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starks-hero · 2 years

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Stark Relevations

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: Relevation; an act of revealing or communicating a divine truth. Or the one where Stephen finally remembers you.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: A little bit of angst, a portion of comfort with a side of miscommunication

a/n: due to popular demand, here's the long overdue second part to dream a little, dream of me

‘Every second was worth it since it lead me back to you.’

You traced the engraved words with your thumb. The watch sat warm in your hand despite its metal appearance, likely due to your inability to put it down.

You still remembered the night Stephen gave it to you. A candlelit dinner, the first of many. He had handed the gift to you over the table, his hands shaking as he passed it off, silently saying ‘This is my heart. Please be gentle.’

You would have never imagined that such a small trinket could mean so much to you, yet you also never imagined falling for a man like Stephen.

Stephen with his rough edges that somehow fit perfectly against your own. Neither of you had any idea just how much you would grow to mean to each other, how both your broken pieces would fall together to create a mosaic more beautiful than what either of you believed you deserved.

Now, the watch in your hand served as your only proof that it was all real and not some dream you thought up. Perhaps that's why you kept it with you even now. You needed the comfort it offered more than you cared to admit. It was essential, something you weren't entirely sure you could live without.

Turning the watch in your palm, you watched as the second hand glided across the face. Paired with the rhythmic beat, it was almost hypnotic, tempting you to forget the sorrows it represented.

tick. tick. tick.

A sudden knock at the door almost sent you off the couch. You gave yourself a moment to recover, scrubbing your free hand down your face with a somewhat irritated sigh. Having been tossed back into the real world in all its bleakness, you tucked the watch back into your pocket and stood.

The visitor knocked a second time, clearly impatient, although he always had been. You opened the door and found Stephen on the other side, his hands folded neatly behind his back. Your temporary surprise was swiftly replaced with the realization that it was Friday. You knew you were miserable but were you seriously at the point of jumbling up what day it was?

“Stephen,” you greeted somewhat breathlessly.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” he accused in a tone that bordered playful. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”

Yep, it was, in fact, Friday.

You had no idea how it had slipped your mind. It was almost tradition now, had been since the day you’d met again after the casting of the spell that erased the best part of your life. After your accidental ruining of his best shirt, Stephen had smoothly suggested buying you a coffee some other time. Ever the opportunist. And so your ‘coffee dates’ as Stephen had so fondly coined them took place every Friday afternoon, (Saturdays when things were hectic.)

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.

“No, no, I just-” Your hand subconsciously travelled to your pocket. “Lost track of time.”

He nodded nonchalantly, if not somewhat unconvinced, before tilting his head in an invite. “Shall we?” he asked with a smile you almost mistook for flirtatious. You didn’t allow your mind to linger on it.

The walk to the cafe was a brief one. You knew the old Stephen would have been as quick to form a portal, (he was never overly keen on walking places when he had an alternative, it was one of those little, mundane things you still remembered about him.) He seldom used magic around you now, an obvious indicator of his hesitation to involve you in the life he had no idea you'd already been such a large part of.

Despite the cafe not appearing much different to the countless others littered around New York, this one was different. The title bestowed upon it leniently by Stephen as 'home of the best coffee in NYC' meant it held a special place in your heart. That and the minor detail that it was the spot Stephen chose to bring you after your reunion run-in.

The day your world started turning again.

You still had the styrofoam cup from that day, tucked away on a high shelf in your apartment. You told yourself it was out of sentimentality and not in a desperate attempt to salvage the pieces of your old life.

You sat across from him now. He was carefully cradling his coffee in his hand and rambling on about something you couldn't find it in you to focus on. Your attention was on him rather than his words. His little quirks that you had to pretend you didn't notice. The way his eyebrow hiked up when he lied, the way he subconsciously ran his fingers over his knuckles as he spoke. The yellow of the gloves he wore that made your skin crawl. He'd started wearing them around you again and the whole thing felt like a cosmic slap to the face.

‘He doesn't trust you anymore. Everything you once had is gone. He doesn't trust you with his broken parts-’

“Are you going to drink that?”

You blinked owlishly. “What?”

“This is our sixth time here and I don't think I've ever actually seen you drink anything.” Stephen motioned to the cup of, albeit almost cold, coffee in your hand. “Kind of defeats the whole purpose of meeting for coffee.”

You smiled, hoping the action deceivingly reached your eyes. “Is it that difficult to believe that I just like spending time with you?”

“With me?” Stephen asked. “Incredibly.”

It hurt more in moments like this. When you could allow yourself to believe, even for a moment, that nothing had changed. That this was playful banter between partners and that he was still yours–

“Speaking of coffee,” you distracted yourself quickly. “That's your third cup.”

“Worrying that your counting.”

“Something keeping you up at night?” You sat back as you waited for him to answer, doing your best to ignore how his foot was now brushing your own beneath the table. He grinned again but his gaze moved off to the side in a look you'd come to recognize all too well. You felt very uneasy all of a sudden.

“Things have been... hectic lately.” Stephen shifted as he spoke.

“Yeah?”

“Some problems at the sanctum. Nothing drastic, definitely not something I should be burdening you with.” He looked at you with a softness you hadn't seen in his eyes since before the spell.

“Come on, this is what platonic coffee dates are for,” you encouraged him. “Besides, I can tell it's stressing you out.”

Stephen hid his smirk behind his cup. “Sometimes it scares me how well you can read me.”

Oh, if only he knew.

He downed the last of his coffee before speaking. “Someone or some-thing broke into the sanctum not long back, and now an artefact is missing. Wong's so stressed his hair is starting to grey but I don't see the big deal.” You didn't miss the sudden quirk of his brow. “It's just some old relic.”

You took a sudden interest in the bottom of your cup as Stephen's words fell over you like hot tar. “I'm sure it's nothing worth worrying over.” You tried but the words left you feeling hollow. “Like you said, it's just some old relic, right?”

Stephen tilted his head with something that fell between suspicion and confusion; but certainly not the knowledge that you currently had said 'old relic' hidden in your New York apartment.

“Yeah,” he eventually nodded and you tried to hide your relief. “Anyway, about that movie you told me about last week-”

You tried to listen, you really did. You tried to keep the worry from your eyes and the guilt from your expression. But the chill running down your spine left you fearing you'd slip up and Stephen would learn the truth.

You had never meant for it to go this far. This whole thing was something far more in line with the actions of your enemies.

You'd heard of the orb of agamotto, read of its power and caught glimpses during your time at the sanctum. The day faith conjured up the cruel joke of tossing Stephen back into your life as a stranger was the day the thought of using it was planted in your mind. The orb held the ability to counteract the spell that stole so much from you. It could give Stephen back his memories and in turn, give him back to you.

You knew the plan reeked of selfishness but after everything you'd been through didn't you deserve to be selfish for once?

Yet the feeling of devotion that had driven you to steal the orb to begin with was exactly what had you hesitating now.

You couldn't ignore how much better Stephen's life seemed to have become since he forgot you. His eyes were brighter, features less weary. He was no longer plagued by the fear of losing you, of not living up to the man you already thought he was. A visible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Which is why you so deeply regretted this, still seeing him. Still going on these silly little coffee dates and allowing him to tell you things about him that you already knew, laughing at anecdotes you'd heard a hundred times over and just barely preventing yourself from slipping up. From taking his hand or calling him 'love.'

He was still talking, deep into one of those rants where the cool blue of his eyes brightened and the corner of his lips turned up at the end of each sentence. You knew you had to leave him soon.

The longer you left the shovel in his hands the deeper he'd dig your grave.

“I promised a neighbour I'd help them with groceries,” you lied with surprising ease. It was an attempt to ease your escape but things were never easy with Stephen.

“They can't do their own shopping?” he asked, his expression shifting to one of amusement.

“They are eighty-two.”

Stephen's smile broadened. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the one getting cats out of trees and carrying elderly ladies' groceries.”

You stood, grasping your cup as you did so. “I'll give her your number,” you promised.

If your sudden lack of enthusiasm hadn't been a dead giveaway to Stephen that something was wrong then the way in which you'd begun to pick at the paper sides of your coffee cup was. That, and your sudden inability to look at him.

“Hey.” His hand gently circled your wrist. “You're sure everything is okay?”

You glanced down at him and immediately wished you hadn't. He was watching you with genuine sincerity and the desire to help a friend in need and for a brief moment, you almost fell victim to the urge to just tell him everything.

But you managed to bite your tongue.

“I'll see you around, doc.” You quickly took your leave, missing the recognition that flashed in Stephen's eyes at the nickname.

You hadn't seen Stephen in three weeks and in that time you had done just about everything to get him off your mind. Your desperation reached its peak exactly a week after the incident in the coffee shop. In a frenzy of emotion, you'd held the watch, the very emblem of Stephen and everything he meant to you, over the side of Brooklyn Bridge. Surely if you could let this part of him go it would make the rest of the process easier.

The fact that another two weeks had passed since and the watch still sat heavily in your pocket disproved your theory. Although you failed step one of your plan, step two would be far more straightforward. Returning the orb to the sanctum would resolve all of this. You would give up your chance of winning back someone that was clearly far better off without you, peace would be restored to the sanctum and you and Stephen could finally move on.

It would add the final piece to the nightmarish puzzle that would have to become your new reality.

Sneaking into the sanctum sanctorum was surprisingly easy, almost deceivingly so. Of course, you had the advantage of knowing both the place and its people inside out, but you'd expected someone to have caught you, a defence spell to have gone off, something.

You now stood in the centre of the room of timeless artefacts and still couldn't shake your unease. If the orb had been stolen then surely someone should have been manning the room it was taken from, right? It's not exactly like the relics concealed in the room were a dime a dozen.

You snuffed out the ringing alarm bells in your head and decided against questioning your good luck any further.

Stepping up to its designated alter, you shrugged your bag from your back and pulled out the orb. You stared at it for a long moment, catching your reflection in the swirling green at the orb's center.

‘You're doing the right thing,’ you reminded yourself firmly. ‘For him.’

A hurricane-like sound and a blinding flash of green filled the room as you placed the orb back on its stand. It sat before you almost tauntingly now. You could feel its buzzing power kissing your skin. Its green aura pulsed and you felt temptation creep back into your mind. The temptation to take it and just follow through with your plan, to allow yourself to make the selfish choice. Just this once–

A sudden blast of power so strong you could have mistaken it for a bull sent you flying back into the furthest wall. You groaned, grabbing your side as you tried to sit up.

“Stay down,” your attacker warned and you felt your heart almost give out.

“Stephen-”

The threatening resonance of Stephen's magic cut you off. “I said stay down.” His voice was dangerously low and his calmness terrified you.

You shifted against the wall and faced him, only to immediately wish you hadn't. The look of absolute contempt and distrust he watched you with made you feel ill.

“You almost had me fooled. The dates, the meaningful conversations, the pretending to know so much. All to get to this.” Stephen spared the orb a glance. “To think I believed you for so long.”

“Please,” you spoke around what you were almost certain was a broken rib. “Just let me explain.”

He shook his head.

“I don't know who you are or what backstreet terror group you work for. But whatever your plan was it ends here.”

You swallowed. Stephen's words had a layer of truth to them that he couldn't realize. If you didn't do something now it would all end here. Despite what you'd intended to do just moments ago, the burning in your eyes and the way Stephen regarded you as if you were cruelty incarnate caused your composure to crack.

“I was trying to undo your spell.” The confession felt like the first breath of fresh air you’d had in months. “I just wanted you to remember.”

Stephen took a step back and you could tell you had caught him off guard. “What?” His confusion was temporary. Anger swiftly took its place. “What did you just say?”

Well, this was it.

“Five months ago you cast a spell to prevent a multiversal incursion. Part of that spell involved making everyone forget... me.” You motioned to yourself, broken bones and misty eyes. You must have looked like someone worth forgetting. “Including you.”

It was quiet for a moment. Then, “I'm not falling for that.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because that's what you people do!”

You flinched. 'You people.' The words stung. You knew exactly what he meant by them. 'You people that lie and steal. That put yourselves and what you want above all others. You villain.'

“I'm telling you the truth.” The words came out pained.

“Prove it,” Strange challenged almost mockingly. You’d heard that tone before, mostly on missions. When he had someone backed into a corner with all the power in his palm. He didn’t expect an answer.

“Mc'Hales Restaurant on 47th Street. That's where you took me on our first date.” You didn’t miss a beat. “And I know you wear those gloves because you hate the way people stare at the scars on your hands. It took you months before you stopped wearing them around me. You don't drive at night or when it rains. You had a dog called Einstein as a kid, you wanted to be a vet before you became a surgeon.” Stephen seemed visibly shaken by your words. “And I know you hate the water because of what happened to your sister-”

“Don't you dare.” He cut you off harshly. “You do not mention her.” His skepticism quickly gave way to anger at the very idea that you would go as far as weaponize such a painful memory from his past. “I was impressed by how much research you'd done to play this little role but you just crossed the line.”

Your head fell back against the wall in defeat.

‘Come find me.’ He'd said. ‘I’ll believe you.’ He'd said.

Still cradling your cracked rib, you dug your free hand into your pocket. Strange tensed at the action, eyes hardening when you revealed a small silver-coated pocket watch.

With no short amount of difficulty, you tossed it towards him and he hesitantly reached out to grasp it. He studied the watch as if he still wasn't entirely sure it wasn't some well-disguised grenade. He flipped it over in his hand and his eyes widened ever so slightly. He ran his thumb over its surface several times and you knew the engraving had stirred something.

“You gave it to me for our anniversary,” you said. “The year after you came back from the snap.”

It was still for a moment and you could feel your heart beating in your ears. Then an odd combination of sadness, disbelief and anger flashed in Stephen's eyes. His fingers curled over the watch, his jaw setting in anger.

You clambered to your feet with a hiss of pain before cautiously moving toward him.

“Stephen? I know it sounds insane but please just say something-”

“If what we had was real,” he started. “Then how were you so okay with erasing it all.”

His words caught you unawares and you fumbled to find an answer. You settled on brutal honesty.

“It was my job. And I wanted to keep you safe. If there had been any alternative I would have taken it in a heartbeat, trust me I would have. But there was no other way. Leaving you that day was the hardest thing I've ever done, but the only thing that could have possibly hurt more would have been losing you for good.”

Stephen watched you for a long moment as the true weight of your words set in. Then, he exhaled. The sound was shallow and weak and you knew it meant the truth had finally hit. He ran his index finger along the line of his top lip, both disbelief and remorse moulding his expression.

“Why- why would I let that happen? I'd never cast that spell if-”

“If I hadn't forced you to,” you comforted.

His gaze shifted between the watch and you. There was a glint in his eyes now, one of eager curiosity and a desperation to know more. “You're saying you convinced me to do it?”

You grinned. “You really don't know me, huh?”

He shook his head.

“I wish I did though.” His words surprised you. “I wish I could remember.”

He turned and paced away, each of his movements heavy. He stopped before the orb of agamotto. A small smile ghosted his lips.

“Smart move, reversing the spell with the orb.”

You frowned, posture growing heavy with guilt.

“It was stupid, selfish. I just wanted you back. I didn't take into consideration how much better off you were without me.”

Sadness returned to Stephen's expression. His eyes held a sorrow similar to the one you’d seen the day he let you go. He said your name gently, coaxing you to return his gaze. When you did, his features softened.

“These past few months have been a lot,” he started. “I've felt... partial. Like something was missing but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Funnily enough, the only time that feeling went away was when I was with you.” With his free hand, his fingers ghosted your cheek. “I missed you before I'd even realized I'd lost you. That's telling in itself. I think we've been through enough. We deserve to be selfish. Just this once.”

Stephen's thumb gingerly swiped across your cheek again and you were struck with the sudden realisation that you had begun to cry. But could you be blamed? Even now the guilt you felt was almost suffocating. To have him stand in front of you, completely unaware of just how better off he seemed to be without you and yet entirely willing to remember it all. You weren't worth all of this.

“It's not too late for you to walk away.” Your insecurity and guilt made themselves known. “Stephen, I want you to be happy.”

His expression shifted to one you mistook for relief. In actuality, it was wonder. Complete wonder at your selflessness, even in the face of such cruel circumstances. You'd lost everything and despite it all you just wanted him to be happy. The true weight of that fact slammed into Stephen so hard it left him short of breath.

He could see why he fell for you, why he had been falling for you for the past number of months. Why each conversation had over coffee had him questioning his sanity because the type of warmth and devotion he felt towards you shouldn't have developed so quickly. It made sense now in his eyes; as if the universe had finally realised that despite its ineffability, it would never succeed in keeping you apart.

He turned back towards the orb, hand reaching out. You caught his wrist and held him there. You said his name, encompassing in that single word all your fears, every warning, every word of caution. You paired it with a look that asked ‘are you really sure about this?’

Stephen wasn't swayed.

He looked between you and the watch still held in his other hand. Then he smiled.

Grasping hold of the orb, you watched him make quick work of its magic, his actions fuelled by certainty. The relic grew bright, pulsating against Stephen's palm. Its light flooded the room again, kissing the ceiling before dispersing with a bang and drifting towards the ground in specks of emerald green.

And just like that, Stephen was swept up in a flood of remembrance. It was like waking from a dream, slowly and then all at once. Thousands of fractured memories all falling together. The persistent feeling of having lost something was replaced with the warmth of having found it again.

Stephen looked at you as the final piece slotted into place and his world became whole again.

‘It lead me back to you.’

dream a little, dream of me tag list: @bakerstreethound @evelynrosestuff @frostandflamesfanfic @drmeowingfangirl @clea-strange-is-the-way @mischiefmanaged71 @my-beel @ambiguous-g @sherlux @doozywoozy @stupidthoughtsinwriting @sakura-babi-98 @xbarrjallenx @morphiemysia @strangercat

#haha! take that writers block #stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor strange x you #stephen strange #doctor strange multiverse of madness #doctor strange #doctor strange imagine

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seraphicalsuccubus · 1 month

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Hey friend. I can see things aren't going great for you and that sucks. The only thing I can say is that I hope you can get what you deserve in life and I hope your glass ceiling gets rebuilt. There's this Japanese form of art called Kintsugi where you fix broken pottery with gold to make it stronger and more beautiful and I hope you can do something similar like that with your glass ceiling. I'm hoping for only the best for you.

this is a really kind sentiment, I actually really appreciate you sending this and reminding me me of that practice in Japanese culture because this made me feel so much better about feeling like I’ve been ruined beyond repair. hopefully me and my glass ceiling do get rebuilt into some beautiful mosaic pieced together again with gold filling the cracks or something else beautiful to put it back together in a sturdier way, but not in the same way it was. my glass ceiling was beautiful before, but so delicate and so, SO easily shattered. I can’t wait to see how it looks once it’s put back together with love and kindness and how the beauty will shine through all those filled in cracks that I can one day look back on fondly because it was a moment that yeah, sucked at the time, but needed to happen for the rest of my life to take off the way I deserve it to.

thank you, for sending this sort of positivity and kindness my way, I really appreciate it. it kinda opened my eyes to things in a different way and broadened my horizons about what’s happened to view it not so negatively and like it’s the end all of everything. I feel like I can look at things more objectively than I could when I felt emotionally entangled in it all, and now I can see an out from all of this. and I can start slowly piecing myself back together with some sort of beautiful element to fill the cracks. maybe not gold for me, but maybe like, moss or lichen or something? something that fits me personally more than gold (although I do looooove certain gold things), and entertains/sates my naturey side. I feel like either or both of those would be a really good fit to figuratively piece myself back together with due to how much I love seeing nature retake abandoned man made structures so I would get to see and put myself back together with the same thing that overtakes the structures so rudely built in it’s natural home and slowly consume them. it would be like, I’ve become one with one of, if not the, most powerful force in the world. I’d be put back together with bits of Mother Nature herself, and that would just feel so fulfilling and liberating and just… like, it would just feel right, honestly.

anyways, sorry I kinda went on a tangent and let my thoughts spill out a bit 😅 but back to the point, I guess this was all just a long winded way of saying, thank you. thank you for bringing my attention to remembering something like that so I could think about things in a different perspective and start to put myself back together with something I feel like fits me and would look beautiful and could hold me together a lot better than I was holding myself together before and be more prepared for whatever else tries to break me down so I don’t shatter as easily the next time something else happens.

genuinely, thank you. 🖤

#ask

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starsburned · 18 days

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The mirror was a cruel thing. It always had been.

