HI I just read your boatem gothic post and it is. SO COOL??? I just started a little au yesterday where the void under boatem manages to create a physical form, which hatches from the dragon egg (it's tagged "there's something under boatem" if you're interested), and I was wondering if I could use that writing as inspiration! I think it'd be fun to make a little comic that illustrates some of the interactions, but I also just really love the ideas you put forward there and would love to incorporate them in the au, if you're okay with that!! No worries if not!!
thereâs eyes at the bottom of the pit. itâs new. are the eyes new? they feel old. you ask how old they are. the answer you get is five days. the answer you get is cut with static. the static is old. so must be the eyes. the pit is five days old.
it has a name. the boats stacked on top slant playfully. they had mobs in them, you thought, but you made the mistake of looking away. youâre sure it was a mistake, but you canât feel the regret. you tell yourself never to look away again. someone calls your name. you donât even think - never turn your back on the boatem hole, is what someone would yell out playfully, if you listened - before youâre turning.
a cat waits for you at the edges of the village. is it jellie? you think she might be jellie. but her grey stripes swirl across her pelt despite the way she refuses to move. she blinks quickly, quickly, quickly. you move closer and she crowds your ankles with human concern in the tilt of her head. you move closer and she claws your pants, insistent, searching, begging. you wish you could ask. instead you scratch her chin and try to shake the way she cries when you leave.
is it jellie? cat-eyed pupils stare out of the dark. it might be jellie. youâd better hope, for your sake, itâs jellie.
the pit is five days old. the pit is two weeks old. the pit is nearing four months old. the hole is bigger. when you see the residents that live nearby, their arms jerk when they wave to you. the hole never changes, it never pulls, it never pulses. the pit is as old as you remember. you donât remember much with your feet dangling over the edge. the hole is not bigger.
the lines around grianâs eyes crinkle the same way they always do when he sees you; he waves; he laughs; he almost drops his shulker in his enthusiasm. there is nothing unusual about grianâs appearance. you see him the next week with slanting drooping darkening eyes and bracelets of black veins down his wrists. when did it start? is the hole bigger? there is nothing unusual about grianâs appearance. black feathers fall away when he shifts in the night. you canât see his wings during his moonlit flights. there is nothing unusual about grianâs appearance.
death messages appear every once in a while. itâs normal, everyone insists. itâs a hole in the ground in the middle of a neighborhood of clumsy hermits. itâs to be expected. someone laughs out the story of losing it all to that hole. itâs easy, just a trip, just a little coaxing. you think they mean the coaxing of bad luck. it could be something else doing the coaxing. you never ask.
jellie doesnât have blue eyes.
the rivers in impulseâs factory shimmer. they donât smell like chocolate anymore. you inhale two lungfuls of rot. you think maybe impulse would look apologetic for the way you cough, hack up the air youâve taken in, but he is pale and he is less and he is faded at the edges. the rivers shine. you think an oil spill would be more forgiving. there is a part of you that you do not have anymore. there is something coating your lungs that wasnât there before.
pearlâs pumpkins litter the ground around the hole. itâs an innocent halloween activity. you trip over not one not two not three not four but five. they catch your feet. youâre close to the hole. is it bigger? it very well might be. pearl barely hears you when you complain lightly. pearl barely hears you. you can barely hear pearl. there are six pumpkins near the hole, unassuming. you wonder where you wouldâve ended up had you tripped on the sixth.
her jacket swirls like it shouldnât. itâs blue fabric, you tell yourself. your fingers creak and bend and freeze when you hold her elbow, once, a friendly gesture. there are galaxies in those stitches. you do not keep your grip for long. when she meets your eyes hers blink slowly, like a cat with itâs guard down. vulnerability isnât a look that befits the black you find there. there is a shiver down your spine and you think, for a second, her breath smells like impulseâs shining rivers.
jellieâs eyes arenât yellow.
when scar laughs itâs shaky and fragile. is the hole bigger? he builds new shop after new wagon after new base after new house. itâs never enough. whether itâs never enough for him or the eyes is a question you canât seem to dig up from the bottom of your throat.
grianâs veins stand out like bracelets, adorning, respectful. scarâs veins stand out under the collar of his shirt, lacing out from the bottoms of his sleeves, choking, spreading. there shouldnât be a difference in the black between them. there very much is. youâve seen the othersâ black. you do not remember this. these two are the examples you should never learn from.
mumboâs redstone always works. mumbo spends hours on his circuits. mumbo explains every split in the pathway and every tick in the repeaters. mumboâs redstone never works. he replaces a lever with a button. when the dust lights up, it flashes black red purple red red red. red drips from his nose; he wipes it away. mumboâs redstone works most of the time.
jellie begs at your feet. she needs your help. your chest aches. cat eyes watch you and jellie from a distance. those eyes are jellieâs eyes. the cat at your feet blinks up at you with jellieâs fur and with eyes youâve never seen before. you coo, you call it jellie. she seems pleased but only for the moment.
the waterfall down mumboâs mountain gleams pale blue in the daylight. it reflects the night sky when the sun sets. reflections look exactly like reality if youâre not careful. you never touch the water in the nighttime. the hole might look bigger, in the dark.
you walk grianâs alley. the parrots make noises youâve never heard before. the parrots make the noise your heart makes when blood rushes in your ears. the parrots make the noise of eyes blinking shut. the parrots make the sound of jellie wailing her heart out. you donât like these parrots much. you walk grianâs alley, and think maybe if the night sky didnât press down so much the parrots wouldnât stare back at you with liquid jet black.
