stay back while we get him stabilized!” someone had commanded as they barged past him, shoving him away with a weighty hand. “Don’t look! You don’t need to see this!”

The door slammed, muffling the chaos within, but it didn’t matter now. What he had seen and heard already was enough. Trembling, Sans backed away until he hit another wall, his head reeling. He knew what HP was; it kept monsters alive. It spurred on the beat that he felt under his soft nightshirt right now, drumming faster and faster.

If his sibling’s HP was “dropping,” wouldn’t that mean…?

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

On legs that would barely support him, he made his way back to the window, eye sockets huge as he watched his father—their father struggle with foreign tools to coax a spark back into the sputtering soul in the chamber. Sans’ own soul threatened to drop out of his ribs when he made note of the chalky discoloration in the maturation fluid. Dust was leaking from his sibling’s deformed marrow.

He had vaguely heard of what happened when monsters died but seeing that, here, now—yet despite the older monster’s warning at the door, he couldn’t tear his stunned gaze away.

Stay back while we get him stabilized.

“Him.”

Sans’ vision blurred at the realization. He had a brother.

That was his little brother down there, leaking real-life dust, with their stoic father sparing real-life tears over him even as he barked orders at the others to help. His brother, who hadn’t yet gotten any chance to touch his feet to the ground, smile, eat sweets, do three cartwheels or be tucked in at bedtime. If Gaster and the others couldn’t light up his soul again, he might never, ever…Oh, stars.

Choking on a violent sob that came without warning, guilt and horror burning down his cheeks, Sans flung himself against the glass, the same glass where he’d said those awful things. He had done something truly evil; he could see that now. Out of nothing but anger and jealousy, Sans had cursed him. He was killing him now with his cruelty!

“I’m sorry! Brother, stop it, please! I’m sorry!”

Everything happening right now was his fault; his brother was only doing what he had said. Sans hadn’t felt wanted because of him; now he’d made that little soul feel the very same. He was only a baby. How was he to cope? His will was too weak; that kind of pain was too much for him to bear!

“I didn’t mean it like this; I didn’t want to hurt you!”

Was he listening anymore? Could he hear through all of the sirens and the shouting? Could the dust listen? When Gaster sparked his soul again, it jumped, heaving with tiny sparks of green healing magic before guttering to gray. Sans moaned at the sight, tears smudging the windowpane.

“No, no, don’t do it…Please, don’t go! This isn’t fair! Light up again, please. I want you to stay! I-I’ll share everything with you! I don’t need it all to myself, I need you too! Papa needs you! We’ll love you, I promise! We want you here!”

I want you here.

I didn’t mean it.

I’m sorry.

I’ll love you, if I get the chance.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Somewhere along the line he dropped gracelessly to the floor. His tears blinded him to whatever was happening down there—and regardless, he could no longer bear to look for the moment the little soul shattered. He hid his face against the carpet, trying to smother the terror away.

It was Gaster who eventually woke him with a hand against his cheekbone. His fingers were shaky with exhaustion but he persisted. “Sans? Are you alright?” he croaked, thumbing at the old tearstains he found on his cheeks. He wasn’t certain how much Sans had seen, but after Gaster had been treated to the full, harrowing experience, he needed some contact with his elder son.

Gradually Sans stirred, foggy eyelights swimming into view. As soon as he registered his father’s presence, he tensed and trembled, fresh moisture rimming his sockets.

“My…b-brother,” he hiccupped miserably. He didn’t want to face whatever unknown these next few minutes held. “I love him, Papa, I swear I do. I don’t want him to go…”

A bitter taste filled Gaster’s mouth. Sans had seen more than he should have, then. Futilely Gaster had prayed that his boy had slept through the emergency, peaceful, innocent and unaware. With a wavering sigh he bent further down, gathering Sans up against him. His soul sank at the whimper Sans let out, face buried against the soft jumper that replaced his stained lab coat. His small hands dug into Gaster’s ribs, clinging as if to make sure he was real.

When was the last time Gaster had held him? In the anxiety and stress of these last several weeks, he could never seem to find the time.

“He’s stable,” he murmured, repeating it once more to convince himself. “Your brother is stable, Sans. He’s alive.” Wordlessly Sans sobbed and shook his head, clearly unbelieving as Gaster nodded toward the window. “Look. You can see for yourself.”

“He…There was dust everywhere,” he murmured pitifully. “His soul wouldn’t glow…”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, son, not about this. Look at him.”

Patiently, motionlessly, he endured the several seconds it took for Sans to summon his courage and turn his head toward the glass. His breath hitched.

Amidst tubes—more than a dozen now—and a trail of bubbles, a fist-sized lump glimmered, casting soft, amber-tinged shadows on the floor around its chamber. For how much grief and effort it had taken to claw its essence back to the living world, it now looked strangely peaceful. Perhaps he was sleeping.

“…He’s not sick anymore?”

Gaster’s shoulders slumped at that, though he did his best to keep his tone neutral. “I’m afraid he’s been rather fragile since he was conceived. I can’t pinpoint why. It’s simply the way he manifested. We’ll need to take very good care of him in the days to come.”

“We?” Sans’ head lifted. “I can help?”

“Once he’s old enough to leave the maturation chamber, your help will probably be the most vital for him. In part, you will be responsible for his experience of this world. He will need your guidance. He’ll need your spirit and your strength to lean on every day.”

A few beats of silence passed as Sans processed this, eyes fixed on the delicate soul. At last he sniffled, wiped his face against his father’s jumper and allowed himself a tiny, tearful laugh. “He’s not blue like I am.”

That wasn’t what Gaster had expected him to say, but he addressed it regardless. “No. Until now, I couldn’t predict the primary color of his magic. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

“Mm-mm…it’s okay. S’good that he’s different. He’s a…a ‘wonder of science.’ Isn’t he?”

“As are you, Sans. With hope, time and care, both of you will live to be truly extraordinary people.”

