#there's more than 3k words

[tiredfoxtf]

Small analysis on DR murder mystery no one asked for but I wrote it anyway!

Danganronpa! A colourful series of murder mysteries with a pink tint of blood. The last addition to the series – Danganonpa V3: Killing Harmony – has been around for 7 years now and that makes me automatically feel so old, but hey what’s worse than that is to think that 2019 was 5 years ago now. It’s been half a decade since the start of COVID epidemic and that alone would make someone sick. And during these years I found myself in and out of Danganronpa fandom spaces. Specifically a Fan Danganropa fan spaces, the inception goes crazy on this one. I am a big enthusiast of taking the Danganronpa’s core ideas and shaping them into something new. I don’t really go into actual canonical Danganronpa fandom, because, well, it's a completely different can of worms that I really do not want to deal with. I've had enough discourse these past 5 years in MCYT fandom and am really tired. But that’s a side tangent.

What we are actually here today is to take a peek at what makes the most intriguing part of any Danganronpa game tick – the murder mystery. And as a side hustle we can take a peek on how different characters affect it. And just maybe a structure of the plot itself. (spoilers for mainline dr games ahead)

So, first thing first let’s look at the way a chapter in the main line Danganronpa game is structured, something you guys know very well.

DAILY LIFE

First we have a Daily Life. On the first glance you might think – “What Daily Life has to do with a murder mystery aspect of the mainline game? Isn’t it supposed to be a peaceful time with no murder?”. And on the surface you are right. But Daily Life serves many purposes for the Murder Mystery: Environment, Motive and Social Interaction.

Firstly, set up of the environment. Like props on the stage, rooms and layout of the building or other environment that is introduced in Daily Life will affect the murder in some way. It’s basically Chechov’s Arsenal we’re talking about. If there’s a gun in the first act, it must be shot by the end of the third and if there’s a garbage compactor in the Daily Life it must be used in a murder. Of course as we progress down the chapters and the area of the Killing Game’s grounds grow bigger it gets harder to just keep in mind what happened when and what rooms have what. And mainline DR games really suffer from “we used this room once in one chapter and forgot about it” disease. But in defence of the games, the area they work with is usually so unbelievably huge (especially suffers SDR2). I really don’t blame them for not utilising stuff from previous chapters in new ones. 

But also it’s what is really easy to fix for us, the murder mystery and DR enthusiasts, in our own Danganronpa-like stories. All that needs to be done is to shrink the scale a notch. Instead of opening up a whole new section of buildings or new floors every new chapter, it’s worth opening up a few rooms. It’s also important, listen to me, it’s very important that every new room that is opened is unique in some way. You should not be able to replace it with a room from the previous chapters and you should not be able just get rid of it without significantly changing the plot! It shouldn’t be just a prop that characters alternatively hang out in. This one gets really bad in V3 with the Ultimate Research Labs – most of the labs were not really special and not used at all, which is a pity.

The second thing which is provided to us by Daily Life is a motive. Motive is a really broad term for any event that was planned by the Mastermind or organiser of the Killing Game. It can be Practically anything, but what’s important to keep in mind is that it’s something that someone who Wants murder to happen made. It’s basically a stimuli for a murder however it might present.

 Some of the cannon motives in Danganronpa, especially in the very first game, are very trivial, while the others are kinda weird. In the THH it was the very point that Junko was making – the Ultimates, so called symbols of hope, will actually abandon morals like any other person for such trivial reasons like secrets and money. In SDR2 and V3 they just kinda decided to get crazy with them. The infamous Despair Disease and that Virtual Reality thingy or even the First Blood perk. Because, well, Ultimately both of the games’ Masterminds didn’t have anything to prove with them. One existed to just simply send players into a state of Despair again and the other was a TV show for fun. 

Which leads to this interesting point – the Motives of your Danganronpa-like story should reflect the Mastermind’s ambition or their own motive for making a Killing Game. Also, personally I think it would be nice if every motive was related to the main theme of your story. Since the Mastermind tries to prove something to the cast to “win” over them, the protagonist usually symbolises the opposite idea (ex. Makoto “Hope” vs. Junko “Despair”; Hajime “Future” vs. Izuru & Junko “Past”; Shuichi “Truth” vs. Tsumugi “Lie”), so it would be a great chance to show how Mastermind thinks and how cast and specifically the Protagonist overcomes the motive from the other side of the ideological spectrum. And it works to show the grey area of the spectrum too, but it’s way deeper into themes than into murder mystery itself.

And the final third part that presents in the Daily Life I eloquently named “Social Events”. To clarify, I do not mean like Free Time Events, no. I mean Major Events that were organised by the cast that played into the murder. A lot of people caught on to the importance of this one element of Daily Life, but got stuck on the execution part of it – something I dubbed in my head as “Party Syndrome”. Categorised by the extensive need to write a some sort of party in one too many chapters.

