main blog: pennyofthewild@tumblr hello! welcome to my writing sideblog, where i post crappy drabbles about sports animanga! most long!fic is posted over at my main blog, but this is meant to be a comprehensive backlog of all my writing: but then i am a lazy shit so that's going to take a while. i am generally open to requests, but please be aware that i am busy and lazy and won't always get to things in time. thank you, and happy browsing! penny.
recklessly, affectionately (back to you)
Characters: Wen Qing, Jiang Cheng I Jiang Wanyin
Word Count: 5158
Ratings/Warnings: Teen, warnings for gross, tooth-rotting fluff and terrible, terrible cliches
Notes: Written for the 2023 edition of the MDZS Reverse Bang, in which writing is defined as "pulling words from thin air by the skin of my teeth" i.e. i suffered from the worst writer's block throughout
***
Lotus Piers Community Hospital, Present Day
On the day she turns 31, Wen Qing codes a seven year old with septic shock for forty-five minutes, emergently intubates a teenager with refractory status epilepticus, and stabilizes a forty year old with a perforated peptic ulcer. It is a graveyard shift to end all graveyard shifts, and the absolute worst way to celebrate a birthday.
***
beloved as you are (how could i let you go?)
Characters: Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Yunmeng Trio
Word Count: 6988
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences, sorry for writing quality Notes: written for the Wangxian Summer Exchange 2021 hosted on twitter for hvanitas.
***
0.
It had never occurred to Wei Wuxian to imagine what his wedding might look like, but if it had, he would certainly never have imagined a ceremony like this, one without family or guests in attendance.
The atmosphere in the large room - barely visible beyond the veil obscuring his face - is solemn, almost funerary. First, to Heaven and Earth. Wei Wuxian bows low. As he comes up, he finds himself thinking, with a pang - his parents would never have been able to attend, of course. But the conspicuous lack of Ajie and Jiang Cheng and Jiang-shushu - even Yu-furen - forms a dim, hollow ache in Wei Wuxian’s chest. The ache grows more pronounced as he and his bridegroom turn to the empty seats traditionally reserved for family elders for their second bow.
If anyone in Yunmeng were to find out about this utterly dignified celebration being in Wei Wuxian’s honor - well. No one would be able to believe it.
The silks of his elaborate wedding hanfu whisper across the polished wooden floor as he pauses before the final bow, delicate gold embroidery glittering with even the minutest of movements. Ajie and Jiang Cheng had spent hours in front of the fireplace sewing in sprigs of lilies and clusters of lotuses onto the fabric in anticipation of Ajie’s marriage to Jin Zixuan. In the end it is Wei Wuxian who is wearing Ajie’s wedding silks instead, and there is no-one to tell him if he is doing the robes proper justice.
***
i feel it with you now
Characters: Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng I Jiang Wanyin, brief Jin Ling
Word Count: 585
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences, sorry for writing quality
Notes: written for sangcheng week 2021 day 4: family. this is basically newly-established sangcheng? i guess? we're back to modern AU! also, writing is really, really hard.
Alternative Reading Link: [Click here to read on AO3]
***
Huaisang must have fallen asleep at some point, because he wakes up when the light in the hallway flickers on. He blinks, bleary, the room coming into focus. The television is still running. Jin Ling is curled up next to him on the sofa, still knocked out.
Jiang Cheng is standing in the doorway, hip propped against the jamb – and he is just looking at them.
“Creep,” Huaisang says, stretching. He winces when his neck pops. It seems he is getting too old for falling asleep like this. A shame, considering he is proud of his ability to sleep anytime, and anywhere. “Were you going to stand there all night?”
“Thank you for watching him,” Jiang Cheng says.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” Huaisang says, “we had fun. We made clay sculptures – Jin Ling is a budding artist, you know – video called his parents and played board games. There’s leftover stir-fry for you – don’t worry, I ordered in, I’m aware I’m awful at cooking, would hate to poison your nephew, thanks for the show of faith, you traitor.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jiang Cheng says, in between lifting Jin Ling from the couch (Jin Ling, still asleep, starfishes, curling his arms and legs around his uncle’s neck and torso), “sounds like you spoiled him thoroughly. What sort of person is he going to grow up to be, having his every whim indulged by everyone around him?”
Huaisang follows him into the apartment’s second bedroom, which is a guest bedroom in theory but actually just Jin Ling’s, in practice. Watches as Jiang Cheng untangles Jin Ling from himself, tucks him into the bed. Presses a kiss to Jin Ling’s forehead.
Hypocrite, Huaisang thinks, no-one spoils him like you do.
Feeling a little like he is intruding, Huaisang makes a strategic retreat. Back in the living room, he collects his coat from where it is lying, crumpled on the floor, dusts it off.
“Leaving already?” Jiang Cheng says as he comes out of Jin Ling’s bedroom, drawing the door to a close behind him.
Huaisang, fastening the last button on his coat, looks up. “It’s pretty late, isn’t it?”
Jiang Cheng shrugs. “You could just stay the night,” he says, so casually Huaisang wonders if he knows this is the first time he has offered. See, staying the night? – isn’t something they do.
Then again, neither is babysitting nephews.
“Well,” Huaisang says, “this is shaping up to be a big day for us. You sure I won’t be outstaying my welcome?”
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Huaisang,” he says, “You do know who I am? You really think I’d ask, if that were the case?”
Huaisang says, “ah, he has self-awareness,” before he’s thought it through, “you make a fair point, Jiang-xiansheng.”
Jiang Cheng bristles, pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “On second thought, let me call you a Didi.”
“Aww,” Huaisang pulls an exaggerated pout, “and here I thought you actually liked having me around.”
“Who likes having who around?” Jiang Cheng mutters, scrolling pointedly through his applications.
He stiffens, when Huaisang goes to slip his arms around him. It makes Huaisang’s heart hurt, and he considers pulling back – but a moment later Jiang Cheng relaxes, and even deigns to put an arm around Huaisang’s shoulders, presses his cheek to the top of Huaisang’s head.
Maybe it really is shaping up to be a big day for them.
“No take-backs, Cheng-er,” Huaisang says into Jiang Cheng’s shirt, “Call whoever, but I am not going anywhere.”
when all is done and settled //could there be something left for us after all?
Characters: Nie Huaisang, Jin Ling I Jin Rulan, Jiang Cheng I Jiang Wanyin
Word Count: 1,170
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences, this is really self-indulgent, please don't judge me? (plot, what plot! can't a fic just be a long conversation?)
Notes: written for sangcheng week 2021 day 3: grief//revenge but i am horrible at angst so have this mildly hopeful post-canon thing instead?