He stands in front of it, just staring at his reflection. Something that had never looked right. His face never looked right, his eyes never looked right, his smile never looked right. It all felt so out of place.

He'd spent the better half of his day in front of it, ignoring his phone and any texts or calls he may have received. It was his day off anyway. Why would anyone come looking for him?

They didn't have a reason to unless they needed his Ability for something. It's all he was worth to most people. It's what his entire worth was based off of. Being able to cancel out someone else's Ability so they could act. He wasn't blind to it; it'd been that way for the majority of his life.

The faintest brush of his hand could throw someone off and give an opening for another to act. He was in the background. Always. And that's where he supposed he needed to be.

Throughout his life, he had tried to make people like him. He'd done it through many methods. Picking up on their interests and trying to invest himself in them, taking pieces of them and reflecting it back at them in a more positive light, always keeping a smile on his face no matter what.

He would play them, manipulate them, but in the end, it was a double edged sword.

Because somewhere in that, he had become someone else. If he had even been his own person to begin with. From what he remembered from his childhood, he had only been referred to as "boy" by most, especially by his grandfather that only acknowledged his existence after he figured out he was gifted.

It's why he had preferred to be called Dazai over his first name, even when he grew closer to people. All he was at the end of the day was an echo of people that came before him. He had his grandfather's cold bloodlust. It filled his veins that flooded with ice, gripping the sink with shaking hands.

There were only two people that knew his blackened core, and one of those people were gone. The other glared at him with eyes like that on a frigid autumn morning, full of nothing but loathing. They knew who he was, saw right through every mask he tried to carefully fitted together like a mosaic just to get by, and ripped it off his face. It left him bleeding and scrambling to pick up the pieces. But every time the pieces were broken, they never went back the same way.

And now, here he was, making a different mask. Shuuji Tsushima. Osamu Dazai was dead. He had been executed by the Port Mafia. And now, Tsushima would take the place of Dazai, at least in the public eye. A man with that wore an actual mask to hide his face from the prying eyes of the world.

He reaches for the white mask with cat-like features and puts it on, staring at his reflection. It didn't feel right, but it was who he had to become. He goes to pull on his coat and pull the hood up, staring at his reflection once more and the painted cat-like smile on the mask. It fit him, huh? The ears on it propped his hood up a bit, but it didn't bother him.

He takes a deep breath and just turns on his heel, hands shoved in his pocket as he started to walk. It was time to glue in that new piece to fill the jagged edges.

#| MUSE ★ OSAMU DAZAI.#| DRABBLE ★ OSAMU DAZAI.

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praisetothemosthigh · 9 months

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Redeption for Shattered Glass

Glass is transparent; it needs to be, in order to serve its purpose - to be looked through. Dust gathers, and old fingerprints coat the surface, indicating it's time to give it a good clean and make it fit for purpose again. In life, we will go through things that may dirty our windows. This requires a quick 'clean', and we are good as new for another season.

There are also big events in life that can break and wound us deeply. Fundamentally, we are never the same after these experiences, and strongholds are able to take root in our lives, preventing us from living in freedom. Let's explore this, using glass as an analogy.

When glass is dropped or a ball thrown through it, the glass shatters. Our first instinct is to sweep away the broken pieces, to prevent being cut by that which is broken. Another reason is cleanliness. 'Broken people, break people' is very true. Broken glass can not serve its original purpose - it is broken, and dare I say, poses a danger to the person who picks it up. Therefore, its place in the natural is the rubbish bin.

But in the spiritual; God who created the earth [Genesis 1:1] is able to pick up the shards and give it a new purpose. He works all things for good [Romans 8:28] and can redeem any situation. The rubbish bin will not have the final say. Amen.

God repurposes the pieces. Its prior purpose, being transparent, is reworked. Its best days are ahead of it, but it can be scary when you don't know what that looks like exactly. But most of the time, what God has in store for you is too big to comprehend [Jeremiah 29:11]. Be assured, though, that it's always for our good. In the eyes of the Creator, this glass can become a new thing [Isaiah 43:19], a better thing.

God can add color to each broken piece of glass to make you stronger, more patient, more faithful, and more loving. All of these life experiences add a bit of colour to your pieces. As you grow, you and God uproot any strongholds, wounds, and spirits that have taken hold [2 Corinthians 10:4]. You are filled with all that God has for you and your life.

When you come to the Lord with your brokenness, ask for help to be put back together and made whole again, and you ask for purpose. He will respond [Matthew 7:7]. I know because in the Bible, He responds. And I know this because He responded to me.

His love is what glues our colorful pieces back together and redeems our story [Isaiah 44:22]. Once whole, the glass is put through the fire, a final step in the process of restoration. This ensures the pieces are firmly molded together and solid. God says,'I am with you always,' [Matthew 28:20] and this is especially true during this time when your life is being transformed by His love.

When the glass emerges from the fire, He hangs it up in His house. What was once transparent glass is refined Mosaic glass. Imagine those old style church stained windows with all the pretty colours. Rather than transparency, when light hits that Mosaic window, it catches the many colours in the glass.

This window will be a prized in His house. Its cracks and colours will be used to catch the attention of those outside the house, welcoming them inside.

To anyone who has been broken or has lived a 'colorful' life, allow God to do a work in you and renovate. Sunlight will shine radiantly through your many different colours and cracks. You are a child of God. Radiant, Beautiful, Full of Purpose and so very Loved [2 Corinthians 6:18].

Be blessed.

#30 August 22 #redemption #christ #love

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mx-scarlet · 1 year

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i’m not sure when my life became one worth writing poetry over

just know that one day, these words painted a better picture than any paintbrush i’ve ever held

the colors became richer than a child’s birthday cake

every corner of canvas covered in the most beautiful mosaic of laughter i’ve ever seen

i’m not sure when my life became one that was easy to love

just know that one day, i woke up not remembering misery’s name

the awkwardly hung portraits slowly replaced themselves with polaroids of my greatest adventures

before i knew it, my walls were covered

i'm even less sure of when i became something that was easy to love

not sure how someone sees my unfinished edges

my still wet paint

my shattered terracotta heart

held together with princess band-aids and elmer's glue

like a child with a skinned knee

i am a work in progress in the truest since of the phrase

and yet somehow they see all of this and

and still say "this one"

i'm not sure when i became someone's first choice

when my "good enough" turned into "just right"

like the goldilocks of bruised souls and egos

not sure when my bruises began to heal

just know it hurts less when i poke them now

but of course i still do

prod at the blood beneath my skin

like if i do it enough, i'll understand

like my pain brings the answers to this universe

i'm not sure when i stopped convincing myself it did

confused as to when my happiness started to fit the scantron bubbles a bit more

i don't recall becoming happy again

just know solitude's hand was replaced in my grasp

maybe it was switched out in my sleep

like a child with their raggedy stuffed animal

not sure when i stopped being a child

not fully convinced i ever did

think i might be a child in adult's clothing

but i am loved all the same

and i am unsure of when i learned to accept that

confused to when the feeling became comforting instead of foreign

when their presence no longer came with the fear of abandonment bubbling under my surface

didn't dig my claws in to keep them

and yet here they stay

their wings are not clipped

their cage not locked

yet they still love me

and i am not sure why

not sure what star in my constellation

shun bright enough to act as their lighthouse

calling the ship safely to shore

not sure when it started sparkling in the first place

no longer dulled by broken cameras

admiring from afar

no, i have seen love’s face now

been held by those who admire my stars close enough to feel their warmth

not sure when i swapped my scars for campfire stories

when i pulled the thorns out of my side

welded them into a dagger with the ivy growing around my neck

carved my name into the nearest tree with it

dripping in my misery

i will let it leak out of my wound

heal myself with princess band-aids and elmer's glue

their laughter is enough to hold me up

my tree grows tall enough to touch the stars

i climb to the top

feel the warmth radiating off their constellations

i'm not sure when i became an astronaut

just know i found the people who make the lack of oxygen okay again

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kirstinetheartist · 3 years

Photo

I am having an absolutely fantastic and art inspired evening, so I want to post this piece a bit early!

It feels so fulfilling to really bring this chunk of my Dragon Age DLC project to a close, simply because I learned so much from it. Mellan’s bedroom was my guinea pig for testing out and learning so many other new things, and it feels great to show it, and know it exists, and actually walk around in it (well, an npc can, but semantics.)

I got to learn so many things about 3D rendering, modeling/sculpting, new painting techniques, kitbashing, etc. It has been such a process, but I’m so excited to move forward with the project’s next stages and show you all more behind-the-scenes of how this bad boy came to be! (Check below the cut for some extra nerding out about the different highlighted objects in her room)

Mellan’s makeshift laundry hamper, likely donated from a Chantry sister, features a small Easter Egg for the player character to find should they go digging around in her space. I’ve always been a fan of those “hidden in plain sight” clues, and though not every Inquisitor looks in every nook and cranny. Those that do might just be a bit more suspicious of Mellan after finding that little statue hidden amongst her things. Her laundry itself is modeled after her own clothes, as well as pieces seen worn by other Dalish npcs throughout the series.

Mellan’s desk contains more hints to her character’s personality. Her candle is placed on the opposite side of her scrolls, just in case it topples out of her clumsiness. Her feather quill is a raven’s feather, homemade from a molted feather from one of Leliana’s ravens. The smallest scroll, laid neatly on her open book, is another Easter Egg: a reference to her unused Romance Tarot Card with Solas, in which she is holding the exact scroll. I thought it would be a fun little tie-in to include (even if the two are not an item in this DLC), and also just a further hint to where her loyalties lie.

Here you can find the base texture samples for Mellan’s blankets, pillows, rugs, and canopy. All of them are historically (of both the medieval and renaissance periods) accurate brocade pieces and tapestries from areas of Europe that inspired Thedas. I scoured several different museums to find just the right patterns for her, making sure they fit her color scheme, as well as included imagery that aligned with her story (including, but not limited to: fresh blossoms, the night sky, unicorns (a common victim of two-faced maidens), and wolves.)

Hundreds of years ago, soaps were often carved in the shape of seashells! I thought this would be a flavorful, historic detail to add to Mellan’s space.

Mellan’s mismatched “vanity” is something that I wanted to look like she threw together and didn’t feel the need to have “look pretty.” She isn’t one for vanity, no pun intended, so the space only contains the bare necessities, with most tools for combing and such stashed away in a small box. However, some bottles of Orlesian soaps and healing tonics (both featuring “logos” based on in-game graphics for Healing Potions and the Orlesian crest) can be seen there, probably welcoming gifts from Josephine. Her mirror is a small, traditional hand-mirror that is leaned against the wall and stacked up on a tinderbox for height. Her other jugs are broken mosaics; once damaged, but now put back together. A metaphor that Mellan both greatly enjoys, and can personally relate to.

Featuring jars of ground herbs, such as Felandaris, Royal Elfroot, and Deep Mushroom (all jar designs inspired by the actual plants in game), Mellan’s incense area suggests several unknowns about her. Is she a healer? Some sort of hedge witch? A Dreamer, perhaps? All of that is unknown; for now, at least.

With all of the crates stacked around, and the lack of a fireplace, I wanted to give the impression that Mellan’s room was once a storage room, or at least somewhere unused/unoccupied in Skyhold. That being the case, there are no fireplaces in the room for heat. To combat this, and add to the turquoise/aqua aesthetic that I want to surround Mellan with, I decided to implement two Veilfire pits (one in the washroom, and one in the main room.) By both, she has an emergency bucket for water, in case a non-mage should need to extinguish it, and in the main room’s there is also an open text. The book is meant to be a book banned in-universe by the Chantry, titled: ‘Veilfire: A Beginner's Primer with Numerous Teachings, Exercises, and Applications’ by Magister Pendictus. On the open pages, one can find the codex entry The Lost Art of Veilfire from Dragon Age: Inquisition.

Mellan’s staff rests by the side of her bed closest to the door in case an attacker may try to enter during the night. It features a birch bark base, as well as glass bobbles and sea-glass; an aesthetic dichotomy that is meant to be yet another example of how she appears to be both city elf and Dalish. The stretching and twisted of the bottom glass is meant to mimic the look of sea-glass and sand when it is struck by lightning, as Mellan is a lightning mage with an affinity for the colors of the ocean. The top of her staff is, in theory, quite similar to other mage staffs, containing a religious figure or god carved at it’s peak. However, Mellan’s features an unconventional deity: a howling wolf, with it’s tail bit off. This is, of course, a reference to the Dread Wolf, who in one particular Dalish legend, bit off his own tail to flee from a Dalish Courser dog (this is a story told by Merrill, the First of the Sabrae clan, most known for her role in Dragon Age 2.)

At first glance, Mellan’s room is meant to evoke the idea of “organized chaos” (books scattered across the floor in piles, a chamber pot stool held level by a block of wood, pillows strewn about for easy sitting, etc.) An Inquisitor who does not often seek her out, or does not explore her space, will likely only see her as a helpful, if not eccentric, scholar; another quirky mage to replace the one they so recently lost. However, a more inquisitive Inquisitor who really takes a look around and explores the deeper meanings behind her quarters will come to see that perhaps there is more to this elf than meets the eye.

That perhaps, much like her friend Solas, the warning signs were there all along.

Commission Info

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minor-solemnity · 3 years

Note

Hi, you’re writing is so beautiful, thank you for sharing it :)

Can I request a Tom x Reader where they take a mini vacation somewhere really secluded and they’re so happy to be finally spending time with eachother and they’re both just being super domestic and sweet.

Thank you! 🤍

Thank you my love! This prompt is giving me life istg, sweet and domestic Tom is my jam <3 I hope you like it (also am I basically writing what my dream holiday is? it's definitely possible)

Tag List : @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons @riddles-wifey (send me a message if you'd want to be added to the tag list!)

We are Mosaics

Tom turns to look at you and you recognise the determined glint in his eye and the set line of his lips which lets you know that a plan is forming and he won’t be dissuaded easily. “The Malfoy’s have a cottage in the Dolomites. I’ll talk to Abraxas.” He says it with such finality that you’re almost surprised before you remember that this is Tom. Tom who’s had his Slytherin cohort eating out of the palm of his hand for years, Tom who had marriage offers from a few of the lesser-known pureblood families, Tom who puts the fear of God into the hearts of most men. Of course, Abraxas would give him his family cottage.

You’re sitting on your sofa in the small flat you’ve rented above Flourish and Blotts glaring at the letter that sits innocently on the coffee table in front of you when Tom apparates through your wards. Your mood, which has been growing increasingly dark with the setting sun lifts somewhat when you see him. His jacket folded neatly over his arm and his white shirt slightly rumpled from the day, his hair, which he styles with care every morning is falling in soft waves across his forehead. In short, he looks like every one of your daydreams and you’re filled with a contented sort of triumph that it’s you who he comes home to most evenings. Your flat is small and certainly not big enough for you both to live comfortably, but he spends more time here than he does at his own, equally poky, abode.

His gaze flickers over the letter on the coffee table and you can see him putting the pieces together. “Bad news, I take it?” He asks in a slightly cautious tone that tells you he’s waiting for your imminent breakdown. You nod and sigh as you push yourself up from where you’ve been sulking for most of the afternoon. You gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame, the same way you always do, the same way you always have, and nestle yourself against him, allowing yourself to feel comforted and protected by the feeling of his arms around you.

“I just don’t understand why no one will give me a chance. I had the best marks in Arithmancy in the year,” You grumble into his chest. “Did you hear that Pearson got that Potions Mastery? He got an A in his NEWTS, Tom. Why does he get to do a Mastery and all I get is rejection letters?” You sigh because you know the answer. It’s the same reason that Tom wasn’t offered any of the prodigious jobs at the Ministry despite being the most talented wizard you’ve ever met with a resume that proves it. Wizarding society might be more progressive than the muggle world in some ways, but in the ways that matter to you and Tom, it was still stuck in the Middle Ages.

Eventually, you disentangle yourself from him and you spend the rest of the evening curled up on the sofa with him, reading and chatting idly about the stranger aspects of your respective magical theory texts. “Did you know about the coven in the Dolomites from the 1450s?” He asks, eyes trained on the page in front of him.

“Mmm, they’re the first known herders of thestrals, weren’t they?” He nods and you smile softly, “I’ve always wanted to visit there, you know? Ever since we learnt about thestrals in fourth year.”

You don’t think anything of it but Tom turns to look at you and you recognise the determined glint in his eye and the set line of his lips which lets you know that a plan is forming and he won’t be dissuaded easily. “The Malfoy’s have a cottage in the Dolomites. I’ll talk to Abraxas.” He says it with such finality that you’re almost surprised before you remember that this is Tom. Tom who’s had his Slytherin cohort eating out of the palm of his hand for years, Tom who had marriage offers from a few of the lesser-known pureblood families, Tom who puts the fear of God into the hearts of most men. Of course, Abraxas would give him his family cottage.

“The perks of having rich friends, I suppose,” You say with a small laugh and the smile he gives you in return is indulgent.

***

When Tom had first told you about Abraxas’ family cottage, you had imagined that your definition of a cottage and the Malfoy’s would be vastly different. You’d gone with Tom to one of the Malfoy Christmas parties once and had almost cried at the luxury and decadence. You’re pleasantly surprised though to find that the cottage is exactly as you’d hoped it would be: sturdy white stone, lattice windows, and a multitude of wild mountain flowers that make the place look like a fae dwelling. “This is gorgeous,” You murmur as you wander through the garden, letting the warm summer mountain air fill your lungs. “I never would have thought that the Malfoy’s would own somewhere quite so homely.” Behind you, Tom laughs softly.

“I think there’s a distant cousin who fancied herself a Marie Antoinette figure,” He says, stepping closer to you and resting his chin on the top of your head. “Are you happy?” He asks and you hum in response, bringing your arms up behind you to card through his hair. You twist around pull him closer and his hands drop to your waist as he kisses you.

You spend most of the rest of the day exploring the paths and trails close to the cottage whilst Tom sets up the wards. The worries and stresses of London seem so far away and you relish in the slight breeze against your bare arms and the feeling of long grass and wildflowers against your legs.

You think back to your childhood, to the holidays spent in English seaside resorts with your parents; when the war broke out, the holidays stopped. Your father disappeared into a trench somewhere and your mother had taken you back to her parents home and left the muggle world for good but she was never quite the same after. Hogwarts and the wizarding world, in general, offered you an escape. A home away from the sorrow of watching your family drift and sink into unspoken grief and sadness. You’d found Tom somewhere along the way, both of you finding some kind of solace and familiarity in each other. A tentative friendship had formed that had turned to a tentative romance.

You wonder sometimes, why he sticks around. Unlike the boys he surrounded himself at school with, you can’t offer him money or power or glory. You’ve had to fight for every opportunity given to you, just the same as him, and it’s still not enough. In your more anxious moments, you think about his future and your uncertainty over where you fit into it. Now, under the clear Italian skies, you think that maybe the answer is obvious: you fit together like pieces of a mosaic. Each of your broken and jagged edges finding a home next to his.

