post-apocalyptic cyber AU, 10,663 words [AO3]
Itâs on a November day that Her Imperial Condescension releases the Lord English virus, causing a mass system failure among the carapacian androids of her own production and plunging the world into chaos. Four hundred thirteen years later, Rose Lalonde goes missing.
The first time they meet theyâre both simple cadets, anonymous soldiers among a sea of others just like them, with their accents and armors the only details differentiating them. Syrene wears an unfit, scrappy breastplate as white as her newly assigned pegasus (her pride and joy, eyes so vigil they remind her of the little sister sheâs left home sometimes), while Selena carries herself tall in her mage robes.
Sheâs no Fluorspar yet but the way she measures the ground with her steps might as well already scream of her future every time her boots clack on the stone pavement of the hallways of the castle. Syrene thinks idly that the only other person to walk those hallways like that is their archer princeling, who still smells of his late motherâs milk no matter how mature he thinks he has to act, and maybe itâs that thought that makes her approach Selena.
(Or at least, thatâs how sheâll justify it to herself in a late future.)
âHey there,â she says, as casual as she can manage with the weight of her full gear on her shoulders and a few strands of hair blocking her eyes. She blows those out of the way. âLooking for something?â
Selena stops dead in her tracks, something that didnât look just quite possible only a few seconds ago, and turns towards her, bows her head just slightly in recognition.
âNot really,â comes the dignified answer, thick Gradoan accent coloring her consonants and folding her vowels as thin as Carcino silk robes. âItâs break time and I wanted to see the castle.â
Syrene smiles, wide enough that sheâll remember the pull of her cheeks years later, countless other smiles later, and offers herself as a guide. âIâll even give you a ride on my pegasus if drinks are on you tonight,â she declares, bolder than she feels, and prays Selena is not a lightweight.
She finds out soon enough how well they can both hold their liquor.
***
The first time they topple over onto Selenaâs bed, giddy with euphoria and the best Gradoan wine to celebrate Selenaâs recent promotion, Syrene lets herself melt in between the sheets with a helpless giggle, taking in the sight above of her. Selenaâs flushed skin, all the way down to the collar of her shirt, the countless, faint freckles on the bridge of her nose, the black of her pupils eating up the stark blue of her eyes.
She probably makes a crude joke, something slurred about mages being good with their hands that only sounds funny in her head, but Selena is gracious enough to at least snort.
âI live for my Emperor.â Her voice is a huffed murmur tickling Syreneâs ear, and if the way the dim light dances in her stare seems foreboding Syrene doesnât know what else to do about it but press closer, shivering as Selena continues, âbut you, youâreââ
She trails off, like she doesnât know what to say next except for Syreneâs name, voice feverish like a convict, and it makes Syreneâs fingertips dig deeper.
Later that night, with the blueish darkness right before the dawn seeping through the walls almost as if it were solid, Syrene thinks people in love shouldnât be that desperate.
Selena is sleeping next to her, hair a halo on her pillow, and her mouth hangs ajar as she snores softly. It smells of her, and of bedsheets and the lingering alcohol, but the knot in Syreneâs throat quivers like the imperceptible, harmless tremors that shake Grado from time to time.
A nightingale starts singing outside the window and Syrene tugs at the covers so that theyâre covering them both up to their chins. She traces the outline of Selenaâs jaw with two fingers, careful not to wake her up, and thinks of Frelia, of her King and the princeling whoâs all grown up now and his little sister; the child fills to the brim the gaping hole nostalgiaâs gnawed in the middle of Syreneâs chest like a woodworm with every passing day. Sheâs duty-bound to them, just like Selenaâs duty-bound to her own country, her own woodworms, but Syrene is going to smoke those out one by one.
âJust you wait,â she whispers, muffled by the sheets and the pillow, and with that she falls asleep.
âI think these were the last ones,â Shirayuki says as she drives her spear into the twitching mass at her feet, scattering it in a flurry of pixels. She makes quick work of the remaining malwares as Zenâs voice crackles in her ears through her helmet.
âGood work out there,â heâs saying, relief clear in his tone. âNeed me to send an extraction team your way? I think Obiâs free right now.â
She would usually laugh at him for that, maybe tease him about how much of a protective boyfriend he can be sometimes, and Zen, the second son of the head of the Clarines organization, would splutter something about how thatâs absolutely untrue. Todayâs been rough though, so Shirayuki lets herself be spoiled.
âThatâd be lovely, yeah.â
If Zen finds her acceptance unusual or alarming he doesnât say so; instead he just hums and Shirayuki can hear some tinkering and slight static as he gives Obi her position.
âHe says heâll be there in ten, he was already stationed close by,â Zen says, now back to Shirayukiâs channel, and she sighs. Thatâs enough time to do something about the nasty gash on her thigh at least.
She sits down, then rips the cloth of her pants out of the area and reaches for the flask of disinfectant. She doesnât look forward to the next part one bit.
âKeep me company?â she asks, wishing Zen were there with her instead of back at their base, only connected to Shirayuki by feeble radio signal. So childish, she chides herself: she and Zen have completely different roles inside the organization. Shirayuki is a trained operative, a white cell, a doctor of sorts if their world could be compared to a sick patient, while Zen is there to make sure they all donât collapse like a big, apocalyptic jenga tower.
But Zen is also her boyfriend and heâs most likely having the same thoughts. Itâs reassuring.
âSure thing,â she hears him say, a tad bit strained with worry, and after a beat Zen starts telling her of how that morning Kiki and Torou broke into Mitsuhideâs room and hid all his socks. Shirayuki takes a deep breath and focuses on the lull of his voice as she dabs the liquid on her open wound and tries her best to bandage it with only one hand (the other is still numb from a close one with a Trojan).
Itâs not her best job by far but itâll have to make do until she gets back and can get Ryuu or Garrack to fix her up.
Zen laughs with a flourish of static and she can hear someone, most likely Mitsuhide judging by the deep timbre of their voice, complain loudly about Zenâs biased recounting of the socks accident. It makes the lingering stress gnawing at Shirayukiâs guts melt just enough to huff out a breathy laugh herself.
Then Obi materializes in front of her, seemingly out of thin air for any untrained eyes, and Shirayuki smiles.
akagami no shirayukihime || obizen || modern au || 4119 words
The new apartment isnât so bad, or thatâs what Obi tells himself as the freshly-painted white walls stare at him devoid of any sign of life except for the few piles of boxes heâs spent the day amassing in the living room.
âWeâve just moved in, of course it looks lifeless,â he says to no one in particular, or maybe to Ryuu if heâs within hearing range and not already engrossed in one of his too-big books. Obi marvels at the wonders of genetics every time he sees his sonâs nose stuck in any of those; theyâve got to weigh more than him too, what with how tiny Ryuu is.
âThatâs true,â answers him an apparently still in the realm of reality Ryuu, wiping his hands on his pants as he waddles out of the bathroom. âAt least we already have water. And electricity.â
His eyes look more half-lidded than usual and Obi feels a pang of guilt at that. Hopefullyâ hopefully thisâll be their last time moving, so that Ryuu can finally make some friends his age at school and have the carefree childhood he deserves. Obi has to make it work, for him.
âYou know what?â Obi starts, and the look heâs given tells him that nope, Ryuu doesnât indeed know what. âIâm going to get us some nice croquettes for dinner at the convenience store we saw on our way here, that fine by you?â
He starts making his way to the door while waiting for an answer and is about to put his shoes on when the doorbell rings. Obi blinks, takes a look through the peephole with his shoes still in his hands: outside their new apartment stands someone with bright red hair and a smile thatâs almost distracting enough for Obi not to notice the stockpot in the strangerâs hands.
He slides the door open with a growl of his stomach right after putting his shoes back. âUh, hello?â
âHello!â the stranger greets back, positively radiant. âIâm Shirayuki, I live next door. Is now a good time? I figured you wouldnât have much to eat on your first day here so I⌠well, this is for you!â She thrusts the stockpot forward as she speaks and the smell coming from it is enough to make Obiâs stomach growl again, this time louder.
Shirayuki doesnât comment on it, for which heâs grateful. Instead she tilts her head a bit, spotting Ryuu in the living room, and her congeniality melts into something warmer, not a single smudge of judgement or pity in her big green eyes. Obi already likes her.
âWe have enough plates and cutlery for three,â he blurts out, the weariness from the long day somewhat lifted from his shoulders. âAnd whateverâs in that pot looks a bit too much for Ryuu and me to finish all by ourselves.â
âIs that alright? I wouldnât want to imposeââ
âNonsense!â Obi singsongs, already ushering her in and taking the pot from her hands so that she can take off her shoes. (Also because the thing is heavy as hell and wow, just what kind of muscles does this girl have under her blouse.)
âIf you insistâŚâ Shirayuki finally agrees, carefully shutting the door behind her, and Obiâs momentary triumph almost bursts like a bubble when he bumps into one of the boxes and nearly sends their dinner flying.
âRyuu,â he huffs, grip tightening on the handles of the stockpot, âcould you get the plates? They should be in that box over there.â He points at said box with one foot and canât help but smile when Shirayuki rushes to help Ryuu with it; he guesses she might simply be that type.
Dinner goes by smoothly once theyâre done setting the table and Shirayukiâs presence makes the apartment feel less empty as she chatters about her life, a certain Zen guy she lives with and who wasnât home tonight to greet them like a good neighbor (she seems such a great that girl Obiâs not surprised at all that sheâs taken) and all that there is to know about the building and their neighborhood.
When she offers to help washing the dishes Obi gives her a pointed look, which is thankfully enough to dissuade her, and instead she ends up dragging a chair next to where heâs standing.
