#with bare hands we reach zine

[villainscomplex]

Reverence

OUGH.... posting zine pieces part 2. this one was for the @bpfineartzine Also on: AO3

--

There’s something about cathedrals that makes Yotasuke feel impossibly small. 

It’s something to do with the architecture, surely; the way the roof arches endlessly overhead and makes the entire building look larger than life. At the same time, it’s nearly suffocating inside, the weight of thousands of years of existence coming down at the doorway. If he’s being honest, Yotasuke doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to go along with Yatora and his last-second whims. They’re university students now, adults in every sense of the word, but here he is, loitering at the entryway of the Holy Resurrection Cathedral while Yatora wanders in with wonder in his eyes.

In a way, he supposes, he owes Yatora. The other man ceaselessly drags him out of his shell, relentlessly pushes him out of his comfort zone, and challenges him at every turn. It forces Yotasuke to stop and think about his perception of things. That, perhaps, is why he agrees when Yatora calls, asking him to tag along. 

The cathedral is in Tokyo, so the ride over isn’t long. Yatora dozes off, and his hair is still mussed from where it was pressed against the window when they get to the doors. Yotasuke fixes his stare on the strands, smooth where they’re pressed flat above his ear. The right thing to do, he considers, might be to tell Yatora to fix it. He doesn’t.

They pay their donation at the door and receive candles to light inside. When they enter the cathedral, the room ahead is nearly empty. This is when the feeling strikes Yotasuke; when the doors shut behind them and the oppressive weight of the room comes crashing down. Yotasuke takes in the red carpets, the blue of the stained glass windows, the alternating dark and light of the paintings lining the walls. There are no pews like he anticipated, only rows of brown chairs with crosses carved into the backs. 

Yatora comes to a halt near the center of the room, his head turned up. Overhead, the domed ceiling yawns widely, reaching out with a grand chandelier. 

A personal project, Yatora had called it. Yotasuke doesn’t know why he chose a cathedral of all places for a personal project, nor does he know what this project entails. All that he knows is that it feels like he has thousands of eyes upon him now. Every painting, every statue, every window watches him. 

“It’s beautiful,” Yatora’s voice comes out, barely a breathless whisper. 

It’s terrifying, Yotasuke thinks. He doesn’t understand architecture or religion. But what he does understand is that existing in this place makes him feel infinitesimal, merely a fleck in the course of the universe. Yatora moves, and Yotasuke follows. 

Yatora has his sketchbook in hand, but he keeps it clutched close to his chest like he’s forgotten he’s holding it to begin with. He crosses over to the furthest wall, taking in the rows of paintings. Yotasuke stands where a priest would, turning to look out on the church. There’s only a few other people in the room, murmuring together near the doorway. They look as if they’ve had their time and are prepared to leave. Yotasuke is sure there must be someone leading other tours here somewhere, but if there is, they’re nowhere to be seen. 

“Yaguchi-san,” he asks without looking back. “Do you believe in a god?”

He doesn’t need to look to know Yatora is listening. He hears the shuffle of shoes and assumes it’s Yatora turning to look at him. There’s a beat of silence that follows, and then Yatora steps past him, walking to sit in the first chair on the first row. He gazes up at Yotasuke, still standing at the pulpit. 

“I think there’s something out there,” he replies after considering it. “I don’t know what’s correct, but we can’t possibly be alone, right? It can’t just be a coincidence we were created.” 

Yotasuke makes a noncommittal sound. There are theories, of course, of the how and the why. The Big Bang. God. Gods, plural. In the end, there’s no way of knowing what the truth is until the day they die. The distinctive scratch of pencil on paper draws his attention, and he glances back once more. Yatora has dropped his head, sketchbook propped up on his knees as he hunches over it. 

“I don’t know,” Yatora continues without glancing up. “I think believing in something is just comforting. It gives us purpose, I guess. Like we were all put here in this specific lifetime for a reason, meant to be who we are and meet the people we care about. I don’t know about fate and destiny and all that, but it couldn’t just be a fluke that I was able to meet everyone. I think we were meant to be friends.”

Yatora pauses in his sketching, glancing up to catch Yotasuke’s gaze. The blond smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he laughs awkwardly, “that sounds kind of strange, I guess.”

Yotasuke dwells on this for a moment. He doesn’t know where he’d be if it hadn’t been for Yatora entering his life when he had. By now, he surely would have quit art entirely. It had been his sole purpose for his whole life, and he can’t imagine where he would be if he had quit. These days, he’s coming to terms with his feelings more often, but he still doesn’t quite know who he is outside of art. It’s a process, certainly. 

But he doesn’t think Yatora is wrong, not really. Yotasuke doesn’t know about belief, but he does quietly think that he was meant to meet people like Yatora. At first, he’d been resistant to the idea of a friendship between them, and though he won’t admit it, these days he doesn’t think he can imagine his life without any of them. 

“No,” he finally replies quietly, not intending to say it at all, “it doesn’t sound strange.”

I get it, he thinks, but he leaves that much unspoken. 

Yatora gives him a strange, near indecipherable look. For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze, and then Yotasuke turns away once more, breaking first under the intensity of Yatora’s golden-eyed stare. After a moment, he hears the sound of Yatora’s sketching resume. He doesn’t look to see what the other man is drawing, focusing on the line of paintings along the wall again. Despite their light backgrounds, the paintings themselves are dark against the brilliant gold and white of the architecture, almost frightening in their intensity. 

Belief, Yatora had said. 

Yotasuke can’t claim to be an expert on Christianity, much less religion as a whole, but he’s witnessed the unyielding belief some of them hold. He walks the line of paintings slowly, taking in the details of the carefully crafted faces, the depictions of stories he doesn’t know. He wonders if the artist had painted these with that same belief in his heart. Perhaps it had been someone eager to express their feelings on the subject, but maybe it had simply been a commission by someone entirely indifferent. 

Still, it makes him feel something. 

It’s this, perhaps, that keeps drawing people back. In the same way that he keeps coming back to art, people keep coming back to religion, to their god, whichever one it may be. He thinks about Yatora calling it comforting, rolls it around in his mind contemplatively. He isn’t sure how comforting the idea of all-powerful being watching over them is, knowing all of the things that happen in the world, wondering why that being wouldn’t put a stop to them, but he supposes there’s a part of him that understands it. It’s easier than the idea that it’s just them in a big, empty universe. 

He drops his gaze from the paintings, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket as he turns around to leave the pulpit. During the holy days, he’s sure this building is packed. A place like this probably isn’t meant to be viewed this way, empty and haunting, the weight of its purpose hanging over their heads. Yotasuke knows he won’t come again, but he can’t help but wonder what it’s like when the cathedral is full of life. He’s never gone to a Christian church, but he’s heard how they are, seen videos of what they look like with the masses of people and their hands raised in worship. 

Yatora is still hunched over his sketchbook, nearly bent in two. It’s an almost comical sight, the sketchbook balanced on one leg and his candle tucked up between his stomach and thigh, but Yotasuke finds himself watching anyway. It’s a fervency of its own, the way art is Yatora’s god, and he’s merely a disciple passing on its word. It’d been that unadulterated passion with no real skill to back it up that had pissed Yotasuke off when they’d first met. For the first time, he’d felt genuinely threatened, and he hadn’t known how to deal with it. These days, he almost finds solace in it, knowing that even he still has a passion for art somewhere in him. 

Belief and worship, passion and reverence—none of those feelings were so far detached from one another. 

“I think I’ve got it,” Yatora speaks so suddenly that Yotasuke jumps a little. 

The blond looks up, a mixture of determination and contentment swirling in his eyes. He grabs his sketchbook and stands, sending his candle tumbling to the floor. They both watch it roll across the crimson of the carpets. The tips of Yatora’s ears burn just as red.

“Right,” he says, like he’d only just remembered it existed.

Yotasuke hides a smile. “Let’s light them before we go.” 

Yatora scrambles for the candle, and Yotasuke steps around him to make his way to the rows of firelight from other visitors. He finds a less lit area, setting his candle down among them, and Yatora joins him. Without a word, they both light the wicks, watching the flames spring to life, two more pinpricks of light against the brilliant backdrop. Yotasuke puts both of his hands in his pockets, watching the wax melt. 

“Thanks for coming, Yotasuke-kun,” Yatora murmurs, his gaze fixed on the two fires, sitting side by side among the countless others. 

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Yotasuke confesses. 

“What about you?” Yatora asks.

He looks up from his candle, turning his gaze on Yotasuke once more. Behind him, the stained glass approximation of Jesus himself stands with his arms spread, wide and welcoming and blue. 

“What about me?” 

“You asked me, but I didn’t ask in return. Do you believe in a God?” 

Another group enters through the doors at the front, led by one of the guides that Yatora and Yotasuke had turned down after they’d made their donation to get in. He hears their voices, but not the words they’re saying. Yatora is still watching him, gaze unwavering, eyes unrelenting and curious. 

Yotasuke straightens up, leaving his lit candle among the many others. They’ll be extinguished by nighttime, taken out of the way for the groups that come in tomorrow, and the day after that. Still, it feels like they’ve left some sort of mark here, their own personal immortality. Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but he thinks there are things here that could only be the work of something outside of their understanding. 

“I wonder,” he murmurs at last. 

Yotasuke doesn’t think he believes in a god, but as he watches the light filter through the stained glass, dyeing Yatora blue, he thinks that perhaps, in the wake of everything, there could be one after all. As they make their way back towards the door, Yotasuke looks up, gaze flitting over the still flattened strands of Yatora’s hair. He reaches up and fixes them himself. 

“It was messed up from the train,” he says in lieu of a real answer. 

It isn’t what he really wants to say, but Yatora smiles like he knows.

[snailor-bee]

Law x G!Reader / SFW  / 1.4k Summary: The captain really didn't want you to find out, but find out you did.

That he liked... romance manga?

Notes: Written for the @op-xreader-zine! Amazing art by @damagedintellect thanks for letting me write something to go with your art. ;u;

You tried the handle to the captain’s door first.

Everyone knew that Law didn’t like to be interrupted so he frequently locked the door. You’d have to knock to see if he’d let you in. If not—unless it was an emergency—then it was best to try again later.

Finding it unlocked, you walked inside, already talking.

“Captain, I got the map for the next island, and I was wondering if—” You looked up and cut yourself off at the look of pure horror on Law’s face.

He was holding a manga in between long, skinny fingers, the cover bright pink and—despite the fact that you didn’t read them—it would be hard to miss the figures on the front that just screamed ‘romance’.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Should I come back later or…”

“Lock the door,” Law ordered, voice like steel. You swallowed and did as he said. Slowly, he put down the book and motioned you closer.

Feeling trepidation drip down your spine, you did so. Law’s gold eyes burned into you. Though they were normally serious, right now they were intense.

Coming before his desk, you fidgeted. “Captain?”

He said your name and you straightened. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, no one is to hear about this. Am I understood? No one. If I hear anyone snickering around the hallways about this, I will have you removed.”

You nodded quickly. “Yessir! It won’t happen, I’ll keep it to myself!”

“Dismissed.”

Quickly you headed for the door, just as you were opening it to make your escape, you paused and then looked over your shoulder. There seemed to be a faint blush across your captain’s face but it could have just been the light. “Say… even though I won’t mention it to anyone, I also don’t think it’s a big deal? You can like what you like.” You shrugged. “Shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks, right? C’ya later, captain!”

You ducked out of the room before he could reply; heart hammering in your chest as you sped away. 

At the next island, Law grabbed you before you could head out with your friends, a hand tightly gripping your inner arm and dragging you away. Everyone watched you go with confused expressions and you whimpered in terror, reaching out for them.

Everyone knew that the captain didn’t go out into town except with a few shipmates—those who had been on the sub the longest and that most definitely didn’t include you.

“W-what’s up?” you asked when he’d led you far enough to be out of earshot of the crew.

“Wanted to show you something,” he muttered under his breath and didn’t elaborate any further.

Finally, he stopped outside of a bookstore, and you barely got to glance at the display before he escorted you inside. His shoulders were hunched over as if he didn’t want to be seen as he silently led you to a corner.

Manga lined the walls there, but it was clear where the romance section started, the covers all bright and colorful. He eyed the shelves before pulling one down.

“Did you mean what you said the other day, y/n-ya?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah of course!”

“Then maybe you can do me a favor…?” he trailed off meaningfully.

“Sure!” You didn’t know what it was, but you figured it couldn’t be that bad, right?

He held up the manga book in front of him. “I’m collecting these, but I’m missing volumes. Would you help me?”

You stared at the cover, some dude leaning against the wall while a girl blushed as they stared at each other. It took a moment for the request to permeate. “Uh… what?”

“Check if bookstores have them when we stop at an island. I’d pay you, for the cost and the time of course.”

“And why not… do it yourself?”

Law shifted, looking slightly uneasy. “It’s embarrassing,” he confessed at last. “You’re a girl, it wouldn’t be as weird if you’re buying them.”

You opened your mouth to argue, already offended by the statement before he held up a hand. “Y/n-ya, I literally have ‘death’ tattooed across my knuckles.” Your lips twisted into a frown and you crossed your arms.

“So what! You like a girly series, who cares?”

He made his own displeased face at your phrasing. “I have a certain… reputation.” You tapped your foot, unimpressed. Law sighed. “Look, I’d appreciate it, okay? It’s just uncomfortable for me. When people find out, they normally laugh and crack jokes. You were the first person who… didn’t.”

Immediately, your irritation melted away and you heaved your own sigh, unfolding your arms. “Alright, alright, fine. I’ll do.”

You watched as Law didn’t quite smile but his lips definitely quirked up. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight; it was rare to see the captain content, let alone happy, especially by something that you had caused.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly.

Which was how you found yourself as a sort of delivery bird. On each island you came to, you went hunting for Shoreleave Passion! much to the amusement of your friends. You didn't explain, besides saying that someone showed it to you, and you liked it enough to keep reading.

Which wasn’t entirely untrue. Apparently, Law figured that you doing his deliveries also meant he now had someone to confide in. So you were up-to-date on the series, despite never reading it (which came in handy whenever someone decided to ask what it was about) but you also got to hear Law’s personal theories and headcanons.

They were… numerous and long. The two of you were spending a fair amount of time together. More than one person had asked if you were dating, as Law met you for dinner or lunch to exchange the book, and then, since you were there already, ate and hung out together or he would pull you into his office for hours-long rundowns of the latest volume.

It was nice though. You found that you didn’t mind. You got to watch as Law’s face lit up in a way you had never seen before and, if you were honest with yourself, all the sudden one-on-one time had you harboring a rather large crush on your captain. But really, who could blame you? Even before you had started spending time with the man, you had thought he was attractive, so getting to know him on a personal level made it far, far too easy to start to like him.

While you were musing walking through the Polar Tang a hand unexpectedly covered your mouth and your eyes widened as you were dragged into a closet, your scream muffled.

“Y/n-ya, calm down, it’s just me,” Law reprimanded, as he held you against his chest until you relaxed. Once he relaxed his grip, you spun around and smacked him in the chest.

“What was that for!” you hissed, and he shushed you.

“People can be walking down this way, keep your voice down.”

You glared at him, and Law cleared his throat, suddenly looking a bit sheepish.

“I heard that the final volume is on the island. At a specific store.” He gave you the directions, and you nodded along, eyes maybe a tad too focused on the curve of his mouth as he spoke. “I also wanted to… thank you, for doing all of this for me.”

That snapped you out of it and your eyes shot up to meet his.

Law held your gaze. “It’s been… nice,” he said slowly. You blinked back. Were the two of you closer? When did that happen? Unconsciously, you licked your lips and watched as his gold eyes tracked the movement.

Butterflies started battering at the sides of your stomach. Law reached out and ran his fingers across your cheekbone, making you fight down a shiver.

“What could I possibly do to thank you for all you've done?” Law went on, his breath ghosting against your lips as he leaned towards you.