***

“You’re aware that you’re a witch, aren’t you?” Tom’s voice floats through the open doorway and you chuckle from where you’re standing on one of the kitchen workbenches. You glance over your shoulder and find him watching you with a mix of exasperation, confusion, and mild amusement. He walks over to you and stares at the pile of dough you’re kneading, his eyebrows knitting together. “I’ll get Abraxas to send one of his house-elves.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head fondly. Tom’s disdain for all things muggle has diminished since you’ve known him, or at least, he’s less likely to voice his opinions to you. “That’s not the point, making bread is meditative. Come on, here,” You gesture for him to take over and watch with poorly hidden amusement as he frowns and takes a step back. “You once made Peeves cry out of fear, Tom, you can’t honestly be intimidated by some flour and water.” You raise an eyebrow and try to smother your grin with an unimpressed expression. You’ve found that the easiest way of getting Tom to do anything is to suggest that he can’t.

As expected, he glowers and rolls his sleeves up. “I’m not intimidated, darling, I just don’t see the point in slaving away over something that could easily be accomplished with magic,” He says smoothly even as he approaches the dough and gingerly pokes it. This time, you don’t manage to hide your laughter and you cover his hands with yours and begin to guide him through the motions. A companionable silence falls upon the two of you and you relish the feeling of his chest against your back, his soft breathing in your ear, his hands moving under yours. Sunshine filters through the open window and you listen to the distant birdsong in quiet contentment.

Once the bread has baked, the two of you wander along the mountain trail that leads to a secluded lake. The water is crystal clear and the kind of icy blue that you’ve only seen in paintings. Tom leads you to a small jetty and conjures a pile of blankets and pillows that you quickly set about making a nest out of. You sit cross-legged, Tom’s head resting in your lap as he reads passages from the book he’s brought with him out loud to you. “According to legend, the Monti Pallidi used to be formed of dark looming rock face and the lakes were murky and black, but there was a princess from the moon who took refuge in the Dolomites and to ease her homesickness, the mountains remade themselves with pale stone and clear waters.”

“She must have been lonely, being so far away from home,” You murmur, carding a hand through his hair as you tilt your head to stare at the pale mountains that surround you. “You know, I sometimes think of you a bit like that, like you’re a moon and I’m a satellite in your orbit.” He hums softly, and you’re not sure if it's in agreement or contemplation. You shift slightly and reach for the food that you’ve packed: fresh fruit, cured meats, hard Italian cheese, a bottle of wine that you’d found in the cellars (no doubt worth more than Tom makes in a year), and of course, the bread you’d made earlier.

You tear off a couple of chunks of bread and pass one to Tom, who takes it and sniffs it delicately before he takes a small bit. You breathe a huff of laughter at his behaviour and he lazily reaches up to cuff the side of your head. “See, it’s good, isn’t it? This kind of thing is always better when you make it yourself,” He rolls his eyes but tears off another chunk, which you take to mean he is, in fact, enjoying it.

The afternoon fades into evening, and twilight descends upon the mountains. You rearrange yourselves so that your sat side by side, gazing up at the moon that is just becoming visible. “You know, I would do more than remake a mountain range if you asked.” Warmth settles deep in your bones despite the chill in the night air. Tom turns to watch you and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “I would remake the entire world for you.” You don’t doubt him either, Tom is a force of nature, always has been. He’s a visionary and you’re not always sure if that’s a good thing, but, years ago, he saw something in you and now he looks at you as though you are everything that he wants in the world.

You reach over and hold his hand, letting his touch ground you, “For now, this is enough.” You mean this moment, sitting here with him. You also mean the life you are slowly patching together, one mosaic tile at a time.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x reader #minific #tom riddle imagines #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fic #harry potter fanfiction #tom riddle fanfiction #prompt fill #prompt #asks #requests #request

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maplecornia · 3 years

Text

chapter 10

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.24K

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: I think the banner is super cute for this one, fitting to the super FLUFFY moments in this chapter ehehehe

tags: @kookaine |@fangirl125reader |@kookiebbyxx |@taradevonne

He takes you to a studio.

Though the hallway is simple, another slather of pure white paint, stone, and plaster, the floor a gorgeous light charcoal tile. The door to the studio is beautiful hardwood, a large window of tinted glass embedded within so that you can see a bit inside.

You stare at it with awestruck eyes.

Namjoon doesn't notice your expression at first, turning the knob to the door, and entering.

As he does, you don't move. You don't know if you can.

The studio isn't much, it's very simple when you think about it.

It's spacious, with dark walls and an almost metallic look to it. There are two comfortable chairs located at the soundboard which has a black undertone to them. The table is dark hardwood, even the floor is plated with dark mosaic tile. The recording area on the other side of the massive one-way glass in front of the soundboard has the same black theme, the walls soundproofed with patches of black material.

Though it may seem simple to some, to you, it could not be more beautiful.

This room holds every dream you ever had, everything you had once wanted to be. On the other side of that glass, you would have sung and made the very same music that helped you feel loved and wanted.

As you stand there, awestruck, RM notices that you're not beside him. He pauses, turning around to you, his computer powering on. He looks at you, a bit confused.

“Yen?” at his voice, you break out of your trance and snap your eyes to him. He chuckles a bit before setting down his coffee. “Are you going to come in? It's rude to stand in open doorways.”

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you nod, hurrying in and closing the door shut behind you.

“Yes. I’m sorry I was just…” you trail off, searching for the words to explain, but coming up empty, you fall silent.

Namjoon gives you a look as you stop in the middle of the room, getting that dreamy, glazed-over look in your eyes once more. You seem as though you're afraid to touch anything. Maybe it will ruin the dream, somehow wake you up, when you don't want to be bothered.

“Are you okay?” he inquires, peering deeper into your eyes and tilting his head in a questioning gesture. Once more, the expression on your face disappears and you chuckle nervously.

“Yes, it's just, this doesn't quite feel real.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's always been my dream to come to a place like this.” You murmur, taking a steadying breath as you tentatively run your fingers over the top of the desk. The cool glossed-over granite sends a small shiver down your spine before you pull your hand back to your heart.

Namjoon’s eyes scan your face, searching it, as though it is the most interesting thing in the room right now. If you were to notice, the sight of his intense gaze would cause your heart to beat faster.

“What? A studio?” he inquires. You turn to him and nod, your mouth breaking into a wide grin, as you can’t ignore the pounding of adrenaline in your veins at your excitement.

“Yes. I've dreamed of being in one ever since I was a little girl.” Wistfully, your eyes turn to the one-way glass separating the soundproof from the recording studio.

“I would have sung right there, in front of that microphone. My producers and composers would be behind this glass, giving me pointers and helping me to make the best version of my song possible.” You explain, pointing to the lone microphone in the middle of the room. “But, I never got to live it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks intently, his eyes snapping back to you. You smile sadly and turn away from the glass, raising your tea to your lips. “Why couldn't you pursue your dream?”

“I didn't want to debut as a solo artist.” You answer him, chucking a bit bitterly afterward.

“It's a stupid reason, I know, but in America, there aren't necessarily companies constantly holding new auditions for boy and girl groups, like in Seoul. Normally it was you, on your own. If you wanted to debut as a group, you had to have people you knew willing to do that with you. I didn't have people who would want to do that with me. They all had their dreams, and I had mine. I saw those solo artists perform, and all I could see was how lonely they were up there. I wouldn't be able to do that. I don't think I'd be able to survive, to feel as though I were the only one in the world. As though everything I did or didn't do would define who I was. I wouldn't be strong enough to deal with that on my own.”

He looks at you, silent but understanding. As you raise your eyes to him, almost hesitant, you don't expect to see the sweet, kind smile on his face.

“It's not stupid.” He says, turning to the computer and opening up a few files. “Besides, now you're living it...sort of. How does it feel?”

He pulls back one of the chairs and beckons for you to sit down. You take it, easing yourself into the chair and thankfully finding that nothing disappears.

“Unreal.” You whisper, almost giddy at the sight of the soundboard in front of you. If you were in the recording area, things would get out of hand. He chuckles at your answer and sits down as well, pulling up a demo that he has no doubt been working on.

“You're lucky Yoongi isn't here, he would fuss at you for taking his seat.” He teases, but your eyes go wide and you almost stand up. RM grabs you by the wrist almost as soon as you do and sits you back down in your seat.

“Don't worry, I’m just joking.” You smile, laughing nervously, but continue to sit on the edge of the chair.

“Is he here?” you ask, trying to make sure you aren't overstepping any boundaries. Namjoon shakes his head in response, adjusting things on the soundboard.

“He was supposed to be but got called away for another project. He’s still a producer after all, and was only helping me a bit with this demo.” He explains. Relaxing, you sit back, nodding.

He proceeds to play with the soundboard as though it were some secret language only he knew, and you watch him, trying to study how it works. He pushes up a button there, twists a knob here, all the while clicking continuously on his computer.

“Is this what you got from your studio?” you inquire, and he turns toward you. As you glance up at him, your eyes meet before he turns back to the computer, and nods.

“Yep. I've been working on this for quite some time now, but can't seem to get the sound right. It's strange because I already have the lyrics for it, but one part just doesn't seem to flow.” You watch as his cursor highlights one part of his track and he pulls a pair of headphones off from the console. Drawing away from his computer, he turns to you. He offers them to you in a questioning gesture.

“Do you want to hear?” he asks and you nod, reaching for them.

Instead, he places them securely on your head, and your hands go up quickly to readjust it to your liking. As they do, your hands touch his as they pull away, for a small moment. It sends a shock through your body, and you can hardly look him in the eye as your face grows hot.

He, however, can't take his eyes off you. As you glance up at him with that innocent, confused gaze, he has to quickly turn away. His hand raises to his mouth, as though that would hide it from your curious orbs.

“Are you ready?” he asks softly, hoping that would cover up his slight embarrassment.

“Yes.”

Complying, he clicks the play button and after a small sound of silence, the music begins, soft and steady. It has a peaceful beat to it, one that calms you and makes you smile. Closing your eyes, you tap your hands over the headphones, almost as if to press the music deeper into your mind. As it progresses, the music grows faster and you can hear a woman's voice in the background vocalizing.

Opening your eyes, remembering that this should be where RM is having trouble, you can hear the music begin to transition, as though a record were stopping at the end of its song.

You can see where RM is having trouble.

The music that comes next is too fast, too different from the beginning of the track, it holds no consistency. Once it fades out, back to the calm and quiet track, you pull off the headphones, pondering what to tell him.

You know that he wants your opinion, but you don't want to be disrespectful.

“Well? Any suggestions?” he asks, holding your gaze with persistent eyes.

“May I?” you request, gesturing to the computer, and he nods, switching places with you. You have enough experience with software such as this that you know what you're doing.

“You see this area right here? I feel as though that's where the sound starts to sound a bit off. It's not necessarily that the beat is bad, it's perfect. However, in this area, it doesn't flow like the rest of the song.” As you play the area you're talking about, you hardly notice how close Namjoon moves to you, peering at the screen.

Your bodies are mere inches apart, his heat making your back warm. It's comforting, as though there is someone behind you whom you can trust.

“You see?” you say once it stops playing, turning and finding your face inches away from him. As he peers at the screen with narrowed, focused eyes he doesn’t notice you staring.

He's so close that you can see the deep brown of his eyes, the product in his soft hair, and the smoothness of his cheeks. The comforting warmth immediately changes into something else. Swallowing hard, you tear your gaze away. Pressing your hands to your cheeks, you try to cool them down, and silently wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.

Honestly...how could Korea ever call this man ugly?

“What would you suggest we can do to change it?” he asks, glancing down at you just as you raise your eyes to the screen, trying to ignore your pounding heart.

“I think that maybe if you used the same piano accompaniment in the beginning after the transition, then that would satisfy the need for consistency while keeping the original sound of the track.” You suggest, looking at him for approval.

He doesn't answer at first, instead, he reaches across you, carrying out your task. Swallowing hard, you freeze, afraid to make the tiniest movement and accidentally touch him.

He doesn't notice, his turn to be entranced in his work, and you're thankful for it. You try to inconspicuously hide your face from him, missing your baggy clothes. Normally the giant sleeves would be enough to mask your blush, but now you only have the comfort of your small hands against your cheeks. Once he's done, he pulls back, gesturing for you to play it.

“Let's see if this works.” He murmurs, almost hopeful. You nod, pressing the mouse and intentionally avoiding eye contact with him until your heart has calmed down. The beginning of the song starts once again, helping to calm your nerves and you feel at ease once more.

You weren't aware there would be so little personal space when you first walked into the BigHit building.

When it comes to the particular area in the song, you're surprised to find that your idea worked. The small part no longer sounds out of place and it flows with the rest of the song. It still needs some tuning, but you solved his problem.

“Woah…” Kim Namjoon mutters, and you turn to him, finding surprise and a sort of pride in his expression.

“That’s incredible.” His eyes turn from the screen to rest on you laughing softly.

“Did you know that you're incredible? It's such a simple fix, such a simple error. Something we couldn’t pick up, and you…” he runs his hand over his face, staring at the computer screen with an unbelievable expression before turning his eyes to you once more. “I guess what they say about fresh ears is true.”

You blush at the pride, trying to ignore it, act like you did nothing at all, which you didn't. With him looking at you that way, however, it's hard not to feel vital, somehow important to this song.

“So!” you say, sitting straight in your chair and turning to him. “What do we do next?”

“What to do next….” he ponders on the thought before his eyes widen as though remembering something.

He curses under his breath, checking his watch. Immediately, he pulls back from the soundboard, and heads to the door, beckoning for you to follow him. You hurry to your feet, taking his coffee and your tea before scuttling after him.

“Where are we going?” you call out, having to jog to reach his side. He doesn't answer you, just mutters incomprehensible things under his breath.

You keep quiet behind him, understanding that he's stressed out. Sometimes it's just better to keep silent to show that you understand. You do that for him now, just follow him as he leads you back to Mon Studio, retrieving a few things and pocketing them in a backpack.

You wait for him near the entrance by your satchel, where you left it safe before.

As he finishes and begins to search for something, his phone rings and he curses once more. He rolls his eyes in annoyance as he pulls it out from his pocket.

“Yes?” he snaps.

As he presumes to continue packing, he beckons you for help. You comply, setting down the drinks before packing away the papers, pens, and flash drives into his pack.

“Han, I know I’m late, okay? I was in the middle of something.” Turning from you, he snags a mask off from a small hook on his wall. He shoves that into his jacket, before rummaging through his desk drawers, searching for something.

Han?

“Yes, I understand that it's an important meeting, I am trying my best to get there.” As you finish packing, he turns to you, whispering glasses, and you nod, beginning to search for them as well. He continues talking incomprehensibly on the phone, just as you spy the glasses. You snatch them, presenting them miraculously to him. He smiles at your ecstatic expression, taking them and placing them on his hat securely.

“Okay. Yes, I understand. Alright, I’ll see you soon.” With that, he ends the call, sighing as he places his phone back in his pocket and turns to you.

“I'm sorry about all that, I forgot I had to go to a meeting out of Yongsan-dong today and lost track of time.” He explains. You nod, understanding as he begins to position his mask on his face. “I was hoping to teach you the ropes a bit more, but I guess that will have to wait till tomorrow. Speaking of which, do you know what time to get here?”

“Yes. I'm supposed to get here around 7:30 am so that I’m ready.”

“Ready with what?” you smirk at his little question game before answering.

“Your schedule and coffee. You'll text me if you want me to get coffee for the other members. You'll also text me if I’m supposed to meet you in another place besides your studio. For now, I’ll be able to find any place in the building on the map you gave me.” He nods mutely as you recite your duties like a soldier. Once you're finished, he zips up his backpack and hikes it on his shoulder.

“Good. you'll be able to get the schedule from the receptionist at the front desk every morning. You'll also be accompanying me to every meeting, practice, or recording I have unless otherwise specified.” You nod in agreement, watching as he turns around in a circle seeming to search for something.

“Where did I…” reading his mind, you turn to the place where you put the drinks and hand him his coffee.

“Here you go.” You say, and he smiles, laughing at himself for his absentmindedness. He takes it from you, your hands making slight contact, but this time it isn't shocking. It's familiar, almost brotherly, makes you feel secure and comforted.

“Is there anything else I need to do?”

“Yes, actually if you could clean up my studio and the one we were working in, that would be a great help. You remember where it is right?” you nod, and he nods in return, turning to the door.

“After that, you'll be able to go home, I hope tomorrow I’ll be able to teach you more.” As he opens the door and steps outside, you bow to him, respectfully.

“Thank you, Mr. Kim. Once more, I apologize for being so late.” After a moment, you raise your head and find him staring at you with an unreadable expression. His soft brown eyes remind you of a wistful puppy. You tilt your head in confusion at the look, wondering what he could be thinking in that vast brain of his.

“Mr. Kim?”

“You don't need to do that.” He murmurs, as though he's talking half to himself.

“What?” you inquire, trying to make sure you heard him right. He turns fully to you, repeating himself once more, this time a bit louder for you to hear.

“You don't have to be so formal. I know everyone else does it, but you don't have to.”

You blink at him blankly.

“Jaejin never used them either. I guess it's easier to drop the formalities and work with someone who feels as though they’re a friend.” He explains, flashing a small smile your way. “I hope that won't be too hard.”

“Oh! Oh no! Not at all!” you say quickly, shaking your head vigorously.

“It makes it a bit easier on me, actually. Using honorifics can be a bit confusing.” You chuckle a bit and his smile grows wider, softening at the tips.

“Goodbye, Yen.” He says, turning away once more, before pausing and peeking over his shoulder at you as though he forgot something. “By the way, Jaejin was right."

"About what?" you ask, a bit confused, but all he does is smile.

"I'm glad he chose you as his replacement.”

The sweet phrase leaves you standing there frozen, unable to mutter a goodbye.

He chuckles to himself at the expression, placing his sunglasses on his nose before walking out of the room and down the hallway.

It takes you a moment, but once he’s gone, you shake out of your trance, your heart pounding deep in your chest.

“Thank you, Namjoon.” You whisper to yourself, holding your hand to your heart as you drop the honorific.

Crossing that barrier that turns you from a co-worker into his friend.

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: so...ship or skip?

chapter 11 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

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tenderstarved · 2 years

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[ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 . . .

Goodness, CATHERINE “KATE” LOCKHART has arrived in London. SHE is 23, of the KENSINGTON LOCKHARTS. Though they are NEW to the Season, we can only describe them as KIND and CREATIVE, dear reader. Accompanied by HER MOTHER, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their ENVY.

Catherine - Kate to her friends, Kitty to her family - can be described, above all, as kind. A sweet girl with a smile for everyone, she has always been accommodating, gentle, diligent, and eager to learn. She feels most at home in a field of wildflowers, reading a book or sketching a landscape, and while she enjoys dancing, she loathes the noise and clamor of parties. Her house was always full of laughter and catty bursts of yelling –– after all, with four sisters so close in age, there’s bound to be fights –– but the noise was contained in a way that feels familiar to her, a way that feels more like home than anything else. Parties contain far too many people for her personal preference. Beneath her many accomplishments, however, Catherine often has a penchant for silence, for staring into the distance and losing track of her thoughts for long moments. There is a thick undercurrent of longing to her demeanor, though in all her years of life, she’s never been able to answer just what exactly it is she yearns for. Perhaps it’s not a thing, or a person, but just that she is so enamored with the idea of longing for something that she can’t quite let go of that desire, and so it often translates into a bone deep envy for the things that others have, and she has not.

