Rereading my old drafts last night I think I might rewrite a few things. Although I do have to find my Mayhem season 2 doc because I know thats on my computer and not my phone. I might rewrite that for no other reason then to make it maybe a little longer and pace it a little better.
Although if anyone has any writing requests feel free to shoot them to my inbox. I'd accept anything muppet related despite my Mayhem bias.
A really short Wakfu post season 4 fanfic that I made by accident
It was midnight in the Sadida Kingdom, everyone was asleep, except Amalia, Armand’s funeral was next day and she couldn’t sleep, so she decided it was better to have a walk in the forest, given that she wasn’t sleeping anytime soon.
She found herself in front of Dally’s statue, but not because she missed her friend, in fact, he, Eva, Ruel, Adamaï and Yugo had stayed to support her during these last difficult weeks, she was there because it was the last place where someone could see her, she couldn’t let her people(or her friends) see her like that, emaciated, crying and tired, she couldn’t take it anymore, the stress, the arrangements after the war, accommodating the Eliatropes(no matter how much Yugo told her that it wasn’t necessary and that he would take care of his people, that she should rest, she had replied that she would continue to help them just as they had helped her and her people), the funeral, her coronation in very few days… suddenly, she heard a voice behind her “Amalia? Amalia, are you okay?” The last thing she needed, Yugo, why did he always have to worry about others? He was also like her, without sleeping every night, why did he never cared about his own well-being? Amalia quickly wiped her tears, turned around and smiled at him,
“I-i’m o-okay, d-don’t worry” Yugo looked at her worried, and, resting his hand in her shoulder he said “Are you sure? I know these weeks have been difficult, especially for you” Amalia got up quickly, and, trying to smile she answered “Yes, yes, don’t worry, it’s late already, I think I’m going to sleep” before Yugo could say another word, Amalia was already gone, leaving him alone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The Smoker and Ulixes sit by the shores of Martinaise, and sketch the coast, and talk about art and communism.
My @palestaticexchange gift for @freddiegoesmetal! They requested communism and Ulixes and Steban and the Smoker and Cindy, so I just kind of grabbed some of those characters I thought would make an interesting story and went with it! I had a really great time working with these themes and characters, so I hope you like it!
Full fic below the cut-
Waves hit the shores of Martinaise. They crash up against the rocks, eating away at them, taking away particles to carry across the sea. It’s low tide, but in a handful of hours the waves will rise, and rise, until they rush over the place where you are sitting, until they tug at the cloth of your jeans and wet the pages of your sketchbook warped and bloody.
Of course, you will be long gone by then, far away from the ocean’s reach.
You’ve found a fairly flat rock to sit on, warm and dry from the glow of the late-spring sun. It makes the cool sea air and occasional splash of mist that reaches your face refreshing, instead of the cold bite they held in the winter months. You didn’t come here often, then. Not quite dedicated enough to withstand the chill when you had another choice.
A frozen image of the scene, captured in messy streaks of charcoal, sits in your lap. The strokes bubble up where the waves crash, and smooth over the waters further out. Clouds gather in great swoops of negative space in the sky, larger and grander on the page than they ever were in real life. The piece is mostly done, and yet you sit, and stare, and occasionally add another stroke of charcoal among the masses.
The waves hide the sounds of footsteps until they are right upon you, until there is a man wandering towards you and a gaze over your shoulder.
You tilt your head back, looking up to meet his eyes.
A pair of round glasses stare back at you, slightly fogged in the day’s humidity and speckled with spots of water. He has a scratchy beard, the kind he clearly shouldn’t be growing out, but is desperately trying to anyway. His clothes speak to a similar kind of effort: they’re professional and academic, stained and secondhand.
You’ve seen him… around, you know that much. Lingering by the apartments, shadowing the incredibly communist man that lives on the first floor. Other than that, he’s a stranger to you.
The communist shadow clears his throat, and adjusts his glasses. “Sorry,” he apologizes. For what, you wonder. Looking over your shoulder? Interrupting your drawing? Daring to exist at all? He gestures towards the sketchbook in your hands. “I was just curious as to what you were working on. That’s very impressive.”
There’s a cigarette in his hand, and he’s smoking it deeply, like he wants it to fill the cracks in his lungs, fix something in his life that’s been broken. You would know. You’ve smoked a cigarette for every reason under the sun, some just to try out and see how you liked them.
You smile at him, and nod your head in response. “Well thank you, I appreciate it. Just experimenting though, really.”
He nods his approval, speaks around the cigarette in his mouth. “That’s good all the same, experimentation. Pushing the boundaries of what we’ve been trained to expect is the first step of revolution. There is a reason the moralists love their monotony.”
A laugh flutters out of the corner of your mouth in the millisecond before you gain the composure to stifle it. This man, the communist shadow, is much too earnest for your laughter.
Still, he doesn’t miss your reaction. His brow furrows at it, but he is not embarrassed and he is certainly not deterred. None of his judgement is reflected back on himself; it all goes to you.
It’s okay, there’s not much of it. Just thought you should know.
You lean forward slightly, resting your chin against the heel of your hand, and smile up at him. “Well, then, there’s a reason I’ve never claimed to be a moralist.” He has a response to that, but you cut him off before he can continue. “If you happen to have any extra cigarettes on you, by the way, I could go for a smoke.”
It’s an invitation, not *just* to offer you a cigarette, but to sit, stay a while. He’s patting his jacket pockets right away, until he finds the box, and slips a cigarette from it.
(The brand is familiar to you, but only barely. You stand next to a woman at the bar, leaning on her, really, her body taking your weight while your drunken knees fail you. You came here with her, kind of. She’s a friend of a friend, a woman you only met that night, yet she’s gripping your arm like she’s pulling you off some kind of edge. Maybe she is. She smells like smoke, and when she takes the drink out of your hand, you make her trade it for a cigarette.)
The communist shadow finds his hesitation, and pauses for a moment before he hands you the cigarette.
Then he accepts your invitation, and offers a lighter with it.
“I’m Ulixes, by the way.”
You take the cigarette, and simply hold it out for him to light. He huffs in annoyance, but complies. It’s a two handed job anyway: one to hold the lighter, and the other to cup the flame away from the sea breeze. Your drag is slow, careful, not really matching his desperate, deep inhales.
“Nice to meet you, Ulixes. I’m Martin Martinaise.”
The communist shadow tucks the lighter and box back into the folds of his jacket, in some inner pocket that hides them from the world. Then he sits down next to you, resting his feet flat on the jagged rocks below. He hums idly, acknowledging your comment.
“A man of the people, then,” is his dry response.
“Just a man of the city.” Of alleyways and dark sidewalks and underground bars. The places between buildings and streetlights and other, respectable establishments. Martin Martinaise is a good face to wear, because it isn’t a face at all.
“You live in the Capeside apartments, do you not?” he asks, not pushing the issue further.
“Mhm, on the second floor. Nice view up there.”
