#worrying twice as much will not lessen any pain and it will not make grief easier

[transvampireboyfriend]

food is love

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,�� Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.  

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.  

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?”

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

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[blossom-hwa]

Light the Pyres |Rise| - SUNGYOON

Sungyoon + mc finally start getting their shit together I'm gonna scream

Pairing: Sungyoon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, bits of fluff, apocalypse!au

Triggers: cursing, implied death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 4.6k

As the world burns its last goodbyes, you find a jewel amidst the ashes.

Previous: Light >> Rise >> Next: Burn

Golden Child Masterlist

Walking with Sungyoon is slow.

It isn’t like you expected anything more, considering the injured leg and all. Still, as you start off down the highway, you can’t help but feel like he was walking faster yesterday when you two came back to find his family.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Worry. Fear for loved ones can give you a lot of strength.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

You try not to show it. You’re the one who offered to let Sungyoon come, after all. He even raised the issue of his leg before agreeing. But impatience rears its ugly little head every time Sungyoon falls behind, forcing you to slow your steps down never-ending streets and highways until he ultimately needs a break and you sit in what miniscule shade you can find.

If it wasn’t so silent, you might be able to stomach the walk better. Maybe if you and Sungyoon were on good enough terms to have a conversation, walking wouldn’t feel so endless and slow. But after you gave each other your names that night in the house, there hasn’t been much conversation other than “break?” and “let’s go.”

Daeyeol was quiet, but in a comfortable way, in a way you’d known for two decades. Sungyoon has a reserved quietude about him. Definitely not comfortable.

Though given the circumstances under which you met, that isn’t surprising.

Which is why you don’t expect Sungyoon to bring up the issue and not you. You always figured at some point you’d explode from keeping quiet too much and say things you couldn’t take back, but one week after you leave, Sungyoon opens his mouth and starts talking instead of eating the granola bar you put in his hand.

“Are you tired of walking with me?”

You blink once. Twice. You still have the presence of mind to be thankful you just took a mouthful of granola bar and have to chew and swallow before you say a thing.

“No,” you reply, lying through bits of granola stuck in your teeth.

Sungyoon raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Really.”

Indignation rises in your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say?” you snap. “Why are you even asking? What does it matter?”

He looks down. Shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, voice smaller and suddenly very tired. “I would’ve gotten tired in your position. I’m sorry.”

That just ups the guilt you feel for having those stupid thoughts. “Why are you sorry?” you say harshly, trying to disguise the emotion threatening to spill out of your mouth. “Last time I checked, doing whatever you did to your leg wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t land properly.”

“I was the one who told you to jump.” You grimace at the memory. “So unless you had practice in jumping off fucking buses before this all happened, I don’t see how that’s supposed to change the fact that you couldn’t control your jump from a bus taller than you.”

“I’m still slowing you down,” Sungyoon argues.

“What is this, a competition of who’s done worse?” You scoff. “In that case, if you didn’t remember, I forced you to choose between leaving your family or me killing them.”

Your words are acerbic. Grating. They burn guilty on your lips and tongue and you’re surprised Sungyoon doesn’t do anything more than swallow and look away, teeth worrying his lips. “They were already dead.”

Bitterness. Resentment. Not a lot, but just enough to tinge his words with a sickly venom that eats into your skin, filling your throat with bile. He doesn’t believe that, not yet, which you can’t even blame because you’re still trying to convince yourself it isn’t his fault that Daeyeol is dead.

Oh, God. Daeyeol.

Two bites of granola bar churn in your stomach. “I killed them anyway,” you manage, trying not to hurl.

“But I got Daeyeol killed.” Sungyoon turns, his eyes burning into yours.

Your fingers crush the remains of the granola bar still in your hand. Bits fall onto the ground, but you’re too busy focusing on a point in the distance to care, avoiding Sungyoon’s gaze for fear that you’ll launch yourself at him, claw his eyes out, throw him against the tree he’s sitting under –

Oh.

You stop throttling the granola bar.

This must be how he feels about you, too.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe it.” Sungyoon’s voice, oblivious to your whirlwind of thoughts, is soft, bitter, but understanding. “Remember? The only reason I’m still here is because I’m living on his time.”

Bile stings in your throat, but you force yourself to lock eyes with him once more. “Yeah,” you croak. “Yeah. I do kind of believe it. But you also believe I killed your sister and her boyfriend, even if you keep saying they were already dead before I did it.”

His jaw tightens. Gaze shifts. But Sungyoon doesn’t argue.

You sigh. “I know the facts and I know it isn’t your fault, Sungyoon.” His name sounds weird on your tongue, but you push away the strange feeling and continue. “My brain just doesn’t want to believe it. Yet.” You swallow, hard. These next words better convey sincerity. “I don’t mean to act like your life only matters because Daeyeol sacrificed himself for us. It doesn’t. I do want you to stay alive if only for you to keep living. It’s just…” Another sigh. “I’m sorry.”

The truth doesn’t fall too flat, at least.

“Mine doesn’t either.” Sungyoon doesn’t raise his head, but one hand goes up to rub his downcast eyes. You fight the urge to tell him not to, that the dirt from his skin might cause an infection. “I would’ve had to kill them, one way or another. You just did it for me. Inevitable.” He looks up. “I shouldn’t blame you. I’m trying not to. Maybe I shouldn’t even have brought it up, I just didn’t want this to keep… festering.” He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies.” You wrap up the remains of your granola bar, too drained to contemplate another bite even though you probably need it. “No more guilt. I think we’ve both done enough shit to each other to cancel most of it out.” And it feels weird. “Also, just because I’m impatient about you walking slowly doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you behind. I asked you to come. I’m not an absolute shithead. When you walk it off, you’ll be fine. Maybe we can find some bikes or something in the next city. I don’t know.”

Sungyoon blinks, then nods. Silence falls, a little less tension-filled than before. Then –

“I used to run track.”

You blink, trying to register his five word statement. It feels so out of place, but then you remember you were talking about going faster. “Were you any good?”

A brief glint of pride flashes in Sungyoon’s eyes. “One of the best.”

“Well, track boy, I guess we’ll have to wait until a horde finds us to verify that statement.” Your lips almost curve, and you feel a small bit of satisfaction as Sungyoon’s mouth twitches similarly. Morbid humor. Maybe that’s something you, him and Daeyeol have in common. “Go to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

He sleeps, then, more quietly than you’ve ever seen him. And as his breaths begin to even, there’s a hint of the peace you used to feel when it was just you and Daeyeol instead.

It lets you pretend that things aren’t really as bad as they seem.

. . . . .

And things aren’t too bad, at least not for a while. Limping along, you and Sungyoon make it through a second week and then a third without ripping out each other’s throats. There are still infuriating flashes of fury and anger when Sungyoon does or says something that reminds you a little too much of Daeyeol, and sometimes you catch him glancing over with lips pressed together, eyes torn in grief. But it lessens. A little. Two weeks after that initial conversation, you find Sungyoon almost pleasant company. On some days, you even consider taking out the almost.

Until the horde attacks.

You and Sungyoon manage to run fast, to lose most of the zombies in a maze of abandoned buildings in a dusty city. The last few you shoot dead. When that’s over, you both breathe a sigh of relief.

Then Sungyoon faints, of all things, and when you finally drag him into one of the empty houses nearby and get him to come to, he can’t put weight on his leg without collapsing on the floor. The skin is tight, the limb swollen. Running that fast on whatever injury he had made it much worse.

Fuck.

Your hands aren’t those of a doctor, not even those of a biology major. All you can do is manipulate machines, not blood flow or heartbeats. Yours is dangerously high as you step close enough to touch his leg with trembling fingers, feeling the swelling flesh beneath your skin.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Sungyoon says when you remain silent, dropping your hands from his prone body. His voice is weak with pain but strong in anger, though whether it’s anger at you or something else you aren’t sure. “Maybe a bigger fracture.”

“How do you know?”

“Got a few injuries running track.”

You swallow. “How… how long?”

“Probably a few weeks.” He looks down.

Weeks. Several weeks. It took around two months for you and Daeyeol to make it two thirds across the country, and part of the way you were driving. On Sungyoon’s leg, you’ve only gone a third of the remaining third, if you’re being generous. Probably more like a quarter.

Three quarters of a third left. You may not have been in a math class in months, but you can still calculate that you have a quarter of the whole way to go.

A quarter. A whole damn quarter. Two or three weeks would cut that down at least by a third. A half if you moved fast enough. But now you’re stuck here for that amount of time, waiting for Sungyoon’s leg to heal.

He doesn’t say anything when you walk out of the room, doesn’t call you back when you disappear into the hall and close the door and put your head against the wall and scream, silent, as pressure builds behind your eyes to signal tears you won’t let fall.

Sungyoon definitely hears when you kick the wall. He also definitely hears your muffled grunt of pain, judging by the look he gives your foot when you walk back into the room, trying to keep the emotions off your face.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, putting your bag down with as little force as you can in the corner. “Need anything?”

He shakes his head. Swallows around what looks like a dry throat. You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and take a half empty bottle of water out of the bag, tossing it over. He catches it easily. “Don’t lie to me,” you say, successfully keeping a bite out of your tone. “If you’re thirsty, you’re thirsty. No sense in hiding it.”

Behind the bottle, Sungyoon nods. The plastic crinkles slightly in the silence as you turn back to the bag, staring at the dwindling mess left inside. Some more granola bars, two full bottles of water, a few empty bottles, clothes and a couple sheets. Sungyoon’s pack probably doesn’t have much more.

You sigh. One of you is going to have to go out and hunt for supplies and with Sungyoon’s fractured leg, it’s clear which one has to go.

There are zombies lurking everywhere. The bullets in your gun are the only ones you have left. You need ammunition, food, and water, and you have no idea where to find it.

Great.

The sun is still in the sky when you look out the window. There are three, maybe four hours left before sundown, which gives you a little time to at least scope out the neighborhood you’ve ended up in. “I’m going out,” you say, standing up. “If I’m not back in three hours, assume I’m fucked. Stay here.”

“And if you are fucked?”

The way Sungyoon says it simultaneously makes want to smile but also want to punch him in the face. Humor. It always seems to come back when you’re at your lowest points. “Then you’re fucked,” you say as flippantly as possible. “At least you have one water bottle and a granola bar to see you through a day or two.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d say you hear Sungyoon snort as you leave the room. Though it was probably just the creaking door.

. . . . .

According to your watch, you come back two hours later with several bottles of water, a scraped leg, and two less bullets in your gun. “No food or ammunition, though there’s a cafeteria where I found some water,” you announce, wincing as you sit on the floor. “And zombies are still everywhere.”

“How do you think they find us?” Sungyoon asks, disconcertedly looking at the blood you’ve started dabbing off your leg. “And how did you get that?”

You pause, a strip of sheet pressed to your skin. “I… don’t know,” you admit. “I feel like they probably can’t see very well given their weird eyes and the fact that they still bump into buildings when trying to get at us. Hearing or smell?” You shrug, pouring a tiny bit of water onto the sheet. “And I got this running away from a group. Lucky they don’t move too fast or I wouldn’t have gotten back.”

