#fic: with sorrows to impart

[maraudersmary]

ask me for fic recs

i want to impart my joy (or sorrow) of my favourite fics!!!

can be canon compliant or not

i haven’t read any jegulus/jegulily (except one) but have good knowledge of most other ships 🫶

also can ask about specific tags/themes, anything you want basically

#marauders #remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #jily #lily evans #marlene mckinnon #mary macdonald #dorcas meadowes #dorlene #james potter #peter pettigrew #emmeline vance #emmary #ask me fic recs #i want to share my knowledge

[fandammit]

With sorrows to impart (12/?)

[A/N: I’m sorry this took a while, but in return, I have given you 7K+ words of struggles and snuggles. Strap yourself in y’all -- this chapter is a rollercoaster of emotion. I had so much fun writing it, so let me know what you think! Also, shoutout to @actuallylorelaigilmore​ for her lovely beta work and cheerleading!)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11

The door barely has time to click shut before Lawrence shifts in his chair, his expression smoothing out to something almost pleasant. Not friendly, exactly, but that professional kind of niceness a realtor might greet you with -- the kind that smiles because it wants something from you.

“I apologize that you had to witness that, Ms. Alvarez. Now you see why I thought it might be better for you to spend your time in a more pleasant way than what you just had to sit through.”

“No, I'm glad I stayed. It…” She tips her head back and forth, trying to find a way around saying what she's thinking, which is that it gave her a quick and easy way to see what a complete asshole he is and apparently always has been. She gives him a tight lipped smile. “It was enlightening.”  

He arches his eyebrow and nods at her.

“So, Ms. Alvarez. Would you like a drink?” He stands up and walks over to a side panel in the unit behind him and opens it up. “I don't keep anything alcoholic in the house when I know my son will be visiting, but I do have plenty of soft drinks and juices at your disposal."  

“Uh, just water is fine, thanks.”

“Sparkling ok?”

She nods, watches him take out green bottle and pour it into two separate glasses. He comes over and hands it to her, then stands just off to the side of the desk.

“So, how is it that you know my son?” He asks, looking at her from over his glass.

She takes a small sip of her water, then sets the glass down. She's not sure why he's asking -- it feels like there must be a purpose other than the obvious -- but can't think of any reason not to answer him truthfully.  

“I live in the building.”

Lawrence raises his eyebrow slightly before he nods.

“And how long have you known him?”

Again, she's not sure what he's looking for, so she just goes for the truth.

“We moved in about seventeen years ago, but it was mostly my parents living in the apartment while my husband -- ex-husband now -- and I were deployed.”

He purses his lips, and she has the feeling that he's impressed without really wanting to be.

“What branch of the armed forces?”

“Army Staff Sergeant, deployed as a medic.”

“And now that your enlistment is done, you run your own clinic?”

She chuckles.

“It sometimes feels like I am.” She takes another drink of water. “I'm a nurse at a doctor's office and going to school to become an NP.”

He nods.

“That's an admirable career path.”

She gives him another closed-mouth smile.

“I think so, too.”

Lawrence walks back over to the drinks cabinet and opens up a bottle of ginger ale.

“And my son?” He asks, topping off his glass before looking up at her. “Who is he to you?”

He asks in the same easy tone as before, but his stance has changed -- his shoulders squared, his feet firmly planted. Almost like he's ready to go into battle.

Alright then, she thinks. Bring it on.  

“Your son is important to me,” she says, meeting his gaze directly, making sure her words are firm and direct. “He's someone I care about deeply.”  

It comes out easily, as though this isn’t the first time she’s ever really had to think about or say out loud what Schneider means to her. And why shouldn’t it, though? Both those things are true, and have been for a long time now.

“Hm. And what is it exactly that you see in him?”

It's a strange question and she really doesn't know what he means by it or what he's trying to figure out, so she replies with the most honest answer she can give.

“He’s a good man.”

He arches his brow.