A nod. He’s looking out across the ocean now, attention away from you and your drawing. Your attention has wandered from the sketchbook in your lap as well, but instead of the horizon, you watch him. He’s chewing on the end of his cigarette instead of smoking it. “My friend lives over there too, moved in when we started attending university.”
“Oh yes, I’ve seen you two around.” You flash him a smile, sharp with knowing and gentle with understanding. “Scuttling around after dark with each other.” What is university for, you suppose, if not *experimenting?*
Now he looks at you, eyes narrowed, like he’s figuring you out. There’s not much about you to figure out, you don’t think. Everything about you is either right on your sleeve, or tucked away so deep no amount of searching will reveal it. Not even to yourself.
When Ulixes picks his words, you know he’s done so carefully.
“You make it sound like some kind of… deviancy.”
You take a drag of your cigarette, and sigh out the smoke. “Not at all.”
Whatever he was looking for in your face, he must find, because he breaks eye contact with a clearing of his throat. “We have a book club, if you’re interested in joining. Our entry requirements have… relaxed recently.”
A *book club*? That’s a new one. “Oh have they?” you prompt, out of curiosity or interest you really aren’t sure. You follow threads like this to a fault, until you’re sitting in another stranger's apartment and you think you might as well finish what you’ve started. Until you’ve formed some kind of habit where you don’t know how to stop. You think they call those an *addiction.*
“They have, truthfully. We’ve even let Cindy join some, although she’s terrible about doing the reading, comes and goes as she pleases…”
“The reading?” you echo.
“Yes. The reading.” He tilts his head forward, and then enunciates his next words with extra precision, like you’ve dropped the point somewhere along the way and need him to pick it up for you. “For the book club?”
Ah. He’s being serious. Well, you always assumed he was being *serious,* but no, he’s being *literal.* You don’t quite suppress the laughter this time, it comes bubbling out of you, sea foam on the waves.
“Oh.” Ulixes blinks, then turns his face away. It seems to be an effort to hide the red suddenly blooming across his face, and it’s failing spectacularly. “I see. Ah, no, it’s not– I mean we– well… It’s a book club. We read books.”
“Of course, shadow.” The epithet slips out without your permission, another habit you’ve formed. “Just books.”
He nods again, scrambling to correct you, to pick up the pieces he’s dropped at your feet. The picture you’ve assembled with them is not one he can stand to view. Then again, you’ve seen straight men run to their own defenses before. Usually there’s less blushing involved. Harsher words.
“Communist literature, specifically. There’s a lot of debate involved, that’s what Cindy stays around for, mostly. To paint and argue. Have you met Cindy?”
It’s such an obvious deflection that you have to chuckle at him again, but you nod along all the same. “I have. She makes herself a little hard to ignore, doesn’t she?”
“Oh most definitely.” He’s relaxing again, jaw loosening on the wrecked end of his cigarette. “Her methods are… flashier than the tactics Steban and I employ, but they certainly catch people’s attentions, which is a feat in and of itself.”
“You have to admire her boldness. Burning paint on the bloodied square…” Your voice trails off, unsure of what endpoint you’re searching for.
UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.
Instead, you tap the corner of your sketchbook. “Not very well suited to my own style, unfortunately.”
“I don’t think it’s about style as much as it is, as you said, boldness. The will to make a statement.”
You shrug and rub your fingers together. Charcoal smears between them, and then off onto your pants. It’s black against grey, like new lines on an old tattoo. “Not much power to a statement if it’ll be washed away in the next rain. Or when someone spits on the sidewalk.”
Ulixes shakes his head, hurriedly doing away with your arguments. “You can’t value your work by what it means to others. In a capitalist society, art is beholden to the values it can be sold for at auction. The minds of the populace are shaped by that influence and then-” He waves a hand through the air dismissively. “It’s all tainted from there.”
“Still, I don’t think Cindy makes her art for it not to be viewed. My work just wouldn’t have the same effect. Dust in the wind.”
Ulixes tilts his head at you. There’s a bit of a gleam in his eyes, that or the sun is hitting the water droplets on his glasses at just the right angle. “Have you ever heard of infra-materialism?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He shifts his body in your direction, pulling one of his legs up onto the rock, leaning in slightly. “It is a theory developed originally by Ignus Nilsen, or at least extrapolated from his initial ideas. At its core, infra-materialism states that our thoughts are not merely intangible organizations of ideas in our minds, but that they radiate outwards, even potentially influencing the world around them, taking the form of an ideological plasm to do so.”
Ulixes pauses for a moment. He’s making sure you’re still with him, still following along. You suppose you are, so you nod your affirmation.
“Depending on how much plasm a society is producing, how strong their ideological beliefs are, these influences can have different effects. The most famous example, of course, is increased crop yields of turnips under communist rule.”
“And better art?” you prompt.
“Potentially, but that isn’t necessarily the point here. The point is that a message doesn’t need to be observed by others for it to have value. Simply thinking it, whether you realize it or not, is putting it out into the world. Writing it down is simply an exercise in cementing the concept physically.”
It’s a nice thought, in a way. That you could have an impact on the world simply by existing in it, simply by thinking the right things. That you could remain firmly Underground, as long as you poked a hole in the dirt for your thoughts to race through.
“Maybe if I sit here with you long enough, I really will be Martin Martinaise, hm?”
“You’d need a lot of plasm for that, very high level.” He turns away from you slightly, back to chewing on his cigarette. It’s not even lit anymore, he’s just gnawing on the fucking end of it. Like a dog on a stick, tearing off layers of bark.
“It’s a nice idea,” you admit. “That you could believe in the next world and watch it come true.”
“Isn’t that what you do, what art is?” he gestures to your notebook. “You look at the landscape, see something worth capturing there, and make it come true.”
Finally, your gaze and thoughts return to the sketchbook in your lap. You prop it back up on one knee, legs crossed in front of you. “Just drawing what I see.”
Ulixes spits out the butt of his cigarette, smears it against the rock with his shoe. It leaves a streak of black in its place. His own graffito to be consumed by the sea. “The waves are blue, not black.”
You smile at him good-naturedly. “I’m using charcoal.”
“Still. The scene changes.”
He has a point. The sky isn’t filled with black and grey clouds, and the waves don’t break in scribbled streaks. There’s chaos there, and mood, more than just staring out at the waters could convey.
You flip to a new page of your sketchbook, and tear it out. “Here.” A pencil of charcoal is held out with it, an old spare. “What do you see, then?”
“Oh no, I’m not- I’m no artist.”
“An infra-materialist though, right? Don’t feel the need anymore to ‘cement this concept physically’?” You parrot his own words back at him teasingly, and they’re enough to give him pause.
“Not… particularly. I philosophize, spend time on my thoughts and ideology to develop plasm. *Technically,* there’s no evidence that art-”
“Oh come on. Humor me.”
He takes the paper and charcoal.