Jokes aside, the Social Events are VERY important for a murder case in every Danganronpa chapter. Basically Social Events is something that characters That Are NOT the Mastermind do that will affect the way the murder will play out. They are often made to be something to combat the Motive or other ways to cope with the reality of being in a killing game. Rarely they are set ups organised by a wannabe killer and when they are, the wannabe killer got beat to it by someone else. Except for all chapter 3 murders. Yeah, one of the absolutely weakest parts of every Dangnronpa games, what a surprise. Not! Absolutely no one is surprised that the most obvious murders have the easiest solution – a person who set the whole thing up. Which is an important lesson – sometimes the thing that makes the most sense is not a good answer for a good murder mystery. 

There’s actually a lot of good examples of Social Events in the mainline DR games that aren’t some party. Like the switch of rooms between Sayaka and Makoto, the sauna challenge between Mondo and Kiyotaka, Kaede’s and Shuchi’s Mastermind investigation, Kaito’s and Shuichi’s training, Insect Meet and Greet (technically. Not a party. Kidnapping). 

A lot of fangans faced this criticism about how weird it is to throw a party in the killing game, which is absolutely completely fair. Whatever your social event is, please remember that your characters in the story feel the weight of death on them. Even the most carefree and borderline delusional ones. Which unless it’s the point, not all and definitely not most of them. Keep it real, ask yourself would YOU approve of such an event in these circumstances? If not, why would it happen anyway? Or come up with other ways to introduce social activity. Remember the worst your characters can be is passive and reactive in lieu of being active and making decisions. 

And that’s about covers Daily Life, in conclusion to the end of the segment I would like to say that Daily Life should highly set up the scene for Deadly Life, they should not exist as two separate entities. Of course when murder happens you are supposed to feel shocked, but to a reader of Danganronpa-like story it’s very obvious that the murders will happen. There’s no point of trying to surprise the audience, they highly expect it. So, set the viewer up properly instead of trying to use an element of shock. But don’t fall into the pit of predictability either. It’s a delicate balance. 

DEADLY LIFE

Before we could go into details of Deadly Life part of Danganronpa Murder Mystery inner workings, I want to make a note of the methods they use to conceal the identity of the killer: time of death, murder scene and murder weapon. Or simplier put: “when?”,” where?” and “how?”.

 On the most rare occasions it’s also “who?” as in “who’s the victim?”, such as in chapter 5 and 6 of THH and chapter 5 of V3, one of the most convoluted chapters of the entire game trilogy. The reason why it’s so rare is because, at its core, DR Killing Game is a closed murder mystery which means we have a set number of characters we know, so it becomes obvious who’s not with us anymore. It’s a really hard trick to pull off to completely disguise a victim to beyond recognition And not make it obvious who is missing from the cast. In THH it’s achieved by “extra body” of a secret sixteenth’s student who was murdered by a mastermind previously, the whole chapter relied on that lack of knowledge and was a set-up by a mastermind to get rid of one of the players. In the V3’s case however the idea was flipped – now it’s a plan of two students working together to confuse the game and break it, which was supposed to result in beating it entirely. The idea of both is pretty clever and it’s what sets these 5th cases apart so much.

But generally the culprit will try to conceal the true time of death, the true murder scene and the true murder weapon to hide their identity. Or for other reasons (ex. Mondo moved Chihiro’s body to Girl’s changing room in order to keep his secret rather than hide a true murder scene). 

You should be aware that no matter how much effort you put into murder, there’s no such thing as a “perfect murder”, there never is. Especially in the DR killing game. The game is NOT fair for the killer, please, understand it. Your killer works alone against a group of innocent students AND against the Mastermind. Mastermind does want to test the participants’ abilities and for them to feel despair of possible looming death. HOWEVER, the mastermind won’t allow the unsolvable. The mastermind wants the game to continue, this is why they provide a case file about a murder. Of course they would leave out some information that would probably reveal the identity of the culprit immediately, but generally the mastermind's goal is to have the innocent party win and win until there’s 2 (or 3, depending on the rules) students remaining. 

Also even if it wasn’t that way, it’s nearly impossible to set up a perfect murder, due to a killer and a victim being flawed. Everyone makes mistakes, especially in a high stress situation as murder.

Now we can move on to Deadly Life.

I would love to divide Deadly Life in three parts: a body discovery, investigation and a trial. Very obvious division, but an effective one at that.

When we talk about Body Discovery I of course mean these things:

When was the body discovered?

Who discovered the body?

What circumstances led to discovering the body?

These things are crucial to understand when you write a body discovery, because Discovering a body is one of the important things for the killer in the DR scenario. Until the body is discovered there will be no trial held, which means the killer has no chance of escape even if they kill somebody. 

When was the body discovered? Time frame. In the killing game time measured a lot like this daytime/nighttime due to having morning and nighttime announcements and some areas being off-limits during night.  Which actually doesn’t matter for Mastermind, I think. Like a lot of rules have literally no effect on the mastermind (like no sleeping outside dormitories). They are made exclusively for the murder mystery part, so guilty students could take advantage of it. When answering this question it’s also important to think “How much time has passed between actual death and the body discovery?” and “Why did it take this long to discover it?” and “Why discovering it at this time would benefit or hinder the killer?”.