Alternative Reading Link: [AO3]
***
Cultivation conferences have been particularly tedious lately. Truthfully, Huaisang never really enjoyed cultivation conferences – his idea of enjoyable social events does not encompass sitting in on a bunch of stuffy old men arguing pointlessly for hours on end – but lately –
Lately the meetings have been more grating than ever. It is probably because – well. Huaisang used to be able to catch his eye over his fan when Sect Leader Yao was being particularly odious – exchange half-hearted shrugs with a dimpled smile –
He’d won, Huaisang reminds himself. He’d come out the victor. He’d outwitted the cleverest person he’s ever known, so why –
It must be that cultivation conferences were never Huaisang’s favorite places to be, and now he has the to endure being lonely on top of everything else.
Why didn’t anyone tell him victory would feel so hollow? How long will it be before he stops waking in cold sweat, the crack san-ge’s neck had made when he’d been dragged into the coffin resonating in his ears?
I never thought you would be the death of me, Nie Huaisang.
Across the room, Lan Wangji is rising stiffly from the chief cultivator’s position, announcing we will now adjourn for the noon meal sounding practically relieved, for Lan Wangji.
Ironic, Huaisang thinks, how he’d brought about Lan Wangji’s eternal earthly happiness andhis elevation in the eyes of the cultivation world through his machinations (though he’d also driven his brother into seclusion, to be fair), and had been unable to secure any such joys for himself.
Perhaps if Wei Wuxian were the sort of person to attend cultivation conferences Huaisang might have at least a conversation partner, but Wei Wuxian, like Huaisang, has a particular distaste for this sort of gathering, and unlike Huaisang, is not at all obligated to actually be present.
And then, Huaisang thinks with a slight pang, trailing in the wake of his fellow sect leaders, there is the matter of another erstwhile old friend. The one who is currently several paces ahead of Huaisang, (tall and unattainable), walking with his hands behind his back, head tipped to the side to listen intently to whatever his nephew is whispering into his ear.
See – Huaisang used to have a long-standing agreement with Jiang Wanyin, at cultivation conferences – to meet up after the day’s agenda had been wrung dry – and poke fun at the general state of the cultivation world’s leadership over greasy street-stall food and a several drinks. Late at night and slightly inebriated is when Jiang Wanyin’s dry, sarcastic wit is at its most razor-sharp; their conversations have always been Huaisang’s favorite part of being at a cultivation conference.
Unfortunately, in the months since Huaisang’s decade-long plot had finally run its course, this agreement has quietly fallen through. The worst of it is, Huaisang cannot be sure why.
As far as he is aware, he hasn’t quarrelled with Jiang Wanyin – unless he is mistaken, the Jiang sect leader had been pretty pre-occupied, that night in Guyanyin Temple, and can’t possibly have realized the extent of Huaisang’s role in the night’s events. It is understandable, then, that to Huaisang, this new distance that has cropped up between them is especially frustrating. Could it be, he wonders, that Wei Wuxian and Langji had revealed his plot to Sect Leader Jiang? But as far as Huaisang is aware, Jiang Wanyin is still not on speaking terms with the Chief Cultivator or his one-time martial brother.
Lost in his musings, Huaisang runs headlong into Jin Rulan, who has, in the meanwhile, unhooked himself from his uncle’s apron strings in favor of catching up with the Lan sect’s head disciple. As he stumbles backward, Huaisang finds himself on the receiving end of an appraising look from Jin Rulan (he looks down his nose just like his uncle!). He turns away from Lan Sizhui with a murmured give me a moment, A-yuan, and gives Huaisang an appropriately deferential bow, sect-leader-to-sect-leader.
“Sect Leader Nie,” he says, grave, polite (he used to call Huaisang Nie-shushu,once upon a time, Huaisang thinks with a twinge of pain).
Huaisang nods back, crinkles his eyes over his fan. “Sect Leader Jin,” he says, cheerfully. “You look well.”
Jin Rulan takes a step closer, casting a cursory glance around the room. Lan Sizhui is pointedly looking elsewhere.
“I feel I should tell you,” Jin Rulan says, expression frank, straightforward, “I am aware of an obligation I have to return a favor you have done my late uncle.”
Huaisang’s breath catches in his throat. To think he would actually come out and say it, and in such a place! Or perhaps it is because of the place – but if this is a warning, he is doing a horrible job – . The part of Huaisang’s mind that is not absorbed in self-preservation thinks, dimly, that perhaps certain things are in fact passed down, from father to son, like naivety, and a sense of justice.
“I am afraid I must be misunderstanding you, Sect Leader Jin,” Huaisang says, easily, giving Jin Rulan his most innocuous expression, from above his fan.
Jin Rulan smiles. “Rest assured,” he says, a sardonic tone in his voice that, once again, is all Jiang Wanyin, “you are not. But –,” here, he pauses, takes a breath, “ my objective in telling you is to let you know I have in fact decided to let the matter rest.”
Now Huaisang is sure he must be misunderstanding, because none of this conversation is making any sese. “You have,” he says, faintly.
Jin Rulan nods, decisive. “Yes,” he says, “I am not quite sure I will be able to properly forgive you, Sect Leader Nie, but the truth is I have precious few family members left to me. Besides, my jiujiu has assured me that revenge is not a road lightly taken, and that I probably do not have the temperament for it.”
A laugh – rather like a sob – climbs its way out of Huaisang’s throat. “Your jiujiu doesn’t mince words,” he finds himself saying.
Jin Rulan gives him a considering look. “My jiujiu is lonely, too,” he declares, a non-sequitur if there ever was one, “I’d rather he not lose anyone else precious to him, if it is all the same to you, Sect Leader Nie.”
From across the pavilion, Jiang Wanyin – who is caught in what looks like an excruciating three-way conversation with Sect Leaders Yao and Ouyang – turns, as if by some protective maternal paternal instinct. He looks from Huaisang to Jin Rulan, and back. Catches Huaisang’s eye, holds. Gives Huaisang a brief nod. Something flares in Huaisang’s chest.
“Thank you, for your magnanimity,” Huaisang tells Jin Rulan – to himself, silently, he adds: perhaps, one day, I will be worthy of it, and then, “and to your point; I think I will go rescue your jiujiu before he embroils us in another diplomatic situation.”
Jin Rulan’s answering smile is blinding.
The feeling in Huaisang’s chest grows brighter.
Ah, Huaisang thinks, this is what it feels like to hope.