the phantom at the top of the shop doesnât move. it perches on the ground and makes no noise. youâve never seen a phantom land. a shadow crosses the backs of your ankles. your skin is cold. the glass window before you creaks. the night sky weighs down with the friction of the void. when you turn, the phantom screams.
if you stop at the edge and squint your eyes you think maybe, possibly, the hole might be bigger.
on day five of this world there is a sign in grianâs train advertising the sale of one dragon egg! you will ask grian about this in four weeks and two daysâ time. he will tell you, with an unsettled grin, he never meant to sell it to anyone. you will not ask him why his hands grip his axe a little tighter.
doc asks for some of mumboâs redstone. this is the only red flag you will ever need.
black feathers are everywhere. you pick one out of the hood of your jacket. you ask pearl where theyâre all from. she wishes she knew, but they make a fine dye. itâs almost like they melt to a liquid when crushed. you smell rot when she says this. the feather is carefully dropped to the ground, and when a breeze takes it down the hole - you do not ask.
is the hole bigger? is there will there has there ever been another question you are meant to ask?
in three weeks and six days you will ask grian where the egg is. the wood handle splinters just a hair. he claims he doesnât know.
you ask each of them why the jackets and jumpers never come off. you regret asking and you never even got an answer the first time.
you should stop asking you should stop asking you should stop asking you should stop stop stop you should not ask you should st
impulse pricks his finger when youâre mining together. before he sticks it in his mouth, black smears across his fingerprint. the lining of your lungs rebels, if only for a second.
there is a cat that sits at the edge of the neighborhood and waits. you wish you knew what she was waiting for. you wish you could help. the eyes at the bottom of the hole have jellieâs soft green irises, and they blink slowly quickly slowly. the hole is bigger. please listen to me. the hole is
the hole is five days old, and five weeks old, and five years old, and there is a rush of static when you think about any period longer than this. there are cold hands on your shoulders. there is black blood at the corner of a smiling mouth.
you stop to ask, this time. the question is met with a laugh. why would the hole be bigger? it hasnât changed. maybe you should step closer. you know - to get a better look.
Though the hand that settles between his shoulder blades is warm, it sends a chill down his spine. "Relax," Phil murmurs behind him. "It's just me, mate. I promise." The touch is light. Itâs not... itâs not-
Thereâs a knee pinning him down, sharp against the slope of his spine and crushing the air from his lungs. âPlease,â he begs, fingers gripping the dirt under him. âPlease, please-â
 The words fall on deaf ears. Sunlight flashes on a pair of blades. Tommy tucks his face against the ground and refuses to watch.
Itâs his dadâs hand. Itâs Phil. He breathes in deeply, chest expanding freely even with someone touching him. âIâll focus on your right one first, okay? Tell me if I need to stop.â
He barely registers the silence. The hand moves off the bare skin of his back - he startles, fighting the urge to twist in his seat, nerves itching at not being able to see. âTommy? You with me?â
âYeah,â he rasps. âYeah, sorry. Go for it.â Phil hums gently, replacing his hand in the exact same spot and rubbing a small circle with his thumb before slowly, slowly shifting towards the cluster of feathers at the base of Tommyâs shoulder blade. The first touch makes Tommy jump, heart skipping a beat, before warm fingers settle into something gentle, familiar, and all the air leaves him in a rush.
The horrible sound of the blades connecting. Tommy flinches, helpless, pushing up weakly with his hands against the rough grit but more of Dreamâs weight shifts onto the knee holding him down, keeping Tommy where Dream wants him, unable to flee. Unable to fly.
Black flutters in the edge of his vision. âItâs for your own good,â his captor tells him. The confidence in his voice doesnât waver. Tommy chokes on a sob and screws his eyes shut, but the black wonât leave his head and it moves how it shouldnât and when he shifts his back muscles, feathers that should drag in the dirt donât respond-
âCan-â Philâs hands freeze instantly, even when the plea dies in Tommyâs throat. âSorry, sorry-â
âItâs fine, itâs fine.â Wood scrapes stone as Phil shifts the stool heâs sitting on, moving himself firmly within Tommyâs line of sight. A knot unwinds at not just being able to see a little of whatâs going on, but at his dad drawing closer. At the familiar scent of paper and apples, the breeze they both love to chase and the cinnamon warmth of Technoâs fireplace. âHere. Better?â
âLots.â Itâs a long second before the hands return to his feathers, misaligned and ruffled and in dire need of help heâd refused for so long (terrified, terrified). âUh. Slowly?â
Philâs smile is gentle. Heâs never been more grateful for the way Phil just understands, reading between the lines of Tommyâs shaking hands, puffed-out feathers, and disjointed phrases. âOf course.â And he does work at a snailâs pace, taking his sweet time neatly laying each feather he finds and flicking away dust or down that shouldnât be there.
Phil begins rambling about...his day, Tommy thinks, drifting in and out, barely paying attention to the words but focusing on the low tone of his voice. It reminds him of being younger again, perched eagerly on a chair in front of one of the few other people who knew how to help keep his wings from total chaos. Preening had always been one of his favorite things they did together, just him and Phil - aside from perhaps flying itself, but...
 âItâs for your own good,â Dream tells him, sickly-sweet, as if he isnât wrist-deep in wrenching Tommyâs soul out of place. He refuses to watch. He refuses to watch. He refuses-
 âYou shouldnât waste your time,â Wilbur tells him, except this Wilbur is long-gone and blinded by himself, turned away so he misses the way the light leaves Tommyâs eyes. The ravine walls around them are suffocating. Tommy misses the sky, the drip of a honey sunset all around him as far as he can see-
 âJust means youâre a flight risk,â Tubbo tells him, voice caught up in laughter at his own joke. His best friend means well. The joke is innocent. Tommyâs heart aches and he bites down words he hasnât figured out for himself. Heâs not defensive. Tubbo doesnât get it. Itâs fine-
Flying had been his favorite thing to do.