[bastardsunlight]

The world was cold, being alone after escaping an Asylum. So many days had moved by, surely weeks now. Months perhaps, since freedom? Time had all began blurring together after that fateful evening deep within the mental institutions basements. That strange man that had claimed so many impossible things, told even more wild tales, arrived in a crater, had been the first person in quite a long time to truly become a friend for the woman simply known as 'Blue'. The most coherent and enjoyable to hold a conversation with, enraptured by the tales he could share. While many of the doctors there had never believed a word he said, let alone the name, 'Raiden', the woman had. Younger years of being obsessed with history or mythology, instead of dinosaurs or horses, helped surely. But still, she had been locked up too.

In the end? It had been a brilliant plan. For him to escape, incarnate somewhere else, from killing his physical body. The blue blood had gone everywhere, along the metal floors, walls, her clothes and bandages... But the cost came at her being horribly treated for the actions that came after. Locked into isolation and tormented for weeks on end. Blue did not regret a moment. Until finally released for her wandering once more... But the healing of her injuries, the cuts she inflicted on herself- they all healed, over and over. she couldn't stop it. and sometimes she could feel more than she could see and had no idea just what was happening, what she might be becoming. So... Now she planned. More clarity in her mind than before, an understanding, despite her anxieties and depressions. It had been late one night when she escaped, into the dark. And she never stopped running.

But now the dirty blonde had wandered so very far and wide, long since having lost track of locations. Working with what she could, and hiding where needed. Her blue hoodie dirtied and tattered. Brown jeans ripped and torn, while boots too big for her held on with several extra shoelaces. No idea just where she was, needing to keep moving. No where felt safe. Not with the history under her belt. not even a home with family, with how she'd been treated, abused, then abandoned into the asylum. And then running for her life... Between each place of temporary respite she kept getting moments of odd understanding of the world under her feet. Like she could almost hear it in a way, and sometimes odd things kept happening. Moving faster than should be normal, jumping further than any physical body should, taking hard falls like they were nothing. Feeling some odd power tingle at the ends of her finger tips and threatening too burst, until she bit down on her lip, and bunched the hands in fists to hold whatever it is in. Blue was confused, lost, scared, and yet driven by some unknown new lit fuse within her soul, despite even the moments of self inflicted harm or thoughts of taking a final dive in some lake. It never left, and she never stopped.

One hand wiped some dirt from her face while rain had begun to fall, a distant rumbling of thunder echoing somewhere far off as an indication of turning weather. Blue's legs jogging to find nearest shelter, a rock hanging or hole in the ground, anything. She was not picky considering. Anything was better than going back. Maybe this was a good omen... Soon as she found herself slightly sheltered under large over hanging tree branches, the woman had too pause in thought. Fingers flexing as she started to feel the tingle once again, but didn't stop it. It was middle of nowhere what could it hurt? so... she let it flow free, the air tingling as hair began to stand on end. Little sparks of various colors flickering about her hands- until something happened. Her hand jerked from a sudden shock, causing her to fling this raw chi outwards- and explode in a deafening crack of just sheer energy, not even of any element. Ears ringing as Blue waved her hand and hissed. "Not again, not again. Nope."

In truth, Raiden had not known how his body would react. He knew there was no mortal means of killing him, but his control had slipped, so badly, in fact, that he was mildly disoriented for a few seconds upon completion of the corporation process. Being incarnate, walking amongst mortals, appearing (mostly) human, was something he had always done, something which had come surprisingly naturally to the white-clad lord of the skies. After all, what was it to guard a people whom he did not know?

That being said, they were still mortals and their lives, so fleeting—they were a breath into a gale, little more, in the grand scheme of things—were often beneath his notice. This was not done purposefully, or felt out of any malice toward them. He loved humanity, else he would not have taken up the post of Earthrealm’s protector. Rather, his mind worked on such a scale that it was often difficult to relate to them and their individual struggles. Appearing as a mortal himself had softened his presence among them, but no one was ever fooled into thinking he was one of them.

Then sorcery and semi-divine meddling had sent him crashing to earth in the yard of a so-called mental health institution. On principle and with his understanding—as much as an entity like Raiden could understand—of human history, he had known mortals were capable of great cruelty. Long-lived as they were, the people of Outworld were also mortal and their viciousness, it seemed, knew no bounds, on occasion. Earthrealmers were no different.

He had never before found himself asking if it was worth the effort, sacrificing good people in Mortal Kombat, just to keep Shao Kahn out. On one level, the more realms merged, the closer they all came to having never existed in the first place. Should the One Being awaken from its dream state, it would not be wholesale destruction, nothing so grandiose as annihilation—not a bang, not even a wheeze or a whimper. It would simply not be. But Orderrealm and Chaosrealm were filled with demons of immense strength who could make the same deal with the Elder Gods as Raiden had done and hold their line forever.

As he gained his bearings and manifested properly, that is, clothed, he did contemplate these things. No longer, he thought, will I masquerade as one of them. They will know what I am and they will fear it, accept it, or stand aside. He strode forward, seven feet tall, eyes ablaze with divine light, white hair dancing in loose curls about his shoulders, dark brows knitting at the center of his forehead, and jaw tight. He had one more thing to do.

A bolt of lightning crashed down as he stretched one hand upward, summoning it, and he was instantly transported to the place where his friend—his savior; she had saved him—was huddled, pleased it was no longer the asylum, but fully intending to visit at some point, and instantly evaluating her physical state.

“You have something of mine.”

[klove0511]

The Only Way Out

Author: @klove0511​ Artist: @dwimpala-67​

Genre: Angst Pairing: Gen Rating: G Wordcount: 8108 Warnings: Major Character Death,  hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean, ghost!Sam, canon divergent after season 1 Summary: What if Sam had been the one left in a coma after the car accident?

Fic link: AO3

Art link: Tumblr

The world felt heavy, wrapped in wool and weighted to hold him down. Dean came to slowly, aware first of the sluggish response of his limbs, then more distantly aware of pain when he moved them. A steady, irritating beep told him he was in a hospital just as surely as the sterile smell of cleaning products or too white light over his bed. He struggled through the fog of opioids to remember what he'd done to land him here. What had they been hunting? Why was he alone? 