Who discovered the body? According to canon DR rules across the trilogy, the body is officially discovered when three non-guilty participants see it. It’s a very special rule to the killing game and stayed a very important part of it across the mainline games. It’s often used to either deduce the killer or prove the innocence of one of the suspects. When you answer this question, think about “Why was it they who discovered the body?” if discovery wasn’t immediate after one person found it why didn’t they tell others?

What circumstances led to discovering the body? Did the group of participants just accidentally stumbled across the body? Did they come looking for this person, because they were missing? Were they doing something unrelated and the body just sort of dropped on them? Did they actively witness death live and where too late to save the person? And most importantly “why is this circumstance important/not important (in case they didn’t do any preparation) to the killer?”

Noticeably every part should include an answer to “Why?”. Killers in DR do not do anything for no reason. BECAUSE IT’S A WASTE OF TIME! If something doesn’t benefit them in some way, do not do it. Very simple. 

The Investigation is a mandatory part of the game where you run around and note down all the clues you can find, as the name suggests. It’s always a convenient amount of time when at least one person finds everything there’s to find physically. The main mistake you can make during the investigation is to give out all the information about the circumstances of a murder. You give out hints, not the whole murder and it’s very important. If your audience solves the murder entirely from investigation alone – you’ve failed to write a mystery. 

Class Trial – the main event of the Deadly Life, where innocent parties try to find the guilty and where the audience should try to puzzle together the whole mystery. During a class trial some new details about the murder should present themselves as we go along. Like for example in my absolute favourite case 4 for SDR2 where we deduce the layout of the funhouse. Something that we couldn’t understand from investigation alone. But it doesn’t have to be anything big like a whole layout of the building. It can be details of someone’s seeing the victim or the killer and realising it at the moment, the details of how some part of the mechanism works, etc. Also it’s the perfect time to catch slip-ups. The DR community do not usually like when something is solved on pure chance of slip-up, so if you plan on using them, make sure that instead of chance, your characters set up a trap for their suspect to fall in. That would look MUCH cooler than if your culprit just gave out too much info by accident.

A danganronpa case always gets solved because it was something specific to a character that only the culprit could have done, but it is not supposed to be obvious from the start.

Also I really want to bring attention to the victims of the case. Victim is an important part of the case WITH the killer. They should play an active part in the murder. This will further the context to the murder and give more mystery. Was the victim doing something to provoke the culprit? Why did the culprit choose this character as their victim? Did they even have a choice? If the victim was strong, how were they overpowered by the culprit? What if they wanted to be murdered? What if they tried to fight off the murderer and lost? Did the victim have habits a culprit took advantage of? All of that WILL directly affect the murder mystery. Make the victim an active character and make it so no one else but this character can be a victim in this case.

FROM START TO FINISH?

The truth is – murder mystery starts with a new chapter, we just do not know it yet. When you start writing a chapter you should already have an idea of who the culprit and victim are and how you want to carry out a murder in this chapter. Because you need to go through several steps and even the first one – level design with it in mind. It's kinda a question of “what came first, a chicken or an egg?”, but instead of “chicken” and “egg” it’s a “murder plan” and “level design”. Say, I can’t exactly tell if the idea of Kirumi using a ropeway that connects the gym window and a window of Ryoma’s lab through the pool came before or after they designed a level like that. And neither do I know how the hell they had an idea to use a confusing building structure of a funhouse from SDR2 as a “secret weapon” to kill a guy. But what I do know, it was set up from the very beginning of the chapters. 

What I do know is, when you already have an idea who the culprit of the case is, try walking them through the chapter as if they were the protagonist. “What made them want to kill now?”, “how did they choose the victim, the timing?”. Construct a “perfect murder” from their POV, divide it into parts and think about what can go wrong? Because something always goes wrong. Maybe rules will affect their plan, or there will be some witnesses the culprit wasn’t expecting. If the whole thing was actually a freak accident – how would they react and improvise? How can you involve other characters into that murder otherwise? 

Just start somewhere and answer your questions “what’s next?” on the way. When you write it it may seem genius and convoluted or maybe on the flip side, too simple and obvious. So my advice is to have a story “beta-testers”. When you finish the draft of a full chapter – send it for a reading to someone who could provide you with feedback on the quality of the mystery. They will tell you if you are being an idiot. If you work completely alone then it gets real hard to judge the story.

[starry-bi-sky]

Childhood Friends Au: Jason

there's something burning in the empty room inside my head fill it up with doubt let it in, let it spread

When Jason gets Tim's text in the groupchat, he ignores it. And then a short series of buzzes distract him from a drug bust. It hasn't even been that long since he reconciled with the family, with Bruce. He thinks that perhaps he should have left it sooner.

He glances at it momentarily when the buzzing stops and he doesn't need to knock out more guys. He sees Tim's question dedicated towards him, and his response is instant, his thumbs flying over in response.