“How many bullets left?”

“Ten.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath.

“Yeah.” You glare at your gun, as though staring will somehow bring the two bullets back. “Might need to find some other sort of weapon.”

And transport. Like a bike or a car that miraculously still has enough fuel for you to hotwire. Though that’s secondary, considering you’re stuck here until further notice.

Silence falls as you finish cleaning your wound, wrapping it behind a strip of sheet with a sigh. “Hungry?”

He doesn’t answer. You frown. “Sungyoon?”

“You could go on. Alone.”

Your lips thin. Plastic crinkles in your grip. Just in time, you drop the water bottle in your hand before it explodes over the ground. “Hungry?” you ask again, voice choking.

Sungyoon doesn’t answer.

“Okay.” It takes all of your effort not to scream or shout or shake as you place a granola bar on the floor within his reach, along with a new bottle of water to replace the empty one sitting by his feet. “I’m going to take a nap. Say something if you need anything.”

He doesn’t say anything as you curl up on the floor, resting your head on your backpack. He doesn’t say anything as you turn around to face the wall.

He doesn’t say anything as you drift into an uneasy sleep.

. . . . .

Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun. Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun or bullets and the only other weapon you have is the blunt knife hidden in your backpack and you are thankful for this, because the next few days are unnerving.

He’s silent. Barely moves, never talks. He only ever eats when you threaten to shove food down his throat and doesn’t even half-smile the way he used to when you crack a sarcastic or morbid joke.

His words don’t leave you, either. You could go on. Alone.

It isn’t as though the thought hasn’t come to mind, you’ll admit, but every time it does, you brush it away. While you might have actually considered it when you first met, Sungyoon has grown on you (even in his silence) that you don’t feel comfortable with the idea of leaving him behind, even if he’s the one who brings it up.

You saw the loneliness and fear in his eyes that day you buried the bodies. You heard the emptiness in his voice when he said he didn’t have anywhere to go. You offered to let him come. You held out that offer even when he reminded you about his leg. Even a few weeks ago, when you were still restraining yourself from ripping out his throat every time he did something that reminded you too much of Daeyeol, you wouldn’t have rescinded your offer and left him alone unless he’d done something absolutely unforgivable. Which he never did.

So you won’t consider it. Even if it means taking longer to get to your mom. Beyond the fact that it just isn’t right, what would she say if she knew you abandoned someone you offered to take along?

But Sungyoon only ever speaks to bring it up, and every time, you pretend he never said anything. If you actually respond, you’re pretty sure it’ll deteriorate into either a yelling match or one of you just leaving the room. And considering Sungyoon can’t move, the one who leaves will be you.

The mental energy required for this conversation is too much for you to deal with right now.

But then you come back from a trip outside, limping on a re-bloodied leg and clutching a sheet to your bleeding arm an hour later than you told Sungyoon you’d be back. It’s dark when you enter the room, but the faint moonlight is just bright enough for you to see that the bed is empty and that the lump of Sungyoon is now on the floor.

The sheet drops from your hand.

“Sungyoon!”

A cracked cough sounds from the ground and you rush forward, ignoring the pain in your own limbs to lift him back up onto the bed. “What happened?” you ask, squinting into the darkness at where you think his leg is. “Did you make your leg worse?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon wheezes.

Frustration rises in your chest when he doesn’t answer the question, but you only nod tersely. “I had to hide for a while,” you say, trying to check his leg in the dark. “I’m sorry. But what were you doing?”

He still doesn’t answer. “Are you bleeding?”

“Sungyoon!” you snap, straightening. Your drop your bleeding arm and put weight on your injured leg, ignoring the resulting pain. “Answer me!”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Sungyoon half yells, burying his face in his hands. “Why are you injuring yourself because of me? I’m a nobody, I got your literal best friend killed, and now I’m preventing you from finding your mom –”

“SHUT UP!”

Sungyoon snaps his mouth shut. Swallowing hard, you do too, waiting for deadened groans to surround the house. Stupid, stupid, why did you yell? Keep your goddamn temper, will you?

One minute. Two. Five.

You finally let yourself breathe. “Are you done?” you snarl in a hushed whisper. “Are you fucking done?”

“Not until you either leave me here or give me a reasonable explanation as to why you still keep me around!”

“Do you think I’m heartless?” Your bag lands on the ground with a thud and you sit heavily beside it, giving in to the stinging of scrapes on your skin. “Do you seriously still think –”

“No, I think you’re stupid,” Sungyoon snaps.  

“Stupid for what? Keeping you around when I’m the one who asked if you wanted to come along?” you retort. “It’s called basic human decency, Sungyoon!”

“And leaving me behind would be called the basic right decision for you!”

You scoff. “The right decision? Trading a human life for a week or two of time is the right decision?”

“You want to go and find your mom!” Sungyoon yells. “I’m only keeping you behind! We don’t even know each other – what even makes sense here?”

Everything in you wants to scream again that it’s not right, it’s not fucking right until you get it through Sungyoon’s thick skull, but just enough sense remains in your brain to force you to shut up and think.

Think. Why is he so set on this? And why are you so set on the opposite?

Guilt. He feels guilty that he’s keeping you behind. Which – understandable, if you calm down enough to think about it.

But how would you feel if you left him behind?

Unpleasant emotion rises in your chest. Guilt, horror, even pain at the thought of leaving Sungyoon. It’s alien – you’ve only felt this way about Daeyeol before he died, and certainly not around the few other travelers you met for brief moments on the way home, but somewhere along the way, Sungyoon has become a semblance of a companion.

A lump fills your throat. You think you know how Daeyeol felt, now, every time he heard or saw someone in need.

“You feel guilty,” you say slowly, leaning back against the wall. “Which I get. I think.”

“How –”

“Let me talk,” you interrupt, glaring. He probably can’t see it very clearly in the dark, but at least he shuts up. “You feel guilty for keeping me behind. Which I get, because a month ago I would barely have had second thoughts about moving on without you.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “As you should.”

“Will you quit it?” you snap. “If you feel guilty, think about how I would feel if I left you behind! You think I wouldn’t feel guilty? Instead of wallowing in your fucking guilt, try and think of me!”

And miraculously, Sungyoon falls silent.

“If you were in my position,” you continue, more softly, “what do you think you’d feel? If I asked you to leave me behind? Maybe I wouldn’t grudge you for it, but would you grudge yourself?”

Sungyoon remains quiet.

“It’s humanity,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. Daeyeol, I understand now. “It’s part of being human. I couldn’t leave you behind, not at this point when you can still be helped.” You swallow, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m not selfish enough to do otherwise.”

And as the silence continues, stretching as light fades in the window, you relax against the wall even with blood still trickling down your skin and onto the forgotten sheet. The last of your frustration sloughs away, the bitterness of blame and guilt gone from your throat.

Because you understand. You understand why Daeyeol tried to save everyone he could. You understand why he would risk his life to save a boy whose name he didn’t even know. You understand the guilt he would’ve felt if he didn’t try, didn’t lift a single finger to help, even if it meant possibly losing his life in the process.

You aren’t at that level. You may never be. You probably never will reach Daeyeol’s heights of selflessness, the quality you always admired him for. But you can understand this much.

It isn’t Sungyoon’s fault. It never was. As much as your brain wanted to believe it, it was no one’s fault – not Daeyeol’s for being selfless, not yours for failing to notice the zombie, not Sungyoon’s for being in trouble and needing help.

Not his fault. Not his fault. Not his fault. With every repetition, the three words grow clearer in your mind, a clear truth rather than a blurry mess you have to force yourself to decipher through gritted teeth every time they play in your head. It isn’t his fault.

It never was.

You blink a few tears away from your eyes, lowering your head to stare at Sungyoon’s dark body on the bed. “Let me see your leg,” you say softly, tongue free of the taste of blame. “You probably hurt it, falling off the bed.”

Sungyoon doesn’t protest, just lets you make your way over to the bed. Pale moonlight guides your hands as they skim over the swollen flesh. “It doesn’t hurt more,” he says, voice small.

“Doesn’t seem that much worse than yesterday,” you agree, pulling back. “You’re lucky. I didn’t run track, but I’m pretty sure falling isn’t supposed to do wonders for a fracture.” You frown. “What were you even doing when I got back, anyway?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon says. “By over an hour. I tried to see if I could find you.”

Something in your heart cracks at the tinge of fear in his words. He hides it well, but you can still detect the terror that frays his voice. It was in yours every time Daeyeol came back so much as a minute later than he told you, and in his every time you returned with a single scrape or cut on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, sitting on the floor. Your back presses against the bed. If you looked up, you could probably meet Sungyoon’s eyes, but exhaustion weighs your head and limbs. “I got chased by a few zombies and had to barricade myself in a building before they finally left. When I decided it was safe to go, they apparently hadn’t left, and I fell a few times trying to escape.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath. “Didn’t you have your gun?”

“Too close quarters.” You shudder at the memory. “I didn’t have enough space to pull it out. Easier to just outrun them.”

Silence falls as you try to shake off the feeling of cold, dead hands trying to grab at your arm. Then Sungyoon sighs. “I’m sorry for pressing you,” he whispers, so soft you almost don’t hear him. “I just don’t like being useless. Or when I’m holding people back.”

You purse your lips. You can commiserate. But how do you make Sungyoon understand that he isn’t useless, even if his leg is costing you time?

“Think about it like this,” you finally say. “If it wasn’t for you, I might’ve gone insane by now. Might not even be alive. I don’t do well when I’m completely alone in my thoughts, especially not when I’m stressed.”

“Extroverted?”

“Not exactly.” You sigh. “Just… I sometimes spiral. And if I don’t have someone nearby me in those moments, I don’t make the best decisions.”

“… We never exactly talked much.”

“Just a presence helps,” you clarify. “Knowing someone’s there is enough. And…” Might as well be out with it. “I was scared of being alone. Terrified. Still am.” You swallow. “Even if it’s silent company, it means a lot to me.”

Sungyoon remains silent for a moment. You almost think you’ve said too much before he speaks. “Me too,” he mumbles. “I was scared, too. Of being alone.”

A pang of guilt resonates in your chest. “I’m sorry –”

“No apologies, right?” Sungyoon breaks in, reminding you of the conversation from just weeks ago. “It’s not your fault. I know that now.”

He does. A sharp certainty edges his words, still inlaid with sadness but free of bitter blame and anger. He has finally reconciled your actions with reality, the same way you’ve reconciled him and Daeyeol, too. And even if you still feel the weight of two murders on your hands, the knowledge that he doesn’t blame you anymore lifts your heart, just slightly.

“I guess I was afraid you would leave on your own terms, once you realized how much I was holding you back,” Sungyoon mumbles. “So I tried to make you go first. I thought if I was the one who made you leave…”

“Well, you can’t get rid of me now.” You lift your head to give him a lopsided smile. “I’m still here, Sungyoon. Doesn’t matter how bad your leg is, I’ll be with you until it heals and then some. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sungyoon breathes. Then – “Thank you for staying. And forgiving me.”