He draws his wings tighter to himself.
âDo you need a break?â Tommy snaps back to reality. The crackle of the fireplace swims back into focus. The cool stone under his feet is a far cry from sun-warmed dirt.
Philâs worked his way to Tommyâs secondaries. He hasnât done anything worse than a light tug on some feathers, clearly unsure of how much Tommy can handle. âKeep going?â His own voice sounds so small in his ears, but itâs enough.
âYou got it,â Phil replies, smile evident in the sound of his voice. âThis next part - itâs gonna be...more, okay? You havenât-?â
âItâs been a while,â Tommy cuts him off. The patches Philâs touched already burn from the contact, and he can almost make out the feeling of a handprint on his back, in line with his heart. A âwhileâ is an understatement. âI might-â
Phil hums again, the end of it dipping down into concern. âOkay. Iâve still got you, just relax and Iâll handle you. Promise.â
Tommy huffs a laugh. Phil keeps his promises, he knows that much. âThanks, big man,â he gets out before Phil returns to his task and most of his coherent thoughts leave his head.
What had been merely simple feather adjustment before is gentle, firm movements instead, experienced hands pressing at tense muscles and more confidently fixing the ways his feathers lay. It feels like more with his longer ones, all askew from his hasty trip through the forest and the snow and everything since then - he melts forwards, whining in the back of his throat. âWoah, okay-â Phil sounds almost amused at his reaction, one hand moving to grip his shoulder so Tommy doesnât topple off his stool. âCareful, kid.â
âNn.â He canât keep himself upright. The hand still preening his right wing doesnât falter, movements so rhythmic theyâre hypnotic, and he thinks Phil calls out to someone above his head but to be fair a whole army could be attacking in that moment and Tommy likely wouldnât be able to tell the difference. His whole body feels warm - heâd forgotten what pure safety felt like, blood slow in his veins like syrup and thoughts at an equal pace. The hand on his shoulder shifts so his collarbone is braced with Philâs forearm crossed in front of it, Tommy drawn closer to his chest.
He wonât fall. He trusts Phil.
Heâs drifting in and out of existence when another presence enters the room, footsteps settling firm on the ground. Words float by. âI need you to hold him, yeah, there you go-â
Two new hands grip his arms from the front. His head lolls forwards against a chest, and Philâs hand returns to its original task. The new personâs breath ghosts over the top of his hair, slow and sure. âTech?â He mumbles, fumbling to grasp at the front of Technobladeâs shirt. âTired.â
âI can tell.â Tommy tenses for a moment, but Technoblade doesnât move. He just keeps Tommy anchored in place, secure while Phil focuses entirely on...working magic, or something, what with how the whole world drips past like candle wax and the heat of the nearby fire threatens to consume his consciousness.
Sleep beckons, but he knows if he falls asleep itâd be 1) embarrassing and 2) taking away how amazing he feels in the moment, so Tommy struggles to blink his eyes open and flexes his hands in the fabric heâs still clutching like a lifeline. Phil works his way over, drawing out tiny contented noises and a rumbling chirp low in Tommyâs chest before he brushes against dark primaries-
Sunlight on metal. Black against dirt. Tommy cries out in anger, frustrated tears tearing at the back of his throat. He canât form words, just shrieks his grief into the ground and struggles impossibly against a fate he canât avoid.
 It should hurt more, he decides. They should bleed more. Only then would it match the way he hurts inside. With each snip something new shrivels up in his chest. Itâs for his own good. Itâs for his own good. He doesnât believe it for a second, but itâs for his own good and the hand pinning his right wing down is warm and he hasnât been held in so very long-
 Dream only stops talking once heâs done, each word a mockery of comfort and concern. He leaves Tommy curled up in the dust. He leaves him encircled by a halo of his own cut feathers.
 The sun sets. The sky is as dark as the wings he canât use.
 When Dream approaches him again a few weeks later, not long before the day Tommy hurts to think about - thereâs the same pair of shears loose in his fingers and a vague detachment in the line of his shoulders. âItâs for your own good.â
 This time, Tommy kneels. He stares at the dirt under his knees. An unshaking hand lands on the back of his exposed neck and he doesnât even shiver. Whether heâs strong enough to suppress the urge or too tired to react, it doesnât matter.
 He doesnât curl up and cry after this time. He doesnât sift through the fragments of his primaries with unsteady fingers after this time.
 But he kneels for hours. He canât make himself move.
Philâs hand pauses before it actually reaches Tommyâs primaries. âHeâs almost done.â Technobladeâs statement is completely dry of any emotion, and it somehow helps more than anything else could. Itâs a fact. Tommy shudders in his hold and grapples with wanting to be anywhere but this room and wanting to be nowhere but this room, anger swirling awkwardly with exhaustion. âTheyâre growing back well. Heâs almost done.â
Growing back?
âIâm sorry-â His breath stutters. âYou can- Iâm sorry, I didnât realize-â
âNo-â Phil sounds almost horrified when he interrupts Tommy, finally, words quick and realization quicker. âI wonât. Not like he did. Weâre letting your feathers grow and heal, and itâs never happening again.â
Never again. Tommy shoves away the sound - because the sound of it still rings in his skull, clear as day. Two deadly-sharp blades slotting together isnât something he can forget so easily. But Phil said never again, and he trusts Phil.