You swallowed. “It’s no problem…” Your eyelids fluttered closed at his close proximity, hope beating an erratic tempo in your chest.

When his lips brushed yours, it felt like you could have soared as you gasped and reached out blindly for him, hands burrowing into his shirt.

It was a simple kiss, just your lips pressed together so sweetly that you swore you tasted sugar when he pulled away. You licked your lips again and chuckled weakly.

“Wow,” you said with amazement.

Law smirked. “Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” you confirmed, tugging on his shirt to get him to lean back down. “Kiss me again."

[kaarijazineofficial]

Blog Update Post #3: Applications are open!

Hey there Kääryleet!

Things are getting started in earnest! We present to you all today, the artist application form! Ta ta-ta-ta tum!

And to go along with it, we have some guidelines for our resident creatives to follow:

The printed zine size will be 5 x 7 inches (roughly a5)

Submissions must be illustration or cosplay photography

Submissions must be 300dpi and CYMK for printing purposes

Submissions must be in portrait orientation

Applications will only be accepted via the form provided

SFW only*

Submissions must include Käärijä and/or anyone that he has performed with (what we call the “extended Käärijä universe”)**

No original characters

A copy of the printed zine will be sent to Jere’s mailbox in Vantaa, so applicants must be comfortable with their submissions being shown to he and his team

If deadlines cannot be met, applicants should contact a member of the fanzine team

We are accepting a minimum of 20 submissions, but will accept more if provided

Should we receive less than 20 submissions, we will default to an e-zine format

This is a volunteer-based project. There will be no profit for anyone involved.

*As a general rule of thumb, anything that Käärijä has done during a performance is acceptable (we know he can get a little naughty), but if you have doubts, please reach out to the team for clarification

**This includes, but is not limited to: Jukka/Allu/Jaako, Häärijä, the Dancers, Frank, Bojan, Tommy, etc

(Some of these rules and guidelines will be reiterated in the application form itself, so bare with the repetition)

And also a rough timeline for you folks:

Applications will be open up until and including October 21st 

One week of selection following closing of applications

Selected applicants will have the following rough timeline:

Three weeks for thumbnails

Three weeks for primary sketch

One month for refined sketch/lineart

One month for final illustration

Following that, it will be in the team’s hands, so we will be giving updates with the printing process as it proceeds. 

Once again, if there are any questions or concerns, please either contact a member of the team, or drop an Ask to our blog. Expect additional posts in the future regarding any tweaks to the timeline, deadlines, or submission requirements, as well as refining or clarification on what is required. Thank you all again for your patience and interest! We’re all so excited to see what we create!

 With that, to hammer it home:

APPLICATIONS ARE NOW OPEN. DEADLINE FOR APPLICATIONS IS OCTOBER 21ST.

[doks-aux]

Fic: Dead Men Take No Dares

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Characters: Izzy Hands, Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet, Lucius Springs, Ivan, Fang, Nathaniel Buttons, Crew of the Revenge

Relationships: Izzy Hands & Edward Teach, Izzy Hands & Crew of the Revenge, Izzy Hands & Ivan & Fang

Rating: PG-13/Teen

Content/Warnings: Truth or Dare, friendship (existing, mending, and growing), humor, and a callback to one of my favorite jokes from Season 1

Summary: “Fun, huh?” He breathed in and out once very deliberately then opened his eyes to look at Fang, face carefully neutral. “All right. I can do fun.”

--

Izzy is strong-armed into a game of Truth or Dare and decides to play by the rules.

Notes: Written for the zine Above All Else: An Appreciation of Izzy Hands in 2023 and set in a possible post-Season 1 future where everyone is trying to get along and no one is very good at it. (Except Fang, of course.) Written before the premiere of Season 2 and has not been edited to reflect any of that updated canon. The only difference between this text and what appears in the zine is the correction of three minor grammatical errors that will haunt me for the rest of my natural life.

Word Count: 1368

Read on AO3

--

Israel Hands was seven minutes and fifteen seconds into his frantic search for his captains or, indeed, any sign of life on the Revenge, when he finally heard Bonnet's voice ring through the halls of the gundeck.

“All right! Perhaps we ought to revisit and revise our ‘no more than two truths before a dare’ rule to ‘at least two truths before a dare.’”

The conversation was coming from the jam room, and Izzy hastened his steps in that direction, taking note of each voice that joined in.

“But then we’d barely get any dares!” Black Pete whined.

“I’m fine with that.” That was Spriggs, vaguely distressed as always. “I’m great.”

“Uh, it’s not Truth or Dare without any dares.” Black Pete again.

“Maybe that can just be a rule for Captain Ed and Wee John.” Roach then.

“Sorry about that,” Feeney said at the same time that Edward chirped, “Sorry, mate,” neither sounding particularly sorry at all. Was the whole fucking crew in there?

“Now, we don’t want to single anyone out...” Bonnet waffled--prompting a small chorus of “Yes, we do”--just as Izzy stepped through the door.

“Captain... s?” he asked, catching himself before he forgot to pluralize. He looked first to Edward then to Bonnet, taking in the room’s remaining occupants in between. It was, of course, the whole fucking crew. “Wh--?”

“Hey, Iz-dog!” Edward bellowed cheerfully, springing to his feet and barrelling toward Izzy with enthusiasm he had not anticipated.

“Oh, no, Izzy’s here!” Spriggs gasped, also jumping to fling himself at Izzy.

Edward reached him first, gripping his bicep and tugging excitedly. “You’ve gotta get in on this, mate. We’re--”

“I guess we have to stop having fun now,” Spriggs’ exaggerated lamentations rose over the rest of Edward’s sentence. “So sad.” Undermining his words, he grabbed Izzy’s other shoulder and leaned in to hiss, “What took you so long? There’ve been three fires already.”

“Fire?” Izzy darted his eyes between Edward and the boy before scanning the room more thoroughly. “Where is there a fucking fi--?”

“It’s out, Boss,” Ivan announced, and Izzy whipped his head around to see him stomping out the last embers of a fucking fire.

“Why is there--?”

“In my defense,” Edward cut in, snapping Izzy’s attention back to him, bright-eyed and grinning, “I was dared.”

Izzy held Edward’s unwaveringly mischievous gaze for a moment, just in case an explanation would be offered unprompted.

It was not.

“What are you--?” he began, valiantly suppressing most of a weary sigh.

“We’re playing Truth or Dare,” Jim interrupted this time, annoyed, though whether with him or Edward, Izzy wasn’t sure. He was getting whiplash all the same.

“What the fuck is--?” But Izzy cut himself off this time with a frustrated shake of his head, a growl dying in his throat. That one he actually knew, and it wasn’t the point. “Never mind. Edward, wh--?”

“You should play, too, Iz! It’s a blast!” The implish gleam in his captain’s eyes dimmed just slightly, his smile turning sheepish. “Didn’t mean not to invite you. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

That wasn’t the point. It was not within five hundred nautical miles of the fucking point. But the genuine apology in Edward’s tone took Izzy off guard all the same, stayed his tongue while he allowed himself to appreciate it.

“Oh, of course,” Bonnet butted in before Izzy could find his words again, which was marginally better than interrupting him, but that margin was about as thin as Izzy’s patience. “You can squeeze right in, we haven’t been playing long.”

“Three fires,” Spriggs mouthed silently in Izzy’s peripheral vision.

“I don’t care about your fucking game.” It came out with more bite than Izzy meant it to even if it was true. (He was trying to be less of a dick. They all were. They were bad at it, but they were trying. It just was not the point right now.) “Edward, listen. Wh--?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Iz. Play with us!”

“Edward, I need to--”

“Join the game, and you can ask him anything you like,” Bonnet said, chipper and smug. “When it’s your turn.”

Edward squashed Izzy’s delusions that he might consider reason by immediately nodding along. “There ya go, Iz, just wait your turn.”

On second thought, fuck the both of them.

“That settles it! Have a seat, Izzy,” Bonnet continued like he didn’t even notice Izzy’s heroic attempts to explode him with his mind. “We’ll do a few rounds so you can see how the game is played.”

“I don’t--”

“And then you can have a turn!”

“Captains--”

“Just let it happen, Boss,” Ivan muttered, calm and commiserating, throwing an arm across Izzy’s back. “Come sit with me and Fang.”

Not wanting to fight because they weren’t supposed to be doing that sort of thing anymore (and because Ivan could scruff him like a cat if he chose), Izzy allowed himself to be led to the bit of floor claimed by Fang, who beamed and scooted over to make room for them.

“Hi, Izzy,” Fang greeted as Izzy sat beside him. Izzy grimaced in reply, careful not to shift his weight onto his bad foot as he settled on the floor. Ivan sat on Izzy’s other side, bracketing him between his old colleagues.

“Does anyone remember whose turn we were on?” Bonnet asked, and conversation erupted through the room, everyone talking over each other while Izzy straightened his spine and tried to catch Edward’s attention through the chaos.

“Anyone who doesn’t love arson,” Spriggs groused, flopping in defeat beside Black Pete.

“Seconding no arson,” Boodhari agreed.

Frenchie laughed. “That’s not a big number on this boat, babes.”

“May I have a turn?” The Swede raised his hand. “I will not choose fire.”

And on and on the inane chatter continued, Izzy squirming in impatience as Edward looked everywhere but at him. He was nearly ready to snap when he felt a gentle touch at his back.

“It’s not so bad, Boss,” Fang murmured kindly, giving him that soft-eyed look that Izzy never knew how to respond to since he’d promised to stop yanking his beard. “Give it a chance. Maybe you’ll have fun.”

Izzy bit the inside of his cheek before he could spit something ugly. He clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms, squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, and tensed every muscle in his body until he had no choice but to relax.

“Fun, huh?” He breathed in and out once very deliberately then opened his eyes to look at Fang, face carefully neutral. “All right. I can do fun.”

He would wait his turn.

Fang smiled like he was proud of him, and Izzy did not tell him to fuck off. Bonnet got the game started up again, and Izzy observed the proceedings dutifully. There didn’t seem to be any sort of logic to how the turns were taken, the rules were clearly made up as they went, and the truths asked and dares accepted were as ridiculous and reckless as he would have expected. Nevertheless, he was grudgingly impressed that the Swede could contort his limbs into a pretzel with such ease.

Finally, Bonnet looked to Izzy and spread his arms out with his customarily unwarranted pomp. “Now it’s your turn, Izzy. Ask anyone anything you’d like.”

“Fine.” Izzy looked Edward straight in the eye. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Edward answered, still constrained by the new dare limit.

“Who’s steering the fucking ship, Edward?”

“The fuck do you mean? Buttons is. Right, Buttons?”

Izzy watched realization dawn in Edward's eyes, his slow, horrified turn to the wall, where Buttons had been standing the whole time.

Buttons, very much not steering the ship, stared back, unblinking. “Olivia wanted to watch the game,” he said of the seagull perched on his head. “She’s a yen for hot gossip.”

“...SHIT!”

Edward tore out of the jam room, most of the crew stampeding after him. Izzy remained seated, Ivan and Fang still at his side and Buttons still against the wall. Under the thunder of footsteps and bickering and Bonnet shrieking in panic, Izzy smiled.

“You were right, Fang. That was fun.”

[askmalcador]

ff+ Kusig Alad (Aka the Emperor of Mankind)

Dunno why you posted this anonymously.

Malcador smelled smoke. A peek out his tower window revealed some kind of fire all the way down in the courtyard. From the look of it, the Custodes were burning what looked like...

"Burning BOOKS? he gasped. He reached out his hand and his metal staff flew obediently into his hand. He hastened down the tower stairs and blew into the courtyard, his green Sigillite's robe whipping around him.

"You best be burning copies of the Lectitio Divinitatus!"

There were two Custodes, and he didn't recognize them immediately. Both were holding boxes of cheaply reproduced booklets or pamphlets.

"They are...not," the one on the right admitted.

"It is traitorous, though," the one on the left added.

"Then I should know about it. I should know about every potential danger to His Majesty!"

"These are not a danger," said Right Custodes. "Lord Dorn ordered us to--"

"Lord Dorn oversteps his boundaries. Let me see those."

The two Custodes looked at it and then placed the boxes on the ground in front of him. They made no attempt to put the fire out.

Malcador grunted as he bent over to take a look. The contents appeared to be what used to be known as "zines". Political zines, given that he and the Emperor were on the covers. Malcador picked one up, opened it up and--

There was a double page spread of himself and the Emperor. They were on a lightly sketched out enormous bed and they were...

"Good Lord!" Malcador exclaimed. He dropped the one he was looking at and pulled another out at random. This one was hardcover, with a full-color dust jacket that depicted himself with youthful, androgynous features and his robe slipping from a bare shoulder. The Emperor loomed behind him, one hand touching his exposed skin.

Malcador dropped it into the box. "Have these sent to my quarters. I will inform the Emperor."

"You want to...read these...my lord?"

"Wouldn't you? I'm burning with interest as to what these I presume to be young women think about their highest levels of government." He glanced at the second box. "They certainly don't have any idea of what He and I look like."

+I think they have flattered you immensely, my friend.+

I look pretty. You know how I feel about seeing myself prettified.

+Oh, let it be. I will meet you in your apartments.+

The boxes were consigned to delivery servitors and Malcador returned to his private office. He was alone in the massive chamber except for some docked servo-skulls and his cat curled up in a corner of a battered, overstuffed sofa.

Malcador continued to skim through the volumes. There were stories as well as pictures, and the content had come from a wide array of language groups. He could read most of them, but the stories were somewhat repetitive.

+I think the ones about the Primarchs tend to be better+

Malcador turned around to find the Master of Mankind standing behind him, smiling gently. He was wrapped in a toga with no tunic beneath, His long black hair framing His noble features.

"I confess I am not sure how I feel about these," Malcador admitted. "Should I feel honored in a strange way? Violated? Disrespected?"

+They are a labor of peculiar love+

"Are they a danger to the Imperium, do you think?"

+I think they are a sign of public approval.+. The Emperor took a number of them into His hands. +The way they draw Me...+ He turned a page towards Malcador. The image showed Him with only His leg armor on, the better to frame and display His...

Malcador sniffed. "They intend that to be alluring, but I know better."

The Emperor settled onto the sofa. +I find many of these images of you to be alluring indeed.+

"More alluring than the reality?"Malcador asked, testing.

+No.+. The Emperor took Malcador's hands in His own. +But these children have some creative minds.+. He tipped His head to one side. +I think that we could mine these for inspiration in our vie de couple+

"We have been in a dry spell together," Malcador said. He picked up a stapled paper zine which had himself on the cover with bulging muscles Malcador had never possessed. "I can't compete with this, though."

+I don't know about that. This looks like a position we could achieve, provided you relax with a few glasses of wine.+

Malcador smiled up at Him. "You know where my wine cooler is. I trust You to select an appropriate bottle."

[reneeofthestars]

Stand Up Together

I’m so excited to finally share the short story I wrote for @legacy-rebelsfanzine​ ! 

I love Star Wars Rebels, and I’m honored to have gotten to work on this wonderful zine! 

Read on AO3     Words:1,427

 ***************************

It was a dream Ephraim Bridger had grown familiar with.

He would open his eyes and find himself standing amid the grasslands of Lothal, the landscape dotted with rock formations, the sky warm with orange and gold as the sun set.

Laughter just ahead would draw his attention, and there was his son, having lured yet another loth-cat out of its nest to play. At his side, Mira took his hand in hers and leaned into him, standing on her toes to kiss him. Ephraim would wrap his arms around her, closing his eyes as he took in the peace around him, holding onto the dream as long as he could.

This time, though, the dream changed.

Ezra’s sudden silence broke him out of his reverie. When Ephraim found him again, Ezra was far ahead, his wild blue-black hair barely visible above the tall grasses. His son stood stock-still, transfixed by the sudden appearance of a white loth-wolf that towered over him.