His strokes are too dark, the pencil heavy in a beginner’s hands. Unwieldy and foreign. It reminds you of the first time you lifted a cigarette to your lips and breathed in too eagerly. Your lungs shook with the effort it took not to cough, red face betraying your inexperience anyway. Ulixes’ hands do not shake with determination, but the furrow of his brow betrays him in the same way.
You turn to yet another page, and begin tracing out the shape of his nose, his eyes. Without the cigarette in his mouth, he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek, you realize. As you draw the lines of his back, it’s impossible to miss the tension there.
“What brought you out to the coast today?”
He shrugs, focused on scribbling out the waves on the shore. His ocean looks like it's reflecting the night sky. “Just wanted to go for a walk, clear my mind.”
Of course. Why else? “Did it work?”
“No.” There’s such an easy candor to him it makes you want to believe his every word. Another part of you wonders if he lives in the same extremes you do: everything on the surface, except what matters most. “But this discussion has given me plenty of new thoughts to fill my head with.”
“Glad to be of service.”
His focus has shielded you from him, has shielded him from the world, and he doesn’t even notice as you stare at the curve of his eyelashes, as you try to capture the right emotion in his eyes.
More time passes, filled only by the crashing of waves and scratching of pencils against paper, before it is broken again.
“In dark times, should the stars also go out?” The words are muttered, so soft you aren’t even sure you caught them right, at first.
“Hm?”
Ulixes clears his throat, straightening slightly. He takes his eyes off the sketchbook in front of him, but doesn’t look at you either. The horizon has, once again, captured his attention. “In dark times, should the stars also go out?” he repeats. “It’s a quote, something Steban always brings up. I’ve been thinking about it recently.” He takes off his glasses, finally wiping away the droplets and the mist. “Bringing it into question.”
The words sound like some great confession when he says them, but you struggle to see past the mundanity. His friend says a quote. He doesn’t quite agree with it, or understand it, or something along those lines. What a wildly normal thing.
Still, you make an inquisitive hum, and tilt your head for him to go on. It must really be bothering him, for it to be brought up now, nearly unprompted.
He points out to the island on the sea. It’s a smear of black charcoal on your page, and a similar streak of brown in real life. You remember learning of the old man that lived there, the revealed murderer of the mercenary that hung in the Whirling’s backyard, your backyard, practically. Somehow, that news was overshadowed for many by the pictures of a cryptid stalking through the reeds, of that somewhat charmingly oblivious RCM officer reaching up towards it.
An interesting place, certainly.
“That island was a communist holding during the revolution. It was supposed to be a valuable asset, a powerful stronghold. Then the air raids came, and their weapons failed them at the singular, most crucial moment. All of the destruction and aircraft, the fires… the skies would’ve been black with the smoke. Indistinguishable from the night. The stars would have gone out from the sky.”
You’ve never figured out exactly what it is about yourself that seems to make people want to open up in your presence, but it’s rarely a trait you resent. At this moment, certainly, it’s strangely appreciated.
Ulixes is grabbing the lighter from his jacket again, raising another cigarette to light as you turn his words over in your mind. How, you wonder, does one rationalize the loss of the revolution in the face of infra-materialism? Did the revolutionaries simply not believe enough? Did they not so clearly imagine the future? If guns and fortresses weren’t enough to change the world, you don’t know how he thinks he’s going to do it. Dei knows you won’t.
“The stars have come back though. Not now, of course, but they will still shine in the sky once the sun goes down.”
“Of course.” He’s lit his cigarette without extending the offer to you, and you don’t ask. “But it’s a frightening thought, isn’t it? To have something that should be a constant suddenly taken away. To watch hope smothered in the sky. Even the stars go out.”
You look out at the ocean, at the sun catching the sea spray, at the gulls flapping their wings through the air, at the island. It sits in stark contrast, hard and unmoving against the soft, ever-shifting pull of the waves. The tide is coming in. You can’t sit here much longer.
The portrait in your lap is as finished as it will ever be, and you tear it out to offer to Ulixes. “I guess we have to appreciate them while they’re here.”
He takes the paper, examining it for a moment. When he’s done, it’s tucked into that same inner pocket of his jacket. “Thank you. This is… you’re very good at this.”
“Just practice,” you assure him, smiling.
In return, he offers his own page. The same scenery you were working on earlier greets you. His lines are dark where he laid them confidently, but fade away around the island. There, they are many, they are faint. There are a multitude of attempts to correctly capture the slope of its edges, the angles of the old fortress. The care he gave to it is clear, highlighted by how it sticks out amidst everything else on the page.
Before you can offer any of this commentary, he’s standing, and cutting you off. “I need to get going, this has become much longer of a walk than I intended it to be. It was nice talking to you though…” He pauses in the space where your name should be, and then realizes you aren’t going to fill in the gap. “Mr. Martinaise,” he says instead.
“It was nice talking to you too, shadow.”
Ulixes waves at you as he departs, and then makes a half-there gesture to the paper in your hand. “Hopefully I’ll see you around again.”
You wave in return, watching him as he goes. The art in your hands remains, as does yours with him. Carefully, you fold it in half, protecting the charcoal as much as you can from the outside world. There’s something written on the back.
You turn the paper over, unfolding it to reveal the message there. It’s only a couple of lines. Ulixes has written his name on the top, followed by “BOOK club” (the word ‘book’ underlined several times). Underneath that is an address, a time, and then a pass-phrase for entry.
‘Remember Dobreva and Abadanaiz.’
The revolutionary lovers.
You carefully refold the paper, sliding it in between the pages of your sketchbook. Maybe you’ll have to go sometime, accept the invitation and meet up after dark. The stars will be out.
What if Stede didn't tell Ed about Chauncey, even when his trauma keeps trying to catch up with him?
Read on AO3
“Why weren’t you there?”
It’s the question Stede’s been dreading for weeks. He had written and scrapped so many different speeches of how to answer it, finally deciding he would simply have to speak from the heart when the moment came. Well, now the moment’s here, and Ed is looking at him with stained kohl across wounded eyes, and every single useless word Stede's ever thought of is caught in his throat.
It was Chauncey, he thinks. He led me out to the woods and said all these things about how I was a plague to my family, to you, and I shouldn’t have believed him, but I did, and then he shot himself and I was just running, I was halfway to my old estate before I realized and then I didn’t stop, I’m so sorry, Ed, I’m so sorry....
It’s the truth, and suddenly Stede would rather have Ed run him through than have to say it aloud. The idea of seeing Ed’s reaction to how weak he was, how frightened and helpless and wrong, is unbearable. Anyway, it’s Stede’s fault for running off, not Chauncey’s, so he can just...not mention him. He won’t lie, because he doesn’t want to do that to Ed ever again, but he’ll just say the important bits. Not how heavy the air was as Chauncey led him into the woods, or how twigs cut at his soft, tender feet, or the moment after the gunshot where he thought he was dead, and the breathless heartbeat after where he almost wished he was —
No, Ed doesn’t need to know any of that, Stede decides. He’s been through enough.