âOh, if you or Ryuu ever get sick donât hesitate to come to me,â she says as he scrubs sauce from the bottom of the stockpot. âIâm a doctor.â
Thereâs a certain pride in the way her voice rings out at that; it makes Obi stop and turn to her out of instinct and Shirayuki flashes him a grin that would most definitely sway him were he into girls at all.
Not gonna make the same mistake again, he thinks, then cringes at his own wording. Thereâs nothing about Ryuu that he could ever consider a mistake but, well, forcing himself into a relationship out of sheer inadequacy and misplaced expectations hadnât been his brightest moment in life.
âIâll take you up on that then, Doc.â
***
Obi likes Shirayuki a lot. Sheâs a good person, a cool neighbor and she seems to get along with Ryuu swimmingly, which are all reasons why Obi likes her and also why heâs currently standing in front of her boyfriend like a deer in the headlights because the guy isâ the guyâs pretty, thereâs no other way to put it.
Heâs known the kind and wonderful person Shirayuki is for barely a day and heâs already managed to get the hots for her significant other.
âUm,â Zen (at least Obi remembers his name) says, most likely not for the first time, as he takes a look at a very still Obi standing in front of his door, âyouâre the new guy, right?â
His eyes are kind, although a bit confused at the moment, and Zen himself seems to radiate a vague sense of calm, strands of soft-looking bed hair sticking up in every direction and clothes that hang loose on him. Itâs enough to calm Obiâs nerves just by being near him.
âItâs me, yeah.â He nods, then styles his lips in what he hopes is a convincing-yet-casual smile. âIâve baked you something to return the favor.â
Zenâs eye fall on the cake Obiâs carrying and his cheeks colour the faintest shade redder. Pretty. âAh, I wasnât even home, really⌠Shirayuki did all the work.â
Obiâs smile widens as he gently shoves the cake in Zenâs space. âThen I can count on you to save some for her, canât I?â he asks, only to lean back on his heels when Zen finally accepts the gift with an awkward laugh and a dip of his head.
âDunno, it all depends on how good it tastes,â Zen says with a grin that matches his own, and Obi knows heâs utterly and unprecedentedly screwed.
He makes his way back home in a few hurried steps after bidding goodbye to Zen and makes a beeline for the kitchen as soon as he slips out of his shoes, grabbing the first clean glass he sees and pouring himself some cold water.
âSo what,â he mumbles with his mouth pressed against the rim. Then louder, âitâs okay to appreciate a good-looking guy when you see one!â
âThatâs usually how it goes, yes,â comes Ryuuâs voice from behind him and Obi nearly breaks the glass against the counter.
âYou donât have school on Sundays and Iâm an idiot, huh.â
Ryuuâs head comes resting against his leg with a quiet sound. âOne of those is most certainly true.â
***
The first time he gets to see Shirayukiâs place happens one day on his way back from the library with Ryuu. Theyâre walking up the stairs, Ryuu with a handful of new books to burn through pressed against his chest and his free hand in Obiâs, and Shirayuki turns to them with a smile from where sheâs watering the potted plant of their landing.
âGood afternoon!â She waves at them, and thereâs something tugging at Obiâs chest as Ryuu slips his hand out of his grasp to wave back. Shirayukiâs started lending him some of her favorites novels as soon as sheâs found out just how much of a bookworm Ryuu is and the two are planning to start their own book club as far as Obi knows.
âIs that I am a cat that i see there?â Shirayuki asks with a low whistle. âYouâre really amazing, Ryuu!â
Obiâs apparently amazing son seems to be too busy studying the floor to answer that but to his credit he does mumbles something like a thank you, to which Shirayuki answers with a sunny smile and a knowing wink in Obiâs direction.
âAh, Zen and I have something for you,â she adds. âCan you come inside a second?â
âCan we?â Ryuu asks, no longer looking at his feet, and Obi canât find any possible reason to refuse so he nods, quietly shushing his own thrill at the idea of maybe seeing Zen again.
Shirayuki and Zenâs apartment is pretty much the same as he had pictured it: it smells nice, something like wild flowers and fabric softener, itâs fairly tidy and yet still full of little details that make it feel well lived, full to the brim of the same soothing energy as the two living in there. There are a few watercolours decorating the walls but Obi doesnât dwell on those too much, at least not until reaching the living room and seeing Zen, apron-clad and sitting in front of an easel with a paintbrush in his hand.
âAlready working on a new one?â Shirayuki asks him breezily at the same time as Zen flashes Obi and Ryuu a welcoming smile.
âI was feeling inspired,â is all he says, then points with a swing of his paintbrush towards the dining table. âTheir gift is there by the way.â
âGift?â asks Ryuu.
âYou paint?â coughs Obi.
Zen narrows his eyes at him like heâs ready to stab Obi with the brush. âYes, a gift, and yes, I paint. Sometimes.â
âZenâs being shy but he soldiered through a really bad art block to finish this,â Shirayuki interjects, something in the look she gives Zen not quite belonging on the face of his supposed (itâs not like theyâve ever actually said theyâre together, Obi muses, but what else could they be) girlfriend. Sheâs holding a frame in her hands and when she turns it towards them it takes all of Obiâs self control to school his expression into something less awestruck and more grateful.
He hears Zen grouse about not being shy and how his art block wasnât that bad but what must be a pretty endearing scene goes lost on him as he keeps his eyes glued to the paintingâ the painting Zenâs made for him and Ryuu. Itâs a simple landscape, yellow flowers peppering a hill with a flock of birds taking flight in the distance, but itâs lovely.
âI thought you might want to start decorating your place a bit.â Now Zenâs looking directly at him and Obi feels himself melt under the weight of it, starting from the flush on his neck to his stomach to his knees. He wonders if itâd be appropriate, to liken Zen to a sun of sorts.
Obi opens his mouth but itâs Ryuuâs quiet voice that he hears. âIt could use a dragon or two, but we appreciate it.â
When Zen laughs the light catches in his eyes.
***
âUgh, you smell of booze.â
Torou dismisses his complaints with a wave of her hand, bracelets jingling around her wrist, and closes the door behind her, starting to make her way inside. âIâm just a bit tipsy, donât be rude.â
Obi sighs as the prospect of a quiet night spent by himself with the warm buzz of beer and one of Shirayukiâs novels evaporates before his eyes, mercilessly dispelled by Torouâs inquiring gaze on him. He knows that expression and it usually doesnât mean anything good for him.
âRyuu fell asleep on the couch,â he whispers to her once theyâve reached the living room. âSo be quiet and donât even think of waking him up.â
Torou brings one of her hands to her chest in an affronted fashion, but her eyes soften as they land on Ryuuâs blanket cocoon. She walks up to him with feather-light steps and crouches down in front of where his head peeks out from the covers, something unreadable in her expression as she looks at him as if sheâs trying to memorize every little detail.
âHow is he?â she murmurs. âIs he making friends at school?â
Obi plops down on the pavement next to her with a sigh, outstretches his arm to grab at the can he had just opened before Torou barging in out of nowhere. âThereâs this Kirito heâs been talking about lately,â he says, then takes a sip of thankfully still cold beer. âI told him to bring him over if he wants, but we should make the house a bit more presentable before.â
Torouâs laugh is a sliver of her usual one, both in volume and bite, and she turns to Obi for a moment when she says, âlook at you, being a proper dad and all.â Â Then, lower, âunlike me.â
Thereâs a shimmer in her eyes that isnât because of the tipsiness and Obi resists the urge to reach out for her, taking another sip instead.
âWork is work,â is all he says, because he knows it just as well as she does. âPlus, itâs not like he never sees you. And you help with his expenses a lot.â
The nod she gives him seems unconvinced, but sheâs quick to shift the conversation to more comfortable (for her, of course) grounds.
âSoâŚâ she starts, and Obi already doesnât like her tone. âFound the hunk of your dreams yet?â
He nearly chokes on his beer at that, and the feeling of dread he usually gets whenever Torou decides to take it upon herself to help Obi with his heart woes is made worse by how quickly Zenâs face flashes in front of him at that.
âI wouldnât reallyâ I wouldnât call him a hunk,â he rasps.
âSo there is someone!â
âYeah, and heâs taken.â
Torouâs face falls, which is way worse than any of her teasing. âOh, Little Mermaid,â she says, âwhat have you doneâŚâ
Absolutely nothing he wants to retort, but instead chooses to put the now almost empty can down and slump against the couch with a huff he hopes is eloquent enough. Torou seems to be in a merciful mood because she drops the subject as well, busying herself with Ryuuâs blankets instead.
âIâll carry him to his room,â Obi offers, hoping Ryuu wonât wake. âYou can take my bed if you want to crash for the night, but Iâm expecting pancakes in the morning.â
The smile Torou gives him is genuine if a little bit tired and Obi lets her ruffle up his hair like she did when they were younger and always biting more than they could chew. He blames the nostalgia on the alcohol.
***
Running into Zen at the convenience store shouldnât be a surprise given how close it is to their building, yet the idea of someone who looks as high-class as him in such an everyday place still makes Obi smile. At least the stuff in his cart looks way healthier than what most people usually by at a convenience store: fresh fruit, a carton of milk and a few packs of frozen noodles that are currently on sale.
Obi looks at his own cart, where two portions of curry rice lie covered by sweets and Ryuuâs favorite juice, and wonders if itâs worth trying to explain that his usual grocery list is slightly more sensible.
âI saw you had a guest the other day,â Zen says, voice easy and breezy, but thereâs a look in his eyes Obi canât quite place. (So he shrugs it off, because itâs better off that way.)
âI hope she didnât say anything weird to youâŚâ he mutters, but Zenâs expression is still there no matter how hard he seems to be trying to smother it so Obi adds, âsheâs my ex, Ryuuâs mom. I think she must have fought with her girlfriend and decided to crash at my place.â
Torou hadnât really given him an explanation but thatâs just how things have always been between them, implicit truths and wordless hints.