***
baby, you hit me like a tidal wave
Characters: Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng I Jiang Wanyin
Word Count: 1,066
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences, please don't look too hard for mistakes because you will find them
Notes: written for sangcheng week 2021 day 2: arranged marriage, still modern AU because apparently that's how we roll
Alternative Reading Link: [Click here to read on AO3]
***
“Most of the details are negotiable,” Jiang Cheng says, sliding a file across the restaurant table, “but basically it’s a two year contract – ”
Huaisang pulls the file closer, idly flips through the contents. He lets Jiang Cheng’s voice (it’s a beautiful voice, don’t misunderstand, but whatever he is saying sounds so pedantic) wash over him.
“We’ll keep assets separate,” Jiang Cheng is saying, “and anything else that you want – ”
No exclusivity requirements, the contract stipulates in clear, bold font, but keep all side relationships quiet. Huaisang feels slightly sick.
Why didn’t you just ask Da-ge, he wants to say, if you were going to be this impersonal, if this was really going to be just a paper marriage. Why do you think I volunteered?
How foolish of him, Huaisang thinks, to have believed – however briefly – that he’d been chosen.
“A-sang?” Jiang Cheng says, rousing Huaisang from his reverie. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you listening?”
He looks genuinely concerned, almost like he cares about Huaisang as a person, instead of just a front to help prop up the failing family business he’s been forced to inherit too young.
Huaisang fiddles with the napkin in his lap, takes a sip from his too-cold drink, takes a deep breath. They were friends once, he reminds himself. Aren’t marriages – even those of convenience – built off of communication? He owes it to himself to speak now instead of waiting to be hurt, inevitably, later.
“Cheng-er,” he says, “do you like me?”
Confused is a beautiful expression on Jiang Cheng. If Huaisang is honest, most expressions are beautiful on Jiang Cheng, although that might be because he is absolutely whipped for Jiang Cheng, and has been since they were fifteen and meeting for the first time at boarding school (okay, Huaisang has a thing for grumpy pretty boys. Sue him). They’d been inseparable, then, the four of them: Huaisang and Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. Their friends have been happily settled for years – it was probably just Huaisang’s imagination but he’d always felt Jiang Cheng had the slightest soft spot for him, which is why he had been hoping –
“Like you,” Jiang Cheng repeats, “of course I like you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“For someone as smart as you are you can be really stupid sometimes, Jiang Cheng,” Huaisang says, and steels himself for the inevitable pain at the end of this plunge. Let Da-ge call him a coward now, “because I like you. I like you a lot, and I don’t mean in a let’s get married for the sake of our respective family images and then part ways like it never happened because we’re friends way. So if this is just business to you let me know now so I can have the remittance for breaking my heart added to the terms and conditions.”
“Oh,” Jiang Cheng says, faintly. He looks like he’s going to add something else, probably something like I wasn’t expecting that, but then he keeps silent, still looking adorably bewildered. Huaisang wants to kiss him.
Instead, he stands up, tosses his napkin to the table. “Yeah,” he says, “if that’s all I’m going to be going now. You can reach me through my agent for any further communication about the contract.” He gives himself a mental pat on the head for keeping his voice steady.
Huaisang takes his coat from the maître d'on the way out of the restaurant, retrieves his keys from the valet with a I’ll get my car myself, thank you and is striding into the basement-level parking lot when a hand closes over his wrist.
Ah, cliches, how wonderful, the voice in his mind that sounds a lot like Jin Guangyao supplies. Shut up, he tells it.
“Wait,” Jiang Cheng sounds a little breathless – as if he’d run after Huaisang, as if he’d actually been afraid of missing him, “wait a minute, A-sang.”
Huaisang turns, schooling his face into a neutral expression. Jiang Cheng looks – nervous, Huaisang thinks. He isn’t sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jiang Cheng nervous – he usually takes everything in stride – but this – his throat bobs, perceptibly, as he swallows, and is he biting his lip? He still hasn’t let go of Huaisang’s wrist.
“What?” Huaisang raises a pointed eyebrow at him.
“You didn’t let me speak,” Jiang Cheng says. His hand is burning a warm brand into Huaisang’s skin.
Huaisang tilts his chin. “So speak.”
There is a muscle twitching in Jiang Cheng’s flawless jaw. “You’ll tell me if I say something stupid,” he says, equal parts belligerent and anxious, so Huaisang nods, heart in his throat.
“Okay,” Jiang Cheng says, and then, “it was never just business for me. I care about you, A-sang, it’s just that I didn’t dare hope – ”
“You’re saying something stupid,” Huaisang tells him. “I’m not signing up to deal with your inferiority complex, A-cheng, you’ll have to do something about it if you really want to marry me.”
A beat, then –
“I’ll add it to the terms and conditions,” Jiang Cheng says, mock-serious.
Huaisang narrows his eyes. “Also – if I’m not misunderstanding – how truly ungentlemanly of you, Jiang Cheng,” with a playful whine, “to try to trap me in a contract marriage like this – were you just going to stay silent about your feelings – ”
He stops – Jiang Cheng has turned the wrist he is still holding and pressed a brief, open-mouthed kiss to Huaisang’s pulse point – gaze fixed steadily on Huaisang’s face.
“I promise to court you properly from now on, Nie-xiansheng,” he says, and there is a note in his voice that makes Huaisang’s toes curl in his shoes.
Huaisang has to remind himself it would not be the best idea to push Jiang Cheng against the wall and show him how he likes to be kissed – they are still in a public space, after all. If someone were to pass by – well, the internet rumor mill would have a field day with the headlines: idol-actor Nie Huaisang caught kissing Jiang Corp heir in underground parking lot, click for pictures! It would definitely throw a wrench into the whole image-rehabilitation aspect of this arrangement.
Instead, he reminds himself that some things are better taken slow – so in the meantime,
“Great,” Huaisang says, smiling widely, “you can start by taking me somewhere better than this place for dinner – the food here was awful.”
i assume you mean for this fic? (putting the rest under a readmore because spoilers for my fic!!)
initially i didn’t tag chengxian because it’s only alluded to in-text by huaisang out of hurt to hurt jiang cheng and i only ever intended for it to be unrequited pining on jiang cheng’s part, but seeing as you think it merits a tag i’ll go ahead and add it in the warnings.
***
the rivers in your mouth come pouring out
Characters: Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng I Jiang Wanyin
Word Count: 953
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences, mild angst?
Notes: written for sangcheng week 2021 day 1: heartbreak, modern AU, background established wangxian, brief allusion to one-sided unrequited chengxian on jiang cheng's part
Alternative Reading Link: [click here to read on AO3]
***
Huaisang finds Jiang Cheng in the apartment’s cramped kitchen, resolutely washing dishes. The whole place is quiet, in the aftermath of the party, but there is an especially oppressive sort of silence here in this room. The only sounds are the running water and the sing-song clink of china, punctuated with heavier clanging noises when Jiang Cheng unceremoniously jams clean dishware into the drying rack. Huaisang almost hates to disturb him, but there is a familiar tense line in his shoulders that is screaming for company – any sort of company – so maybe he’ll do with Huaisang’s, for once.