He doesn't care, he's trying to patrol.

(He does not have Danny's number in this phone, it's new. A model from this year rather than one from four years ago. He wants that old phone back. He hasn't even looked at their old letters yet.)

(Jason bets that they've been packed away in storage with the rest of his things. He doesn't want to visit the manor, but maybe he should. Just to find those letters again. He's not sure if he's allowed to.)

And then Tim says its Danny, and Jason flies up to the past texts to find the photo before he can think. And then there is Danny staring right at him again, with the same old smile on his face that he always aimed at people. Lopsided, Danny's favorite kind of smile.

Something old, something new. He's got piercings, and his eyes are as blue as they've ever been. He has an undercut, it looks self-done. It looks good. He looks tired.

Danny's good at hiding things from people, it comes with the purchase of being a street kid. But Jason can't have someone else's back without knowing the ins and outs of the person in question. Jason knows when Danny is tired, and Danny knows when he is too.

Before his death, whenever Danny came over he never missed a beat in telling Jason that he looked like shit. Were Bruce's fancy rich-people, cloud-made mattresses too soft for him? He can find him a moth-eaten street mat for him if he needs it. It'd be like the good old days.

(Jason wishes he could have told him he was Robin, but it wouldn't be safe.)

Jason had to see him with his own eyes, had to confirm with his own eyes just how much Danny had changed. It's just his luck -- if he has any left -- that he arrives to Bruce's dumb gala just as Danny steps out onto their once-shared, west-end balcony.

He drops down, something heavy in his throat, before he can properly think it through. Danny looks up before his feet even touch the ground, like he knew he was there. Jason wonders if he did. There is a cigarette in Danny's mouth. Something old. And something flashes in his eyes that Jason cannot place. Danny looks tense.

Jason feels like he's made a mistake.

In the end, watching Danny walk away feels a lot like Jason is losing something -- or is he missing something? Is it both? He wants to reach out, grab Danny's arm, but his feet are glued to the balcony floor. There are so many things he wants to say, but his tongue has glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Something has crawled into his mouth and died.

So much has been said with so little words. He wants to spin Danny around and ask him so many questions.

What do you mean you spoke to my ghost?

What do you mean I told you the Joker killed me?

What else have I told you?

The Fentons were right?

What happened while I was gone?

Why are you scarred? Where did those come from?

(He is not blind. He saw those silver lightning scars etched into his best friend's skin, saw that it disappeared under his sleeves. Danny did not have those the last time Jason saw him, the last time he was alive.)

(The sight of it makes him alight with murderous intent. He wants to take his best friend by the front of his shirt and shake him -- who did this to you? Who did it? Tell him, he will fix it.)

(But he can't. He doesn't. Doing that means revealing who he is. It means telling his best friend that he has been alive for the last five years and he did not tell him. It would mean telling his best friend that he did not want him to know.)

You're going to kill the Joker for me?

What have I missed?

What do I not know?

You look so tired.

But before he can even get his mouth to move, Danny is gone back inside. The door swinging open, music once muffled now blaring out for only a few seconds before Danny is slipped back inside.

And Jason is left on the balcony, alone, with more questions than he thought he would have. He stares at the broken cigarette on the ground, it feels like a metaphor for something. Jason can't figure out for his second life what it is.

Maybe it's not a metaphor at all, maybe the curtains are sometimes just blue. Maybe sometimes your best friend just tells a vigilante that he is going to murder someone; that he is going to avenge his best friend with his bare hands and feel no remorse for it.

It is what Jason wants Bruce to do, wants someone who loves him to do. But he's not sure if its something he wants Danny to do. Not when he has been living a normal life -- or as normal as it could be -- without hide nor tail knowledge of what Jason used to do, or what he does now.

What have I missed?

Danny. He's missed Danny. He didn't look into Amity Park out of fear of what he'll find; of what he might do. But now Jason thinks he might have to.

Danny has talked to his ghost. Danny is going to kill for him. He has that look in his eyes that Jason knows so familiar; the one where he needs Jason to play distractor while he stole something from the corner store. The one where he looks a kid five years his senior in the eyes and kicks him in the dick because he cornered him and Jason, itching for a fight.

There's a look so familiar in his eyes; the one of a boy that's set his mind to something and he is going to do it. He can't call it the eyes of a cornered animal, because Danny has never been cornered, not when he's been with Jason. He calls it the eyes of a boy about to do something he will never regret.

He watches him leave with the Vlad Masters guy. He hides atop the roof and eavesdrops. The paparazzi have since left now that it was much later in the night; they are not the bigger fish, even if they sometimes parade it to be.

"I thought I told you to make nice." Vlad Masters scowls as he walks to the other side of the sleek black limousine. "To not embarrass me."

Jason frowns at the way he talks. His fingers itch, and something old lurches in his chest: the same old protectiveness that he used to feel whenever he and Danny were about to get into a fight. And then, later, when they would stand inside Bruce's galas with people who couldn't care less if they breathed or died.