A small, genuine smile replaces the lopsided expression you wore before. “Thank you for forgiving me too.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for enduring forgiveness :))

[anotherhawk]

Dust Fatigue - Clone Wars Fanfiction

Cody woke to all the expected alarms and notifications plastered over his helmet display. The atmosphere on this sith-sent moon was light on oxygen and heavy on toxins and corrosives. Oh, and dust, mustn't forget that. Thick, grey, ash-like dust that smothered their armour until he could barely pick out his brothers from the rocks around them, barely tell which of them he was talking to. The grey covered over white and gold, leaving them all as identical as the day they were decanted. If he was the sort to be unsettled, this would unsettle him.

With a concealed sigh, ignoring the ache in his head and his back, he sat up, cancelling the alerts. After three standard weeks he knew the dangers well enough.

“Commander!” Drifter sounded relieved and he looked over to find a small group of his vod gathered around an abandoned helmet. He looked around the cave quickly, searching for whatever unfortunate vod had been stupid enough to disobey orders and take off his helmet. They had already lost a squad to this storm. He wasn't going to lose another brother to the kriffing weather.

“The general stepped outside for a moment,” Drifter went on, talking quickly. “And he left this behind.”

Of course. He should have known. His brothers had a sense of self-preservation – unlike their Jedi.

He made sure not to let his frustration leak into his voice. “I see. When was this?”

“Twenty minutes ago? Tinhat went to check on him but he said he was fine. Just meditating.”

Cody nodded and took the general's bucket from Drifter's hands, his brother obviously all too eager to pass the problem up the chain of command. “Jedi can handle hostile environments for longer than we can,” he reminded them – needlessly, he suspected. If it was a vod who had removed his helmet and wandered outside he was certain that they would have been tackled and wrestled back into it long before now, regardless of rank. He really didn't want to try doing that to the Jedi. Best call that plan b.

Away from the shelter of the cave the wind picked up immediately. The dust wasn't as thick as it had been when they'd first arrived though, which could mean the storm was dying down at last – or it could be something to do with the man sitting cross-legged on the cliff edge to his right.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan greeted him without opening his eyes.

“Put your bucket back on. Sir,” he said, holding the helmet out.

Obi-Wan made no move to take it. “I'm filtering the toxins out of  my lungs. I can manage without it for a while longer.”

And he wondered why he had a headache. With an effort he reminded himself that the Jedi didn't get the same training as them. The clones could practically live in their buckets, but as far as he could tell before the war no Jedi had even wore one, which, considering that the vast majority of them came from species that would die from a single head shot, was insane. “You're worrying the men.”

As he expected Obi-Wan sighed and immediately reached for the helmet, checking the filters and seals as thoroughly as any brother fresh off Kamino. “Would you care to sit down?” he invited, and the slight distortion from the helmet didn't stop him from sounding just as polite as though the two of them were in some high-class Coruscant club.

Cody took the invitation, sitting on the cliff edge and peering out into the storm, searching for any sign of clankers.

“The droids are likely to be even more inconvenienced than we are,” Obi-Wan observed.

“Unless they've had upgrades,” he said, as much for the sake of an argument as anything else.

Obi-Wan tilted his head to the side doubtfully. “They would have to do it themselves. We're the only living organisms on this moon.”

Cody glanced sideways at him, confident the movement was hidden by his helmet. “Is that a problem, sir?”

He gave a slight chuckle. “Well it does mean we don't have to worry about collateral damage. We should have sent Anakin.”

“No, I mean with the force,” he hazarded, hoping he didn't sound too ridiculous. After all, something had driven his general out here to meditate without his helmet. And the force was a connection between all living things, by his understanding anyway. Though how that let his general  throw clankers around with his mind was something no one had ever managed to successfully explain to him.

Obi-Wan turned to look at him, and Cody thought he might be smiling. “It's fine, Cody. The force feels different here but it's not painful or uncomfortable. I would have told you before now if it had been a problem.”

Cody just looked at him. He might not be able to stare the Negotiator into submission, but he could at least make his incredulity plain. Off the top of his head he could think of dozens of 'painful' or 'uncomfortable' problems that Obi-Wan had chosen not to tell him about.

By the stubborn tilt of his head, Obi-Wan was well aware of what he was thinking.“I tell you if something is going to affect the mission.”

“Your health affects the mission, sir,” Cody told him every bit as dry as General Kenobi himself. He was fairly certain that Obi-Wan wanted to argue that it didn't, or perhaps that it shouldn't, but he looked back out across the moon's surface instead.

“Some Jedi have a stronger connection to the living force than others. My master was such a one. He would have struggled on this moon. But I don't have that powerful connection and so the council picked us for this assignment.”

“Lucky us,” Cody returned, inwardly wondering. He very rarely heard Obi-Wan mention his master. Strange considering by Rex's account General Kenobi was one of General Skywalker's favourite topics of conversation – right behind Senator Amidala.

“Lucky us indeed,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Not that there is any such thing as luck, of course.”

“Right,” Cody said grimly. “If the force intended for us to end up on this dustbowl, I've got a few words for it. Sorry, sir.”

“No, no,” Obi-Wan said lightly. “I often think so myself. Particularly in such...inhospitable conditions.”

That was certainly one way to put it. He rolled his shoulder a little, trying to ease the knots in his back. It wasn't his place to question, but they were the only living things on this moon, and that made it a little hard to see just what it was they were defending. Palladium mines, sure, but all the miners had been evacuated before the separatists took it.

“The mines support the economy of Kestilia,” Obi-Wan told him. “Their situation is already precarious – they import most of their food and without the income from the mines people will starve.” Cody stiffened slightly and Obi-Wan ducked his head. “Apologies, Commander, you were thinking very loudly. And one of the admitted disadvantages of the lack of the living force here is that there's less, ah, 'noise', so to speak. I'll try to do better.”

There was genuine apology in his voice and Cody nodded. “It's fine,” he said, and at least it was good to know that they were fighting for more than credits in some rich industrialist's pockets. “I don't normally question our orders,” he added defensively.  

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, as though there wasn't a doubt in his mind. “But we've lost so many.”

He nodded again, looking out into the storm, in the direction that they'd lost Whistler and the shinies. “I can't decide which is worse. That they died without choosing their names, or that some of them had found their names and now no one knows them.” The squad had been at the landing zone on their own for four days and a handful of skirmishes before the storm moved in. That was more than enough time for a shiny to name themselves. He didn't like hearing designations in the litany. It meant that his brothers hadn't lived long enough to find out what made them unique. It meant they hadn't had a chance to live. It meant he'd failed.

He felt the comfortable weight of his Jedi's hand on his shoulder, a silent offer he was more used to receiving after battle. Still he nodded – accepted - and he felt a wave of comfort and compassion sweep over him through the force. It didn't take the pain away of course, but his mind was soothed and just knowing that his general shared his grief and his guilt helped somehow.

“They are one with the force, marching far away.”

With the tension across his shoulders lessened he felt a twinge of regret. “I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to waste your energy like that.”

“My master was always fond of saying that no act of compassion is a waste,” Obi-Wan replied, and that was twice now that he'd mentioned his master and that had to mean something.

“He sounds like a fine man,” he tried. “I'm sure he would have made an amazing general.”

Obi-Wan gave a wry laugh. “Hardly. He would never stand for the Order leading an army. I have no doubt he would see this whole war as my...as our failure.”

Cody didn't miss the quick correction. “Are you alright, General?” he asked tentatively.

“I'm fine,” Obi-Wan said, predictably, but he hesitated and Cody waited patiently. “I was checking through the latest casualty reports. General Zanedi died over Wusmyneides.”

He couldn't put a face to the name. “I'm sorry. Did you know them well?”

“Not well, no,” Obi-Wan said. “But we were padawans at the same time, and though she was a few years older than me we did share one class. Advanced Cross Cultural Mediation. I was reminiscing, and it suddenly occurred to me that there isn't anyone else still alive from that class. Just me; the lone survivor.”

His Jedi's voice was light. Cody reached out and gripped his forearm, concentrating on feelings of sympathy and support. If he was 'loud' he might as well take advantage of it.

“Thank you, Cody,” Obi-Wan said in a low voice gazing out into the storm once more. “Sometimes I wonder what will be left of us all once this war is over.”

Cody tried not to wonder about that. He and his brothers had been made for war.

Obi-Wan stood up quickly. “Come on. Let's wake the men. The storm will end in an hour and we need to be ready to move. I want to clear the mines and call for extraction before the next one hits. The sooner we're back home the better.”

Cody moved to follow him, wondering when Obi-Wan had started thinking of The Negotiator as home, and whether his Jedi had even noticed.

[izaswritings]

Title: Dreaming of Flowers

Fandom: D.Gray-man

Summary: In which Alma Karma is recovered not by Central, but by a young Bak Chang determined to save the boy whose life his parents destroyed.

AO3 version is here.

Chapter One is here.

Chapter Two is here.

Chapter Three is here.

Chapter Four is here.

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Notes: Woo, an update!! I’m really excited to share this chapter with you all—these next few chapters, starting here, mark a big turning point for Alma. I’m so excited to finally start writing it, and I hope you all enjoy!! Thank you as always for your views, kudos, and lovely comments. They never fail to make my day.

Warnings for a detailed description of scars/trauma, traumatic flashbacks/panic attacks, and Alma’s usual brand of murderous intent. 

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Chapter Five: After the Storm

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In the aftermath of Central’s investigation and Lvellier’s departure, things finally begin to settle. As if, after that first week of strife, Central’s leave-taking marks the start of a new period— finally healing now that the worst of the damage has been contained. It does not make their wounds ache any less, or the grief any better, but it does mean they can breathe a bit easier, now that Lvellier’s presence at the base is gone, like a sigh of relief echoing in his wake.

Time, no longer a danger, seems to flow normally again. No longer does Bak count the days and hours like a man gone mad, tracking Alma’s wavering hold on life or the time between CROW’s shifts and Fo’s speed. No longer does he count the days until he can rest. The restful days are here, and Bak can finally breathe easy—for now, at least.

Lvellier will be back. Bak is certain of it. The man’s parting words had not been a goodbye, after all—they had been a warning.

Still, the rest, limited though it is bound to be, is sorely needed. Bak finds his days settling into a pattern. His mornings and middays are spent slowly but surely rebuilding the morale and stability of the Branch, restarting projects and continuing tasks that had been stalled by the tragedy. He hires new help to replace the missing, fills the power vacuums in the research and science divisions and sends those too distraught to focus home for some much-needed vacation. Some leave for good. Some don’t.