“Hey,” Huaisang says.
Jiang Cheng starts.
“Hey yourself,” he says, craning to look at Huaisang over his shoulder, “you’re still here? You didn’t go to get ice cream or coffee or whatever? You should’ve; my new brother-in-law,” – he grimaces – “is treating, and God knows he’s got bottomless pockets.”
“Neither did you,” Huaisang says, hefting himself onto the counter and crossing his legs at the ankles, “couldn’t this have waited till morning? Why does it have to be you, anyway?”
Jiang Cheng shrugs. He’s got his dress-shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His collar is damp, and there are stray soap suds smeared on his cheek.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” he says, matter-of-factly, and then, “Who else would do it?”, quieter, and mainly to himself.
There’s a beat of silence – then he gives Huaisang a wry half smile and says, “actually, you know what? The truth is – well, it’s just that I’m kind of sick of it all.”
It’s not really surprising. Huaisang has always been of the opinion that a day – a ceremony followed by a reception – is more than enough for a wedding. This last week has been a blur, and there’s still the religious ceremony tomorrow evening. He can’t imagine how it must feel to be part of the wedding party, and unlike Jiang Cheng, he actually likes social events. Usually. He hopes that when – if – the time comes, Da-ge won’t be as anal about all of these traditions as old man Lan is. Even Lan Zhan, ever-composed, has started looking frazzled, for all that he’s over the moon to finally be marrying his beloved Wei Ying.
“Sucks to be the odd one out, doesn’t it?” Huaisang says. “Especially at times like this.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. “Not if you’re used to it,” he says, casual, nonchalant. He puts the last of the china in the drying rack, then washes his hands, as if they aren’t clean enough already. Huaisang’s heart squeezes, in his chest.
Before he can overthink, Huaisang reaches out, crosses the couple of inches of space between them, closes his fingers on Jiang Cheng’s shirtsleeve. Tugs.
“Hey,” he says, “Jiang Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng looks from Huaisang’s hand to Huaisang’s face, quirks an eyebrow. “What?”
Huaisang tilts his chin. “Come here.” He pulls Jiang Cheng into the bracket of his knees – the advantage of sitting on the counter is he’s no longer subject to the whim of their height difference – cups his face with his hands. Wipes the soapsuds away with his thumb.
“You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing?” Jiang Cheng says, but there is no bite to it.
“You’re not stupid,” Huaisang says, against his mouth, “you know what I’m doing.”
Jiang Cheng’s lips are dry and slightly chapped, but warm all the same, and the fingers he slides into Huaisang’s hair scrape pleasantly against Huaisang’s scalp. He smells like lotus flowers and the lemon from the dish soap, tastes like sesame sweets and celebration champagne.
“Ever heard of lipbalm, Jiang-xiansheng?” Huaisang asks in the space between their mouths.
“Shut up, Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng murmurs, nose knocking into Huaisang’s. He kisses with his eyes scrunched shut, an endearing furrow between his eyebrows. Huaisang loops his arms around his neck, presses his thumbs into his nape, locks his knees around his waist.
“Ya, Jiang Cheng,” Huaisang says.
“Hey, do you always talk this much when you’re kissing people?”
“This is important,” Huaisang says, “I want – you know I’ve thought about this – ”
Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen, minutely. “Oh,” he says, sucks in a breath.
“Yeah,” Huaisang bites his lip. “You know I’ve had this – ”
Jiang Cheng breathes out, shoulders slumping. “A-sang, I’m sorry,” he says, extricating himself from Huaisang’s grip, “I – I can’t.”
He’s got a half-dazed look in his eyes – pupils blown out – and his mouth is kiss-swollen, wet with saliva. Huaisang wants – needs – to pull him back in, kiss him till he’s breathless and out of protests.
Instead –
“Why?” Huaisang says, proud he is able to keep the bitterness to a minimum, “because you’re still in love with your adopted brother? You’ll kiss me but you won’t even consider being with me? Why can’t you ever let yourself be happy, Cheng-er?”
Almost immediately, Huaisang wishes he could take the words back. Regret coils in his throat, like nausea.
“Leave,” Jiang Cheng says, and there’s a quiet fury in his voice that makes Huaisang wish he’d just hit him and be over with it.
“Jiang Cheng, I’m – ”
“Please,” Jiang Cheng says, hands curled into fists, “I’ll forget you said it. Just – please just go.”
Huaisang slides off the counter, legs like jelly. Presses past Jiang Cheng, turned away from him, unwavering. Leans against the hallway outside the apartment, unlocking his phone with shaking fingers.
It rings, tinny in his ear, till it is picked up. “A-sang?” his Da-ge says, voice hoarse with sleep, “the party over already? Weren’t you going to stay the night at the Jiangs’?”
“Da-ge,” Huaisang says, forcing the words past the lump in his throat, “please come get me. I want to go home.”
2. who said it's ever too late to turn over a new leaf?
there's room in this heart.
***
Jin Ling comes by Lotus Pier several weeks after to find Jiujiu has put up a plaque for Jin Ling’s Xiao-shushu in the Yunmeng family shrine.
“You should be allowed to mourn the people you loved,” he tells Jin Ling, gruffly, when Jin Ling – once he has blinked away the tears that spring to his eyes – asks Jiujiu why –
Nobody but he and Jin Ling ever enter the Yunmeng family shrine, anyway. Jin Ling hadn’t even considered – after all, it isn’t as though the Jin Elders will stand for even the faintest mention of the erstwhile Lianfang-zun within the walls of the Jinlintai. Jiujiu, on the other hand, hasn’t had to bother with Sect Elders in years, not since – .
Still, it isn’t explanation enough, Jin Ling thinks. After all, Jiujiu hated(?) resented(?) (these days Jin Ling isn’t sure) Wei-qianbei for years – and then it turned out Xiao-shushu had almost as much to do with why that wasas Wei-qianbei ever did.
Jiujiu mutters something about hatred being a lot simpler and more straightforward than love – and then he sighs and takes Jin Ling’s chin in his long-fingered hand,
(Jin Ling is seventeen and a Sect Leader, now, but a look from Jiujiu still floors him and probably always will)
“Ling-er, if you want me to take it away I will,” without any kind of judgement at all –
So Jin Ling chokes back the sob that crawls up his throat and says,
Here is the thing: they never did look alike, past the dark hair and gray eyes common to their part of the world.