The boy didn’t look frightened; he stared in awe at the creature, even as Ephraim’s heart leapt to his throat and he pulled Mira along, sprinting towards Ezra. The loth-wolf watched as Ephraim ran, but the creature made no move to attack. Instead, it laid down and waited patiently, yellow eyes studying him. The loth-cat Ezra had been playing with scrambled up the wolf’s back, coming to rest on its head.

Ephraim called out for Ezra, and the boy turned to him. His face split into a wide grin, showing his missing front teeth. “It’s okay, daddy!” he called, patting the loth-wolf’s leg. “It’s time to stand up!”

Ephraim woke in his cell, still reaching out for Ezra.

*

“You’re quiet,” Mira murmured as she sat beside him to eat. The pristine Imperial detainment center encased them, as devoid of expression and as militant as the stormtroopers that guarded it. The morning broadcast toting the Empire’s propaganda droned on in the background of the mess hall, masking their quiet conversation. Ephraim had learned to tune the noise out.

“I had a dream.”

She smiled knowingly, age lines crinkling around her eyes. “Ezra?”

He nodded as his throat tightened. “He told me it’s time to stand up.”

Mira choked on a laugh, then quickly sobered as a trooper guarding the door turned sharply to look at her. Once the trooper resumed his stance, she lowered her voice while picking at her rations. “I hope he remembers that.”

“I think we told him often enough.”

“He was so little. Young, I mean.” She paused thoughtfully. “Do you think he’s taking after you or me, height-wise?”

“We’ll find out, one day.”

She rested her head briefly on his shoulder, her headwrap secured around her hair. That had been one decency the Empire allowed her. The other had been allowing him to keep his beard, instead of being clean-shaven. He briefly kissed her forehead. The greatest mercy the Empire had shown was allowing them to stay together.

Of course, any time the officers thought Ephraim and Mira were speaking too loudly, too pointedly about the flaws of the Empire, or were found encouraging an ever-growing group of prisoners, they were threatened. Threatened with labor, with death, with separation. They had been punished in the last seven years of their captivity, but so far, no extreme penalty had befallen them.

Seven years. Had it really been that long?

He held his cup tightly, watching as droplets fell from the rim where they’d sloshed. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about his son. His little boy was fifteen now. How old would he be when Ephraim finally got to see him again?  

Mira’s voice pulled him from his isolation. “Do you remember,” she said, trying not to laugh, “when he turned on the broadcast when we’d gone to the market?”

Ephraim ducked his head to hide his smile from the troopers. “And announced to anyone still tuned-in that he’d drawn a picture of a Jedi in a ship fighting back against the Empire.”

“I didn’t know you could run that fast. You reached him minutes before I made it back.”

“I swear, I locked the hatch to the room.”

“I know – I watched you do it. He just had a knack for getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Like the roof.”

“Oh!” Mira put a hand to her chest, as though the memory still made her heart flutter in worry. “If Tseebo hadn’t climbed up after him, I don’t know what I would have done!”

“I would have come over myself to get him, if you’d needed me to,” a gruff voice broke in.

A broad-shouldered man with sun-tanned skin and a white beard set his tray down with a huff across from them. A dark purple circle ringed his eye.

“Ryder.” Mira raised a hand to examine the bruise. “What happened?”

The former governor of Lothal waved her away. “I’m alright, Mira. Got into a little scuffle with the guards, that’s all.”

“What? Why?”

After making sure none of the troopers were nearby, Ryder pitched his voice low. “I caused a distraction for two of the new inmates. The Bothan and the Mon Cal? They were able to hack an outlying terminal and get a map of the facility.”

Leaning closer, Ephraim asked, “Are they planning something?”

Ryder shrugged. “Seems like they want to, but they don’t have any ideas past getting a layout of the place. Figured it was a good opportunity to get –”

The speakers buzzed; the words of the calm Imperial broadcast cut off in a burst of static. Frowning, Ephraim glanced around. Others had noticed as well; guards and prisoners alike looked to the speakers in surprise.

The static continued, and he heard an officer call over her comm to check the holonet signal. After a few moments, the interference ceased, and a strangely young male voice reverberated around the mess hall.

“We have been called criminals, but we are not. We are rebels, fighting for the people, fighting for you. I'm not that old, but I remember a time when things were better on Lothal.”

Ephraim’s heart stopped. Mira seized his wrist, her knuckles white.

“Maybe not great, but never like this. See what the Empire has done to your lives, your families, and your freedom? It's only gonna get worse…unless we stand up and fight back.”

An officer was yelling orders to cut the connection, but there was nothing they could do; the Imperial broadcasts were hardwired to play consistently throughout the prison. And now every prisoner stared at one another – dissenters, fighters, activists, and so many others – and Ephraim saw a spark in their eyes as the transmission continued.

“It won't be easy. There will be loss and sacrifice. But we can't back down just because we're afraid. That's when we need to stand the tallest. That's what my parents taught me. That's what my new family helped me remember.

“Stand up together. Because that's when we're strongest—as one!”

Another burst of static crackled over the speakers, followed by a ringing silence.

Tears filled Ephraim’s eyes, and he let them fall, his heart swelling with so many emotions he thought it might burst. Relief, pride, concern, love, all swirled into a bubble that finally broke through as a sob.

Mira’s hands were shaking as she gripped him tightly. “He’s alright,” she whispered against his cheek. “Ezra’s alright.”

“Ezra?” Ryder frowned. “You think that was him?”

“She’s right,” Ephraim murmured, pulling her close. His tears stained her headwrap, but it didn’t matter. “The way he spoke, the phrases he used – it’s the same things we’d say in our broadcasts.”

“His voice sounds just like you when we were younger.” Mira smiled through her own tears. “He’s out there, fighting for the free galaxy we wanted for him. And with a family – Ephraim, someone’s looking out for him.”

The buzzer sounded, alerting all detainees that they were to return to their cells. The stormtroopers seemed rattled; they snapped at the closest prisoners to move faster, grips tight on their blasters, helmets swiveling as they scanned the mess hall.

Ephraim stood, but a lightness in his chest made him pause. He met Mira’s eyes; determination danced in her gaze, and she nodded once. Their son was out there, standing up for others, standing against the Empire. And it was high time Ephraim and Mira joined him.

Ryder glanced between them. “I know that look,” he muttered uneasily.

Ephraim clapped him on the shoulder. “Stand tall, Ryder. It’s time to act.” 

*

[chenziee]

Acceptance

Written for the @yamabrozine! Please enjoy some Yamato and Straw Hats shenanigans 👹👒 There's a slightly different first person POV version of this too but idk if I should post it... we'll see if I feel like cleaning it up xD

Huge shout out to my beta who helped me every step of the way and whithout whom this wouldn't be here today! The real MVP 🖤

[ Read on AO3 | Yamato zine fics ]

----------

When Yamato told the Straw Hats he was going to join them after the battle of Onigashima, he wasn’t expecting them to accept him.

‘Kaido’s son?!’ ‘We should kill you!’ ‘Stay away from Luffy!’ ‘Ew.’ Those were the words he had expected to hear. But instead, the pirates who were present and awake at the time looked at him, then at each other.

“You’re Kaido’s son?!” God Usopp asked, cowering slightly behind Black Leg Sanji. 

Yamato clutched his kanabo but smiled, refusing to let his nerves show. He was going to sail with these people; he needed to show them he was no danger—

“I'm not complaining if you join us!” Sanji announced immediately after, looking at Yamato with a very strange expression on his face. Did—were those hearts in his eyes…?

“I swear, Luffy always picks up the weirdest people,” Cyborg Franky sighed.

Nami rolled her eyes in response but there was a small smile playing at her lips as she shot back, “Look who’s talking. You’re the weirdest one by far.”

“Yow! Thanks!” Franky called loudly, striking a pose, and Yamato had to fight back his excitement at the sight of the cyborg’s large, metallic arms clanking together.

“That wasn’t—never mind,” Nami muttered before shaking her head in disbelief. Yamato noted her smile was still firmly in place, however.

Nico Robin approached him then. “Yamato, right?” she asked.

Yamato simply nodded, meeting her eyes which seemed to peer right into his soul. He was surprised to realise that it wasn’t an entirely bad feeling. Not when she smiled at him, a small chuckle passing through her lips.

“It’s the captain’s decision who gets to board his ship. But if Luffy’s fine with it, no one is going to complain. You don’t have to hold back.” There was this knowing spark in her gaze when she gestured behind herself—at her crewmates, who were currently busy shoving at each other, laughing and bickering. They looked perfectly relaxed, as if the son of the enemy they had barely just managed to defeat wasn’t standing right in front of them.

Just looking at them, hearing their carefree laughter… It was making Yamato feel lighter, happier. 

He didn’t even mind that Robin could see right through him—although knowing himself, he was likely being painfully obvious. He was never very good at hiding his feelings, after all.

“Sanji, I’m hungry! Make me your special soba!” Usopp whined, hanging onto Sanji’s waist.

“Me too, please!” Brook joined in.

Sanji clicked his tongue, trying to shake the sniper off. “Shut up! I only take requests from ladies!” he snapped before he looked away from him, his voice turning softer. “What would you like, Nami-san, Robin-chan, Yamato-chan?”

Yamato blinked, taken completely aback by the sincere blue eyes and a genuine smile thrown his way.

Before his mouth could fall open in shock, Robin’s soft chuckle reached his ears. “Looks like you’re already a part of the crew.”

Yamato’s lips stretched into a wide grin and he laughed, his hand shooting up eagerly. “Soba for me, too!”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” Sanji said, giving Yamato a bow—

—only to yelp when Usopp poked his side. “I think you missed the ‘son’ part.”

There was a beat of silence while Sanji processed Usopp’s words but then he hummed, looked at Yamato critically for a moment, then nodded seriously. “I’m sorry for my oversight. No votes on the menu for you.”

“What?! No fair!” Yamato cried, his eyes going wide.

“Hey, Sanji! No take-backs!” Usopp agreed, shaking the cook for good measure.

Sanji tried to ignore the protests but one pout from Usopp and a single glare from Nami made him break. "Fine! But just this once."

—————

It was about four in the morning a few days later that found Yamato sitting in his room in the Shogun’s castle, recounting the events of that night in his journal. 

The party to celebrate the end of Kaido’s reign—the first dawn after twenty long years of darkness—had died down only a short while ago. Yamato wondered if anyone beside him was awake now; last he knew, only Zoro, Nami, and Kyosh—Denjiro were still drinking and chatting. Everyone else was asleep, completely exhausted. 

And Yamato was too but he refused to go to bed yet—he had too much to say!

When Luffy and Zoro had woken up that morning, the cooks of the castle had insisted on making a feast… but of course, there was no way the pirates could wait for that. Especially since a festival had been ready to go for days, just waiting for the stars of the show to come to.

And some festival it was! Everyone was happy, happier than Yamato could remember. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the happy laughter of the citizens and the sound of Hiyori’s shamisen. Not to mention the sheer amount of food and games!

Needless to say, the Straw Hats raided every stall, much to the chagrin of their owners. 

It was the worst with the food. After all, as Yamato had learned, Luffy could eat. Yakisoba, takoyaki, taiyaki, shaved ice, dango… all of it was gone in the blink of an eye as soon as Luffy got to it, with Yamato not far behind. And even though everything was free—or maybe because it was—the crew ended up getting chased away every time.

In the end, the only stall that let them even close was Sangoro’s Special Soba.

“It’s so good!” Yamato moaned, slurping up the perfectly cooked noodles.

“I know, ‘ight?” Luffy agreed, speaking with his mouth full and pointing his chopsticks at his companion. “Sanji’s cookin’s the best!”

“For real! I can’t believe I can eat this perfection every day now!” Yamato grinned, happily shoving more noodles into his mouth.

“Shut up, you cavemen! ! I only take compliments from ladies!” Sanji snapped, but there was an undeniable, satisfied smile on his face.

There was a sly smirk on Usopp’s lips when he spoke up next, “Ladies and Zoro.”

Sanji nearly dropped the bowl he was pouring right then. “Excuse me? I’d take the shitty Marimo’s compliments least of all.”

“Sure,” Usopp drew out tauntingly before he burst out laughing.

As he looked between Sanji, Usopp, and a snickering Luffy, Yamato tried to understand what was going on… but when he noticed the pink dusting on Sanji’s cheeks, the answer became quite obvious. Huffing in amusement, he threw a smirk of his own at Sanji before the cook clicked his tongue and a throbbing, angry vein appeared on his forehead.

Taking that as a cue, Usopp and Luffy grabbed their bowls and bolted. 

Quickly following their lead, Yamato gulped down the rest of his broth, then shot up and sprinted after the madly laughing duo. Judging by the chair that came flying after them, Yamato wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up without lunch tomorrow…

After they lost their last source of food, the game booths were the next in line.

“Usopp, you’re amazing!” Chopper called excitedly from where he was hanging onto Yamto’s shoulder after yet another booth’s grand prize got shot down.

“Just watch!” Usopp said, showing the others a thumbs up. “I’ll shoot down every single prize with flawless accuracy!”

Yamato’s eyes widened as the booth owner broke out of his stupor only to glare at Usopp. “We’d better scram,” Yamato mumbled, taking a step back while tugging at Luffy’s shirt.

By the time the owner came to menacingly loom over an oblivious Usopp, the rest of them were long gone. The cry of “Traitors!!” was barely heard over their laughter.

But food and games were not the only things the festival had to offer. Wherever Yamato went, the sound of singing and dancing could be heard in tandem with the playing music. Of course, there were the geishas and Hiyori’s traditional Wano songs but there was also someone else, someone who played music the likes of which Yamato had never heard before. 

It resonated right through him, touching the deepest parts of his soul. Obviously, the skeleton wasn’t called the ‘Soul King’ for nothing.

“Do you like Brook’s music?”

Yamato startled at the soft voice behind him. He turned around to stare owlishly up at the woman and cyborg approaching him and, judging by the chuckle Nico Robin gave him, his surprise had to be pretty obvious.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Robin noted when she sat down on the ground next to him.

“I do. It’s so different from the music in Wano or Queen’s party songs,” Yamato replied before he gratefully accepted the cup of sake Franky had offered him.

“Enjoy it while you can. You’ll be hearing so much of his singing from now on that you’ll be super sick of it,” Franky laughed easily.

Yamato hummed thoughtfully at his words. “I doubt that.”

“Remember what you just said when he wakes you up at four in the morning for the fifth time the same week,” Robin remarked with a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Don’t scare me!” Yamato cried in mock horror even as his voice shook with laughter. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine getting sick of it—although he supposed he should hold that thought until he was being dragged out of bed that early on a regular basis…

Right now, however, he didn’t care.

He was too happy and there was too much joy around him… and too much alcohol buzzing in his mind.

But it was a festival; drinking just a little too much was fine!

Although it wasn't like he had much choice in that matter. Earlier that evening, he had learned the hard way that once Zoro and Nami got ahold of someone, there was no way they were leaving sober.

“Yamato, where are you going?” Nami asked with a raised eyebrow, the alcohol swirling in her glass.

“Giving up already, Son of Kaido?” Zoro joined in, his lips curled into a smirk.

Yamato groaned, stopping in his tracks. “I’m just going to get food!”

“Coward,” Zoro muttered once he drained the last drops from his sake cup.

“Coward,” Nami agreed solemnly.

“Excuse me?!” Yamato snapped as he slammed his hands on the table. “I’ll be right back!”

“Sure you will.” Nami leaned back in her chair before she brought her glass to her lips and took a long, taunting sip. There was a teasing spark in her eyes that was very hard to not pick up on and Yamato—

Yamato knew what they were doing.

They were riling him up on purpose, making fun of him and provoking him, all to get him to have just one more drink, get drunk just a little more, lose the undeclared drinking contest just a little faster. It was a clear bait, easy to see through. Like hell was he falling for cheap tricks like that.

“You’re fucking on,” Yamato hissed and sat back down, pouring himself a generous cup of sake.

“That’s more like it,” Nami laughed.