That seems to have cleared whatever was going through Zenâs mind though and the way his shoulders droop as he gives Obi a sympathetic pat on his arm makes Obi feel more relaxed as well, the ice gone from under his feet. âMan, I feel you,â Zenâs saying now, âShirayuki becomes a mess every time she fights with her girlfriend too.â
Obi sputters at that, the ice suddenly very much there again and ready to crack and swallow him whole because thereâs no way heâs heard it right. âHerââ
âOh, she didnât tell you?â Zen looks kind of mortified, kind of worried, and Obi wants to wipe that off his face. âSheâs usually always gushing about Kihal to everyone she meets⌠Itâs a miracle youâve escaped it for this long.â
âUh,â Obi says, feeling and looking like a fish out of the water. âMaybe she told Ryuu, heâs her favorite.â
Zenâs laugh is loud enough to make a few heads turn to them but Obi barely registers it; he doesnât even know what he says to Zen next, and the walk home is a blur of late afternoon sunlight and pale blue eyes.
***
meowbi: hes not taken
extorourdinaire: ?? mr not-a-hunk?
extorourdinaire: i think i saw him btw. real cute 10/10
meowbi: yeah
meowbi: he says the girl he lives w/ has a gf
extorourdinaire: and u assumed they were an item bc⌠?
meowbi: cause im stupid and still struggling w/ the poison of the heteronormative society that raised me
extorourdinaire: :â)
extorourdinaire: look at u, all grown up and self aware
meowbi: i had a good teacher
extorourdinaire: save the flattery for the boy!!
Obi stares at the screen of his phone for a long, painfully hopeful moment, then sighs. As if.
meowbi: he could still be str8 :/
meowbi: [sad sticker]
extorourdinaire: lmao tell that to the frankly quite nice sum he donated to a lgbt shelter last month
meowbi: wait
meowbi: how do u know
meowbi: actually dont answer that
extorourdinaire: ;3c
meowbi: torou god Fucking damnit
extorourdinaire: the fact that u capitalized âfuckingâ and not âgodâ says a lot abt u
meowbi: dont go all illegal on my crush maybe???
extorourdinaire: aw u use such harsh words
extorourdinaire: anyway gotta go <33 call u later sweetpea
meowbi: by all means dont
***
meowbi: and btw allies donate money too
extorourdinaire: go get him tiger
***
âWish me luck?â His voice kind of cracks on the last syllable but he thinks he can forgive himself for that, what with the looming evening heâs about to spend with Zen all by themselves because Shirayuki is staying at Kihalâs place for the night. Obi has no idea whether this is a date or not.
Ryuuâs little hands are warm and grounding on his chest where heâs stubbornly smoothing out the wrinkles of Obiâs shirt. âGood luck.â
He pauses, maybe satisfied with his work, and looks up at Obi with calm eyes as he says, âfrom Mom too.â
âAight,â Obi huffs, getting up from the couch once Ryuuâs clambered off his lap, âhere goes nothing.â
Thereâs a ring at the door that announces Torouâs arrival and Obi watches with a smile as Ryuu picks up his backpack and waves at him, closing the door behind him once Torouâs taken him by the hand and snuck a wink in Obiâs direction. He waits a few more minutes after that, steeling his nerves, then grabs the keys and hurries to Zenâs place with the best nonchalant grin he can muster.
âYo,â he says in greeting when the door opens: Zen looks nice, hair tidier than usual and a navy blue cardigan that hugs him softly, and thereâs an inviting smell of food wafting from the kitchen.
âHey,â Zen greets back, standing aside to usher Obi in. âI made hot pot, hope thatâs okay.â
Obi hums in confirmation and steps out of his shoes, the only fancy pair he bothers to own; he starts walking down the hallway with Zen chattering idly about his day by his side and an open pit at the bottom of his stomach. He sure hopes dinner wonât be too much.
It turns out the hot pot tastes delicious and its warmth is comforting enough to ease Obiâs nerves after the first few bites. He tells Zen how much of a good cook he is and watches entranced as he turns the same delicate shade of red he had when they first met, only this time Zen doesnât dip his head and instead flashes Obi a smile that makes his eyes crinkle in open joy.
âYouâre pretty good yourself,â Zen says around a mouthful of noodles. âThe cake you baked for Shirayuki was amazing.â
Obi laughs, a witty remark not quite making it past his lips, and they spend the rest of their dinner talking about simple stuff, from Ryuuâs scholastic endeavors to Shirayukiâs gardening. It feels like testing the waters but Obiâs okay with it; if thereâs something heâs good at itâs waiting for the right occasion to present itself.
And baking cakes, apparently.
Once theyâre done Obi helps bringing the dishes to the sink but Zen is adamant about washing them himself, so he ends up standing next to him a little awkwardly as he busies himself telling Zen of that one time Torou and him snuck in some rich guyâs backyard to rescue a cat stuck on a tree.
When he turns Zenâs giving him a look that makes the anticipation inside of him spike all at once. Itâs open, not unreadable like the first time he brought Torou up, and the raw urgency of it is a question that Obi answers by leaning down, barely realizing what heâs doing until a still wet and soapy hand comes resting on his own.
The first kiss is soft, Zenâs lips a quick promise on his own before Obi pulls away with something strangled in his throat that melts away as soon as Zenâs hands move up to his face. âIs this okay?â Zen murmurs, so intimate that Obiâs head swims as he nods, one two three times yes please go on.
They kiss again and this time Obi nibbles Zenâs lower lip carefully, tilting his head when he feels Zenâs breath catch. Thereâs a bright flush on Zenâs cheeks when they part for breath and judging from the burning he can feel under his own skin he must be in pretty much the same state, so Obi burrows his nose in the crook of Zenâs shoulder, nudging the fabric of the cardigan away and pressing his mouth on the the fluttering pulse under his touch.
Zen groans low in his throat, one hand tangled in Obiâs shirt and the other grasping at his hair, and Obi hoists him up the sink because he needs more of this, he needs toâ
âBed,â Zen huffs in the shell of his ear, something like tickling where his eyelashes brush against Obiâs forehead. âWeâre not doing this in the kitchen.â
His eyes look unfocused but pleased when Obi looks up to him, full of affection that makes him feel lightheaded almost as much as the long, slow kiss Zen gives him after hopping down the sink.
Obi grins. âLead the way.â
***
Morning comes with white sunlight filtering through the curtains and Zenâs warm weight against Obiâs side. His hair is sticking out in every direction again and his mouth hangs ajar, kind of squashed where his cheek is resting pressed on Obiâs chest.
Itâs cramped and a bit too toasty and Obi still feels groggy with sleep he wants to wash from his face, but he also wishes, secretly and with a tinge of embarrassment, for the moment to drag on for as long as possible.
Zenâs told him, voice a murmur in the quiet of the night, that they can take it slow and that he wants Ryuu to be happy, to be comfortable, and Obi believes him like he believes in the sun and the earth and every subtle tugging of fate that has brought him to this place.
He sneaks an arm around Zenâs shoulders and eases into his pillow. Everything else can wait.
akagami no shirayukihime || obizenyuki || fantasy fusion || 1427 words
read it on ao3!
Watching Shirayuki at work, Zenâs learnt over the years, never seems to grow boring. Be it grinding medicinal herbs or assisting the people in her care or making the staves the castle healers use it doesnât really matter, she brings an easy grace into everything she does and keeps Zen wrapped around her callous fingers.
He does love it the most when sheâs making staves though. Or ratherâ making might be the wrong word for it considering thatâs what the blacksmiths do, hammering the metal and giving it a shape, while Shirayuki imbues the gift of magic inside of it. Her job is to polish the stones that go on top of the staves, to make them smooth and turn them into, as Shirayuki herself explained it to him one day, a link between the healerâs life force and the rest of the world.
âYou need stones of the highest purity for that,â she had said, rosy cheeks from working near the forge and hands much, much stronger than what Zen remembered before her leaving for her apprenticeship in Lyras.
Sheâs pulling out some fragments from the forge right now too and Zen squints his eyes through the steam as she drops them in a bucket full of iced water, trying to catch the gentle shimmer they give off. They kind of look like stars lying at the bottom of a puddle like this, ready to be picked up by the first fool with a wish.
âThis should do it,â Shirayuki declares with a satisfied hum, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her leather glove as she turns to face Zen; sheâs got a smudge of soot right above one of her eyebrows and Zen laughs, wipes it off with the hem of his sleeve as Shirayuki puffs her cheeks and chides him for getting his fancy clothes dirty when sheâs got a towel ready exactly for that.
âItâll just go away if I wash it,â Zen says, then pauses. â... Right?â
This time itâs Shirayuki who snorts, swatting his head lightly with one of the gloves as she gets up and starts shrugging out of her workwear. An airy yes, yes is all he gets in reply but he doesnât mind, not when Shirayuki flashes him an open smile as she asks him if he wants to go grab something to eat together.
âSure,â he says, and takes her hand.
.
Sometimes the ugliest worries coiling in the back of his mind get the best of him.
Itâs on one warm night that he dares to say it out loud, with Obiâs arm thrown across his chest and Obiâs breath tickling his jaw with every lazy exhale.
âAm I holding you two back?â he asks, voice a sliver of his usual volume, sticking to his throat like a moth blinded by the light. âAm I doing this all wrongâ I mean, I know you chose to stay and Shirayuki says she can be both a royal healer and my, huh, wife butâŚâ
He can feel Obiâs hesitation for a moment, a blink-and-you-miss-it half of a second, but Zenâs gotten quicker on the uptake ever since knowing him so he catches it, just like he doesnât miss the look Obi gives him as he heaves himself up from his position curled by Zenâs side enough to have some semblance of an eye to eye conversation. Then Obi sighs, and the light pressure of his arm still on Zenâs chest makes Zenâs own breath catch.