They were not blood relatives – and besides, the Yunmeng Jiang Sect Leader, sharp-faced even in repose, is too given to sneering, and frowning, and glaring –
But, every so often, in the midst of conversation (with other people; these days the best he gives Lan Wangji is a tight Hanguang-jun in response to a frigid Sect Leader Jiang):
he will shrug, or perhaps quirk an eyebrow, or punctuate a gesture with an indolent wave of his hand, or – on especially rare occasions smile –
well, in these moments, across the table, Lan Wangji's stomach will plummet to his shoes and he will think,
this blood on our hands (is just barely dry)
Characters: Midorima Shintarou, Akashi Seijurou, Takao Kazunari + others
Word Count: 2800
Ratings/Warnings: T/M, violence, implied sexual assault (not by any canonical characters), background character death
Notes: takes place in Agent for Hire verse, but you don't necessarily have to read that to enjoy this.
***
(i. the beginning)
It starts like this:
Five minutes to midnight, and Shintarou is arranging his notes for the end-of-shift handover when the staff assist alarm goes off.
Notes: a very, very belated follow-up to Agent for Hire (better later than never, right?) (first post on tumblr in, years, and it's kurobasu. wow. i can't believe i'm still stuck in 2015)
***
Takao slides his queen across the board. “Checkmate,” he says, lazily, tipping his chair back onto two legs.
“Ahh, Takaocchi,” Ryouta says, conceding defeat, “how about we play a round where you don’t use hawk’s eye to your advantage?”
Takao shrugs. “Sure, I’m all for it.” He lifts his fringe off his forehead, pulling one of his ridiculous faces: nose scrunched up, one eye shut, tongue protruded in a parody of popular teen idols. The gesture stretches the half-healed shiner decorating one side of his face. He has a predilection for getting into fights with people bigger than him, and it’s only gotten worse since he started moonlighting as an official member of Akashi’s motley crew. Ryouta wonders how he explains the bruises away at the hospital. Oh, one of the kids kicked me when I tried to listen to his lungs? (Ryouta is not sure of the details of Takao’s recruitment, and is somewhat afraid to ask).
“But let me warn you, friend, you’d still lose, because, no offense? You suck at chess.”
[The trick with Shin-chan, meanwhile, is to withhold expectation. That’s what it boils down to, in Kazunari’s opinion.]
***
[Listen]
***
something like dazzling
Characters: Takao Kazunari, Midorima Shintarou
Word Count: 600
Ratings/Warnings: G, none
Notes: drabble, midotakmido, for 1) tanabata, 2) Shin-chan’s birthday (please note i basically haven’t written in over a year)
***
Shin-chan isn’t big on affectionate gestures. It comes with the territory; he is a grade A tsundere, after all. Kazunari’s made his peace with that. But. Every so often Shin-chan will surprise him, like the time he spent fifty-thousand yen on Scorpio’s lucky item of the day because Scorpio was twelfth on Oha Asa’s list.
Kazunari reminds himself of such gestures on days Shin-chan’s unique eccentricity is particularly grating – when his Oha Asa rank is in the bottom six, or something isn’t going his way.
On such days, Kazunari reminds himself he could’ve done worse. He could’ve ended up with Aomine, and died of the comorbidities of premature aging. or Kise, and disintegrated into a million little pieces and flung himself into Space. or Murasakibara, and camped out in a pastry shop for the rest of his self, grown lazy and unfit and miserable, eventually dying of a heart attack. or Akashi, and never have played basketball in high school at all. or, God forbid, Kuroko. Kazunari does not want to imagine a scenario where he is on a team with Kuroko.
The trick with Shin-chan, meanwhile, is to withhold expectation. That’s what it boils down to, in Kazunari’s opinion.
“Shin-chan, sorry,” Kazunari’s breath is coming in gasps. He leans over, pressing his palms against his trembling knees. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to perfect this pass in time.”
Shin-chan’s shoes squeak on the gym floor as he comes to stand in front of Kazunari. Bent over as he is, all Kazunari can make out is two white sneakers and the bottom half of a pair of impossibly long legs.
“The only things you can’t do,” Shin-chan says, and there is a quiet proud note in his voice that makes Kazunari look up, and meet eyes that look strangely defiant, behind their glasses, “are the ones you believe you cannot.”
Kazunari chokes out a laugh. “That would mean I am the orchestrator of my own fate. But that’s not true, is it.”
Shin-chan sighs. Kazunari hears it: a short, soft exhale of breath. “Come here,” Shin-chan says, and then he has tugged Kazunari off the ground in a single fluid motion and folded Kazunari into long wiry arms, his cheek lying against the top of Kazunari’s head, Kazunari’s mouth pressed awkwardly against Shin-chan’s clavicle. For a moment, they stand like that – Kazunari, with his eyes wide, Shin-chan’s heartbeat beating in tandem with his own – before Kazunari thinks to bring his own arms up, quickly, before Shin-chan can decide to pull away –
Kazunari squeezes his eyes shut, fingers curling into the fabric of Shin-chan’s uniform shirt, damp with sweat.
It should be gross, and disgusting, and maybe it is, a little, damp and sticky: but there is a reason Kazunari doesn’t go for girls, isn’t there, and maybe this is it: the smell of Shin-chan’s perfume under wood polish and rubber and sweat (he is too fancy for cologne, of course, that stuff is for plebians), heady and woodsy and sweet –
Something that is all Shin-chan, Kazunari thinks, and if he was braver this might be the right moment to tell Shin-chan so (it is easy to fall in love with a Miracle), but despite the bravado Kazunari is most certainly not really brave –
And so he settles for anchoring his fingernails into the back of Shin-chan’s shirt (it would be probably a pain to kiss Shin-chan anyway; their height difference is too glaring):
[ He has his elbow propped on his knee, wrist suspended, loosely, off the edge. He looks like he ought to be in a period movie – instead of Inari, then, like a fourteen-year-old Japanese James Dean: burning bright, burning out. ]
***
i am ready to owe you anything
Author: pennyofthewild
Prompt: @souharuweek2015 day 1: firsts/childhood
Word count: 820
Ratings/Warnings: T+, smoking, brief strong language
Summary/Notes: middle school souharu ft. delinquent!haru for @buttleronduty because this is literally all her fault (please accept this humble offering).
[listen]
***
On a hot afternoon in late spring, Sousuke finds Nanase perched on the balustrade, sitting on the concrete wall with one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him, surrounded by garden plants run wild. Like some sort of reincarnation of Inari – the hopeless nerd in Sousuke thinks – what with the gently waving leaves hovering over him, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy to dapple, pale gold and gray, over his face and hair and summer uniform, arms gleaming with afternoon sun.