Fixing his primaries is quick work, probably hastened by the quiet, trembling panic clearly visible to the two others in the room, but heâll take what he can get. Phil draws in a breath and returns to his ramble - something about farms and trading, something about the nearby town. Tommyâs eyes slide shut for the briefest of moments before he urges himself awake. âAlmost done with your right one, mate,â Phil quietly informs him. âThen the left, then you can sleep.â
He should probably be more annoyed with how easily Phil can read him. And then he remembers his wings and the way they broadcast his emotions like lit-up signs (contentment in how they droop, exhaustion in twitching muscles, nervousness in the way his shorter feathers fluff up), and sighs.
The left is easier than the right. No memories wrestle with his half-consciousness, threatening his peaceful, drowsy doze. Philâs more confident, and his preening has Tommy teetering on the edge of sleep within seconds. Tommyâs too far gone to even consider suppressing the continuous hum in the back of his throat, a light noise that just makes him sound young once more.
Philâs laugh is muffled and genuine. âThatâs better, isnât it?â Tommy mumbles some kind of agreement, he thinks, slumped entirely forwards. âTechno, dâyou mind-â
Tommyâs vaguely aware of being gathered up in someoneâs arms, their hold gentle as to not disrupt his sleep and Philâs careful work. âJust put him there,â Phil continues, and then heâs face down on soft fabric and a mattress that gives under him far better than solid ground ever could.
A warm hand smooths down the line of his back. He rumbles another chirp, even as the hand leaves to pull a blanket up to his shoulders and gather it around his shoulder blades.
His wings twitch once, before the muscles loosen and he melts into the nest of blankets and pillows around him. Two voices wish him a good night.
Itâs silly, he thinks, before losing himself completely to sleep. This is the only good night heâs had in weeks.
as an oscar stan whoâs nd, i really loved your most recent fic! i love how true-to-life it was while also showing how supported oscar is by rest of the crew! thanks for posting it. đđđ
aaa! i wanted a good mix between How It Be sometimes and some of that good good comfort and im very glad you liked it đ„°
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: RWBY
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Oscar Pine & Everyone, Oscar Pine & Nora Valkyrie, Jaune Arc & Oscar Pine, Ozpin & Oscar Pine, Blake Belladonna & Oscar Pine, Oscar Pine & Ruby Rose, Qrow Branwen & Oscar Pine, Oscar Pine & Lie Ren
Characters: Oscar Pine, Nora Valkyrie, Jaune Arc, Blake Belladonna, Ozpin (RWBY), Qrow Branwen, Ruby Rose (RWBY), Lie Ren
Additional Tags: Sensory Processing Disorder, Stimming, shutdown, these arent tags ???? what, anyways this one's called watch me project all my stims onto oscar for 4k words k bye, Panic Attacks, technically not, but apparently theres no relevant tags SOOO, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, like it literally barely counts and its barely mentioned but wanna be safe
Summary:
Over the rest of the day, the haze under his skin only grew worse, his nerves buzzing and numb, his eyes tired, blurred. Everything feltâŠtoo far away, like a gap had opened between himself and his skin and reality itself, and it left him cold and weak in its wake.
It was an accident. It was just an accident. Nausea rushes woozy and light in his veins.
He can't draw in a breath. Everything has gone dark around them, and Varian blinks and tries to recall how the lights went out. And then the darkness shifts, groaning, heavy on all sides, and he remembers.
The beaker - it wasn't supposed to react like that. He'd only put two drops in, not three, and yet the next second had brought a flash so bright purple spots dance in his vision and an explosion loud enough to make his ears ring. He thinks Eugene is saying - yelling? - something, and he rolls over on the ground to see his friend standing over him.
His heart jumps to his throat. Eugene has the weight of a chunk of the ceiling braced across his shoulders, face red with exertion and from blood streaming down his temple, knuckles white and bruised. It's - it's too heavy, it must be, because that's nearly the whole ceiling-
It takes a moment for him to fully process the danger, and when he does, he scrambles to his feet. "Eugene, we have to get out of here, we have to go right now-" The rocks shift again. Eugene shakes his head rapidly, mouth wide in a grimace, but when he sees the terror in Varian's eyes it twists into a desperate smile.
"You've gotta leave, kid. Go get help, I'll be fine." He can hear the I promise hidden in those words, meant to be reassuring, but only damning. There's - there's no way to come back from this one, if it's broken. He won't be able to. He won't.
"I can-" His hands fumble in the dark around his knees, searching for anything that could help, but his fingers only scrape ash and grit. Fear makes him lightheaded, blood drips down the back of his neck, and his hands remain empty. "Wait, Eugene, just give me a second, I can fix it!" There's nothing in his pockets. There's nothing important strapped to his belt or abandoned under his table. There's nothing for them here but the stone slowly threatening to crush them both, and sob bursts free from his chest.
The groaning gets louder, and Eugene shuffles his feet and hacks a cough. They've run out of time. The empty space between them begins to close as Eugene has no choice but to slowly slip to his knees, breathing grating and harsh. âIâll buy you as much time as I can,â he rasps, "just go, go!" His eyes are wild, desperate, focused only on Varian, and Varian freezes.
