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Pero... ¿Qué escribo? Te preguntarás.
Bueno, estos son algunas comunidades a las que pertenezco y ya he escrito para:
💓Demon slayer
💓Avatar-Avatar: El camino del agua
💓Arcane
💓Avatar: La leyenda de Aang
💓Gravity Falls
💓Spider-man ITSV-ATSV
Si te llama la atención puedes checar mi MASTERLIST para revisarlos.
(&) Es para relaciones platónicas mientras que (/) es para relaciones románticas.
Las actualizaciones no son periódicas ya que todo depende de mi inspiración y mi tiempo libre.
Thanks for entering this cursed blog from a 20-year-old who decided to make fanfiction and upload their writings here in the middle of nowhere!
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What i'm going to write for? Here's some of my fandoms!
💓Demon slayer
💓Avatar-Avatar: The way of water
💓Arcane
💓Avatar: The last airbender
💓Gravity Falls
💓Spider-man ITSV-ATSV
--AND MORE UNTIL THE END OF MY LIFE
Also: Character ( / or &) Character and Character ( / or &)Reader
My MASTERLIST
Publications aren't going to be regular, it would depend a lot on my time and inspiration-- Really, I can take a lot to post anything at all 0_o
Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!Reader
Summary: Morpheus learns that there is no such thing as getting over a soulmate.
Word count: 7.5k
A note from the author: Apologies for the longer-than-normal wait—life seems to have a way of doing that (being a big sister is both my greatest joy and my heaviest burden, but everybody is now doing okay!). Also, apologies for what I'm about to put you through (I say as I laugh evilly while typing this).
Enjoy this chapter? I'd love to hear about it! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Official String of Fate playlist
The Dreaming is quiet when Morpheus finally finds it in himself to move from the spot where he last saw you, his realm enveloped in a facsimile of the same nighttime that he just came from. Where normally such quiet would be preferable, it is now a stark reminder of how alone he feels in the universe, even with Matthew nervously hopping at his side.
“Look, I’m sure everything’s going to turn out alright! Just give it a couple of days for everything to cool down, and then you’ll be called for; you guys can make up, and this will one day be a funny story to tell!” Matthew stammers, desperate to help in any way he can.
Another time, such assurances would be appreciated. Now, stuck in the terrible memories of what just occurred, he does not share any of them in the slightest. Before he is forced to make a decision, to say something or do something that means that he is moving on (physically, at least; mentally, he believes he will always be standing under the streetlight, watching you walk away from him), the doors at the end of the hall swing open, and his librarian hurries towards him.
“You’re safe,” Lucienne observes, a hand over her chest in relief.
Immediately, Morpheus feels worse than he already has—an impressive feat, since he is currently experiencing some of the worst emotional pain of his eternal life.
He was not the only one affected by his imprisonment. Lucienne, his right hand, his confidante, his…friend, had been the only one to retain any faith in him throughout his long absence. She alone watched as the other residents of the Dreaming fled, staying behind and bearing witness to the crumbling and decay of everything around her. Hers was the first friendly face he saw upon freeing himself, the calm that helped him to believe that the immense damage to both himself and his realm was reparable. That he has once more placed her in a position to worry about him is yet another wrong he has committed in a long string of them this evening.
“You left the realm so suddenly; we were worried that something terrible had happened.” She takes stock of him now, eyes cataloguing what surely would amount to shell shock in a human. “Are you all right?”
No, he desperately wants to say. I have ruined my chance at happiness, at love. What is left for me in this life, if I can not have whom I love at my side?
But he says nothing of the sort. “I shall be retiring to my chambers for the rest of the day. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Much to his surprise, his voice holds steady as he speaks, yet his words, ringing as hollow to hear as they feel to say, do nothing to reassure Lucienne. The crease between her brows deepens as she stares up at him. “Do you…want to talk about what happened?”
Were this a normal situation, she never would have broached such impropriety as her ruler sharing his troubles with her. But it is clear that, while she does not know what has happened, something has happened, something so awful that it has left him reeling. Though she deserves to know, he cannot bring himself to speak about what has truly occurred. For once, Morpheus is grateful for Matthew’s inability to keep any secrets, for the raven will almost certainly recount what he knows upon Morpheus’s departure.
He can meet her eyes no longer, and instead fixes his own straight ahead down the corridor. “Tomorrow, I shall resume my duties. In the meantime, I ask that you deal with any issues that may arise.”
She watches him for a long moment before sighing, the weight of what goes unsaid behind the action. “Of course, sir.”
With a stiff nod, Morpheus swiftly departs, leaving behind his advisors without another glance. While he could use his sand to transport himself to his chambers, he chooses instead to make the long walk alone.
Rather, he attempts to be alone. Your earlier words repeat through his mind like the tolling of a bell—he could travel to the farthest corners of the universe and be unable to escape them.
“You’ve lied to me from the moment we met! About everything.”
“I could have gotten hurt, or—or god forbid, killed! Because of you.”
“You don’t even really know me.”
“I don’t want to see you again.”
The pain of your words is blistering and unceasing, yet it is a pain that he deserves, for he knows that every word you spoke tonight was true. He did lie to you. He did put you in danger. He would not blame you if you do truly decide that you want nothing more to do with him, though such a thought is almost unbearable.
For every moment of pain at your misunderstanding of what he was doing, he knows that he has caused you the same, tenfold. In the thrilling rush of courting you, he forgot the essence of who you are: human. He remembered, of course—every time he twisted the truth to fit your understanding of the world, every slip-up when he said or did something that humans do not say or do—but he forgot how resistant humans are towards what they do not know, of the wide bevy of emotions they have to respond to any number of situations.
Fear, he anticipated. Perturb, yes. But anger? Devastation? Never did he see those emotions as an outcome when he imagined telling you the truth of who he is; never did he want to see such emotions on you.
When he finally arrives at his chambers, the doors to the balcony are already open, awaiting him and his misery. Outside, the gray skies herald rain, which the residents of the Dreaming are surely dreading after the last time their lord was rebuffed. Yet another source of immense regret and shame: how his emotions are innately tied to the weather of his realm.
The calm, blissful days when Morpheus is simply going about his function are familiar to the Dreaming, as are the ferocious storms when he feels a bit…tempestuous. The weather, as of late, he knows, has been a source of gossip and amusement for the realm. Fresh blooms sprout from every tree, flower, and plant, painting the landscapes in a dazzling array of colors not typically seen on such flora. Rainbows frequently stretch across the sky, birdsong is the melodies of popular love ballads throughout history, and the heat of the realm has only risen as your courtship has progressed, until the temperatures after your first date would be considered a heat wave in the Waking. He is in love, and, much to his embarrassment, everybody knows it.
The rain that begins to fall puts a damper on any such lovestruck environment, but much to what is surely everyone’s surprise, it does not storm as it typically would after a rejection like he’s just experienced—the usual dark clouds, crashing thunder, sharp lightning, and floods are absent. It simply rains, heavily and unceasingly, for there is nothing for him to be mad bout. He did this to himself. His inaction, his indecision, his desire to preserve the first blooms of new love—it has all led to this.
Morpheus sinks to his knees just past the threshold of the balcony, unable to find the strength to stand anymore, and the rain quickly drenches every inch of him. He allows the water to chill him to the bone, shaking as he thinks of your expressive eyes and the myriad ways they looked at him tonight. Shock, bewilderment, betrayal, fury. They were devoid of any of the affection or happiness he had seen within them just days before, and he shudders to think that this might be the last memory he has of you.
Were the circumstances normal, he would have already devised a number of plans to attempt to salvage the burgeoning relationship he, mere hours ago, had with you. He is the king of dreams, after all—possibilities abound within his realm. But all he can focus on as he leans his head back and lets the rain run over his face is how empty he feels, as though you were already interwoven into the very fiber of his being, whatever makes him what he is, and has been torn thusly from him. He mourns the loss of how complete he once felt, how bright his future seemed, how close to fulfillment his hopes were. He mourns who he might have been with true love by his side forevermore.
What he would give to ensure one more chance to be in front of you, to try to make amends for what he has done, to explain his reasoning for every word he has said to you, to…apologize to you, an action so unfamiliar to him that he assumes it would be almost comical for him to try. Pieces of his power, his realm, himself—all things which he had fought for, had desperately clawed back from forces who meant to keep it for themselves upon his imprisonment, but all things that he would happily part with for the guarantee that you would simply listen to him. He does not even need you to forgive him, though that would be preferable; he simply needs you to listen.
At some point, he becomes aware of warm water interspersed on his face, in stark contrast with the cold rain, and realizes that he has begun to cry. He scowls, a lone bolt of lightning weakly sparking in the far distance. The human body he prefers to manifest as has always been susceptible to tears, despite his best efforts—though he can bend reality to his will and form creations from mere sand, he has never been able to make himself incapable of crying. The more he attempts to put a stop to it, in fact, the faster the tears come, until he is openly weeping for all that he has lost.
Hope has always been hard for him to come by, but it feels almost impossible to find any semblance of it now. He has always been drawn to those with a will as strong as his own, and it is now working against him. He has no reason to believe that you will come back to him, that you will want a life with him over the comfortable familiarity of your own human one. He can offer you everything—the universe, wonders beyond your imagination, a kingdom, his complete, undying love and fidelity—but is that something that you would even want? Does he know you? Or is it as you say, and he is instead more enamoured with the fact that he has a soulmate than that it is you who is his soulmate?