A glance at the window told him it was early morning, with the sky beginning to lighten and clear enough to promise warmth later. Still, the room was medical-building-chilly, and Dean was grateful for the blankets keeping him warm.

He felt his thoughts drifting, trying to piece together what had happened. Dean always hated when they put him on the really heavy pain meds because it became a struggle just to think. He didn't know where Sam was, but the fact that he was absent was concerning enough to cut through some of the haze. Dean remembered the last time he'd woken up in a hospital, after the rawhead incident, and Sam had been there nonstop, except when he couldn't be. The cops had pulled him out of the room for questions, the doctors had shooed him away to let them poke and prod Dean in peace, and one nurse in particular had enforced the hospital's visiting hours to make sure Sam went back to the motel long enough to get some sleep. But all of that had been after Dean woke up. Sam should be here, now. So where was he?

Unfortunately, the fog of the drugs was already pulling him back down into sleep, no matter how he fought to stay awake. A burst of cold from the air conditioning made him shiver, and as he drifted off he swore he could hear Sam saying he’d stay until Dean woke up, though he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

 When Dean woke again, the sun shone brightly through his window, warming the room almost to an uncomfortable level. A nurse was taking his vitals, and he was pretty sure she said something about going to get a doctor. Maybe. Waking up in a hospital was worse than a killer hangover.

He grayed out for a minute, but when he was able to refocus, he was already feeling clearer than the last time he’d been conscious. The nurse was back with a dude in a lab coat, who Dean assumed was a doctor.

Dean didn’t bother waiting for the doctor to ask him anything. “Where’s Sam?”

The doctor didn’t answer the question right away, which annoyed Dean. Instead, he replied with a question of his own. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” He’d meant it to be sarcastic, but judging by the reactions he got from both the doctor and the nurse, that was pretty close to what had landed him in the hospital. That knowledge did nothing to lessen the anxiety he was feeling over Sam’s continued absence. Already feeling sleep pulling him down again, he tried once more, wishing he didn’t sound so much like he was begging. “Please, where’s my brother?”

This time, the doctor took pity on him. “Your father is visiting him now.”

 John listened to Sam’s doctor explaining the extent of his injuries with only half his mind. Sam was lying in the hospital bed, broken beyond repair, and that was all he needed to know. He was going to lose his son, but the demon's plans for Sam were over. He was ashamed to admit there was a sliver of relief in the chaotic emotions running through him. At least now Sam would be safe, and John’s worst fears could be laid to rest.

But beyond the fleeting relief and acceptance, there were the beginnings of grief. More than anything, he wanted a drink or four, but he couldn't do that yet. Later, he would drink himself into oblivion, but first he had to tell Dean. He grimaced. Dean was going to be devastated and telling him was going to be painful. At least John was being granted a reprieve from that duty for now, as Dean still hadn’t woken.

In the meantime, he had business to attend to, and while he hated himself for feeling this way, he was grateful for the distraction. He took one more look at Sam’s still form and murmured, “I’m sorry, son.” Then he pulled out his phone and pulled up Bobby’s number as he exited the hospital.

 At the junkyard an hour later, John sifted through the wreckage, looking for the Colt. He could feel Bobby’s eyes on him, but he was doing his best to ignore his friend.

“What are you doing out here, John?” Bobby asked, his voice less accusing than it could have been.

John didn’t answer immediately, but he stopped what he was doing, too. “I’m looking for the gun that’ll kill the thing that killed Mary and put my boys in the hospital.” He wondered, briefly, if his voice sounded as dead as he felt inside.

Bobby scoffed at his answer. “Hell, I could have done emptied the car. Those boys need you to be there for them right now.”

John swallowed down irritation at Bobby presuming to know what his sons needed. He was a good friend, but this was an old argument between them. Bobby had always tried to step in and be the father he thought John failed to be. “Didn’t want to put you out like that. Besides, they aren’t awake yet. No reason I couldn’t do this myself.”

Bobby paused before answering, and John wondered if there was going to be more commentary on his parenting forthcoming. Luckily it seemed there wasn’t going to be when Bobby said, “What do you want to do with the car, then? Don’t seem worth a tow.”

John extricated himself from the wreckage, having found the gun he was looking for. Taking a step back, he surveyed the twisted remains of the Impala. “It’s Dean’s now. I say tow it to your place until he’s ready to work on it. And if he doesn’t want to fix her up, then scrap her.”

Ignoring Bobby’s silent sympathy, John walked away from one of the last remnants of his life with Mary and toward the rental car that would take him back to the hospital and Dean.

 By the time John arrived, Dean had declined most of his dinner—opioids made him nauseous—and talked himself down from two panic attacks about Sam. He'd gotten the nurse to confirm that they had, in fact, been hit by a truck, and now that Dean thought about it, he was pretty sure he remembered the sound of breaking glass. Once he started to access the memory, he could remember bits and pieces from before the accident—his dad possessed by the demon, Sam shooting their dad in the leg, feeling woozy from blood loss. Piecing together his memory was the only thing that kept him distracted from thinking about Sam, until his dad appeared in the doorway.

His dad looked haggard, weary in a way Dean hadn't seen before. He was on crutches and sported some impressive bruising, but seemed uninjured otherwise. 

"Good to see you awake, son," he said.

"You too, sir." Dean swallowed nervously. "How's Sam?"

His dad's face morphed through half a dozen emotions before settling into careful neutrality, and the bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. "Sam is in a coma. It’s bad.” 

Dean breathed slowly, deeply, fighting the panic that had been hounding him all day. "He's dying." When John didn't answer immediately, Dean spat, "Isn't he?"

John’s face was a damn mask, revealing nothing, and his even tone was no better. "We don't know. The doctors say they've done all they can, and it's up to Sam now."

Dean nodded, then rasped, "So what are we going to do?"

John was silent for a long time. Too long, in Dean's opinion. "We aren't going to do anything, Dean."

“What?”