âBack when we were in Lyras Mistress told me,â Obi begins, painstakingly careful, âthat she canât see her job and her relationship with you as two separate things. Our fine king thinks the same but you already know this, donât you?â
He smiles, swings one of his legs past Zenâs so that heâs straddling him; the mattress creaks under the pressure of his hands and knees, Zenâs heartbeat thuds against his bones.
âWhat about you?â he insists, bringing one hand to Obiâs face and tracing the line of the scar there absentmindedly. Heâd rather not have Obi sneak his way out of the big picture, not with how much he cares about him.
âWhat about me?â Obi singsongs in that infuriating way of his he knows Zenâs all too fond of. His hands slide upwards as he readjusts himself closer to Zen. âMaster fears heâs locked me up in a pretty golden cage all this time like a little bird?â His tone is playful but thereâs determination in there, bubbling under the surface of his voice like one of Shirayukiâs medicines.
It makes his eyes shine in the dark like the stones she brings to life with iron and charcoal when he says, âIâm not that helpless that I wouldnât leave.â
If I didnât love this rings out unsaid and Zen lets himself feel a little dazed.
He tugs Obi down, gently, and Obi breaks into a victorious grin right before kissing him.
.
This time thereâs blood on Shirayukiâs clothes instead of soot, finger-shaped smudges on her apron where sheâs wiped her hands. Ryuu is in the same state and the woman in front of them moans in a pained way that sends panic down Zenâs spine; he grits his teeth, tells himself he canât faint no matter what.
The womanâs wife has been clutching her hand for the whole time, standing still like a pillar amidst the flurry of healers coming in and out, and her crumpled expression goes slack with utter stupor the moment the first wail pierces the air. Then sheâs crying, all scrunched up again, and Zen canât help but sag in relief when Shirayuki turns to him, exhausted and shaky and so, so happy as Ryuu hands the newborn to the mother, all wrapped up in clean cloth.
âZen,â she murmurs, and the strength of it comes crushing down on him, âcome closer.â
He peels himself off the wall where heâs flattened himself against through the whole thing, inadequacy paralyzing him where he stood, and walks up to the two women. They fumble, try to pay him their respects but he stops them, fumbling right back. He could swear heâs heard Shirayuki laugh behind him.
âSo, uh,â he starts, makes some stilted gesture that he hopes doesnât look as awkward as it felt. âCongratulation on your first child.â
The women smile in thanks and Zen feels himself relax a little bit too, then Shirayuki is tapping on his shoulder with an expectant smile. âWell then, Prince Zen, I believe Iâve taught you what to do.â
He still thinks it should be his brother to bless the baby, because whatâs a princeâs blessing when the king is right there, but the two mothers have asked for him and Garrack says itâs one of his many duties he should be carrying out by now so he steps forward and lets his dominant hand hover above the babyâs head.
âMay you grow tall like the trees, white like the snow,â he recites in the language only spellcasters still speak, the weight of his people wrapped around him like warm wool.
.
He can see Shirayuki and Obi standing by a stall across the other side of the town square: sheâs got her arm linked to his and heâs whispering something in her ear that makes her burst out laughing. Both have flowers woven in their hair, hanging from their necks.
Mitsuhide and Kiki are off somewhere enjoying the festival too, never straying too far from Zenâs side, and thereâs someone playing the violin from a makeshift stand.
Itâs soothing, to watch Shirayuki drag Obi away from the stand for a dance, fried treat still dangling from his mouth as he hurries to chew it down and powdered sugar dusting his cheeks, until they start drawing closer to him. Before he can scramble away to hide behind Mitsuhide (or Kiki, her glare should be a far stronger shield than Mitsuhideâs admittedly inviting wide back) Obi catches him by the wrist and reels him in, laughing out loud at Zenâs squawk of protest.
Shirayukiâs hand sneaks her way into his other and theyâre dancing in fast circles in the middle of the square, stomping on each other's feet like children.
Zen finds out he doesnât really mind, not even when they stop and his head is spinning and Obi drapes himself heavy on Zenâs side as Shirayuki spreads her arms and blinks the world back into place like a fawn thatâs just learned how to walk.
ensemble stars || reikoga || 585 words
i recently 1)got into enstars 2)bought my first animal crossing (I Know) so uh take this?
Reiâs head feels heavy on Kogaâs shoulder, forehead nestled against the crook of his neck. It tickles too, the combined action of Reiâs bangs and his warm breath fanning Kogaâs skin almost enough to send the swimming feeling inside of his stomach haywire.
âCan I call my avatar wanko?â Rei asks, cradling Kogaâs 3DS (pitch black, of course, with cute dog stickers on top of it) in his hands like something foreign and fragile.
He held Kogaâs hand just like that once, but thatâs stuff from the past.
âDo you have to be an unnerving bastard about literally everything?â Koga retorts at the same time as Reiâs finished typing.
It doesnât say wanko, thank you very much.
âAh, you gotta pick a name for your city now.â
By some kind of miracle Rei doesnât seem inclined to come up with names such as Doggie Town or Pawland, which by the way would give Koga a fully valid excuse to haul the jerk down the window of their clubroom once and for all. Instead he stays quiet for a few seconds, stylum hovering above the screen, then clicks his tongue in mild distaste.
âI canât fit Yumenosaki in here,â he says, like itâs some kind of personal offence.
âWhat, youâd name a city after your school?â
The look Rei gives him (he has to twist a bit for that and his nose grazes Kogaâs jawline for a moment; then thereâs just the ghost of a feelingâ like always) is so full of raw, stubborn love that Kogaâs hands reach up to brush the hair from his face before his brain can catch up and stop his traitor of a body from slipping back when things still wereâ were. When Rei was.
âRight, youâd do that, you vampire bastard,â he mumbles, tries his best not to sound as choked up as he feels when Rei leans into his touch, his space, with a content hum that sounds a bit too much like an apology for Kogaâs taste.
âKoga,â Rei says, and the air inside of Kogaâs lungs catches fire like hay. âYou pick a name then. Build me a house too, while youâre at it.â
âHell no, then Iâd be the one playing.â
It comes out a bit croaky and definitely not all that convincing, not when heâs already thinking about how Pawland doesnât sound half bad after all.
âItâs going to have to be near the seaâ you can do that, right?â Reiâs voice resonates like an echo down to Kogaâs bones as he hangs his head low again, shuffling and rustling until his limbs end up all over Kogaâs lap, somehow.
âWhoops, I totally sounded like Kaoru-kun just now, didnât I.â
Koga groans, which turns out to be a terrible idea judging by the way Reiâs fingers curl and uncurl in the blink of an eye, or how he presses closer without even trying to be the least subtle about it.
Nice to know Kogaâs not the only one steaming inside (and outside too, in his case, because he knows when to let go and not push himself too hard all the damn timeâ), caught in between their Could Have Beenâs and the present in all its empty handed daze.
âIâll build you a goddamn villa,â Koga says, âso youâll have to sleep in a goddamn bed.â
âA bed without wheels,â he adds for good measure.
Rei laughs, the shaky curve of his smile soft against Kogaâs neck.
happy birthday to the best lee who ever leeâd <3 @shenmei-liu
Mikaâs hands are warm on her cheeks, palms soft and smooth. Mika doesnât have callouses, just well kept nails and hardened fingertips where she prickles herself with the needle sometimes.
It makes Yukina wonder, thoughts sluggish and all jumbled up like a pile of goo growing in the back of her head, when did her own hands stop feeling like that.
(Probably as soon as the military people got their way with their oh so cursory survival summer training camp, something tells her.)
Mikaâs brushing Yukinaâs bangs from her face now, scraping slightly against her temples, and she drags her fingers along Yukinaâs scalp with a displeased hum.
âYouâre making the face,â she says, clicks her tongue to further convey the extent of her indignation.
Cosplayers, Yukina thinks.
âWhat face?â she asks, half serious and half bemused.
âThe Face.â
Mika is starting to sound more and more irritated with every passing second, which is never a good sign but it sure feels endearing â at least until she actually takes action.
âAre you capitalizing that in your head?â Yukina pushes her luck anyway because right now, right as the world is getting invaded by the aliens (or demons, or both) her father used to tell her about and sheâs being shoved into a killing machine no oneâs really given her any proper prior talk about, even getting roped into wearing the most embarrassing outfit in Mikaâs possession for some shooting session would be a welcomed change of pace.
Proof that sheâs still Shirahane Yukina, even.
Mika doesnât answer though, instead tugs at her hair (ow, goes an apathetic voice in her brain) and scoots closer, nips at Yukinaâs lips (the voice is less apathetic now) as her thighs brush against Yukinaâs hips.
Soft, soft skin.
Mika doesnât have a single speck of war on her.
âThis,â she murmurs in the crook of Yukinaâs neck, gravity in her words all of sudden. âAll of thisâ itâs not going to change. Weâre not going to change.â
And Yukina wants to shrug her off, tell her that people change, all the time, but she knows thatâs not how Mika means it. Mika who will always be there for her, Mika who let her stay over when the whole world was screaming for Yukina to smear alien blood on their vulnerable, helpless human soil.
âLetâs go to the shopping district tomorrow,â she says. âKennosuke keeps destroying my stationery.â
Mika laughs, jerks her head back up to give her a nod of approval and her eyes are calm, crinkled at the edges. Comforting.
Yukina smiles back, then stores the memory away like sun dried laundry: she will shroud herself in it when the world starts screaming once again.
akagami no shirayukihime || zenobiyuki || 432 words || modern au
this is so vanilla but the fandom is sorely lacking in terms of poly so there we go. for @kosakachihiro bc she keeps me wormÂ
She puts the book down with care, lets her fingers linger on the cover as she takes a look around her. Itâs always a bit like coming back from underwater, finishing a book.
