Summary: Something is wrong with Yuki. Or, maybe itâs the world around him thatâs wrong. An old writing warm up I did while working on one of my novels. This short story features Yuki, a very powerful alien seer, and Haruka, his boyfriend and one of his Guardians.
When Haruka enters the room Yuki is sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. Heâs staring blankly into space. He knows this is not abnormal for Yuki, but he is still concerned.
"Yuki? Whatâs wrong?â Haruka stares at him, and his voice is ever so soft, filled with concern for his partner. He watches as the man continues to stare straight ahead. He doesnât even acknowledge Haruka.Â
"There's something there, isn't there?" It's not really a question at this point more so an accusation, or perhaps a plea for information. There is a definite difference between the two, but he is not sure which of the two he is doing.
Yuki shrugs. It doesnât matter what is or isn't there. Regardless, he has a choice to make. No, upon further thought, it's not really a choice if it's already been decided. Decisions that are taken from his hand are obligations and he is obligated to follow through with the right thing.
Haruka crosses his arms. His eyes have narrowed, darting between the magician and the spot where his gaze is frozen. "You know I cannot see them naturally like you and Minori can, but I won't hesitate to cast a circle of sight."
Yuki laughs. "I know. You're determined like that." His response is distant, almost like he's not paying attention even though the words still ring true. It's an odd contradiction, but Haruka cannot argue it.
Haruka sighs and crosses the room in two precisely measured strides. "It's not dangerous?"Â
Yuki makes a note of the hardness in his voice, and he knows that should he not provide an answer the man will assume the answer is yes and lash out. He does not know what will happen if he lashes out, so he numbly shakes his head.
"Can you tell me what it is, at least?" Haruka asks, and he finds himself almost annoyed by this game of theirs. Something wrong settles over him and he feels agitated.Â
"It's a messenger." Yuki responds.
Like clockwork, the words cause his heart to jackhammer in his throat. "Who is calling for you?"
Yuki finally turns his head to gaze up at Haruka. He is trembling, Haruka notices, but that is not what breaks his heart. Instead, it is the sad, almost regretful look in his eyes.
"Who is it, Yuki?" He asks again, voice pleading for a mercy he knows he will not receive, even though a large part of him does not want to know the answer. A part of him already knows.
Yuki smiles, but it's hollow. "It's you, Haruka. You're calling for me."
Haruka frowns, puzzling over this. "I don't-"
Yuki rises, silent and ethereal, like the ghosts he deals with. He presses his finger to Harukaâs lips. Haruka blinks owlishly at him until the seer removes his finger. "It's okay." Yuki says softly, leaning into his space.Â
"I've enjoyed my time with you, truly. It has been nice to take a break. These memories we share are nice, are they not?" He grins, and Haruka is surprised to find a tear trailing down his own cheek. Why is he crying? He doesn't even understand what Yuki is saying⊠except, he does, doesn't he?
Yuki kisses him and it's soft and perfect, but it's chaste and Yuki is pulling away before Haruka can even truly be satisfied. "I'm always willing to relive memories with you, but I thinkâŠ." He trails off. "Haruka, this vacation has been nice, but it's time that I wake up now."
---
In the waking world, Yuki is greeted by warm arms and wet tears. He hides his smile in the real Harukaâs hair.
âThank you for bringing me home, my dear. I fear that I am easily swayed by my own mind.âÂ
Haruka laughs, tinged with equal measures hurt and relief. âWhat could even keep you entertained for so long? Surely your mind couldnât create the perfect mysteries for you to solve.â
âIsnât it obvious? It was you, silly. Of course, the fictionalized version of our lives left a lot to be desired. It was too hazy to be any fun.âÂ
It was good while it lasted, but Yuki is glad to be home where he truly belongs.
Content warnings: Mentions of child abuse, very obvious trauma, anxiety.
Summary: Laslow Komera is on the run from his past and his thoughts, but sometimes you see something that makes you stop and think. In this instance, itâs lion statues. Requiem, Laslowâs familiar, is there as always to help Laslow sort his thoughts out.Â
*This is a short story focusing on one of my DnD characters, Laslow; therefore, the quality may differ from my more professional writings. For more information on Laslow, feel free to send questions or check out my main blog.
