#aliltouched

[cosmosfated]

[etzzzel]

Pho: “So I guess @fleurdebleue is a Mizutsune.”

[cosmosfated]

“Fleur doesn’t talk much.” “Oh ‘e talks. He just prefers company that’ll listen.”

Bonus file name:

[cosmosfated]

Why is fleur shirtless omg

   “of my current situation, the first thing you’re going to ask… is why i’m shirtless?”  Amusement glints in his eyes for a moment before he shrugs, running one hand through his hair.  Some glitter falls out of it in a pretty shower onto his shoulders and onto the ground behind him.  Is he trying to show off now, maybe maybe not.

   “i’m currently staying with a certain rutting vagabond, who is… somewhere around the house, naked? i haven’t the slightest clue as to why.”  Smirk.

[cosmosfated]

Same Old, Same Old

   The few hours he was gone felt like days, weeks even.  He has a headache from it all, and that’s only because he got irritated with some people.  He’s going to have to fix that wall when he gets the urge to, ugh.  Damn it.

   Well anyway it’s time he head back home to lay d──

               ...........

   Again with this.

   He’s standing in the doorway, just staring at the tracks of bloody footprints through the house.  COME ON MAN!  Son of a bitch!  He only asked ONE THING!  JUST THE ONE!

   “IAN! clean up after yourself!”  He’s already taking off his shoes and socks so that he can put on his “cleaning shoes” and not even try to touch whatever may be on the floor.  “i’m not your mother! and you’re tracking blood all through the house! have some respect for your living space!”

[cosmosfated]

Things Fleur has actually called @aliltouched in order to avoid using his actual name with people:

huffy bastard

dickwad mcfucker

overcompensating golden trashbag

magical teosinte

bastard warlock

the embodiment of a glitchy sliding door that just hates you

occult cockwaffle

“a dear friend”

rocket pocket

douchebag with superpowers

std superhighway

fun sized mystic swindler

lubed double door

the living counterpart of a jester’s poofy pants

sometimes he just ends up on spanish slang, like cabrón or fresa

more on the side of cabrón. definitely over on that side.

[cosmosfated]

That Ian fellow sure does try to tell you what to do with your life. Normally you respond poorly to that. He some sort of life coach for you?

  “life coach? tha’s rich. he’s just my Brother. jus’ ‘coz he gets through to me don’t mean not’in’. relax.” That’s funny. Dear god. How would Ian react to that comment? Oh lord. His chuckling devolves into a fit of maniacal laughter.

[cosmosfated]

Because it became a topic of interest in the past few hours: Fleur has fallen back into the habit of praying, and to the gods he prays to, this means he has some faith upon which to build the rekindling of his heart. It's a blessing that first came out of desperation.

When he's recovering from his injuries and illnesses in Ian's house, his fear makes him start praying to the gods he made a deal with. Initially, these "prayers" were mostly his way or trying to talk to somebody so he wouldn't go stir crazy. Did he believe his words would actually reach them? ... admittedly, no. Quite frankly, even if they showed interest in him that didn't mean they would listen to him now that they have something they want. He had grown used to being used... but he still wanted to have faith in someone. So he did the only things he could do while bedridden and ill: think, and talk, and pray.

Eventually, praying became a habit of his. He doesn't do it as often as more devout followers do but when he does it, his prayers err on the side of... eccentric. His prayers are rarely ever for himself.

Most of his early prayers are for Ian. Praying for a good night's rest so Ian could sleep too. Praying for something good to happen to him when he went out so he could see his Brother smile. Praying for something funny to happen outside so his Brother would laugh a little. His prayers initially were just his way of saying 'thank you' to Ian while he was unable to get up and cook his favorite meal or make some good tea or share a story he would like.

But as time progressed, his thoughts wandered to his routine and the true version of himself that he had to shove away in order to recognize his anger (the kinder side, the gentler side, the side that loves and loves so much it hurts not to love) came out in small ways. Praying for the safe trip of the owner of the shop he visits often between work and home. Praying for the continued success of the racers he had befriended, and success meaning as little death as possible while also crossing the finish lines. Praying for the kids he occasionally saw doing graffiti to have their cans work throughout their best painting of the day.

It's the only thing that kept him sane enough to hold a conversation at the end of the day.

Small prayers like these became his routine. But they're erratic. He doesn't pray every night. He may pray once or twice a week. All other times he merely talks "at" the gods, not expecting anything to happen because of it. Telling stories, telling jokes, telling concerns, until sleep takes him or it's time to change the bandages again.