--
It’s the fourth time Stede has asked if he can stay in the captain’s quarters – just on the settee, just to get some better sleep than he can manage amongst the crew – and the first time Ed has said yes. They’ve come far enough that they can talk, sometimes, and Ed looks at Stede with something closer to resignation than the heartbreak and anger of that first day, but they still don’t spend much time together. The longest they’ve been alone was when Stede apologized, and after that it’s only been brief moments, accidents and transitions.
So, understandably, Stede is feeling a little nervous.
He frets for ages about what to wear to bed in lieu of a proper nightgown before giving up and deciding not to change at all. The linen shirt and pants are soft enough, though the pants are a tad tight for sleeping, and Ed looked at him for a few long seconds when he first emerged above deck this morning, so it can’t be too bad.
Ed is already in bed when Stede slips inside, curtains open but body turned away. Uncertain, Stede knocks on the doorframe and says, “It’s me.”
The only response is a vague huff, which Stede optimistically interprets as “come in.” He closes the door behind him and makes his way to the settee, snuffing out the last few candles as he goes. A blanket is thrown over the back of it, one Stede hasn’t seen since returning to the ship; soft and yellow with white flowers embroidered throughout. He takes it in his hands, imagining he’s touching coarse fingers instead of cotton, and says, without really meaning to, “Have you ever had a sleepover?”
There’s a pause, long enough Stede assumes he’s going to be ignored, before Ed mumbles, “Course I have. Wasn’t always a captain, mate.”
“No, I mean like—" He was going to say like this , but he’s not sure what this is, or if it would end the moment he gave it a name, so he says, “Not with your crewmates, I mean. Or, ah, partners. Just sleeping in the same room with someone else, for fun.”
Stede can just make out Ed's form in the dark as he shifts to face him. “Don’t think so. Haven’t exactly lived in a lot of rooms.”
“Oh,” Stede says, feeling suddenly foolish. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this up.
“And you?” Ed asks.
“Oh!” Stede repeats, brightening a little too much before he forces himself to be more casual. “Um, once. Another family was visiting our estate, and their son wouldn’t sleep in the room my father tried to put him in; said it was dirty and the trees outside made awful noises like a demon. So they put him with me.” He huffs, remembering the long, awkward night, how he was alight with excitement and nerves in equal measure. “I was so shy around him, wanted him to like me so badly, even though he hardly paid me any mind at all—which, to be fair, was better than any other young boy had treated me, so perhaps I was projecting.”
Ed makes a noise Stede doesn’t quite understand, a sort of growly huff, and Stede continues on, hesitant, “He slept at the very edge of the bed, and I on the very other, but I remember feeling like we were inches apart. I hardly slept a wink, imagining what would happen if our feet brushed on accident, or our arms.” He pauses, wondering if this is too far, but forges on. “I suppose I’ve always been oblivious, when it comes to what I want.”
There’s one beat, then two, and a sound like Ed is about to speak, and then Ed rolls onto his other side and says nothing at all.
Stede sighs. The rejection isn’t new, at least, and he’s glad he said it. Ed deserves to know he’s wanted.
He adjusts the pillows on the settee and stretches across it as comfortably as he can, pulling the blanket up to his neck. The seams of his clothes shift uncomfortably against him, none of them in place, but the settee is too creaky to try and fix them. Every breath he takes seems so loud and intrusive, and oh god, what if he snores? Mary never told him he snored, but he doubts she would’ve brought it up, and Ed sleeps so deeply he would never have noticed before, but Stede can hear him shifting around so much he might actually stay awake longer than Stede, and then he’ll kick Stede out for being obnoxious, and—
“Were they really all dicks to you?”
Stede is so startled to hear Ed’s voice it takes him an extra few moments to process what he said. “Um. The children, you mean?”
“Yeah, the kids.”
“I mean, some ignored me, like the one at the sleepover. And a couple were nice sometimes. But yes. Largely they were, as you say, dicks.”
Ed huffs. “Guess I’m not surprised, since you apparently grew up with the fucking Badmintons.”
A warning bell starts ringing in the back of Stede’s head. “Yes, they were usually the initiators of my, ah, childhood tortures.”
“Fucking dicks,” Ed says with feeling. “I hope they’re all dead.”
“Well, some of them are,” Stede says, aware he’s toeing a dangerous line. ”Nigel is, at least.”
“Good.” There’s a bit of silence, but Stede senses Ed’s not done, so he continues to listen dutifully until Ed continues, “I used to worry, before you came back, that something had happened to you that night at the dock.”
Stede stops breathing. “Oh?”
“I worried some other dick from your childhood was at the academy and grabbed you, or that the British had been planning to kill us after all but they could only find you, or—lots of things.”
It takes physical effort not to look over the settee at what Ed’s face looks like right now, but Stede knows being seen will scare Ed away, so he stays very, very still when he says, “Would that have been—comforting? To know I didn’t come because I couldn’t?”
“Nah,” Ed says, an undercurrent of something a little fragile in his voice. “That would mean I had been the dick who left you to get beat up or something, and it was easier to be mad at you than myself. And when I actually tried to imagine what happened to you, I—" He clears his throat. “It wasn’t satisfying. Just ended up pissed they laid their hands on you.”
“Oh,” Stede says, intelligibly.
Ed huffs, and there’s some more shifting, and then he says with a soft sort of finality, “Good night, Stede.”
“Nighty night, Ed,” Stede murmurs, curling his fingers tighter into his blanket. There's a heavy weight settling more comfortably on his shoulders, something like relief, and he allows it to drag him down into sleep.
--
It’s not even a gun that does it.
Stede is beside Ed at the helm, looking over the dark waves and trying to pinpoint where ocean becomes sky. Clouds have obscured most of the stars, warning of a storm to come, and everyone is busy tying things down to prepare. Except Stede, who can’t help but cling to Ed’s side as he describes the shape of the clouds and the helpful tilt of the wind, because he’s allowed. Can let their shoulders brush, even, and Ed leans into the touch rather than stiffening or pulling away.
“Will you be steering us?” Stede asks.
Ed grunts. “Probably. Could ask Izzy, but he gets pretty fuckin' nauseous during storms.”
“Buttons is a fairly dab hand at the wheel, I think.”
“Yeah, before he fuckin’ freezes to death,” Ed snorts. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t already, not wearing—”
BANG.
The scream is so visceral it takes a moment for Stede to realize he’s the one who did it. He gasps a shaking breath, reaching instinctively for his eye, even though he knows it’s not him who’s been shot; he can see the victim right in front of him, spotlighted in the sudden haze of his vision.
Chauncey Badminton. Face down, unmoving. The last of his rum mixing with blood and gore, blooming around his head like Mary’s spilled paints. His hand sprawled out in front of him, the gun that should’ve been Stede’s final reckoning still clutched loosely in his pale fingers. Dead.
