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miserymerci · 3 months

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Fluffy February Day 2: Eavesdrop - The Known, The Unknown, The Please Don’t Tell a Soul

@fluffyfebruary

Fandom: Lego Monkie Kid

Characters: MK and Sun Wukong

(Father-son relationship, comfort, attempt at humor)

Summary: Set sometime around S1 E7 (Impossible Delivery), MK finally begins training with Monkey King. The monkeys of Flower Fruit Mountain have a lot to say about their king, however, and MK has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not supposed to know any of it.

“… and for the rest of that month, he couldn’t shake off any of the lice!”

MK was smacked by a tail and bulldozed into the rocks below.

“Oops– didn’t mean to hit you that hard. You alright?”

“Um,” said MK, slouched down in between two rocks that might have been one just a second ago, “yeah. I think so.”

Monkey King smiled, took his hand, and hoisted him up to his feet.

“Shake it off! Steady, now.”

“Guh,” said MK, intelligently. He swayed for a moment. “ Sorry .”

“Aw, it’s all right bud. I have quite the battle prowess, so nothing to be ashamed of.”

MK was pretty sure he would have held it out for at least another ten seconds, but he had just gotten distracted by that voice, was all. He rubbed his ears and looked around.

“–ellooo? Helloooo ?”

“Oh! Sorry, I… wasn’t listening.”

“I know ,” said Monkey King, watching him with a dry expression. “It’s kind of a problem.”

“What is?”

“The listening! You drive me crazy, kid. Let’s take a break.”

MK watched Monkey King kick up his cloud out of nowhere ( he wanted to be able to do that) and lay back on it.

“Monkey King– um, Mister Monkey King Sir ? There’s really no need to tab out for a break. I’m feeling great and pumped up, actually! Could go another round or two. Throw a few punches? Smack a few trees?”

“That’s great,” said Monkey King, not opening his eyes. “But don’t smack the trees. They’ve got monkeys on them.”

MK blinked. He turned over to the closest tree, and for the first time since that training session, he spotted little monkeys watching them from the foliage.

He waved. The baby monkeys squealed and scampered off into their parents’ laps.

“You still want to do things? Go pick some fruit or something,” said Monkey King, startling MK. “For training.”

“Right! Like weights! Building my biceps ,” said MK, as if he was catching on. He wasn’t, really.

“Exactly like that. Now go grab a basket. I’m replenishing my energy .”

Monkey King tilted his head back further, and MK was on his own.

“He hadn’t showered in weeks .”

“ Ick ! And what then, mama?”

MK glanced back at the tree of monkeys, but they were silent as can be. Some even looked at him funny.

Maybe he wasn’t quite on his own.

MK picked out a piece of his hair and blew it into a basket.

“He smelled like a rotten egg! The crows were trying to peck his eyes out, so we had to shove him into the waterfall.”

“Who said that?!” MK snapped, glaring.

“Err,” said Monkey King. “I didn’t say anything. You sure I didn’t hit you too hard?”

“No!”

Monkey King stared at him.

“Oh– I mean– no , you didn’t hit me too hard. I’m young and spry,” said MK, lifting up the basket as if it were some kind of example.

“I’m… sure you are?”

“And I’m going to pick some fruits now.”

“That’s nice, kid.”

“Everything’ll be alright.”

“Knock on wood.”

Monkey King continued staring at MK even as he turned his back and marched away.

“It’s alright, MK. Chill out. S’just a voice. You hear voices all the time in your head. Sometimes they come out of your mouth, sometimes they come out of other people’s mouths. It’s whatever.”

MK reached for the next branch and heaved himself up into a nook between the tree’s bark.

“You know what’s not ‘whatever’? You! Losing your cool to Monkey King like that. Ugh, embarrassing. Don’t be so overbearing. I mean– ancient mystic monkeys need their rest too, right? Err, or maybe dodging responsibilities. He did a lot of that in the stories. Oh, wow, am I a responsibility? Probably.”

He glared at an apricot that was probably laughing at him and plucked its smug face off of its stem. The apricot tossed and turned in his palms. Once he was sure it was worm-free, he dropped it into his empty basket.

“I don’t have to be a responsibility. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself– don’t need to be saved– I mean, being saved is for– well, 'responsibilities'. This successor is self-maintained!”

MK nodded to himself. He looked over the leaves in search of gold, and one apricot offered itself right in front of his face.

“Oh, thanks little apricot,” said MK, taking it.

Apricots had a lot of things: skin, fleshy insides, a seed. Apricots, however, did not have hands to offer themselves with. They also didn’t have eyes, according to everyone else. But MK had been passionately advocating otherwise.

Two monkeys blinked at him.

“You’re not an apricot,” said MK.

“You talk a lot,” said the smaller monkey.

MK squealed and fell out of the tree.

‘THUNK!’

“Oh, look, Child– now you’ve done it!” said a different voice.

“Sorry, Mama…”

Two blurbs blurred in and out of MK’s vision, like the little spots of color MK could never rub out of his eyes.

MK blinked.

“Talking monkeys,” he said, staring at the sky.

The little monkey snorted. “What would you be, then– oW! Mama .”

“Are you okay ? Prince? Hello ?”

One hand waved over MK’s face, small and fuzzy, and MK decided that yeah, no. This was just another mystic monkey thing that he’d have to accept.

“Um, yeah–,” said MK, rubbing his head. He needed literally all of his wits right now. “I’ve survived worse falls– uh, have you always been able to talk?”

“Yes,” said Mama, “but we’re not often understood by humans .”

“Good to know,” said MK, even though he wasn’t really sure if it was.

Mama grabbed the fruit basket with two little hands and handed it over. MK fought the urge to laugh (a tiny monkey picking up a basket– adorable) and thanked her.

“…So were you two the monkeys talking about Monkey King’s lice earlier?”

Child snickered.

“No,” said Child after Mama glared at her, “no, the troop just loves their stories, is all. And their ‘gossip’. Drives the King crazy, but that’s the best part.”

“Monkey King can hear you guys too?”

Mama and Child stared at him with their blank, beady eyes.

“ Alright I get it,” said MK with a wince. “Oh– but if Monkey King can hear monkeys talk, and I can hear monkeys talk… oh… oh! This is so cool ! We’re like… so in sync !”

Child hopped back from where MK was kicking his legs. She glared.

“Of course you’re in sync. You’re the Prince, dummy,” said Child.

MK snorted. “Thanks, but I’m a delivery boy who just-so-happened to pick up an ancient staff weighing roughly seventeen thousand nine hundred sixty-five pounds. HUP!” He flipped up to his feet and stretched.

“What are you even talking about,” said Mama.

“Do you have any other stories about Monkey King?” MK asked. “Well, I already know all the stories, but just in case there’s more I don’t know. Which is unlikely. I’m like… the number one Monkey King fanboy. And you guys are talking monkeys, which is so cool. I– oh.”

The two monkeys were gone.

“Soap is a lovely human invention, though, and Monkey King tried to make his own floral blend. Somehow, he made a balding formula, and his tail wouldn’t grow any fur for weeks.”

Monkey King took the end of the Staff and swung MK to the ground.

“ Very nice! But you gotta keep your eyes on me, bud. Doesn’t do any good if you’re not paying attention to the enemy.”

“That’s unfair. You don’t always look at me ,” said MK, taking Monkey King’s offered hand.

“Okay, but you’re a beginner . I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you have. I’m hyperaware ,” said Monkey King, waving his palms around.

“Doesn’t sound very fun.”

“It was like a huge naked worm,” said a distant voice.

“Uhhh, no. No, it’s not really,” said Monkey King to MK, not looking away from him. “But it’s for the greater good, and by greater good I mean for good. The hero stuff.”

“I like hero stuff,” said MK.

“Exactly. So if you wanna be a hero, you have to be hyperaware. That’s my point. You gotta get used to being conscious of everything that’s going on around you, even if it’s difficult.”

“I mean… it looked like a serious legless centipede… if you had taken a centipede but it didn’t have any legs, that’s probably what Monkey King’s tail would have looked like,” someone said distantly.

They stared at each other.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to do that,” said MK, determined to at least look like he was serious.

“ Hey , what did we say about confidence?”

“Ugghh. I will be able to do it.”

“…and then the shark said, ‘immortal this !’ and bit him in the nose.”

MK knocked into a branch.

“He was so sure he wasn’t allergic to pineapples, even though he got all puffy the last time he had one. We didn’t believe him, so he decided to eat another one…”

MK faceplanted into dirt.

“–but we all know what really happened to the banana.”

MK tripped over Monkey King’s foot.

“…really, he sees the Prince as his own.”

Monkey King pulled MK down and catapulted him into the sea.

The water roared and sizzed in MK’s ears, a mighty sound that left him chilled to the bone. MK probably should have thought about how much it had hurt, but instead, he found himself thinking: 'uhh, excuse me?'

Just as quickly, the bubbles whooshed away, and he was being held upside down by his frazzled mentor.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” said Monkey King with a smile that looked more like a wince. He righted MK carefully. “Um, you okay kid?”

“I guess so,” said MK, teeth chattering. The water dripped down his soppy clothes.

“I think I have a towel somewhere– training officially on hold. Come on.”

The mountain whispered to each other; slivers of secrets that weren’t really secrets at all. Once, MK hadn’t been able to hear them. Now that he could – well, he didn’t know– but Monkey King was tense, so maybe he should be too.

“You really think so?” the mountain said as they walked.

“Of course. Look at them. Would be silly to assume otherwise,” the mountain replied.

“Look at the pride.”

“Awh, the glow .”

“The denial.”

MK sniffled, hugging himself tighter. “Uh,” he said, ignoring the way his teeth clattered, “are you sure you have a towel?”

“I’m sure I do. I mean– lots of old whatchamacallits at the house. Don’t even know what’s in there. Probably a few towels,” said Monkey King.

“It’s lucky that stink isn’t a family trait,” said the mountain.

Monkey King’s nose twitched.

“Are you mad?” MK asked.

“Huh? At what, kid?”

“Uh– uh, I dunno. Just have a hunch,” he said as the monkeys giggled over Monkey King’s cute wittle baby teeth, and if MK had had them too.

“Nah,” said Monkey King, face warming up, “not mad. And not mad at you.”

MK’s mouth opened, then clicked closed.

“Oh… are you embarrassed?”

“Embarrassed!?” sputtered Monkey King. He didn’t turn back to look at MK, but his hand went up to make useless spinny gestures in the air. “The King of Monkeys– The Great Sage Equal to Heaven! That’s who I am! I’m not– hA ! I don’t get– hugh– embarrassed. The nerve of you, bud. All I did was throw you into the sea a little too hard.”

The mountain fell quiet. The waterfall roared, the leaves rustled, and back down on the shore, the waves lapped with a gentle ‘fshh…’ .

