#ryan's writing

[zedif-y]

Impulse plans Tango's funeral.

It's a trap, of course. Everyone knows it's a trap. But Impulse gets out his shovel and he assembles his team and he digs, digs, and digs. Illegal powered rails are placed and nailed into hard-packed soil and everyone expects it but he clutches the TNT in his hands and places them anyway.

A few feet away, an empty casket. There wasn't a body left to bury.

Still, Impulse plans Tango's funeral.

There's an itch under his skin, stings and fizzes like redstone powder rubbed against his palms. He sits underground and he waits and he waits and he waits for the chatter to die down and when it doesn't something breaks, shatters, explodes.

Here are three facts, in no particular order:

1.) Tango couldn't kill Impulse, even when he asked.

2.) Impulse once killed Tango because Bdubs asked.

3.) Bdubs once killed them both, no questions asked.

They haunt Impulse like an old ghost, like sand in his shoes, like blood under his fingernails. He digs and he's found out and he screams his throat raw because where are his teammates and he feels like he's repeating himself but he doesn't really know why.

The funeral needs to go on.

The red T stands. Not tall and definitely not proud, but it stands. And Impulse calls Ren and everyone else over but Jimmy doesn't come and nobody sits on the chairs. Impulse clears his throat but Etho speaks and it's all jokes and Impulse feels something sparking in his throat, shooting stars in his lungs.

Because Impulse knows how to be forgotten and he knows very little about being remembered. He knows how to join groups but not be in them, knows how to stand tall but not proud and how to obey but never praised. So Impulse thinks. He thinks about cooling corpse near a fortress of snow and how Bdubs said "He loves me." but not about him. He thinks of Tango's rage and he thinks of a clock that was always his and how it never mattered that they were teammates, did it?

Because a knife loves a turned back the way an axe loves a tree. How blood spurts like splintered wood blasts apart like shrapnel. And maybe Tango wasn't important enough to them but he said not my teammate when faced with lava and a willing face, so Impulse plans Tango's funeral.

Because he deserves it. To go out with a bang.

(Impulse lets himself laugh. Tango would have as well.)

So Impulse delivers his speech. It's sincere and the crowd aw's, claps, and—

BOOM!

.

.

.

.

.

The dust settled, the baffled laughter subsides. Impulse's disappointment tastes like gunpowder and ash.

The casket remains empty, dirtied with soot.

Ren looks at him with blood-red eyes. Impulse sits on the grass, then lies down.

Here are some facts, in no particular order:

1.) Tango is dead.

2.) Ren died.

3.) Impulse died.

Here's a fact, to nobody else but Impulse:

1.) It should have been just him.

[revivif-y]

going insano crazy mode over the idea that fabian is an amazing gift giver. he's not the best at doing or saying the right thing but gifts come easier to him. i think about this a lot.

adaine has a pair of shoes that she wears constantly and has had for years. it's a high-quality, expensive brand that was made to last-- one of the rare items she received from her parents that was actually practical. they're comfortable, durable and they fit with most of her outfits... but they're years old, and she's started to outgrow them. she's more upset about it than she'd like to be.

fabian notices. of course he does. so he looks into the brand, and finds that they don't make that exact model anymore. fabian's frustrated, and for most people that would've been the end of it.

but, well... fabian has money.

so he does more research. he looks into shoemakers, tracks down someone who is willing to emulate the style from pictures and even has them add a custom enchantment-- the shoes will grow to suit the user's needs.

it's a hefty price. one fabian is more than willing to pay.

(when he gifts it to adaine on her birthday, her eyes widen, something caught in her throat. she just stares as fabian explains the enchantment, quiet in a way that makes him feel uneasy. and for a moment he flounders and asks if he overstepped--)

("no," adaine tells him, a warble in her voice. "no, you haven't, fabian, this is--")

(she pulls him into a hug. fabian is quite literally unable to breathe.)

("thank you.")

[zedif-y]

HELP

[zedif-y]

"For all that you did to keep me alive, you may slay me and take the enchanter."

Grian flinches, a full-bodied gasp wrenched from his throat. His sword, gleaming and dripping with Bdubs' blood, stills. Crimson drops stain the waters below.

"No," He says, so soft that Scar almost misses it. "No, I can't. I literally can't."

Why not? Scar tries for a smile, "Sure you can."

The sword lowers further. "No, no I can't—"

"You just stab right here," Scar points. Water splashes a little as he shuffles forward on his knees, angling the sword toward—

The blade is wrenched away from him. "Scar!"

Scar looks up.

Grian stares down at him in horror, eyes wide with unshed tears. His wings, vivid and colorful like a parrot's, are spread like he wants to flee.

Somehow, that thought— the thought of Grian running from him rather than towards him— scares him more than dying by Grian's hand. Blade. Whatever he wants, really.

"Gri," Scar whispers. "C'mon. I betrayed you, remember?" This should be easy.

Grian opens his mouth, closes it.

Then, "Let's go home."

What? "But—"

"I want a fair fight," Grian says, something desperate settling in dark eyes. "No swords, no armor, just fists."

Scar stares up at him for a few moments, just drinking in the sight. Light catches in sandy strands like a halo, and for a few moments, Scar feels like a believer— knelt in front of a pulpit, a worshipper in the face of the divine.

Eventually, Scar finds his voice.

"But of course," He says, taking Grian's hand in his own. "I'm sure Pizza would love to watch."

Grian relaxes, laughing a little in response.

Scar doesn't really know what they talked about on the way back. He's pretty sure Grian doesn't either.

(Surrounded by cacti, Scar misses. And misses. And misses.)

