The months following Steve's fight with Billy and the excursion through the Mind Flayer’s tunnels found Steve at a bit of a loss. The animosity between him and Hargrove had only grown exponentially, but it didn’t bother him as much as it used to. Sure, Hargrove sucked ass, and he had definitely taken over as the newest reigning douchebag, but that kind of stuff just didn’t matter to Steve anymore.
So at school, he found himself sitting with Nancy and Jonathan during lunch. It was a bit awkward considering Nancy and Jon were dating, but he didn’t exactly have any other friends, and he really didn't want to sit alone.
It was early February, and Steve was picking at his cafeteria food, barely listening to the conversation Nancy and Jonathan were having. He was lost in his own thoughts, staring into space blankly.
Across the cafeteria, Eddie Munson was jumping onto a table and taunting several different cliques as he went on a long monologue about society and social norms that most students tended to tune out. Steve watched him with a small smile, pushing his food around his tray. Then, Eddie was throwing barbs at Hargrove, Tommy H, and Carol. Steve winced slightly, knowing the words probably applied to him too, but he couldn't help feeling that Eddie wasn’t exactly saying anything untrue about them.
Before he could tear his attention away, Eddie was turning to face him. Steve's eyes widened. He hadn't even said anything! He’d been laying low ever since their last run-in with the Upside Down, just trying to graduate. So why was Eddie putting his attention on him now?
Eddie jumped down from the table and sauntered over to where Steve was sitting, throwing a leg over the bench to straddle the spot next to him. “Harrington.”
Now that Eddie was so close, Steve could see a slight red tint to his eyes, and he relaxed a little. He was just high.
“Hey, Munson,” Steve replied, giving him a weak smile in response.
Most of the attention on Eddie had dispersed, but Steve could still feel the piercing gaze of Hargrove on the side of his face. That jackass just would not leave him alone, even if he was trying to avoid altercations for Max's sake.
Eddie leaned an elbow on the table to hold his head up with his hand. “How's the fall from grace treating you, my liege?”
Steve blinked. “Huh?”
Jonathan leaned over from where he was chatting with Nancy. “He’s calling you a king. Asking about how you're doing after everyone dropped you for Billy.”
Rolling his eyes, Eddie smirked. “With more dramatic flair than that, but yeah, essentially.”
“Oh.” Steve floundered, looking between Nancy and Jon as he tried to think of an answer. “Well, it’s been nice not having as much attention, I guess. Nothing all that interesting has happened to me.”
Nancy hid a snort behind her hand, turning to bury her face into Jonathan’s shoulder. Eddie raised a curious eyebrow but didn’t comment on her reaction.
“Surely the life of a king has to have some frivolities. Raging parties, swooning ladies, the like…”
Steve scrunched his nose. “Nah, man. My parents cut off my allowance after my last concussion, so I don’t exactly have the funds for that kind of thing anymore.” He didn’t know why he was confiding that kind of information in Eddie, but it wasn’t like he cared that much about what people thought of him anymore. Eddie could spread it around if he really wanted to. “I just babysit Nancy and Jon’s little brothers and their friends. I promise it’s nothing interesting.”
Smirking, Eddie tilted his head to the side. “I'm sure you could make anything interesting, Harrington. Especially looking like that.”
Steve blushed bright red from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck. Oh god. Was Eddie flirting with him? “Oh. Um, thank you! I'm sure you're pretty interesting too.”
That seemed to snap Eddie out of whatever weird flirty persona he had let settle over him. “Right. Good talk. I'm gonna go now. Have a good lunch, Steve.”
And then Eddie was gone, back to his table as he ranted at his friends with increasingly frantic gestures. Steve stared after him for a bit, biting his lip and trying to make sense of the feelings stirring in his chest. On the other side of the table, Nancy let out a pointed cough with a smug smirk.
“So…” She started. “Wanna tell us what that was all about?”
Steve furrowed his eyebrows. “You witnessed the exact same thing that I did, Nance. I don't have any insider information.”
Nancy giggled. “No, not that. I’m talking about how you blushed like a little schoolgirl when Eddie called you interesting. You wanna tell us about it?”
Shooting another look at Eddie’s table, Steve started to reply before he noticed that some of Eddie’s friends were looking at him. His eyes widened and he whipped back around. “I have no clue what you're talking about. Jon, back me up here.”
“Sorry, dude.” Jonathan winced with a sheepish shrug. “You were pretty red. I mean he did call you hot, so I guess I get it…”
Steve sighed and let his head drop to the table. “I really don’t appreciate the psychoanalysis, Nance. He came over here, talked to us, called the way I look interesting, and left. Sure, I may have gotten a little red, but he was leaning really close.”
Smirking, Nancy leaned over the table to flick the back of Steve’s head. “You’re wrong about one thing. He didn’t come over to talk to us. He only talked to you. I think he finds you more than just interesting.”
Standing up from the table abruptly, Steve shook his head. “We’re not talking about this. It’s not like it matters that much anyway. He was probably just trying to mess with me. I’ll see you guys later.” Steve grabbed his tray and walked off, trying and failing to stop himself from sneaking a glance at Eddie’s table.
Much to Steve’s surprise, Eddie was looking right back at him. When their eyes met, he smirked and waggled his fingers at Steve in a wave. Steve blushed, his eyes wide, and he stumbled, almost bumping into another student in the process.
My therapist really loved my pitch for a Mormon murder mystery novel!!! It’s called The Gadianton Conspiracy, and I already have about 1k in the first chapter so I feel like it’s going pretty well!!!
It’s about two gay boys being resurrected so they can solve their murders and stop the killer before anyone else is murdered. And one of them is a trans boy 💅 because I’m exploring the intersectionality of queerness and being a faithful member of the church, and how to live your life with ✨queer joy ✨despite the hardships of this life
Anotha one 🙂↕️ for Phi and Cullen: “‘ Hey when was the last time you slept?” From your caring prompt list
thank you!! I also got this one from @griffongrey too! Snippet from a future chapter though I think it stands up on its own well enough :)
@thedasweekend
words: 885
ship: implied Cullen/Female Trevelyan
verse: The Light You Still Hold
Now Rosalie spoke, a hint of amusement lacing her words, “Here. Never let it be said I let my elder brother die from lack of water.”