“He would make a wonderful mentor…”

MK and Monkey King pushed through into the waterfall into the cave behind. It was cold, wet, and MK wasn’t sure if he could feel his nose anymore– but he couldn’t stop his dumb smile.

Monkey King went ahead.

“ ‘He would make a wonderful mentor’ ,” Monkey King was grumbling to himself as he dug through a pile. “I am a ‘wonderful mentor ’. I’m mentor-ing! What’s the definition of mentoring? I’m already doing that. All that and more, practically.”

Right. All that and more. MK blinked, opened his mouth, and then decided that he wasn’t sure what he would even say.

‘I know you’re my mentor but it feels a little more personal than that– like a friend maybe? Like, if your friend was way older than you were and gave you lots of life advice and made sure you were prepared and ready for whatever would be thrown at you? And then at the end of the day that friend would pat you on the back, tell you were doing great, and then teach you how to throw a ball? Well, more like an ancient Staff than a ball.’

“Here,” said Monkey King as MK stood there stupidly (with his equally-stupid smile), “It’s more of a hand towel, but if we can find three more of them that’s pretty much the same thing as a normal towel.”

“Great,” said MK, patting dry his face before moving onto his hair.

Monkey King sniffed.

“Is that sarcasm I’m getting from you?” he asked.

“No! No, no,” said MK seriously, but he couldn’t help but laugh anyway. “Um– no, ignore that. I’m not laughing. I just thought it was funny.”

“Yeah, well, I sort of have double the hands you do except two of them are my feet so you can’t have too many hand towels laying around.”

“Not the hand towels. I mean, that’s funny too, but I meant like– our dynamic. The Monkey King and the Monkie Kid! What does that even mean?” laughed MK.

“Uh– well–,” said Monkey King with a frown. He cautiously watched MK, but his hands were still busy digging away.

“Because– well–,” MK snorted, “it makes it sound like you’re my dad or something. That’s funny.”

“aCK– h–U–ck– guh .”

“Are you alright, Monkey King?”

“I think you’re delusional. It’s the cold getting to you. Here, take another towel.”

Something fuzzy smashed into MK’s face. This towel had a mysterious black smudge, so there was at least a 20% chance of MK getting cursed or something. He draped it over his shoulders.

“‘Prince’ has a nice ring. Not sure if it’s really me , though. Is it possible we can workshop that?”

“ Excuse me?” said Monkey King.

“ Prince MK of Flower Fruit Mountain ,” announced MK in a dramatic drawl. “Maybe a Sage, kind of Equal to Heaven!”

“ MK , what on Earth are you going on about?”

MK turned to look at Monkey King, who was staring at him as if he had shown him a drawing that was more of a scribble than a drawing, and he was trying not to hurt his feelings because he didn’t know what the scribble even was.

“The monkeys,” said MK, as if it was obvious, “and everything they said.”

Monkey King’s mouth fell open.

“You– you can hear the monkeys !?”

“Can’t you?”

“Wh– OF COURSE I CAN! I AM A MONKEY!”

“Well apparently you don’t have to be a monkey to hear the monkeys. I think it's a Staff thing.”

“No, I don’t think it is– can we back up? You heard every single thing those monkeys said? The whole time?”

“Give or take a week,” corrected MK innocently.

Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, stood up, walked briskly toward MK, and smushed another towel into his face.

“ WHY ?”

“For not telling me! You cheek! Ugh !”

“So you were embarrassed,” said MK with a smile.

“We– okay!” Monkey King took a deep breath, but it didn’t do much to his reddened face. “You and I are saving this discussion for another time. I need to talk to the troop, because– ugh ! This is fine– are you sure you’re hearing monkeys?”

“I hope it was the monkeys. Otherwise I’d actually have something important to get checked out. Is it true you got stuck in a barrel of turnips and then had to waddle in it all the way home?”

Monkey King’s tail circled around MK’s arm as he leaned in close.

“I am going to kill those monkeys,” Monkey King whispered, mortified.

#lego monkie kid #lmk mk #lmk sun wukong #lmk sunburst duo #sun wukong

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blasphemecel · 1 year

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Miya Osamu, Suna Rintaro — Parabola

PAIRING(S): Miya Osamu/Reader, Suna Rintaro/Reader WORD COUNT: 8k TYPE: Childhood Friends, Pining, Coming of Age, Angst, Fluff, Humor WARNING(S): Mention of an animal/pet dying (non-graphic), smoking cigarettes and drinking, there is a kiss that happens while both parties are drunk

ACT I: MISFORTUNE

For Osamu, it starts in the womb because Atsumu is his brother.

ACT II: LOVE IS NASTY

“The heart,” you say, “is an organ.”

Osamu is thirteen years old and this is the worst presentation he has ever seen, which is an impressive feat on your part. It’s obvious you haven’t memorized any of this and are ‘subtly’ reading from both the smudged handwriting on your palm and the crumpled sheet of paper in your grasp, so how this is the best you managed to come up with is beyond him. Sometimes your idiocy is on-par with Atsumu’s.

Your tone is bored and your eyes glaze over like you’re not thinking about it at all. This is literature class, and a statement as clinical as ‘the heart is an organ’ probably wouldn’t be present in a half-decent interpretation of a poem.

He has known you since he was in diapers. Such sensitivities are outside your element, he’s aware of that.

Osamu wonders what he would’ve done if he got your topic when they all drew lots a few weeks ago. It’s a love poem, and as such, the subject matter is a bit disgusting to him. When he thinks about love, he thinks of his parents being embarrassing in the parking lot and the grocery store, and when Atsumu’s first crush got lice and he tried to contract them so they’d ‘understand each other better.’

After some musing, Osamu decides the heart is indeed an organ.

Your desk is next to his, and when you sit back down, you ask, “Was it really that bad?”

“I hope I never get ya as a presentation partner,” he says.

ACT III, BACKTRACK: ‘TSUMU IS LAME

Atsumu struts up to you like he has life changing news. You raise an eyebrow.

“We’ve got new names,” he announces and expects amazement. Osamu lingers behind him with the same vacant look on his face.

You ask, “Yeah? And what are they?”

“I’m ‘Tsumu and he’s ‘Samu.”

“But that’s so stupid,” you say. “Those are just yer names without the first letters. They ain’t new.”

“... Shut it, you,” Atsumu settles on once it’s clear he can’t refute your statement, balling his hands into fists.

“Whatever,” you say. “Are ya still gonna compete over who can push me harder on the swings?”

“No! Screw you. Not after this disrespect,” he dramaticizes, and when you don’t immediately grovel for forgiveness, he stomps away. “Not in a million years,” he calls over his shoulders, words growing quieter the farther he disappears. “Never again!”

You blow a farting noise at him in his departure.

Osamu sighs as if this is incredibly inconvenient. “Fine. I guess I hafta do it.”

“If it was me, I’d change my name to Don Widdershins.”

“Don Widdershins?”

“Ya know, Don,” you gesture vaguely in the air, “like in the mafia.”

ACT IV: ‘SAMU IS COOL

The way you and Atsumu are staring at him, someone would think Osamu has revealed he’s versed in the craft of wizardry, or that casting spells is possible at all. You’re wearing your embarrassing Buzz Lightyear shorts and ‘Tsumu is smacking him on the shoulder. “C’mon, hurry up.”

“That’s not how the stove works,” Osamu barks.

“Not with that attitude, no. You said it’s a quick meal.”

Osamu shoves him away. “Get out!”

“What?! So [Y/n] gets to stay, but I don’t?”

You pull down on your eyelid and stick out your tongue at him. “‘Tsumu, ya know your brother loves me more than you.”

Osamu is now tempted to get rid of you, too. Really, he doesn’t see why two shitheads need to interrupt something that’s supposed to be soothing for him, but at least the smell of the sukiyaki he’s preparing calms him.

“Shut up,” Atsumu says before he invades his brother’s personal space to clutch onto his shirt and shake him back and forth. He slaps him off and mutters something about ‘Do ya know how dangerous that is?!’ but Atsumu is inconsolable in his whining. “‘Samu, say it’s not true!”

“Ha, I knew it.” You back away and point your index finger in the air with a sense of triumph. “Ya don’t really hate him.”

“What did you say?”

At least when the two of you are chasing each other, no one can bother him.

ACT V: GIANT BABA

Atsumu is sprawled over the couch, hogging it as usual. You’re sitting next to Osamu on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest, and he has one hand around your shoulders. Or not really: he’s brushing it against the edge of the couch, not touching you at all, but in his head he has his arm around your shoulders. There’s the usual pronounced boredom on his face while he clicks through the TV channels.

“Who said you can take charge of the remote?” asks Atsumu, poking the back of Osamu’s head with his finger.

“When ya decided to monopolize the couch, I got remote rights.”

Atsumu repeats in a sardonic tone, “When I decided to monopolize the couch.”

Everything seems boring until he ends up on a sports channel. For a second he wonders if it’s going to be volleyball, but it’s a rerun of an old wrestling match. He’s about to go onto the next broadcast, but he glances at you from the corner of his eye and notices an unfamiliar spark on your face, so he discards the remote to his side.

“Ya know, I wanna be a wrestler.”

Osamu thinks this is an incredibly stupid aspiration, but he prides himself on being the more considerate one. “What’s yer stage name gonna be? Don Widdershins?”

“Oh, you still remember that? Yer so weird, ‘Samu.”

For a split second, he is embarrassed.

“The hell does widdershins mean?” Atsumu asks.

“It’s the opposite of clockwise,” you say.

Huh. When he first heard it, Osamu just assumed you made that word up. “Why’d ya wanna be named that?”

“‘Cause shins means crotch, and that’s funny.”

“No, idiot. That’s yer knee to yer ankle,” corrects Atsumu.

“The crotch is not in the ankle.”

Atsumu sits up, lunges over, and tries to put you in a chokehold. Lightly.

ACT VI: YOU’RE LAME

This is the worst summer Osamu has ever had. Not because anything bad has happened, but because, every day, when he sees you, it’s like you have spawned another pair of unbelievably hideous shorts. He wonders if this is some kind of sick joke when he sees Rey Mysterio’s face on the back of your leg. He wonders when he gained the ability to recognize Rey Mysterio at all. “Where do ya keep getting these?”

“They’re custom-made,” you say.

“Why would you do that.”

“In the name of style.”

ACT VII: THE PURCHASE

There is nothing particularly compelling about a rack with sunglasses at a store which sells a random assortment of things. Atsumu wanted to buy knee pads and Osamu has a package of frozen vegetables in his hand. There is no rhyme or reason for the variety of products at this shop.

You’re crouching down and leafing through the price tags. There’s a crease in the print of your shorts in this position that makes it look like Spongebob has no nose and Patrick has been decapitated. He says, “You’ve been staring at ‘em for, like, fifteen minutes.”

“I wanna buy some,” you reason before you seemingly make up your mind and pick a pair.

“But you’ve already got sunglasses.”