When Catherine Lockhart, youngest of the four Lockhart sisters, was six years of age, her eldest sister, Elizabeth, showed her a priceless work of art. The piece in question was a large shard of what used to be the ceiling of an ancient temple, and had been made with glass and stone and tesserae. The colorful bits of glass reflected the light and shone in such a way that they could almost be gemstones, if not for the clarity of the light passing through them. The two sisters had stared at it, one in awe, one in confusion, until finally, after long moments of silence, Catherine had tugged on Elizabeth’s sleeve. Elizabeth had knelt down to her younger sister’s level, her blue eyes wide and expectant. Catherine had pointed at the broken mosaic, her blonde eyebrows pulled together so tightly, her little mouth curved into a frown.

“Why are we looking at this?” She had asked, and Elizabeth had pressed her own mouth together against a laugh. “It’s just pieces of junk!”

Elizabeth had laughed at that, and pulled Catherine into her arms with the kind of delighted joy that only an older sister could manage. “It’s not junk, Kitty,” she had explained. Her free hand moved in sweeping motions, filling in the blanks of missing pieces, painting the full picture for Catherine as she described what the mosaic would have looked like when it was newly assembled.

“There’s beauty in making something whole out of so many broken pieces,” Elizabeth had told her. “All of these pieces were nothing, and then an artist picked them up and made something whole and beautiful, and now all of those little bits make up something beautiful. Something complete.”

Catherine hadn’t understood what her sister was trying to say back then. After all, she was still just a child, too young to grasp the intricacies of art, of culture, of creating. Now, though, she understands perfectly.

She understands, of course, because she is that mosaic too.

You see, everything Catherine owns has belonged to someone else; her favorite green damask dress was once Cassandra’s, the faded linen apron she ties on every time she steps into the kitchen had been Amelia’s first (and their mother’s before that), the boots that fit her just a little too tight in the toes belonged to Elizabeth for seven whole winters before going to Amelia, and then to Catherine. All of her books were novels her sisters had purchased and pored over voraciously, trading back and forth between the three of them like miniature cakes and secrets, and even the charcoals that she uses to sketch out figures and landscapes had belonged to Cassandra for two full weeks before she discarded them. There is nothing within Catherine’s possessions that has belonged to her and her alone, and this rings true even so far as her mannerisms and her personality.

From Elizabeth, Catherine developed her love for art, for capturing the essence of a thing onto paper and immortalizing the way you see it through your eyes. Her eldest sister taught her to sketch, to paint, even to read, long before their father even considered a governess for his youngest daughter. She taught her how to plant herbs in the garden, how to lace her own stays if no one else was around to help, and how to pick the ripest fruit from a bowl without even touching it. Elizabeth also gave her the way she tilts her head when she listens intently, the way the tip of her tongue sticks out through her teeth when she concentrates, and how she leans on her left leg when she studies a painting before her.

From Amelia, Catherine inherited the particular way she kneads bread, the way she punches the dough down with unusual ferocity and rolls it out without mercy. She inherited Amelia’s unrestrained laughter, and her peculiar habit of leaping on her tiptoes in the early mornings before the rest of their household would wake, lest her heel clunk on a floorboard and - in Amelia’s words - startle the dust awake. To this day, Catherine stirs her tea clockwise thrice and counterclockwise once, though she’d never be able to fully articulate why, other than explaining, “that’s how my sister always did it.”

And from Cassandra…from Cassandra, she learned how to play the pianoforte, how to speak a handful of French, and something far more damning and more important than any other accomplishment a young lady could need. From Cassandra, she learned that sometimes, the truth doesn’t matter; at least, not in the way it does in their favorite novels.

Catherine spent her whole life emulating her sisters, both the good parts and the bad, the gentle kindness, the casual callousness, and everything in between. And that desire to be just like her big sisters ultimately led to the undoing of the four Lockhart girls.

After the disastrous events surrounding Amelia’s wedding, the Lockhart sisters have been fractured at best, and Catherine has been left holding all of the broken glass that once made up their family mosaic. Cassandra barely speaks to any of them, Amelia is busy with the day to day duties of a farmer’s wife, and Elizabeth is difficult to reach at even the best of times. For the first time, the Lockhart estate is often quiet, and no matter how loud Catherine stomps in the morning, the dust is never startled awake.

She knows it’s her duty now to marry well and try to make her own way in the world in the same way that her sisters have, but Catherine has never been able to find her own voice before now, and she worries that she will always be a splintered echo of all the Lockhart women who came before her.

#theseason;introduction

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jaeheewillalwaysbemyfav · 4 years

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Obey Me: The Brothers Accidentally Trigger an Abused MC: Leviathan (3/7)

Disclaimer: I’m not an expert on abuse or mental health. I’m not portraying how one should respond to these situations, only how I think the characters might. Abuse and trauma in particular are very complex topics, and people respond in all sorts of ways to them, and sometimes it gets really bad on all sides.

I can only draw from my personal experiences as well as those of people who have shared their stories or who I’m close with. There’s no one narrative of abuse and how it affects someone, so what I’m familiar with might not be what you’re familiar with. Let’s try and all be respectful of each other.

Content Warnings: Heated arguments, reference to past abuse, parental abuse, trauma response, breaking down in tears, this is quintessential hurt/comfort y’all, buckle up

Sorry this took so long! I was kinda struggling with it on top of irl events causing some major delays. ^-^;

Lucifer (X), Mammon (X), Leviathan (you are here), Satan (X), Asmodeus (X), Beelzebub (X), Belphegor (X)

Oh, Levi. The reclusive otaku, ranked third in power by the Demon King but seemingly outclassed by his brothers. Not a model like Mammon, not intimidating like Lucifer, not intelligent like Satan, not confident like Asmo, not strong like Beel or cunning like Belphie… How terribly fitting that his distinguishing power is envy. Between his childish obsessions and his social awkwardness, it is easy to dismiss him as, at worst, whiny and insecure. But envy begets resentment and bitterness.

Envy heralds fury.

MC is trying to make up for the TSL quiz incident by spending more time with Leviathan. They’ve seen how he gets when he’s upset, but that was in response to deceit and cheating. Considering he’s a demon, they (sort of) understand his reaction. And besides, when he’s not nursing a grudge over being wronged, he seems nice enough.

It doesn’t hurt that Levi’s elaborate collection of merchandise genuinely fascinates them. Any otaku’s collection of fandom goods is nothing to sneeze at, but Levi’s is several thousand years in the making. All kinds of unique and limited edition collectibles line the demon’s room like a densely packed nerdy museum. A little too densely packed, in fact.

One figurine of thousands.

MC doesn’t know Devildom figurines, doesn’t know which ones are unimaginably rare and twice as expensive.

They don’t mean to bump into that shelf while navigating Levi’s cluttered room.

But the shelf and their side collide nonetheless.

One figurine in thousands of pieces.

Leviathan is, naturally, livid. A stream of insults fly forth from his mouth, but MC hears none of them. All they can register is his voice, the shattered porcelain, and the roiling dread in their gut. Not again not again not again-

Levi advances, still shouting and waving his arms, “A normie like you can’t even imagine how much that was worth!”

A particularly animated gesture whizzes by MC’s face and they collapse to their knees, bent over with their hands over their head.

“I’msorryI’msorryI’msosososorry, please don’t hit me again!”

“They don’t even make these anymo- Wait, what?” the Avatar of Envy registers the state of this human. “I didn’t- I’m not gonna-” He starts to lean down and MC abruptly sits up on their knees.

“I-it’s okay!” they say, eyes wide and glossy. “I-I’ll fix it, I’ll c-clean it up, I can put it back together!”

They gather the broken pieces of the figurine in shaking hands, not reacting when the sharp edges slice up their palms. A puddle of shards and blood forms in their hand, but they don’t stop. They can fix this, they’ll clean up their mess, they’re not worthless, they can do this much at least, then maybe their punishment won’t be as bad-

“MC! You’re bleeding!” Levi says arbitrarily. He instinctively reaches out to stop them from collecting more fragments, but they flinch and drop a few, which prompts them to slam their other hand on the ones that remain.

The pair freeze. Leviathan can’t even hear the usual hum from his aquarium. Achingly slow, he turns MC’s hand around.

A large fragment is embedded halfway through their palm. They make eye contact, slit pupils boring into rounded ones that are still years and years away.

Leviathan runs to get a first aid kit.

When he comes back, MC is in the exact same position he left them in. The blood still oozes from their cuts and the shard in their palm is as large and intimidating as ever. Levi decides to deal with the smaller cuts first.

“MC,” he whispers. Their head snaps in his direction, but they don’t speak. “I’m going to take out the shards from your hands, okay?”

It takes them an agonizing few seconds to nod.

“Alright, just give me your hand, we’ll put the shards here for now…”

Taking out the pieces of the figurine from MC’s hands and bandaging them up takes Leviathan a surprising amount of time. While the hand MC used to hold the pieces they had picked up initially seemed like the easier one, there turned out to be an incredible amount of tiny shards in their palm, and finding them all was an ordeal in of itself. The bigger piece was much simpler to deal with once it was removed and the bandages were in place.

He did have to hold MC’s hand until the bleeding slowed though. And that was honestly the most stressed he had been throughout this entire ordeal. It was while he was keeping pressure on their wound that MC gradually explained what had happened. As a child, their parents had been incredibly strict, and no mistakes or accidents were ever tolerated. Sometimes, the punishments became… physical.

He might have gripped their hand a little harder than necessary after that.

But it has been a couple of weeks since this incident, and both MC and Leviathan have managed to develop quite the friendship despite the initial setbacks. MC’s bandages have come off, leaving their hands perfectly capable of responding to yet another of Levi’s texts.

Come 2 my room asap

got smth to show u ^-^

In less than five minutes, MC presents themself at Leviathan’s door. He opens it, and instead of the usual demand for a password, he simply waves them in and runs off to the bathtub he calls a bed. MC follows and immediately their nose wrinkles. An unusual smell permeates Levi’s room. It almost smells like… sawdust? Yes, like someone had been carving, with an added layer of liquid glue. Lots of it. The aroma is giving them a bit of a headache, to be honest.

It all makes sense when Leviathan presents them with a wooden plaque in the shape of a heart. On it is a mosaic of two outstretched hands made of familiar porcelain shards and an engraved message: Accidents are A-Okay! A little engraved Ruri-chan giving a thumbs up completes the gift.

Levi holds it out with one hand, the other one covering his mouth as he asks, “D-do you like it?”

But when he comes back, MC is nowhere to be found. In fact, Levi never sees them again for weeks. This normally wouldn’t be unusual, given that he rarely leaves his room, but didn’t MC want to become friends? He thought they were on a pretty good track, bar a couple of, uh, incidents.

...Were they avoiding him?

Levi can’t help but fixate on their last meeting. Yes, he probably overreacted a little bit, but that figurine was limited edition! And it’s not his fault MC reacted like that! He certainly didn’t ask them to clean up those pieces, and he even left to go get them a first aid kit! He was totally going to bandage them up, like that scene in Help! I’m Trapped in a Zombie Apocalypse and Keep Reliving My Childhood Trauma!

It’s not fair, he thinks as the weeks drag on. He didn’t mean for them to get hurt. He didn’t even do anything this time! Why are they still punishing him like this?

To make matters worse, he is the only one MC is avoiding. While they had made themself scarce for a few days, eventually they had started spending more time with the brothers again, and seeing them get closer to everyone else makes the Avatar of Envy’s blood boil.

He decides that if MC wants to hang around a bunch of normies instead of him, that’s on them. He refuses to stay in the same room as them, aside from meal times, and even then he doesn’t acknowledge their existence when it’s not strictly necessary.

Even still, hearing them make Satan laugh, or playfully flirt with Asmo, or even coax a small smile out of Lucifer… he can’t help the envy burning hot and acidic in his chest.

#obey me #obey me:swd #obey me! leviathan #obey me: shall we date #obey me shall we date #mine #my writing #leviathan

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carabas · 3 years

Text

Just sorting through the options for those Evanuris on the mural in a hopeless attempt to keep it all straight.

(The tl;dr version of this post is that I can see a case for the Evanuris on the left being Falon’din, Ghilan’nain, or Mythal, and there’s different implications depending on which one’s correct but hey they all do boil down to fighting terrifying gods.)

Initial assumption: two Evanuris with arms folded like corpses suspended upside down in front of spheres, when we’ve previously seen spheres used to represent the gods being sealed away. So these are the final two seals, final two archdemons. Based on what each of the old gods represent, it’s extremely likely that Razikale of Mystery = Dirthamen of Secrets and owl-associated Lusacan of Night = Falon’din of Death, which works well since the twin souls are supposed to be pretty much inseparable. Twin soul thing also goes well with the promotional image of two dragons - although if Solas is deliberately going to be breaking the seals (that’s a big if), then we don’t actually need the twin souls to be together to explain why we’re seeing two dragons rise at the same time. Still, I like not separating the twins. (We’ve also seen gods chained and suspended upside down over a sphere in the Lies of the Evanuris mosaic in Trespasser - the scene isn’t specifically stated to be about sealing the gods away, but about revealing that the gods can die.)

Complicating factors here:

Ghilan’nain resemblance: the character on the left is almost certainly a representation of a concept art image that’s monstrous in the same way we’ve seen Ghilan’nain’s creations looking monstrous. We’ve seen so much about Ghilan’nain in Inquisition and Tevinter Nights, it would make sense for her to appear now. Also that silhouette looks like it has mandibles.

Mythal resemblance: we’ve seen this character’s crescent-shaped head before in a statue in the Deep Roads, near a codex that talks about how most of these statues in the Deep Roads are representations of Mythal. There’s also an almost identical statue but with a sun-shaped head in the Crossroads, and Mythal and Elgar’nan have sun-moon associations, so point in favor of the crescent-shaped head representing Mythal. Mythal’s also said to have emerged from water and to have taken the form of a great serpent to fight Andruil - I’d assumed great serpent just meant dragon and the water was metaphorical, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Ghilan’nain is not the only god with forms at least this monstrous. Solas painted the figures so large, weighing on him, and this is the interpretation that would probably have the most significance for him and deserve to be painted that large. But is this how he would depict Mythal?

That concept art with that crescent-headed four-armed serpent creature looked as if it's set in the present, not the distant past - present-day heroes fighting the freed gods. It’s accompanied by the note, "The Evil Gods have Thedas in their sights and only heroes can stop them. The shadows of the past stir, and new heroes must rise to fight them." That doesn’t rule out Mythal certainly, but it does point more to the gods who are being freed from the Black City.

Falon’din resemblance: the creature in that concept art image is like a combination of three different statues we’ve seen - it’s got the crescent-shaped head of that statue in the Deep Roads, which reminds me of an owl and which I would have guessed as representing Falon’din if it weren’t for that nearby codex about Mythal, and it’s also got the four arms and spear of two different elven statues that appear together in Origins. The one with the spear is stated to be Falon’din. The one with four arms closely resembles it, similar head shape just pointier, like a more inhuman variation on the same theme, but isn’t specifically identified - so, a variation on the same god? Dirthamen because of the twin soul thing? Another Evanuris entirely? There’s not enough information. This is a pretty thin connection to Falon’din though - spears aren’t exactly unusual, and we’ve seen four arms on other statues too, like this Tsathoggua-looking one used at the altar of Dumat/for Merrill’s Audacity demon/in elven ruins - for all we can tell, it may be that all the gods enjoy having a few extra limbs from time to time.

If it’s Falon’din, initial assumptions still work, no adjustments needed, no new information here really except about what kinds of forms he might take, and the other Evanuris in the mural can be assumed to be Dirthamen.

If it’s Mythal, then it’s not about the final two seals after all, it’s about gods who can be/have been/will be killed, same as stated about the suspended god in the Lies of the Evanuris mosaic. Death of Mythal balanced against the sealing of Elgar’nan and the other gods, maybe, or Solas’s need to kill or otherwise somehow deal with the gods if he brings down the Veil.

If it’s Ghilan’nain, possibility one: it’s still about the final two archdemons, and Ghilan’nain corresponds to one of the two remaining Old Gods. I'm not a fan of this option because I can’t see any particular correspondences between her and the gods of either night or mystery - I mean, yes, she’s a bit mysterious, but you’ve got an elven god of secrets right there in Dirthamen - and also it means the twin souls won’t be rising together after all. (If the other suspended Evanuris is both Falon’din and Dirthamen and we’re getting a two-headed dragon sharing one body, that’d be a neat way to avoid splitting up the twins, but then the archdemon math doesn’t match up properly - seven sealed gods, seven archdemons, only two archdemons left.) But the end result is I just need to rethink the correspondences. If this is the right interpretation, then the other Evanuris suspended with her could be almost anyone.

Ghilan’nain possibility two: the mural is not representing the final two seals after all, it’s representing Evanuris outside the Black City in some other sense. Possibly the Old God soul taken from Kieran? I do like the Ghilan’nain-Urthemiel match up. (In which case, possibilities for the other Evanuris on the mural: does Sandal have an old god soul? Did Andraste, who was born the same year the first archdemon died?) Or alternatively, is it simply showing the gods about to wake after the archdemons have been killed? That would fit best with the note about “the evil gods have Thedas in their sights” with that concept art, but in that case, why are we seeing just two, are they waking up in a staggered way instead of all at once?

Also this:

I’d initially been assuming that the spheres in the new mural are the equivalent of the seven on the bottom of this mural, or the ones in the earlier DA4 teaser art with the idol, seven seals for the Evanuris with five seals already broken - but maybe it’s more like whatever those two at the top left and right represent, complete with those wavy lines around Ghilan’nain/Mythal/Falon’din/whoever that is (access to the Fade being cut off/restored?).

#dragon age #da4 #da4 speculation #rambling #conspiracy theory board.jpeg

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ottelis · 3 years

Photo

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix.

09—la vérité

august 11th, 1968

07:55

caen, france

Eliott sleeps much better the night after his appointment than he thought he would. Perhaps the exhaustion took over and freed him from his thoughts. He's grateful for that, but now that he's awake, he has to face Lucas again. He's not afraid of looking Lucas in the eye, or seeing all the expressions that could flicker across his face in half a moment. He's afraid of what Lucas might say, of the way his tongue may curl and slash in his mouth, or the way it could lie still and tie itself in a knot. But he can't let his fear show anymore, not when he knows Lucas is in pain, when he knows he can try to help his best friend.

He decides to talk to Lucas before mass, since he knows he'll be there most of the morning. He dresses for mass, too, putting on his white shirt and tying his black tie beneath the collar. He hasn't been to mass, let alone inside the church, since his father's funeral, and he supposes that now could be a good time to go.

His dress shoes are too small for him now, something he never would've anticipated. He borrows one of his father's pairs, and though they're a bit too big, they fit better than his own. They're old, but his father was buried in his nicer ones. It feels a bit strange, wearing his father's shoes, but he doesn't expect to be wearing them for very long. Just until after mass.

His mother is in the kitchen, preparing to make breakfast as he gets ready to leave. He apologizes to her quickly and tells her where he'll be, and that he'll meet her at mass. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and tells her he loves her.

He takes a deep breath as he opens the door, but it catches in his throat when he sees Lucas on the other side, his hand raised and ready to knock.

"Lucas, hey," he stammers. "Is everything okay?"

Lucas nods, bewildered, too. "Yeah. Yeah. Um, this might be an odd question," he begins awkwardly. "But I've kind of become the organist at our parish, and I have a key to the church. I like to get there early and practice some songs. It's just… It's lonely in there sometimes. The echo gets too much when you're alone. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?"

Eliott blinks, fumbling for an answer. "Of course," he manages, smiling. "I've missed hearing you play anyway." He's not being untruthful, but his mind starts running even faster once the words leave his mouth. Maybe he can steal a moment to talk to Lucas. Maybe on the way there, or right before mass.

Lucas smiles, and his eyes brighten. "Thank you so much," he sighs. "It's honestly so eerie in there and it was about to drive me crazy."