Two stone lions stood at the bottom of the stairway. Laslow stares at the statues before him.
It wasnât the first time Laslow had seen silent protectors such as these. Maya had taught him once that it wasnât uncommon to see statues protecting buildings, and his own wandering had proven that true so far. These statues werenât unique in that regard, but he had never seen another set of lions before these. He had assumed that it was just an odd Barcelan quirk to have lion statues planted outside his estate.
Requiem jumps onto his shoulder, and he startles for a brief moment before he recognizes the soothing aura of his spirit friend. She nuzzles against his cheek and gives him a questioning mreow. He smiles at her and gives her a quick scratch behind the ear.
He knows how easily he spirals, so her concern isnât entirely unwarranted. âIâm fine, Requiem. Iâm just thinking.â
He glances between the lion statue and down at his own chest before slowly raising his hand to palm at the tattoo on his chest.
Requiem leaps from his shoulder, causing Laslow to wince momentarily, and lands atop the lionâs head. She sits upright, tail curled around her paws. She cocks her head to the side.
Laslow immediately frowns. âItâs not like that, Requiem.â He protests. Requiem continues to stare at him. Her ear twitches.
It always stings when Requiem calls him out on his bullshit. He always feels so guilty; she deserves better. (Even if she is just a spirit or a manifestation of his soul, or whatever she was. She still deserved better.)
He drops his shoulders with a sigh and she gives him a smug look. She already knows that she has won.
âItâs just,â he starts awkwardly, digging his foot into the dirt, âI grew up training in the Lion style. It was a part of my identity for years. I wore the lion on my arm with the pride of an accomplished student.â
He hesitates. Without thinking about it, his hand moves to grip at his left shoulder. Requiem continues to stare, but her sharp eyes seem softer somehow.
Gathering his courage, Laslow continues. âAfter everything happened⊠I couldnât even look at a lion. Fuck- Requiem, look what I did to my arm! Thatâs all the proof you need!â His giggle borders on hysterical.
âI guess when I swore off the sword, I did the same for the lion. I replaced it with the viper. Except, as much as I adore the snake and I wear it proudly on my heart⊠It doesnât feel right. It fits like an unbearably large sweater.â
He takes a moment to breathe and recompose himself. Counting numbers like Maya taught him to do, easing himself back into a state that isnât bordering on a breakdown.
âI guess what Iâm saying is that I donât know who I am anymore. Part of me wishes I could be a lion once more, wear the title like a warm coat, but I just- I donât know. I trained in it; I lived it. I was almost done with it. I could have done it for the rest of my life, but I canât bring myself to even touch a sword now. How can I be a lion if I cannot duel?â
Requiem cocks her head to the other side. He shrugs in response.
âIâm not a viper, either. I never trained in it. I should have no rights at all to the tattoo I hold dear. Iâm merely parading around with the title; a facade like everything else in my life. I cannot claim to be a viper without feeling guilt. Maya gave me her familyâs noble name, but how can I be the only lion in a family of vipers? The one time there was a lion in the family, well.â
He cuts himself off, frantic energy now coursing through his veins. The words are stuck in his throat; he coughs, ragged, awful things that leave his body shaking with the force of it.
Requiem licks her paw, watching him carefully. Her tail flicks back and forth with agitation born from concern, but she waits it out. He calms himself, and slowly the coughing comes to a stop. She gives him a pointed look.
âYes, yes, yes. I know, Gods, I know. Iâm putting too much stock into silly fighting traditions as if theyâre actually my identity. I get it, but-â
Requiem immediately jumps back onto his shoulder, cutting him off. Her purr is loud and vibrates through his skin as she presses her head into his cheek. He feels soothed by the peace that contact with her always brings.