"You...you can't do this." His voice is numb. "You can't! This was - it was just an accident-" They were fine just minutes ago, laughing over another failure, dusting the debris off their goggles, mixing another set of chemicals, pouring beakers and cranking burners and waving off fumes. Everything had been fine! The realization of what will happen refuses to sink in. It can't get past the unflinching belief children hold that bad things cannot just happen for no reason, that things can end between heartbeats and that fractures can split into fissures before their own eyes. Varian scoots backwards, intent on getting help, blinking back tears at the relief that spreads across Eugene's face because of his movements. "I'll be right back, okay? Just - just a minute, two tops, just hold on-"
He kicks his feet out, wiggling back and out from under most of the rubble. Shock threatens to freeze him again, lock his bones and muscles, but he fights through it. One, two, three. The seconds tick by too quickly - he moves faster, squeezing out past rock and metal. He's almost there, almost free-
His eyes never leave Eugene's face, not even when he's out into the lamplight and blinking away stars, and so he sees the very moment the weight becomes too much to bear. It happens so fast. It happens before he can even finish seven.
He screams and screams until his voice is gone, throat choked with dust.
He cries until he can't anymore, because Eugene is gone, too.
***
Rapunzel goes white at the sight of him.
He knows the picture he makes - blood down his temple, grey dust coating his clothes, grief in the tears on his face. He barely feels her hands on his arms, the one that comes up to skim a thumb over his cheek. âWhat happened,â she asks, and itâs so serious and wary itâs barely a question.
âI- I need help,â he explains. âItâs Eugene, and my lab-â He tries to get more words out, better ones, but nothing can express the blur of what just happened. Her mouth draws thin as she nods and says something over his head to the guards. Her hands never leave him, steadying, and he canât breathe.Â
âItâs okay, Varian,â she reassures, âtheyâll find him. Okay? I need you to take a deep breath for me.â He inhales sharply, the air stuttering in his lungs, but she only nods. He loses time, after this - he recalls being in the hall, but not leaving the room; stone fragments on the ground, but not racing up to his labâs door. Her hand is warm. He doesnât remember grabbing it, but her fingers lace tightly with his.
The guards are already throughout the room, carefully removing chunks of rubble. Rapunzel drops his hand, stepping forwards quickly to help, and heâs hit by a sudden dizziness. âI tried...I tried toâŠâ What? What did he do? What could he have possibly done that would've been enough? âIs he okay?â
No one answers, too busy calling directions and wrestling with stone pieces to hear his barely-audible voice over the noise. Maybe no reply is good. Maybe he can live in this world where he doesnât know for sure either way for a few moments longer. He lands on his knees next to where he pulled himself from just a few minutes ago, the slowest minutes of his life. âEugene?â He calls, voice a little stronger, and paws at the rubble. His gloves protect his hands like theyâve always done. He tears them off, casts them aside, and pulls with his bare hands. âEugene!â
His own blood beads on his fingers, but he resolutely doesnât look. He doesnât have time to indulge the dragging fatigue, not yet. Heâs...so close, he thinks, elbow deep in rock, so close to where he last saw his friendâs face. Smaller stones fall away under his movements. Thatâs fine. His hands shake too badly to even think about disturbing larger pieces. The longest minutes of his life stretch on with every rock that doesnât hold skin or cloth under it. Heâs resorted to muttering pleas under his breath, inaudible prayers and offers and whatever else he can think of - heâs so caught up in the tears blurring his vision he almost misses it when he sees it.Â
The next stones reveal fingers, and then a palm, and then Eugeneâs hand is warm in his, and he canât even bear to think of letting go. He calls out for Rapunzel, maybe, or the guards, frantic and so, so happy, and holds tight.
And when they come and help him remove the rest of what was almost the biggest mistake of his life, he canât do anything but smile. âHey,â he whispers, pulling gently at the few rocks still piled around Eugeneâs arms and shoulders with his free hand. âI came back.â
âAlright, hold on-â Eugene dropped to a kneel by Varianâs feet, getting as good of a look as he could without moving the limb or disturbing the trap. Varian could only watch for a second before Eugene reached out to brush his fingers against the intact skin near the bleeding - he averted his gaze with a thick swallow. âYou really did a number on yourself, huh?â
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Tangled (2010), Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Varian
Characters: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, Varian (Disney)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Moon Powers Varian (Disney), Team Awesome (Disney: Tangled), The Dark Kingdom (Disney: Tangled), Protective Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, Nightmares, Brother Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst
Series: Part 8 of Sun and Moon AU
Summary:
The campfire blazes bright in the silence and he canât breathe.
Itâs a haze, to Varian, how theyâd left - stranded in the empty space outside the castle walls. Days from the home heâd just begun to accept after years of refusing to let go of his old one. Asleep in someoneâs arms, a steady yet nervous gait under him, a gentle hand in his hair - heâd been through this before.
***
Or, the boys right after they leave the Dark Kingdom.
The check to his shoulder catches him completely off guard.
Itâs not enough to unbalance him, but Eugene lets the momentum carry him forwards and shifts his feet just as - the associated elbow strikes upwards, hard, cracking against the bottom of his jaw and making his head spin. Iron fills his mouth as he raises his arms to block his face, then staggers at the blow to his chest.
id like to preface this with 1) @woogwoo-wrenâ is an enabler and 2) @finnoky is an absolutely fantastic source of inspiration. thatâs all folks
ao3
Varian skitters across the cold stone floor, grappling for purchase and breath stuttering violently - he canât believe it, at first, he canât - and slides to a stop too far away. The gap between them feels enormous; not just in a physical sense, but in how Eugeneâs fists clench at his sides. In how his eyes narrow, a complicated mix of raw anger and concern, in how Varianâs ribs bend and catch fire in his chest, forcing out the air rotting in the bottom of his lungs. His vision swims and cuts out altogether, a dizzying black - his head cracks against stone, lolling sideways, smearing red - before he blinks and the blues above him waver back into focus.
Heâs quick to kneel, to reach. âListen, please!â Varian cries out, one arm outstretched, the other curled close. With anyone else - he might be composed. His voice might ring strong; he might have the upper hand, a fighting chance at changing their mind.Â
But this is his brother, and in this one moment, he has everything to lose.