John’s face darkened. His dad didn’t like being questioned, but Dean didn’t understand. He knew that finding a legitimate healer was a long shot, but Sam had done it. He’d even done it alone; Dean hadn’t been in any position to help, and John sure as hell hadn’t been around. The two of them together, maybe with Bobby’s network to help, had much better odds of finding a hoodoo priest to lay some mojo on his brother.

 John had left angry, but Dean was furious. His dad wanted to “let nature take its course,” which was a load of bullshit. They had access to resources the doctors didn’t, things that could save his brother. They might normally hunt most of those resources in the name of the greater good, but this was different. This was Sam.

Dean sat in a wheelchair by Sam’s bed, trying not to stare at the bandages around his brother’s head. He shivered, remembering the doctor listing off Sam’s injuries.

"Sam suffered a severe blow to the head during the accident. He also sustained several broken ribs and crush injuries from the steering column. We repaired the broken ribs with pins, and we placed a chest tube to reinflate his right lung, which had been punctured by one of his ribs. We were also very concerned about the degree of brain swelling, and during surgery we removed a portion of Sam's skull to help alleviate the pressure."

Dean stared at the tubes practically covering every inch of his brother and tried to imagine part of his skull missing underneath the white bandages swaddling his head. Sam was going to be pissed when he woke up. They'd shaved his head to do the surgery. "How's he doing now?"

The doctor shook his head. "He has remained unresponsive, which is not an encouraging sign, but he's stable at the moment. That said, he is a fighter. Most patients would not have survived even this long with his degree of injury. "

Of course he was a fighter. He was a Winchester.

The doc had been sympathetic, but all Dean could focus on was the idea that Sam was a real life Humpty Dumpty, and try as they might, the doctors couldn’t put him back together again. He needed more than they could offer, and that wasn’t considering the possibility of long-term complications from his injuries. He needed a miracle. But it was perfectly, explicitly clear that John wasn’t going to help and didn’t condone Dean wanting to intervene. He didn't know how he was going to do this behind his dad's back, but he would. He'd find something.

Maybe, if he managed to find something innocuous enough, his dad would come around and help. His gut clenched, and he knew he didn't really believe it, but he could hope. He wasn't going to lose his brother again. 

He believed that about as much as he believed the flickering lights in Sam’s room were due to bad wiring.

 As soon as Dean was released from the hospital, he went to Bobby's place. The Impala was there with all of their stuff.

All of Sam's stuff.

Dean sighed, surveying the car. It was a mess, the frame twisted beyond recognition.  The driver’s side was crushed, and the door had been cut away to give the rescue team better access to Sam. There was dark staining on the seat that he knew had to be Sam’s blood. He looked away, throat tight.

He’d fix the car eventually, but the reason he’d come had been to grab his stuff and pull out anything he thought might be helpful in getting Sam back on his feet. His laptop was toast, and the Colt was gone. According to Bobby, John had come by yesterday and retrieved some gear, then taken off again. They both assumed he was back to chasing the Yellow Eyed Demon. Nothing like revenge for a son he hadn't even officially lost yet.

Heading inside, he grabbed a couple beers from Bobby's fridge. He found the hunter in his study, flipping through one of his dozens of books on the supernatural. "Thanks for bringing Baby here," he said, dropping into a chair. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon sunbeams coming through the dirty windows, drawing Dean’s attention back out to the yard where his mangled childhood home sat.

Bobby looked up, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "What are you planning, idjit?"

Dean grimaced, wishing the older hunter couldn’t read him so well. "I can't leave Sam like this, you know that." He took a long pull from his beer and swallowed nervously. "I was hoping one of your contacts might know something."

" 'Bout the demon?" Bobby said cautiously.

Dean shook his head. "About a healer. Or a white witch or hoodoo priest or something. Anything that might help."

Bobby ran his hand down his face, stubble rasping as he rubbed his chin. "You know that's a long shot at best."

Dean studied the condensation gathering on the bottle as he picked at the label. "I know. But I gotta do something. He's my brother." He looked away, unwilling to watch Bobby pity him as he said, “Dad won’t help.”

Bobby watched him for a moment, then apparently saw whatever it was he was looking for because he replied, "We'll figure it out. How long you staying before you head back?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Not long. He's stable, for now, but the doctors—" 

When he didn't finish his sentence, Bobby grumbled and said, "Yeah, I know. Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you want. And before you say it, I know. You're not leaving him in that hospital by himself. I'm just saying my house is open, all right?"

Dean slumped back in the chair, some of the tension gone from his shoulders. "I talked to the doctor today about getting him transferred to Sioux Falls. They didn't love the idea, but they agreed to it when I said he'd be closer to family. Might be able to happen in a couple days, if—"

Bobby cut him off. "Then give me a call when you're on your way back, and I'll clear out the guest room. Don't think it's been used since the last time you boys stayed with me. And, in the meantime, I'll ask around about healers. Let you know if I hear something."

Dean's nod was small and tight; relief wasn't going to come until he had a lead to follow, but it was still nice to know that Bobby was in their corner. 

 Dean stood in the doorway to Sam's new room. He was still on a ventilator, though most of the bandages had been removed that morning. Sam was pale, gray tinged, and a far cry from the California-tan he'd been just a few months ago. In the week he'd been hospitalized, Dean could tell he was already losing muscle mass. If Dean managed to pull this off, then Sam was still going to have a long road ahead of him before he was back to normal. But at least he'd be alive, Dean reasoned. 

He was greeted by a cool breeze when he crossed the threshold and finally entered the room, like every other time he'd come to visit. It didn't matter how many times he asked the staff at the old hospital, the temperature in his room was perpetually freezing. The idea of the problem following Sam across state lines made his stomach turn. 

The plastic chair creaked when he settled in, and he tried to ignore how Sam's shaved head made him look like an alien. The problem was that, like a train wreck, he couldn't look away. Finally, he sighed and said aloud, "Damn, Sammy. I cannot believe you were right about that hair all this time." He shivered, and he would have sworn the temperature dropped another couple degrees, but he kept talking. "I know I gave you a lot of crap about it over the years. But you were absolutely right. You look better with long hair. And I don't mean that just because you're a giant girl." He paused, waiting. When nothing happened, he mentally kicked himself. Of course nothing happened. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't a ghost; he was a dude in a coma. 