Humid air and panic press down together on Stede’s throat, trapping his next cry in the back of his throat. His legs won’t move, his mind in shambles, but he knows with a visceral certainty that he can’t stay here, he has to go. He tries to take a step back, but trips on something – a root, maybe, same as Chauncey – and lands hard on his arse; instinctively, like an animal, he scrambles backwards on his elbows instead, unable to stop crying, fuck, vision blurred and painful, the whole world seeming to tilt beneath him—
Something grabs his arm.
A wild cry of panic tears through Stede’s chest as he twists away from the touch, squeezing his eyes shut against what he knows will be Chauncey’s decimated, disapproving face. I need to get away, he thinks again, helplessly, but the world won't stop swaying and his legs are trembling and weak.
“Stede,” a voice says. It’s not Chauncey. It’s low and familiar, panicked. “Stede, can you hear me?”
Ed. It’s Ed. Oh god, did he hear the gunshot? Does he know what Stede has done?
“Ed,” he whimpers. “Ed, I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” Ed breathes; then, “I need you to breathe, man, all right? Can I touch you?”
Some deep, twisting thing in Stede says he shouldn’t let Ed near him, he has to get away , but the rest of him is already crumbling with relief. “ Please.”
Arms envelop Stede, then, pressing him to a warm, broad chest. There’s the smooth slide of leathers against Stede’s cheek, which doesn’t quite make sense, and he can feel Ed’s quickening heartbeat, mixing with Stede’s own as it thuds painfully in his ears. “I’m here, Stede,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. It was just a cannon, someone fucked up while trying to tie shit down. That’s all it was. You’re safe.”
His words are close, pressed against Stede’s hair as Ed starts to rock them gently, but they could be coming from the bottom of the ocean for all Stede understands them. “But- but Chauncey....”
Ed hums against his ear. “That British fuck? He’s not here. Promise, it’s just us and the crew. We were just getting ready for the storm, yeah? Remember that?”
No, I don’t, Stede wants to say, but some part of his brain hooks onto it, and awareness starts trickling in, aided by his eyes shut tight and Ed’s arms holding him tighter. “I’m not...we’re just...we’re not with the British?”
“No,” Ed says decisively. “Fuckers are long gone. You’re safe.” He says the last part a little fiercely, curling a hand around the nape of Stede’s neck like his touch alone can protect Stede from everything. Stede’s not sure he’s wrong.
There’s a distant roll of thunder, a great crash of waves, and the world still tilting beneath them, none of which should be true if he’s at the academy. Warily, Stede pulls away enough to open his eyes and—yes, that’s right. They’re by the helm, on the ship. Weeks and weeks away from that awful moment in the woods. He’s with Ed.
Ed, who’s now stroking Stede’s cheek with love and worry in his eyes. “You okay?”
Stede forces himself to breathe deeply, though it’s hard; his body still believes it’s in danger, still wants him to run. But it’s easier, looking at Ed. Always has been.
“Yeah,” he says, shakily. “Sorry.”
“Nah, no sorry’s,” Ed says, pulling Stede back in for a more proper hug. Stede clings to the back of his jacket, presses his palm to the strength of Ed’s shoulder blade. “It’s okay, man. It’s all okay.”
You’re a plague, Chauncey had said, moments before dying from the sheer unluckiness of existing near Stede. You defile beautiful things.
He had been talking about Nigel, about Blackbeard, and he was wrong about those things, but—
“No, it’s not.”
But Stede remembers the way Ed looked, when Stede agreed to go to China. How he had given Stede his pillow so he could get some rest before they went, as if Ed wasn’t likely to do most of the rowing anyway. How he kissed Stede with nothing but softness and hope and gratitude and love .
Chauncey had been right, Stede realizes with a horrible certainty, about defiling beautiful things. He had just been early.
“It’s not okay,” Stede repeats, gasping—and, to his utter surprise, Ed sighs heavily and replies:
“No, yeah, course. Course it’s not okay.”
“What?” Stede had thought, selfishly, that Ed would reassure him. Does he know what Stede’s really thinking? Does he agree?
“I’ve gotten used to it,” Ed says, running a hand up and down Stede’s back, “all the...the danger and that shit. Forgot how scary it is, the first time you’re up against a firing squad.”
Oh.
“My first time, I was scared shitless of every loud noise for...god, maybe until the next firing squad, honestly. Kept thinking I was back in front of the rifles; even saw them, sometimes.”
The reminder of that other trauma, and the realization that Ed is comforting Stede for the wrong thing, because Stede lied to him, washes over Stede like nausea. He clutches Ed’s arm, making a weak moan of discomfort against his shoulder.
“Shit,” Ed says immediately, “sorry. Shouldn’t go into details. Do you...could we get you below decks, maybe? Get you into something warm. Don’t want you up here when the rain starts, anyway.”
Stede nods, wanting more than anything to be away from the heavy, humid air, but as Ed’s pulling him to his feet, the comment about the rain sparks his memory. “But the helm.”
“Buttons has it,” Ed replies dismissively. “And he’s even got clothes on. We’ll be fine.”
“Course, mate,” Ed says. “I’d rather be with you, anyway. Especially if you’re not feeling good.”
He says it with a little smile, and Stede closes his eyes against an onslaught of thoughts that tell him, in so many words, that this is wrong. But he‘s still a coward, and so very tired, and anyway, he knows Ed would worry if he couldn’t make sure Stede was all right.
Fuck, Stede loves him so much , it feels like it’ll burst through his chest like some sort of lovesick parasite. He wants to love him well. He wants to do right by him. He never wants to hurt him again.
“All right,” he says, curling an arm around Ed’s waist for support. “Lead the way.”
--
It’s been nearly two months, and no one on the crew has let Stede’s secret slip.
Granted, most of them got a rather patchwork version of the story, anyway, blurred by overloaded trips in the dinghy and Stede’s voice catching in his throat when he tried to voice exactly what horrible things he had done. They know he left, and that Chauncey was there, but only Oluwande and Lucius know any of the things he said.
But still. He had asked them not to talk to Ed about it, and they’d all honored that, which is wonderful—except that it makes Stede careless.
Well. It’s probably a tad unfair to place all the blame on his crew when it’s Stede who can’t keep his mouth shut. Things have just been going so well —Ed lays with him in the bed at night now, smiling even when he’s practically falling out of the bed or when Stede (unintentionally!) steals all the blankets, and they haven’t caught sight of the English for weeks, and Stede even managed to tell Ed he loves him without choking up about it, which was rewarded with quite a lot of kissing and some other activities that got them a minor intervention from the crew.
In short, Stede has been feeling safe, which is unfortunately a slippery slope into not being careful.
They’re lounging on the sofa when it happens, Ed’s back pressed against Stede’s chest, brandies already finished and hands wandering with more curiosity than intent. There’s a little divot in Ed’s left forearm that Stede’s deeply fascinated with; he brings it up to his mouth, tastes the warm skin under his tongue, and smiles against Ed’s skin when he shivers.
“I’m too old for you to try to make me horny like this,” Ed complains, giggling when Stede rubs his stubble lightly over the spot.