He thinks of all of the ways that humans believe they know one another, seen through the lenses of their dreams. Their favorite things: music, films, books, colors, and foods are just the start. To know a human is to know the mundane, such as birthdays and important figures in their lives, as well as the intricate, like experiences that have made them who they are, their core tenets and ideals.
To his chagrin, Morpheus realizes that he does not know any of this about you. He could, of course: all he needs to do is tap into the stores of knowledge he holds within him, your dreams surely containing all of these answers. But he refuses to violate your trust once more, to use his powers to gain an advantage he has no right to take.
Your courtship has been a relatively short one, but what he does know of you, he already loves dearly. Your curious mind, always asking questions and always sparking with possibilities. Your passion, which drives and fuels you. Your presence and companionship, which have made him feel at home in a Waking that has always been foreign to him.
Perhaps this was the Fates’ grand plan all along, the way to finally get back at him for the business with Circe that they have never truly gotten over. Let him find his soulmate, let his soulmate be within his grasp, and let the Dreamlord’s own hubris bring about his ruin, for this is what he does. He ruins every relationship he has, every bit of happiness that comes his way, never seeming to learn from his many mistakes. All three of the Ladies must surely be getting immense enjoyment from this.
This is what he gets for allowing himself to want, to…desire. Heartbreak and ruin, to a level never previously experienced. No matter. If you want him to stay away from you, then stay away he shall. Instead, he will throw himself into his work once more and embody his function. Let this be a reminder of how the Endless have no need for human emotions. His siblings have managed to do just fine without love, and he shall, as well.
At least, that is what he aspires to.
•••
As promised, Morpheus resumes his duties the next day.
By ‘resumes his duties,’ of course, he really means haunting the halls of his home like a ghost before making it as far as his throne room, where he locks himself away to collapse onto his throne and stare at the vast universe of the ceiling above him while wondering how he got here. The stars twinkle above him, galaxies twisting and turning and reflecting his own inner turmoil. Despite his best efforts (which, admittedly, are not very driven at this moment), he cannot stop thinking of you, of what you might be doing or feeling or saying right now.
Though he would never wish misery upon you, he thinks that it would bring him some comfort to know that you share in his devastation. That you did not break things off due to a lack of feelings, but rather due to too many. To know that you are also mourning what might be lost would be a bittersweet comfort to him, one that is equal parts heartwrenching as it is reassuring. As it stands, he is alone in his anguish, left to wonder and imagine.
“Dream? Are you all right?” That question again, only from a new source now, draws him out of his thoughts and back to full awareness.
It takes him a moment to realize that his location has changed, against his will. He looks up slowly, taking note of the water, and the fog, and the mirrors—and his sister, standing before him and watching him cautiously, her hook glinting from where she nervously fidgets with it.
“Forgive me, sister,” he apologizes, abashed at inadvertently trespassing in Despair’s realm.
“For what? No one ever comes to visit. I’m glad you’re here.” She seems to realize what she’s said, how it may sound, and grimaces. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re here. I’m sorry…about your soulmate.”
“You know,” he gathers. Does everybody? In the same way that, as his sibling said, ‘word got out’ about his having a soulmate, has it now trickled out that he has been rejected?
Laugh at the once-mighty Dream King, how far he has fallen once more. In his wounded state, he can only assume that is what Despair is here for—to report back on his anguish to her twin so that they may both find some merriment from it.
She nods. “You are not the only one hurting, my brother. This is a place where people go to be…miserable. And grieve. And hit bottom.”
Morpheus bristles at the assumption that he has ‘hit bottom’ (if anyone besides one of his siblings were to even wonder such a thing, he would send nightmares of the worst variety their way before they could even finish the thought) before realizing that he has, in fact, hit bottom. There’s something else in her words that captures his attention, though: the implication that someone else is feeling this level of pain. And while she could simply be referring to one of the millions of other lost souls despairing right now, he knows that she, much like every member of his family, chooses her words extremely carefully.
“Do you want to see for yourself?” Despair asks, gesturing towards a mirror and confirming his theory.
He should say no. You had extracted this promise from him, after all—that he leave you alone, until and unless you call. He is a being of his word, and yet—
Your voice rings clearly through the mirror, and all he can focus on is how tired and upset you sound, the tears you try to stifle as you talk to somebody unknown to him. If he were to simply glance out of the corner of his eye, he would surely see you, as miserable as he. Do you regret last night’s occurrences? Who are you seeking comfort from? What have you told them of him?
Do you miss him?
The temptation to look is almost too strong for him to fight against, and he has to force himself to close his eyes tightly and shake his head. “Cease this torture, my sister.”
“Sorry.” She makes a wiping movement with her hand, and the mirror goes blissfully, heartwrenchingly quiet. “Some people do get something from looking in the mirrors. Comfort, closure, more pain. I always like to offer it to those who make it this far into my realm.”
“Do many traverse this path?” he asks, largely unfamiliar with the inner workings of Despair’s realm and seeking any bit of distraction that he can get.
She presses her lips together, hesitant to speak. “Only those who are experiencing true despair.”
Ah, of course. “And that is why I am here?”
She nods. “You need a place to go to mope.”
“I do not mope,” he snaps halfheartedly.
Despair looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “Then what do you call this? Sulking? Brooding?”
“Despondency,” he supplies.
“Same thing,” she retorts lightly, before hesitating once more. Morpheus watches his sister, curious as to her next move.
Through no fault of her own and almost solely due to her proximity to her twin, Despair is the sibling Morpheus knows the least about, though that also may be in part due to her predecessor’s unfortunate demise—so long ago now that it’s difficult for him to conjure the first Despair’s face in his mind. He is familiar with the act of despairing, of course, but as to what his sister truly does, her motivations and thought processes, he is blind. Finally, she moves until she comes to perch on the arm of his throne, waiting until he makes eye contact with her to continue.
“You cannot stay here, you know.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “Yes, I have my own realm to attend to.”
“No, I mean, you cannot stay here, in despair. I have never known you to go down without a fight, my brother.”
Belatedly, he realizes that his sister intends to comfort him. Truly, the world as he once knew it is no longer. “I have been instructed to stay away until—”
Despair rolls her eyes. “You’re called for, yes, my realm had a front row seat to how last night went down. But why are you acting as though the connection has already been severed, like you were told that your soulmate did not love you at all?”
Though vulnerability chafes at him, he can feel the need to…talk overtaking him like a wave of water against a poorly constructed dam. “When I…attempted to confess my love plainly, I was very quickly and emphatically rebuffed.”
Her sudden cough suspiciously sounds as though it could be covering a laugh, and Morpheus attempts to glower at her. “Were the words ‘I do not love you’ or anything similar uttered, though?”
“No,” he says, though he would argue that the sob you were unable to hold back as he attempted to proclaim his own love for you said more than words could.
“Humans are scared of everything, both good and bad. It is an evolutionary, primal response to keep them always aware of potential threats. Think of how many fear-inducing situations your soulmate was put through last night.”
He does, though it is easy to envision the way in which you were hunted like prey through your campus’s library to avoid being captured and harmed. To picture what it must be like, to learn that every single story of myth, legend, and fiction that you have grown up with is entirely real. To conceive of the shock that you must have experienced when discovering that there are forces far older and more powerful than anything you can imagine, forces that have fated you to a being nearly as old and powerful as said forces.
It finally clicks for him, and Despair, picking up on just that, lays a hand on his shoulder.
“There is no reason for you to be here, Dream, for this is nowhere close to the end of your story. Humans lash out when they’re scared—they get upset, they run, they say things they do not mean. But eventually, the fear abates. Eventually, they must face what it is that has made them run in the first place. Especially when they are running from a soulmate.”
“You are advising patience,” Morpheus surmises. “Matthew said much the same.”
“He is smarter than you give him credit for, and he understands his own species far better than you ever will.” Morpheus is unsure whether his sister is referring to his understanding of humans or the Endless, and the ambiguity makes his lips twitch upwards ever so slightly—a movement that does not go unnoticed. “Rarely have I seen soulmates remain indefinitely in my realm, and I have no reason to believe that you will be any different.”
“You truly believe so?” It is a question entirely unlike Morpheus to ask, and it’s one that he almost does not verbalize. Be it the circumstances he currently finds himself in, or his physical location bringing to the surface such…emotions, he cannot stop it from escaping him.
For once, Despair’s face does not mirror the derision or disdain of their twin’s. Rather, shades of Death’s concern, of her caring nature, flit across Despair’s features. “Oh, Dream. You must know I wouldn’t lie to you, not about this!”
Though he wishes to come up with a rebuttal to this statement, he knows that, when it comes to truly serious matters, Despair does not lie. Not like…
“You will tell no one of this,” Morpheus says sternly.
This time, it is Despair’s lips that quirk into a smile. “And there’s that famous fight of yours. Leave this place, my brother. There is still hope for you, yet.”
He reaches his hand up slowly until it falls on top of Despair’s, still sitting on his shoulder, and squeezes gently. He has learned much in this sojourn to his sister’s realm, and he is grateful for it. Patience, for one, and to remember that you are human, first and foremost. But he has also realized that traits he has always associated with Despair—conniving, cruel, deceitful—should, perhaps, be more so attributed to her twin.