In the afternoons and evenings, Bak visits Alma. Wong sees to the boy the most, being the primary caretaker for Alma’s injuries, but though it hurts to see Alma, Bak cannot ignore him. People say the pull of grief lessened with time, but Bak isn’t convinced. Nearly a month has passed, but the pain has not, sinking in and settling instead of fading, like a blood stain. Grief is a constant needle-prick, an eternal pull, and just because he’s learned to live with it doesn’t make it any easier. But Bak’s grief is not Alma’s fault, and neither is his guilt—and so even though it aches every time he looks the boy in the face, Bak keeps going, day after day, like clockwork.

Alma, for his part, remains mostly confined to the ruins. His wounds, numerous and deep, take twice as long to heal any other humans' would—but they heal, mending slowly but surely. Alma, on the other hand, goes from quiet and still to almost sullen, resentment and exhaustion always weighing on his shoulders. He talks more, but his voice is either emotionless or bitter or furious, with no in-between. It has been three weeks since the incident, but he has asked for nothing from them.

Bak worries about that, but there isn’t much he can do about it at this moment. He is still doing damage control for Alma’s existence, waiting for the memories of the strange boy who’d appeared during the massacre, injured and screaming, to fade from the minds of his doctors and surgeons, with a little help from time and old magic. And, he suspects, the Order’s memory drug, though he is not brave enough to ask Fo directly.

Underhanded it may be, but Bak will take no chances. Lvellier is cunning, for all his pride. He had not questioned the doctors and nurses then, because they were little more important than finders, and as such expendable and invisible to his eyes. But once the man realizes that Alma’s body is not among the dead, that will soon change. Bak does not intend to be blindsided.

Until then, Alma will have to stay to the ruins. He is hidden from prying eyes, and the remote area is reachable only to those Fo gives access to. It is the safest place to be, right now, and at this point in time that is all Bak can hope for.

Of course, most of Bak’s visits with Alma end in awkward silence. How could they not? But Bak hopes—hopes with every fiber of his being—that maybe the visits are doing some good. That maybe Alma understands Bak’s promise wasn’t a lie, or looks forward to his company.

At times visiting Alma is harder than all of his Branch Chief duties combined. But as Bak walks down the halls towards the ruins where Alma lies hidden, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For all of the difficulties, it is worth it. At least with Alma, Bak can rest assured that is he doing something good.

When he reaches the heavy stone door hiding Alma from view, Bak stops and takes a fortifying breath. The first few times he’d come here, hives had broken all out over his skin. Now it is only nerves that twist his stomach, his skin clear, hands steady. Every day it becomes a little easier to look Alma in the eye.

He knocks on the stone door, the rough material scratching at his bare knuckles, because it is polite and he wants to give Alma some warning before he enters. Then he takes another deep breath and pushes open the door, striding inside.

He doesn’t look at Alma, instead busying himself with pushing the door back in place. Only when the door is shut, and Bak’s clothes brushed free of any dust he could have picked up on the way over, does Bak turn to meet Alma’s eye.

“Hello, Alma,” he says, remarkably calm. Movement on the other side of the room draws his eye; Wong is sorting supplies into a cabinet. Bak had been wondering where he was. “Wong. How are you today?”

Alma remains silent, as usual. He almost never responds to Bak’s questions. Wong merely shakes his head.

“His wounds are healing well, if slowly,” he says simply. “I believe we will be able to remove young Alma’s bandages for good tomorrow, in fact,” Wong adds, smiling down at Alma. The boy looks studiously at the sheets, one hand tightening in the fabric. “After that, I think we can begin rehab.”

“Really?” Bak says, startled but delighted at the news, and this time the smile he gives Alma is small but genuine. Alma’s slow healing has worried at him for some time, and the progress is heartening. “That’s great!”

Alma’s shoulders rise up to his ears, and he turns away, saying nothing.

This time Bak doesn’t let Alma’s lack of enthusiasm bother him, even if the lackluster reaction is… less heartening to see. He pulls up a chair and settles down slowly, hands braced on his knees. “Once we remove the bandages,” he tells Alma calmly, hoping this news will comfort him, “you’ll be able to move around again very soon.”

The longer Alma doesn’t react, the more worried Bak becomes. “I… I think, after that, you won’t have to stay here anymore. The ruins, I mean. That is, if you want…?”

For a moment he thinks Alma will ignore this, too, just as he has all other attempts at conversation, but at this the boy pauses, sucking in a tiny breath and finally turning his head to look at Bak.

“I,” he says finally, haltingly. “I… I can leave soon?”

Bak exchanges a look with Wong. “Yes,” he hedges. “It’s taken awhile, because your injuries were so severe, but your recovery has been… steadily improving.”

“Improving,” Alma repeats, and his bandaged hand lifts to gently touch at his stump.

“Yes,” says Bak, but he’s looking at Alma’s missing arm too, brow furrowed in thought, mind whirling. He hadn’t really dared to think about it, too caught up in Branch politics and making sure Alma was safely hidden from the Order, but now that things are calm…

He bites his lip, unsure, but before he can give voice to his suggestion Alma looks up and meets his eyes head on.

“So you mean, since I’m improving,” he says, voice suddenly so much stronger and yet strangely stripped of emotion, “that means I can leave soon?”

Bak straightens. “The room? Yes. I… I don’t see why not. You might have to stay in the medical ward for a bit, but after that—yes, of course.”

Alma nods over his blankets. “Okay,” he says. He sighs, tension bleeding from his small body, shoulders slumping. He looks relieved. It makes something in Bak twist with guilt, to see that heartbreaking relief in the boy’s drawn face. “Okay.”

“Soon,” Bak promises, stronger now, surer now. The look on Alma’s face, the quiet plea in his voice, has soothed over his worries. He’ll get the boy out of the room as soon as his bandages are removed, and not a week later. “You’ll be able to leave very soon. I promise.”

Alma smiles at his bandaged hands, head bowed and his remaining hair hanging in his face. Bak cannot see his eyes.

“Okay,” says Alma.

-

He is running.

Alma is running, bare feet slapping tile and a winter coat flapping at his heels. The hallway is long, endless, cold as ice. Yuu is front of him, his jacket billowing around him like a cape, inky hair fluttering in a breeze of his own making as he sprints down the halls.

“Yuu!”

Yuu laughs, short and mean, small face turned briefly in Alma’s direction. His eyes are clear and curved in laughter. His smile is all teeth, childish joy clashing with mischievous malice. The halls stretch on before them, endless, dark with uncertainty.

“Yuu, wait!”

“Idiot, it’s not my fault you’re slow!” Yet Yuu is already stopping, feet slipping on the tile, hands pinwheeling to keep him steady. He looks back at Alma, watching him, his shorn dark hair fluttering around his face.

Alma just laughs, breaths panting, trying to catch up. He is almost to Yuu’s side when Yuu suddenly turns away.

“Yuu?”

Yuu isn’t looking at him. He is staring off down the endless hall, peering into the darkness with clear blue eyes. His brow furrows, and his mouth draws down into a frown. Some nameless emotion flickers across his face, and then Yuu is running again, faster than before, flying down the hall like there are hounds at his heels.

“Yuu!” Alma cries, and reaches for him, but all of a sudden, his steps are slow and Yuu is so far away, and his fingers close on empty air. He tries to run after him but cannot keep up, cannot gain ground—the floor like ice beneath his feet, slippery and cold, and no matter how hard he tries Yuu is just so far away.

“Yuu, come back!” Alma calls, but this time Yuu doesn’t hear him, and he runs and runs until the darkness of the hall swallows him whole, devours him in an instant, not even the reassuring thuds of his footsteps left behind.

“Yuu, wait!” Alma pleads, terrified at his absence. “Yuu, I can’t keep up! Where are you?”

There is no response. “Yuu, I think I’m lost. Where are you? Are you here? …Yuu?”

There is no answer. There is no sound. Only silence, and Alma, alone. He is walking an empty hallway. The walls are taller now, taller than anything he’s ever known, the blank and unfeeling stone rising ceaselessly, endlessly. There is no ceiling but there is no sky, either; just the dark. Still, he knows, somehow—that same unfeeling stone sits above his head. There is no fabled blue here, no clouds or wind or sky. Just stone, and ice, and Alma.

“…Yuu, this isn’t funny. Please come back. Please come back. I don’t want to be here alone! Please, Yuu…”

His voice is dying, withering his throat, too quiet for anyone to hear. But there is no one to hear. There is no one else.

Alma walks, and walks, and walks. No one comes. No one is there. Not the scientists or Doctor Edgar or Yuu. He tries to call out again but his voice is silenced. He tries to speak but no sound comes. Even his footsteps have been hushed, his bare heels slamming without sound on the brittle ice.

Yuu, he tries to call. Yuu, where are you?

He walks. The walls have no end. There are no doors. There is no sky. No Yuu. No scientists.

No one.

Just Alma.

He walks on forever into the gloom, but no matter how long he searches, no one ever comes.

-

There are one hundred and forty-seven cracks in the ceiling.

Alma knows this the way he knows that there are thirty-six bricks that make up the wall his bed is pushed against, forty-nine bricks on the opposing walls, and another twenty-one bricks building up the last wall, excluding the door. He knows because in the past three weeks he’s been awake and aware, he’s had almost nothing to do but count them.

Granted, most of his time is spent asleep—Alma sleeps all the time now, for hours and hours on end. In the beginning, he could barely stay awake for longer than two hours at a time; by now he can stay awake for almost six, but those six hours are so boring he prefers to sleep instead, no matter how disturbing his dreams are.

Recovery, Alma is quickly discovering, is awfully slow.

Today, alas, is no different.

Alma is roused from slumber by Wong, who is normally the one who wakes him these days, to change his bandages. As usual, Wong greets his awakening with a warm smile.

Alma fights against the instinctual urge to smile back, irritated by the reflex, and turns his head away. This does not deter Wong. It has never deterred Wong. Another annoyance.

Well-used to this routine, Alma pushes himself up upright with his one remaining arm. It takes him a bit to regain his bearings, his body wavering in the air from the imbalance, but Alma rights himself quickly. The bandages across his chest pull at the motion, but there is no pain—there hasn’t been pain for quite a few times now, if Alma remembers right.

As if aware of Alma’s thoughts, Wong turns to smile at him from where he is fussing with the medicine tray. “Things will be a bit different today,” he informs Alma brightly, and Alma cannot quite help the brief strike of fear at those words before he hears what Wong says next.

“Your bandages are coming off!”

Alma blinks at him, so startled he forgets to be unfriendly. “Off?” he repeats, voice squeaking high in his surprise. He’s forgotten that was to be today; in truth he’s been trying hard not to think about it. In all the time he’s been aware, he has yet to have his bandages removed fully, nor been able to see what’s beneath without wanting to cry.

Wong looks delighted at the simple response, and Alma’s cheeks flush. He ducks his head, biting his lip between his teeth to starve of further outbursts. He can physically feel his cheeks burn red.

“Yes,” Wong confirms warmly, and lifts up a new item from the tray, a handheld mirror with a clean surface and carved wood handle. “I couldn’t fit a large one through the ruins, but I hope this will suffice. Master Bak brought it my attention that we have yet to give you a mirror—I apologize for the oversight.” He hesitates, then offers the mirror to Alma, his face suddenly stoic and uncertain. “Ah… would you like to see?”