“Just making up for lost time,” Stede replies. He continues kissing up Ed’s arm until the angle is too difficult to reach and he switches to Ed’s shoulder, nosing aside his dressing gown for better access.
“ Stede,” Ed sighs, somehow managing to sound whiny and content at the same time.
Stede opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a BOOM strong enough to shake the cabin. He flinches, hard, knocking his nose against Ed’s head. The pain makes him dizzy for a moment, but it also has the fortunate side effect of grounding him against the sudden onslaught of memories before they can overwhelm him. There are still a few moments of panic where he wants to search for Chauncey’s body, but Ed’s weight is too warm and close and present for the thread to properly take hold, and in the end he just has to breathe through the useless adrenaline for a minute or two until his mind and body settle.
“Better?” Ed asks, when Stede lifts his head from the crook of his neck.
“Yeah,” Stede replies. “Not quite as bad, that time. I think I’m getting better at telling the sounds apart in the moment, knowing the difference between his gun and a cannon, or just plain old lightning.”
Ed freezes; just barely, but enough to be noticeable with how close they are. “His gun?”
Fuck. “Um—the rifles, I mean.”
“Don’t think that’s how words word, mate,” Ed says slowly. Stede can hear the gears turning in his mind and immediately feels the panic start to rise again. “And those rifles never actually went off, anyway, so why would your brain know exactly what they sounded like?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I guess I’m just, ah, stumbling over my words a bit?”
“Stede.”
Ed says it a little like encouragement and a little like warning. Stede feels suddenly, intimately aware of the fact he can’t just jump up and run, pressed down by Ed’s weight like this. “Must’ve had more brandy than I thought, maybe, or—”
“ Stede,” Ed repeats, sharper, pushing away from Stede’s embrace, and even though Stede was just feeling trapped, he feels the absence like a missing limb. It takes everything in him not to reach for Ed with desperate, pleading hands, to beg him to lie back down and forget all of it, to not leave him.
But Ed doesn’t go; not entirely. He goes just far enough to twist and face Stede, which is instantly more devastating, because now Stede can see the mix of worry and frustration and, god , anger painted across his face.
“Who the fuck,” Ed asks, slow and deadly, “is he?”
For a moment, Stede casts about desperately for some excuse, but when he meets Ed’s gaze, he knows he cannot lie to this man. Not again. “Chauncey.”
Ed blinks, visibly thrown. “The crazy bald one? I thought he was just ordering everyone around. Besides that whole bit where he was swinging his sword around like a drunk.”
Stede winces at the mention of Chauncey drunk . “He was.”
“Did he do something during the interrogation, then?” Ed asks, murderous, but immediately finds the holes in that theory. “No, we would’ve heard if he did that. Not to mention there’d be a fuckin’ hole in the captain’s quarters. I never would’ve heard the end of it if he’d done that.”
Stede huffs weakly at the attempt at levity, but his chest is too heavy to put his heart into it, choked by muck and seaweed like the bottom of the lake by his childhood estate. He used to swim there when he could get away for long enough, enjoying how the water buoyed him, but one of his classmates claimed there were creatures in the water that grabbed weak little boys by their ankles and dragged them into the mud. He flinched every time his foot brushed against something for weeks after that, and eventually gave up on swimming entirely.
Now, under the piercing gaze of the man he loves, Stede wonders if there are any similar monsters that could drag him through the floor into the yawning ocean below.
“So when....” Ed asks, sounding genuinely confused. “When would he have had a fucking gun near you?”
It’s the question Stede’s been avoiding for weeks. He hasn’t prepared at all, so focused on never getting to this point he never prepared a word, and now he has no idea how to say this in a way that doesn’t end in Ed storming out. Fuck, why did he lie in the first place? Why did he get careless? Why didn’t he just go to Ed that night, rather than running off to a family that didn’t even fucking want him?
“Stede,” Ed says, hand warm on Stede’s elbow, pulling him back above water, and Stede just—says it.
“He kidnapped me. The night we were going to leave.”
The reaction on Ed’s face is immediate, but Stede is worried if he stops talking now he will never have the courage again, so he barrels on. “He came and got me, instead of whoever the guard you chose was, and led me into the woods. He was drunk, and angry about his brother and the act of grace, and he wanted to kill me.” He remembers the wild look in Chauncey’s eyes that night, so real it’s an ache, and has to shut his eyes against the intrusion. “He tripped, though. Shot himself instead.”
Ed knows the rest, or the important bits anyway, so Stede allows himself to stop, taking in a shaky breath. What follows is a long moment of silence, long enough Stede has to open his eyes just to get any input from Ed at all, and what he sees knocks the breath right back out of his lungs.
Stede has seen Ed break a man’s arm with his boot, threaten to feed another his own tongue if he spoke a word. He has seen him at the height of the Kraken, dark-eyed and merciless, a true herald of death. But he has never, ever seen Ed this angry before. His body nearly shakes with it, eyes dark and burning a hole through the wall above Stede’s shoulder, hand fisted by the nonexistent gun at his hip. It makes Stede realize how someone could believe this man was made of fire and smoke and destruction.
“Ed,” he says, timidly, because while he’s mostly sure the anger isn’t directed at him, being this close to it makes his hands shake a little. “Ed?”
There’s another moment or two without response before Ed blinks – Stede realizes belatedly he hadn’t actually been blinking before this moment – and looks at Stede. His gaze softens, just a little. “Why the fuck did you never tell me this?”
Because I didn’t want to see you like this. “I—I don’t know,” Stede murmurs. “I was going to, and then when the moment came I just...panicked. Didn’t know if it would just make you angrier, or if you would—would think I was making excuses.”
“Excuses? ” Ed hisses. “Stede, you nearly fucking died! He nearly killed you while I was fuckin’– fuckin’ waiting on the dock without even checking —"
Something in Stede unfurls at those words; something that wants Ed to fuss, to say he would’ve found Stede if he knew, he would’ve protected him and held him in his arms and made everything okay again. Then guilt floods through him for his selfishness, cold and bitter, and he reaches for Ed’s hands. “Ed, no, that’s not—this isn’t your fault or something! And besides, it- I'm fine, right? Nothing happened.” Ed makes an angry huff at that, half a growl, and Stede amends, “I didn’t die.”
“But you could’ve,” Ed points out, clutching at Stede’s hands just this side of pain. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t,” Stede agrees. “And I- I am sorry, for that. I told myself it wasn’t a lie to just not mention it, but I was just fooling myself, as usual. Of course you would want to know.”
Ed nods, examining their hands like what he wants to say is hidden between their fingers. “So is that...is that why you didn’t come? Not what you told me?”
Stede’s heart had started to settle again, but at that it drops into his stomach with startling speed. “It...it gives some—context, I suppose. But no, it—I didn’t come to the dock because of me. Not because Chauncey held me for too long, or something.”
The confession makes him feel nearly more raw than the first time, watching a new sliver of hope die by his tongue. But Ed doesn’t look surprised, or even much more upset than he was before. “Okay,” he says, like it can be that easy. “Can I hug you?”