Danny scowls right back at him, all venom and bite, and leans against the side of the car. "I did make nice -- as nice as I could when you dragged me here."

Vlad Master rolls his eyes, huffing. Jason's frown only deepens. It's not easy to make Danny do anything he doesn't want to. His sister has tried, so have his parents, as well as his teachers. But Danny is wild and so is Jason. Rebellion and disobedience -- no, independence -- cut into them from the streets like its broken glass.

Jason doesn't remember Danny ever mentioning knowing a Vlad Masters. They must have met after Jason died, then. He doesn't like him. He's the same as all the other socialites in that party. There is a greed in his eyes that Jason knows rots down to the core of him.

"I thought you would enjoy being here, little badger." Masters tries, and his tone makes Jason ruffle. As does the nickname. Danny's scowl only ever deepens, his fingers curling to dig nails into his palms. He looks at Masters like he wants him to burst into flames. "You are friends of the Waynes, I thought you would like the little reunion."

"Whether I did or didn't is none of your business." Danny says. The door clicks open on Masters' side, as if they remembered that they were on the street rather than in the car. Masters climbs into the back, and Danny opens the door. He only reaches in though, and pulls out a old hoodie.

Danny pulls it over his head, and his vest and button-down are hidden underneath it. "Don't wait up you old fruitloop, there's someone here I need to see." And he slams the door shut with more force than necessary.

(Jason makes a mental note to look into Vlad Masters. Who is he to Danny. How did they meet? There is an old animosity between each other that Jason has never seen before. Not even when they were on the streets. Not to this extent.)

Jason's heart seizes up. Danny's reminder early surges to the front of his mind. Right. That's right. He's going to go see him. Jason. He is going to lay flowers on his grave. He remembers that Jason likes zinnias. There are no florists open this late at night, Jason thinks.

He follows Danny from the rooftops. Danny sticks close to the buildings, slipping in and out of shadows. Jason wants to know where he learned how to do that. Where did he learn how to move without a sound?

Five years is a long time to be away from someone, Jason thinks. Something that fills him with dread. Five years is a long, long time. He's afraid that it's been too long. Will he still know Danny like he used to, if he asks? And if he doesn't?

More, more, more. More questions than answers. More things that Jason doesn't know about someone he used know to like the back of his hand. It scares him, and he hates it.

(There is scarring on Danny's hand that Jason has never seen before. Maybe that's the metaphor he was missing before. Maybe there are still more.)

Danny moves like a ghost down Gotham's streets, his hands shoved into his pockets without a care in the world. It is confusing. It is concerning. It is proof that more things have changed than Jason likes.

Danny somehow finds a florist open at this time of night, and buys a bouquet. And like he told the Red Hood, he buys zinnias. Reds and yellows. For a moment, Jason thinks that Danny knows. He wonders if he does.

What would he have told him, if he was a ghost? He told him that the Joker killed him. Maybe that means he told Danny he was Robin too, like he always wanted to. But couldn't, because it wasn't safe, and it wasn't just his secret to tell?

Why has nothing changed, now that he was alive again?

"Did you know," Danny starts, when he sits down at Jason's grave with flowers slipping gently from his fingers, before the tombstone below. Jason is as close as he can without being seen, hiding like a ghost. "That red zinnias mean stead beating of a heart?" He smiles sardonically, "You picked quite the flower, Jay."

(There is an echoing in his ears, Danny's voice faint in the back of his mind. Ghosts can hear you when you speak to their grave, did you know? Jason can hear him better than he should.)

Jason knows the irony. Perhaps it's got double the meaning now, now that he's alive again. Danny doesn't know that though, sitting before his grave with flowers that symbolize a beating heart. Between the two of them, Jason thinks that the only heart here is Danny.

(Between the two of them, the only heart here is one that's made between the two of them.)

"Yellow zinnias," Danny continues, resting his chin in his hand, "mean daily remembrance." His smile tilts on the axis of his mouth, a wrinkle between his brows. He looks pained. Hurt. There is no comment made. Like it doesn't need to be said.

Jason thinks he can hear it anyways, and his heart twists like someone took it and twisted it like a rag, trying to drain the dirty water out of the cloth. He hurts.

I miss you. Is what he hears. Is what Danny doesn't say. Is what Jason knows he's thinking anyways.

I am right here. Is what Jason wants to say, but doesn't. He is right here. But his feet are grave-bound to the floor, and a part of him feels like he's clawing out his own grave again. But the dirt falling is endless and merciless. He can't get free.

He bites his tongue, a lump in his throat. Shame wells in his heart and Jason wants to shrink away from this. His feet are grave-bound to the floor.

"I'm sorry for not visiting sooner." Danny says, hand dropping out of his chin to pick at the ends of his sleeves. His smile fades into a frown. His voice wobbles. "I'm sorry, I don't have an excuse. I should have."