He fought a grumble. Water wouldn't be the thing to kill him. If lyrium didn't—and Maker knew it was trying—then he was certain waiting for answers would finish the job. Still, he silenced this discontent, accepting the helping hand for what it was. "Thank you," he said, gruff, downing the water. His hand trembled more than he wanted, spilling some down his chest and over his wrist, and he tucked a curse away.
Her head tilted, narrowing. "Overdoing it won't bring her here any faster."
"I am not—" But he was. Cassandra's warning was still lingering, still smarting, even though she had left for Ostwick with Alfonso Trevelyan some weeks ago.
"You are. Not that I can blame you. Missing someone is..." She trailed off and didn't finish, something sad creeping into her features. "Have you heard anything?"
"No," he said, tightly, crossing the grass to swipe his shirt from the bench. The letter there, creased and worn, didn't soften him as it had upon arriving. Now, seeing his name in her script, hefted an additional ache upon him. One more stone for a wall that was rapidly growing. When did you last sleep? If it has not happened today, do so for my sake. He didn't need to open the letter to know her words by heart. To hear them as though she stood next to him.
Weeks with nothing else. Not a hint or a whisper from her. The letter crinkled as he clenched his hands, and he smoothed it, muttering a now common-place swear. It would be just his luck to ruin the only letter he'd gotten from her. Perhaps even the last one, if the Maker chose to place Cullen yet again on a course for misery.
"Cullen," she said, and it was gentle.
"I'm fine, Rosalie." It was brisk enough for her to recoil and puff up like an angry duck. He groaned, rubbing his face now. "Apologies. I am fine, though." He would perservere. If nothing else, Cullen was capable of waiting, misery or not, forever for her.
Rosalie climbed from her perch, stretching her arms above her head. The crack was faint, but noticeable. He contained a wince; he didn't know how long she'd watched him, waiting, looking out for him as he was meant to do for her.
She didn't notice the turn of his thoughts, only dropped her arms and faced him again with a frown. It was close enough to Mia's—Maker, she was near the same age Mia was when he left, no wonder it smarted like his elder sister had done it. When he said nothing, she tapped her foot and pressed her attack. "Are you? So far I've rescued you from drowning in work and now from collapsing."
"I am hardly falling apart." He heaved a sigh. "I am only keeping busy. I would like to be prepared for when we meet Corypheus again. With all we have done, it's only a matter of time before he retaliates. We need to be ready for anything if he does."
Rosalie quieted, tracing over the low-wall she perched upon. He regretted his rash words and closed his eyes to recuperate. Be better, he wanted to tell himself, but like everything lately, it seemed only to fall upon deaf ears. His own head seemed filled to the brim and yet empty, so that things never settled long enough to impact.
He was listless, and he didn't like it.
"Do you think he'd attack Skyhold?"
Cullen pursed his lips, tucking away his instinctive answer.
"Don't treat me like a child," she accused. "Look at you, getting all knotted up trying to find a way to let me down gently."
"You can forgive me for trying to keep my younger sister from unnecessary fear."
"Forgiven, but only if you tell me the truth of it."
"I could not say, but he has shown little hesitation in attacking us in our base beforehand. I cannot see why Skyhold would be any different for him—we have defenses, but he has a dragon."
"Dagna is working on something for it. The notes from Adamant mentioned trouble injuring it, perhaps we simply need better weaponry."
He inclined his head. "I can only hope. Regardless, we should be ready."
"Are we?"
"We will be."
"Somehow, I don't find that very comforting," she muttered, frowning, looking to the sky as if she might spot the dragon before it attacked.
"Take the fear from your mind for now. If it happens, we will meet it," he assured. "Head to bed. It's getting late."
"Only if you do."
"Soon. I want a few more minutes."
"Knowing you, it could be hours."
When he didn't relent, she only sighed and touched his arm in comfort. Her footsteps on the stone faded. Cullen settled against the wall near where she'd departed, arms crossing, gaze lifting from Skyhold and its gaping defenses, abandoning for a moment the security work he would have to bolster. He settled on the stars and the moons, only one a faint crescent, and hoped for a few moments that Ophelia was doing the same.
Happy Thedas Weekend!! If you're feeling Solavellan this week, how about the prompt ❝ sometimes i feel i’m being crushed under the weight of everything i’ll never be. ❞ from the yearning list for them? 💖
Hello Hello Hello! Thank you for the prompt, it was very nice! A quick little thing for you, hope you enjoy!
If Solas were a better man he would have pulled away from the Inquisitor.
No. This is untrue.
If Solas were a better man he would not have to pull away. He would be free to court her, tell her all about the facets of the Fade; he could kiss her where she points him to and he could love her openly.
Yet it haunts him. What the elves once were, what he robbed from them. All his regrets are building a throne on his back, one where the Inquisitor could sit her beautiful body upon to bring divinity to this wretched world and still it would never feel heavy.
What feels heavy is the thought of what could have been.
If here were just another elven mage, careless about the wrongs of the past, he would have kissed her by now. He could stand next to her and advise her next move exactly as he does now. The only difference the others would see is that he would call her "Vhenan“. To mark his devotion to her in front of everyone.
A small part of him sings when he imagines her call him Vhenan too. If he really tries he can see it: See her lips curl in the most radiant of smiles, her eyes that meet him in endearment and her arms reaching for him.
Her arms. The anchor. The tear in the Fade; a testimony to his failings.
Solas chest aches from the pressure. He will never be what she deserves, Wisdom, as there is only Fen’harel, only the elven god of lies, only pride.
He pulls back from her outstretched arms. This is what she deserves: to be free of him.
Contains: nightmares, magic, rejection, magic, aftermath of torture, cauterization, soulmates
3698 words
James had had nightmares for as long as he could remember.
The first big one was when he was five, a dream about fire surrounding him, taller than he was, with no way out. He woke himself screaming and coughing, and it took his parents all night to help him calm down.