âAaah,â she sighs, maybe a tad bit exaggerated, âfairytales sure are nice, arenât they?â
Next to her Zen unglues his eyes from the screen of his laptop (red, Shirayuki thinks, making a mental note of getting him some eyedrops), while Obi merely smiles from his spot, sprawled on Zenâs legs with an arm hooked around his waist like a dead weight.
âDid the girl become a professional dragon slayer in the end?â Zen asks, nose wrinkled in that somewhat graceful way of his that means he definitely doesnât approve of any slaying of dragons.
When Shirayuki nods Obi lets out a quiet whistle, finally blessing them by opening one single eye. âWow, even though there was all that stuffy princess business?â
âOf course!â She balls her fists as she swings her arms up, knowing sheâs being judged right now and not caring in the slightest.
She just really loves cool stories with good worldbuilding, okay.
âPoor dragons,â Zen sniffs, laptop long forgotten and resting closed on his thighs. âBut youâve got to appreciate endings like these, I guess.â
Obi hums, then closes his eye again, prodding at Shirayukiâs right foot with his own.
âMiss, donât you have work at the lab tomorrow morning? Itâs getting kinda late,â he says, eyebrows wrinkled as he tries to imitate Zenâs sternness. âIâm not giving you a last minute ride on my bike again, especially not in your pyjamas.â
âSame here,â Zen chimes in before she can even think of asking him and honestly, sheâs got the worst possible husbands on Earth.
âRyuu loved my pyjamas,â she grumbles, as morosely as she can, then stretches her arm out to switch off the light.
Thereâs something shifting and rustling somewhere near as Obi makes his way from Zenâs legs to the space between him and Shirayuki, his bony limbs all over the place until he manages to settle in. He kisses Shirayuki on the temple (she has no idea of how does he manage not to knock their faces together in the dark), then turns around to do the same with Zen and get rid of his laptop without dropping everything present on the nightstand in the process.
Zen huffs something, but itâs lost to the soft, content buzzing settling in the back of Shirayukiâs mind as she drifts asleep, hands that belong to two different people raising the blankets up to her shoulders.
fire emblem fates || selena & ophelia || 401 words || babyrealms donât exist
Ophelia does this thing sometimes, Severa muses, when she looks at people with eyes so wide it makes her look like sheâs trying to suck the whole world in, retain all its deepest secrets in the glint of her pupils. Sheâs doing it right now too.
âAunt Selena, sayââ
She tugs at the hem of Severaâs vest even though thereâs no need, round fingers clutching to the fabric, leaving traces of things Severa doesnât really want to investigate right now.
âSay, can you do magic?â
She asks it with the particular kind of voice children use when theyâre convinced theyâre asking the most important question mankind could ever come up with, eyes now full of the most serious looking brand of awe Severaâs ever seen.
She wonders if itâs a childhood thing after all, thinking that adults can do anything.
âNope,â she says in all honesty, because thereâs no way she could ever lie to Lissaâs eyes, to Owainâs daughter. To the child sitting on her lap.
âI donât have much magic in me, sorry âbout that.â
The harsh truth doesnât seem to rock Opheliaâs tiny boat of stubborn fascination all that much, it gets merely brushed aside with a dignified huff from a dignified nose.
Severaâs starting to think she might have a lot to learn from this kid.
âMy mother did though,â she goes on, and that seems to get Opheliaâs attention back in full swing. âShe preferred lances but she could work some magic, sheâ she had books.â
âYou mean tomes?â
âI mean Iâm the adult and I say itâs the same thing.â
Opheliaâs eyebrows shoot up almost comically as she gasps, tugs at Severaâs vest again with one hand as she flings her other arm around. âItâs really not! Tomes are tomes! Books areââ
âBooks?â
When Ophelia squeaks in protest Severa canât help but smile, hands ruffling up her hair hoping that it will be enough for her not to notice just how terribly fond sheâs feeling right now. She will make sure to tell her later.
âOne day youâll see,â she murmurs, mostly to herself, lets the hues of the ylissian sun lighten her memories as she smells Nohr all around her, on her clothes and her skin and Opheliaâs warmth on her thighs and chest.
Severa lulls her to sleep with tales of a world thatâs hers to claim, if she will ever want to.
fire emblem awakening || owainigo || 2572 words || the future past post-canon
He watches Lucina sink Falchion into Grimaâs body (or maybe itâs Robinâs, yeah, itâs always been Robinâs after all) and for a moment sheâs just as tall as Chrom used to be in his memories. For a moment Robin smiles through the blood the way all their parents must have smiled, like martyrs.
Doom dissipates from their world, dries the clouds upon their heads clear, lets gravity drop back on their shoulders, pool in their knees, anchor their feet to the ground below.
It knocks Inigoâs lungs upside down.
Then Lucina crumbles to the ground and sheâs a knot of cuts and bruises and grief but sheâs looking up and thereâs raw joy prickling her eyes.
Inigo knows it because itâs the same for him.
Theyâre all quiet for a while; the sunlight hits them like spring after the snow has melted away and thereâs nothing but tender, green grass beneath.
Brady walks slow steps around them, Maribelleâs staff clutched in his hands, as he mutters a string of kind words, makes their wounds glow and itch.
At some point the streets of Ylisstol start their murmuring too: it climbs the walls of the castle in gusts of warm air, carries disbelief and hope and all whatâs left with it like a homage, a memento. It grabs them by the collar and shakes them to their senses.
Cynthia and Owain are the first to run back inside, run back where thereâs still life, where thereâs people waiting for the good news.
Grima has been defeated, weâve won, weâve made it, itâs overâ
Inigo hollers it all down the edge of the castle roof.
.
They throw a bunch of old, dusty bedsheets on the floor of Lucinaâs room, empty every closet until the pavement disappears under layers of blankets and pillows. Kjelle grumbles under her breath about frivolousness but she helps them out anyway, takes her armor off for the first time in a time longer than Inigo can remember.
Itâs their first peaceful night from the day they were born and they spend it huddled together on the floor of their princessâ no, Exaltâs bedroom, a heap of sore bones and newfound dreams rustling like sparrows clustered on spread soil.
Owain finds his way by Inigoâs side in the dark, wraps an arm around his waist without actually pulling him closer, just to make sure heâs there and that he knows Owain is too.
Heâs been doing it since their mission in Plegia but thereâs something more to it now, something new in the way they let each other in, let sleep take over every inch with no hesitation.
It makes Inigo wish for the dawn to come in slowly.
.
âYou look sleepy.â
Nah glances up at him from her spot near the fireplace. Sheâs been on patrol duty together with Cynthia and Gerome for the past four days and the manakete inside of her is starting to get sharper, the green of her eyes wilder.
âIâm positively exhausted,â she says and it makes something inside of Inigo clench so tight it kind of hurts. âLady Tiki is being quite⌠encouraging though. I guess.â
He remembers his father, knees pressing on burnt, sterile ground, blood stains on his hands and his clothes. They used to pray together sometimes, pray for the ears of a dragon long gone.
Now their heavens have ears that can listen, and a voice that can talk.
Inigo is sure his father would be overjoyed if he knew.
âThatâs good,â he says, has to clear his throat as he crouches down by her side. âReally good.â
Nah just nods, maybe hums under her breath but itâs lost to the crackling of the fire, to the warmth turning back to ashes years of disheartening silence and one way conversations with graves that should not have been theirs to mourn.
It makes Inigo wonder about the charred wood that still creaks below his sternum, about how heavy the things heâs lost can be.
Maybe thatâs just how loss itself works.
âIâm going to write it all.â Nahâs voiceâs always got a certain shakiness fraying at its edges but it feels like molten steel now. âIâm not letting anyone forget, not even when itâll be just me.â
Inigo inhales thick smoke, swallows the burnt and the dirt.
.
Heâs feeling antsy.
He knows thereâs no reason for him to be, yet leaving Ylisstol still feels glaringly wrong somehow.
âYouâre picking at your scabbard,â Owain states, no real judgement in it. âYou shouldnât do that.â
âWell, if only somebody wouldâve stayed behind at our Exaltâs side instead of following meââ
âLucina can look after herself just fine. And donât you forget the valiant heroes that lurk in her shadow, ever alert to the dangers that still roam our beloved halidomââ
âThatâs enough, thanks.â
Owain merely laughs, ruffles Inigoâs hair in some poor attempt at reassuring him. Not that it doesnât work every time.
âAh.â Inigo stops, almost stumbles: in front of him thereâs the house heâs grown up in until his parents never came back and he was taken away by the troops. âWeâre here.â
Ivy has claimed the most of the walls, clawed at the bricks and the mortar, turned it all deep green. Itâs kept the house from turning into an empty shell, alive even as risen made life seem the most volatile of things.
Owain is staying quiet for once, and Inigo canât see his face because heâs got his eyes glued to the front door (the red paint has faded and the wood is chipped, the doorknob is missing) but he can hear his footsteps by his side and thatâs enough to stop him from kneeling down like a pilgrim in front of the ruins of his temple.
Heâs still alive, heâs still the proof they were alive too.
âYou know,â he says out loud, probably. He hopes so. âMy mother was really good at playing hide and seek.â
He can see Owain turning to him out of the corner of his eye. âOlivia?â
In any other situation Inigo would take the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine, something along the lines of No, our great universal Mother Naga the holy manakete, and Owain would bite his lips into a poorly disguised smirk, maybe shove him with no real intent.
Right now he doesnât do that.
âShe had a talent for finding the most improbable places where to hide, I swear.â
The door opens up for him without too much wrangling, caves in with a high pitched whine; inside, the house is painted in hues of dust and mold and thereâs a field mouse quickly scrambling away from them.