âYou have so much to hold onto,â he pleads. Itâs not a scream, not a breath, but some rough mix of both, tearing and forcing its way up his throat. Heâs right here in front of Eugene - is he not enough? Is he not worth casting aside the stone for? Tell me Iâm right, he begs. But those words do not make it out. They die deeper in his chest, in the space below his heart.
Anger flashes across Eugeneâs face, brittle and offended as if perhaps - perhaps he thinks this is holding. As if he believes he is the one in control. As if the stone does not glitter like a shard of glass on his chest, ready to cut its holder into pieces, ready to prick the finger of the hand that dares to touch it. And Varian realizes...he can see. But Eugene canât.
He needs Eugene to think. He needs Eugene to-
âChoose!â he screams, voice tearing through the cavern. Varian gains ground in his desperation, stepping forwards and fisting his brotherâs tunic and reaching, reaching, reaching - but his arms arenât strong enough, fingers not steady enough, and he canât manage anything but lunges far too weak to accomplish his goal.
The moonstone gleams in the center of Eugeneâs chestplate. Itâs a bright, bright blue. It calls, and for a second, he almost wants to answer. But there is a haze in Eugeneâs eyes that not even his little brotherâs frantic, sobbing pleas can get past. Thereâs a struggle under the surface of that unfamiliar electric blue, violent and twisted. Thereâs a disjointed mess to the logic his brother is weaving for himself, a tightening in the noose his brother has slipped his head into.
His broken choose still echoes louder than the other words heâs breathed. He needs Eugene to choose. He needs Eugene to think. And Varian fights, shaking, pushing, pulling. He grits his teeth, snarls and tears and bites out words until he can barely make out his own voice, jumbled together in a panic-
âThatâs enough, Varian.â The grip on his wrist latches on, tightens impossibly. Varian canât breathe. His chest burns.
He stretches his fingers, reaching out for the stone, but Eugeneâs hold doesnât flinch. It merely shifts slightly, twisting, and Varian resists the instant urge to fall to his knees.Â
âYes, sir,â he chokes out, hopelessly small. It is all he can say.
Please, he thinks.Â
I canât lose you, he thinks.Â
The tension builds in his lungs. It writhes under his skin, coiling around his spine and blurring his vision with tears.Â
Itâs time to choose. And Varian knows he canât stop fighting. Not until he has his brother back. Not until he can yell and chip away at the pocked marks in his brotherâs soul; not until brown eyes stare back.
And when Eugene forces him away, watches him stumble on feet caught unaware and twists a cage of rock around him, something in his chest fractures. Itâs to keep him safe and nearby, he reasons with himself, frantic in the face of Varianâs horror. His brotherâs eyes shutter - the fear melts away, the determination rears its ugly head. Canât he see that he shouldnât fight? That this is for him, not against him?
But a part of Varian closes off, in its own defense, and Eugene is left colder than heâs ever been. Now I have nothing left to lose, he whispers to himself. Because - heâs lost Varian. Heâs lost his brotherâs trust. Heâs lost his brother.
The murmurs in his ear ring too great to ignore, silvery and soft and everything the black rocks heâs twisted for himself arenât; strong where he is fragile, venturing where he hasnât thought to go. The mindtrap, they tell him in impressions, in feelings that arenât words at all, but somehow slipped past his defenses and strung his fears into thoughts. You havenât lost anything yet, not at all.
He could get his little brother back. If Varian wouldnât seeâŠ
Well, Eugene could just make him, couldnât he?
There is a shard of light in his hands, jagged and blue, etched with the same symbol emblazoned on his chest, the same one printed neat and small behind Varianâs ear.
There is a boy he needs to protect held tight in the cage he created, broken and fighting, scrabbling against the rocks with an unrestrained fury and weakening by the second. There is red dripping from the corner of Varianâs mouth, a color that would shine bright scarlet if the rocks surrounding them didnât leech all the warm tones from the cavern. There are tears tracking down his face and cutting deep fractures. There are bruised fingers clenched around the sharp spikes.
There is a moment, between them - there is a second where Varianâs eyes land on the power in Eugeneâs hands. There is a flicker of recognition. A flicker of grief. The rush of blood in Eugeneâs ears is too loud to hear past - but he can read the no on Varianâs lips clear as day. He can time the beat of his heart with the repetition of that one word, as if by speaking it Varian could delay - could delay -
Eugene doesnât know what to call it. How to think about it. He needs to do this, he insists. You must.Â
He must.
There is a second moment, between them. Varian fights even harder, but they both know his bonds are unbreakable. There is nowhere to run. From Eugene? From his brother?
No, from his own fear of what he does not know. Why would he be afraid of Eugene? This is for protection. This is their only option.
Eugene is sick of helplessness. Heâs taking whatâs his.
His hands tighten around the mindtrap.
Varianâs struggling ceases immediately. He slumps against the black rocks, cradled in their curves, and goes frighteningly still.
Varian, he whispers. Varian?
There is doubt, sour in his gut. Hesitation. A what-if question so painful he canât put it to words. Then Varianâs head lifts so slowly, eyes blinking open, fingers raising to curl loosely against stone. Gentle. Every move he makes wavers and softens; Eugene remembers early mornings, shaking him, watching him wake. It feels much like that.Â
The sourness wonât fade. The haze in his thoughts thickens. He waves a hand, dispels the cage. Now that he has Varian; well, thereâs no need. His brother spills limply onto the ground at Eugeneâs feet.
Varian, he whispers. Itâs okay. Itâs okay.