"You're welcome," Eliott returns, smiling warmly. "Were you planning on leaving now?"

Lucas nods. "If that's okay."

"Okay," Eliott nods back. He calls over his shoulder, "See you in a bit, Maman."

"See you, honey," she calls back. "See you, Lucas."

"See you, Madame Demaury," Lucas responds as Eliott goes through the door.

Eliott shuts the door behind him, taking another deep breath. Now he has to wait for the right moment to talk to Lucas. And he has to hope it won't go poorly like he's worried it might. He has to trust Lucas.

They don't say a word as they walk to Lucas's car, but the silence is strangely comfortable, easy. Perhaps this should be the moment that Eliott grabs by the horns, but it's too precious for him to ruin. He's too enamoured by the sound of their soft footfalls on the grass, the slightest whisper of a breeze in the air. It's going to be a beautiful day.

"It is," Lucas says suddenly, startling Eliott. He must've said his thought aloud without realizing. "Most Sundays are. The whole world is at peace on Sundays."

"Remember when we would build sandcastles almost every Sunday?" Eliott asks quietly, still afraid that speaking too loudly would ruin the moment.

"Because the sea was calmer," Lucas chuckles lightly. "I just can't believe we basically built the same sandcastle every week. How did we not get bored of it more quickly? We did that until we were almost ten."

"Maybe after mass we can build a sandcastle," Eliott suggests. "I think it'd be nice to come back to that."

"I like that idea," Lucas smiles warmly, letting his head tilt slightly down.

They reach Lucas's car, piling in quickly. Lucas keeps the radio off again, but Eliott's parents never played music on the way to mass, either. Eliott doesn't mind the silence here, either. He thinks they've carried the silence from outside with them.

The sun has risen considerably by now, but it still casts a soft, faint light on the city, coaxing it awake. It's kind today, loving. Fatherly, almost. It flows gently through the windows of Lucas's car, bathing them in a thin but warm layer of light. Eliott lifts his hand ever so slightly, letting it swim through the light. It's like water. He wiggles and curls his fingers, holds his palm face up to illuminate the lines there.

"What are you doing?" Lucas asks with a chuckle.

"With my hand?" Eliott laughs, too. "Swimming."

Lucas smiles, glancing at Eliott's hand. His eyes follow the smooth, graceful movement of it until the car starts to swerve slightly. He quickly looks back up to the road, but the smile lingers on his face, small and content.

Eliott hopes that that smile means Lucas is doing better, that he won't have to ask him what's wrong. But Lucas was always good at hiding things, he's had so much practice with it anyway. Eliott keeps finding himself hoping and hoping.

The parking lot is empty, and it's a strange sight for Eliott. He's so used to hearing his father complain about how there weren't any parking spots left when they arrived for mass, he never thought it could be so barren. He could see what Lucas means when he says it can be eerie seeing the church deserted. He could only imagine what it's like in the chapel.

They don't talk in the brief time it takes to get out of Lucas's car and to enter the church. Lucas still seems at ease, though, a stark contrast to his behavior at the cemetery last week. Eliott takes it as a good sign.

The lock unclicks with a creaky thud, and the door squeaks faintly as it opens. Lucas lets Eliott walk in first, making sure to lock the door behind them.

Eliott pauses just past the threshold, gazing at the chapel. It's still exactly as he remembers it—the stone floors gray as ash, the pale columns, the smooth arches, the statues with faces as familiar to him as someone he's known in real life. All the old paintings are still on the walls, all the elaborate stained glass is still intact and shining, all the same chairs are sitting in front of the altar like sentinels. He can still smell all the burning wax, the incense, wet stone. But there's something different, something in the air he doesn't recognize. Maybe he really has been away for too long and forgotten it was ever there. But it's heavy, leaves something crawling just beneath Eliott's skin. Maybe it's the ghost of memory—the ghost of a boy who prayed to God to make his papa feel better and not get sick anymore, the ghost of his father, the ghost of the flowers and incense that clouded and covered his coffin, the ghost of hymns played and sung through bitter tears.

"Spooky, isn't it?" Lucas teases, nudging Eliott's arm.

Eliott nods, gulping. "I can see why you don't wanna be alone in here," he agrees, his voice thin.

Lucas chuckles lightly. "It's not as bad once I'm sitting at the organ. Then all of it's behind me."

"But you said the echo gets to you, too, right?" Eliott asks.

Lucas nods, sighing. "I think you hearing it, too, will help. It won't be as lonely. It'll feel real for once. Not just some cruel trick of my imagination."

Eliott nods back, imagining the shrill yet regal notes of an organ filling such a cavernous, empty room. No voices to accompany it, no other instruments to help it swell and wane into sacred, gorgeous music. The thought sends a chill down his spine.

"Tu viens?" Lucas asks softly, tilting his head towards the direction of the organ. His hand brushes against Eliott's, his touch another ghost in these hallowed halls.

Eliott nods weakly, and Lucas smiles kindly. He leads Eliott to a corner of the building that he doesn't quite remember being there before, where a stone staircase lies in front of them. He can see the organ at the top, sitting below one of the large stained glass windows. He follows Lucas up the stairs, their footfalls only a quiet shuffling in the silence of the chapel.

"Do you want to sit next to me?" Lucas asks as if he takes his place at the seat in front of the organ. It's wide enough to fit both of them. And Lucas is looking at him with a warmth that he could never deny.

"Yeah," Eliott smiles, sitting next to him. He can't help but look up at the stained glass window above them. It's so simple—just a mosaic of diamonds dyed with gold and silver and oceans and clouds and jewels—but the way the light filters through it is enchanting, even in the half-light they're in right now. The sun hasn't risen high enough yet to shatter through it completely. Eliott can only imagine how beautiful it must be, then. He wishes he had paid more attention to this window before.

"This is my favorite thing in the whole church," Lucas says, his eyes gazing up at the window, too.

"It's beautiful," Eliott replies, reverent.

"Selfishly," Lucas begins, shrugging, his brow furrowed. "I feel like it's mine, in a way."

"I don't think that's selfish," Eliott shakes his head.

Lucas smiles, looking down at the organ keys. His smile fades, but quiet thought takes its place. His hands hover over the keys for a moment, his fingers taking shape after shape of a thousand chords before settling on one. Lucas begins playing gently, slowly growing louder as the prelude progresses. Eliott instantly recognizes Ubi Caritas, and he lets himself smile.

The organ was never Eliott's favorite instrument, despite hearing it his whole life. It was so easy to play too loudly, too dully. But in Lucas's hands, the organ is as elegant and stately and warm as it possibly could be. Lucas takes the love Ubi Caritas speaks of and lets it pour from his fingers and into the keys. Lucas could take any instrument and turn it to gold with the slightest touch, after leaving the faintest scar of a fingerprint on it. The echo of the music rings sweetly from the cold, aged stone, and Eliott can't imagine it sounding eerie or lonely.

Eliott looks at Lucas, and for the first time today, he seems tense, anxious. His shoulders are tight, his back is hunched, his hands are shaking, his lower lip is caught beneath his teeth. But he doesn't let it betray his playing. The music still flows out of him so easily, so beautifully.

But at the same time, Eliott has never seen Lucas like this while he's playing. He's been nervous before, of course, but it usually melts away once his fingers find their place on the keys. He's never started relieved and confident then grew nervous and stiff.

Eliott feels the easy, comfortable dynamic between them start to break. His mind starts to reel, and his heart begins to stutter, all for Lucas.

The hymn is over quickly, though, and Lucas releases a deep yet trembling breath. He stretches his hands, curling his fingers over and over. He's studying them as if they were someone else's hands, as if they don't belong to him.

"Does the echo bother you that much, Lucas?" Eliott asks softly, grasping at straws.

Lucas shrugs fraily, hiding his hands between his thighs. His eyes flit across every visible thing around him except for Eliott.

Eliott feels helpless, watching Lucas retreat into himself again. He shakes his head, maybe to help his brain rattle out a way to help Lucas.

"What if I played?" he tries, shrugging. "I know I don't how to play, but that's the trick. Maybe if I play a hymn off-key it won't make it quite as eerie in here."

Lucas smiles weakly, considering.

"Would that be sacrilegious?" Eliott asks under his breath, as if someone would hear them. "Playing random notes on a church organ?"

This makes Lucas chuckle, and Eliott already feels a thousand pounds lighter. "I don't think so, Eliott," Lucas shakes his head. "Just try not to play too loudly, okay?"

Eliott nods, hoping he'll know how to do that. He sees his hands trembling slightly as he places them just above the keys, playing whichever one each finger lands on.

He starts out with a discordant burst of music, one that nearly makes Lucas guffaw if he hadn't covered his mouth in time. After that, Eliott decides to not use all his fingers at once, instead plucking out a few random notes at awful, unsettling intervals. It's really not as awful as it could be, since he's not trying to play a real melody, but it's still not anything you would ever want to hear in a mass.

Soon, Eliott thinks he's getting the hang of it and starts trying to make the notes string together, rather than play them stiltedly one by one. It doesn't work very well, though, and he only rushes into each note, making them bleed together until it's just noise. But it makes Lucas laugh, and maybe cringe a bit.

"Okay, okay," Lucas interrupts after another one of Eliott's clumsy attempts at playing. He takes a moment to keep himself from laughing again before continuing. "I'm going to help you play because I don't think I can take anymore of this."

"You're going to teach me a lesson?" Eliott smiles, raising his eyebrows.

Lucas rolls his eyes fondly. "I guess you could say that, yes," he agrees begrudgingly, but teasingly. "Here, let me take your hands," he continues, placing his hands just above Eliott's. "First, your form is terrible."

"Thanks," Eliott remarks sarcastically.

Lucas bites back a chuckle, ignoring Eliott's comment. "Pretend you're holding a ball in both your hands," he instructs. "They should be curled just slightly, they should never be completely flat. And straighten your back a bit, you're such a sloucher."

Eliott pouts, but follows his instructions. "Yes, maestro," he drones jokingly. Lucas can't hide his laugh that time.

"You know 'Hot Cross Buns'?" Lucas asks through his laughter.

"I don't think so," Eliott answers, genuinely this time.

"It's really simple," Lucas continues. "It teaches you chords. Like this."

Lucas guides Eliott's hands to the correct place, gently pressing down on each finger that needs to press a key. They go through the song rather slowly and haltingly, Lucas letting Eliott get the hang of using his hands correctly. Lucas sings the words quietly as they go through it each time, and Eliott thinks that putting the words to it helps. He has something to pair the chords with, something he can picture in his mind while his hands bring it to life.

"Okay," Lucas sighs, satisfied. "Try it by yourself. Go as slowly or as quickly as you want."

Eliott nods, picturing the balls in his hands and the words to the song in his head. He gets through it slowly, but doesn't make any major mistakes until the very end when his left hand slips somehow.

"It's okay," Lucas says quickly, taking Eliott's hand and putting it back in the right place. "Try again if you want to."

He does, but messes up at the same spot. He admits a small mite of frustration flashed in his chest, but Lucas's comforting voice made it vanish as quickly as it appeared.

"Let's try just that part with me helping you again," Lucas suggests, only putting his hands on Eliott's once Eliott gives him an affirmative nod. "Here we go, slowly."

They take a moment to pause between each chord, slowly moving to the next one and making sure everything is in the right place. Slowly, but surely, Lucas takes his hands away and lets Eliott play by himself.

Eliott plays the whole song, top to bottom, without any mistakes. It's the slowest version of "Hot Cross Buns" ever, but it's a successful attempt.

Lucas beams, telling him to play again, then again, then again.

"We should play together," Eliott suggests after his fourth or fifth time through the song. "I'm on one side and you're on the other."

"That'll be hard on an organ," Lucas replies, his eyes flitting across the keys. "It's not as similar to a piano than you would think it would be."

"Do you think we could try?" Eliott asks, shrugging.

Lucas studies the keys for a few more moments, then nods slowly. "I think so," he mutters, finding his place on the keys. "Go as slow as you want, I'll follow your lead."

"You're not going to show me up?" Eliott asks, raising an eyebrow. "Mr. Maestro?"

Lucas smirks. "I won't make any promises."

Eliott chuckles, taking a moment before starting the song. And he realizes all too quickly that Lucas didn't promise for a reason.

Lucas is moving all around the keys, finding the perfect octave jumps and steps and half-steps. It sounds beautiful, of course, but a little too elaborate for a song like "Hot Cross Buns."

Towards the end of the song, Eliott's left hand and Lucas's right hand land on the same area of the keys, Lucas's on top of Eliott's. They both stop suddenly, taking their other hand away, but Eliott's hand stays pinned beneath Lucas's. Lucas's skin is so warm and soft, and his hand looks so small against Eliott's. It makes Eliott smile, small but still brimming with joy. Lucas clings to Eliott's hand, awkwardly but sweetly intertwining their fingers.

As Eliott turns his head to look over at his best friend, Lucas's lips are suddenly crashing into his.

Eliott's eyes widen, but flutter closed as Lucas deepens the kiss. He feels Lucas's hands in his hair, pushing him closer and closer to him. Lucas still tastes the same, like sleep and salty sea air. His lips are chapped, desperate, but Eliott would kiss them forever if he could. Eliott starts kissing him back once he's out of his stupor, cradling Lucas's face in his hands, fighting back a smile as their noses smush against each other. He feels Lucas's eyelashes brush against his cheeks as his eyes fly open. Lucas takes Eliott's hands and yanks them off his face. Eliott stumbles forward slightly at the force, his eyes opening now, too.

He looks up and sees Lucas stepping backwards from the bench, his hands clasped over his mouth, his eyes too wide and his face too pale. He starts shaking his head, holds out his hands pleadingly. "Eliott, please," he whimpers, his voice shattering. "I-I didn't mean to, I—"

"No, Lucas, it's okay," Eliott interrupts, approaching Lucas carefully. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stays stuck there, thick and aching. "I'm not mad at you. It… It just happened, right? We got carried away."

Lucas shakes his head, tear after tear rolling down his cheeks. "No…" he chokes out. "I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to. And I did, and—" his tears stop his voice, his breath. His chest rises and falls so sharply Eliott feels his own breath strangle in his throat.

He takes another step towards Lucas, still careful as he can be. "Lucas…" he begins, unsure of what he'll say next. He reaches out a hand, nearing Lucas's shoulder.

Lucas takes a few more steps back, a sob tearing out of his throat. "No, no, don't touch me, please," he begs, holding out his hands again. "Please, Eliott, just stay away from me."

Eliott opens his mouth, but nearly gets the wind knocked out of him as Lucas suddenly shoves him aside. Lucas rushes past him, heading towards the stairs. He pauses just before it, though, nearly falling to his knees before supporting himself against the wall. He leans against it, slowly sliding down to the floor. He buries his face in his hands, his whole body trembling.

"Lucas," Eliott tries again, softly, sitting in front of him. "I'm not leaving you again. I'm not going to do that to you. I can't. I care about you too much, and you're hurting too much right now for me to leave you like this."

"Please, Eliott," Lucas sobs. "Just leave. Please. You haven't done anything wrong, and I don't want to ruin that for you. I can't ruin you. I'd never forgive myself."

"You're not ruining me, Lucas," Eliott reassures, still careful not to touch him.

"I love you, Eliott," Lucas cuts in. His voice had been hard to discern through his tears, but for some reason those three words rang out clear as a bell. "I've always loved you. I've never stopped loving you. Don't you remember me telling you that? When we talked about everything that happened? I told you the exact same thing."

Eliott does remember. He remembers Lucas practically screaming it out of a bleeding throat. He nods at Lucas, feeling tears run down his face.

"The more time I spend with you," Lucas begins, hopeless. "The more I realize that we're not meant to be together. Not even as friends. Because we could never be just friends anymore. Every time I look at you, I remember the times you would kiss me and love me like I had always wanted someone to. But what I want doesn't matter. It's wrong. It's a sin. And I don't want you to become a disgusting sinner because of me."

"We talked about this before," Eliott replies desperately, his heart beginning to hammer against his chest. "Remember? We agreed that it wasn't. God made us this way, Lucas, and God doesn't make mistakes. So how could we be mistakes? How could the way we love be a mistake?"

"God didn't make us like this," Lucas shakes his head bitterly. "And you have a chance to be saved, Eliott. You could meet a girl and love her with everything inside of you. I can't. It's too late for me."

"Lucas, what are you talking about?" Eliott asks, his brow furrowed. "You have Chloé. You're marrying her next year."

Lucas buries his face in his hands again, shaking his head weakly. "I don't love her, Eliott," he weeps, his voice muffled by his hands. "I can't love her. It doesn't matter if I marry her or maybe start a family with her. It's pointless if I don't love her. I'll always want someone else instead of her. I would still be sinning."

Eliott is speechless, unable to find an argument. He feels completely helpless, useless.

"Sometimes I wish you had just let me die that day," Lucas whispers, his heart climbing up his throat to nearly shatter Eliott's.

Eliott feels himself sway, feels his breath getting crushed out of his lungs. His body grows numb, his head spins, his blood chills.

"Why didn't you?" Lucas asks, lifting his head. His eyes are glassy, nearly empty as they meet Eliott's. "Why didn't you just let me drown?"

"You're my best friend," Eliott chokes out. "And I love you. And it would've been my fault if you didn't make it. And I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."

"If I had just died you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself," Lucas says, his voice losing its emotion, as if he's thought of this a thousand times and it's as natural as breathing.

"That's not true," Eliott whimpers.

"And you never would've gone to the institution—"

"That's not true—"

"And they wouldn't have done all those awful things to you—"

"Lucas, stop—"

"And you would've learned to be happy again. To miss me and smile like your papa said—"

"Please—"

Lucas rises to his feet then, pacing the balcony. He tugs on his hair, claws at the back of his neck. "I should've died. I was supposed to die. I never saw a light. Just darkness. I was never going to make it to heaven. I was supposed to die and go to hell and—"

"I said stop, Lucas!" Eliott begs, practically shouts.

"Why can't I just die—"

Lucas's fist collides with the stone wall with a sickening crack. He screams, falling to his knees, holding his now broken, bleeding hand in his other one.

Eliott rushes to Lucas, gathering his trembling body in his arms. He cradles him close to his chest, lets him sob into his shirt. He rocks back and forth, as if it would lull Lucas to sleep or take all his pain and torture away. He knows it won't, but he has to try something.

"I can't be a queer, Eliott," Lucas weeps, Eliott's shirt muffling his voice. "But I don't know how to stop it."

"You don't have to stop, Lucas," Eliott tries again softly. "You don't have to try to be someone you're not."

"What if I hate who I am?" Lucas asks weakly, bitterly. He lifts his head slightly, turning it to where his ear is resting against Eliott's chest. "What if who I am keeps myself from getting everything I want? I'll be sent to hell. Everyone I love will be in heaven, and when I die I'll never see them again. I'll never see you again. I'll never see Maman again."

Eliott starts gently shushing Lucas, holding him a little tighter, but Lucas keeps talking.

"My poor Maman," Lucas chokes out, sniffling. "How many times have I broken her heart over the years? I can't break her heart again. I'm the only thing she has left. And who knows when she won't have me anymore? Who knows when she'll die or when I'll die and then eternity comes between us? How has she lived with having me for a son? I'm not her baby boy anymore. I don't think I ever was."

"She loves you more than anything, Lucas," Eliott replies. "I've seen it. She's your maman, and she loves every second she gets to be your maman."