“Yeah, but they’re for TINY BABIES who SHIT THEIR PANTS,” you say, and Osamu backs away from you at your outburst. “So, I need new ones. For graduation day.”

“... Sure,” he concedes. Osamu isn’t sure what sunglasses have to do with graduation day, but it is true that the ceremony is two weeks away.

“Thank you.”

ACT VIII: LOVE IS CONDITIONAL

The heart, Osamu thinks, is a stupid organ.

There’s no reason for lunch at school to be his favorite part of his routine, except maybe the food.

Atsumu pushes all the things off his tray and flings it at you. “Yer late again, asshole!”

You dodge as skillfully as usual and pull out a chair with uncanny nonchalance. Your coordination is a bit surprising considering the latest hindrance to your vision, but Osamu supposes you must’ve gotten used to everything being slightly dim with how often you do this bullshit. “I do a ton a’ crappin’.”

“Don’t talk about that when I’m eating, ass,” Osamu scolds, elbowing you when you settle in the space next to him. Sometimes, he thinks his role in this seating arrangement is to prevent a casualty from happening between you and his brother.

He has revised some of his opinions now. Seeing as he’s no longer eleven, Osamu doesn’t believe in cooties or other similar mythological figures, but he’s still not entirely sold on the idea. No matter how many times Atsumu mocks him for ‘liking you,’ he’ll never accept it.

For love to not be nasty, it must fulfill certain conditions.

Osamu has a list for why he doesn’t — and will never — like you like that:

You wear sunglasses indoors.

You own a pair of shorts with the minions on them.

You have a cardboard cut-out of John Cena somewhere in your room.

You ruin meal time by talking about your shitting habits.

You tried to suplex him once.

Similarly, whenever you insist he and Atsumu don’t really hate each other, he refutes you. There are several reasons Osamu hates his brother:

Everyone else does.

He’s incredibly annoying.

He’s a jerk.

He always wins when it matters.

Sometimes, Osamu gets the impression Atsumu can’t stand him much at all.

So, again, he doesn’t know why these moments make him the happiest.

He wonders if there will still be days like these in high school.

ACT IX: THE MEDIATOR

On the way there, you’re wearing your sunglasses again, but at least it’s not indoors. The pavement smells weird — burnt — from the unusual heat of this summer. You’re also lugging around a water gun, but Osamu decides not to question it, even though Atsumu does. “Why do ya have that?”

“Didn’t you hear? Yosano from our class wants to have a water gun fight in the park after the ceremony.”

Not really. The thing is, no one (besides you; anyone who is sound of mind) invites them to play games anymore ‘cause they’re always winning and it’s not fun.

“Is it loaded?” asks Atsumu again.

“I know [Y/n] likes to pretend to be in the mafia and all, but that’s not a real gun, idiot,” Osamu says, voice even.

Atsumu snaps his neck in Osamu’s direction. “Shut up, I know it ain’t.” He shoves him, and that provokes Osamu into shoving him back, and before you can even rationalize all this, you turn back around to ask them why they’re dawdling behind only to see they’re already in a scuffle.

Suddenly, water is trickling down Atsumu’s forehead.

They snap up to scrutinize you from their position, with Osamu toppled over on the ground and Atsumu half-assedly pretending he’s really going to kick him in the face, and they see you aiming the water gun at them. Atsumu backs away from him completely and hurries to lunge at you instead. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that!”

He doesn’t even make it half-way to where you’re standing before you spurt more water at him, leaving him to still with his hands mid-air. Osamu sits up, face as indifferent as ever, but in his mind he finds this relatively funny.

Another step. You pull the trigger and laugh at him. “Ya remind me of a wet owl. They’re hideous like that, I saw a picture the other night.”

It is predictable that Atsumu reaches out to murder you in broad daylight, so your instantaneous reaction isn’t a display of impressive reflexes. More water spritzes at him, and Atsumu shakes his head around like a wet dog.

Osamu isn’t one to laugh, but he exhales slightly more air from his nose at this.

“Stop that, you jerk. I’m gonna be drenched at the ceremony. And-” he slaps Osamu on the neck, “-quit laughing. You’d look like a wet owl, too.”

You shake the water gun. “I think I’ll call this The Twin Repellant.”

“Ya think yer funny,” says Atsumu with narrowed eyes, and then he huffs and puts his hands on his hips. “How come ‘Samu didn’t get sprayed? I concur!”

“Concur,” you repeat. “Such a big word, ‘Tsumu. But that means agree, not disagree.”

“Yeah, well, you think shins means crotch.”

“I was fourteen!”

“Yeah, grow up,” Osamu chimes in, and then inches closer to you to flick the water gun. “Ya should name that thing The ‘Tsumu Repellant instead.”

ACT X: THE SECOND COMING OF THE JAPANESE BUZZSAW

“Do ya need to wear these everywhere?” asks Osamu when he spares you a glance and lets the onigiri he’d been eating drop down to his plate before he tries to snatch away your sunglasses, and his willingness to ignore his food for a second is probably a testament to how much he hates them. As usual, you’re late for lunch, and as usual, you duck out of the way without much effort.

You believe a flash of your middle finger suffices as an answer. Your chair scrapes against the floor, resulting in a noise that makes him cringe.

Atsumu — tapping into his otherwise unused potential to be aware of others — senses abnormal levels of smugness radiating from you. “You got somethin’ to be happy about, twerp?”

You lean back in your seat and grin, perhaps ruminating the fruits of your labor, whatever they may be. To bring you back to Earth, Osamu nudges you. “Well?” he asks, and though his tone suggests he doesn’t care, you know he wouldn’t be insisting to hear it if he didn’t.

“Ladies an’ gentlemen-”

“Where are the ladies?” Atsumu asks, shifting his eyes to Osamu, and then at his reflection in his tray.

“-you’re lookin’ at the new MMA club captain.”

“We don’t have an MMA club,” says Atsumu, tilting his head.

“Yeah, ‘cause I just made it yesterday.”

“But I thought you liked wrestling?” Osamu presses.

“Well, they didn’t approve of wrestling. So it’s an MMA club, but in my heart, it’s a wrestling club,” you say, leaning the weight of your head against your palm. Sure, there are only four members in your club and the supervisor said he’d be absent most days, but who cares? That’s all you had needed to officiate it.

“Sounds like an excuse to beat on each other to me,” says Osamu. You’ve always had a penchant for violence despite not having a particularly aggressive disposition. It confuses him.

You smirk, adjusting your sunglasses. He thinks one of these days you’ll fall down the stairs and hit your head. “Maybe.”

ACT XI: ‘TSUMU IS LAME

“‘Tsumu,” you begin, walking along with them after the first big official match of the year. Osamu and Suna are trailing behind you two, watching something on Suna’s phone. “You’re such an asshole.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ya know, in moments like these, yer supposed to be cheering me on for my good plays, not chewing me out.”

“I can’t believe you called those girls pigs.” Osamu doesn’t quite remember another instance of your voice sounding so… reprimanding.

“They were annoyin’ me,” he says, like someone being irritating justifies calling them names.

“And,” you imitate his signal for when he wants your school’s side of the court to go quiet, “the hell’s that?”

Osamu pipes up, “I always tell him that shit’s lame, but he won’t listen.”

“Agh! I hate it when you guys gang up on me.” He blows a raspberry in your direction and Osamu kicks him in the butt, which makes him jump.

You sigh, close your eyes and intertwine your fingers behind your head. “Man, I wish I had fans. I’d treat ‘em so much better.”

“Aha, so you’re jealous of me.”

ACT XII, BACKTRACK: YOU’RE LAME

Much to your dismay, the first time they come over, Atsumu doesn’t care much about your fish, passing by his aquarium without a second thought. You frown, and in a bout of pity, Osamu halts in front of it and examines him with the blankest look possible. He seems kinda big — for a fish, anyway, but the tank seems just fine — and he doesn’t know the name of the species. A black body with red splotches and a sheen of silver here and there, and his face is kinda… grumpy. Frowny.

“What kinda fish is this?” asks Osamu once he deems enough time of him staring at your pet has passed.

“He’s a tiger oscar.”

“Oh, let me guess. His name’s Oscar, right?”

“No,” you say. “It’s The Codfather.”

Osamu blinks, and then he groans, and then he drags his hand down his face.

ACT XIII: SUNARIN IS AN ENEMY

It’s not like Osamu needs to introduce you to Suna. You know who Suna is, and he knows who you are, and the three of you are all in the same class. This is a tad too absurd for him — you think some shit like this would suit Atsumu more — but whatever. You’re here now, and you’re being introduced to Osamu’s friend, and you suppose this might be a hint that you’ll be seeing more of him at lunch.

You cross your arms and turn up your nose. “I’m ‘Samu’s best friend.”

Suna stares at you impassively. “… Ok.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“I don’t think so,” Suna says without elaborating, though it is true that because of volleyball, Osamu spends more time with him now. While he couldn’t care less about what you were talking about, he loves fucking with people far too much not to try checking how short your fuse is.

Osamu elbows you once he realizes you’re about to say something embarrassing. “Stop.”

You elbow him back. “I’m fighting for yer honor!”

“No, you ain’t.”

Suna takes a picture of you nudging and baring your teeth and throwing food at each other and writes #besties in Comic Sans with the editor on his phone.

ACT XIV, REPRISE: THE MEDIATOR

To claim you’ve never seen Atsumu and Osamu get into a petty argument and try to solve it by exterminating the other would be a bold-faced lie. Suna already has his phone out to record it all, but this is the first time you’re both present during one of their brawls.

Carrying a water gun to school everyday wouldn’t be viable, so The Twin Repellent has gone under some revisions ever since your genius mind first incorporated it. You sling over your bag and touch around for something while Suna struggles to remember what they’re even fighting about, but quickly concludes it doesn’t matter. A look of eureka flares over your face and you unhinge your jaw to grin an unnaturally wide smile when you find what you were scouting for.

First it was an empty spray paint can you refilled, but now it’s a real water spray… The new and improved Twin Repellent. You wave it in the air before you stagger into frame and Suna raises an eyebrow at your intrusion, hoping your figure won’t block his angle for recording the action. But then you’re dousing them, and Osamu hisses like he’s demonic and the water is holy, and Atsumu is covering his face and screaming, “Stop it! Stoooop!”

Holy shit. This is the best recording he has yet.

And this is when Suna decides that despite your annoying and sometimes embarrassing demeanor, he likes you just fine.

Later, when you’re watching them practice, Suna asks you what that was.

You pull out the water spray and trail your finger from top to bottom like it is your greatest treasure. “This is The Twin Repellent.”

“Give me that.” He snatches it out of your grasp and you pout before saying,

“Use it wisely.”

Suna marches up to Atsumu and drizzles him for no reason.

ACT XV: SUNARIN IS SOMETIMES AN ALLY

Osamu ends up confiscating The Twin Repellent from Suna. For a second, he wonders if revenge will befall him, but instead Osamu sprays you in the face and says, “Take ‘em off.”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him with a semblance of hatred before you try to wipe your sunglasses on your shirt. They’re smudged now.