The boy shudders and trembles and pushes himself off the ground with unsteady hands. He tucks his legs under him, looks up with wide and blank eyes; and he is kneeling before Eugene, head drifting forwards, neck arched. He does not speak. He barely breathes.
Eugene holds out a hand, bracing their forearms together and pulling. Varian comes up easily, fine movements still weak but supported by the steel in his bones and the magic in his blood. It is so easy to pull his brother closer. It is so easy to press a hand to the top of his head, protective, possessive.Â
He canât help the dry, small smile. Varian tilts, just barely, nudging into the palm of Eugeneâs hand. See, kid, he says. I knew youâd come around eventually.
He leads. He pushes forwards. Varian follows, always at his side.
Eugene shifts his hand to Varianâs jaw, lifting his head with a gentle, firm nudge. Relief trickles cold down his spine, a feeling adjacent to pride rising at the blue glow that casts a highlight on Varianâs cheeks, the unburdened and quiet expression, the slow and steady beat of Varian's pulse under his fingertips.Â
This is how he will protect them. This is how he will keep them together and keep them safe. This is how he takes power; claims it for himself.
(He remembers life in these eyes, just minutes ago. A fire he hadnât wanted to put out. But this was necessary, just so Varian could understand. Just for now.)
(But Varian never will - never would - never gets the chance. Because the mindtrap will never be shattered and his eyes will never clear, not so long as the stone has a grip on Eugene's mind.)
And it is those two - one standing tall, unable to see the world for what it is; the other leaned forwards, drifting, unable to see the world at all - together with the black stone that rises around them-
It is them that cuts a tragedy into the dark of the night.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Tangled (2010), Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Ruddiger & Varian, Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Ruddiger, Ruddiger & Varian (Disney), Rapunzel & Ruddiger (Disney), Cassandra & Ruddiger (Disney)
Characters: Ruddiger (Disney), Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, Varian (Disney), Rapunzel (Disney), Cassandra (Disney: Tangled), Stabbington Brothers (Disney)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, sun and moon au, Moon Powers Varian (Disney), Varian Needs a Hug (Disney), Protective Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, POV Animal, Fluff and Angst, Team Awesome (Disney: Tangled), Protective Ruddiger (Disney), Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Series: Part 25 of Sun and Moon AU
Summary:
One of his boys - the bigger one, with the deep, rumbly voice that had lulled Ruddiger to sleep so many times, with the warm paws that he loved to nose his way under, with dark eyes bright in the cover of the trees - knelt before him. There was meaning in the low tone of his voice, a mixture of concern and nervousness that belied the calm line of his back, and Ruddiger chirped a reply. He hoped it sounded soothing in their tongue. But his boy only sighed, running a soft touch down Ruddigerâs spine, and rose to his full height.
(Finally got tunglr to work for me that was a MISSION anyway) uuuh gimme in the snow with New Dream you decide how angsty and/or fluffy you wanna make it given Eugene's feelings re: snow
2. in the snow
"I'm sorry...what."
Rapunzel laughed sheepishly, crouching down to bury her bare hands in the snow like some kind of monster. "I've never made a snowman before!" She called to him over the light wind and the sound of the kids laughing, her voice teasing. "Of all the things to surprise you..."
Eugene grabbed her hands before abruptly letting them go, shivering and capturing her wrists to brush the leftover snow off her palms. Then he took her hands and pulled her further from the castle's shadow, out into the grey light of the day. "We'll just have to fix that," he muttered. "Remember I'm braving the cold and the horrible, horrible snow to provide you with a comprehensive education."
"Oh you poor thing," Rapunzel reached up to squish his cheeks playfully, fingers biting cold, and he yelped. Moments like this convinced him she wanted to see him suffer. "Whatever would I do without you to show me?"
"I'd be in the nice, comforting warmth and you'd be out here getting chased by Lance's horde." In the distance, Kiera took Varian out with a flying tackle. The poor kid oomphed and landed facefirst in the snow, laying still until she kicked him aggressively in the knee. Eugene turned away from the screeching and wrestling, eyebrows raised. "You're welcome."
Rapunzel turned from watching Lance swing Catalina around by her ankles to shoot him a look. "I think it's sweet," she chided, before looping an arm through his. "Now what's the first step?"
"There is absolutely nothing about this that could go wrong!" Rapunzel hollered from the top of the hill. "Varian says it's okay!"
***
"I- sunshine, please-"
"Oh, so if he says it's okay it's full steam ahead but if I dare to show an ounce of concern, guess who's a killjoy," Eugene muttered.
"WHAT?"
"NOTHING. I LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU."
"AWW, EUGENE-" Varian rolled his eyes and elbowed her. She exchanged words with him that Eugene couldn't overhear - probably for the best - and turned back to stare down the very tall, very snowy hill. "Incoming!"
It was that love and support that motivated him to graciously not rib them (too hard) after their crash landing at the bottom of the hill. Neither looked daunted, giggling together in a drift and throwing snow at each other until he stepped in. "While I've gotta give you points for creativity, trying to harness a snowball and sled it down the hill just isn't as stable as hand-rolling it- hey!"
Rapunzel grinned over him, holding his hands against the ground using the same grip on his wrists she'd yanked him into the snow with. "Sorry, did you say something? Got distracted watching you talk."
Eugene didn't do flustered. But she leaned further over him, brown hair backlit with pale sunlight, eyes sparkling, nose and cheeks a fierce red under her freckles from the cold, and his heart perhaps stuttered a beat. Innocent until proven guilty. He grinned and flipped them, hands at her waist. "Then I'll keep talking," he replied, voice lowered.