Inigo steps in first, thankful for the silence theyâre both keeping. Itâs refreshing compared to his motherâs singing voice that wonât stop howling in his memories, projecting afterimages of a child he no longer is leading him through the hallway.
âThere was this cupboard in the kitchenâ She hid in there one time, no idea how did she manage to fit inside.â
Owain makes what should probably sound like an impressed noise, soft and low, and truth be told it makes Inigo laugh a little.
âI searched for so long I actually ended up crying.â His voice still sounds way too thin though, way too earnest, the memories from that day too vivid. âShe rushed to me and she wouldnât stop apologizing, it was almost funny⌠Mother and child sobbing over an hide and seek session went bad.â
This time itâs Owain who laughs, presses a callous palm against Inigoâs nape as if it could be enough to hide the longing tearing them both apart, eating up, hollowing them from the inside.
Theyâre still alive, so thatâs enough.
.
He visits his motherâs grave the day after. He knows Owain has gone too in the early morning and that now heâs off somewhere, doing something.
Probably hunting, or reciting poems to trees Inigo hopes canât really hear his atrocities.
âJust so you know,â he says, sits down in front of the grave with a huff. âWhatever that guy might have told you, donât listen to him.â
There are weeds and moss covering up the stone so he starts plucking and scratching, careful not to touch the flowers: his mother used to love the humblest things.
âIâm doing just fine,â he adds after a while and he knows heâs being stubborn but then again, children are allowed to be stubborn with their parents, or at least thatâs what Severa told him years ago.
He tries to dance for her, spins himself around for hours until his legs bend and his vision blurs, until he canât hear his own thoughts over the thumping of his heart in his ears anymore.
It feels like the worst performance heâs ever given, like a closed cupboard in an empty house.
.
âI canât believe youâre doing this.â
Heâs just come back to Ylisstol and heâs already being overwhelmed by the passing of time, the noise, the constant pulse beneath it all.
In front of him Cynthia grins like a wild beast; the smell of the barn is making Inigo feel a bit queasy but sheâs utterly unaffected, tall and undefeated in her throne of hay and mud.
âAnd I canât believe you managed to drag Severa into it, thatâs seriously impressive.â
âI didnât drag anyone, I just asked!â
They both know Cynthiaâs asking often tiptoes around the fine line between questions and orders but neither of them bothers to admit it out loud. No point in stating the obvious.
âShe wants to bring back the pegasus knights just as much as I do, you know, sheâs putting real care into this.â
For a moment Inigo wonders if thereâs anything Severa wouldnât put care into, if thereâs a way to stop her from giving the whole of herself away without a second thought.
Thatâs not just her, something in the back of his mind objects, and he admits defeat to it.
âDo you think we should follow our parentsâ footsteps?â he asks instead. âIs that the right choice?â
Cynthia blinks up at him like sheâs not sure sheâs heard him right, head cocked to one side, the whole blue of the sky reflected in her stare.
âThere is no right choice, Inigo,â she states and for a second itâs his father speaking through her lips, calm and true and wiser than he will ever be. âThereâs only what you want to do.â
.
Before, when the dark felt like part of their skin, sticky and ice cold, reeking of iron from their rusty weapons and rustier blood, they didnât have much to eat.
âThis stuff is so much better than bugs,â Owain declares like heâs singing the praises of long lost heroes (Inigo supposes he kind of always is, in his head), then shoves another spoonful of venison stew in his mouth, making a point of being as noisy as humanly possible. Gross.
âI donât know,â Inigo retorts, his own bowl of food warm between his hands. âBugs have that crunchy factorâŚâ
âDonât say that while Iâm eating!â
âIâm eating too.â And honestly itâs kind of surreal, kind of alienating because heâs not used to this, heâs not used to not being on guard for every little thing or feeling clean or safe or anythingâ anything the aftermath of their win has brought him.
Heâs not used to having.
The meat in his stew is tasty, the potatoes and carrots sweet; he chews it all up thoroughly, waits for the warmth to settle down in his stomach like a dead weight.
For once, guilt doesnât come.
When theyâre both done (it doesnât take long, in the end theyâre still two starved wolves), Owain lets himself fall flat on his bed with a content sigh. âThat was good.â
âI guess so, yeah,â Inigo concedes, and they both laugh.
Their hands are touching but they choose not to comment, not when Inigoâs got his head turned to the wall and Owainâs humming an old feroxi lullaby to himself. Probably a memory of his father.
That night Inigo dreams of kind words and slow dancing routines, of his motherâs pirouettes and the taste of warm stew.
.
âI believe our parents are watching over us,â Lucina tells him one day.
Theyâre walking through the streets of their capital and everything is filled to the brim with sounds and colours and smells so vivid they make Inigoâs head spin on itself just a little bit.
âAnd I believe they are happy.â
A girl with rosy cheeks offers them a basket full of fresh eggs, some children swirl around their legs with flower crowns in their hands. They drape some on the both of them in the middle of the market and Lucina smiles her brightest smile, giggles without holding back as she bows down shimmering with glory, enthroned once more.
Inigo thinks that if itâs her, if itâs his friend and comrade and Exalt with flowers hanging askew all over her forehead, then he will believe her.
(He always has.)
.
His dancing has gotten better.
Heâs gone back to his house too and heâs started to clean it up, room after room. His kitchen wasnât any different from how he remembered it, just a bit quieter, and when he opened the cupboard there was nothing inside.
Not his mother, curled up and ever waiting, not the war that took her away from him, not a single accusation.
Only a few cobwebs and the weightless, breathless realization that the world wasnât going to stop anytime soon.
Since then heâs started to dance again: he throws himself into it every night, the way he used to when he was younger and prone to sneaking out, and it doesnât feel quite as hopeless as before.
âLet me say,â Owain declares with his usual Iâm about to make you regret thinking that starting a conversation with me could ever be a good idea, âthat I consider myself utmost honored for you, my friend, have deemed me worthy of gazing upon your private performanceââ
âOwain.â
âOkay, okay, you go. Geez.â
Inigo bows his head to him, tries his best to hold back a snicker because right now Owain is his audience and snickering at the audience would be pretty distasteful.
Instead he counts to four in his head and music wipes the world away. Thereâs room for just his body and the motions heâs practiced for so long he doesnât even need to think anymore.
He dances and thereâs nothing holding him back.
When he stops he can feel the flush on his cheeks, the trembling in his shins, the silence ringing in his ears.
âI, uh,â he starts, but the next moment Owain is up and rushing to him, grinning down with a smile thatâs all scrunched up, all folds and freckles and pride.
Inigo kisses him.
It feels like that night in Plegia, the leftover adrenaline shaking them both from head to toes like drums parading through their bones because theyâd made it, except this time death is nowhere in sight and all their cuts are mended, all their bruises faded.
âYouâll make a wonderful dancer,â Owain murmurs, nose pressed against Inigoâs temple, and he sounds like the embarrassed kid he his but thatâs what makes Inigo drag him closer.
âI know,â he says, hides his laughter in the crook of Owainâs neck.
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.
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title from "Lullabies for Little Criminals", by Heather O'Neill
He must admit this, he might have grown somewhat fond of Kurobaâs muggle tricks after years of mutual contemptuous side glances.
This doesnât mean heâs okay with being the victim though.
âCâmon, Hakuba.â Kurobaâs switched to his cutesy voice, the one that means youâre here forever and the only way out is to humor me, and Hakuba really does not want to deal with any of this.
âWe both know I donât actually have a saying in this,â he states (and he probably sounds and looks like a sour lemon while doing so but whose fault is it now?). âYouâre just going to materialize whatever you want no matter what I pick.â
Now Kuroba looks kind of offended, which means Hakuba must have kind of hit bullseye. As usual.
âJust. Just pick a goddamn bean, will you stuck-up talking lamppostââ
âThe white one then.â
Life has been unfair to him, but that doesnât mean he canât have a few revenges along the way, can he.
Kuroba regards him with a slanted stare for a moment, like heâs wondering about something, about faraway days maybe; then flashes a grin thatâs all stage lights and adoring audience.
It makes Hakuba quiver.
âWise choice!â Kuroba exclaims, his dominant hand quick to disappear under a white handkerchief together with the Every Flavour beans it was holding.
The next moment heâs holding a chocolate bar in front of Hakubaâs face, the consummate magician grin now almost sheepish.
Hakuba takes the chocolate bar with the same amount of caution he would use to handle a rather nasty baby mandrake. (And heâs sadly, regrettably speaking from experience.)
âThis is my favourite brand,â he says, and Kuroba gives him a look that could easily be translated as something like duh, werenât the both of them far too deep in their little game of outwitting each other in the most dignified way possible.
âItâs an apology,â is the last thing he hears Kuroba say before heâs out of their room and running down the tower already, too far for Hakubaâs mildly terrified inquiries.
2.14
He wakes up with a chocolate frog sitting on his chest.
They have a bit of an impromptu staring contest until the frog jumps flat on his face.
It fills him with dread.
Through the day the chocolate frogs start following him around: at first itâs just a few, merry artificial amphibians hopping at his feet as he walks, then itâs a party, then a crowd.
He gets swarmed in a couple hours.
Kuroba has long stopped pretending not to be laughing himself senseless in the nearby background and honestly screw the Most Dignified Way Possible, the guy is an asshole and a fool.
âI hate you,â Hakuba hisses between his teeth, loud enough it wonât be drowned in the general frog concert thatâs playing around his legs. One single brave chocolate demon is now perched on top of his head and itâs terrible.
Kuroba merely clicks his tongue, the jerk.
âThatâs not what youâre supposed to say when someone gives you a gift on Valentineâs Day, Hakuba-kun,â he retorts, and Hakubaâs never despised honorifics as much as he does now.
Then it hits him.
