The plot of the story is only my opinion and my imagination and does not claim to be authentic.
The story of Princes Lothric and Lorian is unique: one brother is a feeble prophet born for a great sacrifice, and the other is a great knight who voluntarily shared the curse with him, binding their souls together.
There is no magic in real history, but there is a stunningly similar fate of two brothers-rulers: the Byzantine emperors Basil II and Constantine VIII (X-XI centuries).
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂ ꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂ ꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
This historical pair most closely conveys the dynamics of Lorian and Lotric: one bears all the burdens of the state, while the other remains in the shadows, connected to it by indissoluble ties.
Basil II (like Lorian) refused marriage, the joys of life and spent his whole life in cruel campaigns, becoming the shield of the empire.
The second is protected and weak: His brother Constantine VIII (like Lotricus) grew up in luxury, did not like statesmanship, was in poor health, and ruled only formally, behind his brother's back.
An indissoluble union: They were co-rulers for 49 years. Despite the colossal difference in characters, there has never been a difference between them.
“I know you’re hurting right now, and I’m so sorry. Tell me what will help and I’ll do it.” with my main soft boy, Frankie, please? 💜💜 🙏🏼 thank you!
character: Frankie “Catfish” Morales
prompt: “I know you’re hurting right now, and I’m so sorry. Tell me what will help and I’ll do it.” via this list of prompts!
warnings: anxiety/brink of anxiety attack, fluff
rating: PG-13
masterlist
I can’t do anything right.
You’d curse out the voice in your head if you didn’t believe it. You’ve always tried to be the perfect person—the person your parents always wanted you to be. So polished, so pristine, so precise. Always the reliable one. You weren’t like your siblings; you didn’t disrespect your parents, or break the rules, or do anything more dangerous than drive a little past nine before you turned eighteen. Everyone always called you kind, and caring, and smart, and—perfect.
But, damn, are they wrong.
Today’s been yet another example of that. No matter what you do today, you just can’t get it right. When you tried to make eggs for you and Frankie this morning, you broke both the yolks in the pan. The coffee still had grounds floating around in it, too. At work, your boss had to point out a mistake in your latest report—something he repeatedly emphasized he was surprised by. On your way home from work, you got pulled over for going ten miles per hour above the speed limit, marginally escaping a ticket. And finally, now, you’re standing over the plate you’ve meant to serve your lame dinner on—and you’ve somehow managed to shatter it. It’s a part of the new set Frankie saved up to buy you for your birthday.
Poor Frankie doesn’t even deserve to live with a screw-up like you.
You curse yourself under your breath. The faster the moments fly by, the more you feel your anxiety rising. You shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that—you know you can’t be perfect, and you’re making a big deal out of nothing. But you’ve tried so hard. You want to live up to everyone’s expectations. You don’t want to hurt anyone. You just want to make people happy and loved, in ways you think you feel but know you’ve fabricated in order to make your perfection possible.
But no one sees this. They just see you and your mistakes—the ones you keep making, over and over and over again. And it’s tearing you apart.
You take one of the chunks of the broken plate into your hand, feeling the tears beginning to brim your eyes. You close them tightly. No, you chastise yourself. I refuse to cry over this. It’s worthless. It’s all in my head.
But then every mistake of today replays in your mind, reminding you that you’re not the person you think you are, nor the person everyone wants you to be. And you never will be.
Your lungs tighten up as you reopen your eyes, seeing the fractured piece still in your hand. It’s just how you feel: broken, with no easy way to be fixed. Every crack is a mistake that’s torn through every inch of your self-esteem. You’re not sure you can take much more.
No one likes me—I have to try harder. I can’t fail again.
When you hear Frankie’s truck pull up, your thoughts spiral even more, causing your anxiety to build to dangerous heights.
How are you going to explain this to him? He’ll be so disappointed. He’ll probably leave you one day. There’s no way he can love you when you’ve made mistakes like these.
Your hands begin to tremble, and you can’t stop them. The tears still linger, but you refuse to let them fall. Frankie can’t see your pity party. It’ll show him how much of a mess you are on the inside—and he can’t know that. You can’t give up your polished act now.
His keys are heard in the door. You squeeze your eyes shut.
You won’t be getting out of this one. You can’t do anything right, remember?
“Hey, babe, I’m home!” Frankie’s voice announces his arrival from behind you. You try to brace yourself for what’s coming, but you can’t.
I can’t do anything right.
“I was thinking we could—.” Frankie stops when he gets to the kitchen, obviously having seen the broken plate. You hear his footsteps stop, and you grit your teeth as you finally turn around to face him. His brow’s furrowed underneath his baseball cap, and his body’s completely stiff as he takes in the scene. You continue to tremble in anxiety and fear of what he’ll say. “What happened?”