This is the closest he will come to thanking her—the humiliation of thanking Desire for warning him, months ago, under the streetlights outside of the New Inn, still fresh in his mind—but he does not need to use words. Despair nods, squeezing his hand as well before standing up and wandering away from him, through the fog and the mirrors, until he’s left with only the bitter taste of melancholy in the back of his throat. Then, he’s gone as well.
Back to the Dreaming, and back to the fight.
•••
There are shades of you in every corner of the Dreaming, though this is not new. From the moment Morpheus learned the truth of what was to be your relationship, you became his muse, even when he was not consciously aware of it (especially when he was not consciously aware of it). The brightness of your smile has lit the moonlit paths lovers have strolled through, and your laugh carries in the wind that ruffles the hair of dreamers cruising idyllic coastlines. The color of your eyes features prominently in the color palettes of dreams, no matter how out of place it may seem. Newly created dreams are a little more fiery, newly created nightmares a little kinder. You are everywhere he turns; you are everything—to him, that is, which means that you are everything to the Dreaming.
He cannot outrun you, nor does he want to. Though it hurts to be reminded of you everywhere he goes, it is a necessary ache, like the ache of his unused muscles after 106 long years of captivity. The rain, too, has slowed from a downpour to a drizzle, and though the clouds remain ever-present, faint rays of sunlight are attempting to burst through. A reminder that not all hope is lost, that there is still something worth fighting for.
If he thought that the wait to touch you—to kiss you—for the first time was arduous, this separation is a true test of his patience. Thankfully, he has his work to turn to and has finally resumed some semblance of his responsibilities, much to the relief of his overwhelmed staff. Mervyn required his approval on plans for a new wing of the palace (a new wing that was entirely unrelated to the assumption that you would eventually join him in the Dreaming and presumably require your own space), Nuala wanted to know which of the many (many, many) flowers on the grounds she could prune, and Lucienne…
Lucienne has suddenly come into the possession of an extraordinary amount of administrative papers that require his attention, so many that Morpheus is starting to wonder if she is, perhaps, procuring ‘busy work’ for him.
Regardless of her motives, it is a relief to have so many distractions. He knows that he cannot sit around aimlessly while waiting for you—knows that he will drive himself mad by doing so—and sinking back into his work, his duty, is comfortable. Familiar, in a time when he is experiencing a wide variety of unfamiliarity. To have such banal tasks as reviewing new library intakes and surveying a nightmare who swears he is ready to be on his own in the Dreaming is welcome.
Though as Morpheus finishes a letter to Faerie advising Queen Titania of the borderline treasonous actions of one of her own (he was, after all, extremely careful in not making any promises to Puck before scaring him off), he becomes aware of another familiarity, this one unwelcome: the question of where his raven had gone off to. Matthew was allowed to go where he pleased, of course. He simply had a special talent for being annoyingly present when unwanted, and scarce when needed.
“Matthew?” Morpheus calls expectantly, melting the wax and pouring it onto the folded parchment to await his official seal.
Silence remains his companion, and he looks up from his desk to be met by an empty study. Curious. His emissary typically arrives within moments when summoned.
“Matthew?” he tries again. When a minute passes and he’s still alone, Morpheus begins to grow concerned. There is no reason why Matthew should not have responded, barring injury or imprisonment.
Memories of Jessamy form before he can stop them from rising to the forefront of his mind, and he closes his eyes as though to block them out. The Order is defeated, the Magdalene Grimoire no more. There is no threat to himself, nor to his newest raven. Still, that does not stop him from tapping into the mental link that he has always shared with his ravens, searching for Matthew through the far reaches of the universe.
It does not take nearly that long for Morpheus to locate Matthew’s presence, inexplicably in the Waking. He has not been sent on any errand that would take him out of the palace, let alone to another realm, which means Matthew has left on a personal journey. While he is not forbidden from doing so, it is highly unusual, and Morpheus, finding himself in an investigative mood, peers through the raven’s eyes to determine what has led him away from home.
Almost immediately, Morpheus regrets ever doing so. Matthew perches on a street lamp, watching as a couple kisses passionately in a dingy alley. Only, it is not any random couple. No, it is you, kissing the mortal man who has fancied you for months. He holds you just as Morpheus once did, and you’re just as receptive as you were that night at the British Museum, what feels like another lifetime ago.
It is an awful scene to bear witness to, and yet, Morpheus finds that he cannot look away. This is his punishment for how he lied to you, how he hurt you—his soulmate, kissing a man so unworthy of you that the match is almost laughable, while he is unable to do anything but watch.
Matthew finally senses his lord in his mind and turns away from the scene. But it is too late, the damage irreparably done, and the seal stamp clatters off of the desk and onto the floor as Morpheus loses his grip on it before his hand goes instead to his chest, where it feels as though some being far more powerful and terrible than he has just physically ripped out what would be his heart, were he human.
The pain in his chest is immense, but it does nothing to drown out what he has seen, what he has learned. You have made up your mind, then. You would rather have a comfortable, mortal life, with a comfortable, mortal partner, as opposed to the love of a soulmate—a love that wars are fought over, a love that spurs into creation deals with fae and demons, a love that has been written and composed and spoken and dreamed about for as long as there have been beings with the capacity to love. Perhaps this is why soulmate pairings between a mortal and an Other are so rare. Mortals must simply not have the capacity to understand and appreciate a soulmate bond, driving to ruin the god or fae or spirit or Endless unlucky enough to be on the other side.
Matthew comes crashing back into the Dreaming, landing on Morpheus’s desk and squawking at whatever his face must be conveying right now. “Oh no, you weren’t supposed to see any of that! Just let me explain, from a human perspective, what—”
“Leave me, Matthew,” Morpheus interrupts, his voice coming out as barely more than a whisper.
Matthew, impudent as ever, shakes his head. “But—we talked, and I think there are a lot of confusing emotions being felt by your soulmate, and if I could just—”
“LEAVE.” The command shakes the room, the lights snuffed out in one blow as Morpheus temporarily loses his grip on corporeality.
The room elongates, then narrows, as shadows begin to writhe and take on a mind of their own. Voices—of the damned, of the brokenhearted, of the hopeless—cry out from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. A choked noise of fright, akin to a human squeak, escapes Matthew as he looks into the pinpoints of light that are now Morpheus’s eyes. Distantly, he is aware that Matthew has never seen this version of him—Nightmare, as opposed to Dream, is who scares the raven off, who watches as he hurriedly takes off from the desk and through the door that has manifested and opened specifically for him. The slamming of the door corresponds with a heavy boom of thunder, the rain that had very nearly abated suddenly pouring down in sheets as the wind outside begins to howl fiercely.
Alone again, Morpheus collapses backwards, gasping at the sharp ache in his chest and massaging his sternum in a futile attempt to soothe it. His initial, wounded response is to blame you for all of this. How dare you do this to him? How dare you make him fall hopelessly in love with you without any effort on your part? How dare you be human, and react as humans do, and not understand important universal concepts that are unfamiliar to humans?
Under all of his rage, there remains an insidious voice that whispers how this is all Morpheus’s fault. How dare he hurt you? How dare he get his hopes up? How dare he never learn his lesson, chasing after love when it is very clearly never meant for him?
The image of you kissing that pathetic mortal is an image that will be burned into his memory for as long as he lives—those unworthy hands on your waist, your lips, which Morpheus wrongly assumed were now his and his alone to kiss, on another man’s. Does Morpheus truly mean so little to you? Are humans so unaffected by the forces of fate that they can move on from soulmates so easily, in a matter of days?
Morpheus wishes he were the same. Thousands of beings would trip over themselves to bed any one of the Endless and, in a moment of insanity, he almost begins to formulate a mental list. But alas, he is not human. Every part of himself belongs to you, and has for months. He will forever be yours, even though you want him no longer.
Those early fears—that he would be doomed to watch you from afar as you go through life without him before inevitably taking his sister’s hand to the Sunless Lands, where he cannot follow—resurface. This is now his reality, his destiny. He will have to live a life without you, and what a sorry excuse of a life is that, without his true love?
The storm that proceeds to ravage the Dreaming for the rest of the evening will go down in the recorded history of the realm, with very few denizens alive to have remembered the last storm of this ferocity. Tornadoes spawn out of blizzards that blanket deserts. Wetlands dry up before flooding again. The lightning that cracks unceasingly against the sky rivals Zeus’s most vengeful outbursts at his strongest. A storm just as fierce rages within the Dreamlord, once again alone and on an island of his own making.
An island that he is condemned to never, ever leave.
•••
The storm eventually comes to an end, as storms are wont to do. Rage cannot persist indefinitely, not at that force. Morpheus has not made a conscious decision to do so—indeed, the lack of storm, of wind and thunder and rain, is what pulls him back to awareness. He does not know how much time has passed, only that it is now daylight, when before, it was night. Across the realm, he can sense his people beginning the efforts to clean up the devastation he has wrought. Downed trees must be cleared, excess rain must be mopped up, broken structures must be put back together. He knows that he should feel terrible about this—distantly, he does—but all he can truly feel right now is pain.
His head aches—though that is simply the prevailing ache at the moment, for a quick inventory of himself reveals that his whole body aches, stemming from the epicenter that is his chest. It is a splintering pain, one that seems as though there is no start or end, and it makes it difficult to think clearly. He is both hot and cold, and cannot recall ever not having control of such aspects of himself as body temperature. There’s a weakness, too, that has overcome him, too weak to even fathom moving from where he is slumped over in his chair.