(Call me selfish, Scar thinks, pain blooming into spots in his vision. The wind has been knocked clean from his lungs. But I'd die for this view all over again.)

(Above him, Grian weeps, his head crowned by the desert sun.)

[zedif-y]

Impulse watches his house burn.

He doesn't feel much, which is par for the course. Being a ghost and all. He just kind of. Stares. Watches. As the flames melt the snow roof, charred wood against white.

(Somewhere in the nether, his blood turns the snow pink.)

Impulse watches his house burn.

He doesn't feel much, which is par for the course. Being Impulse and all. He just kind of sits there. Smiles. Takes it.

As the mace lands heavy on his head, as his teammate— Impulse's mouth twitches— presents him like a gift to the enemy. A lamb to the slaughter. A loyal dog.

(Ruff ruff, right?)

Impulse watches his house burn. He doesn't feel much.

He doesn't feel anything. He doesn't feel anything at all.

Betrayal stings like an old wound, so deep it goes past bone and aches somewhere he can't reach. It stings in a way that barely even registers anymore, so accustomed to its pain that all he feels is numb.

He could be angry, but what's the point.

Anger brought him to bitterness that sent him back into the cold.

His house will be nothing but a heap of snow and soot. At the back of Impulse's mind, he thinks of a funeral, a grave dug into the soil. It's a nice thought. He doesn't think he's had a grave before.

(He misses Tango.)

Impulse watches his house burn. Watches Jimmy crow and raid his home so quickly that even Grian was disturbed. Watches as everything he built crumbles apart once more.

A thought comes, and it's strange.

I want to go home, Impulse thinks. I want to go home.

He almost convinces himself that the sound he made was a laugh. It burns his throat, seeping out like smoke.

The story ends the way it started.

Impulse watches his house burn.

[revivif-y]

can you tell i love them. can you

[zedif-y]

It's silent.

Not quiet, not even a hum to make things feel a bit less… This. Bdubs sits there, jaw tense as he tends to Impulse's wounds, bloody cotton balls and gauze in a heap on the couch.

The couch Impulse is currently, probably, freakin' staining.

Bdubs risks a glance at Impulse's face. His expression is like stone— unreadable, unchanging, and a hair away from cold.

The silence stretches on.

And on.

And on.

Bdubs can't help it. Anger snap-crackles in his chest, a fire starting to grow.

"You're really not gonna give me anything," He says at last. Bitterness clings to his words like tar. Impulse's eyes snap to meet his, "Does this look like a hospital to you? Just without the cost?"

Bdubs' lips twist, " 'Cuz you've got some nerve showing up here again, on my doorstep, bleedin' all over the couch—"

Impulse swallows, "Bdubs—"

"—Don't Bdubs me!" He snaps, fighting to keep his hands steady, his touches gentle. (He doesn't think he succeeds, but Impulse doesn't flinch.) "You— you can't just…"

A droplet of blood pools and soaks into freshly-wrapped gauze, a spot of crimson against pale skin. Something in Bdubs cracks, softens and crumbles because—

"You can't just make me do this again," Bdubs whispers, eyes downcast. "Not when you know I'll always let you in."

It's not fair.

Impulse's throat bobs. He blinks, once, then twice, his mouth a strained line.

" 'm sorry," He rasps out, and gods, he sounds a wreck. "I didn't— I'm sorry, Bdubs."

Impulse slumps forward onto his knees, the most exhausted Bdubs has ever seen him. It's a hell of a record to beat.

"I just didn't know where to go."

[zedif-y]

In Impulse's dreams, he leaves first.

"We're done," Impulse would say. The final nail in the coffin. "I can't live like this anymore."

Always, Bdubs begs.

He sputters, "Wha— what d'you mean it's over?" He takes a few steps forward, feet stuttering when Impulse moves back in turn. "No, wait. Why're you—"

"Why do you think?"

"We can still fix this—"

"I don't want to," Impulse snaps. The words taste bitter on his tongue. Bdubs lunges forward, grasping for his arm— "Let go of me!"

Bdubs recoils like a gun fired.

For a few, agonizing seconds, they just stand there. Frozen in time, waiting for one to crack.

"I've never seen you look at me like that," Bdubs admits quietly. Impulse scoffs.

"You never looked."

Bdubs' eyes widen, hurt shining in the darkness of them, a sheen of tears. "I gave you everything—"

"That's everything?"

"All that I had, all of my time—"

"Time," Impulse spat. "Time that you spent workin', and bein' all guarded, and, and," He lets out a frustrated noise. "And the worst part is, you don't even see it."

Bdubs looks lost, "See what-?"

"See just how miserable you are!"

Bdubs falls silent. Impulse sighs.

"I'm leaving."

Tears well up in Bdubs' eyes. "Don't go," He pleads, wretched and falling to his knees. "Don't go. Not again, please, you can't—"

His voice echoes, splits and repeats.

"Not again." "Not like this." "Come back."

Please don't go.

It rings in Impulse's ears, floods him like static, shaking him to the bone. Icicles sting like moved shrapnel in his chest, an ache so deep he can only hope to claw it out.

You love me, the voice screams. You said that, you did. Where are you going?

Away, the other shouts. Anywhere you aren't.

There's crying. It sounds horrible, pained and wheezing and inhuman.

He almost doesn't recognize his own voice.

—Impulse gasps awake.

(In Impulse's dreams, he leaves first.)

Grasping at the sheets, he checks his phone.

[0 messages]

Impulse has half a mind to chuck the damn thing across the room.

...

He doesn't.

Instead, he turns it off, places it face-down on the bed.

Impulse lets out a long, deep sigh.

(In Impulse's dreams, he can let himself pretend.)

(Just never for very long.)