It is not long after that Suna reappears and takes hold of it once more and aims for his forehead instead of Atsumu’s. Osamu squeezes his eyes shut and says, “You two-faced backstabber…”

You’re about to celebrate — perhaps go for a high-five — but he stops you in your tracks by spraying you, too.

ACT XVI: SERIOUS BUSINESS

“MMA Club?” asks Suna. The filling of his strange sandwich is dripping all over the table. “Never heard of it. You don’t even look like you can throw hands.”

“Ha?!” With that, you stand up and perform a spinning kick dangerously close to Osamu’s head, and he puts his hand on your ankle and lowers your leg without so much as flinching. “Ya don’t wanna tussle with me, I promise.”

Suna considers it before he shrugs, the jerk of his shoulders letting the miserable contents of his sandwich crawl out and spill. Then, with his tongue poking out, Atsumu dips his finger in and draws a smiley face on his side of the table. “Probably not. I’m a pretty boy, I don’t fight. I only laugh at the people doing it.”

ACT XVII: YOU’RE COOL

“Hurry, hurry,” Atsumu urges, which is unusual since he’s always the one who’s late to things that don’t pertain to volleyball. “I wanna see [Y/n] beat the shit outta someone.”

“I don’t think that’s how MMA works,” says Suna before he kicks away a stray pebble to the side. It lands between Osamu’s shoes, and he boots it out of sight with a dusty drag of his foot against the pavement. Suna watches this unfold like it is way more riveting than your match could possibly be. The fact that you arranged a match with a club from a different school is anomalous enough.

It had been Osamu’s idea to show up, not Atsumu’s. While he’s not thrilled about MMA, or wrestling, or whatever, he thinks they kind of owe it to you for showing up to every game.

Five minutes of watching pass, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he thinks you might be winning. With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, he raises his fist in the air and says, “Go for the neck.”

While it’s not loud enough for you to hear, when Atsumu stands up and yells, “Go for the neck! Go for the neck!” that definitely should be.

You do not go for the neck. This time, Suna doesn’t tell them he believes punching the throat is against the rules, and Osamu takes a glimpse at him and sees he’s recording.

Your lip is busted, but you win, and after the celebration at some shitty near-by fast food place — much to Osamu’s horror — he asks Suna to show him the video. It takes exactly twenty seconds to load and during half of it, his shoes are in frame rather than the fight.

Instead of criticizing his cinematography, Osamu says, “Yer camera’s really shitty. I can count the pixels.”

“But that’s what makes it funny,” Suna argues, even though he has not let out even a giggle ever since he pressed play.

ACT XVIII: THE GODFATHER

He can’t believe he’s attending a funeral for a fish at his age. It’s even raining (would a hypothetical omnipresent higher power cry over the loss of a fish?) and he thinks if this was a scene in a movie, he’d laugh, but you’re anything but amused.

His hair is sticking to his forehead and his clothes are drenched and he’s vaguely aware that there’s mud on his ass. When it first began raining, as an act of consolation, he threw his tracksuit over your head, but the downpour has been so severe that it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s like getting disciplined with The Twin Repellant until it runs out fifty times in a row.

Osamu has known you for many years, but he can’t say he has seen you sob before. The tombstone — a plant marker you wrote ‘THE CODFATHER 2002-2013’ over with a marker — almost topples over and he reaches out to adjust it. He tries, “He lived a long life.”

“They can make it to twenty,” you say, burying your face in your arms, hiding it from view.

“Is this good for the garden?”

“I don’t give a shit about the garden.”

So maybe Osamu wasn’t ever The Codfather’s friend, but it is a fact that he stays out for the funeral until lights out, and it is a fact that he gets sick because of it.

ACT XIX: THE THINGS YOU LIKE COME WITH A WARNING

Suna lights up the cigarette and you can tell it’s not his first time. He’s silent when he joins you on the curb, throwing one leg over the other, and you didn’t know that about him, and he didn’t know that about you. Your neighborhood has always been quiet enough, not that many cars passing by, so the fear of getting your feet run over for sitting here like this doesn’t cross your mind much.

Conversationally, he says, “I heard you got depressed over a fish.”

You narrow your eyes at him in distaste, but he can’t really see under the sunglasses. “Not even one bad word about The Codfather.”

You’d probably whoop him so he resists the urge to repeat ‘The Codfather?’ in an incredulous tone. He’s not taking any chances today. “No, but Atsumu called Osamu weak trash for missing practice.”

“Yeah, you’re an athlete, why are ya smokin’?” you ask, changing the topic.

Suna wrinkles his nose. “So are you.”

“C’mon, ya barely consider the MMA club a real club.”

“But I do,” he says. “I just like to give you shit for it.”

“If the body is a temple, mine’s like, like… The kind animals shit in.” You smile at him.

He smiles at you just a little. “If Kita caught me, he’d say something like ‘That is incredibly irresponsible. Besides, the box says smoking kills. Can’t you read?’ and I’d quit.”

“You know, I never realized, but yer kinda funny.”

“You never realized,” he repeats. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve bought his apathy and thought he wasn’t offended.

ACT XX: BAD NURSE NAKAMURA

Osamu doesn’t think it should be feasible for life to kick someone when they’re already down.

He wipes his snot with his sleeve after a ‘hefty’ recovery, which may or may not have been motivated by Atsumu whining at him all night until he agreed to go to school today, then sniffles. What the fuck is wrong with him, he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he’s thinking it about his brother or about himself.

You look like a sad puppy when he first sees you that morning. Like, the ones that are at the shelter because they got abandoned by who they thought were their loving owners.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. He’s not in the mood for another funeral. (More importantly, he wants you to stop looking so glum.)

“The club disbanded.”

It’s not that strange for a club with only six members to fall apart, but just to fill the space, Osamu asks, “Why?”

“They said it reflects badly on the school.”

“That sucks ass and is stupid as fuck.” Osamu wraps his hand around your shoulder in a shitty, stiff kind of way. And he’s not one to give speeches, doesn’t know what to do about this, but he gives you his bento for lunch and helps Atsumu write a ‘strongly-worded’ letter addressing the staff and hopes it’s enough.

ACT XXI: KITA IS NO-NONSENSE

“The volleyball club,” Kita asserts, “doesn’t need a bodyguard. We’ve been over this.”

“You don’t have a manager, though,” you say, rubbing your chin.

“The manager isn’t a bodyguard.”

“‘Samu and ‘Tsumu have fans. They could die.”

“Hey… I have fans too,” interrupts Aran, but he sounds kind of shy when he says it.

“Also, why are you wearing sunglasses? We’re indoors and the weather is bad. What if something happened to you because you couldn’t see? Or if you ran into somebody else?” Kita asks, disregarding your previous point. His tone has been extremely neutral during this entire exchange. You wonder if there’s something about being unbothered that lands people in the Inarizaki VBC.

“‘Cause bodyguards wear sunglasses.”

“You’re not a bodyguard. Take them off.”

Suna humors you, “I need security.”

“Yer not the one with the bloodthirsty fans, though,” you say.

ACT XXII, REPRISE: YOU’RE COOL

Some little guy with offensively orange hair hits you in what you imagine to be your rock hard abs on accident. The halls are crowded, it’s bound to happen. You turn to examine him, lips set in a thin line, and you realize he’s wearing the uniform of the team your school will be playing today.

This all happens near the bathroom. The toilet is a dangerous place where dangerous people hang around, Hinata thinks, and you look like a character from a yakuza movie.

“I’m sorry-”

“I-” you crane your neck to look at the ceiling but also wishing you hadn’t because the lights are burning your retinas, “-’m Inarizaki’s bodyguard.”

Hinata’s jaw hangs open. Inarizaki High has a bodyguard? And it’s you, the person he just bumped into? Maybe if they get a bodyguard, he’ll stop getting in trouble near the bathroom. He will be asking Shimizu-san about this later.

ACT XXIII, BACKTRACK: ABNORMAL

Even if Atsumu always wins when it counts, at least Osamu knows he’s your favorite twin.

ACT XXIV: THE APOCALYPSE

“‘Tsumu’s throwing a tantrum,” Osamu announces. He’s looking off into the distance and you don’t know what’s so poetic about the supermarket, but you’ll allow it if this is his new way of brooding.

“Isn’t he always?”

“He said I’m abandoning him.”

“Huh,” you say intelligently.

“It’s ‘cause I told him I’ll quit volleyball after high-school, so he’s being all dramatic about it,” he says. “But I dunno… I don’t wanna leave him or anything. Or. Maybe I do. I can’t stand him, but- I don’t really wanna!”

“Yer not abandoning him, you know that.” You pat him on the back. “He just doesn’t wanna be apart from you. Give him some time, it’ll be fine.”

“Ya think so?”

“I mean, yeah.”

Still, Osamu crosses his arms and huffs. “Well, he should knock that shit off. It’s annoying.”

“Aw. You don’t need to hide your sensitive side.”

“I don’t have a sensitive side,” he snaps, leaning away from you once you try to pull on his cheek.

“If you’re not gonna go pro, what are your plans?” you ask, lowering your hand.

He doesn’t yet stop ducking in case you’re trying to lure him into a false sense of security. “I wanna open a restaurant.”

“Yer a lil’ chef, aren’t ya?”

“How do ya make it sound belittling?”

After some contemplation, you say, “I think it’d fit you.”

ACT XXV: LOVE IS ABSTRACT

The heart, Osamu thinks, is an unreasonable organ.

He generally doesn’t consider himself to be a jealous toddler, and he’d say he leans more on the ‘relatively sane’ side of the spectrum. This is beyond stupid, and he can’t believe he’s behaving like Atsumu. But then again, Atsumu wouldn’t understand this, so it’s not like he can tell him about it. He has a volleyball instead of a brain.

Osamu digs into his tuna with uncharacteristic vice and, in a dramatic turn of events, almost tries to choke himself on it. Not because he’s angry or anything, but because he’s being so embarrassing lately he might as well spare himself the misery.

Under the table, Suna nudges your thigh with his like Osamu isn’t right there and can’t see, and your lips quirk up at his anger, and this is exactly the problem. Even his brother has the gall to look amused. At this moment, Osamu feels like he hasn’t laughed a day in his life.

It’s not like he’s that in touch with… it, but:

Love is when Suna is pretending to take videos of the three of you fighting, but really he’s just trying to record you.

Love is when Suna watches one of said videos five times before an important game with a blank expression like some kind of creep.

Love is when you and Suna go out for a smoke on the patio when you’re supposed to be watching a movie with him and ‘Tsumu.

Love is when Suna tries to encourage your nonsensical bullshit.

And, worst of all: love is cooking you lunch every night, love is attending a fucking fish’s funeral during a rainstorm and not regretting it, love is searching up ‘cool rare wrestling facts’ to try to impress someone like some kind of moron.