For months after that, he dreamt of loss. He didn't know what he had lost, but he was sure it was something important. Something irreplaceable.
His sister had dreams too, but hers were usually fun dreams, about talking to animals and going on adventures. She could go on for hours about her dreams, and when she did, their parents would smile and say her soulmate must live an interesting life.
When James told them about his dreams, they looked sad, and told him it was just a dream.
Over the years, he learned not to talk much about his nightmares. Most of them weren't very interesting, anyway. They were normal, about going to school or being with his family, but there was always an underlying sense of dread. An invisible monster waiting to jump out at him. But people didn't understand, and he could tell it made his family sad to hear him talk about it, so he stopped.
-
Julia had a party for her twelfth birthday, and one of her friends gifted her a book of spells. It had a blue cover with gold foil details, and all the spells had to do with soulmates. There were ways to find your soulmate, to contact your soulmate, and even to break the soulmate bond.
James was fourteen, and didn't believe in magic. There was no evidence that it was possible to contact your soulmate before you met them. Still, he sat with the girls as they paged through the book and settled on a double page spread that looked a lot like a Ouija board, but was just called a "communication board."
He watched as they each tried to contact their soulmate and either be disappointed or pretend it worked. It wasn't the least bit convincing, but he played along to be nice.
Everyone had a turn, and James thought they were finally done, when Julia's friend Mary turned on him.
"James has to do it too," she said, and all the girls agreed, pestering him until he sat down in front of the book.
It felt stupid, but they all looked so excitedly at him, he didn't want to disappoint them. So with the tiniest roll of his eyes, he started spelling out a message with his fingers.
"No, James," Julia interrupted. "You have to do it for real!"
"I am doing it for real!" James argued. What he was doing was as real as what everyone else had done!
"No, you're not! You have to mean it!"
James huffed in annoyance. "Fine."
He took a deep breath and put away his annoyance at all of this. He loved his sister, even if she was a stupid little twelve-year-old, so he could do this for her. He thought about his soulmate, and who they might be. What could be happening in their life to send him a neverending string of nightmares. When he met them, he would do everything he could to save them from that. Maybe, if this worked, he could start saving them now.
He released his breath, and started spelling out a message.
Hello
My name is James
I'm your soulmate
He waited for a reply, and even if he didn't believe it would come, he still hoped. He was still disappointed when none came.
"See?" he said, voice going hard to mask his hurt. "It's not real. I knew it wouldn't work."
-
Julia stopped playing with the book after a few weeks, and somehow it made it's way onto James's shelf. He mostly ignored it, because it was stupid, but sometimes, when the nightmares were bad, or when he was sad about something in his own life, he would pull it out and trace his fingers over the letters. Little messages he wished he could tell his soulmate. Stories from his life when he had no one else to tell, or that he hoped he would find them soon. That he loved them.
Like a secret diary that no one could read, he traced out messages to his soulmate. The nightmares grew worse, a new flavor of fear from before.
One night, when James was eighteen, he woke up in the middle of the night, the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears.
He pulled the book out from under his mattress with shaking hands and opened it in his lap, taking deep breaths to calm down.
Are you okay?
He spelled the question out with his fingers, wishing more than anything that he would get a reply. Wishing that magic was real so that he could magically bring his soulmate to his room where they would be safe.
And then, for the first time, something happened.
Gold swirled in the air in front of him, spelling out glittering handwritten letters.
STOP
Oh.
James choked on a sob.
It wasn't that his soulmate hadn't gotten his messages.
It was that they didn't want them.
He closed the book and put it back under his mattress.
His soulmate didn't want to hear from him.
He hid under his blanket and cried.
-
That message from his soulmate was the most painful thing James had ever felt. He skipped school the next day and stayed in bed, alternating between feeling devastated and furious. How could they not want to hear from him? Wasn't the whole point of having a soulmate that they would be perfect for each other?
He stewed over this for weeks, refusing to talk about it to anyone. His parents worried about his sudden bad mood, but he didn't explain, just muttered something about nightmares until they left him alone.
It was such a bizarre idea that his soulmate didn't want to talk to him, and once he was able to see through his own hurt, he started to wonder, was it something he had done? His soulmate sent him a steady stream of nightmares, but James hadn't given much thought to what he might be sending in return. Maybe his life was so boring his soulmate wanted nothing to do with it.
He decided that if his soulmate didn't want to hear from him, he would respect that. But since there was no way to stop their dream connection, he decided that instead of messages, he would send his soulmate good dreams every night, to make up for whatever horrible life they were leading.
He took up running, and spent time exploring the outdoors so that his soulmate might see it too. He kept practicing his piano playing even when life got busy, in the hopes that his soulmate would hear. He ate good food, and had fun experiences, and kept his own life from being too stressful so that he would never be the one sending nightmares.
Even through his increasingly bad nightmares, James managed to lead a good life. He went to college, and then med school, and then got a residency at a hospital near his family. He got a car, and a house. The blue book stayed on his shelf, and sometimes he would flip through it, but he never sent another message to his soulmate after they asked him to stop.
-
He woke up in the middle of the night, rolling out of bed and barely made it two steps before he fell to his knees and threw up.
For a second he thought about cleaning up, or calling someone, but then his body seized with pain, and all he could do was lay there, curled up, his body screaming with pain.
He was going to die.
No. Worse.
His soulmate was dying.
-
It felt like hours before he was able to move again, the scorching pain subsiding, making room in his body for cold and exhaustion.
James pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and made his way to the bookshelf with the book. His hands shook at he pulled it from the bottom shelf. It opened in his lap to the communication board page.
His soulmate had asked him to stop, and he had respected that, but this was different. He put his fingers on the page and traced a message.
Are you okay?
For a long minute, there's no reply.
Are you alive?
Again, no answer.
Please be alive
Please
Just give me a sign
Anything, please
Please
Please
Please
Over and over, he traced the letters, increasingly desperate when no reply came.
He was sobbing, tears soaking the paper, when suddenly, there was a gold shimmer in the air. There were no letters, but that was his soulmate, giving him a sign. James wiped his tears on his sleeve and traced out more messages.