"Anyway," he continued, "I found a spell that’ll work, but, uh, I don't think you're gonna like it." The lights and monitors picked that moment to flicker, and an alarm sounded that brought the nursing staff running. 

Dean stood out of the way, watching tensely as they did their job checking Sam, his equipment, and the monitors. It wasn't the first time it had happened during a visit, but it never stopped being nerve wracking. What if something important shorted out this time? It was one of the reasons he had worked so hard on getting Sam transferred up to Sioux Falls General. Now it was happening here too. The twist in his gut kept telling him it wasn't faulty equipment that produced the shorts, but he refused to believe it. Sam wasn't dead, damn it. 

It's better this way.

When the room had cleared out again, Dean resumed his position in the chair by the bed. "Like hell this is better," he muttered to himself. He sighed and scrubbed his face. "Like I was saying, I found something in one of the books I grabbed from Bobby’s before you got transferred. It's a spell, for binding a reaper." 

The temperature in the room plummeted until Dean’s breath was ghosting in front of his face. No.

"I know," he said, his voice gruff and quiet. "I don't like it either. But I have to do something. We know this works. And, yeah, we know the cost, so I'll figure it out. I— Whatever I might be willing to do, I know you would never forgive me if I saved you at someone else's expense. I'll figure it out, ok? Maybe it can target a monster, or something, yeah? Something we'd be killing anyway?" 

Nothing from the peanut gallery. 

"Fine, be a bitch about it. I won't do the spell." He ground his teeth together, hating that he was giving in to, what? A broken air conditioner? "Not unless I'm out of options. Ok, Sam?"

The lights flickered, but none of the other equipment was affected this time, thankfully. Dean took it as agreement, and he left to hit the books again.

 The next day, he got a call from one of Bobby's contacts about a faith healer that was supposed to be the real deal.

He looked into the healer John Rogers, checked for suspicious deaths, unusual money transfers, anything that might indicate he was a fraud or of the same ilk as the pastor's wife Sue Ann from that case in Nebraska. The financials came back squeaky clean, but Dean's gut told him there was something he was missing. He was only an hour away, though, so against his better judgment he stopped in for one of the guy's services. 

The tent was crowded, like he remembered from the last time. It was a different preacher, but the same crowd, the same stale air with just a hint of desperation. It was too hot with the press of bodies and lack of air conditioning, and Dean wished he'd skipped the flannel overshirt. The murmur of the crowd made it near impossible to listen in on any conversations, but they seemed excited, optimistic. Well, he supposed any hope was better than none. Not like he could relate. 

However, where the pastor in Nebraska had been earnest, this guy felt like a used car salesman. From his first words, Dean felt slimy just being in the same room as the guy, even though he hadn't said anything more troubling than 'welcome, new and old patrons alike.'

Dean leaned forward in his seat, trying to relax but appear attentive. His attention wasn't entirely focused on the sermon, though.  He watched the guy, sure, but he also watched the crowd. Dozens of people were in the tent, some with obvious ailments and some without. He focused on maladies easy to fake—people in wheelchairs or wearing sunglasses and hugging a stick—and then watched to see if any of them triggered his Spidey senses. Years of practice conning people had made both him and Sam experts on spotting it in others. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he spied three or four people in the crowd that seemed likely to be plants. 

Sure enough, after the dude got done wailing and mumbling as he "spoke in tongues" as the "Spirit moved through him" he called for people that needed healing. Half the crowd erupted into noise, but the first person he selected was one of the ones Dean had spotted—the blind woman. The whole scene played out exactly like he expected, and he made to leave.

"Why are you leaving?" he heard the pastor call out over the din.

Dean paused, unsure if he even wanted to bother engaging the guy. 

The pastor made the decision for him by continuing to talk. "I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't help your brother."

Dean whirled, eyes flashing and hand automatically moving to his gun.

The preacher smirked, and for a second, Dean wondered if the guy was just that good at reading body language. He'd seen Sam pull a similar trick two or three times. 

"If you can't help him, then why does it matter if I leave?" he finally said, slowly easing his defensive stance.

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Rogers said nothing more as Dean made his exit.

 Armed with new knowledge, Dean would have to resume his research. First thing was to learn more about the woman who had been "healed." His instincts screamed bullshit, but he couldn't afford to be wrong. He found a good spot to wait, and when the service was over he followed the woman. He had to give her credit, she kept up the charade even after she exited the tent. Every few moments she'd stop and look around, an expression of awe on her face. He almost believed it. 

He slipped back into the crowd, keeping a casual distance from the woman as she moved through the parking lot. They wove through the cars, and he realized that she was alone. No one was walking with her, chatting about her newfound sight. Leading her to their car. Damn, he'd been right. It was confirmed when she dug through her purse and pulled out keys that she used to unlock a shitty looking Volvo. Dean just managed to catch the license plate number before she drove out of sight.

Back at his motel, Dean ran the plates, found the woman, and dug deep into her financials. The trail was hard to find, but, now that he knew it was there, he did manage to find it: small, irregular cash payments deposited into her bank account starting six months ago. Never more than $100 at a time, and never more than twice a month. He didn’t think it was enough money to justify lying to so many people, but it wasn't really up to him to judge in this case. For good measure, he also uncovered as much medical history as he could on the lady and was utterly unsurprised to find zero references to blindness in her files. However, he didn't uncover an explicit link between her and the preacher. He was sure he would if he kept looking, but that wasn't important anymore. The guy was a fraud healer, but he still knew something. Dean needed to find out if that something was information that could help Sam.

 The heat of the day was just starting to fade when Dean knocked on the preacher's door. He lived in a nice neighborhood by most people's standards. Dean thought it was mind-numbingly dull, but hey, maybe it was better than it looked. The man didn't even look at Dean when he opened the door, just gestured him into the house. 

"You're psychic," Dean said as he settled himself into an overstuffed chair that was more comfortable than it looked. 

"I am." He sat down on the couch across from Dean.