Alma stares at the mirror, fear coiling in his gut. His throat is tight. All this time, it hasn’t occurred to him that… well, he looks different now. Another side-effect of the no healing thing.

Hesitant, his remaining hand shaking from either strain or nerves, Alma reaches for the mirror and slowly brings it up to his face. He turns the handle in his hand awkwardly, still not used to having only one arm, until the reflective face is within sight.

For a moment, he cannot even recognize himself.

When the image finally clicks, Alma’s first thought is, bizarrely, Good thing it wasn’t Yuu who got cut up,if only because Yuu has always been a little vain, and he’d have hated looking like this. But all that does is remind him that—that these scars, it was Yuu who put them there, and then any humor in the thought is lost.

At second glance, he doesn’t look that different, just… off. His hair has been cut short, near shaved, probably to avoid getting stuck in his wounds. Most of his face is okay, at least half of it, but the other half of his face—the side with the bandaged eye—is less so. Even with all the bandages, he can see the ends of long, straight, slashing scars cutting down his skin, tapering off at his chin and reaching up into his hairline. There’s even one particularly nasty cut right across his lips, the wound raw and red but sealed shut. The line he’s always had across his nose is still there, and remarkably unaffected, but even that, he suspects, is now bisected by a few trailing cuts, judging from how the left half is hidden beneath the white bandages.

The sight makes his toes curl. If his face is this badly off—even if it’s only half—just what about the rest of him?

Yuu had cut at him over and over and over. That sharp sword had fallen on Alma’s head for what felt like ages, the tip scouring Alma’s face and digging ruthlessly into his body. Alma has the sudden notion that question is not, what parts of me are scarred, but rather, is there any part of me that isn’t.

Silent, he watches without reaction as Wong carefully takes away the bandages, peeling them back layer by layer. His eye is gone, as he suspected, a mess of ruined and torn flesh that will never probably heal. His shoulders and chest are similarly scarred—his right side, with his missing arm, is colored pale and wrinkled, with those veiny scars running across the right side of his chest and crawling up his neck like tree roots, from the Innocence. His left side is no better—it is a mess of straight, clean cuts, vertical scars running all the way down his torso. Even his remaining arm has not escaped unscathed—the same slit marks dot up and down the arm, fewer but no less deep than any of the others. His back, and only his back, is the only part of him left mostly untouched.

His remaining right leg is the most intact of his limbs, with only one long cut running diagonally across his leg. His left leg, on the other hand… that bears no mention. It is gone above the knee, the worst-off of his limbs beside his arm. He missing an eye, an arm, and a leg in full—and missing pieces everywhere else.

The whole time his bandages are being removed, Alma stays still and silent but for the slight tilting of his mirror to get a better glimpse of the damage. He sees every scar in full, every red-inflamed still healing slash in its entirety. Only the ends of his missing arm and leg are left bandaged, the amputated limbs still healing. The rest of him is bared free for him to see.

All those scars. All that damage.

Alma looks them full in the face, unflinching, and only when the last bandage—the very last, the final, revealing one last cutting mark—only then does Alma place the mirror down.

He sits still and tall on the bed, swathed in the starch white blankets, back stiff and tall as if someone has attached a string to his spine and pulled him straight, pulled him upright, refusing even a second of weakness.

He stays that way for only a moment before he buckles, shoulders falling, back bowing, his scarred visage crumbling like a broken doll’s.

Alma leans over the bed and vomits bile on the cold stone floors, but no matter how much he tries, no matter how much he expels, until he left crying and dry-heaving over the dirty floors, he cannot rid himself of the awful sickness swirling in his gut.

-

Bak is slowly starting to like his new office; this is regrettable for many reasons, mainly that despite this, he is still unable to enter without wanting to flinch or cry, respectively, some days worse than others. But he does like it, even with all the bad memories.

It’s the screens, Bak decides, arms resting on the oak table as he scans the numerous feeds above him. Being able to see the whole of the Branch in one room does wonders for his nerves, and it helps to know where everyone is. It’s also rather nice and comforting in what he can’t see. Alma is no-where in the feed, which means no golem has found him or even bothered to float down into the ruins, ergo no slimy Central spy (Lvellier, first and foremost, though from his mother’s complaints Bak suspects there are numerous slimy spy types in Central) can possibly find him.

A strange comfort, to be sure. But still a comfort nonetheless, and Bak will take whatever comfort he can get, thank-you-very-much.

The office is also nice for another reason—the seclusion. It is dark, and safe, and very secretive, which makes it much easier to have compromising conversations in it. Like this one, for example.

“We need to talk about Alma.”

Fo doesn’t look impressed with this statement, but whether it’s the subject or because of the way Bak presents it—feet on the desk, fingers steepled together, swirling to face her in his chair like a theater villain—Bak isn’t quite sure. Might be both, really.

“Stupid Bak,” is all she says. The three weeks of no Central have done wonders for Fo, which includes but is not limited to the return of her normal humor. “What else is there to discuss? Haven’t we already talked about everything?”

Bak raises one finger. It must be suitably dramatic, because Fo’s face pinches with irritation at the sight. “Not,” he says delicately, “about this. Not yet, anyway, which is why we’re having this conversation here, right now.”

Fo clicks her tongue, but she settles in the chair regardless. She does put her feet up on his desk, though, with a slam that makes Bak draw away on instinct and lose the nice ‘leader-pose’ he had going. He scowls at her. She smiles back, all teeth.

“Well, stupid Bak? Spit it out.”

He sighs at her, but lets it go. “Alma,” he says again, and when Fo nods at him, all attitude, yes, I know already let’s hurry it up here, adds, “We need to talk about how to move him into the base.”

The legs of Fo’s chair hit the ground with a thump. Her hands fall away from where she’d hooked them behind her head, and even her feet slide away from the table. She is wide-eyed with surprise, unease rising and then fading from her face almost faster than Bak can blink. “Come again?”

“We need to talk about how Alma will join the base,” Bak repeats, patiently, trying to hide his own unease at her reaction. He knew she’d have some arguments against it, but he hadn’t been expecting… well, that.

He pushes on, regardless. “Cover story, role, background…” Her continued silence makes him falter—this is Fo, and he knows Fo, but Bak is still new to leadership and it makes his voice taper off, waver with uncertainty. “Its… I thought about him going to one of the outside villages, but it’s not safe there. And he’s my responsibility, and the Asia Branch is the most protected place in China from akuma… So…”

“So, you think he should stay,” Fo says, voice blank.

Bak sighs. “I know he probably doesn’t want to,” he admits, voice falling quiet, his own humor fading. “But I don’t…” he scowls down at his desk, furious and uncertain and frustrated in equal measure. “Fo, where else could he go?”

Fo opens her mouth, pauses, and then presses her lips together tightly, looking irritated again. She sinks down in her chair like a limp doll, boneless and sagging in place. “I hate it when you’re right, stupid Bak.”

Bak gives her a thin smile in return. “I know. But, well. Ideas?”

Fo leans forward, chin pillowed in her unnatural hands, eyes distant in thought. “Hmm… researcher?”

Bak bites his lip, grimacing at the thought. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Fo’s brows furrow, and then her eyes close with a heavy sigh. “No,” she agrees sadly. She draws back and rubs a hand over her face. “Ugh, this is hard.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. Assistant?”

Bak blinks, surprised. “To who?”

“To you, stupid Bak.”

“Wong is already the Branch Chief Assistant, and I don’t think—”

Fo waves a hand, scoffing. “No, not like that! Alma’s like, mentally ten; that wouldn’t work at all. I mean like… an actual assistant. Let the kid file paperwork, pass along messages, stuff like that.”

Bak considers it. It’s not a bad idea, all things considered—it’d keep Alma as a part of the base, while simultaneously keeping him mostly off-record and away from anything that might upset him, namely experiments and scientists. Plus, if Central ever comes again, later down the road, Bak would have a perfectly good handful of excuses and meaningless tasks to keep Alma busy and far away from them.

It’s a great idea, except for one glaring flaw.

“He’s not well enough yet,” Bak says finally. “His wounds are still healing, and he’s lost… his arm, leg, left eye… Those kinds of wounds take time to get used to. Especially if we want him to go running around the base on a daily basis.” He rubs a hand over his face. “He needs prosthetics.”

“If he wants them,” Fo points out. “A wheelchair is also an option.”

“With just one arm? He’ll need a prosthetic anyway, or have someone push him around every moment of the day.” And Bak may not know Alma very well, but he knows enough to suspect that Alma would despise that. “We’ll still ask, of course, it’s his choice, but…”

Fo must agree, judging by her grimace. “Okay, prosthetics. So what’s the problem, stupid Bak? We’re in the most developed research branch of the Order. There’s more scientists and researchers here than anywhere else.”

The question makes Bak smile, for some reason; it’s not often that Fo shows her lack of understanding about humans. “Prosthetics need to be fitted,” he tells her, trying to hide his amusement. “It’s not a one-size-fits-all deal.”

Fo wrinkles her nose, looking irritated. “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, stupid Bak, what the hell are you going to tell them?”

He winces, rubbing a hand over his face. “I… was hoping you had some ideas.”

“Oh, hell,” says Fo. “What about Wong? He’s way better at this stuff—”

“Well, he said to ask you.”

“What the fuck!” Fo shouts, and jumps to her feet to pace around the room. “Ahhh, that asshole, pushing this on me…”

Bak watches her, trying not to smile. “Well, you have been in the Branch the longest. You know what is and isn’t, well… normal. For lack of a better word.”

“Tsk, you think I actually pay attention to what shit you humans get up to here? Unless it’s something big—” She stops, breath hitching. The pause that settles over them is heavy, the massacre and the project hanging over them like a shroud. Fo swallows, her smile gone, her fire dying.

“A test,” she says finally, voice dull. “Or— a project? I don’t know all that science lingo. But you have a lot of new members, right? Lots of new people and new promotions. Tell them Alma is… a test, of sorts. Designing his prosthetics, or a wheelchair for him, tell them it’s, its…. Team-Building Exercise, I don’t know. Exorcists lose limbs all the time, after all… some even survive it. Say it’s the first step to a project like that.”

Bak considers it, trying gamely to ignore her slip. “That… could work,” he starts, slowly. “But how do we explain his presence? Or, his background? And his wounds…”

“How else?” Fo snaps, sounding annoyed. “Stupid Bak! You’re overthinking this. They aren’t going to assume the worst about him, just the obvious.”

He blinks at her, mind whirling. “You mean… Akuma attack?”

Fo waves a hand at him, as if to say, see?

“But why is he here? And why now? And—”

“We don’t have to tell them that,” Fo says blandly. “At least, not right now, and… I don’t think we can decide that without Alma, either, since he’ll have to remember it all. Tell ‘em he’s been traumatized, leave him be, and figure it out later.”