Where are you?
There were more golden swirls, but no words, so James tried again.
I want to help you. How can I help?
He watched as the gold struggled to make sense. There were squiggly lines that dissolved as soon as they arrived, but then, finally, it managed to spell out a message.
I'm fine
"You're not fine!" James shouted at the words hanging in the air in front of him. His soulmate was dying, and they still wouldn't let him help!
Why wouldn't they let him help? James couldn't understand it, it was so heartbreaking and infuriating. And, he decided, it wasn't their choice.
He flipped through the pages of the book, until he found the right one.
There were a lot of spells in the book. Some were simple and innocent enough, like the communication board. Others were more complex, and claimed to let you see through your soulmate's eyes, or hear through their ears, or to take their place. That was the one James turned to now. Maybe, if it worked, he could find out where his soulmate was, and then he could go there and help.
If not, well. It had to work.
He got to his feet and started gathering materials. Bowls and herbs from the kitchen, candles from the living room, rowan twigs from outside.
It didn't take long to set up, but every second was another second where his soulmate was alone and dying. When he finally had a small altar set up like the book instructed, he used a candle to light the twigs and herbs on fire, and then he closed his eyes and tried to meditate.
He pushed everything else from his mind and focused only on his soulmate. Remembering the pain he had been in earlier, he invited it back, feeling the leftover pain weighing down his soulmate's body, until their bodies merged and he could feel the cold concrete floor pushing against his cheek.
Opening his eyes, he found himself in a dark basement, only lit by the moonlight shining through a small dirty window.
In the middle of the room was a single chair that had been knocked over.
Groaning, James made himself sit up and take stock of his soulmate's injuries. The pain was stronger in this body, but it was less diffuse. He could feel the bruising in his gut, which were different from the burns on his shoulder, which were different from the cut on his arm.
The arm is the most worrisome. It was still bleeding, slow waves of dark blood in time with his heartbeat. There was a puddle of blood on the floor, and James didn't know how much blood this body had lost. He needed to deal with this immediately.
He used the chair to push himself to his feet. His vision blacked out. When it finally came back to him, his eyes fell on a table under the window. If he could, he would throw up.
It almost looked like the tools laid out for surgery, except that instead of sterile and precise instruments, these were knives, pliers, a hammer, a blowtorch, all covered in varying amounts of blood.
How did his soulmate end up in this situation? Why did James leave them alone for so long, just because they asked? If he had just kept messaging, kept asking, maybe this could have been avoided.
Gritting his teeth, he scanned the room for anything he could use to treat the wound. There wasn't much. Whoever had done this had barely even left his soulmate with clothes on, just a pair of boxer shorts. No belt that could be used for a tourniquet. Even if he had a tourniquet, he doubted he would have the strength to tighten it enough.
There was a sink that turned on pretty easily. James splashed some water on his face and drank a little, then tried to clean some of the blood from the wound.
He went back to the table of torture instruments and didn't quite admit to himself what he was about to do. It wasn't a good option, but it was the best he had.
He picked the cleanest knife in the lineup and turned on the blowtorch. At least his soulmate wouldn't have to be the one to experience this additional piece of torture. The metal of the knife glowed red, and then white along the edge.
Holding his breath, with no hesitation, James pressed the flat side of the knife against the wound.
His gritted teeth were not enough to hold back the scream. There was a sizzling sound, and the smell of cooking meat, and a level of pain he had never experienced before. His eyes were screwed shut, but he had to open them to see if it worked.
It wasn't pretty, but when he lifted the knife away, the wound was no longer bleeding.
He dropped the knife on the table and sank to the floor, dry heaving and sobbing uncontrollably.
It took a surprisingly short time to calm down, maybe a minute or so. This body was too exhausted to sustain his panic, and in a way, maybe that was a good thing.
The heat of the knife kept burning into his arm still. James sat on the floor staring into the air.
There was a door on the other side of the room. Slowly, he realized that this hadn't just happened to his soulmate, someone had done it. Which meant that they might come back. Which meant that James had to get out.
How much longer would he be able to stay in this body? Getting to his feet was enough to make his vision go black again, and he had to hold on with everything he had to not disappear. He barely made it across the floor, and when he reached the door, he realized he had no idea how to break the lock.
It turned out he didn't have to. The door was unlocked, and swung open on unwilling hinges.
The door opened to the outside, concrete stairs leading up from the basement. He climbed them on hands and feet, and didn't let himself collapse when he reached the top, no matter how much he wanted to. He was out, but he was far from safe.
He was outside a small house with broken windows and peeling paint. There was a gravel road leading up to it, and he couldn't see any other houses, just sparse trees and nothing. He couldn't see a car or other signs of people.
It would be a long walk from here to wherever he could get help. James wouldn't know who would be safe to ask for help if he did find someone. Still, he had to get away from here, so he put one foot in front of the other, and started walking away from the house.
He got three steps before everything started spinning, and he fell to his knees, catching himself hard with his hands, and he woke up in front of his little altar.
-
The bowls he had burned the herbs in were filled with water. While James had been in his soulmate's body, his soulmate must have been in his, and they--he?--had extinguished the fire and ended the ritual.
James lay back on the floor and covered his face with his hands.
It had worked. He had used a ritual from the book, and it had worked, and he had, hopefully, helped save his soulmate's life.
He rolled to his side and reached for the book, flipping it to the communication board.
Are you okay?
The air shimmered in front of him like blotchy ink before spelling out,
Thank you
-
Despite how exhausted he was, James didn't think he could sleep, and staying home all day with nothing to do didn't seem like a good idea, so he took a long shower and went to work.
It was a struggle to focus on work, which was bad when not being focused could mean injuring or killing a patient. Still, James was used to working long hours, and this wasn't that much worse than the end of a 28-hour shift.
He was taking a short break outside when an ambulance came in. There were nurses running out to meet it, but James went a bit closer too, in case they needed an extra set of hands.