Please don't be. Jason thinks. He doesn't think he can be upset about it, not when Danny is laying yellow flowers on his grave that mean remembrance. i think of you daily. Not when Danny was going to kill the Joker for him.

Jason still doesn't know what to think of that. He still isn't sure if it's real or not.

"I went to one of Bruce's galas today." Danny says, and Jason knows. He saw him there. Danny smiles weakly. "I know, right? First time in five years. Vlad dragged me along, you remember him right?"

No, I don't. Jason thinks, and he feels a flutter of anxiety. A sense of impending doom. A choking dread. What else have I missed? He thinks again. Why doesn't he remember? Danny told him about Vlad, but it can only be from when he was a ghost. How long was he a ghost before he was revived? How often did he and Danny speak?

Jason doesn't like not knowing things, he doesn't like not knowing things about himself.

It would be so easy, a little voice whispers, to reveal himself now. To step forward and take his helmet off. To tell Danny that he was alive. To demand answers that only Danny could know.

But then what? When Danny inevitably asks his own questions? About how long Jason's been alive? Why he was dressed the way he was? Why he didn't say anything earlier, on the balcony?

(But he did say it earlier, when he offered Danny the cigarette and silently asked him for his thoughts.)

Jason is afraid of what Danny might think of him, if he tells him what he's done. About the blood on his hands and the bridges he's burned. What if telling him is just more gasoline on another bridge, with Danny holding the match? He stays silent. Fear is a powerful motivator. It's a powerful deterrent, too.

"The asshole blackmailed me into coming." Danny says, drawing his knees up to his chest. He looks disinterested. Annoyed, actually. Like what he is saying isn't sending alarm bells through Jason's mind. Like what he's saying doesn't concern him. "It's really dumb, actually."

He sighs, long and tired. There is grief etched into every line and pore in his face. "I could have handled it without even needing to come to the gala, I've done it before." He mutters when his eyes open. His fingers brush against the petals of the bouquet.

(And that only sends more alarm bells ringing in Jason's mind. Red lights blaring. Distress fills the cavity of his lungs. What has he missed?)

"I only agreed because I missed you," Danny says, "and Bruce. He invited me to come over sometime soon, to catch up. I agreed and I'm not sure why I did."

Jason didn't know that.

Danny continues talking. Jason listens in dutifully. He feels like a stranger imposing on his own grave. It's ridiculous. It makes sense. He feels like he should slink away and let Danny talk to his grave in peace. He cannot bring himself to move.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he's sitting in front of him, like it's the good old days and they're back in Jason's room in the manor. Staying up late and trading stories back and forth. Sneaking out to the balcony and climbing onto rooftops they’re not supposed to go on. 

Jazz is getting her psychology degree. Him and Sam had a big fight a few years ago, but they’re better now. Tucker wants to start his own tech business. 

And on and on Danny goes, rambling about every little thing he can think of in the last five years since they last talked. He jumps back and forth between topics, when he remembers something he cuts to it. And then jumps back off to the next thought passing through his mind.

"I don't know what I want to do." Danny says, finally, after he exhausts every other topic to talk about. "I wanted to be an astronaut, but now I'm not so sure." His knees draw up to his chin, and he looks so sad. He looks nineteen. Small despite his size.

Were they really just nineteen, verging on twenty? Jason feels older among his years. Fourteen feels so far away.

Danny breathes in slowly, it's a sound that trembles. From where he stands, Jason sees Danny's eyes film over with tears. He makes a choked out sound that sounds like a terrible mix of a laugh and a sob.

"Where did you go?" He whispers. He tries to smile, and it is this pained, awful thing that drops within a second. Fingers clutch at his legs, diggings wrinkles into the fabric. "I know you're still here. Where did you go?"

There is no answer. Guilt is an animal with claws, and it burrows into Jason's heart to make itself home between the tendons. Tears slide from Danny's eyes down his cheeks. He still cries for him, five years later. Five years after. Jason feels worse.

"I haven't stopped looking for you." Danny continues, his voice cracks, and the words run over Jason's ears like water sliding off a duck's back. He doesn't hear it at first -- no, he doesn't understand it at first. And then when he does, he plunges his hands into the waters of his mind to drudge it back up.

You're looking for me? Do you know I'm alive?

It's another question to Jason's never-ending list.

"You might as well tell me where you are now." He smiles again; tries to. It wobbles, lips pulling back to show teeth as more tears spill over and carve red marks down Danny's face. "Or I'll find Cujo and sick him on you. He's gettin' real good at tracking things you know."

Jason doesn't know who Cujo is. But it sounds like a dog. He knows Danny's always wanted one, but their apartments would never allow it. It's not like his parents could afford one either.

There is a silence that hangs over them, with only the sound of the city around them. Danny seems to tremble more and more as each second passes, until finally a bubble pops. His smile drops, and so do his knees that were pressed into his chest.

He doesn't say a thing, not with words anyways. He hunches over and hugs himself with nails that dig into his elbows, failing to stifle a years' old grief. Jason wants to flee, lest he breaks his word to himself and steps out to console and dry Danny's falling tears. It feels like a betrayal unto himself to only stand there and watch him drown in his grief.