But move he must, for something is clearly not right. Morpheus has been weak before—after battling the Old Gods, after escaping Fawney Rig—but never like this. Never before has he felt so empty, yet so overwrought with sensation. Never before has he been unable to wrest back control of himself, to once more become Dream of the Endless after a period of emotional instability. He needs answers; he needs…help.
Morpheus means to stand, to check himself over, to make himself look presentable before journeying to the library. But right now, with the disconnect between his mind and his body, his powers focus solely on reaching the library, and he travels there between one blink and the next before he is ready. As a result, he lands harshly on the ground, his weary legs unable to keep him upright. He groans—groans!—at the pain, and his three closest advisors gasp at the sight of him.
“My lord!”
“What is—”
“Holy shit, boss, are you okay?”
“I do not believe so,” he says shakily, the first words he has spoken since commanding Matthew to leave. Even his voice, hoarse as though he has been screaming for hours without reprieve, is affected by the mysterious ailment that has befallen him.
Morpheus staggers to a kneeling position as he takes in the sight before him: the library seems, for the most part, unscathed from the storms, save for a nearby hole in the ceiling that was presumably created from the branches now lying scattered on the floor around him. Books are knocked off of their shelves, and leaves and other foliage cover them, but the room seems spared of any water damage. Good. The last thing he wants is for this wealth of knowledge to be ruined due to his actions.
“—Sir, are you listening?” Lucienne comes into focus as Morpheus blinks, and he realizes that she has been talking to him without his knowing.
“I…am sorry, Lucienne, I must not have heard you.”
Lucienne’s eyes widen at the apology, so uncharacteristically and freely given. “I asked what your symptoms are.”
He explains them as best he can, though how does one put into words such a distinct and pervasive sense of wrongness? For that is at the forefront of his so-called symptoms: now that he has seen you seek comfort in the arms of another, he is unmoored, like a ghost ship drifting aimlessly through the oceans without purpose. Lucienne listens intently, brow furrowed, though she seems to already have ideas about what has befallen him before he has finished speaking.
“I have a couple of ideas, but let me consult some texts before I say anything more.” Lucienne rises hurriedly, disappearing down the shelves with a last command of, “Nuala, Matthew, stay with Lord Morpheus!”
Nuala hesitantly kneels in front of him, Matthew right beside her. She searches his face for something—though he is unsure what that something is, she seems to find it after a moment.
“Forgive me, my lord.” She reaches up a hand and rests the back of it against Morpheus’s forehead, then his cheek. It is cool against his heated skin, a much-needed balm, one that only lasts for a moment after she removes her hand. “I believe you have a fever,” she says in shock.
Immediately, he is shooting the notion down. “That is ridiculous. Endless do not get…fevers.”
“So you manifested the temperature, then?” Matthew interjects.
“No,” he admits.
The pain chooses this moment to spike in his chest, and his hand again goes to press against it in the hopes that he will get some relief. Nuala watches this action closely, her face going pale almost immediately.
“Lucienne!” she calls, panic tinting her tone. “I believe I know what the issue is!”
The librarian takes a few minutes to return, either deep in research or so deep within the library that she has not heard Nuala. In the meantime, tremors begin to wrack Morpheus; from exertion or illness, he is unsure. The instability has forced him to shift so that he is leaning against a bookshelf, legs splayed out in front of him in a very un-kingly manner. Nuala and Matthew keep watch over him, the latter uncharacteristically quiet. When she does reappear, holding three books in her arms, her face is grim, even as she attempts a reassuring smile.
On some level, he already knows what is afflicting him.
“Based on cursory research,” Lucienne begins, shifting nervously on her feet, “I believe that you may have—”
“Bond sickness,” Morpheus finishes. “I believe so, as well.”
He has always had a morbid curiosity, and after the initial group research on soulmates and modern courting, he brought the books back with him to his chambers for more in-depth reading. Naturally, he took great interest in the bond sickness chapters, perhaps because he never envisioned it as a possibility for himself; not when he had already passed the seemingly insurmountable hurdle of your mortality.
Bond sickness was sudden and brutal, the result of a soulmate attempting to break the bond—be it through another romance, an act of magic, or, in rare cases, physical harm. That you are unaware of the full extent of a soulmate bond matters not to whatever magic binds two parties together: you kissed another, you were romanced by another, and that was enough to bring about this illness. In the cases of bond sickness he read about, both parties suffered as a result of the actions of one. Are you feeling ill too, then? Or has the same humanity that has allowed you to move on so easily also made it so you are not affected by this sickness?
“W—what can we do?” Matthew asks, the only one unfamiliar with the specifics of bond sickness. "There’s a cure, right? There’s always a cure to these sorts of things.”
Nuala swallows harshly. “There is no cure, beyond…”
“Beyond what?” Morpheus asks, not having reached the topic of cures in his personal research.
“Reconciliation. The bond sickness cases I have seen end in either reconciliation or death.”
“Oh, well that’s easy!” Matthew is unexpectedly relieved and looks at Morpheus as though the solution is simple. “Just go to the Waking and make up with your soulmate!”
If only. “I made a promise, Matthew, to stay away until I was summoned,” Morpheus reminds him. “I do not break my promises, especially not towards those I love.” Especially not after all of the lies he told you, all of your trust that he has now lost.
“But…did you not hear Nuala? You’re going to die if you don’t.”
Would that be so bad? To embrace whatever waits for him, waits for the Endless after they die? He has, after all, lived what would be considered a long and fulfilling life by most standards. “If that is my fate, then so be it.”
Matthew rears back as though struck. “No! No, screw this!” His voice is choked with tears as he looks around to see if anybody else is as upset as he is. Beside him, Lucienne, who kneels now next to Nuala, closes her eyes tightly and tilts her head towards the other side of the room so that her face remains hidden. “Dreams don’t die; you don’t die! I talked to your soulmate, okay? And nobody’s fallen out of love with anybody! There’s been a lot to learn in a short amount of time, and some confusing emotions to deal with, but you just need to get together and hear each other out!”
“I will not go until I am called for, Matthew. That is final.” With these words, he has signed his own death warrant, and he can practically hear the sound of wings getting closer, of scissors opening and closing in anticipation of cutting a long string.
“Fuck!” Matthew curses bitterly, flapping his own wings and racing out the doors of the library.
“Matthew!” Nuala wipes the tears that have been silently falling down her face, unable to look at Morpheus as she stands and follows him.
Then, it is just he and Lucienne. Who his reign started with, and who, it seems, it ends with. The significance is not lost on either of them, and she holds her head high as she looks at him, refusing to cry. “You are being serious, then? You would rather die than break a promise?”
“I would rather die than break this promise,” he clarifies.
Lucienne’s mouth twitches, and she forces her gaze downward, holding back from saying something she will seemingly regret. It takes her a few moments to compose herself, and when she looks at him again, her eyes shine behind her glasses. “Then might I help you back to your rooms? So that you might be…comfortable?”
“That would be much appreciated, Lucienne.”
She hesitates even as she helps him stand (propriety, in what is now the last days of his life, has gone out the window), like she was expecting him to find some fight within him yet. But any fire, any drive, is now snuffed out.
Let him die, let him take his sister’s hand. He cares no longer to inhabit a universe without you by his side.
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
Contenido: Miles ha perdido su cuaderno de dibujo.
Género: Slice of life / Between Canon / Fluff (?)
Written Curse: ¡Por fin lo escribí! Creo que he mejorado en mi manera de narrar las cosas, definitivamente me ha costado pero estoy orgulloso.
Advertencias: Ninguna.
No fue hasta la tarde de ese mismo día que Miles reparó en la ausencia de su cuaderno de arte.
Una (o la única) de sus más preciadas posesiones, ¿Cuántas horas habrán pasado desde que el cuaderno se escurrió de su lado, hasta ahora que está en la habitación con las manos congeladas en los bordes de la mochila?
No, solo ha abierto la mochila, un vistazo siempre tiene el azar de la duda. Así que checa una vez, una vez no basta; dos, dos es apenas un número aceptable; tres, la tercera es la vencida. Y por vencido se da. Atribuirle el fiasco a sus movimientos ansiosos en la búsqueda para intentar una cuarta vez no es convincente.
Entre la mezcla de un suspiro y un resoplo, lude las manos a la cara ante la comprensión de tener que recorrer el edificio una vez más. Hay un número limitado de opciones, lo que agradece, porque quiera o no tendrá que recurrir a la otra si una de ellas resulta no ser exitosa.
La primera es iterar en su mente, lo más preciso posible, los pasos del día hasta dar con la memoria del último lugar en el que fue consciente del material en sus manos. En seguida, si en cambio es lo contrario, y resulta que sus recuerdos lo traicionan, ir de salón en salón sería agotante; mentalmente, claro está. Eso de tener que interrumpir una lección, obtener toda la atención hasta recibir una respuesta… por favor que sea la primera, piensa.
Y la tercera es que si no logra encontrarlo, si es que hubo alguien lo suficientemente decente para hacerle el favor, debería estar en las cosas perdidas. Lo que significa que este alguien pudo haber visto el contenido, o no, Schrodinger maldito. Solo esta vez. Miles está muy estresado.
