Finally tried my hand at drawing Moon from @ohno-the-sun 's Under the Surface! Pretty happy with how it came out, even if tumblr killed the quality a little
Read the fic here - you won't regret it, it's one of my absolute favorites! ^-^
Here's a little ficlet I posted yesterday too process some feelings. It's basically about Clea giving herself a short break to cry so she can continue being strong for the rest of the family. Hope you enjoy it!
Ship: None
WC: 594
Warnings: mentioned canonical character death, grief, anxiety
Read on AO3 or under the cut. Thanks a lot? 💕
Clea climbs the ladder leading up to the empty, abandoned treehouse, each rung creaking under her weight. It's been over a decade since she last entered the place. Ducking to avoid hitting her head with the lintel, she trudges her way to the farthest corner from the door. She doesn't even bother waving off the cobwebs around her before she collapses on the wooden floor, embracing her knees and resting her forehead on them.
This is exhausting.
Her breath shakes. A few involuntary tears slide down her cheeks. She has no strength to hold them in anymore. Not after holding them in for far too long.
Five minutes. That's all she'll give herself. That's all she can afford to give herself.
Only here and now is she allowed to break. To sob until her eyes are dry and her heart is empty. Until numbness and void replace the pain that burns in her chest, like the fire that devoured part of her home and turned her family into ashes. Five minutes, no more. Just a brief respite in this treehouse, where she and her siblings used to play. These four decayed walls will be the sole witnesses.
Her chest rises and falls quickly, trembling howls escaping her throat. She can't do this anymore.
But she must.
After letting herself be shattered like one of her clay sculptures, she must collect herself again. For all of them. Everyone is counting on her. If she doesn't stay sane, if she doesn't fight back, if she doesn't continue, then who will?
Aline? When she's not struggling to get out of bed, she's frozen in front of that bloody canvas. Her body catatonic, her conscience lost in a child's fantasy playground.
Renoir? Her father is consumed by desperation, following his wife like a shadow, like an overbearing guard dog. The only person in the house competent enough to help, yet he won't listen to her. He'd rather lose himself chasing Aline than do what it takes to save himself and the rest of them.
Alicia? That clueless child is still recovering from her wounds. In spite of Verso's sacrifice, it's a miracle she didn't die with him. And even if she had made it out unscathed, she'd still be useless. Her skills are not fully developed. Not to mention that, if she was gullible enough to fall into the Writers' trap, who knows what more trouble she could cause.
If only Verso were still alive. Not that he ever did much, too obsessed with his music and his conquests, but at least the family would be somewhere close to functional. At least it wouldn't hurt so bad.
Clea might have always been a lone wolf, but this is the first time in her life in which she feels truly alone. Helpless and vulnerable. All her limbs are heavy, anchors weighing her down, making her shoulders slump like the responsibility she carries. Perhaps Renoir's portrait of her was more accurate than she'd like to admit.
It's tempting to let it all get to her. To remain there, to sit in that dark corner and rot like the building where she's chosen to hide. Although she knows grief and danger will find her regardless. That problems multiply and grow like the heads of a hydra.
One breath, she tells herself. Take one more breath and calm yourself down. Don't let anyone see you like this. Pull yourself together and put on your mask. Turn your skin to stone so nothing can get underneath.