The ambulance workers rolled the gurney out of the car, and James felt like his heart was going to stop. He didn't know much about what his soulmate would look like, but he knew one thing.
The burn on his arm where James had pressed the knife.
James stumbled closer, getting a look at the man's bruised. He gripped the side of the gurney so tight his knuckles went white.
"Excuse me, Doctor?" one of the nurses said.
James barely heard her.
She touched his arm, pulling him back to reality. He looked at her, then back to his soulmate.
His soulmate was here, alive, in his hospital.
James had saved him.
His soulmate's face was bruised and swollen, it barely hinted at how handsome it must have been before last night. He was awake, watching James with a frown, and then his eyes widened in recognition, and he turned, trying to get away.
James should be used to this by now. It wasn't the first time his soulmate had rejected him.
Still, it hurt.
He lets a nurse lead him away, to a staff room where he sat on an uncomfortable couch while trying to process the fact that even when they met face to face, his soulmate rejected him.
Why would he do that? How could he? James's mind was filled with white noise, but the questions still pushed their way to the surface. How was it possible that James had spent his entire life wanting to meet his soulmate, while his soulmate wanted nothing to do with him?
He took the rest of the day off, and the day after, but he didn't go home. Instead, he sat in the waiting room, hoping his soulmate would change his mind about not wanting to see him.
At the end of the second day, he was losing hope, and by the third day he was considering if he should give up and go home.
There was a ritual in the book for severing a soulmate bond. Just the thought of it brought fresh tears to his eyes, but maybe that would be the kindest thing James could do for his soulmate.
He buried his face in his hands and tried to imagine it. Not having any more nightmares, and not having anyone out there who would be perfect for him.
"Hi, uh, Doctor Kennedy?"
James looked up at the nurse in front of him. There had been a few of them, checking on him every few hours while he had been in the waiting room.
"I'm okay," James said, wiping a sleeve across his face.
"That's good to hear," the nurse said. "But it's not that. The patient says you can see him, if you still want to."
-
James entered the room after a hesitant knock at the door. He had no idea what to expect, if his soulmate had really changed his mind or if he was just going to tell James to get lost one last time.
His soulmate was asleep in bed. Next to the bed sat a woman, with brown curls and red lips.
James's heart sank. Was that his soulmate's girlfriend? His wife? What was James supposed to do if his soulmate turned out to be married to someone else?
She looked up and smiled at him. "Are you James?" she asked.
He nodded silently.
"Henry told me you saved him. Thank you."
Henry. That was his soulmate's name. James nodded again, taking a few steps closer.
Henry looked better now, after his skin was cleaned and his wounds bandaged. The swelling had calmed down a bit, showing the shape of his face more, but the bruises had darkened since the last time James had seen him.
"He's awake," the woman said, and poked Henry in his side to make him flinch. "He's just being stubborn."
She stood, and held a hand out to James, who took it.
"I'm Maya," she said. "I'm Henry's friend. I'm sorry you have to meet him like this."
That was his name again. James finally knew his soulmate's name! He smiled, and looked at Henry, who scowled at him.
Maya shook her head and gently smacked Henry's arm. "Be nice." She turned back to James. "He's not so bad if you give him a chance," she said. "I'll give you two a chance to talk."
She left, and James took her seat next to the bed. He looked at Henry, and Henry looked back, with wonderful hazel green eyes. This was his soulmate, and James knew his name now, and the color of his eyes, and he was alive. James smiled, and he could feel his eyes fill with tears.
"is this okay" "it's more than okay" absolutely screamssssd vaxleth to meeee
it is PERFECT for them and there are so many amazing things I could've done with this prompt but this came to mind first and I thought it was cute IM SORRY😭I just <3 my girl being awkward ok?
Something Keyleth learned early on with Vax, is that she did not know how to makeout.
Well that isn't entirely true, she's getting the hang of it, she knows it's just kissing a lot, and she likes kissing Vax, a lot. Her issue lies with never knowing where to put her hands. Her first two kisses came at a complete surprise to her, she didn't have time to think about what she was doing in the moment, and for the first little while after her and Vax got together, it stayed mostly soft pecks, a kiss to the back of her head or shoulder as he passes by, pressing a long one to her temple after some of their more dangerous battles, Keyleth really likes kissing him goodnight when he's already half asleep, he smiles so warmly against her lips it makes her stomach do flips and her heart beat loudly in her ears.
But then that brings her to now when she and Vax have indeed been kissing for a while, which she so smartly initiated the second he walked into her bedroom, pressing him against the door. The wood of the keep creaking gently beneath their feet, only the glow of a couple candles, only the smell of greenery, light rain, and a midnight breeze pushing through her window.
It seemed like second nature the way one of his hands found her lower back, pulling her closer, and the other gently holding her face, tilting her head slightly to press his lips to hers. She doesn't understand how he can be so effortlessly hot every waking moment of the day. Keyleths fingers stayed loosely laced behind her back, letting him lead her where she needs to be, but it doesn't take long before she becomes entirely too concentrated on the fact that her hands aren't on him. Keyleth unlinks her fingers, slowly bringing them around and hesitantly raising them, hovering awkwardly between their bodies, it only takes a moment for Vax to sense her distraction and pull away, sometimes it feels like magic, how easily he's able to read her. His eyes flicker down to her hands, back up to her lips, then to her eyes with a slight smile.
"Are you alright?" he asks quietly into the very little space between them, Keyleth feels herself nod a little too quick "yeah no of course" she lies, ok maybe Vax being able to read her easily isn't in her favor all the time. He feels Keyleth shift her weight nervously from side to side and is about disengage before "Can I uhm.." Keyleth brings her hands up and rests them on his shoulders, her fingers anxiously twitching and shifting against his shirt. The way Vax watches her curiously, all while smiling gently, makes her feel rather ridiculous about this whole ordeal. "Is this okay?" She whispers, searching his face, studying every shadow for any signs of discomfort.
Vax does not know what he did in his past life to ever deserve someone as gentle as she is. He puts his forehead to hers, "It's more than okay" He whispers in return, he removes his own hands only for a moment to put them on her forearms, leading them up and around his neck.