He’s not really talking about Suna anymore.

In complete honesty, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It just wasn’t. You’re his stupid childhood friend who he used to push on the swings because you thought getting dizzy and throwing up was funny, which is a testament to how much he should not like you. He swore an oath about it and everything.

For fuck’s sake, you used to wear shorts with Spongebob x Patrick yaoi on them. In public. Where people saw him with you.

So, in conclusion, his attempt to asphyxiate himself is entirely justified.

ACT XXVI: WE DON’T NEED THINGS LIKE MEMORIES

“You can’t be serious,” says Suna, looking at you from the corner of his eye before he caves in and shifts his gaze to you altogether.

“About the glasses? Or the balloon?”

“This is probably the first time the glasses have been appropriate,” he tells you. “Considering we’re outside and all.”

There’s a balloon wrapped around your neck by the string. Undoubtedly, you look more idiotic than usual. Atsumu almost seems exiled since he has to stand with his classmates in a different spot. You pretended to reach out for him like he was in jail many times throughout the principal’s speech.

“I think the balloons are for children,” Osamu says.

“What children?” you ask.

“Ya know, the ones seein’ their older relatives graduate?”

“I think forcing kids to attend someone else’s graduation ceremony should be considered child abuse.”

Suna turns around to double over laughing even though it’s not that funny, and Osamu takes a sudden and keen interest in the soles of his own shoes. It’s sunny outside today and he thinks if this oration goes on any longer, his forehead will flare red with a sunburn.

“You hot?” you ask, kicking him lightly to get his attention. “I’ve got just the thing.”

That doesn’t sound good, whatever it may mean. You reach inside your bag and, on second thought, he should’ve known exactly what you had in mind. Before he can curse you out, you’ve Twin Repellent’d all over him and Suna.

The three of you do get let go earlier for ‘ruining the ceremony.’ And he can’t argue that getting drenched cooled him down, so overall, your stupidity comes out at a net positive. An hour and a half later, Atsumu pulls up to where you’re at and complains about you guys ditching him like everything is normal, and Osamu finds that coming to terms with finishing high school is a tad more complicated than he assumed.

ACT XXVII: SUNARIN ISN’T ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR

Two weeks after, some students from your year already try to organize a reunion party, or a post-graduation party, or whatever. To Osamu’s face, you call them ‘SAPPY SENTIMENTAL LAMES’ before immediately replying that you’ll be there.

He’s not much of a party-goer. It’s much more your and Atsumu’s scene and, even then, you’d both rarely attend, but he doesn’t see much harm in going. He picks you up with his brother in tow and you show up together because bad things come in threes.

Suna is somehow already there, which Osamu finds uncharacteristic. A dim room, bad electronic music and people with shitty dance moves greet him when he opens the door to invite himself in, the two of you trailing behind him.

“You guys think I look good?” asks Suna, but Osamu only sighs because he knows the question is just directed at you.

“I’m not gonna front with ya, Suna, I can’t really see ya well at all right now,” you say.

At this, Osamu sighs even harder.

Ready to push him out of the way so he can find something fun to do, Atsumu adds, “And ya still have labia bangs, so.”

It is an incredible feat of self-restraint that Suna doesn’t lunge at him and murder him in cold blood in front of about fifty witnesses for this. To sate his bloodlust before a more secluded area becomes available, he steps on Atsumu’s toe with a surprising amount of force, drawing out an ouch.

Now that your guard is low, Osamu plucks your sunglasses and places them over the top of his head. You whip back around to stare at him in betrayal.

“Yer gonna fall over and die and get trampled on-”

“How optimistic!” you interrupt, shuddering.

“-like this, so just leave ‘em to me. Sharing is caring or whatever they say.” And with that, he pushes you in Suna’s direction before he tries to make his way around the crowd to follow after Atsumu.

You part your lips in slight puzzlement. “Woah, he totally doesn’t want our asses around him.”

Suna shrugs. “His loss. You wanna dance?”

“I dunno. I don’t know how,” you say, which is your usual excuse for when you’re not in the mood to dance. That, and you like seeing people embarrass themselves by convincing you they’ll teach you.

“Neither does anyone else here,” he quips before he imitates the way a guy with his back turned to the two of you is dancing. It seems to involve pretending to be swinging a lasso with one hand and whipping with the other.

You press your palm against your mouth to stifle your laughter. “I can’t believe ya just did that. You only asked so you could make fun of him, didn’t ya?”

“I mean, you already know.”

“Good ol’ Rin,” you say before you find the alcohol terribly unwatched, bringing up a bottle of whiskey to eye-level then resolving to ‘borrow’ it.

“They’ve got ‘em red cups. So cliche.” Even though he’s complaining, he pops open a can of beer and pours some for both of you.

“Good idea, I need a couple a’ drinks before I start strippin’ on tables.”

He takes his first sip. “This is gonna be our last night with most of these people. I mean, shit, they’re cornballs that I hate, but… I dunno, it’s so bizarre.”

“Right, I get ya.” You nod sagely before you collapse on a nearby couch, putting your legs over the table and knocking over something that suspiciously looks like a porcelain vase. Instead of wallowing in guilt over it, you think that it’s a strange placement for a vase. “Couldn’t live without seeing the cowboy dance move.”

“God, that was busted as hell,” he says, and though he sounds indifferent like usual, you can see that deep down he’s rattled by secondhand embarrassment. Then he kicks your legs off of the table to replace them with his, and you start nudging and wrestling each other.

While passing the whiskey bottle back and forth, you talk about endless nonsense. You tell him about some conspiracy theory about McDonald’s putting horse meat in chicken nuggets you read on a forum and he tells you about how he spent half an afternoon watching a spider in his house trap and eat a stink bug, and the conversation doesn’t get any more intellectual from there on.

Apparently the two of you have similar alcohol tolerance because you reach the stage of inebriation where you start making bad decisions at around the same time. Despite how close you already are because of all the pushing and play-fighting, he invades your personal space even further and asks, “You wanna make out?”

“Sure.”

It’s not like either of you is a kissless virgin, so you reason it can’t go that bad.

He slides an arm around your waist and pushes you with your back against the couch, straddling you. Maybe just to flex your MMA prowess, you flip over your positions, and he decides he doesn’t care enough to fight you on it.

Then, tyranny possesses you because you run your hands down his sides and start tickling him.

“The fuck’s with you?” he asks, pushing your hands away between laughter.

“Ya never laugh,” you say. “Just stand there like…” Then you set your eyebrows straight and let your mouth go slack, wiping all emotion from your face.

“Yeah, so stop, shh. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

“I was just curious. Don’t blame me!”

Then, there is a moment of silence when you stare into each other’s eyes.

ACT XVIII: ‘SAMU IS LAME

When Osamu catches a glimpse of you making out with Suna from across the room, he reacts like any reasonable adult would.

With a tap, he lets your sunglasses slide down his forehead and settle over his eyes.

ACT XIX, REPRISE: MISFORTUNE

Suna doesn’t know what the two of you are, which probably means you’re not anything. Which is fine, but may be a bit inconvenient now that the two of you will be living together. You agreed that rooming with a stranger for university would be marginally worse than going with a friend, and here you are.

You’d been on vacation when he first settled inside the apartment, so he arrived two weeks earlier than you, and now he’s stuck helping you carry and unpack your stuff.

He appraises the cardboard cutout that you’re embracing like a lover with a judgemental gaze. “Does Cena-san need to move in with us?”

“He’s my friend,” you justify, turning up your nose.

He still remembers the texture of your lips and the warmth of your skin and the weight of you, so real, with your stomach pressed against his and other similar things that make him feel grossly compromised. The memory is hazy, yes, but to get it off his mind, he says, “That’s a bit sad.”

“He promises he won’t go outside my room.”

“… I fuckin’ hope not.”

ACT XXX: LOVE IS LETTING GO

The heart, Osamu would think, is a dramatic organ.

Which is exactly why this sucks so many balls, if it were up to Suna to word it. It’s not like he signed up to be your fairy godmother or anything, but he needs to tell you.

The kiss was a mistake, but in his defense, he was as piss drunk as you were. He knows you and Osamu are in love with each other. It’s not a grand, disgusting kind of love, but it’s big enough for him to see it.

And Suna is mischievous sometimes, but he’s not malicious. He wanted to be selfish for the night — kiss you once, get you out of his system, and here’s how well that went. So he’ll fix it.

You’re smoking with him outside and it’s cold, the sky is gray, obscured by clouds. He says, “You know, I think you should tell him.”

You flutter your stupid eyelashes and look at him in genuine confusion. “Hm?”

Suna remembers the pain scales with ugly emoticon drawings they hang up at hospitals, and he thinks he’s currently at an ‘inflamed internal bleeding slight wince’ 7. “Osamu. Tell him.”

“Tell him what? He doesn’t need to know I messed up the laundry.”

“No. Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“This is gross.” Suna furrows his eyebrows and fakes gagging in an unusual show of emotions. “Tell Osamu you’re in love with him.”

“Why?”

What kind of question is that? Are you not even going to deny it?

“He’s been avoiding us and making inbred dog faces ever since he saw us kiss at the party. You do the math.” Suna takes another drag, then exhales. “C’mon, I miss my best friend. And Atsumu, I guess.”

“I’m ‘Samu’s best friend,” you say on reflex, glaring at him before you punch him in the shoulder. “How many times do we need to have this conversation?”

“Not for long.”

You stare, and to your horror Suna stares back, and then you redirect your gaze to the ground with a distasteful purse of your mouth. “If I get rejected, yer gonna wash the dishes for a month.”

He snorts like your suggestion is any way comical. “Blow me. I won’t.”

ACT XXXI: LOVE IS

“I like goin’ out with you an’ all, but we’ve been sitting in silence for thirty minutes,” Osamu says. It’s a nice restaurant with comfortable seats and an expensive menu, but. What. Not to mention, all you did was send him the location and write ‘code red,’ making him believe this was in any way urgent.

You fondle with your free glass of water in a way that’s not at all awkward or unnatural. “Lots a’ weather we’ve been having lately.”

“Sure,” he says after some deliberation over your statement. Better not question it, he figures.

You twist your face and it looks like you’re about to shit yourself for a moment. “You wanna be my boyfriend?”

In this exact moment, you think you see Osamu malfunction. First it starts with heresy: he drops his chopsticks mid-air and they clatter on the table, letting the sushi roll slip. Then he unhinges his jaw and gapes at you with a vague sense of something you can’t quite decipher. It’s not like you didn’t try to be casual, so what’s with the overreaction?

“Don’t say shit like that outta nowhere! Ya almost sent me into cardiac arrest,” he says, reaching over to flick you on the forehead.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” you say, rubbing the spot.

“Do ya…? For how long?”

You frown because why does it matter right now? “I don’t know.”

“Outside,” he says in a panic. “Let’s go out. For a bit.”