-
Está de cara a la cama, extremidades torcidas en diferentes ángulos, como las siluetas delineadas en casos criminales. De hecho, esto es un acto criminal, ¿La escena del crimen? Indeterminada ¿Hora del acontecimiento? Indeterminada ¿Afectados? Miles Gonzalo Morales ¿Víctima? Un cuaderno de dibujos de aproximadamente 7 pulgadas de ancho, 10 de largo, decoraciones en la caratula con el nombre del propietario en la parte media superior, selectas hojas con aspecto corrugado visto de la parte opuesta de la espina ¿Suceso? Extravío y presunto robo sucesivo ¿Testigos? Ninguno ¿Sospechosos? Todos.
Sí, algo así.
Este debe de ser su décimo primer- décimo segundo suspiro de la tarde y su mente no puede dejar de darle vueltas al asunto.
Los edificios que se alcanzan a ver desde su posición se desdibujan con los tonos que el atardecer les otorga, aves sobrevuelan a los transeúntes de la banqueta aledaña, el exterior continua su ritmo.
Pero Miles rota su cuello para ver la pared, la luz de la computadora de Ganke sobreponiéndose al que entra por las ventanas abiertas, su sombra más o menos presente.
"¿Ya terminaste de desinflarte?" escucha el tecleado incesante de su compañero, no necesita hacer contacto visual para saber que su visión no se ha separado de la pantalla, voltea los ojos y empieza a acurrucarse, coloca una mano debajo de la mejilla sin contestar, luego de segundos el otro trata de darle ánimos "Dale tiempo, hombre. De seguro mañana sí estará en las cosas perdidas."
Su discurso se interrumpe con una maldición susurrada "¿Por qué alguien habría de quedárselo?"
Suena razonable, pero (que necesidad de Miles por pensar en lo peor) hay que esperar lo inesperado. No por nada se convirtió en el nuevo Spider-Man, tampoco es que haya esperado encontrarse personas multi-versales y salvar dichos mundos del que provienen, quien sabe, ahora mismo puede que uno de los villanos se esté enterando de su identidad y vaya a planear algo malévolo.
Y en su mente se reproduce la escena, que si uno pudiera verla sería sin duda una replica de la animación, donde dibujos mal hechos, intencionalmente o no, resaltan lo inverosímil.
Un alumno que toma las clases con él nota el cuaderno en lo que Miles sale del salón, al tomarlo lo abre y hojea los contenidos y con esto observa la gran cantidad de ilustraciones de personas en sus trajes, las caras descubiertas en algunos, conecta los puntos y descubre que él es Spider-Man. Una sonrisa se forma con lentitud en su semblante ¡Bingo! La culminación de su espionaje llega a su fin y presenta la evidencia en la junta de villanos, le otorgan el más alto reconocimiento: la estrella dorada en la frente, y regresa a su dormitorio para un merecido descanso después de condenarlo.
Su sentido arácnido le advertiría de cualquier cosa, con ojos cerrados o abiertos, en el quinto sueño o en vigilia aguda.
Y luego viene el pensamiento que le hunde el estómago, el que hace que el ácido disminuya su pH y llegue a niveles impensables de negativo para adelgazarle el tejido. El que hace que su piel se erice al punto de sentir que cada pelo podría crecer por arte de magia, y que con el largo indicado estos podrían cubrirle y formarle una crisálida de la que con gusto no saldría.
No le preocupa más la curiosidad del desconocido, es lo de menos ya, que importa la falta de respeto a la privacidad. Lo que teme es la opinión que se haya formado, quizá le parezca por demás singular (extraño, cuál singular) cuantos dibujos hizo y la predominancia de Gwen como sujeto.
Tanto que considerar en poco tiempo.
Resopla y se retuerce como el gusanito que se siente para encontrar una posición más cómoda para descansar.
"Ve a estirarte, caballito." su tono es tan plano que si no fueran amigos, Miles realmente pensaría que no hay un grano de humor en lo que dice, el apodo es la adición para aligerar el consejo y no sonar como un padre, o cualquier adulto en realidad "Intentaré no aburrirme sin ti."
"Una misión muy complicada." Da la vuelta con brazos y piernas en el aire, estos caen como ramas en el colchón, con acrobacias abstractas yergue la espalda y usa su telaraña para agarrar su calzado y las calcetas que se esconden adentro "Pero ya que te preocupas tanto por mi… Está bien" décimo tercer suspiro aparatoso.
Coloca los tenis en el regazo y se estira, sus dedos se meten entre la almohada y las sabanas en busca de su máscara, al roce de esta con las puntas, menea los dedos como practicado pianista o una señora impaciente a que un empleado mal pagado vaya por su supervisor.
Con la tela puesta en ambas localizaciones, los tenis no son ninguna dificultad. Salta con el impulso de sus manos y se desliza en la resbaladilla que el aire entre la litera y el piso le proporcionan, antes de salir por la ventana avisa que no tarda en regresar, que puede traer algo que Ganke quiera y que no se aflija por la partida, lo último con tono sardónico.
-
El picaporte giró y dio paso al cuarto sereno, sin falta alguna a estas horas del jueves, su compañero de cuarto nunca estaba ahí, debido a su grupo de estudio.
Y así era mejor, ya que de ser de otro modo, le hubiera reprendido su actuar. No fue una intención maliciosa lo que incentivó su obra, aunque ahora siente el pesar de consciencia casi que hubiera sido esa y no la primera, verdadera y absoluta motivación.
Cerró la puerta cuando estuvo de espaldas y caminó hasta la litera, tocó el material que sostenía su cama y volteó para poder descender, ya en estado de reposo estiró las piernas, las movió de tal modo que se imaginó que fueran limpia parabrisas individuales que chocan al querer llegar al interior.
No fue hace mucho que se topó (énfasis en la casualidad) con un cuaderno abandonado en la silla en que eligió, supuso que debiera de ser de un alumno de una clase anterior, porque no conocía a nadie con ese nombre.
No iba a hacer una búsqueda furtiva de individuo en individuo; eso tomaría tiempo y esfuerzo, que de tan solo pensarlo le agotó, tampoco entregárselo al maestro, por más que fuera la solución más sensata en la inmediatez. La respuesta era darlo para que se quedara en las cosas perdidas hasta que el dichoso 'Miles', dueño del material, reclamara lo suyo.
No tuvo intenciones de fisgonear en lo que no es de su propiedad, si hay algo que puede decir sobre su naturaleza es que no mete las narices en cosas que, explícitamente, requieren de su atención. Hay ocasiones en las que presenció drama desenvolverse o un conocido le contó detalles jocosos del chisme de actualidad. Mucha de la información que sabe, en medios variados, siempre fue por que viene a su persona.
Pero bien dicen que la curiosidad mató al gato. La curiosidad es una poderosa fiera que no descansa y sus mejores presas son aquellos que pretenden control sobre ella, pues los manjares más exquisitos provienen del juego de tirar y aflojar. Algunos otros lo ven como un sendero que termina en desgracias si es que no se sabe dónde detenerse.
Pobre gatito que, a unos metros de la oficina, sucumbió a abrir lo de que entre sus patas ardía por ser visto. Una página, fue eso el primer paso.
Jugueteó con la lengua entre sus dientes y examinó el cuarto para cerciorarse de lo que haría. Maniobró la mochila hasta tenerla en frente y sacó el cuaderno que metió al momento de su apresurada decisión.
'Que Miles lleno de gracia me perdone.'
Fuese escena divina o una demostración de vulnerabilidad, atisbó cada trabajo sin permanecer las huellas en el papel por tiempo más de lo necesario. Cautivó por demás las secciones que vio sobre Spider-Man y versiones de este, a su interpretación el muchacho era fanático del héroe y usaba su imaginación para poner a personas de su estimación como este.
Lo que inició una chispa de otra curiosidad, sin soltar el cuaderno se paró y se dirigió al escritorio, apartó los libros y plumas que estaban esparcidos. Con el pie movió la silla para poder tomar asiento, dejó el cuaderno a un lado y tomó una hoja. De una de las tantas plumas escogió y empezó a elegir mentalmente los componentes que incorporaría.
-
El golpe a la puerta señaliza su presencia, uno de los trabajadores alza la mirada y le hace pasar "Miles, ¿Cierto?" se joma para alcanzar la caja de cartón.
"Sí." La acción del hombre aviva la esperanza de qué su cuaderno por fin vuelva a sus brazos, pero trata de no ponerle mucha expectativa para que no lo sale.
Quiere saltar en gesto de celebración al ver que la mano del trabajador está enganchado un cuaderno y cuando se le presenta a la cara cree que de su cabeza saldrán fuegos artificiales y versiones pequeñas de él juntarán sus manos y las alzarán.
Fuera de su imaginación esboza una de sus sonrisas marca registrada y con un cariño lo toma entre las manos, asiente ante una pregunta no dicha "Sí, es mío." A punto de guardar el cuaderno en la mochila se detiene, con un día le bastó estar lejos de su propiedad y aún si la distancia es de unas pocas capas de tela no quiere perderlo de vista ni un segundo.
"Gracias." El trabajador reconoce el agradecimiento asintiendo por su parte, así sale de la oficina y sube las escaleras para caminar el puente entre los dormitorios y la escuela no sin antes abrazar el cuaderno y suspirar. Inicia contador: Primer suspiro.
Es en la mañana siguiente que (en el cuarto, por el momento no sacará el cuaderno a ninguna parte) luego de terminar su tarea decide a dedicarse a un dibujo.
Todo va de acuerdo al plan hasta que, al recorrer unas páginas para llegar hasta una en blanco, encuentra notas adhesivas y otras hojas con dibujos que, claramente, no son de su autoría. En un principio se encuentra confundido por esto, su segunda etapa de reacción es curiosidad y por último una mezcla de diversión y apreciación.