The image is ruined, however, by the large, mottled bruise on his chin, varying shades of yellow and purple, and the cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling out the end like a slow obscenity. Sousuke’s matching bruise stings. Nanase hears him and looks up. His eyes flicker over Sousuke, narrow to blue slits.
“I’m not going to apologize,” Sousuke says, before Nanase can deliver one of his rare, but infamous, tongue-lashings.
Nanase’s eyebrows hitch upward, as if to say, good, because I’m not going to accept it.
“I stand by what I said,” Sousuke tilts his chin, crosses his arms over his chest. Nanase remains staunchly un-intimidated. “But we’ve got another English period and Nakamura-sensei said he would have the principal call your parents if you don’t come to class.”
“Fuck you, Yamazaki,” Nanase spits, cigarette resting in the fork of his index and middle fingers. He has his elbow propped on his knee, wrist suspended, loosely, off the edge. He looks like he ought to be in a period movie – instead of Inari, then, like a fourteen-year-old Japanese James Dean: burning bright, burning out. He looks like Rin.
The thought smarts: like Nanase’s punch, earlier – but duller, deeper, heavy in Sousuke’s chest. He shrugs. “Maybe some day, when we’re older and you know what you’re doing, I might let you.”
He can see when what he’s said sinks in: Nanase’s eyes widen, the tight line of his mouth loosening – and then he laughs – short, sharp, mirthless – like a thunderclap. Sousuke wonders, briefly, what he would sound like really laughing. The thought closes his throat.
“Maybe,” Nanase says, “if the offer is still standing.” The promise hangs low in Sousuke’s belly – a vague, pleasant heat. Nanase moves to stub his cigarette, swings his legs off the wall.
“Wait,” Sousuke gestures at the cigarette, runs his tongue over his lips. “Don’t put it out just yet.”
Nanase pauses in his half-crouch, one foot on the ground, and looks up at Sousuke from underneath raised eyebrows, an amused smirk dancing around his mouth. “Oh? What brought this on? You’re usually just as much of a scaredy-cat as Rin.”
As usual, the sound of Rin’s name spoken aloud causes a pang in Sousuke’s chest, like peeling the scab off a day-old wound. Nanase is watching him carefully, though, so Sousuke shrugs. “I’m not against trying something new.”
A flicker crosses Nanase’s face – something between a grimace and a strange wistfulness – but then his expression clears, and he scoffs, “yeah right,” derisively, but he holds out the cigarette anyway.
Sousuke takes it, cautiously, holds it as far away from the lit end as he can. He looks down at it – it is so innocuous – a rolled-up paper stick – but strangely heavy in his hand. He can feel the weight of Nanase’s gaze on his face, and perhaps it is the idea that Nanase is waiting for him to back down – but Sousuke swallows his hesitation and lifts the cigarette to his mouth. He sucks in a quick, shallow breath, feels heat coil in the back of his throat.
It burns.
Letting the smoke escape his mouth, Sousuke decides it isn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling, but probably not something he’d do regularly. The paper is damp where Nanase’s mouth had been, and belatedly, Sousuke’s ears heat up.
“First smoke, first indirect kiss,” Nanase’s voice is its usual expressionless drawl, but Sousuke detects amusement underneath the surface, “my, my. Big day for you, isn’t it, Yamazaki-kun?”
Sousuke watches him stub the cigarette out with his heel. He swallows, looks down at his feet, attempts a light, teasing tone. “Well – you know. Have to start somewhere.”
When Sousuke looks up, Nanase is smiling at him. It isn’t a smirk. It is a smile: a soft, fond smile that brightens his eyes and lights up his face. Sousuke didn’t know Nanase could smile like that – at least, not at him.
Sousuke’s heart sputters.
“Well then,” Nanase says, still smiling that heart-stopping smile, dimples deepening. If he hadn’t been head-over-heels for him before, Sousuke thinks, then he definitely is now, “where would you like to start?”
***
a kind of sort of fairytale
Author: pennyofthewild
Prompt: @rinharuweek day 3: magnetism/attraction (red thread of fate?)
Word count: 1900 (yes, i can’t believe it, either)
Ratings/Warnings: General audiences, /mad laughter
Summary/Notes: hi, this is basically a badly-written cinderalla rip-off? please try not to expect quality, everything i touch turns to rubbish
***
The carriage has disappeared around the bend when Haruka realizes Makoto has forgotten his gloves and pocket square. Normally, Haruka would not be bothered, but Makoto had spent the better part of this evening and the last impressing upon Haruka the importance of a gentleman’s being well-accessorized –
– and it’s a nice night out for a walk, Haruka considers, looking out the window; a little after sunset, evening twilight bathing the winding lane below the house in orange-gold. As he watches, a wind rustles the leaves of the trees at the foot of the steps leading down to the road, sets branches a-swaying. Yes, Haruka nods to himself. There’s nothing to it. He’ll just pop right over and hand Makoto’s things to the footman – or whoever else is responsible for these sorts of things – at the castle entrance.
He has just wrapped his scarf around his neck and is sliding his feet into his shoes when a disembodied voice says, “C’mon, now, Haru-chan, you can’t possibly go dressed like that.” It is a man’s voice, light, cheerful.
Haruka turns sharply around – there is no-one in the house but him – and sees … no-one at all.
“Over here, Haru-chan,” the voice says, again, from behind Haruka, and Haruka turns around to see a blond, mischievous-eyed head floating in midair, chin propped in hands that show only up to his wrists, which is faintly disturbing.
“Nagisa?” Haruka says, eyes wide.
Nagisa grins. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Haru-chan? Three weeks since you fell down that rabbit hole! Your dimensional counterpart is getting restless, too. Well, I’m told it’s near time for you to come back. You’re on the right track, you know! By the way – nice cottage you’ve got here. Going for the charmingly rustic vibe? I like it.”
Haruka furrows his eyebrows. “Who told you what, exactly?”
“The people in charge,” Nagisa says, seriously. “Now, then! As you’ve probably realized, I’m here as your fairy godfather, and as your fairy godfather, I cannot let you go to the palace dressed like that, it’s unacceptable.”
“But,” Haruka begins to protest, but Nagisa makes a sweeping gesture with his hands, says,
“No buts! Chop, chop, Haru-chan, time’s a-wasting,” and he claps twice – and suddenly, Haruka is being set down on his feet, head spinning. His – perfectly serviceable, not to mention, comfortable – shirt and trousers have been replaced by an absolutely ridiculous getup – unlike Makoto, Haruka is not the sort of person to voluntarily put on a dress tailcoat – and the collar! When Haruka glances down, he sees a perfect red carnation pinned to his lapel, petals still moist with dew.