“Ya wanna fight?”

“No? What’s wrong with you?”

“I dunno,” you say. “There is a dingy alleyway in the back.”

The dingy alleyway, Osamu thinks as he examines it, would be convenient if he were to rob someone. But he doesn’t want to do that, and he thinks you must be rubbing off on him for that to even cross his mind. It’s also hardly a romantic setting, but whatever. You wanted to be a mafioso, so it could be perfect for all he knows.

“I, umm,” he starts and the words don’t make it past his thoughts, at least not the ones he wants to say, but he can show you if you let him. “Can I…?”

“Sure,” you say. It occurs to you that it is incredibly concerning that this is the blase response you give every time someone wants to exchange germs with you.

When Osamu leans down to kiss you, it’s not special because it feels any different. Lips, you think, are skin flaps, and there’s nothing remarkable about any of them. But it’s special because you can sense emotion behind it for the first time — the tenderness, the longing, the surrender, anything else he can’t say. Because it’s Osamu.

And when you pull away, your hold is still firm around his waist and he doesn’t let go of your face yet. You ask, “So does that mean…?”

“Uh, shit. I mean, yeah. Obviously,” and he sweeps in for another kiss.

So maybe you did think shins means crotch, and maybe Osamu did pretend to have his arm over your shoulder in his head that one time, and maybe you are still crazy about each other in the most self-contained way possible.

ACT XXXII: FORTUNE

For Osamu, it starts in the womb because Atsumu is his brother.

#osamu x reader #osamu x you #miya osamu x reader #suna x you #suna rintaro x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu imagine #one shot

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korva-the-raven · 1 year

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Got some spider/reptile breeding containers to use for mini arthropod terrariums. Totally experimental, we'll see if they work well or not.

One for Maximillian the millipede

With lots of decaying wood and a mossy piece of bark to hide under, here's Maximillian all curled up and happy in the dirt.

This one is home to teeny tiny millipedes I found. They buried themselves down in the substrate

Nice chocky piece of mossy wood for them to be happy under.

One of the millies

And this one will probably be for wood lice or rolli pollies...or anything else I find.

Kind of doing a whole rotting log concept...now to find some smol friends

They have ventilation holes and stack on top of eachother too

and here's me trying to make a video, but the stray kitty that's been hanging around was not having it...

She's (she???) is super sweet and friendly. We have no idea if she's a neighbors cat or stray really, but we're cat worshipers so she can have all the food and pets she wants. Our boy cat, Gizmo is completely in love. Not sure how our 17 yr old cat Goblin feels about it though, so we can't just let her in.

#smol friends #moss terrarium #moss #arthropods #dirtcore #ravencore #goblincore #gremlincore #crowcore #floof #cat worshipers

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 10 months

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@ladynearthelake DKWOT6 is the next in the Don't know where's out there series, where Yennefer is Jaskier's date to Essi and Shani's week-long destination wedding, the wedding planner turns out to be a succubus, and bodies start popping up. And when they're not dealing with a murder mystery, there's lots of pining.

A snippet:

“What happened to the other bed?” He sounds slightly strangled. Yennefer looks around the room pointedly. “There isn’t one.” Jaskier splutters. “But I called and changed my reservation after Sam and I broke up! We were supposed to get one of the bungalows with twin beds.” He looks around helplessly, like he expects a second bed to materialize. “Okay, it’s fine. Totally fine. The couch is perfectly comfortable.” Gods, people are so precious about sharing beds in this century. He wouldn’t have survived in the thirteenth century. “You’re too tall to sleep on the couch. This bed is plenty big for two.” “I don’t know. I’ve been told I cling like a barnacle.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “A few hundred years ago, if you stayed at an inn, you were probably going to wake up with a stranger’s armpit in your face.” Jaskier sniffs himself in what he surely thinks is a surreptitious fashion. She probably shouldn’t feel as fond as she does right now. “I won’t besmirch what’s left of your virtue, Jaskier, and Geralt isn’t going to duel you for my honor.” “But will he duel you for my honor?” Yennefer throws a pillow at him. “Just get ready for bed. I refuse to listen to you bitch about your sore back for the rest of the week and if I’m going to smile and make nice, I need to be well-rested.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he affects a bow. “Awfully eager to get me into bed, aren’t we, Yennefer?” There’s a squeak in his voice. She lets out a single, dry bark of laughter. “Lice and bedbugs also used to be commonplace in inns. You’re far from the most unpleasant thing I’ve shared a bed with.”

WIP Ask Games

#the witcher #geraskefer #ghost's writing #don't know what's out there verse

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notyour-valentine · 1 year

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A Fair Exchange X ~ Aemond Targaryen x Reader/OC (Angst)

[Navigation] [Moonboard Masterlist] [House of the Dragon Masterlist]

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Summary: Harrenhal was a strange place with strange people and one should always keep an eye open

Warning: bullying, blood, mention and threat of violence and death, mutilation, mention of torture and death, childbirth, injury, misogeny. Expect canon conforming tone and language. (18/21+)

Notes: This is one for the easter egg hunters and book nerds haha

Wordcount: 5248 words

[Series Masterlist]

Previously

Part X

She kept her hand on the small of her back as she walked her across the courtyard in certain strides.

“You must be hungry.”, the woman, Alys, said.

She nodded faintly, unsure of how to respond. You are a beggar, she reminded herself. Act like one.

That was easier said than done, but she thought with keeping her gaze down and her mouth shut she couldn’t make that many mistakes.

But even with her eye down, she took in her surroundings.

Harrenhal was a great castle, too great, some said, a fierce structure, a warning, but at the same time it was also a home.

Ser Harwin’s home. The place he had been born in and the place he had died.

Her skin stood with goosebumps and her throat tightened.

Even the corridors inside the castle were black as coal, as if they too had been charred as Alys guided her towards the kitchens.

They were large and noisy, with at least a dozen ovens and pots so large her whole body would have fit inside them.

“Oi!”, one of the cooks shouted as soon as he saw her.

“Get that filthy rat ou’ of ma kitchens!”

As he barked at her, he waved his meat cleaver.

“She’s no where near your stew!”, Alys snapped, her hand tightening around hers as she walked her right past him.

“Ya think to highly of yourself, wench!”, the cook argued towards the back of Alys’ head. “As soon as ya milk’s dried up, they’ll be rid of ya, I tell ya!”

The words were far from kind, but she couldn’t blame the cook however, nor any of the others that worked her that glared at her with disgust.

The sight of her was hideous. Her feet were dirty to the ankles, her dress was in tatters, and she didn’t exactly smell of roses.

Alys did not seem to mind.

“Give me a bowl of broth.”, she ordered one of the female cooks, as round as a barrel herself. “And some soft bread for her to soak in.”

“Alrigh’, but get her out of here - what is she has lice?”

Alys snorted in amusement, but did pull her out of the other side of the kitchens to a small nook in front of a window.

From here, she could see the towers and her eye tracked the path Balerion had flown all those years ago.

The Black Dread had earned his name.

Everyone that passed them, gave them suspicious looks, or rather gave them to her, wrinkled their nose or shook their heads.

If they knew, she thought, they’d all bow and curtsy.

But it was safer that they didn’t. She’d take the looks over chains any day.

Alys let her look in silence, but her eyes never left her, only when the fat little woman came with some food.

“Here ya’ go.”, she said, handing her a brown bowl with stew in it, broth and cooked vegetables, with little chunks of meat.

Nothing much, nothing special, but the smell made her mouth water.

Forgoing the spoon, she was a beggar after all, she moved to raise the bowl to her lips, but Alys slender fingers coiled around her wrist.

“Not too fast!”, she warned. “You’ll burn your tongue and upset your stomach. When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

Unfortunately, she had a point.

Still, she shoveled down the solids first as if there was no tomorrow, not minding the broth that splashed on her lips in the process. It had been so long since she had proper food and her hands weren’t nearly as certain as they had been when she yet had two eyes. But she was too hungry to care.

Both Alys and the cook, Mawde, as she now knew, watched her.

“What’s ya’ name then?”, Mawde wanted to know.

She froze, a piece of carrot still in her mouth. For once she made the attempt to chew properly as she needed the time.

She couldn’t give her name, that would be too obvious but all others she could think of were Valyrian names too - those of her mother, her aunt, her grandmother, her cousins. Everyone in her family had a name that came from Old Valyria - everyone except Joffrey.

“Freya.”, she lied.

Alys huffed softly as if she found the name amusing.

“So why are ya here then?”, Mawde demanded to know.

“Alys brought me.”

Why, she could not say. But she would never forgive that woman her kindness.

“In Harrenhal I mean.”

Because my dragon took me to the Isle of Faces.

She cleared her throat, trying to think of a lie that would convince them.

“I…ah…I was thrown out of my home. Yes. That’s what happened.”

“Why?”, Mawde demanded to know.

Why indeed?

She chewed a piece of meat until it had fully disappeared.

“My father died, and my brother threw me out.”

Mawde sighed deeply.

“Well that’s the way of the world, ain’t it? But aren’t you old enough to be married?”, she wanted to know, before reaching out and cupping her breast.

She flinched so hard, the spoon clattered to the ground.

“Woman enough too.”, Mawde confirmed.

Her face burned like dragonfire.

“Leave her be, Mawde.”; Alys said. “Go on, you’ve got work to do.”

She did not ask any questions, and instead let her eat in peace, always watching her. And seeing too, it seemed.

Once she was finished, Alys got up, but nor before reaching out with her thumb and wiping away a few droplets of soup that still glistened around the corners of her mouth.

“Now let’s see about giving you a little wash and some rest. You need it.”

Both sounded more than welcoming.

“I’ll make sure you get a proper bath tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”, she asked, looking up at the dark-haired woman. “I can’t stay until tomorrow.”

“You have to!”, she insisted. “You need to rest, and besides, unless you want to pass Chett again, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for a change of guards.”

The thought of being anywhere near that man again, made her stomach turn. At the same time she only wanted some food, enough to last until Tyseleys returned.

And then we can go home.

After a kitchen, Alys took her up a tower’s spirally steps.

Given her condition, they were daunting to her, but with one hand on the wall and Alys clutching her arm and supporting her back, she made her ascent.

Still she breathed a sigh of relief once she had reached the right floor without slipping.

The room Alys showed her was modest - a small wooden bed, a fireplace, a table with a basin and a chest, nothing more.

But much more than she could have hoped for.

There were also countless candles, and a window that allowed her to look out at the Kingspyre Tower.

Alys poured out some water from a carafe into a basin and handed her a washcloth.

“Here.”, she said. “I’ll be back soon.”

The water was cold, but no colder than the one that had awaited her in the lake.

As soon as she had slipped out of her dress, she began to wash herself from head to toe, watching the water turn dark and grimy far sooner than she would have thought.

I really was filthy. Even after that little swim.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the slightest of movements reflected in the mirror on the desk and spun, finding Alys standing next to the door.