You realize your lips are also trembling when you go to speak. “I’m sorry.” Your apology is so quiet that you’re not sure he heard it, and you turn back around to finally start gathering up the pieces. “I—I was trying to set it down, but it slipped from my hand, and it hit the counter so hard and it just broke everywhere—I tried to stop it, I swear, but my hands were damp from the faucet, and it just—.”
“Hey, slow down, it’s alright.” You feel Frankie come up behind you and gently ease his hands over yours, forcing you to release the pieces of the plate as you look into his eyes. When you drown in the comfort his dark gaze has to offer, you start to feel all your past fears come back, and your lips tremble more as your throat begins to burn from the tears you’re holding back.
“I can’t do anything right,” you say to him, your voice wavering as you speak.
Frankie’s expression instantly morphs into one of disbelief and concern, and his hands reach up to cup your face. “No, don’t say something like that, sweetheart. That’s not true at all.” He pauses for a moment, searching your gaze for something deeper. “Why would you say that?”
You can’t meet his eyes anymore, and you instead stare at the space between you as you swallow hard. “I... I just want to perfect, Frankie,” you confess with a heavy sigh. “For you, for my family, for work, for everything. But I can’t be. I’m too much of a screw-up.” A tear escapes with your words, and Frankie uses his thumb to wipe it away.
“You’re already perfect to me.” Frankie shakes his head as he speaks. “But you don’t have to be perfect. Without mistakes, you wouldn’t learn anything. You wouldn’t grow.”
You close your eyes, unable to look at him still. “But I have to be,” you whimper. “I can’t handle making mistakes, Frankie—I can’t. I made so many just today, and I let so many people down, and I can’t handle that. I just want to make everyone happy! Why can’t I just make people happy?”
You break on the last word, and instantly Frankie pulls you into his arms, letting you hide your face in his shoulder as you finally release the cries that have been burning your throat. He runs a hand along your back and holds the other against your head, keeping you securely in place. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but once your crying calms down, he speaks up again. “I know you’re hurting right now, and I’m so sorry. Tell me what will help and I’ll do it.”
You sniffle, wrapping your arms even tighter around him as you absorb his presence. “Just don’t leave me.” You’re begging at this point, fearing the worst in the cloud of your anxiety. “Tell me everything will be okay, even when I don’t think it will be.”
“I’m not leaving you anytime soon, baby.” Frankie leaves a soft kiss on your head before continuing. “And everything will be fine. I promise. As long as I’ve got you, you’ll be okay.”
You finally lift your head from Frankie’s shoulder, meeting his calm and comforting gaze that offers you the slice of peace you’ve been needing. Frankie cradles one side of your face before leaning in to kiss you, taking your breath away and dissipating all the dark thoughts that dared to linger in your mind. You pull him even closer as it deepens, bathing in the feeling of his love that knows no bounds—no matter how many mistakes you make. When Frankie pulls away, he leaves an extra kiss on your nose, staying close as his hand brushes through the hair behind your ear.
“So, what do you say we ditch your lame dinner, order some takeout, and watch a movie?” Frankie smiles softly as he suggests this, bringing you a comfort like no other.
You manage to return it. “That sounds... perfect.”
Frankie’s smile widens, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “Just like you are to me.”
I find it amusing (not rly) that my parents always say that my siblings and I "turned out fine" when we're criticizing them on how they parented us.
Really? We turned out fine?
One child (me) has diagnosed clinical depression, anxiety, and self-image issues. Another has severe situational anxiety. The other two have big self-image issues and trust issues. And where do these origins come from? The parents.
So no, mom and dad, we didn't "turn out fine". Sure, we could've turned out a lot worse, but you have to acknowledge that your words and actions have had a big negative affect on us.
I’m trying to imagine every pleasant fucking thing it is possible to imagine but my ugly rat brain is still trying to cannibalize itself at three in the goddamn morning even though I’ve been ruminating for twelve straight hours what the fuck I just want to sleep
well, it's hit me a lot harder than I ever thought it would.
I dont think I ever talked about her on here before but she's a great woman. Any one who stepped foot into her house she would take care of. Food she made always on the table, be it left over or freshly made, even if you weren't hungry.
She was tough too. Real tough. Tough enough to be a refugee, to survive a war, to come back from it strong and learn a trade to help her family. Tough enough to have kids and to completely uproot herself with the family. To move to a country that was entirely different from her home, with people who spoke a language to this day she could barely speak a word of herself. Tough enough to continue through that and more and still take no shit.
She was, and still is, so so great. And I'm so happy I got to have her around for as long as I did.