“Perfect,” Nagisa declares, looking Haruka up and down in a way that makes Haruka feel slightly debased, “I always knew you’d look good in a tux. Now, off you go, Haru-chan, your ride’s waiting!!”
And he disappears in a puff of smoke.
Haruka frowns, pulls experimentally at one of his shirt buttons. As expected, it does not come undone. He heaves a deep sigh. Monkey suit it is, then.
On his way out, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the door; hair parted off his forehead, shirt and waistcoat brilliantly white against the deep black of the tailcoat and trousers – the deep-v of the front emphasizing the narrowness of his waist. Haruka shakes his head. He must be seeing someone else.
The ride Nagisa promised turns out to be - rather unsurprisingly – a pale-blue, teardrop-shaped, horse-drawn carriage. The horses have a distinct reptilian air about them, and the coachman has a rather beaky nose; when Haruka looks over at the chicken-coop Makoto is so particular about caring for, he sees the rooster is missing.
It is not without some reservations, then, that he climbs into the carriage’s interior. On the right track, Nagisa said. Haruka doubts it.
Music spills out of the ballroom’s open doors, audible even halfway down the several hundred steps (an exaggeration, of course) to the landing. Haruka reaches the top behind an older, middle-aged couple – the lady is wearing a fur-trimmed cloak so long Haruka has to be careful not to step on it. They are introduced – by a bored-looking footman – as Viscount and Viscountess Takahiro, and then it is Haruka’s turn.
The footman turns to look expectantly at him.
Haruka fishes in his pocket – situated, awkwardly, on the inside of his jacket – for Makoto’s things. “Ah, I’d like for these to be passed on to Tachibana Mako – ”
“What would you like to be introduced as?” the footman asks impatiently, eyebrows furrowed over striking teal-blue eyes. “I haven’t got all night, you know.” He is rather broad in the shoulders and towers a whole head over Haruka; not the sort of person Haruka would like to cross.
“Nanase Haruka,” Haruka says, before the footman can pin him against a wall and punch him, or something.
The footman’s eyebrows twitch. Haruka thinks he might pass comment, but he just waves Haruka in, calling, “Nanase Haruka,” in what must be a magically-amplified voice. Haruka is ushered onto the gallery overlooking the ballroom, emerging into bright golden light emanating from the several large crystal chandeliers around the hall.
Haruka pauses at the banister, scanning the room for Makoto – the sooner he finds him, the sooner he can leave. It takes several passes of the room – but he finds Makoto talking to a vaguely-familiar red-haired girl dressed like a queen – or, at the very least, a princess; she stands out, even in this room of opulently-dressed people. Haruka heads straight for them, making his way down the staircase with a cautious hand on the railing.
Makoto spots Haruka before he has quite reached him; eyes widening over the top of his conversation partner’s head. Haruka offers a shrug in return and holds up Makoto’s gloves.
“Haru-chan,” Makoto says, breathless, “thank you so much, I don’t want to have to go through another dance with sweaty hands,” and he shivers, slightly, as if there’s nothing in the world worse. The girl next to him gives Haruka an appraising look.
“A friend of yours, Makoto-san?” she says, offering Haruka a courteous hand.
“Oh, forgive me,” Makoto says, turning pink, “yes, this is Nanase Haruka – Haru-chan, Kou-himesama; the crown prince’s younger sister.”
That explains the “dressed like a queen” part, then, and the way she carries herself, smooth pale skin highlighted by her red silk dress. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, politely.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she says, with a gracious nod of her head, and the she smiles, revealing rather pointy canines. “Have you met my brother yet?”
No sooner has she said this then –
Across the floor – as if drawn by invisible strings – a tall, slender redhead – achingly familiar – turns in their direction. Over the heads of the people separating them, his eyes settle on Haruka’s face. The world narrows to a strip of light – a straight line – that stretches between them, like some thread of fate. Haruka feels the bottom of his stomach fall out. A shudder runs down his spine.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
It is quiet, out here in the balcony overlooking the palace gardens. The full moon hangs high in the sky – picking out silvery highlights in the trees and bathing the walls in an eerie white glow.
For a moment, Haruka considers answering the question truthfully. It would go something like this: yes, we have – in another world, where we’re both small-town swimmers and you have big-town dreams – where you aren’t a prince, and I swim for a different team – where you nearly slipped beyond my reach because I noticed you almost too late – but we’re still bound, it seems, by a red thread of fate –
He is sure, however, that he would be breaking several unspoken rules of interdimensional travel, and so he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Quite sure.”
“Ah.” Rin tilts his chin, moonlight striking the angle of his jaw just so. He leans against the balustrade, runs a careless hand through his hair. It is a gesture very familiar to Haruka, and sets off a little burst of pain in the general vicinity of his heart – but also highlights that Haruka does not know this Rin; brings out the subtle differences between him and Haruka’s Rin – he is taller, for one, and there is a scar underneath his eye, and he’s got immaculate oval-shaped nails – Haruka’s Rin bites his – his hair, too, is shorter, and parted at the side, combed flat in neat, coiled waves close to his head –
There is a flower pinned to his lapel, a white replica of the one Haruka is wearing. He steals a glance at Haruka out of the corner of his eye. His throat bobs. Haruka notes, amused, that his gaze lingers on his mouth. “I could have sworn I knew you from somewhere – ”
Haruka smiles, a little. “You must be mistaken, your highness.” The honorific, tacked on as an afterthought, rolls off his tongue, strangely easy to say. “Maybe you saw me in the market, or some other public place.”
Rin nods, slowly. “Yes, perhaps,” but he does not look very convinced, looking at Haruka with a mixture of amazement and bewilderment, like he is remembering only half of the lyrics of a song that is stuck in his head. “But I feel as though I have known you my entire life.”
Before he can convince himself not to, Haruka lays a hand on Rin’s jacket-sleeved arm. “I must have made an impression, then.”
This coaxes Rin’s face into a smile – a mind-numbing-ly bright flash of teeth – that lasts only an instant, but still takes Haruka’s breath away. “I don’t doubt it for an instant.”
There is quiet for a moment – in which a few bars of a violin solo floats out into the open air, and the wind rustles the treetops in the grounds below. Rin’s scarlet eyes are strangely washed out – perhaps because of the moonlight – eyelashes a luminous silver, casting barbed shadows on his cheeks.