Keyleth smiles breathlessly, and timidly pulls him closer, his hands sliding down to her waist. She likes to think that the longer they're together, the more used to being this close to him she'll get, but standing here, in the most comfortable silence, watching the firelight dance across his features, simply smiling at eachother, she knows no matter how long its been, the butterflies in her stomach will never cease.
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Confrontations, Not Canon Compliant, Relationship Study, Character Study, Family Issues, Aoyagi Harumichi’s A+ Parenting + more
There’s a voice yelling, screaming, in his head, so desperately wanting to be heard.
It’s not true, it bellows. There is no universe out there where I will ever want to be anything like you.
(Toya confronts his father.)
read on ao3 or click ‘Keep reading’
Blinking so rapidly that black dots begin to flicker, pressing the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holding his breath with eyes glued to the ceiling—he thinks he’s mastered the art of holding his tears back, especially when it comes to the man of the house he wishes he didn’t have to call his father.
“I thought we’d come to a compromise.” His voice is so painfully small, so frail and delicate that it might crumble into itself and fall apart if his father were to aim his words where he knew it hurt, something he manages to do every single time without fail. Still, he puts up as big of a front that he can muster, setting his foot down as firmly as it’ll let him. He feels his stance wavering but pushes on nevertheless.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“That’s not fair,” he bites back.
“What’s not fair is you telling me you’d continue taking up classical music, then turning your back against me and frolicking off with some street rat!”
“I never said I—” He cuts himself off before the words he’s about to let loose spill out of him regrettably. He knows the consequences of uttering those words are far worse than anything he’s about to face right now. “He’s not a street rat. He has a name.” And please don’t bring him into this.
“I don’t care for it. He’s a horrible influence on you, can’t you see?”
The room is so much more eerily silent than usual, no longer just blanketed by an imminent slab of tension that he’s grown so familiar with, a presence he’s almost labelled as family, but now enveloped in something much more suffocating, like the twitch of a finger or a breath released on the wrong beat could send him back to the corners of his past, the remnants of it threatening to break loose. A fleeting image of a grand piano flashes through his mind, to which he shakes off to the best of his ability. He feels his blood run cold.
“You don’t listen to me anymore.”
Familiar words. The sentence hangs in the air exactly the way it always did in the past, repeated over and over again, never failing to bring out the same effect on him. He feels that same pang of guilt residing in his chest, despite himself. He decides to stay quiet anyways, in fear of dragging Akito down with him—he’d never forgive himself if he let that happen.
“You used to love classical music. You used to care for it as much as I did. You used to want to be just like me.”
He’s partially thankful he’s dropped the topic of Akito, but the territory he was entering wasn’t particularly as pleasant either. His fist tightens into itself on its own, his nails digging crescents into his palm. There’s a voice yelling, screaming, in his head, so desperately wanting to be heard.
It’s not true, it bellows. There is no universe out there where I will ever want to be anything like you.
“I know you’re a teenager, I know you’re experiencing all kinds of emotions. I understand.”
You don’t.
“But can’t you look at it from my point of view? Can’t you understand where I’m coming from the same way I do for you?”
…
“I’m your father, Toya.”
As unequivocal as ever, his words were, yet so incredibly, excruciatingly wrong.
I haven’t looked at you as someone I would call my father for a very long time, the voice continues to ring. A voice so monotonous but so urgent, contradicting and going against itself and clashing with the other voice that inhabits his mind that’s telling him to Snap out of it, you’re going to get yourself killed. You will always be under his control. The inner commotion taking place inside of him only grows louder and louder, and he thinks the room is beginning to spin. His palms are drawing blood.
“Talk to me, please.”
Feigned tenderness—he sees through it all, clear as day. He presses his lips shut, ignoring the sting that’s starting to feel more present in his right hand. His throat is starting to burn hoarse. The noise in his head contrasts his current environment so sharply he thinks he might lose it right there and then, but he holds himself together.
“I…” His voice rasps. “I have never…”
Don’t say it. What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed.
He knows he’s different from other kids he’s grown up with, he knows that on top of the kind of family he was brought up in, his father was also a well-known musician, one held to soaringly high expectations, one with millions of pairs of eyes on him at all times.
One who’d pushed his own children under the scrutiny of those same pairs of eyes, letting them nitpick their every every move the same way they do for him, as if they weren’t just children. As if they could handle it at the blossoming ages of five to ten.
…You need to tell him, don’t you? Silence would only kill you more.
The voices seem to ease into a quieter discussion—an agreement, almost. He inhales sharply.
“I have never enjoyed classical music.”
…
He feels the impenetrable wall of glass that’s been caging his heart shut all this time shattering into unrecognisable pieces, baring his soul open to the one person he will never let back in. He feels all too divested, too raw and open and seen and all in front of the wrong person and he hates whatever he’s just done to himself. He wishes he could go back, he shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have said anything, he should’ve just nodded and kept mum and went to his room and cried under the protection of his blankets in the quiet solitude of the night just like he’s always done. He shouldn’t have done this.
But it was too late now. No amount of remorse could turn back the hands of time.
The exchanging of words comes to a halt. The stifling phantom in the atmosphere only gets louder, heavier, pressing down on his lungs hard. He’s forgotten what it feels like to breathe—every breath only gets more ragged. There is nothing but ice in his veins.
“You—” The man standing across from him raises an aggravated finger to his face, almost at a loss for words. “You have some nerve…”
He takes several steps towards him, each step more daunting than the next, until he’s looking over Toya’s figure with his broad build and suddenly Toya feels like he’s five years old again, like he’s never fully outgrown the age, like he’s always been that same young boy who would never dare go against his father or say anything remotely challenging or reject anything he suggested. He feels like he’s never truly been able to escape that never-ending nightmare that he knows he’d never have to experience if his father had just given it to himself to at least try.
The memories are a little foggy, but the pain only ever comes back in everlasting waves.
…
His heart aches for himself. It’s a distinct kind of hurt, one so tender and sharp he doesn’t think words could ever do it justice.
Am I not worth the trouble?