He smiles. âYouâre right, Requiem. I still have time to discover who I really am. I shouldnât let things like this define me.â
Requiemâs tail brushes against his ear. He giggles. âThank you. I wouldnât know where I would be without you, my dear friend.â
She gives him one last nuzzle before jumping to the ground. He laughs at the look she gives him. âI know. Weâve overstayed our welcome here. Letâs get going.â
They walk together down the path. Just a man and his cat, and the bond that comes with it. Laslow knows in his heart that as long as Requiem is at his side, he can eventually overcome anything.
Summary: A simple day with friends, a picnic, and soft shows of affection between a witch and his tired, werewolf boyfriend. This is a short story set within my novel series, The Witch and His, as such some things will not make entire sense without novel context, but can be inferred from textual context. An enjoyable read even without knowing the novel.
âYou kids have been visiting the cabin less since spring started.â His mother comments. Her eagle-like eyes watch as he packs the picnic basket with the food he carefully prepared earlier.
He nods. âThe cabin is pretty and we still love it, but the others insist on meeting in other places besides the cabin. Romeo thinks that it will become too monotonous if we only hang out there.â
Meredith hums thoughtfully. âTheyâre right, you know. I know the cabin is your pride and joy, but having other places to hang out is good for changing things up. Besides, Iâm sure Romeo enjoys taking you to the club.â
Meredith all but cackles at the expression that crosses her sonâs face. Cicero, on the other hand, plans to completely ignore everything about that statement. Heâd like to forget those memories right now, please. He takes a moment to compose himself and then changes the subject.
âEver since August built that table out at the lake itâs been much easier to say yes when they ask to go there. Itâs beautiful during the summer time. I dare say, I enjoy it.â He admits.
His mother smiles. âThatâs nice. Enjoy your time, dear.â
The lake is out of the way, beyond even their cabin, and the only path there is the one theyâve made for themselves. Itâs barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but they all know the forest like the back of their hand. There is no doubt in his mind that they could make the trip drunk. Plus, the view was to die for. None of them even minded the walk.
Cicero follows the faded, dirt path that leads to their spot. For a change he is not walking with either August or Elaina. Elaina had stayed the night with a friend and was arriving with Benny, and August was going to be late because he had to stay over and finish a bit of work for his father. It was a strange occurrence, but it allows him to contemplate and simply enjoy the nature around him. It was a lovely day and it would be a shame if he didnât fully take advantage of it.
The picnic basket is a heavy weight in his hand but he finds it relaxing rather than irritating. Jasper used to bring food as well, but itâs harder for her to cook now that sheâs, well, a ghost. In his opinion, Romeo was way too stubborn regarding the possession argument. Itâs not like his girlfriend would do anything to hurt him. Still, he doesnât fully mind making all of the food for their outings.
He hums to himself as he walks. Unlike Romeoâs obnoxious singing and other, assorted noise making, it is not a shitty pop song played at the club. Although Cicero will admit that they can be catchy, the tune he is humming is something more personal. Not that he would ever let the man know that he found any of the music from his short lived time as a ârock starâ appealing. It would simply blow his ego up to extreme parameters.
Heâs distracted from his thoughts by a flock of birds taking off a little ways off from him. He pauses.
For the briefest of moments he thinks Romeo might actually be on time. However, if that were the case, Cicero would already be hearing the vampireâs loud, obnoxious voice. If a single Romeo trips in the forest then yes, it does make a sound the whole town can hear.
He makes a logical assumption that it is an animal and continues on. However, the sensation of being watched does not go away. In fact, it only gets worse. The intent around him is focused, obsessive.
He closes his eyes as he walks, not bothering to give himself away by stopping, and extends his magic outward to find the source of his discomfort.
In hindsight, he feels a bit dumb. He should have figured it out sooner. That feeling is all too familiar to him, after all. Still, August was supposed to be late. Not early like Cicero always was. Ciceroâs thoughts flood with questions, but he decides to play along with Augustâs game. He strolls on ahead, pretending to be blissfully unaware and caught up in his surroundings.
It feels like a decade of tense peace before August decides to make his move at the lake. A stick crunches under heavy boots as August leaps from his hiding spot. Without acknowledging him, Cicero elegantly steps out of the way. August attempts to skid to a stop before catching his own foot on an exposed root and tripping in front of the witch. Cicero watches him fall with a twisted sort of amusement.