Zoro, too, huffed in amusement and the look he gave Yamato seemed almost proud in the meanest way and Yamato couldn’t help but laugh.

His voice still shaking with glee, Yamato shook his head. “You’re both terrible. Don’t complain to me when you get hungry.”

Just then, a giant plate full of yakitori and a pitcher of clean water appeared on the table. Yamato blinked in surprise before he tore his eyes away from the deliciously smelling meat to look at the one who had placed it there—the whale shark fishman who was looking right back at him with warm eyes and a wide smile.

Yamato’s face split into a grin and he immediately grabbed for one of the sticks. "Thanks, Jinbe!" he said before he bit down, a moan escaping him as soon as the juicy, amazing flavour hit his tongue.

"Thanks, man." Zoro nodded at Jinbe gratefully before grabbing a stick for himself.

Nami smiled at the fishman, pulling out the empty chair next to her. "Here, I saved you a seat, Boss." She winked, making the fishman laugh heartily.

The moment Jinbe sat down, Yamato placed two bottles in front of him. "Queen's whisky or Kaido's sake?"

A beat of silence passed before Jinbe started laughing all over again. "That's what you raided Onigashima for earlier?"

"Right after the packed treasury, yes," Nami agreed. "It's good stuff. Some of these could sell for so much money."

Before Jinbe could even say which one he wanted, a shout came from somewhere on the opposite side of the banquet area. 

"I smell meat!!'

Immediately, both Zoro and Nami's eyes widened. 

"Oh shit," Zoro cursed quietly.

That seemed to be the cue for the both of them to start scrambling to grab as many things off the table as they could, Nami snapping at both Yamato and Jinbe to move.

Yamato had no idea what was going on but Nami's frustrated glare sca—did not scare him. Still, he obeyed as quickly as he could, taking the yakitori plate in one hand and his sake cup in the other—

And a mere second later, something grabbed onto his shoulders.

His eyes went wide as he tried to process what was happening. Hands. Bodiless hands on his shoulders, pulling and pulling… until they weren’t. 

Yamato stumbled forward when the force disappeared, struggling to keep his balance and not drop anything while the panicked cries of ‘Careful!’ and ‘Not again!’ were not helping. Yet, the hands kept firmly clutching at his shoulders and Yamato could only assume the worst.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for impact as a whole human body came hurtling towards him at the speed of recoiling rubber. 

This idiot. 

Yamato could barely finish the thought before loud laughter filled his ears, coming closer and closer and… further?

Blinking once, twice, he looked blankly in the direction of the loud crash next to him. Apparently, Luffy had managed to completely miss him and instead went flying right by him, toppling over the table… and crashed right into Zoro.

“I’m… going to… kill you one day,” Zoro groaned, lying on the ground under a snickering Luffy and holding one of the expensive sake bottles in the air as far away from Luffy as he could.

Luffy only laughed harder.

Honestly, the way Nami and Zoro had reacted as if this was a normal occurrence was mildly terrify—disconcerting. Was Luffy flinging himself at people from the other side of the room, the building, the whole festival… normal? Was this Yamato’s life now?

Well…

Yamato didn’t fight the smile that spread on his lips at the thought. This was his life now! He could laugh with friends, drink and eat with them, be who he was next to them. No one around to yell at him to just shut up and do what he’s told, no one to laugh at him, no one to tell him to stop being Oden.

No chains on his wrists or soul anymore.

From now on, he was finally free.

[cavalierious-whim]

As I Still Love You (ZhongChi)

Part of 'Etched in Stone'.

Zhongli and Childe renew their wedding vows. Written for An Eternal Vow, A ZhongChi Wedding Zine.

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter and Blue Sky..

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And you can follow my Patreon here as well!

--

Madame Ping’s Serenitea Pot is set to a never-ending sunset. 

Zhongli has always felt at peace here, his old bones settling as he rests against the lounge on her porch. Their conversation is as usual: polite, quiet, and reminiscent. There are so few left who understand the weariness that he sometimes feels, but Xiao won’t speak of the past, and Ganyu is too busy with her work to speak at all. 

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” says Madame Ping. When Zhongli turns to her, she smiles back, amused. 

“Nonsense,” he says. “We have been chatting for a while yet.”

Her face crinkles slightly and Zhongli knows that look, the one she gets right before she says something that he won’t like—

“Words, and words with meaning are two different things, Zhongli. You might have shared polite conversation with me, but you’ve barely said a thing.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. “Is there something bothering you?”

Not really. And yet. “I often think about the years. The past, the present, and—well, I used to think of the future. I still do, but—”

“Zhongli,” cuts in Madame Ping sweetly, “what is the matter?”

“Nothing.” He is insistent, but she knows him almost better than he knows himself. Zhongli sighs, rubbing his brow. “I am happy,” he finally says. “When it comes to my life, my family, and Ajax, I am beyond happy. Which makes me wonder… what else is there?”

Madame Ping does not judge him. “Oh, Zhongli,” she says wistfully, holding her hand out and motioning for his teacup. Zhongli places it into her hand dutifully. She sets it on the table, grabs the teapot, and pulls back her sleeve. “That is the question of all questions, isn’t it?” she asks him as she pours out a fresh cup. 

“It is often on my mind.”

“Are you insecure with what you have?”

Zhongli looks at her, offended. “Of course not.”

“Then why wonder?”

Why wonder, indeed, which is why Zhongli finds the thought of it annoying. He is too old and too tired to be worried about such trivial matters—and yet, he cannot help it. 

Madame Ping tuts at him. “You know, that boy is good for you. I knew it from the moment I first saw you watch him the way that you do.”

“And—Celestia, tell me—how is that?”

“As if he’s the only thing there is.”

Oh. Zhongli’s mouth snaps shut at that and he rubs at his chin awkwardly, which leaves Madame Ping to chuckle. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, particularly when it comes to his husband. 

“It has been a long time since I have been in love,” she says, reaching out to pet his arm fondly. “But there is one thing that I do remember, Zhongli. There are no rules. You get to love a person however you wish.”

Zhongli smiles at that, warmly, and settles his hand over hers. “Thank you,” he says. “I must admit… I am always  learning when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Ah, yes, well—that’s the other thing about love, isn’t it? No one knows what they’re doing.” They both laugh, and Madame Ping pulls her hand away. “Speaking of, when will I get to see the children again? Are they still off traveling?”

“Ah, about that,” starts Zhongli as he takes hold of his teacup again. “Ajax wrote to Yuan, at least…”

Madame Ping smiles as she listens to him ramble on. The tea tastes as delicious as always. 

#

“Ajax,” starts Zhongli late one night after they’ve settled down, “I love you.”

Their home is quiet. Candlelight flickers from the bedside table. Childe leans against the headboard with an old book in his hand and Zhongli lies beside him as he thinks. He looks up, brow furrowed between his eyes. These words aren’t new; Zhongli says them more often than not, but Childe knows how to read his tone.

Tonight, Zhongli tells him this with quiet reservation. 

“I… would hope so? I mean, I let you put eggs into me, and then I laid them—so you better.” Zhongli cracks a grin at that but doesn’t immediately respond. Childe shifts, closing the book and tossing it to the side. He settles into the sheets, turning towards Zhongli. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Zhongli, there’s something on your mind.”

Perhaps Zhongli was a fool to think that he could hide something like this from Childe. “I love you,” he repeats affectionately, “but I often wonder if the way that I love you is the same way that you love me. That is not to say your love is less; I know it isn’t. But, who and what I am, and the implications of someone like myself loving another so wholly… I wonder if you understand to exactly what extent.” 

Childe’s face eases slightly. “I don’t see why there is a need to compare.”

“It isn’t a comparison.” Zhongli sighs softly. “These are just the things that I consider in my old age, I suppose. If I love you to the ends of the earth, then what else is there? What more can I do? I’ve courted you, I’ve married you, I’ve mated you. We’ve raised a family together—so what is there from here on out?”

Childe moves then, scooting closer and taking the blankets with him. He shares Zhongli’s pillow, pressing their foreheads together. “Zhongli, you have nothing to prove.”

“Then why do I feel this way?” whispers Zhongli. 

“Because love is dumb,” says Childe with a soft chuckle. He lifts a hand and smooths his thumb over Zhongli’s cheek. “Are you happy?”

Madame Ping asked him the same question, and just like then, Zhongli huffs, offended. But then his gaze softens, and he nuzzles Childe’s palm. “The most I’ve ever been.”

Childe leans forward then, kissing him softly, and just like that, Zhongli’s unease seems to melt away. For the moment, at least. They doze after that with Childe flush against his chest. Zhongli breathes in the scent of him and tries to revel in the comfort. 

“You know, I just remembered something,” says Childe later. They still share the same space of Zhongli’s pillow, intertwined and craving closeness. 

“Hm?” Zhongli combs through Childe’s silvering hair with his fingertips. 

“An old Snezhnayan tradition. I think my grandparents did it, but I was pretty young so I could be remembering wrong. It’s a vow renewal. You stand before witnesses and recommit your wedding vows.”

“Remarriage?”

Childe laughs brightly. “I mean, in a way, I guess. It’s just… reaffirming what you have.” He pauses. “Would you want to do that? Renew our vows?

It would be like reclaiming him, all over again, which is an idea that pricks at Zhongli’s instinctual lizard brain. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I like the sound of it.”

“You’ve always been a sap.” Childe snuggles closer then, chin tipping up to press a sweet kiss to Zhongli’s jaw. “My old, affectionate lizard.”

Zhongli chuckles before rolling Childe onto his back, pressing his face into the warmth of his nape. The night is still young and they aren’t that old. 

#

There is minimal planning. 

It irks Zhongli and he knows that Childe can tell by the way that he teases him. “We don’t need to think much about it,” he says, mouth curved into that well-known smirk. “We planned the wedding to the tee, so let’s be more laid-back this time around.”

Zhongli tries to remain easy-going about it all, but this is one of those times when he and Childe approach things wholly differently. Childe isn’t a planner, far more willing to just jump in and go with the flow. And maybe it’s because Zhongli is old, but he prefers to have a schedule, to plot things out accordingly. Not to mention that unknown anxiety that seems to have grown with his age. 

He frowns, thinking. 

Childe reaches out to tap his nose. “Hey, you okay?”

It startles Zhongli. “Ah, I’m—just thinking.”

Childe smiles, just a gentle grin that sits on his face. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

They sit in their Serenitea Pot, enjoying a nice brew of tea. They should be going over last-minute details for the ceremony the next day, but Childe wouldn’t allow it, putting the books away, so to speak. 

No, Zhongli wants to say, but it would be a lie. 

His silence must speak volumes because Childe reaches out to rub a thumb over Zhongli’s knuckles. “Hey, it’s normal.”

“It is not. We’ve been married for—”

“Decades, I know.” Childe sighs contently at the thought. “You know, even I feel nervous about it. I’ve been married to you for more than half of my life. How is that not daunting?”

It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be—but oh. Zhongli supposes that is the point. It’s alright for none of it to make sense. Isn’t that what Madame Ping told him, all those months ago? 

There are no rules. You get to love a person however you wish.

Childe watches him patiently with a twinkle in his eyes. It is Zhongli who tugs Childe’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. “Have you thought about your vows?” he asks. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” says Childe slyly, which only makes Zhongli chuckle. 

#

It is, perhaps, more effortless than Zhongli expects. 

The sand is cool underneath his feet and Childe’s hands are warm in his. They stand on the quiet beach in their Serenitea Pot, surrounded only by a handful of close friends and family. It is sunset, the sky turning purple and pink as the brightness begins to dip below the horizon. 

Even with the eyes of the others staring, Zhongli feels as though it’s only the two of them, lost in their own little pocket of the world. 

Childe rubs his knuckles, the wrinkles of his face framing his eyes and mouth handsomely. “You okay?”.

“Yes,” says Zhongli, and the word rings true. 

Xiao clears his throat from where he stands next to them. He looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else than there at the moment, his face pulled into a stern frown. 

Childe snorts softly, rubbing at his chin. “Sorry,” he says. “Understandably distracted.” And then, Childe winks at Zhongli, which makes his stomach curl ever so slightly. 

“Disgusting,” says Xiao. 

“Xiao,” warns Zhongli. 

Xiao looks like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Right, I’ll—” He clears his throat again. “We are gathered here today—”

“Oh, did you actually study the script that I gave you?” Childe sounds a little too pleased with that, and Zhongli hides his laugh behind a thinly veiled cough. 

Xiao locks onto Childe with a cool gaze, and then says, “We are here to witness these two idiots renew their vows, whatever that means. I don’t pretend to understand the strange mating rituals of mortals.” There are a few laughs from their audience, and Zhongli feels his cheeks burn pink, embarrassed. Xiao waves a hand. “Do whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Childe opens his mouth to speak, but Zhongli beats him to it. “Wait,” he says, “I know there was a plan, but I think I would like to go first.”

“I… okay.” Childe looks intrigued, at least, his head tilted to the side. 

“Ajax.” Zhongli whispers his name, for while it’s known, this is still one of those things that he tends to keep to himself. “There are many things to say and I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere,” says Childe, trying to soothe him. 

“These years spent together, I…” Childe is patient, so utterly patient as he stands there and lets Zhongli make an idiot of himself. “Months ago, I went to Madame Ping with a question that I had no answer to. I told her that I am happy and that you’ve brought me a life that I can barely fathom. Then I said, ‘It makes me wonder—what else is there’?”

Childe opens his mouth, but Zhongli holds up his hand, chuckling. “It was a concern as to what more I can offer you. I’ve given you all my love and more. A life, a family, truly everything that I can offer, and yet, there is a worry that it isn’t enough.”

“What did she say?” asks Childe, knowing that he shouldn’t interrupt. 

“Er—what?”

“Madame Ping. What’d she tell you?”

Zhongli smiles then, his feelings betraying him. He tugs Childe’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “That there are no rules and that I get to love a person however that I wish.”

Childe’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “Oh,” he says. And then: “I’ve always liked that old goat.” There’s a snicker from behind them. Madame Ping, no doubt. 

“Perhaps it is because I am old and set in my ways but I often see things as milestones to be had, and our love is no exception. I have never considered that it doesn’t have to be that way. With you, I am always learning. And so, my vows—” Zhongli laughs, nuzzling the soft skin of Childe’s palm. “They are exactly the same as the ones from the first time we married because there is no need to change something that isn’t broken, or prove myself to you in any way.”

Childe's lip wavers ever so slightly, just a soft little tremble that most would miss. Zhongli doesn’t, his gaze washing over Childe’s entire being. He’s so effortlessly handsome as he stands there, in his plain red shirt and trousers. “Your love,” starts Childe.

“Etched in stone,” finishes Zhongli, kissing that ring that sits on his finger. “Solid as the earth that I am built from. Unwavering as the rock that crafts Liyue. I am not going anywhere, Ajax.”

Childe breathes a comedic sigh of relief, rubbing at his face to wipe away the tears before anyone else can see them. “Gods, what a relief. And really, how can I follow that up?” He looks around them, trying to find his words. “Being a former Archon isn’t enough, right? He’s always gotta one-up me.”

Zhongli’s history is not a secret among this group. There is no need to hide it or play dumb. 

“I tried writing mine down, you know,” continues Childe, pulling a wrinkled slip of paper from his breast pocket. “I’m shit at remembering things, even when I try, and I thought that maybe I’d get emotional, or—”

“Ajax, you’re rambling.” Zhongli finds a moment to tease him, even here.

“I just—” Childe sighs, dragging a hand through his carefully coiffed hair, ruining it. “It’s empty,” he finally says, “this paper. I’ve spent months trying to find words that express exactly what you are to me, and I can’t find them.” 

The slip of paper in his hands is wrinkled and a little yellowed, but entirely bare. 

“But, as I stood here, listening to you just repeat the same damn thing you said decades ago, I realized that there aren’t words that describe us. Zhongli, we just are.”