Guilt is a thing with claws, and Jason leaves the cemetery with hatred eating his tongue. Danny deserves the privacy that a ghost cannot give him. Jason may no longer be a ghost, but he is still the next best thing. either way I'm left holding onto the shovel and rope digging in the dirt finding bones, finding ghosts

[eowynstwin]

Personally, I am all up for any multi-chapter fics of yours, but I can’t help but laugh at the mental image of you, hunchback on a swivel chair, clacking away and going “WHY DO THEY KEEP MULTIPLYING?”

How did you get in my house

[kittyscabin]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[forgetme-eternally-blissfully]

I wrote orv fanfic instead of studying for my final exam yayyyy

Description:

Kim Dokja, adopted son of Hades and Persephone, and an official Demon King, is on the run from his own parents... and the entire underworld.

They mostly let him play, but if he slips up then it's back to the underworld with him. Join him and his adventures in the Empire, whose prince is extremely handsome and popular, and also incredibly irritated at the magic wielding pretty-boy that is stirring up trouble with his very presence. Traveling scholar his ass, this guy is just a pain in one! And why is everyone that joins his group incredibly loyal?

Kim Dokja, adopted son, might have accidentally started adopting some children of his own. Now he's starting to get worried he won't be able to go anywhere without these people following his every move.

I'm going insane from sleep deprivation

Don't read this if you expect yjh to be there. He's for a later chapter. First we need a set up.

[youling-the-ghost]

More hand-written fanfiction! (ft. a bubbamiah fic that I impulsively started working on during class and I feel bad for because I'll have to abandon it so that I can finally finish chapter 3 of To be in Love)

[blairdii]

norapinstrilos 😭 how'll this work tho, like Carlos fucking Lando fucking Oscar fucking Franco..? Or they could all just share Lando...in various ways....Lando harem...

i'm thinking either the latter OR they rotate duos. so first it'll be carcar and norapinto, then colapinstri and carlando then.... you get the gist 🤭

[nonbinarylesbianherb]

I have this idea of a rhaenicent fic that could be like 250k words it might just take me like 30 years to complete though (20 years learning how to write long fics, 9 years developing motivation and 1 year locked tf in)

[noisytenant]

rereading my own writing is crazy..... its like wow i did that

[whatohitsonfirewelp]

"Meanwhile you all refuse to acknowledge Hen, Karen and Michael as the OG gays" - lmaoooooo literally who is doing that?

No, it's actually the temu and bt fans who were acting like bt is SO ground-breaking and the FIRST GAY COUPLE ON TV and temu is the FIRST OPENLY GAY MAN ON THE SHOW etc um hello Henren and Josh and Michael and David would like a word?

They're so funny

Very real! I do get how it was exciting because it’s Buck, and I do think Buck and Tommy helped break some more stereotypes for queer men, and that it was likely more accepted by people because they’re both white.

Because, technically, Michael and David broke those same stereotypes. They also didn’t follow the blue print of the stereotypical gay man! But oh wait. They’re black.

The same could be said about Josh except oh wait. He isn’t jacked like Buck or Tommy.

So, people just. Don’t care as much. As horrible as that is.

Henren are CONSTANTLY breaking stereotypes! But that’s two black woman, lesbians at that for a show where the audience is more women than men, and two woman who aren’t small and skinny (nothing wrong with that body type though!)

Buck and Tommy?

Men ✔️

White ✔️

Stereotypical fit ✔️

The two and their relationship are sexualized by a lot of fans, at least from what I’ve seen. They like it more when it’s two white men, because that’s primarily what most people see as acceptable.

But once again, I’d have no problem with Tommy if he was actually, you know, a good person.

But he’s not. So here we are

[britneyshakespeare]

literary theses are so hard to come up with when i choose to write about things i really truly love with that emotional, subjective part of me that is the true professor in my heart... like i know how to analyze texts... but can't i instead just tell you about all the beautiful, magical parts instead?

[syndrossi]

Chapter twenty-seven (currently in progress) has featured gods-talk and me finally figuring out what to do about the mini (/not so mini) arc that has been, up to this point, very subtle. I doubt anyone has even picked up on it yet with how little there is to go on until ch22-23.

And since it's been a while, have the latest upcoming chapter titles + word count beneath the cut. They're not super spoilery, tbh.

[milfbrainrot]

i wish i had been more comfortable with my writing back when i had more free time. flash exchanges are SO fun and i could've done so many if i hadn't always needed weeks to reread and edit my writing obsessively at that time

[starstruckodysseys]

i think i’m done??????

[deckof-dragons]

I'm sitting on like 5 complete fics that just need editing before uploading. And like, it's not that I don't want to upload them but also, ugh! Uploading fics always brings with it the urge to check Ao3 to see if anyone's left a comment even though I know it's unlikely. I often end up checking anyway and I'm not disappointed because most of the time I get exactly what I expect (when I don't, it's always a nice surprise) but like also, fighting the urge is a little mentally exhausting.