It hits him and it must have shown because there it is again, the almost sheepish grin, except this time thereâs pink on Kurobaâs cheeks and the most whitewashed smudge of doubt in his eyes and enchanted chocolate frogs all over the place.
âI hope you donât expect me to eat all of these by myself,â Hakuba says after what feels like a hundred years of croaking silence.
Dignity can wait another day.
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title sorta from âwildâ by troye sivan (it doesnât fit but i had no ideas literally zero ideas and this dang song kept playing in my head oKAY)
fire emblem awakening || owain & lissa || 302 words
She looks calm about this. Calmer than him, thatâs for sure.
She looks calm, and young, so much younger than him.
âIâm so sorrââ he tries, falls short, throat going dry and tight like dying rivers under the midday sun.
Lissa smiles.
âYouâre lucky he didnât hear it,â she muses, voice quiet, a puddle with a piece of sky in it. Sheâs always been up high for Owain, was she dead or breathing next to him.
Now sheâs sitting and her head is no higher than his shoulders.
Sheâs sitting and her feet donât touch the ground.
âHe wouldâve like, dunno, probably exploded or something,â she continues, laughter peeking from under her words. âYou calling him dad like that and all.â
âArenât you scared?â
This gets her attention, makes her eyes snap and sink into his, same colour, same shape, heâs taken those after her.
âI mean, youâreâ youâre fifteen, you werenât supposed to know, I wasnât supposed toâŚâ
âHey.â
She had this thing with her words back in his world too, when she could make people around her settle down with nothing but crumbs of her voice; uncle Chrom would always look a tiny bit nostalgic those times.
âHey, Owain, darling.â Heâs got her hands on his cheeks now, and they feel younger as he feels older, smooth against the dirt and the bruises. âItâs okay. Weâve got all the time we want.â
We donât, Owain thinks. Heâs going to make sure heâs wrong though.
âI wouldâve loved to see him explode,â he says instead, searches though her eyes before trying to crack a smile of his own. âIt wouldâve beenâŚâ
âOwainââ
âA blast.â
When Lissa screeches out her outrage she sounds like a fifteen years old girl, yet she sounds like Owainâs mother too.
fire emblem awakening || owainigo || 862 words || pacific rim au
Heâs never really had the chance to learn the ways of music, the signs and black curls on white paper, the theories; he lacks basic grammar for a language heâs only ever heard the way people breathe in secondhand smoke.
His mother, she used to be the real thing back when the whole of their lives didnât revolve around fearing kaiju and fighting kaiju and dying at the hands of kaiju.
Sheâs taught Inigo how to dance in between battles and practice, smiled quietly to herself when he was handed a wooden stick for the first time and his steps followed a rhythm that had nothing to do with sparring.
âYouâve got a weird style going on,â Owain tells him after the fifth time Inigo has sent him landing with his back on the floor. Theyâre 5-7 with this and those are the first intelligible words Inigoâs heard him say since theyâve started. âI like it.â
What he says next is the actual deal though, the moment Inigoâs mother would make the melody do her bidding and the ground shake below her feet. The moment she would strike the kaiju right through the skull.
âDrift with me.â
Inigo falls flat for the eighth time.
.
His motherâs told him of the way orchestras sound when theyâre getting ready for something, of how harmony is hardly as simple of a concept as people make it to be but rather something like a clash, like the mess hall when breakfast comes after a night with no drills.
The first drift with Owain feels exactly like that, the jaeger theyâve been assigned whirring and beeping around them, and Inigoâs breath catches for a split second as someone elseâs life washes over him, his own washing over Owain.
Lissaâs eyes shine bright green in front of him, then the jaeger moves.
.
âYouâre way easier to understand in the drift,â he whines as Owain goes on about heroes and destiny and other words Inigoâs not sure heâs ever heard before. Maybe they donât even exist.
âExcuse you,â Owain retorts, eyes far too quick to find his, like he knew exactly where would they be (and maybe he does, maybe thatâs the aftermath of giving yourself away like goodbye kisses). âIt is clear that the issue lies within you, my friend, for my speech slashes through the ears of my comrades like a polished blade.â
âOh my god.â
âAnd besides.â Now Owainâs putting on his best outraged expression, the words you fiend written all over his face. âYouâre impossible in the drift.â
Coming from the guy who says his speech is like a polished blade (youâve got the simile all wrong! he can hear Owain say inside his head, probably not a good sign) Inigo should probably take it as an insult, coming from his co-pilot he decides to listen.
âReally?â he asks, just a hue too self-conscious. He grits his teeth.
In the glow of the neon lights Owain softens as much as it takes for Inigoâs jaw to slack and his stomach to sink.
âThereâs music everywhere,â he says. Inigoâs stomach sinks deeper.
Owainâs forehead is pressed against his own now, hands curled around his sides as Inigo leans back.
âIâve been taught to be quiet when music speaks.â
.
Every inch of his body hurts, every inch of Owainâs too, the drift exploding in blotches of crude light in front of his eyes, their eyes; below them the kaiju howls its last breath at the night sky towering above.
Inigo thinks of nocturnes, of overseas melodies and his fatherâs fingers tapping on the table in front of him. A military base is no place to keep a piano after all.
âChopin,â Owain says, and the next moment his end of the drift turns into a blur.
Inigo follows right after.
.
His dancing is imperfect, sometimes raw, fighting and instincts taking priority, taking over. Inigo takes note of every mistake he makes, knows the faltering and stammering of his legs, the flailing of his arms.
When he sees himself inside of Owainâs mind he canât find any of that.
.
Itâs a strange thing, knowing that Owain loves him and that he knows Inigo loves him back but never doing anything about it.
Because theyâre at war, because kaiju keep slowly eating their world away and do not seem to stop, at all, because thereâs no room for anything but blue blood raining down on them.
Because theyâre both geniuses in the art of bullshit, though thatâs just what Severa says.
(Itâs not like sheâs wrong, but the truth weighs less when itâs on someone elseâs tongue.)
âYou should start working on a routine for two.â Owainâs voice sounds unusually quiet, almost distant, like heâs trying to take a step back from his own words as soon as they leave his mouth. âSo you can teach it to me the day this all ends.â
Thereâs no wondering if the day it all ends will really come, doubt squeezed out of their horizon for the time being, possibly till the next alarm goes off.
âYou better not step on my feet,â Inigo says, and when Owain laughs itâs rock solid.
fire emblem awakening || cherche/gaius || 327 words || reincarnation au
Geromeâs breath is quiet, muffled against Chercheâs lap, the curve of his back raising and falling so slowly it makes Gaius feel almost sleepy.
Heâs getting used to this, used to waking up in the middle of the night to his son crying by the side of their bed and a mortified look pale on Chercheâs face. He remembers starting to get nightmares back when he was Geromeâs age too, the neighbor girl heâd always played with now just a body lying in front of his eyes, a wyvernâs howling piercing his ears, splitting his head apart.
âI wished he wouldnât remember,â Cherche says, as quiet as Geromeâs breathing. âFrom the day he was born, I wished he wouldnât remember.â
It makes Gaius cringe and shrink and heâs glad the room is so dark because darkness is whereâs heâs still at his best, where he can rub his thumb in circles on Chercheâs back and hope she wonât notice heâs biting at the inside of his cheeks.
(He knows she will anyway, tries his best to pretend.)
âBut Iâm happy, you know.â Now Chercheâs voice is dripping with guilt, so heavy it kind of breaks, cracks under the pressure of one too many lifetimes. âYour own son not remembering youâ thatâs got to feel lonely, right, Iâd feel lonely.â
Gaius knows the only thing keeping her from crying is the boy asleep next to her, the boy sheâs lost and then found and was ready to give up on if that meant heâd be happy, happier.
âItâs going to be alright,â he hums, hates the strain still ringing clear in every word. Cherche nods once, just as strained, and then sheâs leaning back against him, a whole week of sleepless nights dragging her down.
He watches her sink like a stone in the sea; her hands donât move once from the small of Geromeâs back.
That morning the dawn brings him dreams from the future for once.
bday fic for lee aka Best Child whom i love immensely <3333 happy bday smol <333
side a.
The mark burns like a raging fire on his skin, livid red, and itâs ugly, but what keeps burning even harder is the shame, the fury tucked inside his fists.
That one never fades, never subsides, ever present even when he manages to escape and to come back and to destroy; the shame burns as bright as the sun he tries to drown it with.
He hates humans, will always hate humans.
Then thereâs this child, this small, quivering thing that doesnât even reach up to his knees.
This human whoâs got the same mark as him on her back and the same heavy footprints on her pride.
He curses (maybe even blesses) her with the same sun that rises on them all, makes her one of their family. Heâs still going to bring her back home though. (Maybe he cursed himself, maybe even blessed.)
When they shoot him, he can still feel the warmth of Koalaâs hand on his palm.
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side b
She grows up with a reminder.
Itâs a reminder of cruelty, of wrong, but it means hope and life and home all the same. Itâs a reminder of the one who stood tall against something more terrifying than hell and burnt it all down to ashes.
She makes sure to grow up just as tall, the marked skin on her back spread wide, wider, growing pain jabbing her in the ribs.
A ship from the Revolutionary Army docks at the shore of her island one night and Koala is barely fourteen but she scribbles her goodbyes on scrap paper and sneaks in.
They find her when itâs already too late to turn back.
To Dragon (this is also a man who stands tall, a man who burns and wrecks and picks back up) she offers her back, lets her shirt slip down until thereâs a flash of red wiping the words off everyone in the room. Everyone but Dragon.
He says, âletâs talk for a bit, pirate of the Sun.â
And she talks till dawn, lets it all spill out like a waterfall, like blood from a broken nose; Dragon welcomes her among his people.