La duración de estos estados mentales se acompaña con el bucle de observación de cada dibujo, es algo que en su vida había esperado. La balanceada mitad de ellos se trata sobre interacciones entre Gwen, Peter, Peni y él mismo, situaciones tan cotidianas como esperar el autobús, celebrar un cumpleaños o hasta andar en skate.
En cuanto la otra mitad de ellos es sobre un personaje en traje arácnido, en poses icónicas o nuevas proposiciones. Hay gran variedad de modificaciones en cada uno de ellos e intuye que, quien sea que fuere esta persona, seguía debatiendo el diseño final.
Aprecia que haya tenido la consideración de no hacer nada directamente en las hojas pero no hubiera de molestarle si es que se encontraba los dibujos entrelazados con los de él.
Un sonido ameno se le escapa y mueve la cabeza unos centímetros, por ahora dejará el anonimato seguir, deja de golpetear el aire con el lápiz y traza su boceto.
Espera que cuando logre dar con esta persona, acepte la propuesta que se formula al fondo de su cabeza.
-
Sección de papelería
Cuaderno que alza para examinar cuaderno que vuelve al estante con una pantomima de desaprobación, fuese el tamaño de las hojas, su gramaje, el color de la pasta, su encuadernación o el escandaloso precio.
Bueno, es un apartado en un supermercado, el promedio es la calidad escolar. Ni siquiera hay porqué husmear por la ciudad del dorado, si pudo dibujar en materiales tan simples como en los que lo hizo, debiera de pasar por alto la presentación al momento que explique su idea.
Pero la anticipación suele convertir a quién sea (cuenta incluso en una medida diminuta) en un maniaco de la perfección. Esta es una primera segunda impresión y quedaría marcado de por vida si se le rechazara, prefiere empujar el imaginario a un lado y concentrarse en juntar todo el valor del universo para usarlo el lunes.
Además, debe escoger algo ahora o se vería obligado -ante sus ojos- a usar hojas de su cuaderno o sueltas (ya está muy acometido en completar su plan), más ambas opciones cuentan con más desventajas que ventajas. Justo que se pierde en sus pensamientos falla en ver a Jeff al final del pasillo, es su voz comandante y certera como siempre; un tiro al blanco limpio incluso a kilómetros, que le hace voltear a su dirección.
"¿Ya te decidiste?" Jeff había decidido acompañar a su hijo al supermercado para comprar cosas faltantes en la casa para que Rio pudiera descansar, en cuanto llegaron el chico se separó de él y fue directo a la sección escolar. Pensó que sería un recorrido de ida y vuelta pero transcurrió un buen tiempo en el que se perdió comparando precios y quejándose entre dientes, que al mirar el reloj prefirió ir a Miles en vez de que Miles fuera a él.
Se acerca a su hijo y por un pequeño, diminuto, minúsculo, corto, reducido segundo le hace gracia ver lo lánguido que parece de lejos, no lo muestra, pues la pregunta que hace ocupa ese lugar. Miles va por el típico cuaderno de rayas y se dispone a la izquierda de Jeff, este lo ve como si esperara que algo pasara, como si ponerle persistencia en su mirada le haría entender la tardanza que supuso escogerlo.
Y arrastra los ojos del cuaderno a la cara de Miles, las cejas arqueadas y la boca entreabierta por el peso de la mandíbula "Chico, ve y agarra dos cuadernos más."
"Solo necesito un cuaderno." levanta el objeto que es la evidencia que la oración se completa con tenerlo.
"Ve y agarra otros, cuando los necesites ahí los tendrás en vez de quedarte 20 minutos parado viendo la nada. Me hubieras ayudado con algo de la lista."
Tira la cabeza para atrás torciendo la boca y jadea, sus hombros ceden y con un paso de zombi se arrastra donde había agarrado el cuaderno. Le dan ganas de usar su telaraña para no haber tenido que usar sus piernas como lo hace con Ganke o cuando es Spider-Man, que fácil sería ir por la vida con su telaraña todo el tiempo a su disposición.
A mitad de camino de regreso Jeff no espera y se adelanta a la caja registradora, siguiéndole un Miles todavía en su papel de berrinche.
Saliendo de la tienda el aire húmedo de la tarde se cuela en su nariz, lo que es raro de la ciudad, normalmente siente que aspira el esmog hecho granos de arena y que estos se disuelven en sus fosas nasales en una película fina que le obstruye de querer seguir sus funciones biológicas. Como todo citadino su cuerpo ignora la sensación y se adapta, pero un cambio se agradece de cuando en cuando.
Las bolsas se reparten de padre a hijo y andan por su camino hacia su casa.
Es el jueves, dos semanas exactas, que Miles logra llegar al paso final de su plan. Si por Miles fuera y el mundo hubiera cooperado, tres días hubieran bastado para completarlo, pero una investigación bien hecha requiere paciencia para que los resultados sean satisfactorios.
Está en el pasillo, su figura a punto de bloquear la puerta hacia el exterior y uno de sus pies marca el ritmo de la canción que reproduce en su cabeza. Ya hay muchos saliendo del salón y dirigiéndose fuera del ala.
Sus palmas sudan tanto que lo llevan a un paseo de recuerdos, se sentía así de nervioso siguiendo el consejo del tío Aaron en Gwen, aún siendo la misma intensidad la emoción, era de distinta especie.
Por supuesto que no le gusta un completo desconocido, su corazón es de Gwen y nadie más, pero vaya que no se hace fácil acercarse a alguien por más veces que lo haga (al menos no en esa escuela), su recurso para relajarse es mecer sus brazos y paulatinamente aumentar la intensidad.
Varios que quedan en el aula miran a Miles reconociéndolo de inmediato y provocando una ola sutil de risas. Uno de ellos se gira para ver la causa de la conmoción, recuesta su brazo en el respaldo torciéndose para mirar detrás "¿Ya viste quién es?" no hace esfuerzo alguno por moderar el volumen de su voz.
Le adolescente direcciona los ojos por la intriga que le ocasionó, termina de meter sus cosas a la mochila cuando ve quien cree que su amigo está refiriéndose pero no hay una pizca de noción, la confusión es clara en su rostro y el otro se responde a sí mismo "Es el chico que se le pegó por los pelos a una niña y que la tuvieron que rapar. Parecía como… Farquad, no, no, como el malo del Lorax. No me acuerdo de su nombre."
Esto le deja más perdide y frunce el seño, sincronizados ambos se paran y ponen la mochila "¿No te lo había contado?¿Cómo se llama?"
"No, recordaría muy bien que alguien haya perdido el pelo." Es una situación ridícula que imaginarse pero no lo sería tanto si le hubiera pasado, ojalá la chica no haya querido matarlo o algo peor, quizá sí y quizá sí lo intentó, se ve alguien a quien le mortificarían cosas así. Preguntará por detalles más al rato.
Al pasar el umbral de la puerta piden permiso al chico, a unos cuantos pasos escuchan pisadas por detrás y unos cuantos balbuceos hasta que una voz se manifiesta "Hola."
'Seguro es para otra persona.' No hay nadie que no te hable si no te conoce a excepción de que a) Tengan un problema contigo o b) Quieren algo de ti. Cualquier otra excusa sigue cayendo en estas categorías y se mezclan a buena medida.
Es hasta que Miles pregunta si es que el nombre que pronuncia es congruente con su identidad que la pareja se voltea a verlo, sin poder abrir la boca para cuestionar los motivos de todo, Miles le gana "Me llamo Miles." Extiende su mano y la quita por el nerviosismo, ¿Ya empezó con el pie izquierdo? Nadie se presenta así, a menos que sigan viviendo en los años 80's, de hace dos siglos, tampoco es una conferencia de negocios ni una presentación para vender algún producto milagroso.
Pensar que el misterioso Miles Morales omitiría cualquier queja u opinión del olvido de sus dibujos en su cuaderno fue irrealista, pero no puedes culpar ese titileo de esperanza en momentos llenos de desesperación, defiende silenciose.
Más que el corazón se le ha atorado en la garganta y amenaza con un ataque de tos que trata de aferrarse a algo para calmarle, es su imaginación o en verdad el suelo arde tanto que sus ondas dan efecto a un Dante trastornado por el descubrimiento de un nuevo circulo en el infierno. De un momento a otro sus huesos van a temblar tanto que sus articulaciones y cualquier otro tejido que los mantiene unidos se romperá y se desarmará con el efecto de sonido de esa marca reconocida a nivel mundial.
Una carta, un ensayo, una tarea incompleta o su boleta de calificaciones hubieran hecho mejor sustituto que sus dibujos, por que, enserio, tenía la intención de quitarlos de entre las hojas y guardarlos en un rincón oscuro para nunca hablarlo con nadie. Y se cachetea interiormente por no acordarse en el momento.
Uno debe entender que hay un línea que separa lo que se hace por una calificación (no se menosprecia la plusvalía del conocimiento) a lo que se hace por pasatiempo/entretenimiento, en realidad, no hay línea que las separe porque no están ni cerca de estar al mismo nivel o en la misma galaxia.
El arte que uno hace en las últimas hojas del cuaderno de una materia, al pie de página de un libro cuando se está aburrido e incluso en la goma toda mugrienta que por milagro apareció en el estuche, son custodiados por su creador y aquellos ojos que pueden verlos son por la confianza que se tiene al individuo.