Oh, thinks Zhongli, his throat tightening. 

“Zhongli,” says Childe then, his voice tipping low, “I can’t promise that I will always be a good husband. I can’t promise that I will never hurt you, or that I will make wise decisions, but I can promise you that you are my everything. That there is nothing else for me. My days begin with you, and they end with you, and that is the only way that I want to live out the rest of my miserable, pathetically short life.”

It is a thought that Zhongli has chosen to ignore for years, Childe’s inevitable demise. 

“You’re old and ancient. I’m like, this small blip—” The space between Childe’s fingers is far too tiny for comfort. “— when compared to your life experiences. For me, though… my life is entirely defined by you.”

Zhongli kisses him. He reaches out and drags Childe forward, fingers curling into the loose linen of his shirt. Childe grunts in surprise, but kisses him back eagerly. This isn’t the plan, he’s supposed to wait until they’re told to do so. Xiao is affronted, face twisted by annoyance as he takes a step back. The rest of those who watch hold their breaths, unused to seeing Zhongli so blissfully forward. 

Childe laughs against him, wrapping an arm around Zhongli’s neck, holding him close. 

They lose track of time. Neither cares about their audience or how the sun is slowly dipping away, leading to the night. The only thing that matters is the calmness of their abode and the warmth that Zhongli drags out of Childe’s yielding form. 

When they finally part, Childe asks, “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” says Zhongli before kissing him again, this time short and sweet. 

It is disgusting, how much his chest swells. Zhongli feels like he could die with this sort of love, but it’d be a happy death in the arms of his husband. Childe fingers at his ring idly, staring at it. “It isn’t as though they were empty vows on our wedding day, but now I feel like I finally understand exactly what I meant by them.”

Zhongli agrees. 

Then, Childe’s face is split by a mischievous grin. “Hey, come on.”

“Ajax, what are you—” Childe tugs him towards the water of the beach, their ceremony all but lost in the sand. The ocean is ice-cold against his bare feet, his toes sinking into the wet earth. “Ajax.” 

Childe laughs as though he’s a boy again, his face wrinkling as he grins. He kicks up the ocean at Zhongli, who just stands there in the water, sunk to the spot like a solid stone. 

They hold hands, refusing to let go, Childe’s calloused fingers an unwavering weight that anchors Zhongli. 

It is, perhaps, the most perfect sunset that Zhongli has ever known. 

[your-friendly-neighbourh00d-fag]

How about number 8? (An arm sneaking around a waist, holding them close?)

hi nonny! thanks for the prompt :)

here it is 😎 i will also put it under a read more here 😗

It was quiet ‘round the diner, something that didn’t happen often. Jet and Pois had taken The Girl over to the markets, yelling something about an iguana exhibit down in Four. So that left Fun Ghoul and The Kobra Kid, wandering around and doing mind numbing house maintenance and the likes. They hadn’t really talked in a while, just getting on with chores around each other. It was nice for a while, the domestic-ness of it all.

But, as Kobra pulled the laundry basket onto his hip and padded outside to hang it up, he realised how boring it was. Nothing was going on! He missed the race track, the proper heat of the desert, the smell of rubber burning as he fought to escape dracs. The life.

Kobra perched himself on the back of his armchair, flipping idly through a ‘zine. He’d read it before, but whatever. Not like there was anything else to do around here. 

New race gun, seen it. Piece on Dr D, nothing accurate in there, they’d radioed him to laugh about it when it came out. Boobs, whatever. Oh, a bike mod, he’d skipped that last time- Hey!

Ghoul stood next to him, shit eating grin on his face and frilly apron around his waist. Kobra’s ‘zine was now in his hands, held just out of reach. 

“Whatcha readin’, K?”

As he speaks, Ghoul sneaks an arm around Kobra’s waist, squeezing him closer absently as he examines the ‘zine. Any thought of protest, of oi, that’s mine, give it back, dies on Kobra’s tongue. Oh. 

At Kobra’s silence, Ghoul whines, “Aw c’mon babe, don’t be like that!” tugging on Kobra’s midsection until they’re hip to hip.

Kobra inhales sharply, breath hitching in his throat at the contact, whole body tense. 

Ghoul rolls his eyes at The Kid, tossing his ‘zine back at him. “Witch, okay, sorry. You can have the ‘zine.” He drops his head onto Kobra’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kobes, I’m jus’ bored.”

A moment passes, before Ghoul registers the fact that the ‘zine still lay on the couch, Kobra had made no motion to grab it back. 

“Hey, shit, ‘s wrong?” He brings his other hand up to Kobra’s cheek, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Y’mad abou’ the ‘zine? I- I shouldn’t’ve done that mi cielo, I know how much you-”

Wait. Kobra’s cheek was hot under Ghoul’s hand, face flushed almost as dark as his jacket. But why would he- ohhhhh. 

The pieces slotted themselves together, and Ghoul’s brain caught up to his hips, his hands and his face. The touch was so second nature to him, so obvious and natural, that he barely even noticed. But it seemed that Kobra did. 

He quickly pulls his arm away, not wanting to make his partner uncomfortable.

‘Wait, no no no,’ Kobra thinks, panicking at the idea of losing the contact. His waist felt so cold without Ghoul’s arm slipped around it, without their hips pressed together. ‘Come back.’ Kobra grabs for Ghoul’s arm, knuckles tightening around it already. He didn’t mean to hold so tight, but Witch, what was he going to do if Ghoul left?

Their eyes lock, and Kobra draws Ghoul’s hand back to his waist, breath stuttering ever so slightly in the space between them. “N-No, it’s not- I like you being here. Like you… t-touching me, I mean.” Fuck. God, that sounded dumb. That sounded so stupid. “Wait, no, shit, I- I didn’t- I meant-”

“Kobes.” Ghoul grins, stepping up so his knees are on the chair’s arm and he’s facing The Kid. “Why didn’ ya jus’ say so?” He slides his free hand around the back of Kobra’s neck, leaning up until their foreheads press together softly.

“Can you… uh… can we…” Kobra’s voice trails off into Ghoul’s mouth, gasping as their lips find each other. He supposes that the kissing and the holding hands and shit came with the boyfriend title, but every time, it caught Kobra off guard. Every time, it felt new, and exciting and it set his blood on fire. Every time, he had to stop and think- wait, does he… does he like me? 

And every time, his question gets answered, when he pulls away to see the biggest fucking smile on Ghoul’s face, to see him with that adoring look in his eyes, staring almost… lovingly. At him.

“Hey. Hey, mi cielo. Read to me?” 

“Sure,” he whispered.

As Kobra started to read aloud, climbing down from the back of the couch and tangling a hand through Ghoul’s hair, he realised. He wasn’t bored anymore.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Fleurette zine! My second favourite ship in Genshin, just the sheer angst of Dainsleif and Lumine (either with her as the traveler or as the abyss twin ahhh). It’s interesting to see how definitely I write Lumine now compared to here. Or maybe that’s because this is Abyss Lumine as opposed to Traveler Lumine?

Btw, leftover sales are happening right now! check @genshinflowers on twitter!

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i. Lilies

The first time, Dainsleif was caught unawares. His mind had been preoccupied, considering his new travelling companion Lumine, considering why he was even journeying with her in the first place. Home was far behind, their destination unknown, and for a man who liked facts and control, this was an unusual situation for him.

He had never been a man of passion, let alone one that followed his gut instincts.

He still didn’t know what possessed him to take her hand and follow her across the world.

“Watch out!” Lumine barked, her small hand wrapping around his arm. Despite her short stature, her grip was firm, and she jerked him back.

It was the suddenness of it more than anything else that halted Dainsleif’s steps. He glanced at her white-knuckled grip, at her slowly relaxing expression, and then at their surroundings. They were walking through a field, the sky as clear as can be. Dainsleif could see for leagues and there wasn’t so much as a hilichurl here, let alone an actual danger. Certainly nothing to provoke such a panicked response.

“What is it?” he asked, perplexed.

Ignoring him, Lumine let go and crouched down. Her white skirt trailed on the ground, collecting dirt, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, that was a close one,” she sighed, her expression softening.

“Close?” Her response made even less sense. Dainsleif lowered his gaze, following her line of sight until he spotted a small, white lily blooming on the road. “The lily?”

Lumine rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t act like it’s worthless.” She reached out, running a finger across its petals. “Isn’t it cute?”

That wasn’t a word he would have used. “It’s a sturdy plant. It would have survived.”

“Or it might not have. Better safe than sorry, right?” She smiled softly, getting up. Lumine swiped her skirt, shaking off the dust. “Aether would have agreed with me. When he wakes up, I’ll show him, and you’ll see.”

He didn’t doubt that. From what little he had seen of her brother, they had seemed like two peas in a pod. They were both far too naive for this world at war. Even this place, as untouched as it was, would see the battle fires. The idea of this place surviving as is was preposterous.

Dainsleif scoffed, “It might die before then.”

Lumine pinched his arm and glared. Her nails dug into his skin. “Don’t be such a downer. It’ll have kids. Just you wait, next time we come here, there’ll be a field of flowers.”

He shook her off. “We’ll see.”

ii. Cyclamens

The second time, Dainsleif was prepared. You couldn’t travel with someone for months without learning their idiosyncrasies and what he had learned about Lumine was she had a penchant for spotting and protecting flowers. Despite how sharp her tongue was, her heart was soft.

“Careful,” Lumine warned, her hand resting on his arm. The fact that she didn’t yank him meant she had learned something about him too.

It was an oddly pleasant feeling.

Dainsleif had already noticed the red cyclamens on the path. They swayed in the breeze, their blooms reaching for the sun. In this forest, the sunlit path was the only place for them to do so, the massive trees lining the dirt road barring the sky from small plants otherwise.

That didn’t make it any less of an annoyance. “They shouldn’t grow on paths.”

“Plants grow where they want,” Lumine chided. Despite her playful tone and mocking smile, her eyes were distant. She had barely looked at the plant, her eyes already on the faraway exit and, further than that, the distant horizon.

“Lumine?” he broached tentatively, not sure how to handle her new, pensive mood. It came and went, these days, and Dainsleif had yet to figure out the right words to say. Or if there even were any—it was hard to wipe away the things they’d seen.

Her eyes flicked to him, then the flower. There was something bitter, something exhausted about her expression. Quietly, she asked, “How long do you think we’ll be travelling?”

Dainsleif frowned. What response would relax her? What would make her smile? He felt as tongue-tied around her as he had when they’d first met, though for the opposite reason. Before, he hadn’t wanted to talk. Now he did but had no idea what to say. “As long as you want to.”

Her head bowed slightly, and he knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “That’s not what I meant…It’s just…” Lumine gripped her dress, wrinkling the cotton fabric. Her knuckles turned white. “Aether hasn’t woken up and we haven’t found a potion or a spell to do it. Instead, we’ve…”

She trailed off, curling into herself. Something in him ached at the sight. With every step they’d taken away from her slumbering twin, with every Archon and secret of the world they’d uncovered, Lumine’s smile had dimmed. Dainsleif could barely remember how she’d smiled when they’d encountered that lily long ago, the bright innocence of it.

“There’s still a few places left to check,” Dainsleif murmured reassuringly, his hand curling at his side into a tight fist. “You never know.”

“We’ve looked a lot,” she mumbled, sounding defeated.

He had never been one for false hopes, but they crowded his throat, almost choking him. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her. “Maybe he’s awake now.”

“Maybe. It’d be funny if he kept waking up when I was gone, only to fall asleep when I got back.” Despite her words, Lumine didn’t laugh.

Dainsleif didn’t know what to say. His hand fell to his side, limp and useless. Glancing down at the plant, he said, “I’ll transplant it.”

That caught her attention. She jerked her head up, staring at him confused. “What?”

He gestured at the red blooms. “The flower. You want Aether to see it, right?”

“Oh.” She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

iii. Purple hyacinths

The next time, Dainsleif waited for Lumine to say something. A purple hyacinth sprouted tall in the center of the road, dozens of flowers curling into one another until it looked like an elaborate hair bun, the kind royalty used to wear. It was impossible to miss.

Lumine said nothing. She didn’t even show any sign of stopping. Before she could step on it, Dainsleif shot out his arm, barring her from going forward. It was a jarring reversal. “There’s a flower.”

“Oh.” Lumine looked down blankly. Her expression remained flat. “There is.”

He didn’t like her response. He hadn’t liked it for a while now. There were many things Dainsleif had expected on their journey, but Lumine changing or his feelings on that matter hadn’t been one of them. They should have stopped journeying a long time ago. They should have turned back when the darkness crept in.

And now it was too late. They would see this to its end, whatever it might be.

Still, just like those flowers reaching hopelessly for the sun, he couldn’t help but try one last time to bring back her smile. “I’ll transplant it.”

“Is there any need?” she asked bluntly, watching him with tired, dark eyes.

He couldn’t read her. Not anymore, not for a while. Had he ever been able to understand her? Sometimes, Dainsleif wasn’t certain they’d ever connected, if they weren’t just two ships in the night, passing each other by.

The ache in his chest spread. He pushed the feeling down, smothering it. Dainsleif had never been one for false hopes, but he clung to them now like a lifeline. If they saved her brother, she’d smile again. If they finished their journey, they could rest.

If. If. If.

Quietly, he tried again. “For Aether.”

“For Aether.” Lumine laughed, a jagged thing.

And then she stepped on the flower and walked on.

iv. Lilies

The last time, Dainsleif had been caught unawares. There was a familiar hand around his arm, a familiar tug to keep him in place. It was sunny, the sky above them clear, and the field was as broad as the eye could see. If he closed his eyes, he’d be at the beginning of his journey, still confused and uncertain, still naive and hopeful.

Yet, reality beckoned, forcing him to put away those childish thoughts. The hand on his arm was masculine and broad. The voice calling him was deep and excited.

“Look!” Aether chirped, his eyes bright as he pointed at the path in front of them.

The only thing he shared with his sister was the innocence in his expression.

Dainsleif looked down. A small flower poked its way out of the dirt. Even without seeing its leaves, he knew it was a lily. Even without seeing the bud, he knew it was white.

History, he found, had a way of repeating itself. There were only circles, repetitive and unending.

“That was close!” Aether sighed, relieved. He didn’t seem to notice Dainsleif’s silence. “You almost stepped on it!”

“What’s it doing all the way out here?” Paimon chirped, hovering low on the ground as she studied the tiny plant. “Doesn’t it know it’ll get stepped on?”

“Plants like to grow wherever they want to.” Aether chuckled, crouching on the ground. His cape trailed in the dirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s so cute. I wish Lumine could see it, she really likes flowers.”

Dainsleif could only stare. Truly, he was too much like Lumine. Even worse, he was following her footsteps across Teyvat, meeting Archon after Archon as he searched for her.

How long would it be till he lost his smile?

How long would it be before he broke too?

Was there any point to it all?

“I wonder what stories it could tell us.” Aether patted the top of the plant, smiling happily. “Staying here by the road, watching people travel…”

“Plants can’t see,” Paimon pointed out, scoffing at the entire idea. She threw her hands in the air. “Next you’ll be asking about its grandparents!”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” Aether held his hands up in defence. Finally noticing Dainsleif’s silence, he turned to him worriedly. “Dainsleif?”

The words were the same. The eyes were the same. A familiar ache spread across his chest. Dainsleif forced himself to speak. “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so…” Aether bounced to his feet, interlacing his hands behind his head. “I wonder how it got here.”

Your sister, Dainsleif didn’t say. Would Lumine laugh or cry that her wish came true?

The path ahead led to tragedy. He knew that, had already gone through it before. Still, there was one final act before their story ended, one final play he had to make. A last try to fix everything.

And maybe next time, Lumine and Aether would both be tugging him, reprimanding him for the flowers crushed in his wake.