"She fell in love with someone else," Lucas shakes his head. "Everyone has. You have, too. I can't be that person anymore. But I can't be myself either, because I can't bear to look at myself. I'm… I'm trapped, Eliott. I'm either trapped in someone I've created to make everyone happy, or I'm trapped in myself, who's a disgusting, filthy sinner—"

"Lucas," Eliott interrupts, taking Lucas's face in his hands and making him look at him. "You're not disgusting. You're not filthy. You're not a sinner. You're Lucas. And because you're Lucas, you love so much and feel so much that you explode sometimes. You're exploding right now. You've had all this weight to carry on your shoulders and on your mind, and you're starting to let it go by telling me how heavy it is. And I know how heavy it can be. Believe me, I do. And it's breaking you open and that's okay."

For once, Lucas doesn't have a rebuttal. His voice is silent and his tears are quiet. He rests his head on Eliott's chest again, and Eliott lets him.

"I haven't believed in God much since Papa died," Eliott continues, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. "But when I did, I always felt He just wanted all of us to be happy. And when we're with someone we love, we're the happiest we could ever be. And that can't ever be wrong. Love can never be wrong. Especially from someone who calls Himself the God of love. Right?"

Lucas doesn't answer, but Eliott can feel him trembling.

"Listen, Lucas," Eliott sighs, gingerly weaving his hands through his hair. "When has that whisper the clergy always say is God speaking to you ever told you that you're wrong for being queer? When has that little voice ever told you anything like that? Or has it always been the clergy? Or has it always been other kids' parents whispering about queers before mass? Or has it always been Sunday school teachers? When have you ever felt a truly divine voice tell you anything that those people have told you?"

Lucas is quiet again for a moment, but then shakes his head weakly. "Never," he replies fraily.

"You can love God and be devoted to Him and not go to mass every Sunday," Eliott says. "You can pray to Him and let Him speak to you in whatever little ways He does and you can get all your answers and comfort that way. You don't have to listen to other people who say they know what's best for you in the eyes of God, because what do they know? What do they know about the way God loves or speaks to one of His queer children? What do they know about the way He loves or speaks to any of His other children? God speaks to all of us in different ways, and maybe this isn't the way He needs to speak to you. Maybe you hate the way the music echoes in here because God speaks to you through music, and this building gets in the way of it. Maybe you need to take some time to find the way He speaks to you and hold onto that. Whether it's music, or reading His word, or a combination of multiple things, or whatever. And never let anyone take it away from you. Do you hear me, Lucas?"

Lucas nods. "I do."

Eliott smiles to himself. "Good," he sighs in relief. "And… We don't have to talk about us or do anything drastic until you've made peace with everything. You come first right now. I'll hold your heart for you once it's healed, once it tells me it's okay for me to cradle it. And then I'll give you mine, too. I'll wait as long as I need to."

"Thank you," Lucas whispers, sighing. "Thank you so much, Eliott."

"Anything for you, Lucas," Eliott smiles, kissing the top of Lucas's head. "And we're going to leave here now, and get that hand checked out. They'll find someone else to play the organ in your place."

He feels Lucas nod.

"And one more thing," Eliott continues. "Remember when you and Chloé ran into me outside of the psychiatry office?"

Lucas nods again.

"If you want to, you could start being a patient there, too," Eliott suggests. "Dr. Garnier is extremely kind and patient. And he's like us, Lucas. He understands. He was in the same place you were once, and he knows how to get out of it. He can tell you so many things that you probably need to hear right now. I think he'll help you."

"Okay," Lucas agrees, his voice a little stronger now.

Eliott closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. "I love you, Lucas," he says quietly. "I don't want you to hurt like this anymore. I want to be here, no matter how awful or angry or lost you feel. Okay?"

"I love you, too, Eliott," Lucas returns, and Eliott can feel him smile. "And I'll let you be there. I promise I will."

Eliott kisses the top of Lucas's head again, unable to fight back his smile now.

"Eliott?" Lucas says softly.

Eliott hums in response, lifting his head.

"What would you have done?" Lucas asks, his voice getting quieter. "If I had died that day?"

The thought has invaded Eliott's mind a million times, has appeared to him in countless nightmares, and it attacks him again once the words leave Lucas's mouth.

Eliott resting his forehead against Lucas's, waiting, begging please open your eyes so I can see them again please wake up please come back to me please please please don't leave me, but Lucas never breathes again. His body is hollow as Eliott takes it in his arms, as he clings to it and his grief comes back to him in a tidal wave. He cries until he can't anymore, until the sun has nearly set. Someone approaches him, their footfalls soft, almost frightened on the sand. Then a scream, so agonized Eliott feels his own grief has shrunk to a spec of dust. Lucas's mother. Someone else comes, too, carefully removing Eliott's hands so they can take Lucas's body away. Eliott is too weak to fight back, to hold Lucas tighter, to refuse to let him go. His arms are emptying, and the last thing he feels is Lucas's lifeless hand brushing against his thigh. Madame Lallemant follows the person carrying her son's body, weeping and wailing, leaving a new ocean behind her. Eliott stays on the shore, broken and empty, the tide receding further and further away.

It always ends there, Eliott alone with the weight of Lucas's body haunting his arms like a ghost. He always wakes up then, or something snaps him out of his thoughts. He never knows what happens next. He's never wanted to know.

"I don't know," he answers. He holds Lucas a little tighter, lets himself remember the way they fit together. He closes his eyes and lets himself smile. "But you're here now, Lucas. And you're alive. That has to mean something. If you really were meant to die that day, God would've found a way to stop me from saving you."

"Yeah," Lucas replies, nodding slightly.

"Do you remember what I said to you when you came back?" Eliott asks quietly.

Lucas shakes his head.

"I'm so happy you're here," he recites, his tears finally leaking into his voice. "I'm so happy you're okay."

Lucas lets out a sob, bunching Eliott's shirt in his hands. Another sob ripples through his body; another, another.

"You're safe now," Eliott whispers. "You're here. You're okay. God loves you. I love you. Your maman loves you. We all love you so much, Lucas. You're alive and you're so loved."

Lucas cries harder, but Eliott can feel him smiling against his chest, hear his relieved sighs between sniffles and sobs. He smooths soothing circles into Lucas's back, holds him as closely as he can, waiting for Lucas's tears to dry, but almost hoping they won't. It's nice here, tucked away in a corner of the church; the stained glass window spilling heavenly light on them, all the bad memories that live in this place being slowly burned and faded away like incense, Lucas in Eliott's arms and Eliott in Lucas's. It's calm, tranquil, peaceful. All the cold stone and lifeless statues have been chipped away, only leaving the warmth you're supposed to feel from holiness, from sacredness. The warmth of love, understanding, safety, life. Eliott could stay here forever, knowing it means that Lucas will be safe in his arms, and that they can just exist. They don't have to be anything or mean a certain thing to each other. They're together, and they love each other, and they're meant to be close to each other. Eliott has always known that, but now Lucas does, too.

But soon, Lucas isn't trembling with sobs anymore. He's breathing deeply, easily. Eliott actually thinks Lucas has fallen asleep for a moment, but Lucas speaks when Eliott is about to check.

"Eliott?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Can we go to the hospital now?" he asks. "My hand is killing me. I think it's broken."

Eliott looks down as Lucas pulls away slightly, revealing his hand. Scarlet blood is slicked all over it, gushing from his knuckles. And if Lucas's hand is broken, the blood is covering up any bruising. Eliott's stomach turns at the sight, nodding hurriedly. "Okay. Can you get up?"

Lucas nods, slowly rising to his feet. There's blood all over his pure white shirt, and when Eliott looks down at his shirt, his is, too. Somehow, these sights make him feel nauseous, too, but he manages to force the bile down. He rises, too, guiding Lucas down the stairs and out of the church.

Luckily, Eliott is able to drive from the church to the hospital. Eliott goes a little faster than he should, but it's still fairly early, so the roads aren't too busy.

When they're nearly there, Eliott looks over at Lucas and sees him cradling his injured hand close to his chest, his eyes closed. He watches for a moment as the stains on Lucas's shirt get darker, and he involuntarily pushes the gas pedal a little further forward.

"I'm not dying, Eliott," Lucas mutters, almost chuckling. "You don't have to speed to get me to the hospital."

Hearing Lucas joke puts Eliott slightly at ease, and he lets his foot slightly off the gas. He exhales slowly.

Everything is going to be okay.

They arrive at the hospital about five minutes later, and their first priority (besides Lucas's hand, of course) is to call their mothers. They'd be going to mass soon, and when they realize that their sons aren't there and that Lucas's car is gone is a recipe for panic and chaos. Eliott will have to use the hospital payphone of course, he doesn't have a potentially broken hand.

"But what am I gonna tell them?" Eliott frets as they wait for someone to take Lucas back. "They're going to ask what happened, and I can't tell them you punched the church wall."

"I don't know," Lucas shrugs. "But, I'm pretty sure a bit of my blood is on the wall so maybe we should just tell the truth. Well, not the whole truth."

"How much do I tell them, then?" Eliott asks.

"Say the empty church got to my head and I started panicking and I punched the wall," Lucas suggests. "That's all true."

"Okay," Eliott nods, writing out a script in his head. "What if your maman gets upset?"

"She's going to, Eliott," Lucas sighs. "That's how she is. The best thing to do is tell her a few times that I'm okay, and that we're at the hospital and someone is taking care of me. If she says she'll be coming down here, don't tell her not to. If she's here with me, it'll make her feel better."

Eliott nods again. "My maman will probably want to come down here, too."

Lucas nods. "A Lallemant-Demaury party at the hospital," he chuckles lightly.

Eliott chuckles, too, his head thudding lightly against the wall. He sighs deeply, and Lucas does, too, next to him. He looks over and Lucas's eyes are closed again, bursts of pain flashing across his face. "Are you sure you're okay, Lucas?" Eliott asks again for the twentieth time in the last hour.

Lucas nods, opening his eyes. "It'd be nice if someone would see me already so they can fix me up and then I can sleep. I forgot how exhausting attacks like that are. I could sleep for a week, I think."

Eliott opens his mouth to reply, but someone calling Lucas's name interrupts him. Lucas sighs in relief, rising to his feet.

"I'll go ahead and call our mamans," Eliott tells him as he leaves. "Get better, okay?"

Lucas smiles at him over his shoulder as he follows the nurse down the hall.

Eliott watches Lucas disappear into a room, letting out another deep sigh. He hopes Lucas's hand won't be as badly hurt as it seems like it could be. He hopes Lucas will remember everything Eliott told him today, that it won't be lost in the fog of panic. He hopes that today is a turning point for Lucas, that he can actually start healing, that he can nurture his heart the way it needs to be.

Eliott smiles to himself as he stands up, feeling cold coins on his fingertips as he fishes through his pockets. Now's the hard part: calling their mamans.

august 14th, 1968

10:58

caen, france

"I still don't know how you managed to punch a stone wall and walk away with barely a fracture," Eliott teases, noticing how nervous Lucas seems. They're sitting in the waiting room of the psychiatric office with Madame Lallemant. It's a dreary day today, heavy with the humidity of a coming storm, making the usually warm office not as welcoming as it has been before. And, of course, that doesn't ease any of Lucas's worries.

Lucas smiles weakly at Eliott's comment, but it doesn't linger. He's gone back to his old habit, even with an injured hand. His right hand is clasped over his left, rather than the other way around, and he doesn't squeeze as hard as he usually does. Eliott's noticed that if he squeezes the slightest bit too hard he winces, exhaling sharply.

"Are you sure you don't want me in there with you, mon cherie?" Madame Lallemant asks kindly, placing her hand on Lucas's shoulder.

Lucas pauses a moment, then nods. "Yes, Maman," he sighs. "I'll be okay."

"Would you want Eliott to go with you?" she asks, looking at Eliott.

Lucas looks at Eliott, too, and there's something in his eyes that Eliott can't quite read. He sighs, then shakes his head. "I'll be okay."

Eliott finds himself smiling, pride flitting softly in his chest like a heartbeat. "Dr. Garnier is really easy to talk to, Lucas," he says. "He's really good at what he does. He'll help you a lot."

Lucas smiles, too, exhaling slowly.

"Lucas?" Dr. Garnier's voice calls as he steps into the waiting room. He smiles when he sees them all, approaching them. "You're his mother, I presume?" he asks Madame Lallemant, holding out his hand.

"Yes, sir," she smiles, shaking his hand. "Madeleine."

"Nice to meet you, Madeleine," he smiles back. "And Lucas, nice to meet you as well," he says, shaking Lucas's hand now. "What happened to your other hand?" he asks, staring at Lucas's injured hand.

"It's a bit of a long story," Lucas replies shyly.

"We can talk about it once we're alone," Dr. Garnier dismisses. He looks over at Eliott, smiling wider. "It's good to see you again, Eliott. How are you?"

"I'm well," Eliott nods, smiling back.

"You don't need to see me today, either?" Dr. Garnier asks.

Eliott shakes his head. "Just Lucas."

"Very well," Dr. Garnier nods. "Are you ready, Lucas?"

Lucas nods, standing. He says a quick goodbye to Madame Lallemant and Eliott before following Dr. Garnier to his office.

Once they hear the door shut behind them, Madame Lallemant sighs deeply, almost shakily.

"I always worried he would end up like me," she says quietly, biting her nails.

"What do you mean?" Eliott asks, his heart aching for her at her words.

"Sick," she replies, thin and tired. "I don't know if you noticed, you were so young, but… he was different after his father left us. He was able to move on from that, of course, but it changed him more than he admits. He's been becoming more and more like me. He's getting sick."

Maybe it's the exhaustion the past few days have left him with, but tears start filling Eliott's eyes. He shakes his head weakly, fights back the tears. "Lucas is strong. He's just not as strong as he usually is right now. He's not sick."

"You haven't seen him the last two years, Eliott," Madame Lallemant replies fraily. "Nightmares, these… spells where he's panicked beyond belief and I can't calm him down… The whole time I was waiting for him to break like I have before. He never did, but… He came so close so many times. He…" A tear rolls down her cheek, then, but she quickly wipes it away. "He started drinking at one point. He would be gone all night but then I would see him at the table at breakfast every morning like nothing ever happened. Like he'd been sound asleep in his bed all night instead of drinking himself dizzy."

Eliott's eyes are wide, his mouth dry. "He was drinking?" he asks quietly, his voice almost not coming out.

"He stopped when he met Chloé," she replies quickly, seeing Eliott's worry. "And even if he hadn't, I was planning on sitting him down and talking to him about it. Back then, I was worried the drinking would have the same effect on him that it did on his father. He was already so much like me, I didn't want him turning into his father, too. But after Chloé, he was almost himself again. He still had nightmares sometimes, but they were only once in a blue moon, really. He wasn't gone all night anymore. And at breakfast, his eyes were sparkling and alive, not glazed over because he's still the slightest bit drunk. He would talk to me, tell me about his day, tell me about all these plans he had with Chloé," she smiles widely, chuckles lightly. But she bites her lip, looking down the hallway where Dr. Garnier's office is. "Now he's not talking to me again. He's going out at night again, but he's never out too late, so I don't think he's drinking again. I don't know what's wrong with him. He's my son and I don't know what's wrong with him. I'm his mother. I'm all he has and he won't turn to me anymore."

Eliott stands, quickly moving to the seat Lucas was sitting in as Madame Lallemant cries harder. He places a careful arm around her shoulder, takes a moment to gather himself before offering any words of comfort.

"He's learning right now, Madame Lallemant," he begins. "He's learning how to rely on people. He's getting the help he needs to do that right now as we speak. He's talking with Dr. Garnier, and the more he talks, the easier it'll get. He needs time. It's painful, but that's all you can give him right now. Give him time and space and make sure he knows that you're there for him when he's ready. And, thankfully, that's all he needs."

Madame Lallemant nods, breathing deeply and wiping away her tears. "Okay," she sighs, nodding. "Okay."

"He's going to be okay," Eliott promises, and this time, his voice doesn't waver. "He's going to go off to school and become the doctor he's always wanted to be, and he's going to be married, and he's going to be the happiest man in the world. He's meant to be successful and happy and the most wonderful person we've ever met."

"He is," she grins, nodding. "He is."

Eliott grins back, giving her shoulder a gentle, comforting squeeze. He waits patiently for her breath to even out, for her tears to dry.

"I never thanked you," Madame Lallemant says before Eliott can think of a way to pick the conversation back up. "For saving him that day. And I never apologized either, for the way I acted when you came to visit him."

Eliott shakes his head. "You don't have to apologize," he dismisses. "It was so long ago."

"You're like a son to me, Eliott," she cuts in. "How could I not apologize to my son?"

Eliott smiles, getting emotional again, nodding once. "I didn't know how to tell you I almost lost him," he shrugs. "I don't think I'd fully processed it anyway. I wouldn't have been able to talk about it."

"I understand," she nods. "I just remember them starting to take his shirt off, and there were all these bruises on his chest…"

A wave of nausea washes over Eliott for a moment, but he's able to keep himself steady.

"The doctor and the nurses all looked at each other, like they were having a conversation without saying a word. One of the nurses started feeling all over his chest, then he stopped at one spot, saying that one of his ribs was cracked. And the doctor nodded and asked me if my son was unresponsive before we brought him here," her voice catches, and she takes a moment, breathing deeply. "And I asked him if he meant dead, and he nodded. And I said I didn't know, because I wasn't there when it happened, but you were. So he sent someone to find you and ask you about it."

Eliott nods, the memories briefly passing through his mind.

"I think I was in shock," she shrugs. "First, you run in telling me Lucas needed to go to the hospital because he almost drowned. Then, not even thirty minutes later, someone asks me how long my baby boy was dead for," her voice breaks again, but she keeps talking. "I think I felt guilty, too. I had no way of knowing it was happening, of course, but I wouldn't have been there in his final moments. I wouldn't have been able to tell him how much I love him one more time. I couldn't remember the last thing I had said to him. It had been almost a full day between that last night and the moment you came running in. I was… I was such a mess."

"It's okay," Eliott says softly.

"I need you to know that I was never mad at you, or upset with you, or anything like that," she adds. "If it weren't for you, I would've had to bury my son. It was simply too much for me to handle. Just the thought of it. Everything was happening so quickly and—"

"It's okay, Madame Lallemant," Eliott repeats, a little louder. "And I forgive you. I know how much you love Lucas. I've felt how overpowering and all-encompassing a mother's love is. That's all it was. After nearly losing him, you loved him even more than you have before."

Madame Lallemant is quiet for a moment, smiling with teary eyes. "You really do have Noémie's heart, Eliott," she says quietly. "So… full and pure."

Eliott bites his lip to keep from smiling to wide.

"And you look just like Eduard did when we were all younger," Madame Lallemant adds, a notable sadness in her voice now. "I wonder how your mother stands it sometimes, you know. Seeing so much of him in you."

Eliott's smile fades, and his lower lip remains caught beneath his teeth. He nods weakly, looking down at his lap. "If I had a penny for every time someone's said that to me…" he mumbles, shaking his head now. He doesn't think Madame Lallemant heard him.

"He was about your age when he volunteered for the military," she continues. "Imagine, a boy as young as you are right now going off to war…" she trails off, shaking her head. "I pray for a lot of things every day and night, and one of them is that you and Lucas will never have to go through what your fathers went through."

"The war killed Papa," Eliott thinks aloud. He doesn't know where the thought came from, only that it ended up on the tip of his tongue. "It doesn't matter that it took over 20 years for it to kill him. It did."

Madame Lallemant places her hand over his, squeezing it gently. "I know, Eliott," she says softly. "I know."

She drops her hand, and Eliott pulls his arm away. He occupies his hands with the hem of his shorts, absentmindedly tracing the seams. The small curves of each stitch are comforting, steady and constant like a heartbeat. He doesn't mind the silence between him and Madame Lallemant, either. It's not quite comfortable, but it's not intrusive, either. He keeps tracing seams, keeps himself occupied.