I should make clear that I'm not complaining about not getting comments because I do get them. A couple of my drabble fics in particular almost always get comments when I post chapters to them. (Blessed be the people who leave a comment on every chapter.) It's just I have a decent grasp on what's more likely to get comments and so far the fandom these fics are for hasn't attracted many. Which is fine; I write what I want to write with little to no regard for what's popular. I'm just not looking forward to having to remind myself not to check Ao3 too often for each and every one of those 5 fics, especially since one of them is like 6 chapters.

I'll survive of course. Of all my problems, it's the least distressing. I just wish I could completely divorce myself from the urge to check for comments. It would make life marginally easier.

[ichorblossoms]

wip wednesday- uh oh spaghetti-os

i was going to try and maintain a pattern of sharing these with going p1, p2, then p3 but i've decided to not do that bc i've been writing a lot of p2/p3 lately

as usual, mind some of the clunkiness as this is first draft writing and i'm not quite satisfied with how some of this stuff flows but! i'm being so brave and not editing this over and over and ov sharing it anyways yeeeehaw

---

[P3- Yarrow POV, they/them for Yarrow, it/its for Grimm, ]

Yarrow woke up hurting. It wasn’t the sort of pain that originated from a specific point but it was present. After the past few days, they had no pause for alarm and, with the comfort of Grimm beside them, fell back asleep.

A few hours later, still before the sun was up, Yarrow woke again, still hurting. Nothing felt different than it had however many hours before, but a single thought appeared: something is wrong. More accurately, something is beginning to go wrong. This wasn’t going to get better.

In the dark, they tried to take stock of their body: something in their chest was tight—not in the emotional way (God knows they had felt that enough in this lifetime), but as if something was inflamed, or not sitting correctly. The twinge in his left arm he could never quite get rid of for good was back too. Above and alongside all that was the feeling that something in their body was off with each swallow, every breath.

Shit.

They had a theory and a solution. If they were right, this could fuck them both over.

It was far too dark in the makeshift house for Yarrow to actually see Grimm, but their senses—new and old—traced the outline of it as it slept, pressed against them and breathing softly. Familiar affection welled up in their chest alongside that new, unwelcome pain; this beautiful creature was their lover, and they knew it loved them back just the same. Two odd creatures, who managed to find each other again and again.

They wanted to protect Grimm, the thing the two of them had made together. If either of them was truly capable of it, it would be Grimm, but Yarrow knew without a doubt that he would take as many bullets for Grimm as he needed to allow it to live.

Yarrow thought of home too, and the people back in Rappock. They wanted to protect them all, for all they had done for them. They wanted to go back, to the checkups and fix-ups, the people they knew and loved. They left everything they knew behind once already, they didn’t want to do it all over again. 

Deep down, they knew they could, Grimm was there the last time, after all, but for all they never quite fit in, nowhere else felt like home.

—

“What’s wrong?”

Damn it, Yarrow hadn’t even said anything, wasn’t planning on doing so until they had eaten breakfast at the least.

There was no point in keeping it a secret, Yarrow word-vomited to Grimm about them waking up in the middle of the night, how after two days their chest was beginning to feel like things were shifting out of place, how their body, no longer what it once was, was beginning to tear itself apart, and would if they couldn’t get the proper treatment. 

Grimm listened, not saying a word.

“I’m sorry,” Yarrow didn’t know what else to say after they finished speaking.

The creases in Grimm’s brow were deep, “Don’t be, you shouldn’t be sorry for anything,” they heard the unspoken I should.

“No, and I can’t control any of this,” Wrong thing to say. Grimm curled tightly in on itself for a moment before letting out a breath and running a hand across its face. “I’m not in any pain right now,” they reassured Grimm. It was true, there was only an easily ignorable discomfort for now. But it would slowly get worse. On the bright side, you have a few weeks. Don’t say that to Grimm.

It inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath, “I need to go back there, don’t I?”

“I’m going with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

Yarrow huffed, “No, I’m not leaving you.” They almost said I’m not letting you leave me, but that could only come out wrong.

Grimm might have heard what they almost said regardless; it looked at them for a long time before speaking quietly, “I can’t let you get hurt again.”

“And if you’re hurt?”

[Grimm looks at its hands]

“I’m going with you, from now on,” they were not going to argue, they wanted in on the action sure, but more importantly, “I want to be by your side.”

“Yarrow, I know what I’m doing,” Its nose crinkled into the beginnings of a snarl despite its level voice.

“And I’ll follow you. I’m not saying I have to be your shadow, and I know I don’t have your skills but,” I can’t do nothing while you risk your life for me, “I’m just as angry as you are. I want to fight back.”

“You can’t fight back if you get killed,” Grimm was playing all it had.

But they held the winning hand, “You wouldn’t let that happen.”

It went silent again, staring right into their eyes—silver boring into gold. Yarrow won, they both knew it.