Este secretismo se explica de la sensibilidad de un adolescente, ellos sienten a un 7x10^100 por ciento más que todos los seres vivos juntos. Si Miles pudiera entender el conflicto que sucede en lo que regresa la mano, empatizaría mucho y se sentiría mejor por compartir la experiencia.
La pintura de las paredes se ve más cálida que las otras veces, ¿Las habrán pintado recientemente? Se ven muy bien, debe de felicitar al pintor y a la marca por un trabajo de calidad, no se ve ningún parche, ni siquiera un brochazo, ¿Y si no usó brocha? Para esos acabados el uso de la felpa es mejor. El trabajo se ejecuta rápido y te manchas menos.
Claro que el pintor ya tiene su trayectoria y es un profesional en lo que hace, debe de tener muchas peticiones de numerosas escuelas para que vaya a hacer su servicio. Y acaba de encontrar un campo laboral que hasta este momento, este preciso momento, jamás se preocupó de considerar.
Y la arquitectura, ohhh la arquitectura. Arte complejo que habla a través de cada centímetro curvado, de sus esquinas perlinas y orgullosas, de sus atentos techados o sus espacios aterciopelados. ¿Qué más se puede esperar de-
Un.
Momento.
¿Cómo fue que dio con elle?
No puso su nombre en los dibujos, no puso una firma o algo parecido. ¿Qué hace este muchachito de uniforme no apto para su complexión, de tenis desamarrados y de evidente torpeza en su presentación aquí? ¿Será qué sí busca quejarse de la intrusión y desconsiderada manipulación a su patrimonio?
Eso ya lo consideró antes, ¿Recuerda?
La sorpresa no es la voluntad de ese deseo, sino el esfuerzo que debió de haber puesto para dar con elle, en serio que le deja sin palabras imaginar que tanto hizo. Pero bueno, aquí se encuentra ya y tiene que tomar la responsabilidad de sus acciones.
"Uhhhh, ¿Me alcanzas en un rato?" Su tren de pensamiento frena en la estación 'Presente' por la voz de su amigo, no espera por una confirmación verbal para caminar con el puño alzado y el pulgar en dirección a otro pasillo, elle asiente, agradecide de que puedan tener la -incómoda- plática.
"Sí, sí." ve que se da la vuelta con un chirrido de sus zapatos y a toda velocidad desaparece de cuadro, las luces se apagan excepto por la que encapsula a la dupla y el público se prepara para la escena de mayor tensión y conflicto de todas las cuatro mil palabras que han leído.
Quisiera no tener que ver la cara de Miles y mantenerse en total parálisis, su vida pasada como zarigüeya tomando el control de su cuerpo humano.
Pero cuando lo ve él evita el contacto visual, se aclara la garganta y coloca su mochila en su pecho esculcando su contenido "Creo que esto es tuyo…" ya con los papeles a la mano los proporciona.
"Uh, gracias." los prende con la izquierda sin hojearlos para cerciorarse de que no falte alguno, como no dice nada sobre el tema abre la boca para disculparse, una vez más, Miles le gana el turno.
"Dibujas muy bien." Pasa el brazo por la correa y ya colgada del hombro la avienta detrás para ponérsela, desliza sus pulgares en la parte interior de estas y las jala con ligereza. Un cumplido corto y sincero que espera sea bien recibido, y repasa las siguientes palabras ensayadas.
"Ah, gracias."
Wow, que conversación tan interesante, tanto charlatanes como presentadores tienen mucho que envidiarle a esto. De verdad, poetas y filósofos podrían enriquecerse de oír y presenciar esta obra maestra de la humanidad.
Miles vuelve a aclararse la garganta y estira los dedos aún con las correas "Estaba pensando que, y puedes decir que no, solo que se me hizo interesante y porque me gustaron tus dibujos, se me ocurrió que si ¿No quisieras hacer dibujos conmigo?" Bueno, ahí va su diseñado discurso. Por lo menos ya lo dijo, fue valiente y eso se aplaude.
Alza las cejas en la duración de la pregunta, estupefacte de la diferencia de su expectativa a la de Miles. Sus engranajes vuelven a la vida luego de un lapso corto, su respuesta no es pedir explicaciones, no es extrañarse o negarse, en definitiva se llena de preguntas sobre a qué se refiere en específico, por qué y cómo llegó a la idea y la más importante; de entre todas las personas que conoce, ¿Por qué elle? Se acaban de conocer (de cara a cara) y esto ocurre a los 5-7 minutos de tratarse.
Su respuesta es simple.
"¿Estás hablando en serio?" inclina la cabeza, con su mano derecha sujeta a la correa de su mochila haciendo una simetría parcial con Miles. Él asiente con la cabeza y con una expresión extrañada de su incredulidad reacomoda la mochila "Sí, como dije, si tu quieres." oír eso le saca una sonrisa y finge pensarlo demasiado apretando los labios y volteando al techo antes de aceptar la propuesta.
La caricaturesca acción de Miles de abrir demasiado los ojos y la boca, típico de quienes esperan lo opuesto, es adorable, se hace consciente y detiene las palabras que estaba a punto de decir y cambia su actitud a una segura pero que deja escapar su exaltación.
"Cool." caen sus abrazos a sus lados para inmediatamente poner su derecha en la cadera "Creo que luego te explico mejor. No quiero hacer esperar más a tu amigo." y lo siguiente es más para sí que para elle "Ya fue mucho por hoy."
Bufa amenizade "Sí, yo tampoco quisiera hacerlo esperar." coloca los papeles en el lugar seguro de su mochila, al cerrar el zipper no se la vuelve a poner sino que la agarra "Luego nos vemos."
"Claro." chasquea los dedos y se excusa con rapidez, unos cuatro o cinco pasos y regresa la mirada para alzar la mano como otra despedida y su gesto es correspondido.
Cuando da la vuelta a una esquina y toma otros pasos se detiene y da un pequeño salto, alza el brazo empuñado y como acto final se inclina ante el público.
-
En un principio la rutina de compartir un mismo cuaderno tenía sus fallas, como todo en etapas prematuras, más con el pasar de las semanas probó ser una actividad interesante. Al pasar de una mano a otra era como dejar que el viento dirigiera la vela de un barco en plena tormenta; la tierra a la que se llega no está sujeta a ninguna expectativa y lo que ahí pueda haber, varía tanto como la imaginación abarque.
Y es que para entender la complacencia que causa hay que darle un vistazo a sus contenidos.
El dibujo favorito de Miles hasta el momento es en el que están en un laboratorio, a su alrededor hay toda clase de sustancias y embaces tanto en vitrinas como en mesas; algunos en el suelo con su contenido vertido en el suelo que causan la aparición de criaturas mágicas, y en el centro de todo el caos se encuentra la dupla. En lo que Miles mide en una pipeta un líquido cerúleo, el de un matraz es vaciado en una gran caldera que brilla e ilumina sus figuras.
Recuerda que empezó por el estrés que la materia le causó y por ocupar su mente en otra cosa garabateó materiales de laboratorio, al tener el cuaderno de vuelta y abrirlo ya había una escena más concreta. Cada intercambio añadió componentes hasta lo que es.
Para le otre sería donde van en monociclos dentro de un dragón-vagón, vestidos en prendas del oficio juglar pero con actitud caballeresca ante el peligro que la criatura representa para las letras pasajeras. Sus armas son una gran pluma por espada y por escudo una caja de pizza con las manchas de grasa. Justamente el imaginarse la ridícula historia detrás es lo que le hace tenerle en gran aprecio.
Se añade que con este acuerdo se emprendieron tratos que un día Miles se atrevió a decir en voz alta.
Eran las ocasiones en que se acompañaban al comer para seguir dibujando, otras para escuchar música o hablar de lo que fuera.
Es fin de semana cuando ocurre, el calor emana de las paredes aún a esa hora del día, sujeto u objeto sin energía para nada excepto permanecer en su lugar. Ya ha dado unas 4 vueltas en la cama, otra y será considerado pollo a la brasa.
El cuaderno yace abierto por la palma de su mano, no se preocupa de que el sudor se transfiera en el papel, solo quiere irse al polo norte con lo que ya trae puesto y darse un chapuzón, deslizarse en los glaciares o usar la propia nieve de colcha. Le cuesta levantarse e ir a la sala pero dejarse caer en el sofá no requiere esfuerzo.
Acuesta su nuca en el respaldo y cierra sus ojos para disfrutar mejor la ayuda del ventilador, pasa poco y siente el peso a un lado de él, abre los ojos y ve que dicha persona es Rio.
"Ya sé tardó el de los helados, todavía que los da caros se digna a aparecer cuando quiere." Rio exhala y sigue el ejemplo de su hijo para recostar su cabeza "Ya me acostumbré al acondicionador del hospital." susurra antes de cruzar las piernas y colocar su brazo sobre la pierna superior. Examina a Miles y da cuenta de los bocetos que descansan en su regazo.
"¿Por qué no vas a la tienda por unas paletas?" unos cuantos dólares le son dados, deja las cosas en la mesita y se dispone a completar la tarea, a mitad de camino del sofá a la puerta le escucha "¿Es tu nuevo cuaderno para tus dibujos?"