Outside, rain begins to pour gently, tapping almost rhythmically on the pavement, on the asphalt. Eliott wishes he could hear the sound of the rain as it falls on the ocean right now. It always sounds different accompanied by the waves, like black and white keys on a piano being played at the same time. Maybe him and Lucas can listen to it when they get home, if Lucas is feeling up to it. Maybe Lucas can memorize the combination of black and white keys and hold it gently in his hands until it's written in the lines of his palms, his fingertips. Then maybe he can play it whenever they miss the sound, or whenever they don't want to go out into the rain themselves. Eliott smiles at the thought, at another secret him and Lucas can keep until later.

A door opens down the hall, and Lucas steps out first, the picture of relief. He smiles as Dr. Garnier steps out and pats him on the shoulder, easy and comfortable. Lucas's smile widens when he looks over and sees Eliott and Madame Lallemant, waving at them as he walks a little faster. Eliott notices faint tearstains on Lucas's cheeks as he approaches them, and a tint of pink at the corner of his eyes, but he's smiling still and breathing easily.

"How was it, mon cherie?" Madame Lallemant asks, pulling her son into a tight hug.

"Good, Maman," he replies, kissing her cheek. "I needed it."

"You're feeling better?" she smiles, wiping the stray tears from his face.

Lucas nods. "Much better."

"If it's all right with you, Madame," Dr. Garnier begins. "I'd like to see him again next week. But, of course, we can have him back whenever you're available."

Madame Lallemant nods. "Of course. We should be okay for the same time next week."

"Great," Dr. Garnier smiles. "It was nice meeting you, Madame," He turns to Eliott then, holding out his hand. "It was nice to see you again, too, Eliott. Remember to call if you need anything at all, okay?"

Eliott shakes Dr. Garnier's hand, smiling back warmly. "I will."

"Drive safe, okay?" Dr. Garnier says, waving goodbye as he turns on his heel and walks back down the hallway.

Eliott shifts his gaze over to Lucas, and their eyes meet. He relaxes when he sees Lucas smile, take a step closer to him.

"Thank you, Eliott," Lucas says. "For telling me to do this."

"You're welcome," Eliott returns, nodding.

"Do you and your maman want to join us for lunch?" Lucas asks. "Maman always buys too much food and we just end up throwing it away. It'll be like the old days, too."

Eliott grins, nodding. "I'd love to. And I'm sure Maman would love to join, too."

Lucas grins, too, bowing his head. His grin has shrunk to half of a smile when he looks back up. "Let's go."

august 16th, 1968

18:34

caen, france

Since he came home from the institution, Eliott helps his mother with the dishes almost every night. She reassures him she can do them herself on the days where his mood was lower than usual, but for the past few weeks they've been able to do them together.

It's comforting to Eliott, doing something so casual and mundane with his mother. They talk about what their days were like, or whatever random thoughts come to their mind. Lately, his mother has been talking about all the TV shows she's been watching. Eliott hasn't seen any of them, but he lets his mother explain every character and every plotline because it always makes her smile, makes her eyes light up.

"Have you talked to Lucas recently?" she asks tonight, a hopeful yet relaxed look on her face.

Eliott shakes his head. "Not since we had lunch with them the other day. He told me right before we left that he was going up to Paris for a couple of days to tour his school."

"He'll be starting his first semester soon, won't he?" she replies, cleaning a spot on a plate that Eliott missed.

"Beginning of September, I think," Eliott nods. "Hopefully he'll find someone that can help him like Dr. Garnier while he's there."

"I'm sure there's plenty of people in Paris that can help him," his mother smiles, but it begins to fade from her face as a beat of silence hangs between them. "I just feel bad that you two just reconciled and now he has to go to school."

"It's okay, Maman," Eliott reassures her. "We'll write letters. He'll be here for the holidays. This isn't goodbye for us."

"But you'll miss him," she says, rather quietly.

"Of course I'll miss him," Eliott agrees, shrugging. "But I know that he'll miss me, too."

His mother smiles again, sighing contentedly. "You know, Ellie, Papa always said that God gives us people we're meant to fall in love with. But I think He also gives us best friends, someone we love in a different way, but we love them with a love just as powerful as the romantic kind. I think God meant for you two to be best friends."

"Was Papa your best friend, too?" Eliott asks, unable to help but think the two loves could be intertwined. "Or was he just the person you were meant to love?"

She considers, tears filling her eyes. "He was both," she nods. She fidgets with her wedding band, smoothing her finger over it. "He was both."

"I think I've found someone who's both, too," Eliott begins, not stumbling over a single word. He remembers saying the truth resting on the tip of his tongue to his father's grave, remembers the way saying it aloud reminded him that he'll never know if his father's love was unconditional. He remembers Lucas's voice echoing hauntingly in the empty chapel as he says they could never be just friends again, as he says that he loves him, always has loved him, will never stop loving him. He remembers how much he kept from his mother whenever she asked him what had happened with Lucas. He wonders how much his world will change all over again once those fateful words leave his lips.

"You have?" his mother asks after a moment, her face unreadable.

Eliott nods, tries to breathe but his chest is too tight. Somehow, the words strangle out of his throat: "I love Lucas, Maman."

"Oh," breathes, her eyes flitting as they must be scanning through memory after memory. She looks back at Eliott after a moment, softening when she sees his tense, nervous expression. "Is… that why you were so upset when you came home? You love him, but he's in love with Chloé."

Eliott nods weakly. "And because we were together. Before I had to go to the institution. I thought we were still together, but somewhere along the way it ended without me knowing. I came home, and it was over."

His mother blinks, shaking her head slightly. "How long were you together? When did you…"

"About a month and a half before Papa died," Eliott replies, his voice growing thin and weak. "Not very long at all, since after that night we just wrote letters. But that month and a half held some of the best days of my life, Maman. Because he was mine and I was his. Because he loved me and I loved him, too."

"Does a part of him still love you?" she asks quietly, watching for any reaction from Eliott that says she's crossed a line, asked the wrong question.

"I don't know how much of his whole it takes up," Eliott sighs, shrugging. "But there is a part of him that does. He's… He's told me so. That he still loves me."

"Does Madeleine know about this?" his mother continues, subconsciously looking in the direction of the Lallemants' house.

Eliott looks too, his heart sinking as the answer comes to his mind. "I don't think so."

Tears spring in his mother's eyes again. "Did… Papa know about this?"

Eliott instinctually bites down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He shakes his head as he waits for the lump in his throat to dissolve. It never does. "No," he chokes out. He realizes the lump in his throat is the memory of telling the truth to a stone. It claws at his throat, scratches behind his eyelids. "He never knew. I never got to tell him…" He trails off, a sob stopping his voice.

A tear rolls down his mother's cheek, becomes lost in the crease of her wobbling frown. "Then tell me, honey," she sobs. "Tell me. Tell me what you never got to tell him."

The lump, the memory in his throat seems to burst, filling his chest and mouth with a burning, bitter taste. He almost chokes on it, but he's able to take a deep, steadying breath. "I'm queer, Maman," he repeats from that day at the cemetery, the first time living ears will hear him say the words. "My heart's stammered for girls before, but it can skip a beat for boys, too. My heart can fall in love with anyone I think, but it's loved Lucas above all else. It loves him because he's beautiful and stubborn and wonderful and paper-thin and warm. I've… I've loved him my whole life, I think. I think I'll love him forever."

"Even after everything that's happened?" his mother asks, still quiet, hesitant. "Even still?"

"Even still," Eliott nods, his voice clearing enough to make the words sound as resolute and sure as they feel on his tongue. He holds his breath once they leave his mouth, though, his heart bracing, steadying itself against his ribcage. He can't bear that awful weight he felt at the cemetery again. He can't.

But his mother smiles, ear to ear, a new sun appearing and shining in her eyes. She lifts her hands to cradle her son's face, wipe away his tears. This only makes Eliott cry harder—the warmth of her hands, her love. He places her hands on top of hers, holds them as tightly as he can.

"My sweet Ellie," she sighs, her voice thick with tears now, too. "There's nothing else in this world I love more than you."

A sob bursts like joy from Eliott's throat, choking him with the refrain of a majestic orchestra. He drops his hands and envelops his mother in his arms, wishing he'll never have to let her go. She slowly guides him to the floor as his knees become weak with relief, keeping him safe close to her chest.

"I'll never forget," she begins, running her hands through his hair. "The day Papa and I went to the doctor and he told me I was pregnant. We'd been trying for over three years to have a baby, and suddenly we had one. I squeezed Papa's hand and looked down at my belly and my heart burst like it never had before. You were the smallest you'd ever be and my love for you was bigger than my body will ever be. And it was immediate. The love I had for the baby I was carrying. The love I had for you. And it keeps growing. The day you were born, and I held you and looked at your sweet, little face for the first time and you were real and you were mine. The day you learned to walk and talk and sing and play. Every birthday and Christmas. Every drawing you've ever given me, every smile. My love for you grows every single day. It could never shrink, let alone disappear completely. Especially in a single moment. There's nothing you could ever do to make me stop loving you."

Eliott's tears keep running down his face, staining his mother's shirt. "What about Papa?" he asks, his voice muffled.

"I wish you could've known just how much he loved you, honey," she replies, close to sobbing now, too. "Every time he got sick, he would get scared that it was his time and that he would leave you. He was always afraid he wouldn't get to say goodbye to you. That night… He was begging everyone who would listen that he needed to see his boy one last time, before God took him home. Every doctor, every nurse, random people passing by his room. He couldn't bear the idea of never seeing you again. If you had had the chance to tell him, I think he would love you even more for being so brave and so yourself."

Another sob escapes Eliott's throat, his mother's words replacing the memory of the silence of the cemetery. He urges the words to echo in his mind, to keep filling the silence, to keep reminding himself of the fact that he was blessed with two best parents he could've asked for. He reminds himself to never forget that he is loved, despite everything.

"I'm so happy you trusted me enough to tell me, Eliott," his mother says, kissing the top of his head. "I'm just so proud of you. You'll always be my baby boy."

"Thank you, Maman," Eliott replies, his voice flooded with tears of joy. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too," his mother returns, pulling away and helping him to his feet. "Let me make you some tea, honey."

"We just did dishes," Eliott replies, slightly fatigued now.

"I'll just need the kettle and a cup," she dismisses, turning around to give him a kind, reassuring smile. "It won't be the end of the world if I use those."

Eliott returns the smile, sitting at his usual place at the table. He watches her make the tea, the way she treats everything so carefully and so lovingly. He's overwhelmingly glad his doubts about her were so wrong he wonders where they came from in the first place. The whistling of the kettle doesn't make him jump like it usually does.

She sets the tea in front of him, the teabag already steeping and curling in the nearly boiling water. He wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth becoming softer when his mother moves her hands on top of his. She squeezes lightly before pulling away, sitting across from him.

"What's happening between you and Lucas?" she asks quietly. "Is he going to stay with Chloé?"

Eliott bobs the teabag, shrugging. He doesn't want to recount what Lucas had said about her in the church earlier that week, so he comes up with an innocent lie. "Probably. I don't blame him. I never could."

"But he loves you," his mother replies. "He loves you the way you love him?"

Eliott nods. "I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous it is for people like us, Maman. He doesn't want to fight the rest of his life."

"Do you?" she asks, even quieter now.

Eliott bites his lip, looks at the darkening liquid in his cup instead of his mother's eyes. "I don't know," he answers honestly. "For Lucas, I would. But I can't force him into a battle he doesn't want to fight just because I want him to. That's not what loving someone is. It's fighting with them, not for them."

"The people we love can only fight for so long," his mother replies. "We need to let them rest. That's when we fight for them. When they can't fight for themselves." She sighs, taking Eliott's hand again. He looks up, his heart softening when he sees the earnest, passionate curl to her lip as she continues. "Honey, maybe… Maybe Lucas needs to rest right now. Maybe soon he'll be ready to fight again. And if he is, he'll find you and stay by your side as long as he can."

Eliott smiles, squeezing her hand. "Maybe."

His mother smiles back, tears reappearing in her eyes. "Don't give up on him. Even if he doesn't love you the way you want him to, you still need each other. You still complete each other. You're still best friends."

Eliott nods. "I won't, Maman. I promise."

"He needs to hear you promise that to him, too, Eliott," she tells him. "Especially after the week he's had…"

Eliott nods again. "I know." He sighs, looking over his shoulder to stare at the small part of Lucas's house he can see through the window. "I know."

"There's a reason you were able to save him that day," his mother continues. "And there's a reason he was able to save you that night."

"I know," Eliott repeats one more time, remembering him saying the same thing to Lucas in the chapel. "But I'm not sure if Lucas knows has fully realized that yet."

"All the more reason to talk to him," his mother smiles. "There's still so much more he needs to know and you need to tell him those things. As soon as you can."

Eliott looks back again at Lucas's house. "Should I go over there now? See if he's home?"

"I think it's worth it to try, honey," she nods.

"Okay," Eliott nods back, rising from his seat. He sighs when he sees the pride in his mother's eyes, pride of his own filling his chest. "I don't know what I would do without you, Maman."

His mother's watery smile widens as she rises, too, giving her son another tight, loving hug. "I love you, Ellie."

"I love you, too, Maman."

Then, a knock at the door. They both jump, pull away from each other's embrace.

"I'll answer it," Eliott tells her, crossing to the front of the house.

A laugh nearly escapes his throat when he opens the door and sees Lucas standing there, hopeful.

"I was… I was just about to come and see you," Eliott says, letting himself chuckle.

Lucas chuckles, too, his eyes crinkling. He pauses, his smile fading slightly. He looks towards the sea, taking a deep breath. He looks back at Eliott. "I know it's not Sunday, but… Do you want to build some sandcastles?"

august 16th, 1968

19:10

caen, france

Eliott lets Lucas lead him down the beach, making sure he doesn't force him closer to the shore than he's comfortable with. He watches Lucas, too, trying to pay as much attention to his body language as he can. Lucas doesn't seem anxious at first, only wound up slightly, but his nerves seem to build with every step. His eyes keep flitting between the sand beneath his feet and the horizon ahead of him, most likely trying to keep himself from going too far, too. He's squeezing his hand again, right over left. He'll stop occasionally—look beneath, ahead, behind, at Eliott—but then keep walking. He walks a little slower each time, his shoulders drawing further and further inward, his body close to collapsing in on itself.

"We don't have to do this, Lucas," Eliott says, almost begging. "I can tell you're anxious. You don't have to do this for me."

:Lucas stops again, turning around. He bites his lip, keeping his eyes on Eliott's as they plead trust me, please. Lucas must've seen the recognition cross Eliott's face because the plea is gone with a blink. "Here's a good spot," he replies, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Eliott takes a deep breath, nodding. He sits next to Lucas, who's already started gathering handfuls of sand. Eliott watches the streams of gritty glass flowing from between his fingers, watches them catch the light of the setting sun and send out a burst of crying, white light. He feels the urge to find every grain of it and hold it in the palms of his hands, let them bury themselves in the lines there so they'll know they're safe. He knows, too, how it feels to slip from Lucas's grasp, if only for a moment. Maybe empathy is what's giving him that urge, too.

Lucas isn't looking at him. He's studying the piles of sand he's built into a small mound, the piles currently melting in his hands. His mouth is open as if he's about to say something, but a minute or two passes by and not even the smallest sound comes out. He looks out at the sea, and Eliott can't see his face.

"I can still taste it sometimes," Lucas says. "The ocean. Filling my lungs and…"

Eliott doesn't know what to say. He sighs, debating whether he should reach out and place his hand on Lucas's shoulder. But Lucas turns and looks at him again, his face tired, reassuring him that he doesn't need Eliott to say anything at all.

Lucas's lips are chapped, Eliott notices. Pink as can be, but cracking. Eliott remembers all the times he kissed those lips, all the times those lips formed the words that his heart and mind needed more than anything. He imagines those lips kissing Chloé, kissing a bottle or a glass—

"Your maman told me about the drinking," Eliott blurts, the image too strong in his mind to simply ignore it.

Lucas's hands open completely, the sand falling with a dull thud. His head snaps towards Eliott's direction, his eyes wide but never meeting Eliott's. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his eyelids falling slightly as he nods. "I hated it, but it made me forget everything for a few hours. And it was easier to kiss girls when I could barely tell they were girls."

"But you stopped because of Chloé," Eliott replies. "Right?"

"Technically yes, but not really in the way you'd think," Lucas shrugs as he trails off. "She made sure I never went to pubs or parties. She made sure we went places where it was hard for me to get a drink. I'm glad she did, don't get me wrong. God knows, I could be dead right now if she didn't. But she wasn't as good of a distraction as the drinks were. I just latched onto the fact that she probably saved my life, and how can I not love someone who's done that for me? What kind of heartless… thing would I be if I didn't?"

Eliott bites his tongue as the only logical question he could come up with appears at the back of his mind. You really loved me, right? He knows the answer, but the doubt and discouragement in Lucas's voice makes him second-guess, if only for a moment.

"You're not heartless," Eliott says instead, choosing comfort over query. "Your heart just doesn't belong to her."

Lucas shakes his head. "It can't."

Eliott nods, almost hesitantly. "It can't."

"You don't have to be afraid to talk about her, Eliott," Lucas sighs, pity written in his voice. "Or the way I am. Sometimes I feel like you're more afraid of everything than I am."

Eliott is speechless. "L-Lucas, what—"

"I think we need to stop dancing around what happened to us. What we are," Lucas continues when Eliott trails off. "We're queers. I drowned, and I was dead. You tried to kill yourself. You have manic depressive disorder. There's words we can use, Eliott, and I think it's time we start using them."

Eliott nods weakly, slightly overwhelmed by Lucas's sudden conviction.

Lucas sighs deeply, composing himself. "I'm sorry if I sound harsh, but… I've been thinking a lot since Sunday, since my appointment with Dr. Garnier… There's a reason you were able to save me that day, Eliott."

Eliott can't fight the smile that appears on his face. "And there's a reason you were able to save me that night."

Lucas smiles, his eyes brightening as he nods. "Yeah. There's a reason we're both alive right now. I don't know what the reason is, but maybe we could spend some time looking for it."

"How will we?" Eliott asks, trying to sound brave. But Lucas is right. He is afraid.

Lucas chuckles, shaking his head. "Where do I begin," Eliott hears him mutter. He looks up, speaking louder now. "I have some things to tell you first."

Eliott shifts uncomfortably, nodding. "Okay."

"I talked to Chloé," Lucas begins. "I told her that I'm queer."

Eliott's eyes widen. "Oh," he replies dumbly.

"And I told her that I'm still in love with you."

Eliott feels pink creep along his cheekbones, reaching the tips of his ears. "Oh."

Warm blossoms bloom on Lucas's cheeks, too, but he somehow manages to make them wilt and disappear. "Eliott, she was relieved."

Eliott's jaw drops now. "What do you mean?"

"She's a queer, too," Lucas replies, disbelief and amusement mingling strangely in his voice. "Chloé is queer, like us. She's in love with her best friend, Maria."

Eliott laughs, too, clumsily. "So?"

"We've called off the engagement," Lucas sighs in relief, gathering more sand in his hands.

"Have you told your maman?" Eliott asks cautiously.

Lucas's shoulders tense; barely, but enough for Eliott to notice. "Not yet," he answers quietly as his shoulders relax. "I thought about just telling her that Chloé is queer, but that'd be terrible of me. I don't know if I'm ready to tell her the truth."

"It's okay if you aren't," Eliott reassures him, digging his hands in the sand next to Lucas's.

"I know," Lucas shrugs, smiling sadly. "I don't want to live the rest of my life without telling her. I know I would regret it." He glances at Eliott, then, silently asking for confirmation.

Eliott nods, unable to admit out loud that not coming out to his father is quite possibly the biggest regret he'll ever have. His throat is starting to swell with tears again.