It seems to Haruka to be a natural progression of the sequence of events: to lift his face and close his arms around Rin’s neck, to allow his eyes to fall shut and let his mouth slide against Rin’s lips –
His last coherent thought is that he’d left a fire burning in the cottage kitchen, and his mackerel must be burnt to a crisp – and then the world falls away from his feet.
Almost immediately later: Haruka comes to with a start – tumbles into wakefulness like dropping out of a dream – to find that he is in a familiar room: with white-washed walls and a mattress with just the right amount of give –
And next to him is Rin: Rin, with no scars and longer hair and a hand resting under his cheek, nails bitten down to the quick. Haruka’s heart drums in his ears, a loud thud-thud-thud, like being drunk, breath coming in short, fast gasps.
Slowly, Haruka calms his breathing. He lies back down, turns over onto his side, reaches out to touch Rin’s face, sweeps his thumb across Rin’s jaw. His skin is smooth, unmarked. Haruka breathes out.
Gradually, Rin stirs. His eyes flicker slowly open – heavy-lidded with sleep, mouth pulling up into a half-smile.
“Welcome home,” he says, voice hoarse, and Haruka’s heart stutters in his chest.
[ See - he’d never had to speak aloud, when he lived underwater. ]
Rin holds the antiseptic-soaked cotton swab to Haruka’s lip, presses down carefully. Haruka’s eyes widen, and a little, almost soundless, hiss escapes his mouth. Rin would not have caught it if he hadn’t been listening so hard. Haruka clasps his hands in his lap, as if to keep them still, skin stretching taut over his knuckles, pulling shiny silver-blue scales out of shape.
Not without some difficulty, Rin tears his eyes away. Sighing, he says, “I told you to be careful.” He tilts Haruka’s jaw with his free hand, thumb resting against the shiny purple bruise on Haruka’s left cheekbone. Rin’s fingers tremble, despite his attempt at putting on a brave face. “There was a reason I said so, you know.”
Haruka stares at him, mutely, eyes dark and wide, narrow bands of blue around blown-out pupils. His expression is otherwise blank: no glimmer of comprehension, no wrinkle of frustration, and – apart from that first gasp – no sign that he is in any pain. Belatedly, Rin thinks he might not have spoken slowly enough. Though he has progressed faster than Rin thought he would, Haruka is still in the process of navigating the concept of spoken language.
See: he’d never had to speak aloud, when he lived underwater.
“Sorry,” Rin says, and makes to repeat what he’d said – but he hasn’t gotten very far when Haruka unclasps his hands, and places the pads of his fingers against Rin’s cheek. Images flood into Rin’s mind, like heat, from the point of contact: hazy – like a video call distorted with bad reception – tinted with the familiar shade of blue he has come to recognize as Haruka’s voice.
No other choice, Haruka tells Rin. He drops his hand to rest on Rin’s shoulder, the last picture – of Rin arriving on the scene, pulling his taser from his belt – flickering before it disappears. Rin notes, with some annoyance, that his peaked police cap had been off-center on his head.
“You’re lucky I was the one who found you,” Rin grumbles, pulling the cotton ball away from Haruka’s mouth. The bleeding has stopped. He throws the – now blood-tinged – cotton away, screws the cap off the tube of topical antibacterial and smears a little onto the cut. “Don’t swallow it,” he warns, recapping the ointment.
Rin stands up, brushes down his dark, standard-issue trousers, cuffs the bottoms, ensures the creases are immaculate. He gathers the used first aid supplies, tosses the trash into the bin.
“I’ve still got a shift at the station,” he says, snagging his jacket off the hook, and adds, more teasing than serious, “Do you think you can you stay out of trouble till I get back?”
From where he is still sitting – cross-legged on the floor – Haruka tips his head back to look up. He is smiling – it is an innocent, guileless smile, a little lopsided, what with the swollen bottom lip and all – eyes bright.
It is an expression that says, clearly, I’ll try my best to.
It has been hard, Rin thinks, but they might be getting better at this thing. He nods, slowly.
[ “Do you really believe the dead come back to us, sensei?” ]
***
at the center
Author: pennyofthewild
Prompt: @rinharuweek day 1: firsts/reincarnation
Word count: 416
Ratings/Warnings: General audiences, bad writing
Summary/Notes: this is the result of a conversation i once had with @hexa-chrome re: a Free! Avatar the Last Airbender AU. needless to say, this does not do her original ideas justice. (i’m sorry, chrome)
i do not own Gyatso’s quote!!
***
The smell of chlorine is strong in Haruka’s nose; the natatorium air chilly. He shivers, goosebumps erupting across his bare skin.
***
Wind screams in Haruka’s ears, howling in grief, lashing at his hair and skin and clothes. Around him, the air is thick with smoke and dirt, dust devils rising from the ground to coalesce in a giant whirlwind. Haruka lifts his face, squints up into the gale. Dimly, through the haze of grit and sand, he can make out the figure poised in midflight, eyes aglow, lightning crackling at his fingertips.
Behind him, he can hear the muted sounds of shouting. A faint, “Haru, it’s dangerous,” reaches him; Haruka ignores it, pushing forward into the wind. He funnels the air into a tunnel, buoys himself up off the ground, and climbs upwards, fueled by the stormy winds.
At the center of the tempest, the Avatar hangs, suspended, enclosed in a sphere of calm.
Haruka reaches through the wall of the globe of air, takes hold of his hand, then his arm, and lets himself be pulled into the eye of the storm.
Within the circle of Haruka’s arms, the Avatar shudders, quivering with rage and anguish, ablaze with power. Haruka tightens his hold, presses his face against the Avatar’s neck, murmurs the words like a mantra against his skin:
It’s going to be alright, Rin. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
Afterwards – it is late, past moonrise, and Haruka is just drifting off to sleep – Rin asks, soberly, his voice still thick with tears,
“Do you really believe the dead come back to us, sensei?”
Haruka sighs, turns over on his mattress, looks over at him, lying an arm’s length away, backlit in the moonlight streaming through the tent’s opening. “I’ve told you not to call me that,” he mutters, “we’re the same age.”
Almost too late, he refrains from adding, it’s embarrassing. Rin already makes him talk too much as it is.
Rin’s eyes glitter in response. Haruka averts his gaze, looks up at the tent’s canvas ceiling.
“I do,” he says, slowly, “You know – there are some relationships that can transcend lifetimes.”
***
Haruka hoists himself out of the pool, grip firm around Makoto’s hand, and pulls the swim cap off his head. His hair falls damply over his forehead, drips at the nape of his neck.
Wet footsteps sound on the pool deck, and a breathless voice says,
“Hey, you’re that kid, aren’t you? I’m Matsuoka Rin."