Stede blinks. “Um- yes? I mean—of course.”
Ed pulls him in immediately, hands firm across Stede’s lower back and head tucked against Stede’s neck. Stede loops his arms around Ed’s shoulders and settles into the tender warmth of him, trying not to cling too hard, trying not to cry. (He’s not doing great on either account, but it’s something, at least.)
“It wasn’t true,” Ed says after a few moments. “Whatever shit he said to you.”
Stede stiffens, but tries to play it off by shifting to lean his cheek against Ed’s head. “Why do you think he said anything to me?”
“Well, because he was an ugly little ballsack who liked fucking with you, for one,” Ed says, dry. “And because I know you. I know when someone’s gotten in your head.”
Once again, Stede curses his inability to hide any feeling he’s ever had, especially from Ed. Though he can’t deny there’s some deep tension unspooling in him from being held like this. Being known. “It was nothing about you,” he assures. “Or, nothing bad, I mean. It wasn’t like he convinced me you were a bad person or something.”
A heavy pause. “And you?”
“I—well. Like I said, he was drunk and angry. He was just going for whatever weak points he could find.”
“Wish I could’ve killed him myself,” Ed growls, burrowing closer. “Would’ve put my knife through his other eye for good measure.”
“Thank you,” Stede says, “though you never need to do anything like that on my account. And besides—”
He pulls the rest of that sentence back into his mouth as soon as he realizes his mistake, but Ed notices anyway. “Besides, what?”
Stede sighs, knowing Ed won’t let him wriggle out of this one. “Well, it’s just—obviously he was an awful man. And he was wrong about what he thought the act of grace meant, what I had done to you. But it’s not like...I mean, I—I hurt you. He wasn’t wrong about that.”
Ed’s arms tighten like a reflex, and then he pulls away, holding Stede’s shoulders and looking at him very, very seriously. “Stede. What the fuck.”
Stede averts his eyes, trying not to squirm. “I know we’re in a better place now, but you don’t have to pretend I didn’t ruin everything when I ran. You were so....” The image of Ed on the beach, by his cot, swells in Stede’s mind, and his eyes sting with tears. “Fuck, Ed, you were so happy , and I ruined that. I ruined you, because I believed some—some awful man’s words about how I was some plague, because I didn’t realize how happy you were, too caught up in—in everything we’d lost, and everything I thought you should want, which was exactly what everyone else was always doing, and I was supposed to be different, but I was just like all the rest—"
“ Stede,” Ed says, actually shaking him a little. “Stede, no. Mate, what the—what the fuck are you talking about? You were fucking traumatized! You had nearly died to a firing squad and then marched off to die for the king, and then your fuckin’ childhood bully tried to murder you. That’s not—you can’t blame yourself for not thinking straight right then.”
“But I hurt you.”
“You did,” Ed says simply. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t get fucking hurt, too, Stede, hell. I want—you gotta tell me this shit, okay? You can’t hide something like this from me.”
“I’m sorry,” Stede starts, but Ed shakes his head.
“No, don’t apologize, I’m not—fuck, sorry, I’m doing this wrong. I just—I love you. Okay? So I wanna know when you’re hurting. Even if I’m mad at you. I always wanna know.”
That brings a fresh wave of tears into Stede’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“But you can’t—” Ed cuts himself off, frustrated, and takes a breath. When he lets it out, his hands trail to Stede’s face, cupping his cheeks so gently Stede feels he might shatter. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself for me. Or- or hide that you’re hurting, ‘cause you’re worried it’ll hurt me, too. I’m gonna worry about you no matter what, it’s just—it’s part of the whole loving you thing. But I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
Stede wants to say that Ed doesn’t need to help, but he knows what Ed would say, because it’s the same thing Stede would say to Ed: I want to help you. And if you didn’t let me, I would just sit here going crazy that you were hurting and I couldn’t do anything about it.
He swallows, leaning into Ed’s touch as he swipes away a tear. “Okay.”
Ed’s face, so recently dark and murderous, is softer than any silks Stede has ever touched. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Stede affirms, putting his hands over Ed’s and pressing a kiss to his palm.
“Good,” Ed says. His eyebrows furrow. “And just so we’re clear, you did not fucking ruin me, and you’re not some disease or whatever the fuck he said. You—you fucking saved me, Stede. You’re my best fucking friend.”
Stede presses against Ed’s hand, shutting his eyes against the wave of love and gratitude crashing over him. “You’re my best friend, too. And you saved me, in so many ways. I wouldn’t—I don’t even want to imagine not having you with me. You’re it for me.”
“You’re it for me, too,” Ed whispers, a promise, and touches his forehead to Stede’s. They breathe in and out together for a moment, both a little shaky, and then Ed says, “Fuck, I love you so much.”
Stede laughs a little, breathless with it. “I love you, too. So much.”
Ed hums. “Not as much as I love you.”
“Actually, I think you’ll find that it’s me who loves you more.”
“Well, I love you most, and you can’t get any bigger than that. That’s science, mate.”
“I’ll just invent some new word, then, because I absolutely love you most...est?”
“Mostest?” Ed repeats, clearly trying not to laugh. “That’s all you got?”
Stede huffs, only half joking. “Well, I—just give me a moment! It’s hard to fit it into one word, you know.”
“Who says you have to do only one word?”
“Well, all right then. I love you...I love you more than the ocean, and all the stars, and every bit of sand on every beach, and all the people in the world, and marmalade —"
“Now you’re just saying impossible shit,” Ed says, smiling.
“It’s true. So I guess I love you...impossibly.”
Stede can hear Ed’s breath catch, that wonderful little huff of breath he’ll be chasing the rest of his life. “You are a fucking wonder, Stede Bonnet,” he says, and closes the last few inches of distance to kiss him.
It’s soft and unhurried, the last few tears swiped away or caught, salty and warm, between their mouths. Stede lets one hand stroke Ed’s wrist as the other finds the safety of his waist, feeling lighter than he’s felt in a long time . He hadn’t realized how much it was weighing on him, to hide all this from Ed, to not truly know if Ed would accept him if he knew.
“Thank you,” Stede whispers, when they part. “For loving me so much.”
Ed kisses the corner of his mouth, then the divot beside his eye, and in his gaze is something just as huge and impossible as the love inside Stede, something deep as the marrow of his bones. Something Stede understands, now, he could never have ruined.
(btw i‘m going by german standards, so anyone +16 is gonna be on this list!)