In her arms she held some clothes, but she seemed to be in no rush to move or speak.

Her cheeks began to burn when she wondered just how long Alys had been standing there, as her hands shot out to cover herself.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, but still - the thought of a near stranger watching her made her skin crawl, especially in this state.

Alys only smirked.

“No need to fret.”, she told her, finally moving away from the door. “There’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Although she probably was right about that, she still moved away and kept her hands in place.

Alys put the clothes down on the table and unfolded the towel.

“You’ll catch a cold if you keep standing like that.”, she warned.

Her attempt to take the towel from Alys was swarted when the woman began to pat her dry herself more diligently than her mother or the maids had done.

She was also incredibly gentle, not scratching or rubbing to hard once.

“There we are.”, she mused, as she had finished, dropping the towel to the floor as she reached for the pile once more.

First came the smallclothes and once more Alys glossed over her attempt to dress herself, opting to brush the fabric over her skin and tying each button and lace with her own hand, taking her time as she rolled brown stockings up her legs.

She hadn’t been dressed like that since she had been a small child, or since had nearly died.

It made her stomach coil but at the same time she didn’t want to insult the woman who was helping her so by arguing.

So she kept her mouth shut apart from occasional thank yous.

After the smallclothes, came a simple brown shift that Alys lifted over her head before fastening at the waist.

Next was a thick woollen dress of maroon. She took her time as she tied the laces on her sleeves, before tightening the belt at her back.

“Much better.”, she praised and if to prove her words, she turned her around to glance at both of their reflection in the mirror.

The sight of Alys standing behind her took her breath away.

It wasn’t like the resemblance was uncanny, but it also wasn’t deniable. She wondered if Alys saw it too, and if she did, what she would make of it.

“Come!”, she asked, pulling her towards the bed. She sat down and began to push at her shoulders to turn her.

“Why?”, she wanted to know.

Alys tilted her head as if she had something curious. “To wash your hair of course.”

That did make sense and so she let her.

At first, Alys merely unbraided and untangled her hair with her fingers before brushing it out.

Then, she asked her to lower her head towards the bowl of water she had in her lap, soaking the strands and running through them with her fingers.

From here, she could look up at the woman.

It was difficult to tell how old she was. Older than her, for sure, but by how much she could not tell.

Undeniably, Alys was a pretty, with fine features and catching, watchful eyes and a smile that gave her the sweetest look.

She was more womanly than she was, with wider hips and bigger breasts and a softness to her face and being. Just like there was a softness to her touch and voice.

Her fingers massaged her scalp as she worked the grime and sweat out of her hair with near heavenly patience.

The feeling made her eyes flutter shut as she felt her exhaustion seep into her bones.

No, she couldn’t dare fall asleep. Not yet.

Besides, it would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

But she did allow herself to close her eye.

As Alys fingers worked through her hair and over her scalp, her mind got wings once more.

She tried not to think of her dream, and of the woman in the dungeon, and so she focused on home. She imagined the way her fingers would trace the carved dragonscales in the stone, the smell of her mother's perfume and the sounds of her little brothers' laughter and Jace's hugs.

Home.

The thought made her chest tighten and so she cleared her throat and opened her eye once more, blinking away tears.

Even If her hands hadn't betrayed her, Alys had been watching her.

"This reminds me of my own childhood.", She mused. "Of the stories the washerwomen would tell me and my brothers."

“You have brothers?”, she asked.

Many girls, many women had brothers and yet it felt like a string she could clutch, something that connected them.

“Oh yes.”, she mused. “Though not entirely the way you do.”

That confused her for a split second until she remembered the lie “Freya” had told earlier. About her brother throwing her out.

Undoubtedly Alys remembered that.

“I remember the stories all too well - Florian and Jonquil, Duran Godsgrief and Elenei.”

She squirmed slightly at the mention of the reason for Storm’s End. Never again would she look at that place again. The thought alone made her skin crawl.

The next heroic tale Alys listed was little better.

“Serwyn of the Mirror-Shield.”

A dragonslayer of old. It was natural for her to despise them, the same way a wolf feared the shepherd. But the next hero made up for them all.

“Symeon Star-Eyes.”

Her smile gave her away, and Alys returned it just as sweet.

“You like that story?”

“I do.”, she admitted, nodding to the best of her capability, as Alys wrapped a cloth around her hair and helped her sit up.

“My brother only ever liked the warriors. Serywn, the Winged Knight, the Last Hero.”

Her voice ended in a hum, as she carried the water away, only to return with a comb.

“But sometimes, he’d ask for the girlish stories for my sake.”

“That was kind of him.”

Alys nodded as she began to detangle her hair, before working at it with a comb, gently, cautiously, as if each strand of her hair was spun gold.

“Oh yes. Especially since he was doing it for a bastard.”

Her head shot around to look at the other woman. Her mouth dropped open, closed, opened again, as her mind rushed to catch up with her words.

“You are a Rivers?”, she asked.

Bastardy implied a highborn parent, father more like, and here at Harrenhal, there were but a few highborn men, and hardly any not called Strong. And that would mean -

Her mind went to Ser Harwin, but she asked after Larys Clubfoot.

“Is Lord Larys your brother?”, she wanted to know.

“We have the same father, but I had the better mother.”, Alys explained.

If she too was a child of Lord Lyonel, that would make her not just Larys’ sister but Harwin’s too.

Ever since she had recognised where Tyseleys had taken her, he had been in the back of her mind, but this newfound piece of information had him bursting to the forefront of her memory.

He had been a large man, a strong man with a loud laugh and rough, kind hands. There was little about him that had been soft and quiet and forgettable, and that translated to the memories she had of him.

This had been his home, the woman combing her hair with such gentleness was his sister. He had been born here and he had come here to die.

She bit the inside of her lip to keep the tears of falling.

When he had announced he was leaving, she hadn’t understood, not truly. Looking back, she knew that Jace had, but she had thought he would be gone for a night or two, or perhaps a week for an exercise with the City Watch.

Even his words of farewell hadn’t revealed the reality of their situation to her. She had been too foolish to grasp it. Otherwise, she would have said something, done something - anything!

If she had known they would have sent him away forever, she would gave gone to the King and begged. He never could have said no to her.

But she hadn’t understood, and so he had left and then he had died.

His words echoed around her mind as if he was kneeling down in front of her once more, one hand on her cheek, the other on Jace’s.

“Be good to your mother!”, he had told them. “And while I’m gone it will be up to you to protect her, each other and the little ones. Can you do that for me?”

He had not just said it to Jace, or maybe he had, but they had both nodded, and he had kissed her forehead, before stroking Jace’s cheek.

That was her last memory of him, her last promise. And in a way, as she now realised, her first oath.

To protect mother, to protect each other and to protect the little ones.

Her throat tightened so much, even breathing became a chore. Alys did not seem to notice.

“The Last Hero was my brother Harwin’s favourite.”, she said without any sign of sadness in her voice. “But then as a man he took an interest in Symeon Star-Eyes.”

She chuckled to herself.

“The other midwives were quite surprised when he came asking for stories about him.”

“He did?”, she asked, as she suddenly felt incredibly cold.

“Oh yes. He wrote it all down too and - well, it’s easier shown than done.”

“What is?”

Alys only ever smiled and promised her that she would find out once her hair was tended to.

Never before had she felt such a desire to rip it all out by the root, but Alys took her time to comb and pat and braid it until it was finished to her satisfaction.

Then, she took her by the hand into a different part of the castle.

It was a round room in a tower, with a large bed, two chests, a fireplace, and a desk.

A thick coat of dust hung over the place, but apart from that it looked as if it had been abandoned just yesterday.

Her heart thundered in her chest as her fingers brushed over the end of the bed. She recognised the sword sheath, and the dagger that lay at the bedside.

She didn’t have to unfold the cloak that hung over the chair to know that it had secret pockets on the inside, that had once been filled with toys and sweets. And she didn’t have to turn the belt to know that the leather had the most delicate of imprint, three strands, to symbolise the three arms of the Trident that also bore the colours of House Strong.

She had never been here before, but she knew it all.

It was as if at any moment, he’d walk in through the door, pick her up in his arms again and ask what he had done to deserve such a high visitor. Then he’d sit her down on his knee and ask her about her lessons, about her siblings, or just her day.

She could talk and babble about the most girlish of nonsense and he would listen as if she had made the greatest discovery known to man.

He’d always made her feel bigger than she was, stronger, smarter. Not nearly as small and forgettable as others did.

Her eyes swam with tears she could not easily blink away.

“Here!”, Alys said, kneeling down on the floor and picking up a large box from under it.

“He had taken up wood carving again, why I cannot say.”

When she opened the lid, her heart clenched.

There were at least two dozen, of different shapes and sizes.

On some he had practised the carving of an arm or a leg, on others the proportionality, on thirds he had tried to get the face just right.

Some were smaller versions of the finished product, or rather what the finished product would have been.

Her hand trembled as she reached inside and picked out one of those. It was yet cloakless, but judging by the different kinds of fabrics at the bottom of the box, he would have worked on that too.

The arms and legs couldn’t move, for that he was too small. But she could see the hair, could brush her finger over where his eyes would have been if he had been any other hero. He wore carved armour, even a little belt of rope.

There was no sword though, since of course Symeon Star Eyes did not fight with a sword, but rather a staff.

Her hand clasped over her mouth.

Everything was there, even the ones she herself had forgotten.

What kind of man would remember all that about a toy?

Now there was no fighting her tears.

And they didn’t come as elegant as clear pearls that silently ran down the cheeks of beautiful maidens in the stories.

They came with loud sobs that shook her entire body and brought her to her knees, her hands clutching the little wooden carving, still unadorned and unpainted, but perfect all the same because she knew what it meant, what it would have meant if he had gotten a chance to finish his work .

Her cries weren’t the weeps of a High Lady, but the wails of a hurt child, and all her fears, all her shame and agony, her doubt and regret, her grief - all of it burst from her chest with them.

She had cried until her whole body ached, long after all her tears had subsided, slumped down on the floor beside his bed, in his sister’s arms, clutching the toy knight with all her might.

Alys had pulled her into her embrace for comfort, had stroked her hair and whispered soft words of comfort as she had rocked her back and forth, but she hadn’t heard them.

Then she had wiped her cheeks and embraced her once more.

“You must be exhausted.”, she had said and given her water. And then she had told her to get some sleep.

It had been late already.

There was only one bed and so both Alys and her lay side by side under the blankets.

Her body ached and the place where her eye had been throbbed in agony, but in spite of all the exhaustion, she could not sleep, not with the wind howling so.

“Some believe it is the way the stone was misshapen thanks to Balerion’s flame.”, Alys whispered, her lips so close to her ear that she could feel her breath.

“Only dragonfire burns hot enough to reshape stone, even if wildfyre can break it and throw it a thousand feet in the air.”

She heard the smile in the other woman’s voice.