[bmpersonal]

Fuck. Emotional reminiscing. I need to talk about Nema

I never got to thank her. I never got to tell her how much her excitement and eagerness rekindled a dead part of me in a time where I was at my absolute, genuine lowest; not leaving my room anymore, barely remembering to eat, stuck in a place where I felt like I was losing my mind, and looking back on it I guess I kind of was. It was a good some years ago now and I’m still recovering from how deeply I’ve been torn apart and rotted from everything that happened. I’m not being dramatic; I was just waiting for a slip of something, anything, to kill me and let me have peace for the first time in legitimately around ten years.

And then this game came out that folks had been recommending to me, I pick it up ‘cause it cost like nothing, and I met all these folks through it that yeah, I was too scared to really engage with as much as I wanted, but there was about two who reached out to me, always down to talk and such. This gal was one of them. I saw in her illustrations and musings that it wasn’t just that she was really intrigued by the species the Thrall in the game, but she really picked apart their anatomy, biology, culture possibilities... She was doing what I was with trolls. And she wasn’t shy at all about sharing it. She always got really excited whenever I opened up and started talking about what I’ve been working on for the past...I think it was around five years at that point? She outright encouraged me to talk abut it more. How it was rad how much I wanted to dig into these things. She said it’s worth sharing, that there’s people interested.

I was overwhelmed with life still being rotted grounds around me while trying to keep my composure around others with work and otherwise, so I fell in and out of touch with her, but she rekindled a light in me to at least try again, y’know? And she always understood when we went for longer stretches without talking. And then one day, I was at work, scrolling through Tumblr killing time between customers, and found a post mentioning someone had passed in a house fire. No one knew we were friends because I was too scared to do anything publicly. All our conversations were in DMs. No one knew how close we were. And I found out she was gone through an announcement about a zine being rescheduled to be released on her birthday to honor her because no one knew to tell me too.

I never got to thank her for everything she’d done for me, whether she knew it or not, and that grips my heart like a fucking vice. To this day she’s one of the major driving forces behind why I want to become more fearless again with sharing what I love. I’m still trying, but I’m getting there. I know it’s what she would’ve wanted because she said it outright. I need to keep trying. I don’t need to be so scared -- not of popularity, but of people after being torn apart piece by agonizing piece and then left aside for the next person to take their meat. I’m allowed to be happy and I’m allowed to do that with a megaphone in hand.

I hope one day I feel like I’ve come far enough to make up for never being able to thank her.

[withbarehands-zine]

🌟  SHOP OPENING 🌟

The shop for With Bare Hands, We Reach is now OPEN until June 15! All proceeds will be donated to Red Canary Song. Happy AAPI Heritage month!

🛒 https://barehandszine.bigcartel.com/

🕊️  FIRST WEEK EARLY BIRD BONUS 🕊️ 

For the first week only, all orders for any bundle with physical merch will include this set of Manananggal die-cut stickers for free! They are also available for purchase via the merch à la carte option.

🔒  STRETCH GOALS 🔒

Here's our stretch goals! Want to help us unlock these items? Please consider making a purchase at our store!

30 sales: Mid-Autumn festival lantern die-cut sticker 75 sales: Holographic Bul Gae die-cut sticker

💫  ZINE ONLY - $18 💫 Includes the digital-only PDF of the full zine, featuring the work of 20+ artists and 10+ writers! Note: this bundle is NOT eligible for any stretch goals!

✨  ZINE + DIGITAL MERCH - $25 ✨ Includes the digital zine, as well as 3 printable bookmarks, 2 printable bookmarks, two wallpapers, and social media icons/banners! Note: this bundle is NOT eligible for any stretch goals!

⭐  ZINE + PAPER MERCH - $30 ⭐ Includes the digital zine, as well as a sticker sheet, 5 die-cut stickers and 3 art prints. Note: this bundle is eligible for all stretch goals!

🌟  FULL BUNDLE - $45 🌟 Includes everything, featuring a special 5x7 pouch! Note: this bundle is eligible for all stretch goals!

👑  MERCH À LA CARTE 👑 All of the physical merch items can be purchased separately! ✦ Art prints - $8.00 each ✦ 5x7 pouch - $10.00 each ✦ Die-cut stickers: $5.00 each ✦ Early-bird sticker set: $6.00 set ✦ Sticker sheet - $6.00 each

Cover art created by @beeteal​

Contributor previews will be featured over the next month! Keep an eye out 💛 You can learn more about our charity of choice here: https://www.redcanarysong.net/

Thank you so much for the boosts! ✨ @zinefeed @zineforall

[dropsofmoonlightzine]

November Update!

Here is an update for everyone!

It’s an exciting time for the Drops of Moonlight Zine!!

Despite production delays, the Contributor Shop is now finally officially open! We expect to keep the shop open until 11:59PM PST on December 14th, 2022 to allow contributors time to reserve their physical zine copy in exchange for a discounted donation. Contributors will receive an email from us with a password and discount code allowing them to access the contributor shop. If you are a contributor, please check your email for details about how to reserve your Zine cop(ies) and reach out to us ASAP if for whatever reason you did not receive an email.

Production:

A few more samples arrived! We have now received samples or bulk orders for our sticker sheets, pins, postcards, and origami paper. Unfortunately, one of the sample sticker sheets came out faulty and one of the pins in the wrong color, so we're getting that fixed now while we wait for other still-missing samples to come in.

However, those that have arrived the way we want them look great! We are very excited about them, and we will take product pictures ASAP and share those on our social media soon!

Regarding production delays, please keep in mind that there is an ongoing paper crisis in Europe and it fully explains some of the delay our vendors have. Since the beginning of our production phase, several vendors have pulled out – some because they went bankrupt, others because they have trouble serving the high demand brought on by the crisis – and others have raised their prices immensely due to the shortage. This affected both budgeting and production, quite obviously. Budgeting because, without definitive pricing we ran the risk of miscalculating individual costs (especially for contributors, who we are not charging any surplus for their donation and instead only the bare minimum of production cost we can afford). Production, because well, obviously, but also because the vendors we are still able to work with have long waiting lines for production and we – with our one-time-only limited edition and small order (from their viewpoint) – simply aren't a high priority or ‘important’ customer. This all amounts to what's happening: stuff has been going slow, but we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel growing steadily nearer. For our most important vendor (the physical zine itself) we have finally been allotted a production window, and are thus confident to now open the contributor shop. However, we are still waiting to receive a production slot for some smaller items.

Of course, with timing out of our hands due to reliance on vendor production schedules, we have been hesitant to make definitive statements of a delivery date when basically none of our vendors can give those to us. For consistency, we will be distributing all Zine bundles at the same time, so our digital supporters will not receive their copies until the physical bundles are shipped out. So we ask you please to be patient – we're impatient to release the Zine too, believe us.

However, please know that the project itself is NOT at risk. We are working hard to get everything finalized and ready to produce/ship out. Some of our items have already been produced and are waiting for you. It's just the question of WHEN we can go to print with the rest of the items.

Translations:

During the height of our translation phase, after extended submissions closed and everything trickled in, 3 of our original 5 English-to-Japanese translators pulled out due to valid life stuff (remember, everyone here is a volunteer) and they were not able to continue with the project.

With the review of more than 70 translated works falling on only 2.5 sets of shoulders, while we initially stayed on (delayed, please remember that we extended deadlines for you all) schedule because our translators overworked themselves like crazy, we are now lagging a bit behind because that pace simply wasn’t sustainable. Thankfully, one more person has volunteered to help, and so the translation team now has more support. We are working as fast as we can to get the translated text from all fics, essays, and doujin reviewed and ready to host on Ao3.

Communication and Layout:

We're still to this day missing a few documents and info from several people (summaries, titles, bios, etc). This is of course totally understandable – there are HUNDREDS of contributors and so this was bound to naturally happen – but after a LONG period of trying to get these from everyone and reviewing all emails and messages we have received to ensure we didn’t miss anything, we have now started to fill in the gaps ourselves where we can. However, the months of following up as well as hunting for missing information and finally writing up what we can on our own has taken a little time and delayed the lay outing of where all this info all needs to be.

However, we are THIS close to wrapping everything up in a tight bow with the project now finally close to the finish line, and are excited to share this update with you! Thank you all so much for your support and for your understanding and patience during this extended production phase. We know the delays are frustrating, and we are grateful for all of you who respect that we are balancing the completion of a massive multinational project with the lives and mental health of our volunteers. Though it may not always feel like it, please know that our moderators and translation team are working very hard to finish this special project and bring your Zine bundle to you as quickly as we can.

Please keep an eye out for those sample photos to be shared on our social media, and we hope to bring you another update soon!

--------------

Drops of Moonlight Zineより大切なお知らせです。

度重なる制作の遅れがありましたが、このたび、寄稿者向けショップが正式にオープンしました! このショップは2022年12月15日午後4時59分（日本時間）まで開設され、寄稿者の皆様が割引価格でZINEを予約できるようにする予定です。寄稿者の皆様には、ショップにアクセスするためのパスワードと割引コードを記載したメールをお送りします。各位、メールをご確認いただき、万一届かなかった場合は、速やかにご連絡ください。

制作状況について：

ストレッチゴールについては、サンプルの一部がすでに手配済みです。ステッカー、ピンズ、ポストカード、折り紙などの大量発注がかかりました。なお、ステッカーとピンズの一部に不具合があり、他のグッズの手配と並行して修正にあたっているところです。

ただ、到着したサンプルの多くは大変素晴らしい仕上がりになっています！可能な限り早く、完成品の画像を皆様にも共有する予定です。

また生産の遅れについてはご迷惑をおかけしております。ヨーロッパにおける紙不足には依然終わりが見えず、今回のプロジェクトはそのことに多大な影響を受けることとなりました。生産フローが進み始めて以降、提携していた数社が撤退しました。廃業した業者や、原材料の用意がままならなくなった業者、大幅なコスト増に見舞われた業者など、影響は広範囲に及びました。このことがプロジェクトの予算編成と生産計画を大きく揺るがすこととなりました。予算については、価格が決定できない限り、試算が困難であることは言うまでもありません（特に寄稿者向け販売分については、最低限の制作コストのみを製品代としています）。加えて、今回のZINEは一回限りの少部数の生産であることや、制作スパンが長期にわたることなどから、ベンダーからの優遇措置を受けづらかったのも事実です。このように、順調にとは言い難い状況ではありましたが、今ようやくトンネルの終わりの光が見えてきました。最も重要なZINE本体部分を担うベンダーにおいて生産枠が確保できたため、寄稿者向けショップのオープンをお約束できる運びとなりました。しかし、いくつかの付帯品等については、まだ生産枠が確保できていない状態です。

ZINEの納期はあくまでベンダー側の生産スケジュールに依存しており、各社とも明確な期日を示してくれるわけではありません。そこで、公平で一貫性のある供給方式をとるべく、すべてのZINEバンドルを同時に配布する予定です。そのため電子版を購入された方も、印刷版が発送されるまで、コンテンツの入手はできません。どうか今しばらくお待ちくださいますようお願いいたします。私たちもZINEのリリースを心待ちにしています。

しかしながら、プロジェクトそのものが危機に瀕しているわけではないことをご承知おきください。あらゆる事項の最終決定が進んでおり、生産・発送の準備にかかっています。一部のアイテムはすでに製造を終え、お手元に届けられるのを待つばかりです。その他の品物も順次、製造加工に入ります。

翻訳状況について：

翻訳作業がスタートし、作品投稿もすべて締め切られたのち、当初5名いた日本語翻訳メンバーのうち3名が生活上の理由で辞退せざるを得ませんでした。これについては、全員がボランティアである点を忘れてはなりません。

その結果、70点以上の作品をわずかな人員で翻訳校正することとなりました。当初はメンバーの多大な尽力により（作品投稿期限の延長があったにもかかわらず）順調な進捗でしたが、そのペースの維持が難しくなり、日数がかかっています。大変ありがたいことに、ボランティアでもう1名の方が加入してくださり、多くの貴重な時間を費やして支援していただけるようになりました。現在、すべての小説、エッセイ、漫画の翻訳テキストをレビューし、Ao3（二次創作投稿サイト）でホストできるように、できる限り早急に作業を進めています。

コミュニケーションと紙面制作について：

依然、いくつかの作品において、掲載に必要な情報（要約、タイトル、経歴など）が不足しています。ただ、このことは、何百という作家の皆様の作品を集約する以上、一定数はやむを得ないことです。主催チームでは、すべての寄稿者からこれらの情報提供をいただくのにかかる期間を考慮した上で、これまでに受領したすべてのメールとメッセージを見直し、情報の拾い漏れがないことを確認しました。可能な範囲で不足部分を補うよう努めましたが、前述の通り長期にわたるフォローアップやメッセージの再読み込みを行なったため期間を要し、紙面レイアウトの進捗に影響が生じています。

しかしながら、このプロジェクトもいよいよ大詰めを迎え、今回のアナウンスを皆様にお伝えできることを嬉しく思っています！長期にわたる発刊延期にもかかわらずご理解とご協力をくださった、皆様のサポートに心から御礼を申し上げます。遅延によるご不満やご迷惑は重々承知しております。私たちは、大規模な多国籍プロジェクトの完遂と、その背景を支えるボランティアメンバーのプライベートや精神的健康の維持とのバランスを図っており、そのことを尊重してくださる皆様に感謝しています。様々なご意見があることは理解していますが、この特別なプロジェクトを完成させ、可能な限り早くZINEをお届けできるよう、主催ならびに翻訳チームが懸命に善処していることをお含みおきいただけますと幸いです。

近日中に、サンプル画像を公開予定です。どうぞお楽しみに！

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK 1910′s

I’m so happy I’m allowed to share this! Written for the HWS Razzle Dazzle anthology, a historical Hetalia zine: @hwsrazzledazzle​

If We Were Ships

Southampton, UK; 14 June 1911  

Sparkling blue waves lap at the harbour’s wooden docks, spraying salty mist into the summer air. Gulls cry overhead as they circle the bustling port, searching for an easy breakfast amongst the crowds of people below.  

Thousands of excited citizens from across the land have come by carriage and train today. They flock to the pier and nearby streets to catch sight of one magnificent guest. Even local sailors tilt their caps and gaze up at the grand visitor to their town.  

Standing proud, like a titan from ancient myth, the great ship RMS Olympic prepares for her maiden voyage across the Atlantic. She is anchored here, allowing humbled passengers to board her for the very first time. Her bow juts out of the water like a black cliff of steel reaching high into the heavens. Fresh paint coats each of her rooms, elegant carpets line her many halls, and every lounge chair, every bedsheet, every piece of silver cutlery is immaculately unblemished. 

She is spectacular; truly a marvel of mankind’s technological achievements. Anyone who may dare to disagree would truly be a fool.  

France slouches in his seat and stares at the vessel. His eyes are lidded with boredom.  

“I am afraid I do not see the appeal,” he drawls.

England adjusts his top hat to watch seabirds soaring over the ship’s towering smokestacks. The birds are so high up, that they appear barely as specks against the bright morning sky. The small twinge of pride in his chest blooms into a confident grin.  

“You’ve always been far too difficult to impress,” he says. “Or maybe you’re simply jealous that the French couldn’t come up with a design this grand?”  

France emits an unpleasant noise, somewhere between a cough and a gag. “I could never be envious of such a gaudy thing.”  

“Oh, please,” England huffs. “Olympic is a fantastic ship; she is the largest ocean liner in all the world, rivaled only by her sister, Titanic. You’re a twit if you can’t see how significant that is.”  

“Hmm,” France murmurs. “Well, size is certainly important, but not nearly as much as style and experience.”  

Poor England is so engrossed in his Olympic’s dignity, that the insinuation does not register. How could an older ship be better than a brand new one? Unless, of course, France is referring to the value of an experienced crew. But even so....  

Then, England’s cheeks catch fire and he rounds on his rival.  

“Must you insert vulgarity into every single topic?” he growls.  