(AND JUST TO BE CLEAR I‘M NOT ENCOURAGING ENDORSING IN ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES, ESPECIALLY IF YOU‘RE A BABY)
giyuu - the emotional drunk
fuck i was going to make some sort of edgy joke until i remembered that drunk giyuu is an edgy joke himself. dear fucking god, please help him. poor boy is gonna be so emotional and cling to anyone that lets him. kind of like a cat when drunk?? but a really sad cat?? but it’s also cute because he turns into a sentimental affectionate boye.. definitely a lightweight though. that type of drunk who uses the bartender as his personal therapist.
sanemi - the naked drunk
can hold his liquor pretty well, but still not the best drinker. also a very chaotic drunk. his body heat already goes crazy high when he‘s sober, so he basically turns into a human heater on steroids when drunk. rips all his shirt off (and if you‘re lucky or unlucky, depending on your preference, there‘s a good chance you‘ll see him naked). it was confirmed that he leaves his shirt open as a tiddie window to show off his abs, it really shouldn‘t be a big surprise he discards clothing altogether when drunk. there‘s a fine line between him turning into a violent beast or a super handsy pervert, so beware..
shinobu - the angry drunk
definitely a lightweight judging by how small she and her bodymass is. a very angry drunk. do you remember pre kanae‘s death shinobu? yeah. that kinda angry. just lets her emotions go wild and use up all the pent up anger she has. probably the closest to actually murdering someone while drunk out of all the pillars. as her s/o or anyone she holds dear to her heart you still have the best chances of calming her down somehow. also the type to fall asleep pretty quickly once she let all her anger out, so you better carry her home dear reader!
rengoku - the happy drunk
and also the big confidence booster! to be honest, his drunk self doesn‘t differ too much from his usual self... maybe it‘s because he‘s always passionate? is somehow even louder than he usually is. yells compliments and encouragements at anyone he sees. zero shame in dancing around with random people. when it comes to alcohol tolerance he‘s right in the middle!! some drinks to get in the mood and even more to dad dance with everyone~~
uzui - the... not safe for minors drunk
god, forgive me for i have sinned, but how else should i put it than bluntly? yeah, you heard it. he‘s a horny drunk. super handsy and touchy-feely, but will leave you alone when you tell him to - he still has some respect! another strong drinker and a big fan of strong alcoholic beverages. i‘m not gonna say more because this is still a wholesome blog, maybe a little bit questionable at worst, but take my words however you will................
himejima - the „sober“ drunk
how to tell that himejima is drunk? you can‘t. to be fair, he is that kinda drunk that gets super philosophical about life and will talk to anyone who listens (or doesn‘t listen.. doesn‘t matter either way, he mostly just talks to himself), but he‘s already super philosophical when sober so no one notices a difference?? he doesn‘t even get a drunk blush?? what is this magic?? was this part of his intense training?? judging by his physique he‘s definitely not a lightweight. not as strong as mitsuri, but still better than most pillars.
mitsuri - the affectionate drunk
surprisingly the strongest drinker out of all the pillars - her alcohol tolerance is NO JOKE. might also be because she eats a fuck ton of food, so it takes a while for the alcohol to finally hit. once it does, no one is gonna be safe from this cuddle bug!! will pull everyone into a bone-crushing hug and schmooch them! you know those posts about wholesome drunk girls? that‘s her. while her sober self just keeps her loving thoughts towards everyone to herself, her drunk self can‘t stop telling everyone how much she loves them and complimenting them!! very wholesome. very cute. you definitely need a drunk mitsuri in your life.
iguro - the clumsy drunk
another lightweight in this list! his face gets super red when drunk and he starts slurring his words, so you‘ll know when he‘s drunk. needs someone to take care of him because he‘s gonna trip and accidentally fling himself out the window and hurt himself. please please save him from his own self.
muichirou - the good boy
sipped on his apple juice and then went straight to bed like the good boy he is. be like muichirou.
muzan - ???
either super aggressive and annoyed or seductive depending on who he‘s with. (take that however you will-) one of those super classy pretentious drinkers. also the type that drinks and drinks and drinks and then suddenly gets hit by the alcohol all at once. when you‘re lucky enough to catch him in a good mood while he‘s drunk he‘s gonna do a free drinks for everyone!! the closest thing you‘ll ever have to normal interaction with him. he doesn‘t drink to forget, but once he drinks he forgets everything that happened while he was drunk. (probably better for both his sanity and all the people who have witnessed this)
Anyways as promised here's me actually sharing fics and writing.
Summary; Zoot's memory is often unkind to him. On a cold night, a hazy memory keeps him up.
Trigger warnings; Mentions of Alcoholism, Memory issues, Mentions of Homelessness
Words; 592
Not meant to be read as a ship but I mean you can I guess
The cold draft within the bus made sleeping nigh impossible. Even with being so closely huddled together, the chill was undeniable. This is what kept Zoot awake.
Zoot never liked being awake this late at night. Something about the darkness made him feel lonely and negativity would seep into his mind without notice. It would soon run rampant, tearing apart any positivity he had at the time.
As Zoot lay there, trying to keep his eyes shut, he couldn't help the hazy memory flashing through his head. He could barely make heads or tails of it, but all he could tell was there was just anger and yelling. It was anger and yelling from the others in the band. It was anger and yelling directed towards him.
But why? Why did they do that? What did he do wrong? How long ago was it? Zoot couldn't remember. That made it all so much worse.
Zoot slipped away from the others and left the bus. While the moon and stars glimmered beautifully, it did little to prevent tears from running down his face.
Amongst this lonely sight, Zoot tried harder to remember that. The memory still evaded him. He knew they were in the bus at the time. Could it have been before, when they were a fledgling band? Or perhaps mere hours ago? Would they still be mad for whatever he did?
Zoot grasped at his hair and stifled a sob. His memory had let him down. It would fail him constantly, but this felt so much worse. The sheer terror of not knowing what to do, because he could not remember how or when he had caused the others to be mad at him.
"Hey, man, what's got you sittin all by yourself out here? It's freezin." A rough voice whispered from the bus's door. It was Floyd.
Zoot didn't respond. He couldn't face Floyd now. Nothing made sense, and he could only further make things worse if he spoke.
On the other hand, Floyd recognized this type of night. It wouldn't be the first time Zoot worked himself up over a memory. He took a seat next to Zoot and began to speak softly.
Zoot nodded. He desperately wanted to ask if Floyd was actually mad at him or not, or what he even did in that memory to invoke such a wrath.
Floyd could roughly estimate when such a memory would do this to one of his dearest friends. Floyd knew that Zoot had it rough many years ago.
"Times are better now, Zoot. Those days are far behind us," Floyd said, "no one's been mad at you in years."
Zoot slumped over, placing his head on Floyd's shoulder. Floyd in return put his head on Zoot's.
Floyd thought back many years ago. When the band was new. Zoot wasn't always a forgetful but kindhearted man. When he first joined, Zoot had only joined for the booze and place to sleep.
Zoot had been a burnt out, homeless, and alcoholic musician. He was mean back in those days. Constantly in a drunken rage. It caused many fights between band members.
Floyd knew that was what Zoot's memory had been. But that was decades ago. Zoot stopped drinking decades ago. Nowadays Zoot was one of the sweetest people Floyd had ever been around.
Floyd shut his eyes. Despite the coldness of the air, it was comfortably warm between the two of them. Both Floyd and Zoot drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