âThat was cruel, Cero.â August whines as he sits up. Cicero isnât sure if itâs on purpose or not, but August fixes him with the puppy dog eyes that the Grimmwauld family is almost known for.
Cicero wants to tell him how adorable he is, but instead he rolls his eyes and says, âYouâre too loud, August. Even a deaf buck could hear you coming a mile away. Perhaps next time you should consider not attempting to tackle me.â
August pulls himself to his feet and dusts himself off. âI wanted a hug. You know, that thing people do?â He pouts although his words carry a sort of cheeky haughtiness.
âI donât like being touched.â A simple reply, really. Cicero hates it when others touch him. Even the touch of his own mother hurts him on the worst of days. Yet, Augustâs touch is never painful. Not that he would ever admit that; his pride would never return from that particular grave.
August beams. âYeah, buddy, I know, and thatâs okay. Iâll still try though âcause youâre worth it.â
Cicero snorts at their old joke and sets the basket down on the table. Augustâs gaze is immediately drawn to the dark oak basket. Cicero doesnât have to imagine the wagging tail behind him. He clears his throat, pointing after he has Augustâs attention. âHey, dog-breath, careful there.â
August looks at his tail before shrugging. âMy control has been slipping lately. Iâm not worried yet since Iâm not like going feral or anything, but I mean⊠Itâs understandable? Iâm under a lot of stress right now. Besides, Iâm tired and hungry. Very, very hungry.â
Ciceroâs gaze softens. âIs it that bad?â
August shakes his head. âItâs not that. The Lestern family has been very amicable and theyâre very easy to work with. Itâs just,â he makes a vague gesture with his hand, âdifficult to put pacts into effect without throwing both parties into disarray and it has been hard trying to find what works for both groups.â
Cicero had never truly thought about the bureaucracy that went into shapeshifter politics especially those that involved the Grimmwauld clan. Rowan had always had that under control and agreements were just made, and Cicero hadnât had need to think of it beyond that. Itâs been a lot more in his face now that August and his brother are being groomed to take their fatherâs place. He doesnât know whether itâs a good or a bad thing yet. Either way, he doesnât like it.
August attempts to open the basket without Cicero noticing, whining when Cicero smacks his hand away. âWait for the others.â Cicero chides.
August bites back a complaint or whine -not that there was any difference between the two with August- and settles Cicero with a thoughtful look. âAnyways. Whatâs on the menu today, mister chef?â
âBacon and tomato sandwiches, Italian pinwheels, five bean summer salad, watermelon slices, raspberry lemonade, and blueberry brownies for dessert.â He rattles off the dishes with little thought to how much work that actually went into it. Though their friend group did this often, Cicero took pride in the work he did and would gladly slave away in the kitchen if it meant seeing that toothy grin August always gave him when good food is involved. Plus, he typically found his joy in putting together plans and making sure his friends had a good time.
August grins. âSounds amazing as usual, Cero.â He takes a seat at the picnic table and pats the spot beside him. Cicero hesitates for a second as he considers it before taking the spot. Grinning, August scoots closer to the witch until their thighs are touching. Cicero allows this contact even if it does make his anxiety rise three whole levels.
He coughs, embarrassed, and glances back at the dirt pathway leading to their meeting spot. âWe still have to wait until Romeo and the others arrive before we can eat.â
August whips his head around, eyes wide and watery. Even though he looks like heâs on the verge of tears Cicero is more than aware that they are crocodile tears learned from his eldest sister. âBut Romeoâs always so late,â He cries, âand Iâm so hungry. Iâm dying!â He throws himself over Cicero so that his head is in the witchâs lap. Cicero flinches, face quickly heating up, but he miraculously keeps his composure.
âManners maketh man, mutt. A fact that you should be well aware of being a member of the Grimmwauld family. We will wait for the entire group to arrive before we eat and that is final.â
It takes Romeo thirty minutes after their set meeting time to arrive, and heâs not even the last one to arrive. By then, August has fallen asleep using Ciceroâs lap as a pillow.