France winks. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”  

There he is; sitting in his ivory patio chair, one arm draped across the breakfast cafe table, and smiling with an angelic innocence that is convincing to absolutely no one. His lightweight navy suit is cut in that popular ‘novelty’ pattern that began popping up in every tailor’s window not four months ago, so of course, France would choose to show it off today. Perhaps he should be congratulated on becoming the most fashionable man in a port town of frumpy sailors and shipbuilders. What an accomplishment.  

Begrudgingly, England takes his seat opposite the frog, allowing the chair’s white legs to scrape against the cobblestone. "I want you to know that I am actively choosing not to engage in a squabble with you today, so that we may address the business at hand.”  

France’s shoulders sag. “Do you mean the endless arms race between yourself and Germany?”  

“That and every other mess that’s happened across Europe,” England mutters.  

France sighs and hangs his head. “Even though it must be done, I always loathe discussing these matters. They leave me exhausted and dour.” He idly twirls a finger through his blonde curls. “Though, I suppose I should at least thank you for choosing to meet at a French cafe. It should make this engagement slightly more tolerable.”  

“Only because if I hadn’t, you’d spend your entire visit whining about the cuisine.”  

“Well, I cannot deny that. Merci beaucoup.”  

Aside from being French, the little restaurant is quite nice with its auburn signage, its copious flower pots, and most importantly, its remarkable street view of the port. There could not be a better spot in all of Southampton. It is just far enough away from the crowds to avoid the ruckus, but still close enough to glimpse the spectacle.  

Cat-like, France leans forward and gracefully takes one of the paper menus. He casually glances at it, as though considering to order something other than black coffee and croissant. “There are French cafes in Dover, no? That is where we usually meet, after all. Why insist on this particular town?”  

“I wanted to see Olympic before she sets off,” England grumbles, as he picks up his own menu. “Because of the arms race, Dreadnoughts are the only boats I’ve had the luxury of staring at for the past several years. It’s as if those blasted warships are Parliament’s sole interest.”  

“Oh, my. You have grown tired of your own royal navy?”  

“No, it’s....” England falters and fiddles with the sheet between his fingers. “Those boats are all the same dull grey and they get stamped out every month. Like newsprint or... I don’t know. They lack spirit, is what it is. There’s no character to them. But not Olympic.... She’s different. Compared to them, a world-class ocean liner is a welcome breath of fresh air.” He ends his clumsy monologue before he embarrasses himself further and glares at his menu.  

The stress must be getting to him. Between the Moroccan crisis, the annexation of Bosnia, and his alliance once again with Russia, Europe’s previous decade of ill omens leaves one with plenty to be concerned about. Add a naval arms race, and stepping towards tomorrow feels like sailing with a black cloud on the horizon. Though with any luck, it may simply be a case of England’s perpetual pessimism – a thing best remedied with chamomile tea and restful sleep. Or in some cases, brandy.  

The din of teacups clinking and idle chatter from other cafe patrons fill an unsettling silence and England looks up at his peer. “What is it?” he asks.  

France is gaping. “Sacre bleu,” he murmurs. “If I did not know any better, I may start believing that the indomitable British Empire was opening up to me.”  

Lips curling into a frown, England uses his menu to block all eye contact with the frog. “You’re the one who bloody asked.”  

France giggles in his familiar musical tone and apologizes. “Do not be upset, Angleterre – I was only teasing.”  

At last, a waiter mercifully arrives and takes their orders. When the gentleman departs, ending the interlude much too soon, France speaks up again. His tone, however, is much softer. “You have always been tied to the sea, haven’t you?”  

“Hmph. It’s a bit hard to avoid when one lives on an island.”  

“But there is a little more to it than that, isn’t there?”  

England blinks. “What are you going on about?”  

France purses his lips and looks to the clouds, seeming to ponder his next words. “Humour me for a moment,” he eventually says. “If you were a ship, and you could travel to any place in heaven or on earth, where would you travel to?”  

The gears in England’s mind slow to a crawl. “I’m quite sure we came here to discuss tactics, not hypotheticals.”  

“We can at least start with something lighter.”  

“By that, you mean daydreams?”  

“Just this once,” France implores; however, England offers him only baffled silence. Sighing, France deflates and turns to stare aimlessly at the harbour. “Never mind, then.”  

England squints, racking his brain for information. The nation of love is known for his fanciful concepts of life and romance, for he seldom misses an opportunity to wax poetic about them. He quotes Montaigne to conjure laughs at dinner and Descartes while idling in a quiet park. Was travelling the ocean another of his favourite philosophies?  

Surely not, however...  

As England contemplates, a memory emerges through the hazy fog of yesteryear.  

Sometime after Napoleon, he and France were called to an evening ball at the appeal of their rulers. It was twilight and they had retreated to a quiet balcony overlooking the Thames, seeking seclusion from the twirling dancers and the demands of human society. There, after indulging in ample food and wine at dinner, France recited a passage that England had never heard before; one that compared nations to ships. ‘The government is the sail, the citizens are the wind, and time is the sea.’ He whispered it with a melancholy smile on his lips.

Back then, England had pondered over France’s attachment to that passage and the look on his face. Perhaps the romantic nation was attempting to make sense of his own existence in the wake of the Revolutions and Napoleon’s wars. And if so, who could blame him? Certainly not England. Following such chaos, any semblance of meaning would be a lighthouse in a storm.

A trace of guilt tugs at England's heart for his dismissive attitude just now. It couldn’t hurt to play along this one time.  

He clears his throat. “I suppose... if I were a ship, I wouldn’t mind going somewhere new, somewhere different.”  

Immediately, France perks up. “Somewhere different?”  

“Well, yes. Probably.”  

“May I ask why?” France’s sapphire eyes are twinkling with a child-like wonder that England has not seen in ages; not since they were both quite young.  

England fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. “Well. I, um.... If I had to define it, then I guess unfamiliar places have an enchantment about them. Exploration is exciting, of course, but... no. That’s not exactly right. Maybe the appeal is in the endless possibility; in opportunity and hope. It’s.... Perhaps it’s something like that.”  

Shoulders tense, England averts his eyes to stare at the sidewalk. Everything he said sounded like hogwash. He rarely speaks candidly to anyone, so it comes as no surprise that he is absolutely rubbish at it. He waits for France’s inevitable taunting but is met with silence instead. He risks a glance at his peer.  

France is motionless, apart from a light breeze catching strands of his golden hair. Like a marble statue, he stares into the middle-distance and for a second, the smallest of seconds, he is so captivating that England swallows. “And... yourself?”  

“Hmm?”  

“If you, erm... If you were a ship.”  

“Ah.” France smiles, places both hands under his bearded chin, and closes his eyes. His whole posture is relaxed as if he is lost in a favourite distant neverland. “I do not mind so much where I would go. Only that the sea may rise to meet me and that the wind be always at my back.”  

In other words, a peaceful existence; a life without revolutions or upheavals. This, from someone who has lived through incredible turmoil these past few centuries – fire, barricades, war, and guillotines. And somehow, he came out the other side as not a skeptic, but a dreamer.  

England shifts his feet. He wishes his tea was ready because his throat is far too dry for intimate conversation.  

France opens his eyes, gazes at England, and says nothing. There’s a twist in England’s stomach. He should say more. Even though the metaphor is odd and a bit confusing, he should offer some form of empathy. But they seldom do that; it oversteps a line drawn by history and guarded by prudence.  

It’s foolish, and yet, the urge does not fade. With effort, England again unties his tongue.  

“France, I--”  

A loud, blaring noise cuts him off; the thundering bellow of a ship horn. England flinches, covers his ears. He spins to face the harbour.  

People are jumping with delight. Their cheers ring out across the pier. Crewmen blow their whistles and passengers wave goodbye with hats and handkerchiefs. Ropes are tossed free, anchors are raised, smokestacks are billowing white steam, and gently, so gently, dear Olympic begins to pull away.  

England watches her go, so enraptured that he loses his train of thought and the metaphor clicks.  

That is the ship he would like to be – one tasked with ferrying travellers to their new homes and new adventures. Far away from the tedium of bureaucratic politics, arms races, and complex alliances of power. Where the freedom of the vast ocean calls, promising a future of fairy-tale happiness and forever disregarding how impossible it may seem.  

It would be nice to be a nation like that.  

“Perhaps I was wrong about your ship,” France murmurs. “There is a beauty to her, in some curious way. I believe I can see that now.”  

England’s breath catches and his eyes go wide. He turns and France is smiling. His brow is soft and his dark lashes frame a pair of serene pools. It’s a warmth so genuine and rare to England that it’s a bit alarming. And France's words, even more so. If their ships are their dreams, is he implying that England's wish is beautiful? No, he cannot have meant that. It's far too affectionate, bordering on outlandish, and yet… his face suggests....

“France do you....” England breathes, his voice tapering to nothing. He inhales, tries again. “What exactly do you mean by that?”  

For a blissful moment, England gets to watch that expression in peace. But France blinks and it falls away. His back goes stiff and those dark lashes widen. His mouth opens as if to speak; it briefly hangs loose but shuts without a sound. It’s very disorienting.  

Then, nothing happens.  

Except, the waiter arrives with their coffee and tea. He casually sets the cups down, along with the milk and sugar. He mumbles something like, “Enjoy your drinks,” and then he departs without ceremony.  

The silence is as thick as pea soup. Heat kindles in England’s chest, spreading to his face and tickling his fingertips. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut and taken the compliment at face value. A touch of pink colours France’s cheeks, creeps over his nose, and around the curve of his ears. He turns away and coughs.  

“Was there... something we were meant to discuss?” he mutters.  

England snaps to attention. “R-right, we should be moving on.... We came here to talk about alliances, after all.” He rubs his hands to shake off that prickly sensation, whatever it is.  

“Of course,” France adds. He readjusts his seat and stares at his coffee. “Also, we should probably go over our economic issues. They are fairly important, after all.”  

“Yes,” England croaks. “Business and politics, just for good measure.”  

He pours milk into his tea with unnecessary focus. France takes a quick sip of his own beverage, the cup touching the saucer with a clink.  

Eventually, their dialogue stumbles into the traditional affairs of real life, into normalcy and comfort. The lure of England’s imagination is ignored, stored in a box, and hidden for another decade.  

As their fantasia slips away, RMS Olympic sails out of port. She stretches her wings for the very first time and carves through the sea without a care in the world. The sun shines warm upon her face, blessing her as she ventures beyond the horizon and freely seeks paradise.  

There is no line drawn by history for her to cross, nor bureaucracy to hold her back. She is a ship that defies explanation – a ship of hopes and dreams. And she may go wherever hearts fear to travel.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

RMS Olympic’s maiden voyage went without incident. She had a much brighter future than her sister ship, the Titanic. From 1911 until her retirement in 1935, Olympic was in service for 24 years. Unfortunately, due to the difficulties of The Great Depression, she was taken apart and sold as scrap metal.

Dreadnoughts were warships built during the lead up to WWI, and were crucial symbols of naval power.

The arms race between Germany and the United Kingdom lasted from 1898 to 1912.

“The government is the sails, the people are the wind, and the times are the sea.” This Hetalia quote originally came from Karl Ludwig Börne, a German-Jewish political writer and satirist. He travelled to Paris after the July Revolution.

“...only that the sea may rise to meet me and that the wind be always at my back,” is taken from an Irish prayer. The blessing is very old and the author is unknown. The original lines are: “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back.”

[paperficwriter]

The Coffee Shop at the End of the (Alternate) Universe (Day 5 of Batarou Week)

So this was originally the piece I wrote for the Batarou Zine I put together some time back, and it seemed relevant! Also you did not miss Day 4, I’m still working on it, but I still wanted to post something up. Enjoy!

The little cafe and coffee shop - Metal Bat Brewed Beverages - had belonged to Badd’s parents, before the accident. When they died, Badd was only sixteen, and he begged his uncle to keep the place open, just two more years until he could transfer ownership to himself. The man had refused at first, but...nobody could say ‘no’ to Zenko.

Even at twenty now, the early mornings still made him yawn as he took out the leftover pastries through the back door. There weren’t many; just the store-bought extras that they had for back-up so they wouldn’t run out.

He didn’t see the guy with the white hair crouching in the alley until he opened up the dumpster, about to toss everything in. “Whoa! Ya scared me, man.”

“Do I look scary to you?” Badd couldn’t tell if it was a smirk or a sneer on his face. What he did know, though, was that he licked his lips when he saw the box of pastries. “Are you just going to throw that out?”

Badd’s gaze shifted from his hands to the man, then back again. He didn’t look great, that was for sure. Thin. A bit dirty. There were tears on his black slipper shoes, and he wasn’t wearing a coat. “Yeah,” he said, after a second. “They’re stale. Why?”

“Because we could just skip the middleman.” He reached out a long arm, dirty fingers beckoning to Badd. “C’mon. Hand ‘em over.”

“Would a ‘please’ kill ya?” Immediately, Badd felt guilty saying it. Just an old habit. One of the few things Badd didn’t like was people being rude to service workers. He deserved it when the guy snapped his hand forward, almost grabbing the box. “Hey! Careful! Look...don’t eat the garbage. Come on in. I’ll make ya a coffee and we can get ya one of the fresh pastries my sis made. That’s what really sells.”

He glared, shoulders going up a bit like a threatened animal. Slowly, he climbed to his feet. Rising...rising...holy shit, he was tall. Even if Badd got on his tiptoes he would barely be eye-to-nose.  

“I’m Badd,” he said. “This is my shop.”

“Garou.”

Is that really your name? Badd wanted to ask but didn’t. “Cool. Garou. So, you want to come in?” His eyes - a light brown? Not gold, nobody had gold eyes, did they? - were still on the box of day-old baked goods. Badd sighed. “If I promise to leave these by the door when ya leave, will ya come in?”

After a moment of contemplation, Garou followed him into the shop.

—

“So, uh. Baseball, huh?”

After the morning rush, things died down, since it was a weekday. Zenko was at school, and although people were still hanging out, sipping their lattes and reading or working on laptops, Badd felt like he could sit down across from Garou and chat a little bit.

“Yeah.” Badd smiled a little wistfully as he glanced around the cafe at all the decorations, photos of players, wooden bats that had been converted into table legs. “My mom played. And my dad always wanted his own coffeeshop. So...this was the best of both worlds, yeah?”

“Heh. Thought that would have been the other way around.”

“Lotta people say that. But nah, she loved playing. Even after she had me and Zenko, we’d go out together…” This was the most he had talked about his folks in a long time, he realized, and he finally asked, “So how about you? What’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah, whattaya do? Day job, work, whatever…?”

Garou stared at him for a long moment, then finally shrugged. “I get by.”

“...uh-huh?” Another shrug. “Do ya got any place to go? Ya seemed like you’d been in that alley a while. Ya don’t live there, do ya—”

“No, I don’t live in the alley,” Garou snapped, baring his fangs. “Don’t judge me just because we don’t all have extra cash for hair product.”

Badd flushed angrily. Okay, this guy had some nerve. He had eaten several treats and some fresh mozzarella from the savory flatbreads and he lost count of how many times he went back to refill his cup. “Hey now—”

“Does this make you feel better?” What? “Just because someone comes up to your trash can, you think you know their whole story? Take them in, give them something to eat and hope maybe they won’t hang out and make your place look trashy?”

“Dude, I didn’t say anything like that.”

Garou pushed himself away from the table. “You didn’t have to. I’m going.”

Badd fell over his words, watching Garou retreat to the back door. He still didn’t know what to say to him as he took the pallet of stale food and left. 

—

Badd was still thinking about the strange man when he went to bed that night. He replayed their interactions over and over in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. And then, he was trying to decipher why he cared so much. It’s not like he would see him again.

Hm. Why did that bother him?

It felt like he had just gotten to sleep when the alarm on his phone started going off. But it wasn’t the one to wake him up for the shop chores. This was the security alarm. The screen was already on and showing the store below their apartment, and a lanky figure moving quickly toward the register.

He knew that figure. It was fresh in his mind.

