#usually [YOU] simply tucks them into it’s body as otherwise it’d be another weak point

[rooksruckus]

[YOU] doodle

It has been given wings because I forgot them until someone asked a question related to them

[comicdiego]

Nothing at All

WARNINGS: uh light sex mentions, alcoholism mention, racism mention

PAIRINGS: comic diego hargreeves x tua oc mello walker

UNIVERSE: the umbrella academy comic verse, early 1972

CHARACTERS: diego hargreeves, tua oc mello walker

There's always been something about her. He's known her for three years now, seen that sparkle in those emerald green eyes, watched her cackle on her- their- eighteenth birthday as she crammed red velvet cake into her mouth, smearing the frosting across her cheeks with a bright smile and he swore everything seemed warmer around her. Remembered how she'd offered him a slice and he'd merely shaken his head, but when she winked and slid the plate before him and commented that it was her so-called birthday wish, he'd slowly taken a bite, with her grinning like a madwoman, her teeth a pearly white, lips painted a deep shade of red. "Just for your birthday," she'd claimed, crossing one bare thigh over the other, the smooth skin glistening under the light, turning the native Indian skin tone a shade of golden brown. The desi woman was something else, one in a trillion, and he wouldn't ever tell her otherwise. She'd even worn matching red undergarments, a dark shade of maroon, with some sort of silver lining tucked into the lace fabric. It stood out against the black silk robe she wore, the strings tied across her bare abdomen. "Thought I'd mix it up, just for you." Then a few months later, when she'd dragged him into a mall- one predominantly for white people with a decent amount of money to spend, middle class. He let her. Locked his arm with hers, even as he grumbled about how much he hated going to the mall. Walked around a few stores, pointed out blazers she'd love to wear. Ones he'd even gone in and bought himself- a few. One white, one black. She'd paid him back later despite him telling her she didn't have to. The lingerie she'd picked out- deep shades of sapphire blues, and some of snowy whites and midnight blacks. He'd paid. Just because he knew it'd make her happy to wear something she should be allowed to wear, no matter if the people behind the register sneered a her and called her names, or called him names. He didn't care, and nor would he ever. What mattered to him was that he knew she was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen- even if he denied it to himself in his mind. Her trembling fingertips would glide across his upper arm after they'd go shopping, and her soft whisper would always follow. "I wish I could shop there without someone treating me like I'm a criminal." To which he would always reply that they were assholes. Then she'd smile up at him and say, "Thanks for taking me anyway, Blondie." When they were nineteen, and she was dancing on the table at the strip club she worked at, the robe she normally wore off stage long gone and the lace underwear she usually opted for in more public settings being exchanged for a black thong. He'd always drag his eyes away, feeling his cheeks warm. Though it was clear she didn't mind his gaze, slipping into the chair beside him and leaning in close, whispering something about a lap dance in his ear that she knew would set his cheeks aflame. Probably cause the man across from him to scowl, because Mello herself was a beautiful woman, even if most people only liked her for the shape of her body and the thought of getting her into bed, even though it seemed that she didn't do that all too often- or ever. He couldn't say he could name a time where she had taken someone to bed. Until they were both twenty, and she was leading him into the bedroom with soft kisses along his lips, his jaw, his throat. Walking backwards, with his hands grasping her hips. He doesn't know how to describe it other than hungry and eager- that's what he was. For what, he didn't entirely know, though his heart told him it was for her. The night had ended in moonlight dancing across their bare skin and her dark red violet lipstick across his athletic figure and her soft sighs forever in his ears, but all the morning brought was him thinking it was stupid and neither of them spoke of it again. No, he'd slowly moved out from under her body, tugged his pants back on and sat at the edge of the bed for a moment. She hadn't awoken until a few minutes later, wrapping the blankets over her naked body, though he had memorized every curve of her skin, every small scar, every sensitive spot where she would sigh his name if he so much as dragged his fingertips across it. The taste of her lips on his, the forever lingering sensation of her pressed against him. Her emerald green gaze had dropped then, and her only words were, "I'm sorry." He never understood what for. To this day, he still doesn't. But he regrets not saying anything in reply, though he hadn't gotten up to walk away. To leave her abandoned there, alone. No, instead, he'd stayed as she slipped out of bed, let his gaze drift back over her body, to the marks he'd left across it, the stretching of her legs that suggested she had an ache. She would pull what she wore back on, let her hand linger on the doorknob. She doesn't look back at him, or acknowledge the fact that he's watching her, burning her image into his mind. Now, at age twenty