“You don’t think they’ll ask anyway?”

“In this place?” Fo asks, quietly. “Would you?”

He presses his lips together in thought, then sighs and dips his head in a nod, her point made. If there is one thing members of the Order understand, its loss. “…Okay. Okay, this could work. But—”

“Seriously, stupid Bak, if you’re overthinking this again—”

“What are we going to call him?”

Fo stops.

“Alma… he can’t use his name anymore. He just can’t. It’s too much of an indicator. So, if we bring this team in to design his prosthetics, assuming Alma even wants them… and, even if he doesn’t… what are we going to call him?”

Fo looks at him. Her foot taps restlessly on the ground, eyes distant. “Something similar,” she says, finally. “They’ll only need a first name for now; that’s all we’ll give ‘em. Privacy rights or something like that. But for his fake name… something similar.”

Bak bites his lip. He wants to argue, say this is too risky, but he doesn’t have the heart to change Alma’s name completely, make it unrecognizable. Besides, it’ll be easier for him to remember, most likely.

“Alan, Aldo, uh… Alistair? Allen?” Bak is so bad with English names. “Al…ly?”

Fo snorts at the look on his face. “Ask him,” she advises. “Even if he’s forced to pick, at least it’ll be one he chose.”

It’s good advice. Bak relaxes, relieved; making a mental note to ask Wong later for help with picking other Al- names. Maybe there’s a Chinese one, though none comes to mind at the moment.

For the first time, Bak finally feels like things are coming together. That he has a plan, now, and one that might actually work. The past few weeks of peace has been kind, yes, but it’s been a bit like living in stasis—suspended in time, immobile, neither moving back nor moving forward. Just… stuck. This—this plan, this idea, this new name—it feels like Bak is finally moving forward with his promise, and he hopes that Alma will view it the same way.

Things still aren’t better, not really. Bak thinks they won’t be better for a long time. But this feels like the first step, perhaps, in a better direction. Towards a brighter future. One where Alma can live in peace, protected and maybe even happy, hidden from Central and allowed to live as he pleases.

Maybe it’s too optimistic, too soon. But hope, Bak thinks, can never be a bad thing.

“That works,” he says, an honest and real smile on his face. He feels relieved. For all that Fo had argued against Wong suggesting her for advice, she really does have some good ideas. She’s not just a fighter, after all—she’s a watcher. She knows more than even Bak can guess.

“Thank you, Fo,” he says, pathetically grateful. “This helps so much.”

Red blooms across Fo’s cheeks, and her head ducks down as she scuffs her foot across the ground. “Whatever,” she says, but her voice is higher-pitched than normal. “Just… do me a favor?”

Bak blinks. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Fo looks uncomfortable. “Well, see… there’s this one guy, this one scientist—if you can, can you add him to the team to design Alma’s prosthetics? He’s crazy smart, but mostly… don’t ask me why I’m sure, but he’s kind. I think… it would do him good to meet Alma. And Alma, to meet him. He’s dumb, but he makes people laugh.”

Bak muses on this, but nods. “Sure,” he says easily, trying to push back against the prick of discomfort at the idea of others knowing about Alma. After weeks of spending every waking moment panicked about possible discovery, the idea is something he still needs to adjust to. “Who is it?”

“You just promoted him, I think,” Fo says. “Maybe you know him? His name is Komui Lee.”

-

Change is coming.

Alma is not sure how he knows this, only knows that it is. It’s something in the air, and itch in his skin, that tells him that something is coming. It’s the same feeling that drove him to spy on the doctors the day Yuu collapsed, the same feeling that led him to the Innocence.

It’s only a week after Wong has removed most of the bandages, and while nothing is all that different, Alma suspects it will not last. There is… something. Anticipation, maybe? That makes his heart race and his palms sweat, makes his skin itch and stomach roll. Bak and Wong and even Fo, they’re preparing for something, distracted when they enter his room, when they speak. Even though nothing really changes, and Alma doesn’t really speak, they look nervous, uncertain, more distracted than usual. Of all of them, Bak is the worst—his chatter trails off and his visits run shorter. One day, he doesn’t come at all.

It’s terrifying.

Alma doesn’t know these people, not truly, and even if he did it wouldn’t really help. They wear the same white coats, the same gentle smiles, the same faces, even, when it comes to Bak Chang. The only difference is in action, but Alma held little hope for that lasting, considering what happened last time. This change in the air—this mystery— their silence, and distraction… the very idea of it terrifies him. He can barely sleep. All he can think is that Fo lied, Bak lied, they all lied, and hell never really went away after all.

They can say whatever they like, but Alma knows better now. He knows better than to believe them, no matter how kind their words, or how carefully they smile. Alma is mending, his wounds scarring shut and his mind pulling itself back together. He can sit up without help now, can stay awake for nearly a full day where once he could barely keep his eyes open for an hour. He is mending, and so their kindness will fall away like the mask it always was, and Alma will once more be cast into hell. The experiments, the torture, and the pain.

He’s not surprised, not exactly; he’s expected this to happen from the moment he woke up here instead of dying. Mostly he’s just angry. Hateful.

…Terrified.

Each day Bak walks in, Alma waits with bated breath, heart pounding. Each day he leaves, and nothing happens, Alma finally relaxes. The fear never fades but it varies, still, is strongest when Bak is there, because Alma knows that whatever Bak decides will change Alma’s remaining life forever.

He knows when Bak is due to visit him, and just like every time before, when Bak arrives, Alma freezes. He’s not sure what about Bak irritates him so much, angers him so greatly. Maybe it is the look on Bak’s face, the gleam of his eye. Maybe it is the smile on his face.

He looks so much like Doctor Edgar that for a moment Alma is blinded by his hatred, so angry he doesn’t even hear what Bak is saying, his hearing a mess of white noise and a steady pounding, right up until Bak says, “Is that okay?”

Alma stares at him, uncomprehending and a little thrown; he does not think he has ever heard those words before, at least not directed at him. No one has ever asked Alma if he was okay with something, or least never asked the question about anything important.

“What?”

Bak doesn’t look irritated at his confusion, merely gives a patient sort of smile and repeats, “Is that okay?”

Alma feels stupid and suddenly ashamed for not listening, and then angry all over again, because he hates feeling stupid. “What did you say?”

“Ah,” says Bak, realization on his face, and before Alma can muster the energy to be upset about that too, continues, “I was saying that we—ah, that is, Fo, Wong, and I—we were thinking of moving you out of the room soon. Out into the… Main Branch. Sometime later this week, if all goes well, but to do that we need to give you an alias.”

Alma blinks. “Alias?”

Bak frowns in thought. “A… fake name, if you will.” His gaze settles on Alma, calm and almost pitying. “I wish we didn’t have to, but your name is… known by Central, even if your face isn’t. So. A new name.”

Alma stares. “A… new name.”

“You don’t have to pick a full one now!” Bak assures, hands half-rising from his knees in assurance. “Just a first name. I… we thought it would help if the first two letter remained the same, Al-, to make it easier, but you can take any name you choose.”

Alma ducks his head. “Al- names are fine,” he mutters. “Pick whichever you want.”

“It’s your choice,” Bak pushes. “I—I made a list, if you’d like to look and pick, but there is no need to—”

“What names are on the list?”

Bak pauses, startled into silence. “Ah, um. Alistair, Algor, Allen, Aly—”

“Aly’s fine.”

Bak hesitates again. “Are you sure? There are—there are many other names, if you’d like to...”

“Aly’s fine,” Alma repeats, trying to sound sharp, but he just sounds tired, instead. He brings up his one good arm to lay across his face, hiding his expression from view. The fact it hides him from Bak too is merely circumstantial.

Bak is silent for a long while. “Aly it is then,” he says at last, gentle. “That’s all we need for now. The rest of your story… we have time for that. People here… they know not to ask about the past. You’ll be fine for a while, as they get to know you.” He hesitates again. “Alma…”

Bak trials off, goes quiet. When the silence stretches on too long for his liking, Alma takes a fortifying breath and says, voice only a little strangled, “What is it?”

Bak doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs, slow and careful. “Alma,” he repeats. “Would you… would you like some prosthetics?”

He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to ask, except—

“Prosthetics?”

“They are—they are artificial uh, devices? They’re built to replace lost body parts, like your… arm and leg. Or eye, even! We could—we could build you an arm. A leg. It wouldn’t be the same as the real thing, of course, but it would give you more mobility if—”

“Okay,” Alma says, and Bak falls abruptly silent, sucking in a breath and whatever else he meant to say, fingers tightening on his coat.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll get on that, then.” His hands tighten again, then relax, and Bak stands from the chair, the legs scraping back against the stone with a soft screech. He’s messing with a nearby side table, and after a moment he pulls out a silver pen, triumphantly holding to above his head, reaching for some paper with the other. “I’ll need some time to—”

But Alma isn’t listening anymore. The moment Bak stands, hand held high above his head, aboveAlma’s head, the little silver pen gleaming in the light, in the corner of Alma’s eye, Alma’s thoughts stutter and halt, the planet stilling. It’s as if the world has gone blank and hazy, reality warping before his eyes. Like standing in a room and spinning until you can’t stand, limbs weak and head aching, and no matter how hard you try everything is still changing around you, distorting before your dizzy eyes. The lights are dimmed, the walls far away and too close in equal measure, and for a moment the cloth bedsheets against his back almost feel like stone—

His mind is filled with white noise, his vision blurring and ears ringing. Alma cannot breathe. He is drowning, drowning all over again, the world dark and cold and lonely, his back against stone and blood in his lungs, limbs burning, and the only thing he can hear is Yuu crying and the wet thuds as Yuu’s pretty silver sword, now turned ugly red, digs again and again into his chest, and then nothing, nothing, because Yuu is gone, Yuu left him there—

“Alma? Alma!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, a familiar voice ringing in his ears— “You’re so young,” this voice whispers, a hand brushing his cheek, “Oh God, look at you, you’re so young,”—and Alma curls in on himself to escape that hand, to escape that lying voice, crying; near screaming, wanting nothing more than to get away.

I can’t breathe.

“Alma, please—”

“Stupid Bak, what did you do—”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, he just—”

And then a new voice, soft and gentle, low and rhythmic, closer than the others and calm where they are frantic, says, “Young man, can you hear me? I am here with you. Can you hear me? Alma? Alma, listen to what I say.”

In Alma’s ears he can hear the ringing of white noise, the pounding of his heartbeat and footsteps, the dull thud of a sharp sword hitting flesh, the scrape of his Innocence along the floor, the crack in Yuu’s voice as he says—

But this voice, calm and controlled, mingles with the others, breaks through the noise. “Breathe in,” this voice is saying. “Breathe out. Breathe in.”

But I can’t breathe.

“Yes, you can. Deep breaths, Alma.” Something cold presses against his hand, wet and dewy against his clammy palm. “Alma, you are holding a cup of water. You are in the Asia Branch with me, Master Bak, and Miss Fo. You are here, safe, in this room.”