Romeo raises an eyebrow at the sight. âJust one of those dog days, isnât it?â
Cicero glares at him. âDonât even think about waking him, lame-ass.â Rowan had been working his son to the bone lately. Considering the importance of the Grimmwauld-Lestern pact itâs understandable, but Cicero still worries about August. He needs all the rest he can get right now, and Cicero will be damned if he lets Romeo of all people ruin that.
âHeâs going to be mad that you let him sleep through lunch.â Romeo takes a seat across from them. Jasper, bless her heart, floats awkwardly behind him. She takes a moment to look over the spread that Cicero has laid out on the table before turning to him. âThe food does look good, Cicero. Too bad I canât eat it.â She says, polite as always. Cicero gives her a gentle smile before turning an icy glare to her companion.
âWeâre still waiting on Elaina and Benny. Until they arrive, you can be quiet and let August sleep. If he wakes up- I swear to the gods, Romeo, I will pluck every hair from your head and feed them to you. After that, Iâll turn you into a horrifically disfigured, naked mole rat so that you will never again find a date at the bar.â
Romeo blanches and swallows the stone in his throat. âHoly shit. Youâre absolutely terrifying when you want to be, my dude. Yeah, sure, let him sleep.â
Behind him, Jasper giggles as he pats his head. âAre you checking to make sure itâs still there?â She asks.
He huffs. âOf course. One can never be too confident around Cicero.â (Heâs learned the hard way that Cicero is never kidding, and to always be ready to run. Friendship be damned when angry Cicero is involved.)
Appeased, Cicero relaxes. He begins to run his fingers through Augustâs unruly hair, humming a comforting tune as he does so. Romeo watches this with dark eyes and a heavy frown.
âIf I say the obvious, am I going to be hexed into eternity?â Romeo asks, and Cicero shoots him a scathing look. Immediately, Romeo puts his hands out in front of him placatingly.
âAlright, alright, chill. I wonât say a thing then.â
August wakes up with a grumble of murmured words. He sits up in bed. He pauses. The environment comes into focus and he starts blinking owlishly. âWhat theâŠâ
Cicero, nestled in the corner of the room like some oddball sort of creepy doll, looks up from his book. âYou slept through lunch, so I floated you home.â
August startles. âI slept through lunch? And you let me sleep through lunch? What the hell, man.â
Cicero shrugs, closing his book. He stands. His joints make an discomforting creak. âYou needed the rest. Besides, thereâs no need to worry. I made you dinner and cleared your schedule with your father. Iâll loan you a pillow tonight.â
August stares. âYou did what now?â
Slowly, the manâs words begin to make sense in his head and he grins. He lunges from the bed in his excitement and wraps Cicero into a hug.Â
âYou are the best! What did I ever do to deserve you?â
Cicero accepts the hug, smiling into Augustâs shirt. âI believe the better question is: what did I do to deserve you? Iâm - in Romeoâs exact words - Satanâs bitch, and Iâve definitely done my best to avoid being friends with you.â
August laughs. âYou might be a bitch, but if I didnât like you I definitely would have spent the last thirteen years befriending another stubborn, magic wall.â
Cicero bites his lip to avoid giggling like a schoolgirl. âCâmon, dipshit. Letâs go eat dinner before it gets cold.â
If Cicero sequesters August away for another day after that and tries for a third then thatâs his business. They both needed the rest and comfort in company. What could Cicero even say? He had a weakness in the form of broad shoulders and blinding smiles, and it hurts him to see August as exhausted as he was.
Of course it probably wasnât a good idea to threaten to smite the teenâs father when he came to collect him. It is a very good thing Rowan is as good-natured as he was, having lived with his ex-biker wife for years now. So, allâs well that ends well, Cicero supposes.
Lies have rusted the bridges, breaking them all down. They'd be better off burned than corroded. The trust that once made up the chain of the bond has long since washed away, leaving only a trace. Doubt has painted the stage black, jealousy splattered green. You and I both know that the show will not be going on tonight.