one, they'd pretended that their bedroom exploration hadn't happened- at least, towards each other. It had definitely happened, and he was very much hung up on it, watching as her hips swayed when she walked, remembering her soft words brushing against his earlobe, the quiet 'I love you's that he didn't feel like he deserved. She was stunningly amazing, and he was a remnant of what he could have been. His father had always told him that- he was less than. Not good enough. That he needed to try harder. His failures were due to his shortcomings that he would never be able to live up to, and yet his only purpose in life was to be a hero. He couldn't love or have a family or find someone who cherished his existence- not that Mello does. No, he doubted she thought of him as more than a friend nowadays. "Diego?" she says, her voice smooth like silk and dragging him from his thoughts. She had a glass of whiskey in one hand, one he pointedly glares at. When she was nineteen, she had fallen into alcoholism, and he'd been trying to help sober her up ever since. Lately, it seemed to be working- whenever he was around. She releases a sigh and sets the glass down, then takes a seat in front of him upon the coffee table, across from where he leaned up against the wall. "Are you alright?" He nods, twirling the blade in his hand, a method to keep him thinking straight instead of thinking about how the curve of her waist had felt in his calloused palms. He doesn't give a smile of reassurance, because he doesn't smile- no, it was only rarely that he did smile. This wasn't something that made him smile, not a basic question about how he was feeling. Standing, she walks over to him, brushing her thumb across his jaw, her skin soft against the roughness of his stubble. He pulls his head back, worried she would lean in for a kiss and leave him reeling and yearning for something more when he couldn't have that. Mello was too good for him, and he wasn't truly capable of being loved. No one even thought he was capable of giving it, but if that was the case, why was his heart beating so fast and why did he have the urge to lean in and sweep her off her feet and kiss her all over her face like he was in some shitty romance novel? But he was good at pretending that wasn't at all the case, and their shared moonlight was nothing more than a moment of weakness for them both. Not that either of them ever spoke about it to clarify if they both were making love to one another, or if they were simply trying to feel love for themselves, and to prove to themselves that they could love. Diego knew what he had been doing- loving her. Trying to show that he did love her. The issue is that he doesn't know what she was trying to do. Her lips press together in a thin line of cherry red, and she casts a glance at him. "You're sure?" He gives a quick nod once more, the handle of the knife finding it's way back into his palm again. She parts her lips to say something, but she quickly closes her mouth, turning on her heel. "Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I'll be here." She chooses to say instead, finally starting to take a few more steps away from him, across the apartment. He notes that she doesn't even take a second glance at the whiskey, which makes him sigh softly in relief. But she always distracts him- her dark hair falling down her back in waves, the lower half of her robe only reaching her mid thigh and showing off her legs. He quickly glares at the wall opposite of him, frustrated at himself for betraying what he knew would be logical- he knows he shouldn't act upon those emotions. But there is something he wants to say, despite it all. Something he needs to say. Something bundled up in his heart and he knows it'll hurt and keep adding to his usual bitter attitude until he gets it out, which doesn't seem to be something he plans on doing because he's terrified. He's terrified that she'll walk away from him, and lately, she's the only person he can call family. The Umbrella Academy wasn't family- it was some glorified orphanage that turned you into a shitty superhero with insufferable amounts of trauma. The only person he thought of as a sister had left to go to Paris because he'd chosen to help his team when they were in imminent danger and she'd taken it personally. He had nobody, except for Mello, who he sees now, standing at her kitchen counter, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. Her skin seemed softer in the light of the sunset, and her lips seemed more of a red-orange. The window lets in the light, wrapping her up in the sun's glow, akin to the image he'd always seen her in, despite her shadowy powers. He himself stood in the shadows now, where he should remain, because she may be the sun, but he was the night, cold and dark and terrible, and he wouldn't be good enough for her. Never. Because the stars never needed the night to be beautiful- no, the night needed the stars to be breathtaking. Alone, it was nothing. And with her, he doubted he would ever amount to being good enough. Still, the words find their way to his lips, even if they escape his lips in a whisper. "I love you." Her head lifts, and those green eyes are trained on him, one of her eyebrows lifting in question. His heart stops for a moment, and his eye widens slightly from behind the domino mask, thinking she had heard him, until she says, "Did you say something?" "No." He replies, betraying himself. Nothing at all.