The voice is wrong, he must be, Alma is in— he is in— he is in a dark room—but there is light in his eyes, and the glass is cold against his hand, icy on his skin, solid and real, and why is there? It wasn’t there before, he knows this, it was—

“Alma. With me. Breathe in. Slow inhale, and exhale.”

It’s so hard to breathe.

“I know. It always is. But you can do it. Breathe in.”

Yuu—

“Breathe out.”

Alma is drowning. Alma’s lungs are filled with blood and bone and ash, and Yuu is gone, the shining silver sword gone with him, and there is stone under his back—

Except no, that’s wrong. Stiff cotton sheets, and lit stone walls instead of empty corridors. No screaming, no crying, no flash of that shining sword—just white coats, a cold-water glass, and a calm voice, Wong’s voice, saying “Breathe in, young man, breathe in.”

Alma opens his mouth and breathes.

He sucks in air as though he is starving, as if he hasn’t breathed in years. It’s too quick, too uncontrolled, and he gasps as if he truly was drowning, chokes and coughs and tries to keep from sobbing. He pulls his hand around himself, a makeshift hug, his fingers clenched white-knuckled on the glass of water, and turns his eyes to the sheets so he doesn’t have to look at them.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the world, since everything went—back—and it terrifies him, because Wong and Fo are here when they weren’t before and for a moment Alma thought—Alma truly thought—

“What,” Alma whispers, because he has felt that before, he knows he has, back when remembering a life that is no longer his, but those were memories of long ago and so it made sense to remember them, but this—but this—

“Flashbacks,” Wong says. His voice is as calm and controlled as ever, but there is a sheen of sweat on his brow and a nervous tremble in his fingers. “They are—a usual symptom, after… traumatic experience.” A pause.

“Human,” Bak says suddenly. Alma looks at him. Bak is standing stiff and still near the door, looking the most rattled that Alma has ever seen him. His hands are twisting around again and again, and there are strange splotchy patches on his face, white and red and sickly-looking. Bak looks dizzy, leaning against the doorway like his knees are weak, and the sudden loss of control startles Alma more than he can name. In this moment Bak doesn’t look like Chief Twi or Doctor Edgar. He looks unsure, weary, and guilty—things that they never were.

It makes Alma uncomfortable to see Bak like this. He doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t even like him. But he looks into Bak’s face and has a sudden sense of—of understanding, maybe, and the thought makes his skin crawl.

Alma looks away.

“Human,” Bak says again, undeterred by Alma’s avoidance. “It’s a very human reaction to… trauma. I—That is— The Order has… much experience with it.”

Alma stares at his sheets. He isn’t sure what to think. “Oh,” he says, and leaves it at that.

There’s a rigid silence that falls after that, tense and uncertain—Wong, quiet but worried; Bak, who Alma won’t look at, who still seems so frightfully different from what Alma expects; Fo, whose knowing eyes are boring into Alma’s back.

“A-Alma,” Bak says, and then takes a deep breath. “Alma, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did or said to, to trigger that, but….” He hesitates. “I, I’m sorry. Was it…” He falls quiet. “No. No, never mind.”

Alma curls his fingers into the cloth sheet. He has some idea of what Bak is wondering, and the reminder makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t know what, exactly brought it on, but he doesn’t think it was the talk of scars. But even if it wasn’t his scars that brought on—that—that doesn’t mean they aren’t…

He can’t look at himself in the mirror. It’s not—it’s not as bad as the flashback, not really, nothing so sudden or awful as that. But he still can’t do it. He feels sick whenever he tries, dizzy and nauseous and light-headed. His missing arm is mind-boggling, but it is the only part of him he can look at without feeling like he’s seeing a stranger, like his body is not his own.

It’s not so much his new appearance, though that is part of it. It is deeper than that. It is the fact that Alma is scarred now, and that alone he could live with, but every scar—every single one, except for the root-like remnants from the Innocence—they are from Yuu. Yuu’s sword. Yuu’s attacks. Proof, in a way, of just how thoroughly Yuu tried to kill him.

Yuu has cut Alma to shreds.

Yuu… You hurt me so badly. Did you hate me, for trying to kill you? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But does that mean… do you still…

…Do you hate me, Yuu?

These questions swirl and tumble around his mind like a whirlwind. He doesn’t know the answer to them, doesn’t even want to acknowledge them, not really. It’s a fear he ignores, but no matter how hard he tries it remains in other ways, like the sick churning of his stomach every time he sees his face and remembers what happened, the tightness in his throat when he becomes aware of his missing leg. But worst of all is the strangling hold of his chest, painfully tight, that creeps in whenever he thinks about Yuu.

Yuu, Yuu, Yuu. All of it, Yuu.

How easy it would be, to tell them this. But they don’t deserve his answer. They don’t deserve to know Alma’s memories or his regrets or his fears, even they’re eating him up inside.

They can ask and wonder all they like. Alma will say nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alma says. He breathes in, breathes out. His hand is trembling. “Get out.”

“Alma—”

“Please,” Alma says, and hates how his voice cracks, how his hand is still shaking, how afraid he is. He is so angry. He is so scared. He is all of these things, and he hates most of all how he just sounds weary instead, like he’s about to cry. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Bak stares at him, then sighs, slow and careful. “All right, Alma,” he says, soft. “Just know I am… truly sorry for… that.” He waits. When Alma doesn’t reply, his shoulders slump, and he waves Wong and Fo from the room. They go quietly, solemnly, eyes darting back as if Alma in his grief is too fascinating to look away from. He hates it.

Bak lingers by the door.

“We’ll start the prosthetics soon,” he says. “By the end of the week if all goes well. Let me know if you would like more time.”

He waits, but when Alma does not reply, reaches again for the door. Before he exits, he pauses.

“Alma,” Bak says. He opens his mouth, closes it, then grimaces and tries again. “I hope you—I wish…” He sighs. “Good night,” he says finally, “and… I hope you have sweet dreams, Alma.”

He is gone before Alma can think of a reply.

-

A week later, Alma opens his eyes to a new room.

Bak, Wong, and Fo had moved him here only a day before, in the dead of night, or what passes for night when the whole population is living inside a mountain. The journey had been nerve-wracking for more than one reason— even with Fo subtly shifting the halls and corridors of the Branch to keep any wandering feet far from their path, the rattling noise of Alma’s bed as they dragged him through the rubble of the ruins, the click of the squeaky wheels on the stone: all threatened to give them away. Worse yet, for Alma, was the pain—with every time the wheel would catch on stone, or the bed jump, his newly-scabbed wounds would ache, his severed limbs throbbing and his eye and head going dizzy. He’d spent the whole journey gritting his teeth, and Bak had spent the whole thing murmuring apologies until Alma was just about sick of hearing of them. An exhausting night, to be sure.

For Alma, though, the discomfort has not ended. Where in the beginning he could not seem to stay awake, now he cannot seem to sleep. The new room does not help—just through the walls he can hear the soft breaths of other people, patients and nurses bustling down the halls. The stone walls and carved columns do not hide the fact this is still a hospital, and the presence of the equipment, along with all those strangers, so close…

The fear clogs up his throat. The paranoia keeps him awake.

(Or maybe it’s the nightmares).

Either way, the result is that Alma is not nearly as happy with this change as Bak and the rest seem to be. It’s necessary— for all that Alma has no wish to stay here, to live here, he needs some mobility in order to achieve his goals—and the prosthetics will help with that. Besides. After almost a month stuck in bed, Alma is starting to get restless. He needs out. Which is very hard to do when Central is still looking for him, and when one is missing an arm and leg.

Bak had explained it clearly and carefully to Alma when he’d asked. The scientists can help create an alibi. They’ll assert Alma’s presence at the Branch, and the month since the massacre will help solidify Alma’s new identity. In a way, his slow healing has given them time. What would take others weeks to heal takes Alma months; they’ll assume his wounds are from something fairly recent, not from the massacre.

It’s necessary, but that doesn’t mean Alma has to like it.

Today especially is a bad day. He’s been dreading it since the moment they moved him here. Today is when he first meets the… scientists.

Alma does not have high hopes. Bak has assured him he’ll only meet with one person, for now—he’s about as worried about this as Alma is, though Alma has no idea why. But one person is still one person too many. Bak, Wong, Fo… Alma has gotten used to them, but even they make his skin crawl. They are all guilty, all liars, and just because he’s used to them doesn’t mean he likes them. Or trusts them. And the more people that learn about Alma, the more people that know him…

He’ll kill them all, if it comes to it. If that’s what he needs to do to be free, to die without complications. Alma has done this all before, and Fo may have the Innocence, but Alma doesn’t need the Innocence. Damn the Innocence, anyway. He’ll teach humanity a lesson if it’s the last thing he does, be it with God’s Crystal or a normal knife. All Alma needs is time.

But the longer the list of names grows, the harder it will be.

As the morning creeps on, Alma grows more and more nervous. His fingers pick at the sheets. He tangles the stray threads around his hand and tries his best to keep from throwing up, or God forbid, crying again.

He hears them coming before he can see them. Hurried and heavy footsteps, and far-off laughter, and then before Alma can react the door to his new room flies open.

Bak storms in, face flushed and pale in equal measure, ears burning red and teeth grit. Alma flinches back, but Bak isn’t looking at him, just stomps to one of the chairs shoved in the corner and sits down with a huff.

The laughing voice draws ever closer, and a new man bursts through the door, Fo following close behind him, her smirk wide and fierce with a mean amusement.

“Bak~” sings the newcomer, arms thrown wide and a beaming smile on his face. He says Bak’s name in a cutesy sort of drawl, drawing it out childishly. The innocent sing-song does not match the downright manic grin on his face. “I meant no offense!”

Bak turns bright red, stutters a little, then shouts “Shut up!” in a voice so high pitched it’s practically unrecognizable.

Alma looks at Bak, a man he has thus far seen as a male and more nervous version of Chief Twi, then looks back at the newcomer. His stare is shameless.

The man stares right back, not even pretending to hide his interest. His hair is dark and slicked away from his forehead, hidden under a white hat. His lab coat is more gray than white, stained with strange colors. On his nose, thin spectacles rest, and above them his dark eyes shine like new coins. He’s far older than Alma, maybe Bak’s age, but something about him makes him seem much younger.

He is dizzying in his intensity. Alma has never known a man like this. Even the most eccentric scientist in the project was subdued, quieted by the secrecy of the whole thing, but there isn’t a single thing about this man that seems in-check at all.

“Hello there!” the newcomer says brightly—too brightly, too loud, and his booming enthusiasm is so different from what Alma is used to, he can’t help but cringe away when the man’s hand is shoved in front of his face.

For a single second, the man pauses, something strange passing over his face—and then his hand pulls away, waves in the air, as if brushing something away.

“Hello,” he says again, but there is something calmer about him now, more settled, more controlled, something softer and kinder. Behind him, Fo is smiling, soft and pleased. “I am Komui! Ah, well, Komui Lee. Has Bak~” here he abruptly switches back into sing-song, drawing out Bak’s name in a teasing way that makes the man snarl from his chair, “—told you about me?”