…
I’m sorry I’m not worth the trouble.
…
I just wish you would treat me as your son.
He braces for an impact that never comes. He doesn’t even realise his eyes have been shut tight on instinct, but when he opens them, he only sees that the man has distanced himself from him, a fist clenched similarly to his, rooted by his side.
He’s crying.
Toya blinks back tears of his own that were beginning to brim, not wanting to reveal any more of himself. He recognises this tactic, this strategy that the man was trying to implement. He knows what he’s trying to do, and yet…
He mourns for him. The loss of his youngest son, if he could even call him his in the first place. A small part of him wishes he could’ve just learned to love classical music the way the man and his other sons did, maybe then he would’ve turned out to be someone worth trying for. He mourns for himself, the loss of what he could’ve been, in turn.
“I’m sorry,” is all Toya can bring himself to say. The words come out weak and brittle, holding little to no substance whatsoever. But he is sorry—sorry for the person that he’ll never be, the things he’ll never achieve. In another life, I could’ve been your son.
“You don’t listen to me anymore.” The man repeats, the rasp in his voice mirroring his own. He’s trying to get to you, Toya echoes internally. You know what he’s doing.
You have never listened to him. Not on your own volition, anyways.
He exhales quietly, attempting to drive the burdening weight resting on his shoulders away along with his jagged breath.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats. Such weightless words and such wordless apologies. With so many things left unsaid, he wonders how this will all come back to haunt him in the near future.
What else was there left for him to say? He thinks he’s made himself clear enough.
“All I’ve ever done was for your own good, son. You’re good at music. You have potential. You have skill. I’ve seen it all for myself. You have the capability to become so much more than you are right now if you’d just—”
“I don’t care for it.” He snaps, his words ice cold, not a hint of regret in sight. “I never have.”
“And you’re telling me you care for street music instead?” The man scoffs back. “Are you forgetting you only took it up to spite me?”
There it is. He’s expected this from the start, of course, the words that would strike where it hurt most. The man’s hidden superpower, the one he concealed until the very climax of the argument and only set free when he knew the blow would be enough to crush the boy standing before him.
“You have no passion for this genre, Toya. None. You have always lacked drive and ambition in everything that you do. What makes you think street music is any different?”
Nails digging into skin once again, blood running cold, vision beginning to blur—the cycle repeats. He’s losing himself. He’s giving in.
You were so close…
“I raised you, son. I watched you grow, I know you. I know what’s best for you. I’m your father.”
He’s never heard a more dreadful sequence of words said so confidently wrong that he’s not sure if he should laugh or cry. How could someone possibly be so ignorant? So incredibly dense and tone-deaf, as ironic as it is… It baffled Toya completely.
“But… But I love street music.”
The words fall out of him before he even has the time to run them through his mind. You’re going to regret this, one of the voices warns. He doesn’t pay it any mind. There’s a bitter aftertaste lingering on his tongue and the back of his throat, but he presses on.
“I really, really do. It’s— It’s the only thing that reminded me how much I do love music. I love singing, I love dancing, and maybe for a fraction of a second I did love playing the piano and the violin.” His face crumbles, and before he knows it he’s sobbing. He’s sobbing so hard he struggles for pockets of air and his voice is torn completely apart. Gray eyes meet grayer ones and it truly disgusts him to say that it feels exactly like looking into a mirror.
“I love the friends I’ve made through it, I love the excitement it brings me when I perform.” He wipes his tears away, and a passing image of a five-year-old Toya stifling quiet sobs in the music room by his father’s side replays in his mind.
“Stop crying.”
“But I’m tired, Father.”
“You can take a break when you’ve perfected this piece. You shouldn’t be facing any difficulty at all considering the level you’re at.”
But my fingers aren’t long enough, he remembers thinking. It hurt to reach the right notes at the right tempo. He was still so small.
Nevertheless, he pressed the heels of his palms onto his eyes, wiping his tears away begrudgingly, swallowing the lump in his throat, begging himself to stop crying or he’d never hear the end of it. He positioned his fingers at their rightful places once more, telling himself the strain in his hands weren’t as bad as he’d made them out to be, and prepared to play the same apprehensive piece over and over again into the late hours of the night.
He pulls himself back to reality.
“It makes me happy. Sh— Shouldn’t that count for something?”
There’s a brief pause. Toya takes the opportunity to ground himself.
“Father?”
It pained him more than he’d like to admit, calling him that. He vows never to do that again—only then will he finally be free.
The man twists away from him abruptly, visible frustration beginning to build up. Toya instinctively takes a step back.
“But you’re my son.” His voice comes out gentler than anticipated. Toya blinks.
“I’m… I’m not you.”
The dreadful stillness in the air takes its place again, and all of a sudden he begins to wonder if he’ll even be able to sleep in his own bed tonight, or ever. Where would he even go? His mind was travelling to dark places, a flurry of senseless thoughts overtaking everything else. He urges himself to calm down.
“…I know.”
He blinks again, his tightened fist slowly releasing its grip on itself. He awaits his response with bated breath, too afraid to even release the breath he’s holding.
“I’m—” The man sighs, stepping further away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just— wanted to protect you.”
…
Bullshit.
The thought sneaks its way in before he can do anything about it, but he decides he’ll let it stay.
“From what?”
“You… You’re my son. My son. People know me, they know my work, they know my family. I just didn’t want them to get to you the way they did for… me.” The man’s voice trails off a little towards the end, and if Toya didn’t know any better he’d think his tone was laced with genuine remorse.
“That’s not an excuse.”
He’s not sure where this conviction is coming from, neither is he sure if he can keep up this pretentious demeanour of confidence, and even if he does, how long? Is he going to take the risk? He feels the words continue to slip out of him anyway.
“There’s just— There’s just no excuse for the excruciating hours that you put me through when I could barely even reach an octave on the piano with one hand. I was a kid. I’d just turned five the day you bought me a piano and told me you’d wanted me to take up classical music.”
The man only stares blankly in response, equally as dumbfounded at what he was hearing.
“You never even asked.” Toya continues in a whisper.