"And a fraud. Is your name even John Rogers?"

Rogers smirked. "You know the answer to that." He leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the couch. "I wasn't lying before. I can't help your brother."

"But you do know something," Dean accused.

The preacher sighed. "I know what's in your head right now—he's  in a coma, dying a slow death. You came here on the slim chance that I was the real deal. Sorry that didn't work out for you."

Strangely enough, Dean believed the guy actually was sorry, but he didn't buy that Rogers didn't know anything else. Sam was the one who could sweet talk witnesses into giving up info, though, so Dean went with his tried and true method when working alone: stony silence with a hint of aggression.

Rogers rolled his eyes. "Fine. I may have heard of something. I didn't look into it—no need for myself—so it may be another wild goose chase." He stood, moving to pour himself a drink from the sidebar. He didn't offer Dean one.

Dean waited as patiently as he could. This guy could be jerking him around for all he knew, but he didn’t think so, and his instincts hadn't been wrong yet. 

With an excessive number of dramatic pauses, he finally told Dean about a spell. It was supposed to be ancient and powerful. Could practically bring people back from the dead. He didn't have much more than that, but he told Dean to look in an old grimoire called The Magus. Dean hadn't heard of it before, but he was sure it would be a bitch to find.

 John considered letting his phone go to voicemail until he saw that it was Bobby calling. There were a very limited number of reasons why that self-righteous dick might be calling him, and he knew better than to think Bobby would leave that sort of news in a voicemail. He took a deep breath, burying his grief as far as he could before he flipped open the phone. “Winchester.”

Bobby’s gruff voice didn’t sound devastated, just annoyed, and John breathed a little easier. It wasn’t Sam then. “You need to get your ass back here, John. Dean needs you.”

“Dean doesn’t want me there.” It hurt to admit that, but he couldn’t blame his son. When the demon had possessed him, he’d seen its plans for Sam, and it had been a confirmation of everything he’d learned over the last twenty years. He hadn’t told Dean what he knew, and if John had his way then Dean would never know.

Bobby grumbled, “His brother’s dying. Of course he wants you here. Now, I don’t know what damn fool thing you said, and I don’t care. He’s going after The Magus, John. Says there’s some spell in it should be able to heal Sam.”

John felt his jaw clench so hard he thought he might have cracked a tooth. “He’s going to get himself killed trying to do a spell like that.”

“Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Boy’s aiming to commit suicide by magic, if he can find the book. If we find it first, then maybe I can convince him to let me do the spell, but we both know that’s a long shot too.” Bobby sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we might find a medieval grimoire, do you?”

John closed his eyes. “No, but I’ll work it out. I’ll call when I’ve got something. Watch out for Dean.” He didn’t wait to hear Bobby’s reply before he hung up. The man was probably just going to chew him out for not agreeing to head to Sioux Falls immediately.

He looked out the window and saw storm clouds blowing in off Lake Michigan. Dean hadn’t backed off like he should’ve, and now John was going to have to act. He couldn’t let the demon’s plans come to fruition, and he wasn’t going to let Sam suffer because of their selfishness. It was the least he could do. The room blurred as the first drops of rain fell, and John started to work out what could be done to stop Dean.

 It had been two weeks of spinning their wheels looking for the grimoire, and they were no closer to the book than they had been originally. Dean flipped through one of Bobby’s books, frowning at the page. This one seemed familiar. A glance at the spine revealed why. He’d read it already. Twice. Sighing in frustration he tossed the book onto the “dud” stack and slumped in his seat, hands tugging at his hair.

They couldn’t afford to take much longer. Sam was deteriorating. The doctor had told him that just this morning; she’d said that the machines could probably keep him going indefinitely, but everything that made him Sam would be gone. It wasn’t a reality Dean was ready to face, and he’d stalked out of the hospital, not even staying for his usual bitchfest at the broken AC in Sam’s room. Just remembering it made anger—fear—coil tightly in the pit of his stomach, and he stood, sweeping the desk clear of the stacks of useless backs, a wordless scream escaping his throat.

Bobby walked in, holding two beers, and he surveyed the mess. Quirking an eyebrow at Dean, he said, “Take a break.”

Dean just stared back incredulously. “I don’t have time to take a break. Sam—”

“Is dying.” Bobby’s tone wasn’t harsh, but Dean flinched anyway. “I know. But you’re no good to him like this. We been through these books twice each, and we’ve got squat. So, go outside, take a break. Work on that car of yours for a bit and burn off some of that anger. Maybe something’ll come to you. I seem to remember cracking a case or two that way. Keep my hands busy enough to turn off my brain, but the problem still gets worked in the background.” He handed over one of the beers as Dean sulked past him to go outside.

He didn’t go to the Impala. Though he’d worked on her off and on for weeks now, it was always a painful reminder of what was happening to Sam. Today he wasn’t sure he could stand to see the wreck without falling apart, and he wasn’t allowed to fall apart until Sam was better. That had always been his rule when Sam was hurt or sick, and he clung to it now like a lifeline. Turning toward the back of the property instead, he started walking, already feeling better despite himself.

He had just reached the edge of the junkyard when his phone rang.

Dean stared at the caller ID in disbelief for a moment before answering. His dad was calling him, after weeks of radio silence. After abandoning Sam to die. He felt his rage reignite, but he kept his tone neutral as he answered. "Dad."

"Dean. I told you to leave it alone."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it, Bobby. "This is Sam, Dad. Not some random civilian. How can you just let him die like he means nothing? Where the hell are you?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you." Dean listened to his dad's sigh and rolled his eyes. The man could be a worse drama queen than Sam sometimes.

"Really? That's the answer you're going with?" Dean shook his head in disgust. "Guess Sam was right after all. You really don't give two shits about this family. It's all about your damn revenge."

"That's not fair, Dean." His tone was biting, cold. "Sam chose not to end this fight when he had the chance, and now I have to before the demon hurts anyone else."

Dean scoffed. He could hardly believe they were related. “Is that what this is about? Punishing me for telling Sam not to kill you? Or punishing him for listening?”