“Some say it is ghosts. Do you believe in them?”

“Not really.”, was her response. She was too tired for a conversation, too tired for anything.

She just wanted home, and her mother’s embrace.

“Then you are a little fool.”, Alys told her with an amused giggle. “Just because you cannot explain something, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Instead of leaving it at that, Alys continued.

“Most people cannot explain why some can ride dragons and others can’t.”

“Because they have the Blood of Old Valyria.”

Very nearly she had said we, but caught herself just in time

“Westeros used to have dragons in the olden days, Urrax and the like. And they must've had riders too.”, the woman mused, still unwilling to let the conversation go.

“Maybe.”, she murmured, her eye already closed.

“But you are right about the blood I think.”, Alys said, drawing lines over her arm. “The Blood of Old Valyria is laced with fire, and the Blood of the First Men is laced with Ice. So it is said.”

She didn’t know what to respond to that, nor did Alys ask for one. Instead, she shifted and drew the blankets over her once more, her hand finding her shoulder.

“Sleep now.”, was the last thing she heard before she drifted off into the realm of her dreams.

When she woke, she found herself in a different position to the one she had fallen asleep in. Instead of laying side by side with Alys, the older woman was now laying on her back, and she found herself with her head resting on her chest.

Wide awake, she immediately wanted to pull away but then realised that the other woman had wrapped an arm around her, with one hand finding the back of her head and cradling her as if she was a child.

She felt Alys’ other arm wrapped around her as if she feared she would slip away in the night.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

She was no stranger to sharing a bed. The first year of her life, in those moments when she had not been rocked by her mother, Ser Laenor or Ser Harwin, she had been placed in a cradle with Jacaerys.

To him, she had come with her nightmares, more often than not sharing a bed with him and Lucerys both, or she had found her way to her mother’s bed, falling asleep in the warmth of her arms and the softness of her embrace.

Later, she had sometimes shared a room or bed with Baela or Rhaena but even in her own room on Dragonstone nocturnal visitors were no rarity.

It was a coin toss to whom Aegon or Viserys would bother - Baela, Rhaena or her, although Joffrey had a clear preference for Baela.

But this was…different.

Alys was a stranger to her, and yes, she was grateful for everything the woman had done for her, but she was holding as if she were a child and not a woman grown.

“You’re awake!”, she said, with nothing but softness in her voice.

Detangling herself was a challenge, and for a split second she thought that Alys was trying to hold onto her, but then she sat up and looked at the other woman.

“Good morning.”, she told her with a smile.

“Morning.”, she mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Alys sat up and took her hand in hers, stroking the palm.

“How warm your skin is.”, she mused, tracing the lines. “Like fire burning under the skin.”

Alys’ hands felt cold.

“Although that is what one ought to expect,”, Alys said, as she continued tracing her lines, “from the blood of the dragon.”

Her dark eyes snapped up to catch her reaction just in time to see her mouth drop open at a loss of words.

If she knew, that meant her entire charade, Freya and her lies, were useless. She could have trapped her in here, lulling her in a false sense of safety, with perhaps Lord Larys men already at the door.

They could be waiting there to drag her to King’s Landing in chains.

Jumping up from the bed in a jolt, she was ready to dash for the door, but Alys pounced on her like a panther, pushing her up against the wall with ease, one hand cupping her cheek.

“Shh, no need to be afraid!”, she insisted. “It’s alright.”

She pulled her head away as best she could, glaring at the woman.

“You know who I am.”

It no longer was a question, and her voice trembled as she said it.

“Of course I do!”, she insisted, still smiling softly. “I was expecting you - and well, just look at you.”

There was adoration in her voice and a fascination in her eyes as her hand moved to her chest, plucking one strand of hair that had rested on her chest to twirl it between her fingers.

“You needn’t fear me.”, she said as she laid the strand down gently, only to take both her hands in hers.

“We’re blood, after all. Family.”

The word left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Alys left her no time to respond as she pulled her into a hug like she was long lost sister.

Still her heart was thundering in her chest.

“I’ll take care of you.”, Alys whispered into her hair. “You’re safe with me, now and always. I won’t let anyone harm you, I swear it.”

If she had wanted to harm me, she thought, she could have done so a thousand times over.

And she hadn’t. That had to account for something.

Alys pulled back only so far that she could look at her again. She smelled of pines and ashes, and of sweet incense.

Her hands cupped her face and then, she leaned forward, pressing a fluttering kiss to the spot where the corner of her lips met her cheek.

It was as fleeting and faint as the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but she felt it long after Alys attention had returned to her eye, not the one that was wide with concern and fear, but the other - the one that was gone.

Confusion didn’t allow her to resist as Alys gently pulled her eyepatch away to reveal the empty socket.

There was no shock in her eyes, no fear, but instead she could see Alys’ own eyes widen as if she saw a treasure and not bleak emptiness.

“Oh!”, she gasped, as her thumb brushed under her eye. “What a wonderful, brave thing you have done, my sweet!”, she mused as if in awe.

“What a heroic sacrifice.”

There was nothing heroic about it, instead only desperation, and her scoff made Alys tilt her head.

“You do not think it heroic?”, she asked. “My sweet, don’t you know that greatest heroic act of all is one of sacrifice, one of self-mutilation.”

“No?”, she asked.

Alys looked at her in utter disbelief.

“Do you not know of the hero of many names?”

Her eyes caught the reflection of the candles and began to glitter.

“He is one of many names. Neferion, some say, Eldric Shadowchaser, Yin Tar, Azor Ahai, Hyrkoon the Hero.”

None of these names ever sounded familiar.

“He was the greatest hero who ever was, and the greatest hero who will yet be.”

“But if he was, how can he be again?”, she wanted to know, unable to follow Alys words. Last night, they had spoken of heroes she knew, but this…Alys might as well have spoken a different tongue.

“It is written - that one day, after a long summer, stars will bleed and a cold sigh of darkness will fall heavy on the world, and then a warrior shall draw a burning sword.”

Alys said it in the same way the High Septons held their sermons, with ceremony and pomp and in the expectation of a revealing and astonished reaction.

All she did was blink.

She had never cared for prophecy or history, that was Daemon’s world, but not hers.

“And that man, that Eldric the Hero,”, she knew she had jumbled the name already but there were simply too many for her to remember. “He took out his eye?”

Alys smiled softly as she gave her hands a squeeze.

“He sacrificed more than his eye, sweet girl, and the willingness to do so and the capability to see it through, is a rare gift.”

Out of all the things to call the loss of her eye, a gift was not one of them.

Alys eyes wandered from her empty socket, lingering on her breasts and then lower to her stomach.

And she smiled, her fingers brushing just barely above the fabric of her nightgown.

“What are you doing?”, she demanded to know.

“You’re not with child.”

It wasn’t a question, but the insult made her cheeks burn.

“No I am not!”, she spat. For that, one had to do certain things which she hadn’t done, nor had they be done to her, even if the entire realm, Alys included seemed to believe that.

She pushed Alys away and ducked under her arm.

“Whatever you’ve heard-”

She was cut off before she could even properly begin her tirade.

“‘Tis not what I heard.”, she said dryly. “It is what I saw. I saw it in my fires and my friend saw it in her dreams.”

An icy cold chill ran over her arms as she backed away.

Baela and Rhaena had been raised in Pentos and sometimes she shared stories from that place. Sometimes Daemon entertained visitors from then and at least twice before a Red Priest had been among them. They too claimed to see things in their flames.

“She dreamt of it years ago!”, Alys continued, “A dragon landing at Harrenhal with blood yet seeping from where is one eye should have been, so much it would create a river that would run and run, widen and thin, but would keep going!”

Her voice trembled as she stared at her, into her.

“Through winter and summer and winter again it kept running and no matter how cold, or how warm it got, no matter if the ground itself cracked with frost, nothing could freeze that river of blood.”

Alys smiled, but it was no longer sweet or comforting or soft.

“And last night, when you were you sleeping in my arms I looked into the flames and there I saw you with a babe strapped to your cest and the Conqueror’s crown in your hands.”

By now her back was pressed to the cold wall, otherwise she would have shrunk away further.

“I do not have a child.”, she reminded Alys.

“Not yet!”, Alys argued. “But you will. A boy!”

She smiled as if she could see it already.

“I’ve heard the songs they will sing about him. Little boys will cry out his name in their game while great warriors will think of him before heading into battle. Little girls will lie awake in their beds and dream of him while young Maidens hope to gain a suitor of his likeness, while weeping to the tales of his sacrifice!”

Alys stared at her with expectation, but her entire skin was crawling with a burning to run.

“This is ridiculous.”, she hissed through clenched teeth. “I do not have a child. I do not have a son.”

Nor will I, she thought, even if that wasn’t certain.

“You cannot change the paths the Gods have chosen for you. Your son - your blood - I’ve seen it in my flames. And she has seen it in her dreams!”

In her fear, the words came out less like the firm statement she had intended for them, but rather a high pitched squeak of desperation.

“You are delusional!”, she hissed.

Alys face hardened.

“Did not Daenys dream?”, she demanded to know, as her voice grew dangerously low. “Don’t you?”

Her stomach coiled as if it wanted to form a knot of its own as her mouth went dry.

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Feverdreams. Nothing more.”

Alys grinned grimly.

“Of course they would tell you that!”, she sneered, “frightened fools that they are. I-”

She did not wait for Alys to spin her lies and her web of madness. Instead, she used the chance to barge through the door.

Alys followed hot on her heels, but her fear made her faster.

“I am on your side! You will remember that when the time comes and you’ll come back to me!”, she called.

Like hell, she thought as she ran down the stairs as fast as her feet could take her, two, three steps at once, more falling than running.

And she ran until she was out of breath, until dizziness made her head spin and her feet ached from the time she had twisted her ankle and kept running.

But she had fled without any plan and soon found herself in a corridor all too familiar to her now.

She knew she should run, leave Harrenhal as soon as possible before Alys decided to reveal her identity to the guards.

And yet, she was here now. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Besides, she’d need more than a nightgown for flying and weapon would not hurt.

Her sens of flight and urgency made her act without hesitation as she reached for the deep, dark blue.

It pooled at her feet, and so she fastened it with the belt, wrapping the leather around her waist twice to make it fit.

Then she found the dagger, and the box with carved figures.

Alys may talk of blood and family, but Harrenhal wasn’t her blood or her family, not without Ser Harwin.

Her home was Dragonstone, and that was where she belonged, not here, not on that island of stories and myth, nor drowning in her dreams, or another woman’s madness for that matter.

And she had made a vow, hadn’t she? To the one person that tied her to this place.

To protect her mother and to protect her siblings.

There was no way she would be able to fulfil that from afar, and she would fulfil it as diligently as he would have done. As he should have done, if the world was a better, fairer place. But it wasn't and so she made a second vow and promised the stone walls of this ancient and cursed place that she would do what he couldn't.

Part XI

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