“I… know. And I know it’s hard to believe but… it really was for your own good. People talk, Toya. You would’ve been next.”
“There were better ways.” His voice cracks again, and he thinks he might break into another round of sobs if not for the determination to convey his message overruling every other emotion. “There were better ways to protect me, but you chose to put me through all of that, knowing what it felt like.”
The man doesn’t respond.
“You knew what it felt like as a grown adult, and with that knowledge you put your own toddler through the exact same thing.”
Every word shoots out of his mouth like an aimed dagger, weapons with a target so clear it never once wavers.
“That is fucking unbelievable.”
The swear leaves his lips sour—not only had he always held his elders to incredibly high levels of formality and respect, most especially the man before him, he was also never one to turn to vulgarities even in the heat of the moment or at the peak of upset. This time is different, he supposes. It’s far, far different.
“You… You have to understand, son. It helped me grow. I’m stronger now. Braver. Much, much more than I was in the past. I thought it’d… help you too. I just wanted you to be strong. Stronger than I ever was.”
“…I was a kid.”
“…Toya…”
“Do you know what kids my age were doing back then, Father?” A broken vow, the name he’s addressed the man by. He promises himself it’s the last time— saying it now was crucial for the point he was about to make. “They were outside, playing with their friends, laughing, drawing, doing things because it was fun and not because they had to…”
He swallows in hopes of repressing the tears that are about to escape. “…Spending time with their families.”
He doesn’t remember the last time his family had a ‘family outing’, if they’d ever even had one in the first place. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw his brothers, or the last time they even interacted with him ever since they went abroad for college—not that they’d talked much when they were still at home, anyways. He wishes he saw his parents more often, in spite of everything.
“I— I know you were a busy man… You still are. But the hours you spent teaching me classical music every week… Would it have hurt so much to spare some of that time to spend time with me? Do something together? Even just staying at home would’ve been enough. Anything. Was— Was that so difficult?”
He’s stammering, tripping over his words, but his tone stays constant and surprisingly stable. He wants to make sure the man hears him loud and clear, not a word to be overlooked.
“I… I know. And I’m…”
There’s a word stubbornly lingering on the tip of the man’s tongue, five letters Toya doesn’t think he’ll ever let loose. He’s learned that even the most affluent figures could never afford the cost of pride.
“I know,” the man echoes. Toya can only sigh.
In a way, he thinks his relationship with the man has come to a permanent standstill. This was the furthest they were ever going to get, and he’d be lying to himself if he said he was content with it. They were far from perfect, far from even satisfactory, and Toya isn’t about to settle for a relationship this strained and call it a day.
At the same time, words can only do so much, and he can only hope that time will aid in their journey together. Maybe the man will learn to understand Toya more as time passes on, or maybe he’ll forever be stuck at this checkpoint in their relationship until he’s willing to let go of his dignity.
Despite this particularly displeasing outcome, Toya thinks he’s made his point crystal clear, and if the man hadn’t understood, then that was on him. Toya’s decided he’s done talking for now, and it’ll probably be the last time in a while that he talks to the man in such a manner ever again.
He takes one last breath and makes his way to his room, turning in for the night, not once throwing a glance back at the man he once called ‘Father’. He’s gripping onto his phone unnecessarily tight, knuckles turning white as an uncontrollable wave of emotions overtakes his body. His finger hovers over Akito’s contact, hesitating for a second or two before he hits the ‘Call’ button.
“Toya?” Akito’s voice hums under the muffle of the speaker pressed to Toya’s ear, and that alone manages to soothe most of the nerves in Toya’s system.
“Hello, Akito.” His own voice constricts in turn, a failed attempt at trying to sound apathetic.
“Hey… Is everything okay?”
Toya bites down on his lip. He feels a hot tear running down his cheek.
Posting a wip of a story i'll most likely never finish-
Gaege always had a feeling that there was more after death. Not that he let his thoughts often linger on things like that. After all, life alone was exhausting enough already without the idea of extensial dread of the undeniable fact that one day his life would come to an end.
So like most teenagers, he had jumped straight to acceptance.
But by the gods, maybe if he hadn't done that, he would have been more careful with his own life. Yet here he was, distantly hearing the constant beeping of what could only be hospital equipment. But no matter how much he tried to open his eyes, it was as if he had no control over his body whatsoever.
When he did come to his senses, he was certain he was in heaven. Or purgatory-but there was no way this was hell. All it took was a simple glancing around, not moving any muscels other than his eyes to notice he was in a grassy plain. The sky above didn't have a single cloud for miles and the ground was softer than anything he had ever felt in his life.
'Get up.' His brain screamed at his body, memories starting to flood back into his brain.
How did he get here again…? Just a second ago he was near the arcade and-
The arcade! That's right, he got kicked out again cause he started a fight with the asshole that thought he could get away with slapping his sister's ass.
He got thrown out, insistant on beating the other guy when he followed him into a corner, only to feel a sharp pain on the back of his head.
Slowly, ever so carefully he moved to sit up, a hand moving to gently touch the back of his head where he was certain a bump should be-or atleast some dried blood. Head wounds always bleed like crazy after all, right? But there was nothing, not even the slightest hint of discomfort other than the tiredness of his body.
"Someone sure took his time to wake up," A feminine voice piped up from behind him, making Gaege tense up as his body finally seemed to listen-jumping up as he turned on his heel, coming face to face with-
"A fucking pre teen…? Well this definetely isn't heaven," He grumbled under his breath. If this was heaven, it'd have to be a model, or some gorgeous woman with wings greeting him and explaining she was an angel or something among those lines, right?
Not this girl in front of him, with an ivory white skin, which made her dark brown eyes almost seem black if it weren't for her strawberry blonde hair warming up her complexion ever so slightly.
"You think my idea of heaven was being near a fucking punk?" The little brat-who really couldn't be much older than fourteen huffed back. "Let alone one so ugly-"
Just who the fuck taught her to talk like that-?
"Just… Where the fuck are we?" Gaege interupted, too tired to justify to himself that he could totally cuss out this kid since she started it.