"She won't be here forever," Lucas says quietly, trying to knit his fingers to where no sand would slip through them. "No matter how much I beg God that she will."

Eliott reaches, cupping his hands beneath Lucas's to catch any falling sand. Only a small trickle escapes, but it lands warm and soft onto Eliott's waiting palms. He's careful to keep them directly beneath the stream, refusing to let a single grain touch the ground.

He looks over at Lucas when he feels his eyes on him, his breath catching. There are tears in Lucas's eyes, but they aren't a puddle pooling at his lashline. They're like stars scattered in the night sky; freckles of light set randomly yet perfectly in place.

"Thank you," Lucas whispers, as if the words were sealing his final breath.

Gravity rubs circles into Eliott's back, gently pushing him forward. Eliott lets himself fall, feeling heat rise and bloom like a heartbeat as he draws closer and closer to Lucas. He only resists the pull when their lips aren't even a breath apart.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice a note away from silence.

"Yes," Lucas responds, his own voice breaking. "Please."

Eliott tilts his head until his lips fit perfectly against Lucas's. In that moment, the entire world and every parallel universe fell back into place. It feels like it all had been standing still until now. It's all moving again now, dancing in its natural rhythm as the kiss deepens, broadens.

Both their hands fall open and spill the sand they were holding as they suddenly remember the path they're supposed to be on—weaving through Eliott's hair, standing steady at the curve of Lucas's neck. How could they ever have gotten lost? How could they have ever forgotten the places that were made for them?

Eliott's hands say, forgive me, as they find Lucas's heartbeat. Lucas's hands reply as they kiss Eliott's scalp, there's nothing to forgive, now that we've found each other again.

Eliott remembers him and Lucas's very first kiss feeling like coming home. But after two years, after everything that's happened, Eliott is realizing that first kiss was finding home. The exhilaration and peace of finally having a place you know belongs to you. Finding home comes with tears of joy, breathlessness. This kiss, the one he wishes will never end, was coming home. A sigh of relief, a calming of the heart. You walk through the door and the smell you've become blind to comes rushing back, and that name of home is the only way you can describe it. Everything is the same, exactly how you left it. Safety, familiarity—something bigger, stronger than belonging. Home is everything you can't name but know better than the back of your hand. Kissing Lucas is home.

Lucas must have come to the same conclusion, because the kiss becomes a mess of lip-splitting smiles and knocking teeth. Eliott has never had a kiss like this, and he prays that every time he kisses Lucas from now on he'll have that exact same thought.

Eliott's lips feel weightless, slightly numb when Lucas pulls away to laugh, but feeling explodes in his chest, bubbles in his stomach. He laughs along with Lucas, their music more beautiful and rich than the crashing of the waves could ever be.

They kiss again, but in bursts. Their lips touch, then break apart, touch, break apart. The brief moments where their lips are pressed together are more relieving than the only slightly longer moments of fresh, salty sea air. Soon, the kisses last longer as their laughter dies in their chests, replaced with fuzzy, addicting warmth. They kiss until they need to stop for breath, still never pulling too far away from each other, never quite opening their eyes.

When Eliott finally does open his eyes, the sun has become a golden, crescent moon upon the lip of the sea. The first shadows of night are beginning to touch Lucas and Eliott, bringing the slightest bites of cold with them. Lucas shivers, his eyelids fluttering, his lip trembling.

Eliott pulls him into his embrace, letting his eyes close again. All he wants is to stay here. The world could end just beyond his eyelids and he wouldn't bother to notice. But then again, the world has shrunk into the Lucas-shaped mass quaking in his arms, and he wasn't going to let anyone touch it.

Eliott's heart finally bursts when he hears Lucas whisper, "I missed loving you."

#ttmc #skam france #elu #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #hush bailey #my writing

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stxnsia · 3 years

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“ sometimes being broken isn’t about trying to put things back together like they were before. it’s about picking up what pieces are left and building something new. ”

angst starters etc...

All of this was true. So true. He came here to this plane to begin anew, for the time being. This world where terrors kept themselves to shadow and only striking when needed. Where he took over this cozy home and clutched it’s lack of ghosts and past doings. Not once did he think he could put all of the pieces of his heart back together to aide the build. Only move in and sweep everything else that hurt under a rug far from him. Keep his old identity by becoming new to the idea of this life of peace. Broken self held loosely together by a single silver thread.

Maybe Daniel would wither away, the longer Sorin stared at him. Blinking only when necessary. Would he vanish once he opened his eyes? Proving to be another memory haunting his soul?

“I never liked mosaics. Always thought they were the ugliest of things. Never understood fully why someone would take broken pieces, or purposefully made to look broken, and put it together to create a different picture. I saw such a mural made from broken utensils and glassware. Hated it immediately.” Touch to the pendant hanging so daintily from his neck, “However, I adore stained glass. The brightest of lights so easily dimmed by the colors. Rainbows from one red pane. The way the lead, silver, and copper so tenderly embrace the pieces. Much more than just paste. Holds them as if one would a loved one. You can break it outright and you will find the channel with faint shreds of lead still there.”

Sorin is going on about the workings of the two. To anyone it would seem he is just a middle aged man in the sway of his ramblings. Going on and on. Maybe he was an art professor to mortals walking about, giving lecture on what his preference was. There is purpose here.

“We could make mosaics or stained glass scenes.” Rocking of his ankle as he watches the passerby from the little late night café window, “I guess it really depends on what you can consider your life as, first. Being this broken thing I am. Maybe, just maybe. I can re-meld those lead copper channels with silver instead. Maybe even take a gold to fit together the bits that broke in half. Yourself? What will you make, Daniel?”

#i've held this for a while clearly but #i'm finally happy with it #guacamolloy #feel free to take it and do whatever

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razorblade180 · 4 years

Text

Skirmish pt2

“Seriously!? We can fight?” Nick’s entire mood brightened, but then immediately turned to nerves. “What’s the angle?”

Carmine lightly chuckled. She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around her torso. “No angle, just an apology. I might not have said the kindest words to you. Also I shouldn’t ask for training help then turn someone down. So yes, I’ll fight you.”

“Simple as that huh? Okay, let me know when you’re ready to-”

“Now.”

“NOW!?” They all screamed. Carmine looked at them as if they were the weird ones and nodded. It takes a lot to actually keep her down. Lucas definitely shaved some aura off of her but she had more than enough in the tank to have another skirmish. Carmine gave them a thumbs up.

“Everything is already healed up and fighting below a hundred percent is sorta my thing.

“...”

“Not that I’m underestimating you, honest!” Carmine tried explaining. It was days like these she wished Kovu was around. He typically understood her words.

“Anyways let’s apply the same rules. Swords, semblances, and hand to hand of course. You challenged me so I picked the spot this time.”

“That’s fair. Do me a favor though and choose a place that doesn’t feel like an oven?”

“Actually, I have the perfect place in mind. You might know it.” Carmine snaps her fingers and once again The Void is engulfed by light.

When it eventually fades, the group finds themselves in castle ruins. The walls crumbled slowly and a shattered mosaic scattered light across the room.

“Mom’s battle sight.” Summer said, roaming around. “From when she killed the Arma Gigas.”

“That’s right. In my world Weiss comes here sometimes to get away from it all. Her secret stage is what Weiss calls it. Fitting place for a fight.”

Nick scanned the area. Open space, nice temperature, a certain spiritual charm to it; indeed it was a fitting spot. The others must’ve agreed because the others wasted no time moving towards the broken ceiling, taking a bird’s eye view of the fighters. “Truly a stage fit for our match.”

“I gotta say I’m starting to grow fond of that charisma of yours pretty boy. Nicholas Schnee…”

Carmine pulled out her blade and stabbed it right into the ground. Her hands rested on the hilt and she stood confidently in the middle of the room, letting her crimson aura shine brightly. “Do your best.”

He was scared. Nick didn’t want to admit it but he was actually a bit scared of Carmine at this moment. Was it because she was so calm? So unnervingly confident to the point of choosing a place familiar to his family? Nick drew his blade and looked at it.

A battle of skill huh? Let’s see what I’m made of. To be honest, I might lose instant-

“Hey stupid!”

Nick looked up to see Summer standing up on a broken support pillar. She took her sword and pointed it right at his face. “I’m watching, better not blunder or you’ll never hear the end of it!” Summer stuck out her tongue then smiled. “Kick her butt.”

As far as siblings pep talks go, that one was easily top notch. Carmine could tell Summer was calming his nerves and it had worked. Nicholas slicked his hair back and took his stance. Eyes looked ahead, chin down, back straight, right foot forward, but not too far forward. Mort Froid pointed right at her chest. Carmine couldn’t help but imagine Weiss standing before her.

Nick took one final deep breath. “Little siblings am I right? Once they want something...you gotta give it to them!”

Carmine didn’t see him move. She didn’t even see a glyph, and yet she knew deep down to raise her sword straight in front of her body. Though Carmine didn’t see him, Nick was already in front of her and crashed his blade right where she had raised it. Carmine pushed him off but Nick came right back at her with serious intent to harm. He can’t afford to play nice with an opponent like her.

Nick thrusted his blade at the tip of Carmine’s, then slashed along the middle to knock it away. He followed through the swing by aiming for her face and barely scratching her face before Carmine jumped back. Nick’s left hand flexed and created a glyph behind Carmine that stopped her escape, making her wince the moment the back of her head hit it.

Nick went to sweep her legs from the right but Carmine raised her foot and stopped it dead in its tracks. She raised her blade to return the slash to the face.

He’s open.

Nicholas made a glyph in his left hand and brought it over to the right side of his face. The glyph created the arma gigas blade and blocked Carmine’s strike. He then thrusted it forward and struck right in the middle of her chest. The force of it was enough to send her flying through the glyph that was still behind her.

Nick can’t see my movements like Lucas but he’s faster. Also he seems a bit more experienced; if I knew about the dual wielding then I might’ve asked if I could use my nightstick. But then it wouldn’t be a sword much, and I’d be too tempted to use my scythe.

Carmine manages to flip herself around midair and lands on the stained glass. She kicks off of it, right back towards him with one hand on the hilt and the other on the inside of the curved blade.

Nick crossed his swords together and blocked the attack head on, getting pushed backwards as Carmine’s body forced herself forward against his blade. They kept sliding until Nick’s body hit a wall. He gritted his teeth painfully as he tried to push Carmine back.

Pain shot through his arms and sparks came off their clash. “Damn it! Why are you so..gaaah!” Nick put a glyph under Carmine’s feet and yanked it out from under her like a rug. Carmine lost her balance. Her feet went backwards and Nick slashed upwards to send her sword flying out of her hands. “My turn…”

Nick kneed Carmine in the chin then swung both blades down against her shoulders, earning another wince. His left blade went right while the other went the opposite direction across her body, then did it again in vice versa. The others watched in amazement, except for Summer and Valerie who expected no less.

“Six hits in two seconds. Nick is stepping up his game.” Summer said, a little surprised. Her palms got sweaty and feet started to fidget. “He’s matching my speed now, that jerk. It’s like the only thing I have on him!”

Valerie wanted to comment on the numerous things Summer had over Nick when it comes to fighting but she was too fixated on the boy as well. Unlike with Lucas, Carmine was more on the defensive. Whenever she blocked one sword it meant the other was free to find an opening, and there’s always going to be an opening in a fight. Nick’s greatest strength never came from his swordsmanship, but the ways he mixed up his attacks. Even so, Carmine’s mind seemed to follow a similar thread of logic.

Nick used Mort Froid to swing down at Carmine’s body in order to force her to block, which she did right on time. He then used the gigas sword to strike right at her ribs to expend more air. A failed plan, Carmine quickly grabbed the other sword. Both simultaneously slid their right foot forward and behind each other’s left foot to sweep it but Carmine’s strength edged out Nick’s easily, sending him to the ground and ending up with the older girl’s knee on his chest.

Carmine places the sword lightly against his neck as he turns away from her. Carmine looked a little puzzled. His face was getting red. Was he upset that they did the same thing, or maybe she was heavier than she realized.

“Hey, this doesn’t hurt too bad right? Still breathing fine?”

“Yeah it’s just uhhh, your shirt.” He said, clearly his throat.

“My shirt?” Carmine looked down and realized it was hanging loosely before the way she pinned him. Nick no doubt could see straight down it. Carmine looked back at the blushing boy. He was so calm moments earlier but this seriously froze him up!? Yeah, he was definitely an Arc.

Carmine shook her head out of amazement and disbelief. “I hope you don’t get this distracted in an actual battle?” She chuckled. Carmine didn’t know why but seeing people flustered over things about her like this was always strangely adorable and interesting.

Nick pouted, “I’m way more serious when it matters! I’m even serious now in case you hadn’t noticed.” He motioned his head towards her. Carmine looked over her shoulder to see a glyph with a summoning sword aimed right at her back.

When did he-I didn’t even notice! I don’t remember seeing his hands move at all either. Even in the midst of combat it looked like Nick was always moving towards another step towards getting the edge. His parents must be proud for sure.

“You know….” Carmine bit her lip. “I’m willing to call this a draw if you don’t wanna continue?”

“Regretting not resting up?” He was a bit bitter she chose that option.

“No, I am just satisfied with things I’ve learned today and being able to fight such a unique opponent.”

“But I didn’t even get to see you use your semblance yet.”

Carmine leaned down lower and whispered in his ear so quietly that not even Veronica could hear. All of them watched curiously until Carmine finally got off of Nick and helped him up. He looked a little conflicted.

“Do we have a deal?” Carmine asked, almost pleadingly.

Nick rubbed his hand through his hair and sighed, “fine, we can put this test of swords on hold. On one condition! Show us a glimpse of what you’re really made of.”

Carmine thought about it for a moment. It would be the least of what she could do since he’s cooperating. “Okay, sure.”

“Uhh excuse me!?” Sienna chimed in. “What’s going on?

“Nick has been kind enough to let this fight be on pause in return that I get serious for a moment. Honestly the next time we fight, maybe we’ll both be able to cut loose without restrictions. I’d be honored to have a true grudge match against you.”

“I might just take you up on that. We’ll consider this the warm up then.” Nick summoned the gigas sword to his hand and picked up his actual blade. He then gave Yujin a nod that signaled the girl to pull out Carmine’s nightstick that she was still holding onto for safe keeping. Reluctantly, Yujin tossed the intriguing weapon down to its rightful owner.

“Thank you Yujin. I’m surprised you weren’t tinkering with it.”

“Could you reward my restraint by letting us know what exactly you whispered to Nick?” Her eyes got big with anticipation.

“Sorry, our little secret for now. I promise you’ll all know eventually though.”

Carmine gave her a wink before turning back to Nick; he was already back in his fighting stance. This time with a second sword pointed downwards by his left side.

“Ready when you are Carmine.”

Carmine extended the nightstick and switched her sword to her left hand. She stood up straight with her left side facing more towards him than her right. Carmine had a bit of mixed feelings about this. In now way did she actually want to have a serious fight. It was goofing around, experimenting with new ideas was interesting to say the least. Above all, Carmine didn’t want to hurt Nick in any way. Even if he only remembers this fight while in The Void, she still wanted him to continue growing. He really was starting to grow on her.

“Nick I just want you to know, after eight moves I’ll stop and ask if you want to continue. You’re a good swordsman, a great one actually. I would actually feel bad discouraging you.”

Nick could tell she wasn’t trying to belittle him in anyway, but hearing that was a bit shocking. Was there a specific reason for eight moves only? Why warn him? Did having both weapons really change things that much. This was Carmine, the girl he was actually able to hit several times.

Still he knew better than to let that go to his head. Clearly this would be a different fight. He could already tell her belief in being the strongest wasn’t all talk.

“Okay.” He nodded, slowly. “I appreciate the heads up.”

Carmine’s small smile soon faded. All that was left was near blank expression and eyes as intense as the moon behind her. Nicholas knew in that moment he wasn’t prepared, but he wasn’t about to be scared off so easily. Nothing ventured, nothing gained after all.

No one said a word, or even breathed it seemed. They were too invested in what would happen next. They wanted to know the young woman known as Carmine Arc-Rose, and what made her so different. She put her finger on the trigger of her nightstick and rubbed it slowly. The last thing Nick saw was Carmine point it behind her before a BANG!

It felt like the sound reached his ears after she did. Nick had virtually no time to even blink before those silver eyes were staring into his just a fraction of an inch away. It should’ve been over then. His body should’ve felt some sort of pain anywhere but yet it didn’t. Carmine, she didn’t attack. She only stared at him then calmly walked back to where she stood. Finally she spoke.

“The first move is free. Now then, are your nerves gone?”

Gone!? Nick felt like he might have a heart attack! Using recoil to propel movement wasn’t new in the slightest but was stupidly fast, yet she stopped right in front of him. Still, Nick had a mission. He wanted to see the other seven. He shook his body out and retook his stance.

“Seven more, right?” His voice wavered, yet his eyes held firmly to his desire. Carmine found another reason to like him. With any luck, Garnet would have half of Nick’s spirit.

“Get ready Nick…” she pointed her gun behind her again. This time he didn’t let his nerves get him and crossed his swords right in front of himself as another gunshot went off. He could only see the red tips of Carmine’s hair and her tan scarf turn into a blurry streak that went right at him.

Carmine’s sword crashed right into the guard and left a thunderous noise. She pointed her gun slightly outward from behind her and fired another shot that forced her into a spin. Her blade knocked Mort Froid away and cut right through the gigas sword, making it vanish. The momentum of the spin kept going for another three spins that slashed Nick’s chest, shoulders and then chest again. All faster than he could react to and hadn’t even begun to recover from.

Carmine didn’t give him the chance anyways. Her nightstick connected to the bottom of her sword and the actual entire blade curved down further and locked into place to form her scythe. Carmine swung it past Nick’s legs then pulled the trigger again to pull it against the back of his knees and sweep both legs into the air. Carmine quickly twirled to the right and let the scythe do a full swing tilted up that slammed into his back midair and sent him upward towards the moon.

Seven moves, just like that. Nick wasn’t sure what he was feeling right now as he stared at the moon. Time itself seemed to be in slow motion. He knew it wasn’t and yet everything Carmine just did was so fast that he might as well have been stuck in slow motion. Nick never blinked as he stared upwards, nor did he look at anyone else. His view was eclipsed however in what must’ve been a second. Carmine somehow got above him with her scythe poised to strike as she was silhouetted by the shattered celestial body behind her. Those silver eyes being the only source of light on her in this moment. So this was the difference between them, between her and everyone supposedly. This was Carmine Arc-Rose.

It wasn’t infuriating being outclassed, not like this. They were in a sense, literally worlds apart. Whatever made her this strong was unique to her in every way and yet, Nick knew that wasn’t any excuse. He was an Arc just like her, and would not falter or give in without trying his damndest!

Carmine swung straight down, aiming for the middle of his torso. An easy blow that should’ve connected, but was blocked perfectly by a glyph in that exact spot. Eight strikes, he made it through.

Carmine let out a silent gasp. Huh, he blocked me. Their eyes locked for a moment.

“Should’ve saved your free move.” Nick barely said, before finally starting to fall. Carmine grabbed the edge of the glyph and launched herself downward, catching Nick on the way down. She did a flip to readjust and gently landed on the ground. Carmine couldn’t help but look down into her arms happily to see Nick completely knocked out from exhaustion. A big ol smile right on his face.

“Not bad Nicholas Schnee. Not bad at all.”

Part 1

#rwby #rwbabies #my oc’s #yujin xiao long #summer schnee #nicholas schnee #carmine arc rose #sienna frost #jacquelyn frost #lucas belladonna #val valkyrie #lie tenzen #veronica belladonna

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