"Eew." Varian stuck his tongue out, breaking the moment and scrambling back to his feet with all the grace of a baby deer. "I'm going back to Lance and the girls. Gross. Good luck on the snowman without me."
"Try not to lose too hard!" Eugene yelled after him, snickering at the rude hand gesture waved back. "Now. Snowman?"
"Snowman," she agreed. "Hand rolled."
"Good, you're learning!" He definitely deserved the scarf shoved in his face.
***
"Like this?" She held a small snowball above the two they'd already stacked. Eugene frowned and waved his fingers. She shuffled a half-step.
"Little more." She tilted it slightly. "Perfect. Right there."
"I'm gonna name him Snowy Man," she proclaimed proudly. Eugene groaned.
"Just. You know what. Mr. Man has my utmost respect. Time for the carrot." He plodded through the snow, drawing the vegetable from his pocket with a flourish. "Ready?"
Rapunzel took it, squinting at the snowman's head to position it correctly. Eugene leaned back slightly - seeing her safe and happy like this, learning all the fun little things in life for the first time, brows furrowed and tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth in concentration - it was a pull he couldn't resist. It was a warmth that would hold him even here, braving the cold all day long. It was everything he'd ever dreamed of. It was-
"I think it's off balance." She looked back at him with a small frown. "What do you think?"
Eugene moved closer and placed his hands over hers, adjusting them slightly. She hummed and leaned back into him, the two of them pressed flush. "Beautiful," he murmured, and her frustration melted to confusion before she realized his eyes were fixed on her.
"Was teaching me worth standing out in the snow all day?" Rapunzel spun in his arms, and he closed them around her and held her close.
"I'm never cold when I'm with you," Eugene grinned. She suppressed a smile, looking up at him with her chin against his chest. "My sunshine."
"Dumb." He shugged, unapologetic, and they fell into a quiet moment - it was home, holding her, being held by her. "I love you," she whispered.
Varian hadnât expected his little shortcut from his lab to the kitchens to get interrupted by older brothers falling from the sky, but he supposed thatâs what he got from attempting the wrong staircase at the wrong time. One second - an apple safely in hand. No signs of trouble. The next - a wobbly figure at the top of the stairs, an unsteady misstep. His heart leapt to his throat, and he lunged forwards. âEugene? Eugene!â The sudden impact and weight sent him reeling backwards, reaching out frantically to snag the banister and keep them both from tumbling all the way down the stairs.
âDizzy, sorry,â Eugene mumbled, bracing himself on Varianâs shoulder before tipping sideways and crumpling against the railing. Varian hovered over him instantly, patting his cheeks, but he only blinked and let his eyes slip closed.
âNo, no, wait - can you hear me? Hey!â Varian shook him aggressively, voice cracking with desperation. âWhatâs going on- if you pass out on me Iâll kill you, I swear I will-â
Hazy brown eyes opened a crack, slanted with amusement. âThought...thought yâwanted me awake,â he slurred. âCanât...be awake if âm dead.â
âFlawless logic,â Varian snarked back, fumbling with the hem of Eugeneâs shirt. Under the fabric - well, he didnât know what heâd expected, but a wide swath of sickening bruises came pretty close. âMind explaining what on earth happened to you?â
Eugene craned his head to look too, as if heâd already forgotten, but after barely a second he let his head drop back against the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. âDemonstration.â Varian sputtered with confusion before Eugene could clarify. âTraining?â
Varianâs worry faded to mostly exasperation. Bewilderment. A thin layer of fond annoyance. âAgainst what? A bear? Did you pick a fight with an army when I wasnât looking? One of my boilers? How many fingers am I holding up?â
Varian waved a hand in his face, wiggling his fingers and hoping to get a more drastic response, but Eugene only squinted up at him. âMâhead is fine,â He replied crossly, swatting Varianâs hand away and wincing at how the motion pulled at his side. He groaned lightly and curled inwards, and Varian kept him from shifting too much with a hand on his shoulder.
âClearly not, if you thought stumbling around with internal injuries was a good idea,â Varian muttered mutinously. The bruises - he pressed down gently, and the tender feeling under them made his vision waver. He sat back on his heels, sucking in deep breaths to chase off the sudden lightheaded feeling, and tore his gaze away from Eugeneâs side. âYou really did a number on yourself, huh?â
Eugene nodded absently, pain beginning to settle deeper into his frown. Before, heâd seemed mostly out of it with dizziness, but after his time on the ground, it looked like the shock was starting to fade. âHelp me tâthe infirmary?â
âYeah, of course,â Varian replied, hooking one of Eugeneâs arms over his shoulders. âAnd then youâre gonna let me have a nice, long look at the armor youâve been using, with no complaints about style. If you protest once Iâm dumping you back down these stairs.â
âDuly noted,â Eugene grinned, slumping over Varian, who squawked and clung to the railing once more. The several inches Eugene still had on him made maneuvering them together infinitely harder than it shouldâve been, what with Eugeneâs half-lucidity and the treacherous nature of the stairs.
âHave you considered replacing the dangerous bits of guard training with more cardio,â Varian wheezed, trying valiantly to find his footing. âWhat have you been eating, rocks?â
Eugene only snorted, holding tighter. It took a few steps before he rolled his head to press his face into Varianâs hair, taking in a slow, steadying breath. âIâm gonna be fine, kid. Trust me.â Varian felt some of the adrenaline fade off and he swallowed thickly. Eugene always saw to his heart, no matter what.
âYouâd better,â he shot back, but there was no heat to it. âI canât raid the kitchens at night alone, can I?â
The laughter he got in reply was well worth how it unbalanced Eugene and almost sent them both sprawling again.