There was silence over the line for a long minute before John said, “That’s not why I left, Dean.” More silence. "I might have a lead on the grimoire you need. See you at Bobby's in two days." The phone beeped as John hung up without saying goodbye.

When he collapsed, sobbing, against a rusted-out Honda a minute later, he wasn’t even sure if they were tears of joy or grief.

 The lights flickered.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said, settling into the seat by his brother. "Think I might have something promising, and Dad's helping."

Nothing. He glanced around the room. 

"Come on, man, don't be a bitch about it. I know you can hear me."

A cool breeze ruffled his hair.

"Because your lights flicker a thousand times whenever I talk to you. Which, by the way, cut it out. One of these days you're going to short out something important and croak. Also, because it's July and ten degrees colder in your room than the morgue. I feel bad for your nurses."

A gentle thump on his shoulder. Son of a bitch. Sam wasn't supposed to be able to touch him. Dean watched his brother's body on the bed and thought about just how much stronger he'd become over the last few weeks. It was a bad sign. He hadn't told Bobby or his dad about the fact that Sam was apparently haunting his hospital room. He already knew what they would say.

What's dead should stay dead.

"You aren't dead yet. And I'm not giving up on you." He stood and stormed out of the room before Sam could get another word in.

 John got out of his truck, but didn’t approach the house. Dean and Bobby were waiting for him on the porch, and Bobby had brought his shotgun out. It was easy to read the tension in Dean's shoulders, the anger simmering just under the surface. Christ, Dean had no idea how bad it was going to get, and he was already this mad. John was going to lose both of his sons today. 

The spell he’d faked was in his pocket, and he hated himself for what he was doing. But he was careful not to let his face betray him. Years of hustling poker successfully had taught him that his poker face was the best, and he relied on that skill now. Dean wasn't going to stop, that was clear now, so John had to be the one to make the hard choice.

For one dizzy, terrifying moment, he considered backing out and trying to help them find the grimoire. Then he thought of the demon, still out there and still planning. A demon that wanted to start the Apocalypse and use his son to lead an army of darkness. He didn't know how the demon intended to make Sam cooperate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that the demon would succeed eventually, probably by threatening Dean. There was only one sure way to save Sam from that fate, and this was it. His resolve hardened, and he resigned himself to Dean hating him forever. Knowing Sam was safe would be worth it. Maybe someday Dean would understand, even if John knew Dean would never be able to forgive him for this. 

"Dean," he said, voice gruff. He nodded at Bobby, but kept his eyes on his son. 

"Where have you been?" Dean demanded, his voice hard. He sounded grown up. Good. 

John put an easy smile on his face, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the air, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew Dean saw that, too, so he let it drop after a moment. "I was following some leads."

"You were hunting the demon. While Sam is laying in a hospital, dying."

"We've had this argument already."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "So? He's still dying, you're still hunting, and I'm still here, trying to put my family back together! At least tell me what this mysterious lead is."

John steeled himself, and reached into his back pocket. "It's not the whole grimoire, but I was told this came from The Magus. Sounds like something you might be interested in."

Dean eyed him warily, and John couldn't blame him. He'd flipped on this issue fast, and that had to have raised some alarm bells for Dean. It was no surprise Dean didn't trust him. Still, the boy was desperate. He accepted the fragile parchment, unfolding it and scanning the text. Dean couldn't read it, unless he had been studying archaic Greek lately, but John knew Dean would be able to piece together a basic idea of the spell just from the components. It was something he'd drilled them on, to help protect them from witches. 

Dean nodded to Bobby, and down went the shotgun barrel. John breathed a little easier at that. He never doubted that Bobby was willing to shoot him, especially after how they’d parted a few years back. With what he was about to pull, he probably deserved it, too.

"Come in, then, if you're staying," Bobby said, turning and walking back inside.

Dean raised his eyebrows in question, then joined Bobby. 

John lingered by his truck a moment more before following, grief already pooling in his chest.

 Bobby translated the spell while Dean sorted through their inventory of ingredients. More than once the old hunter added a location to the ingredient he read aloud, and Dean would make a run to the kitchen or the basement or the second guest bedroom, in the bottom box next to the dresser, wherever the item happened to be stashed in this old, cluttered house. John had grabbed a beer and puttered around for a few minutes, obviously uncomfortable, before saying he was going to the hospital and would meet them there. 

It felt like a miracle that they already had all the ingredients, and Dean said so after he retrieved the salamander tail and Bobby declared it the last ingredient. It was a surprisingly benign looking assortment of items, and it didn't seem possible to Dean that they could heal his brother. He believed in magic, obviously, but he always associated it with blood and entrails. It seemed, well, magical that a few bits and pieces in the right ratios could do something so powerful. It was weirder that his dad had brought him the spell. He'd been so adamant about letting nature take its course, and Dean wondered what had brought him around. A thought crossed his mind, and his skin crawled. He idly touched the top of one of the jars and said tentatively, "Does this seem too easy to you?"

Bobby looked up from the spell in front of him, eyes narrowed at Dean. "What are you thinking?"

Dean gave one quick shake of his head as he frowned, saying, "Nothing. Just." He shrugged a shoulder and looked out the window. "It's just like Dad to swoop in at the last minute and save the day. But. It's a weird way for him to do it, you know?"

Bobby nodded. "I never expected your daddy to be the one bringing spells here for us to cast, if that's what you mean."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Does it check out?"

Hesitating before he spoke, Bobby hemmed and hawed before saying, "I don't know. I've never seen a spell like this, and I've sure as hell never cast one. I can tell you that it looks like it ought to work, if I understand it right, but there's no way to know for sure without trying it."

"That just fills me with confidence, Bobby."

"Hey, you asked. You have a better option?"

Dean grunted. "You know I don't."

"I know you've got something in reserve, just in case." Bobby leveled him a look that told Dean he wasn't going to be able to hide behind denials.

Dean swallowed hard. "I do, but it's not a better option."

Bobby nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything.

Dean cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I can make it work without killing someone."