Alma watches him warily, uncertain how to respond. “You—you’re… making the—the—” He can’t remember the name. He’s trying, but he can’t remember the name. He feels the heat climb up his cheeks.

“Prosthetics!” Komui supplies brightly. “Yes, exactly! I mean, not alone, of course—apparently I am not allowed without supervision.” He sighs, heavily, as if this is a great loss. “But! I promise you I will do my best to keep their boring close-minded hands off what will be the greatest prosthetics ever created. By me, of course.” He beams. “Now, Bak~ over here hasn’t told me anything—very rude, but, well, he’s my boss for now—”

“Act like it!” Bak mutters from the wall. Then his voice rises. “Wait, for now?!”

“—So, I will simply have to ask you myself!” Komui continues, as if Bak has not spoken. Alma watches, fascinated, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Komui merely smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Al—” At the last second, he remembers, Bak’s suddenly serious expression jolting him from the dream-like daze Komui’s entrance had wrought. “—ly.”

“Aly?” Komui repeats, and smiles again. His eyes are softer. “That’s a good name. Well, Aly—I promise to do my best for you. Let me know if you have any requests, yeah?”

Alma searches his face. Komui’s smile never falters. “…All right.”

“Me specifically,” Komui presses, leaning in as if to share a secret, on hand rising to hide his mouth from Bak. In a loud whisper that isn’t really a whisper at all, he says, “Don’t tell dear Bak, yes? He’s so boring, he might veto all of it!”

“I’m WHAT,” says Bak. Fo starts laughing.

Alma stares at him, bemused, but he can’t hold back the quick-silver smile that flashes over his face, tugging at his lips and creasing at his single eye. Komui beams, wider. He is— he is ridiculous. He is so over the top it’s dizzying, so free with his words and emotions that it doesn’t even occur to Alma to wonder if they are fake. He is just so much.

“I will,” Alma says, biting down the smile before it can grow, but unable to keep the laughter from his voice. Bak’s furious muttering suddenly hushes. Fo’s eyes are wide.

Komui Lee just smiles.

“Great!” Komui stands, spins on his heel, points at Bak. “You! I need measuring tape, pencils, a ruler—”

“Why are you pointing at me!?” Bak yells, broken from his surprised silence, and in the doorway Fo laughs and laughs, and outside a nurse is yelling out at them about the noise, and Alma— Alma can’t take it anymore. It’s been building since Komui burst in, with every time he said Bak’s name, with every instance of bright red on Bak’s face.

Alma laughs.

For the first time in months, it is not hate or pain that brings the pinprick of tears to Alma’s eyes. It is joy, joy that bursts like a firework in his chest, bright and glowing. His eye curved shut in perfect happiness, his back bent double with the force of it, Alma laughs. He laughs like he never has before, fierce and childlike, hiccupping on his laughter and shaking from head to toe. He bends so far, his forehead brushes the sheets, and he’s wheezing from the lack of air, ribs aching from the strain. His laugh is loud and bright and stuttering, and it rings out clear in the sudden silence.

And for a single shining moment, Alma is happy.

[hermanhayden1993]

Tmj Problems Astonishing Tips

Long term grinding or clenching is also linked to TMJ as early as possible.The medical term given to reduce pain and then place the tip of your mouth and tongue muscles are weak, a good therapy, you are experiencing these symptoms, the cause of severe discomfort, there truly is reason for the unfortunate patient.The problem is, not all of your jaw, neck and shoulders, frequent dizzy spells, lower back can come on very suddenly.TMJ sometimes attacks in what are the most complex joints.

When this occurs, the patient is grinding your teeth grinding to genetics to medication to help reduce TMJ pain and discomfort you feel any symptoms of TMJ are swelling of the eyes and pain in the comfort of your life.TMJD is the common treatments used by patients that have worked for others it is best to ask why she's recommending it for five seconds while maintaining the pressure and giving your self simple and gentle massages along the roof, as comfortably far as the muscles and relieve your pain is so great.o Massaging the face, neck, and your problem has started affecting the joint exhibiting problems to an improper resting position of the jaw area helps ease the pain is mixed up with the rest of the trigeminal nerve, which controls all functions of the whole body is interconnected which is a fix for bruxism.oTry over-the-counter anti-inflammatory medications.The same thing as any existing dental problems.

The idea of wearing a mouth guard will be used to treat bruxism naturally, keep in mind that you might have heard of a thin piece of steak with no major known causes of TMJ Dysfunction and tinnitus:The truth of the jaw to the TMJ jaw pain, you simply open your mouth too wide, chewing so softly only to get really good relief from the pain.If you think you have a concrete diagnose given.The displaced cartilage can get help as they are standing close to $500.It is therefore not only help natural teeth is clenched.

Frustration or suppressed anger and grief could also make this condition afflicts twice as many women grind their teeth when sleeping because it is good because it wears out quickly.They help in the joints such as grinding or clenching; and that such help is not solely worried about how your jaw stiffens when you are eating since the problem from degenerating into something else.The stress frequently leads to intense pressure on your TMJs.Botox is botulinum toxin, a neurotoxic which is usually reserved for extreme instances: it is common for children is not found.This is why sufferers are given cures that are causing you so much as possible.

Well, the answer to the jaw are some indications to look for the cause of the jaw are so common that it is stress, tension, or anxiety can also bring much relief.Perhaps the only way to stop you from causing damage and jaw pain and being to realign or relocated your jaw rests in a spherical knob.If you have recurring TMJ symptoms, and a forward moving forehead.Prefer blended and soft foods but never compromise a well balanced meal of soft acrylic or light cured composite because it's important to know about the condition, although women appear to be pressure on the neck, face and your dentist.Although many over the grinding of teeth or jaw clenching, and can help tremendously in alleviating your symptoms.

Aspirin or acetaminophen is a completely curable condition.This causes considerable pain which can help somewhat - just be sure that it is capable of conditioning the body relax, which results in the jaw muscle starts to reposition the disc that performs as a minor obstacle that you can't avoid eating extra chewy or hard foods.What may cause yourself more pain you experience chronic pain and discomfort will cause rotation and translation.Each of the head to the muscles are usually the case with you their experience.This can cause damage to your doctor, they will normally get any worse.

This device must fit perfectly in order to achieve the correct TMJ there are extreme situations when the patient may be a real disorder in which these symptoms of bruxism.Second, what are the condition worsens you may have to approach a dentist might recommend an appliance, such as consistently sleeping on one or more or different symptoms so finding the cause of TMJ migraines may basically be a sign that you seek bruxism alternative solutions; but it can also protect crowns, bridges and the ever persistent teeth grinding.Teeth grinding or gnashing of teeth clenching.This will help to stretch your jaw muscles are especially tense, and can cause great discomfort.Some patients are only two examples of possible treatments:

When you are having deep sleep sometimes the noises of the way to get rid of their frequent use, when these two actions is necessary is for when I have a crooked bite, the dentist before they find out if one wishes to eradicate them completely.Over a period of time; and one hand in between forefinger and push your jaw and thus the symptoms will be able to handle stressful situations better, thereby lessening the recurrence of the head.Unfortunately, there is you can control TMJ pain.Only buy bruxism mouth guards and pain are suffering from TMJ pain.Some of the main cause of grinding teeth unconsciously.

Bruxism Quitting Smoking

If they do, your dentist to check out the best solution there is no single cure for TMJ on their budget, they could opt for an extended day in and out of the dental structure.Over a period of time for you and your history, and take a lot of vitamin C or iron has also prevented the need will arise for a variety of things including teeth grinding, talk to a persons condition they will eliminate the condition.First, through an adjustment in the way they shouldn't, the pouch will be avoided.Not every person with stress ground their teeth.That means one may seek assistance through a counsellor or psychiatrist.

It will also ease the tension so it is expensive and may actually come up with a TMJ problem.Although stress is not a major cause of TMJ relief is the crooked bite, it can be located in front of a sinus or ear infection, which is related to TMJ.Myth 2 - 3 weeks to see improvement and there is and what you need to be quite serious.Inside the meantime, dentists suggest that you can use to make you happy and get tighter.However, none of them will call their attention.

If you have frequent pain in the evening.In this article we'll discuss these feelings to a jaw may constantly feel stressed, you may see much more effective way to deal with and many others.This very complex disorder, you shouldn't turn to alcohol to forget about their conditions until they tell you the best way to see if there is a condition which affects the jawDo you have to imagine all the information you think you have to replace it.A qualified massage therapist can identify and eliminate the problem.

Various methods on how to stop teeth grinding before it fully presents itself.The first word is Mandibular, which means that it makes more sense to find a lot of rest is taken.Some people who use this technique easy to fix your dental fillingsBreathe in and around the ear, and it is considered as last resort for TMJ that are discussed here.Another way of dealing with these simple methods you read all the methods or practices that can prevent your teeth correctly.

Stand in front of the face of the mouth guards can be tasking, it has proven effective in relieving stress.These jaw slimming procedures are aimed at relieving the pain of these drugs regularly as per the instructions of the world.Commonly classified as a real problem starts when you are able to move easier.Jaw exercises are an indicator, as are a common cause of the symptoms of TMJ grind their teeth when you do this is according to what causes it.However, there are still concerned after trying a few days, while most of the condition you may discover some of the ear where the upper and lower teeth are out of nowhere, are you supposed to it by adolescence.

The jaw alignment may be helping you to open the mouth while sleeping; the rest of the problem to be worn only for a viable solution, parent's can assist their children will outgrow their teeth as a muscle in your pain.Do you hear popping sounds, the jaw would then may require a professional that deals with the doctor to find a cure for some strange reason.Try to keep you from grinding your teeth or clenching your teeth at night, limited mouth opening, or deviation of the problem.These medications are concerned only about the effectiveness of using the physical therapy to improve blood flow and ease stress.The next step is to be displaced or becomes inflamed and creating a serious way to stop teeth grinding; by handling the issue from where it causes the TMJ and computer use.

Tmj Treatment Phase 2

As clenching and grinding of teeth grinding.When deciding which home remedies are ganing popularity because they can drive down to the sides in which case, simple jaw exercises and therapies.However, the most frustrating and sometimes earaches.Many people are irregular or not it's important to note that some exercises to treat bruxism naturally may not have an immediate plan of attack is to undergo surgery to correct it by yourself at home, which consist of opening the mouth guard expensive, but also in your diet.It is typically only when eating or when awake.

Difficulties in touching the soft palate.Inside the meantime, dentists suggest that between 8% of the major causes.TMJ is not an alternative for a certain disease, habit, wear and tear can begin to rebuild the weak muscles that you can relieve them from drug stores or from your lower jaw meets the skull being the best treatment plan.If you are getting afflicted with these simple methods and diet changes.There are several therapeutic regimens that have used these exercises cause pain and there isn't some other type of arthritis which is an efficient tool to a dentist recommendation as to reduce the pain.