"Um, sí." guarda el dinero y voltea a ver a Rio, un cierto impulso le hace dar información extra, tal vez es porque siente que ya ha mantenido mucho en secreto -la magnitud de su otra identidad y la preocupación que les causaría- y por esta vez, siendo su esperanza hablando, desea compartir algo "Pero lo comparto con alguien más."
"¿Ah sí?" nota el arqueo de cejas y la captura de interés que origina la acción.
Rio ve ese pequeño brillo en los ojos de su hijo al asentir "Creo que somos amigos ahora."
No puede sino devolver una sonrisa "Entonces tendré que conocer a esa personita." Miles sabe que es tanto genuino como para meterse un poco en sus nervios, así que aparenta tener prisa y sale del departamento.
Después de volver una idea se formó ya y empieza con los cimientos: arenas movedizas hechas de helado.
¿Qué aventura podrá salir de ahí? Es cuestión de esperar lo inesperado.
Y con varios trazos en el papel le sienta de humor que de un extravío logró encontrar eso; algo inesperado.
“What happened?” you nearly shrieked, wide eyes bulging at the sight of your precious Izumi’s hair.
Long, black hair similar to that of silk lay tangled and matted upon tiny shoulders. The braid woven into it did nothing to protect it from the onslaught of rain and mud buried deep into it, instead making it worse with a huge knot at the base of her head. You didn’t even want to imagine the work it would take to scavenge it all.
“We got a little too enthusiastic outside,” Iroh chuckled, but even he could not hide the nerves in his voice as he too looked upon the state of your daughter's hair. He was in no better state than she was, clothes dripping on the palace floor and mud footprints trailing behind him. He, however, had the luxury of lacking any hair that could have suffered from the outdoor activity he and Izumi insisted on.
Jumping in mud puddles amongst the rain. You cursed yourself for begrudgingly allowing them to do so.
“I can see that,” you hissed, though the older man took no offense to it. Not with the years he spent with his nephew, your husband, in his teenage youth. “What I mean is the obvious tornado in my daughter’s hair!”
“Don’t be mad!” Izumi pleaded, trudging in her robes that now weigh down on her heavily. You rushed over to peel off the outer layer, leaving her in her underclothes, to prevent any further accidents. Like her tripping over her now heavy clothes. “We had so much fun!”
“Yes!” Iroh repeated, smile not budging at the glare you threw at him. “That we did, little Izumi. Tell them about that large puddle you found.”
“Oh yeah! It was,” she expanded her arms out as wide as she could, ignoring your fussing as you evaluated how on earth you were ever going to fix her hair, “thiiiiiiis big! I almost slipped at first, but I made the biggest splash ever in it!”
“I can see that…” you nervously chuckled. “Sweetheart, what about your hair?”
“What about it?” She innocently blinked.
She would soon realize just what you meant.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Izumi shrieked, pulling forward and placing a hand over the spot of hair you pulled on. “You’re doing it too hard!”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” you said between clenched teeth, grimacing as you looked at the comb you were using to attempt to pick apart the huge knots in her hair. There was dozens of accidentally ripped hairs, and your heart broke at the pain you knew you were causing your daughter.
“I truly am sorry,” Iroh apologized for the hundredth time. “I didn’t realize that her hair would suffer such,” he lifted the half of the hair he was helping out with, “travesty in this weather. I never had to worry about this with my son or my nephew.”
“It’s fine,” you sighed. “I know you meant no harm by it. I’m just worried we might have to cut it at this rate.”
Izumi let out a loud gasp, wretching away from you both as if you burned her. “No, no, no!” She shrieked, protectively covering her hair while she was at it. “I don’t want it cut! No cut!”
“I know you don’t, baby, but we might have to. I don’t want to spend hours pulling on your hair if it’s only going to hurt you.”
“But…” Your daughter sniffled, and she allowed you to coo and reach over to wrap her in your arms. “But I like my hair…”
“It’ll grow back,” you attempted to reassure, but the tearful look in her eyes made even you feel doubtful about the idea. “It’ll be nice and long again in no time!”
“Your father once cut his hair, you know,” Iroh piped in, catching the younger one’s attention. “For him, it meant a new beginning. A new path in his journey for honor.”
“New beginning?” Izumi repeated back.
Iroh nodded. “Yes, and it could mean the same for you. Plus, I think you’ll look cuter than he did.”
That got a giggle out of her, finally, and you sent a grateful smile over her head to the older man. He gave a playful wink in return.
“So, what do you think? Can I cut your hair? I think you’ll like that a whole better than us tugging on your head again.” You gently ran a hand up and down your daughter’s back as she thought about your suggestion.
“I guess…” she pouted.
And pout she did as you got up, grabbed the scissors, and proceeded to chop to her shoulders.
. . .
“What happened?” Zuko gasped, gazing at the disaster sitting in the middle of your’s and his room.
Your daughter sat in your lap, teary eyed, surrounded by remnants of her once luscious hair, while Iroh attempted to cheer her up with all the cheesy jokes in the world.
“We had to…” you winced, allowing Izumi to scramble up from your lap and run to her father’s open arms.
“Papa!” She cried, sobbing once more as Zuko brought her to his chest. Ever her father’s little girl. “My hair was a big mess and they tried to fix it but it hurt so they had to cut it but I didn’t want to cut it but it was gonna hurt again,” she took a deep breath to finish her ramble. “And now it's short!”
“I see…” Zuko consoled, looking to you and his uncle for confirmation. At your nod’s his face softened, although he still appeared slightly awkward at all the sobbing Izumi was doing. Ever the socially stunted man he was. “I think you look very pretty, though.”
Izumi sniffled. “Really?”
“Really,” Zuko nodded, waddling over to your spot on the floor and plopping down next to you. “The prettiest. In fact, I think it looks a lot cooler than mine.”
She gasped, touching the ends of her hair. “Really!” She repeated yet again, this time with a squeal. Her face turned red at the compliments from her father, but then she gasped for what felt like the hundredth time and pointed at Zuko. “You should cut your hair too! Then we can match!”
The speed at which your husband’s face was laughable. “Oh, I don’t think-”
“Yeah, why don’t you?” You giggled, waving around the scissors you still held. “I think you two would look adorable with matching hair.”
Amber eyes whipped over to Iroh, pleading with him, but alas the older man simply laughed. “The young lady,” he waved over to Izumi, “has spoken. I think it’s in your best interest to listen.”
“It’s just hair, it’ll grow back!” She repeated your earlier words, seeming more confident in herself knowing her father would look just like her soon enough.
Knowing he was outnumbered, the Fire Lord sighed. “Lets get it over with…”
Angst🌠. Fluff🌸. Slice of life💫. Maduro(explicito más no contenido sexual)🎀. Pre-canon🧵. En medio del canon🎡. Post-canon🦚. Divergencia del canon❄️.
Arcane:
Lavander petals (Vi x Lectora)(PAP)
Contenido: Un fantasma se presenta en tu puerta, el pasado no se puede dejar atrás tal parece.
Avatar - Avatar: El camino del agua:
Nunca debió ser ( Familia Sully & Lectora) (PAP)
Contenido: No importa que ha pasado. Se ha ido y las cosas no volverán a ser lo mismo. Memorias acompañan el camino al descanso eterno.
Dancing Queen ( Neytiri & Lectora) (PAP)
Contenido: Neytiri es la acompañante de todas sus danzas, y vuelve a retomar la costumbre luego de un tiempo.
Lo que nos hace vivos ( Jake & Lector! Pronombres neutros) (TEP)
Contenido: Después de la ocupación de los humanos, los espiritus de todo el pueblo necesitan ser avivados.
Corazón fuerte (Varang)
Contenido: Todo estaba bien hasta que no lo estuvo
Avatar: La leyenda de Aang:
Malteada ( Sokka & Zuko) (TEP)
Contenido: Sokka y Zuko vuelven a encontrarse en el reino tierra, luego de disfrutar el tiempo juntos, Sokka habla sobre una supuesta malteada legendaria y se embarcan en su búsqueda.
Gravity Falls:
Stanford Filbrick Pines
Contenido: Una mirada a los desesperos de un científico.
Quién irá a matarte
Contenido: ¿Cuál es la historia detrás del retrato en la cabaña?
High Value (Stanford Pines x Lectora)
Contenido: Entrelaza hilos y destinos
en su viaje se han perdido
Cuento de épica
por cuál se evita.
El pasado no vale nada
si la plata te mata
Oculta tu secreto
o revive tu lamento
Sons (Stanford Pines & Lector & Stanley Pines)
Contenido: Escuela Preparatoria y chicos de primer ingreso es la combinación de palabras para el desastre, conocer a un chico seguro no cambiará nada ni el destino mismo, ¿O sí?
Spiderman ITSV - ATSV:
Explosión e implosión de arte ( Miles Morales & Lector! Pronombres neutros)
Contenido: Miles ha perdido su cuaderno de dibujo.
Las traes ( Hobie Brown x Lectora) (PAP)
Contenido: Al estar tu grupo preferido en tu dimensión se toma la oportunidad de tener un buen tiempo, esto incluye a Hobie.
One of my favourite things about reading fan fiction is witnessing people’s writing get better with every chapter and new fic.
Whether it’s their first time posting, or their fiftieth fic, it’s so great to watch people’s voices, styles, and prose in general emerge and improve with every update.
“Es decir que se han apoderado de lo que creiamos creer y nos hacen creer que creiamos que los pensamientos que hemos tenido son pensamientos que creemos que creiamos?”