The tension in the air was palpable, and Bobby's eyes were hard. "I know he's your brother, Dean, but—"

"I know. God, Bobby, I know." He scrubbed a hand down his face and closed his eyes. "I would though. If it came to it, then I would." 

"But?"

Dean shook his head, not willing to say that he promised his brother's ghost that he wouldn't. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to let Sam go if this spell didn't work, and he wasn't sure he had the time it would take to pull the other spell together. 

 When Dean and Bobby arrived at the hospital, John was sitting in the chair by Sam's bed. Dean frowned, noting the overgrown stubble on Sam's chin. They hadn't been by to shave him yet, which meant it was more likely they were going to get interrupted. At best, that would lead to a number of awkward questions, and at worst it could disrupt the spell. He mentioned it, but John scoffed.

"It'll be fine, Dean. The nurse was just in to check on him, and she said she would be back in an hour. No interruptions until then."

Dean frowned but didn't argue. If John thought they were safe to do the spell then they probably were. 

Bobby was the most experienced of them with spell work, so he did the spell. Dean watched him like a hawk, stomach flipping nervously the whole time. John's face was grim, but he stayed silent, letting Bobby work. The foreign words droned on, and Bobby added a pinch of this, a jar of that, then more chanting. Dean could feel the energy in the room building, and his eyes darted to Sam. The monitors showed no change, of course, but the lights flickered aggressively as the chanting picked up speed. Dean silently begged Sam to cool it, to keep calm until the spell did its thing. 

It's not going to work, Dean.

Dean set his jaw. It had to work. Not working wasn't an option.

Please, let me go.

He glared at his brother. That wasn't an option either, not while Dean was still breathing. He wasn't going to fail Sam. Not when Sam had come through for him last year.

His brother sighed, and he could imagine the epic eye roll that accompanied it. You're going to be so pissed at Dad when this doesn't work.

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he glanced at his brother again. The air was cooling rapidly, not a great sign for Sam's mental health at the moment. But his dad and Bobby seemed oblivious, and with the way the energy swirled through the air, he knew the spell was almost done.

Bobby threw in the last ingredient, and there was a flash, a bang, and the building energy funneled into the center of the room before quietly dissipating. It was...underwhelming. 

Dean looked at Sam, at the monitors and held his breath, waiting for any sign at all that he was waking up. There was nothing. If anything, Dean thought the vitals readout was worse than before. Sam was breathing too fast, heartbeat too rapid for someone peacefully asleep. 

He turned on the other two in the room. "Why didn't it work? We had all the ingredients, right, Bobby?" 

Bobby looked stricken, but he nodded. "I read it exactly as it was written. You know I wouldn't half-ass this."

Dean clamped down on his anger as best he could. He did know. Sometimes spells just didn't work. Maybe Bobby wasn't powerful enough. Maybe they needed a real witch to cast the spell. 

Then John said, "You knew this was a long shot at best," and Dean gaped at him.

He understood, on some level, that this was John trying to be supportive. His dad had never been an emotional guy, never one to soothe with words. But this felt like he was writing Sam off all over again. Sam was dying, actively now, and John just...didn't care. Dean didn't understand and didn't want to understand. He wanted his dad to be devastated by this.

Where did you get that spell anyway? It sounded like someone cobbled a bunch of random garbage together and called it finished. The tenses didn't even match through most of it.

That's when Dean put it together. 

"You did this, didn't you?" he said, voice frigid and too calm. "You did something to the spell. That's why you didn't bring the book. Not some bullshit about it being too closely guarded in a library or not wanting to set off some crap alarms. You've never had a problem breaking and entering before." Dean shook his head furiously. "I didn't see it before. I didn't want to. But Sam was always right, wasn't he? He never mattered as much to you as the hunt. As getting revenge for Mom. And now you killed him." Dean closed his eyes, unable to even look at John anymore. "Why? Because he didn't take the shot in that cabin?"

When John finally spoke, his voice was brittle. "I know you won't be able to hear this now, Dean, but it was never like that. Someday, I hope you'll understand. This was for the best."

"Get out," Dean said, watching Sam's chest shallowly rise with each breath. He hoped John could hear the threat under the words. 

An hour later, Dean watched as Sam struggled to breathe. There was no more time to pull together that spell. John had been thorough. Bobby had gone home, looking for the binding spell at Dean's desperate request, but it was gone from Dean's research pile. Worse, he'd signed the papers to remove Sam from life support before they'd even done the stupid spell. According to the hospital, that meant Dean could do exactly nothing, despite the fact that John hadn't shown his face in the hospital for weeks and Dean had been visiting Sam daily.  He felt hollow, wondering what life would be like without his brother at his side. He thought it might be like when Sam was at Stanford: hunting alone or with the occasional hunter acquaintance. He resolutely ignored the burning in his eyes, even as Sam's body blurred in front of him. It wasn't going to be like that. Maybe once in a while he would be able to forget, to fool himself into believing Sam was alive and safe and just away, but most of the time he would know. He imagined the passenger seat of the Impala, empty again. His heart clenched. 

Sam was already gone, and he knew that. The body on the bed had been empty since the first time he'd seen the lights in this room flicker. Sam had been haunting him for weeks. They were just waiting for it to be official. 

The monitor screeched, jerking Dean's attention up and away from Sam. His breath caught in his throat; Sam was flat-lining. A doctor that had been lurking outside the door quietly came in and turned off the alarm. She checked Sam's vitals manually, checked the time, and announced that Sam had died at 2:48 pm. It was quiet, efficient. Dean didn't understand how she could do that, just say a person—Sam—was dead, and then continue on with her day like the world hadn't ended. 

 Dean refused Bobby's offer to help build the pyre. This was his job. And if it took a little longer because he was working alone, so much the better. He lifted the body wrapped in white linen. His brother. He lifted his brother, and placed him on the pyre. 

Hours later, Dean stared at the burning pyre, numb to all feeling. He'd failed. The hollow pit in his stomach threatened to turn to nausea as he watched Sam burn. The gentle thump against his arm that alerted him to Sam's continued ghostly presence just made the sick feeling grow. John was going to pay for this.