“Piece of—” Badd jumped out of bed and grabbed the metal bat from under it. He was just in his boxers and a shirt, but given how quickly the guy was acting, breaking the register’s lock, opening the drawer, grabbing the money…

Badd kicked the door open and snarled, “Hey! What do ya think you’re doin,’ punk?”

He thought Garou would run. Instead, his eyes took on a glow of excitement as he pocketed the two large handfuls of cash - their income for the whole week so far - and lifted his fists. “Distributing wealth. From you to me.”

“The hell you are!” He came at him, bringing the bat over his head and then down towards Garou’s face. “Does this seem like the kinda place that makes an excess o’ cash?!”

Badd had thought Garou would try to dodge, but then suddenly Badd was reeling from a devastating impact striking his nose and chest. He gripped the bat harder, refusing to let go even as he tried to get his bearings. Punched. Twice. Maybe a broken nose? Hard to tell. It was bleeding, though, that was for sure.

Which only pissed him off more.

He took a step back, trying to focus on the white shock of Garou’s hair. He wasn’t running.

He was...smiling!

“Is that what you do?” Badd asked as he wiped the stream of blood under his nose. “Find a small place, case the joint and then steal from it?” He swung again, in the same path, but just as Garou moved in once more, Badd swung his leg around to kick his middle. He blocked it. What was this guy? Some karate nut? 

“It’s not my fault you made it so easy!” Garou threw the block outwards, sending Badd off-balance. When he started to throw another punch, Badd raised the bat, and he felt Garou’s knuckles connect with the metal. His smile fell, twisted into a wince. 

“I should’ve known better than to let ya in. Bein’ nice is a waste on ya!” He grabbed the front of Garou’s shirt and shoved him hard into the wall. This time, when he rose the bat, Garou grabbed it with both hands. They were staying, motionless together, and Badd glared into his face. “Gimme the money and I won’t call the cops.”

“You lost your chance to do that,” Garou replied through gritted teeth.

Why...hadn’t Badd called the cops? If he had done that when the alarm went off, he could have followed him, or stayed upstairs with Zenko, but he came down instead. Why? Why?

“Mister! Stop!”

Garou glared over his shoulder at the sound of the other voice. Badd looked too, seeing a short kid probably a little younger than Zenko, gripping the hem of his shirt. He had a bowl cut and a bald spot, and he seemed on the verge of tears. “You’re supposed to be watching out!” Garou grunted.

“But...but...grandpa will be mad if he finds out you’ve been fighting again! And...and...we’re not supposed to be out this late!”

“Big bro!!”

Oh great. Now he was really in for it. He would rather continue fighting Garou than deal with the fifteen-year-old who was standing at the door, wearing her pajama pants and a too-large shirt of her favorite idol heartthrob. 

“Badd!” she yelled. “What’s going on? Who are these people?!” Then, she seemed to recognize the bat in his hands, and her tone changed from concern to anger. “You promised Mom and Dad you wouldn’t fight anymore!”

“It ain’t like that! He’s stealin’ from— oof!”

Garou used the distraction to quickly let go of the bat. Badd fell forward...right into the fist that sank into his gut. The air in his lungs whooshed out painfully, leaving him doubled over and gasping. 

“C’mon, Tareo,” Garou was saying, as Badd tried to will his lungs to reinflate. “Let’s get out of here.”

—

Zenko wouldn’t help in the cafe for a few days after that, and Badd didn’t really blame her, either. It just kept coming back to him: he should have called the cops, why didn’t he call the cops, why did he get into that fight.

He hadn’t gotten into a fight for so many years, and yet…

He had broken his streak.

Why?

“Badd, are you there?” He blinked, having totally zoned out as one of the regulars appeared at the cash register. A middle-age woman who had been coming since his parents owned the place. “Can I get a cappuccino and a scone, kiddo?”

“Oh, um. Sure. Just a second.”

She smiled kindly, tightening the high ponytail she wore, tucking her long black hair out of her face. “You were thinking about him, weren’t you?”

Holy shit. Was this lady psychic? “Thinkin’ about who? What? Naw, I was jus’...”

When he came back with her scone on a plate, she picked a piece of it and chewed it. “I haven’t seen you sit down for longer than five minutes in years, Badd. Or smile. Or talk. Or—”

“No way. He was some guy, is all. And I don’t think he’ll be comin’ back, so it don’t matter anyhow.” He took the cash from her - perfect change, since she had been getting the same thing for so long and the prices were never adjusted - and put it into the still-recovering cash register.

“Sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty positive.”

“No way that will change?”

“I seriously doubt it.” Badd glanced up, and when he noticed her staring at the back door leading to the alley, he followed her gaze.

Garou was standing there, propping the exit open with his foot. He had one hand in his pocket, and there was really no way to describe his face other than sheepish. Tail between his legs. 

The polar opposite of the night before.

And since there wasn’t really anyone else in line, Badd couldn’t exactly ignore him.

He wandered back, pushing his chin out as much as he could. “Ya got some nerve showin’ up like ya own the place or somethin.’”

After a moment of fishing in his pocket, Garou pulled out a stack of money. He pushed it into Badd’s chest, holding it there until he took it. “That’s everything. With a little extra. Just ‘cause...I got a little extra, so…”

“Did your gramps make ya bring this back?” Badd asked. It actually felt like a decent bit more than what had been in the register before. And he didn’t want to ask how Garou got the other money. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister.” Badd blinked. What difference did that make? “I live with the old man, but...it ain’t just me. There’s a bunch of kids. Tareo, some others, all little. And...they rely on me. So I’m not going to do that to another kid.”

Badd thought back to the pallet of stale muffins and treats. The way Garou still took them with him. 

He thought for a second, staring at Garou. Why wasn’t he leaving? Not that Badd had really told him to, but… “How’s your hand?” he asked, noticing the wrap on it. 

“Fine,” Garou asked, pushing it in more, out of sight. He nodded at his nose. “How’s your face?”

“Eh. My sister’s sore about us fightin’ so right now she says it’s a pretty vast improvement.” Garou chuckled at that. Badd licked his lips before he started speaking again. “Listen… ya brought the money back so that’s even steven but...I think I might’ve said some shitty stuff to ya that day, and I’m sorry, okay?”

Garou stared at him quietly. Finally, he shrugged. He seemed to do that whenever this came up. “Used to it.”

“Yeah, but…” Come on, please, for the love of God, don’t let this start another brawl. “If you’re takin’ care of these kids, do ya want an actual job? Like here? I’d feel better lettin’ Zenko go out and actually be a normal teenager without feelin’ like she’s gotta be here, and if the kids need a place to study or somethin,’ they’re welcome too, so...whattaya think?”

Badd was scared to look him in the face. In fact, he just stared down at his hands, like maybe he was counting the money even though he wasn’t. 

“Really?” Garou finally asked.

He snapped back to attention. “Yeah! If ya want. I haven’t really had anyone around in a long time, and it’s easy work, and it’s yours. I’ll give ya cash so it’s off the books and maybe we can hang out and...whatever.”

Garou smirked, that little spark of something returning to his eyes. Like it had that night. “Whatever? You want to fight me again?”

“What?! No! I mean...it’s whatever, okay! Whatever’s whatever!” A flush started to warm his cheeks to the point that he had to turn away so he wouldn’t see. “Come on, dummy. I’ll show ya how to make some stuff.”

Garou followed him inside, letting the door close behind them. 

[jafndaegur]

Things Said and Unsaid

Jumin Han x MC

Mystic Messenger

a/n: now that the zine is long past, here is my story from the Garden of Eden Zine:) Enjoy!

Jumin twisted the flower stem between his fingers as he reclined further against the chair. Waxy pink petals mocked him in a way that he did not appreciate and the bright bloom weighed heavily, leaning forward in his careless grasp. He rested his chin on the back of his free hand, temple twitching at the not-quite perfect amount of wine for a buzz but enough for a headache. 

MC's voice still floated in the air as if she'd just called about her final report for the RFA event.

"All of the flower arrangements are ready for the party," her voice was stilted over the phone even as she tried to be chipper.

Jumin wondered if she felt uncomfortable around him with everything said and done. "They'll look beautiful I'm sure." He reassured. 

The pause and silence between them felt unnatural and constricting.

"What did you pick? For the bouquets." He finally peeped out, his voice rocking with concern. Had they always struggled with communicating? The memory of being able to freely converse with her, speaking of any little trivial thing that came to mind an easy and amusing way for him to pass the time. Surely he hadn’t ruined things so thoroughly during the time she had spent at the penthouse.

MC’s airy and pitched laugh reached his ears in a painful display of her discomfort. "That'd ruin the surprise."

And what a surprise it'd been.

Jumin had been eager, and even anxious, in awaiting her arrival to the party. Afterall they all owed its renewed existence to her. And he himself owed so much to her too. When they had parted the night before, V rightfully helping her return to the apartment, it had been with a tender apology. She'd embraced him—held him close and promised things would work out the way they should.

He wasn’t sure if it had been a lie or her convincing herself. Perhaps some odd adherration of both to her conviction.

The day of the party came, but MC did not.

It was obvious that Seven had hesitated his journey before finally making the reluctant trek to Jumin with a piece of paper in one hand and a tied bouquet of flowers in the other.

The pink camellia had seemed so bright and vibrant in the light of the ballroom. And even now in Jumin's hand, standing stark and vibrant, the bloom dazzled against the rest of his muted parlor decor. It smiled and flourished, and yet here he sat more dejected and more confused than ever.

Somehow, he managed his way back to the kitchen, where the rest of his  bouquet lay abandoned on his dining room table—scattered petals and bulbs strewn across the wood top due to his careless toss of the bunch. He had been angry and frustrated at the time, but now he felt guilt tugging at the span of his ribs when he thought of the disregard he gave to her last gift to him. The note lay innocently next to it, as if trying to appease him with the gentle slope of MC's handwriting.

I've meant everything Jumin. Said and unsaid. I don't regret anything and I hope you won't either. But we both need this to move forward, I think this is what's right...I hope you'll see that. I've left you the best.

-MC

Among the flowers, pink carnations were the easiest to pick out. The petals crimped and wavy, and the blossoms themselves the most commonplace and plain. And yet MC had made sure the flowers had stayed nestled close amongst bushels of goldenrod. Another odd pick for a formal party. His eye for detail made things easy to recognize that beautiful hardworking and problem-solving touch MC made with every  deliberate and precise choice. He knew that much. From the sorrel that warmly held everything together, to the pink camellias blushing prettily at the center wrapped in forget-me-nots.

In times such as these Jumin realized he had one consultant he could count on, a source where information passed easily from itself to him. Where he could learn unhindered and without bias about the best that MC left behind for him. Because surely, she did not simply mean the best flowers from the bunch. She was too clever for that.

He found himself at a library, in the area with the farmer's almanacs and horticulture how-tos. It was an aisle he frequented when seeking answers to inquiries about his vineyard. 

Heavy and cumbersome, he found an encyclopedic tome titled Whispers from the Flowers. It was an odd name but upon opening it he found satisfaction knowing that his assumption on its topic had been correct. The flower language. Something not in a million years he imagined himself researching. But for MC, he would do anything. And his beloved left behind one very, very important clue. "Things said and unsaid." And he hoped it was more than a mere sentimental way of saying she left him behind regardless of whether or not she was able to relay all she wished to. 

Jumin found the index at the back of the book, searching for sorrel first. MC had meticulously ensured that the green and stringy plant entwined itself around the main bouquet like a cradle. It was hardly a flower and yet the vibrancy of it added life and color outside of the thematic pink hues of the other blooms. Affection. Sorrel is the gateway to confessions and the key to unlocking the heart—it lays bare the raw and pure emotion of those who offer it. His fingers danced over the words, tracing the letters with the faintest of smiles. MC's disappearance seemed like a rather large lack of said-affection, but he knew there had to be further explanation. And all answers resided within the little puzzle she had set aside just for him.

Because she knew and understood he had every capability to solve it. He hoped.

Encouragement. Good fortune. Goldenrod offers the same blade with two edges. One of well wishes and the other of outstretched hands. It is an easy flower to convey both farewells and prosperity. 

Jumin’s breath curled within his chest and his fingers hovered. “Farewells.” It was a mutter, something that he dare not speak more than a whisper.  MC left behind hide nor hair of her existence. The memory of her laugh and gilded eyes were the only proof he could offer. Yet somewhere amongst the agonizing pull in his chest as he read the summary over and over again, he feared that she had truly meant her goodbye hidden within these flowers. 

He knew his own faults had greatly weighed upon her decision to leave with Jihyun that day. But had he really ruined things so much that she chose never to see any of them again to escape him? Were all affections between them nullified because of his shortcomings.

Breath hitched and his fists clenched the book. Memories of true love. Forget-me-nots are the staple flower of sweet love. Anyone gifting their sweetheart with these iconic blooms know every moment spent with their true love will be cherished and treasured. Jumin’s brow furrowed. Contradictory. This was all so illogical and contradictory. If he had not just recently gone through a week-long anxiety attack and now the loss of the woman he had planned to propose to, he’d chalk these meanings up to happenstance and throw the book into the closest recycling bin. But everything said had been meant. And everything unsaid had been meant. He needed for his own sanity and for his own comprehension to know if these flowers truly enveloped MC’s feelings for him. Or if he was just a fool trying to pry into a love that was never his to keep.

“I’ll never forget you.” 

A shudder. The words flowed past his lips as he read the phrase mechanically. “I’ll never forget you.” Each utterance a tremor to his heart as the walls constricted and shook.

I’ll never forget you. Pink carnations are easily the most misused and the most misunderstood. Believed to be a simpleton’s flower, the meaning behind this bloom is often lost due to being handed out of context. It’s beautiful and pastel color can often be misleading. It is a mournful flower, often handed at the cusp of goodbye. A beautiful tendril to remember a fleeting yet vibrant romance. 

The search through the index for the last flower was a trembling one.  Jumin’s fingers skimmed the crisp paper gentle against his skin as he tried to account his increasing pulse to apprehension or suspense. He was approaching the last piece of MC’s riddle and good or bad—real or not—he had been able to come to some conclusion about their parting. About their romance. About them. 

His vision blurred and he felt the world spin.

A note had been tucked away close to the spine where the pages parted. It was a small envelope, no bigger than an index card. “Jumin” had been scripted neatly on the front, and on the back, there was a little flower drawn over the edge of the opening flap. He recognized MC’s handwriting anywhere. Impulse struck a chord with his nerves and he plucked the note quickly before forcing himself to slow down. He wanted to finish this mission. 

Pink camellias. Longing for you.

No more waiting. Jumin dropped the book and tore the envelope open. His heart pitter-pattered and he double took the gentle slope of that oh-so familiar handwriting. The gentle sweep and slant of her penmanship was obvious the moment he gazed upon the ink. There before him, tiny and hopeful, was a phone number. He'd arrived at the end of her puzzle with a growing smile, shaking his head with a fond chuckle. His finger brushed the new note.

"You can be greedy, you know," he whispered reverently. "Around me don't worry. Whatever fears or struggles we may have to face, we'll figure them out together. You don't have to hold back for my sake or for yours."

He pulled two business cards from his wallet, placing one in the forget-me-knots section and the other in the section about pink camellias. Satisfied, he closed the book and walked to the front desk where the head librarian sat typing away on the computer. Noticing his approach, they gave him a warm smile. Holding out their hand, the librarian inclined their head.

"Got everything you need?"

Jumin nodded and handed the book over. "I will soon enough. In the meantime, could you place this on hold? A friend is going to pick it up."

"Of course," the librarian nodded. "Name and number."

"Han MC," Jumin decided with a touch of humor, a welcomed break to his multi-day anxiety high, before reciting the number from the note.

The person assured him that MC would be notified and that the book would be on hold for the next twenty-four hours. He bowed his head slightly and graciously thanked them before heading to the car where Driver Kim awaited. There was so little time to get ready but he wanted to make the most of this anticipation that clung to his lungs with baited breath.