Koala smiles, as sharp as shark teeth. The smile Tiger was proud of.
bday fic for susu!!!!! happy bday satan, love ya!!! its super short and im ashamed but at least this time i didnât kill anyone <3
She likes waking up early in the morning, likes to stir as the birds take their first flights, dots of black against the glow of the dawn.
Sometimes, when the weather is summer sweet and the sun lazy to rise, she walks up to her gondola and rows in the quiet until she flows out of the maze of Neo Venezia right into the open, into the untouched.
Her gondola makes ripples in the water she leaves behind but it all gets lost in a matter of seconds, waves sinking back into stillness, asleep like the rest of the city. Alice only looks at whatâs ahead.
Thatâs the reason why she wakes up so early in the end; itâs all for the view, for the grey of the sky reflecting in the grey of the sea, for the dim pinks and blues and whites and the moon still lingering up there, for the horizon that doesnât quite exist yet but will soon because it happens every day and Aqua would be a strange (stranger?) place if there wasnât a horizon, Alice knows that much.
She breathes in, lets her eyes get lost in the sea and the sky and the place that doesnât have a horizon yet, then sings. She sings her good night to the moon and her good morning to the sun, to Neo Venezia shimmering faintly all crouched down on the bay.
The birds answer her from up above, like they always do, and Alice sings for them too, like she always does.
When she tiptoes back to Orange Planet thereâs Maa-kun ready to get tangled in between her feet, and Athenaâs smile soft with sleep that still lingers in the corners of her mouth.
She likes mornings like those the best.
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title from âgood morning starshineâ, from the musical Hair
one piece || trafalgar law (very vague lawlu) || 1649 words || canon divergence
Thereâs a spotless sky on spotless streets when they land at Dressrosa and Trafalgar Law thinks heâs going to die.
Heâs known it for a long time (since he was ten, ashes and poison dusting up his lungs, blinding white), and he'd got a reminder when his voice wouldnât make more noise than the snow falling around him, the smell of wood and gunpowder and blood burning through his nose. Heâs known it, heâs been thinking about it, dancing around it, romancing the very idea until it tinted his dreams from white to bloody red.
Theyâre easier on his eyes like that.
Standing there though, feet on the ground thatâs going to be the scenery of what he doesnât really feel like calling a battle (battling is what Strawhat does, what people who havenât spent thirteen years of their life longing for murder do: battling has rules Law was never taught about), kind of feels like his perspective has shifted, the weight on his shoulders doubled.
He wonders what does Strawhat think of traitors.
.
The moment he realizes Doflamingo is still a Shichibukai feels ridiculously outstretched, ridiculously heavy, and Law bites down on panic and regret and the thought that he may have dragged Strawhat and his crew into something that looks more and more like thereâs no way out of it, no possible crack in the wall, nothing at all.
He takes a deep breath.
It doesnât matter how far up high Doflamingo stands, doesnât matter heâs got an admiral by his side, doesnât matter heâs still snuggled so deep into the World Government heâs probably got roots wherever he pleases and the higher ups all wrapped around his fingers: the bullets he left into Corazònâs body one night thirteen years ago are the only thing that matters to Law.
.
He manages to keep the Thousand Sunny safe, pulls teeth until heâs sure itâs disappeared somewhere with no clouds in sight.
Arenât you focusing too much on Doflamingo right now?
He spits blood and a couple curses; the alliance is over anyway.
.
He knows thereâs a tournament going on, knows about the prize and the people who crave it like it means nothing for them to stand in that arena, fighters free no more.
He knows how Doflamingo treats his little birds.
What he doesnât know is why in the world is Strawhat standing behind the bars, the godforsaken seastone bars, and just what the hell does he think heâs doing with their plan and his life but he doesnât really get the chance to ask before Doflamingo lands a kick right where his ribs were already cracked and it all goes blank.
The last thing to reach him is the raw strain ringing loud in whatever Strawhat is yelling.
.
"Our alliance is over." He's sitting (he's tied up, he's not sure he can feel his arms anymore) on the heart-shaped throne.
He's sitting on everything that loomed tall above Corazòn for years and he can't get up, can't will his lungs to stop gasping for air like fish in a bucket.
"That's pretty self-centered of you!"
He's being chided.
"I decide when it's over and I say it's not yet."
He can't hear the sound of his reply over the crash of wood broken in two, Strawhat's fist black with haki and just a few inches over Law's head. The upper half of the throne hits the ground in splinters.
"There, you're free!"
Law swallows, thinks Strawhat's grin looks as sharp as the wood at his feet.
.
There are strings shooting in every direction, slicing the sky into countless identical slivers of blue, and Law is back being no more than a child, back to that night. Back to terror wrecking his temples like thunder, like earthquakes, like Corazòn's shaky fingers when he'd brushed the snow from his face one last time.
He's back being one of Doflamingo's little birds. Maybe he never stopped being one.
.
"Did your master plan involve keys to free me at some point or," Law trails off, lips pursed as he tries to wriggle his fingers, failing.
The birdcage seems to sneer at them, at him.
He breathes.
"Of course!" Strawhat's loud, almost offended, utterly indifferent to the seastone dragging Law down (or maybe he just trusts him to pull through, to stay by his side and never fall back, never turn away). "Rebecca's bringing them to us, it'll be fine."
He has no idea of who Rebecca might be but Strawhat does, somehow, and thatâs enough as far as Law is concerned.
After all Strawhat's only ever trusted the wrong person when he shook hands with him.
.
Rebecca does bring the keys to them.
She's coated in bronze and leather and dirt and so, so much pride she kind of looks like a lightning could strike her at any given moment and she would still stand tall. The shape of her helm makes her look like a bird of prey.
It makes her look like she could get out of there alive, like they all could.
"'m sorry you didn't win in the end," Strawhat's saying to her, and he sounds sheepish but Law can sense the thrill in the lows of his voice just fine.
Rebecca only shakes her head. "It's okay, he deserved it just as much."
She's smiling now, no, she's grinning and Law could swear the ground under their feet just got a lot trickier in a matter of seconds.
"Have you seen any decent swords in this hell? Mine's got a blunt blade and I need go hand Diamante's ass to him."
Law gapes, Strawhat laughs like that was exactly what he was expecting to hear.
.
As he shoves the Gamma Knife all the way to Doflamingo's vital organs he thinks about how it's these people, the people under this man, who taught him how to fight, how to be like this.
Then he thinks about Corazòn's hands, warm and rough around his, never letting go. He twists the blade.
.
"He couldn't pull the trigger." His voice is hoarse, crooked, and there's throbbing pain where his right arm should be. "But I will."
There's a strange, quiet second in which Law realizes no one doubts he could do that, not even Strawhat.
He gets knocked down before he can even grimace at the bile on his tongue.
.
"It's beyond me how you've not, like, passed out already," the guy supposedly called Cabbage tells him, and there's the faintest hint of annoyance in his voice but also the faintest hint of admiration, of understanding.
"I've got to see this," Law states, makes a face when his broken ribs dig into him. "I've been wanting this for half my life."
He keeps his eyes on the battle across the roofs and streets of Dressrosa, the birdcage slowly shrinking around them, crushing whatever stands in its path.
He should be there too, either murderer or dead, bright red or hushed white, but he can't move a muscle.
Strawhat's haki has just run out.
.
His bones are rattling; he can feel them, can feel the hollow of a scream that won't come out grating at the front of his throat, right beneath his pulse, and he knows Strawhat can feel it too because he's Strawhat and being barely conscious with his back on the hard ground isn't enough to stop him from being annoying.
"Hey," he's saying, calling out for Law, a hand outstretched blindly in his general direction.
Law takes it, because he doesn't know what else is he supposed to do and because he needs grounding like he needs Doflamingo to disappear, to shatter into pieces.
"Hey," Strawhat repeats, this time with a smile, faint but there. "Your hand is shaking, you know? Surgeons should have steady hands, Chopper told me so I know it's true."
He doesn't answer, and Strawhat continues, "surgeons are doctors, doctors save people. That's really, really cool."
His vision is getting blurrier too, but only five minutes have passed and Strawhat is still lying down, his fingers are still resting on Law's, and he just needs to wait five more minutes, five more times replaying Corazòn's last words to him in his head.
Five more minutes of apologizing to the dead.
"You're the second most amazing doctor I know."
He thinks of all the hospitals they went through.
Strawhat's hand feels warm and rough and is not letting go.
.
Crying with multiple broken ribs feels as if he's getting stabbed, one blow for every intake of air, sharper, faster as he sees the birdcage dissolve like it was never there.
Except it was, and there's rubble all over the place to prove it, to scream it, and Doflamingo is still alive right in front of him, unconscious, unguarded.
Strawhat is crouched down next to Law's feet, breath heavy, but quiet.
He weighs on Law's mind more than the gun in his hand.
"He deserves this."
Strawhat hums, lets his head lull against Law's leg.
"Impel Down is not gonna cut it," Law continues in between ugly, choking sounds, and he knows Strawhat's stretched too thin right now, too tense.
Strawhat who would never kill anyone, who smiles just like Corazòn, who came back from the dead just to save his brother and fail.
Strawhat who says, "the marines are going to be here soon."
He knows he's stretched just as thin, as tense. He can feel the pulling and twitching of his arm, the cold metal of the trigger right below his finger.
Corazòn was probably such a terrible marine back in his days.
He throws the gun at the only wall still standing, drowns the feeling of Strawhat's hand squeezing his ankle in the burnt of his shout.
.
There's a skyful of stars above the littered streets of Dressrosa that night and Trafalgar Law thinks he's going to live, maybe, after all.
.
.
.
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title from horaceâs odes book 3rd, the whole phrase is âexegi monumentum aere perenniusâ aka âi built a monument more long-lasting than bronzeâ (welp translating from latin to english feels weird)