“I see.” He tilts his head at her and studies her expression. He comes back around and sits down at the desk, setting his drink down in front of him. She works on keeping her face as passive and neutral as possible. Whatever it is he's hoping to find, she wants to make it as hard as possible on him.  

After a long moment, he nods, tapping his fingers across the top of his desk.

“You know, being a good man has never been the problem for my son. It’s certainly never what I’ve found myself wishing for.”

“So what is?”

He shrugs.

“There are times I would’ve rather had a stronger son. A smarter son.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of him. “A sober son.” He makes an acquiescing gesture with his hands. “And yes, he's sober now -- though I always wonder for how long -- but I've had to give up on the other two.”

She shakes her head, not bothering to hide the distaste she feels towards him.

“You're wrong, Lawrence. Schneider is both those things.” She holds up a hand. “Maybe not book smart, but smart enough to keep that building running, to fix anything that breaks himself, to know what it is that people need -- whether that's a new faucet that won't leak or an extra hour every afternoon so they aren't lonely.” She blows out a harsh puff of air, allowing herself to fully sink into the frustration and anger she held back on the entire time he and Schneider were arguing. “He is so much stronger than you give him credit for -- so much stronger than even I ever really gave him credit for. And you know how I know?”

She doesn't expect Lawrence to say anything -- and he doesn't -- just raises an eyebrow.  

She gives him hard stare.

“I know because now I've met you and I understand what it was like for him when he was growing up, and despite all that, he still grew up to be kind and caring and so incredibly loving. He was strong enough to not just be a better man than you, which would be easy, but to be a good one.”

He gives her a long, thoughtful stare. He doesn’t even seem offended at her words -- more curious than anything.

“How serious is it between you and my son?”

She doesn’t say anything. Partially because she doesn’t really know what to say -- it’s a question that’s both too soon and too late, really -- but also because even if she did, this man in front of her is the last person she’d talk to it about.

He tilts his head, studying her closely.

“You’re here with him at an emotional and difficult time in his life, which means that you understand the importance of emotional support and that he trusts you to be that support for him. He’s never brought anyone with him back home the few times he has visited, which means that you must be something different to him.”

She nods, but otherwise tries to keep her expression impassive.

“Like I said -- he’s important to me. And not just to me -- to my kids, to my mom. To basically everyone in the entire building.”

He tilts his head at her.

“So you have children.”

She nods.

“I do.”

“And yet you don't approve of the way I chose to protect mine.”

She shakes her head, not even bothering to deny it.

“No, because this wasn't about protection, it was about control.”

Lawrence scoffs.

“And what makes you so sure of this?”

“Because there are a lot of other options you could’ve taken before you went full Bond villain.” She draws herself up in her chair as she leans forward. “If it was really just about protection, you could’ve granted her parenting time when he was a child based on having her take a drug test. You could’ve written sobriety testing and drug interventions into the custody agreement. After he turned 18, you could’ve tied the trust account to her continued sobriety or given her the opportunity to amend the agreement if she ever showed progress in staying sober.”

She shakes her head.

“But you didn’t do any of that. Because it was never about his protection, it was about you getting to control the people around you.”

He presses his mouth into a firm line before he clears his throat.

“From the way you feel at liberty to criticize my own choices, it would seem as though you have some experience with something similar to my own circumstances.” He shakes his head. “But your choices are your own, just as mine are my own. I don’t regret what I did, and I doubt I ever will.”

She huffs angrily and shakes her head.

“Of course you don’t, because damn whatever it did to the people around you as long as you got to do what you wanted.”

Lawrence takes a deep breath, real anger flashing in his eyes for a moment before his face smoothes out to that infuriating stoniness once again. He steeples his hands in front of his face and she has to bite down hard on her lip to not point out the fact that doing so only reinforces what a villain he is.

Briefly she wonders if maybe that's the whole reason he does it.  

“Ms. Alvarez,” he begins, his voice frustratingly placating. “Say you have a dog and that dog wants a piece of chocolate cake. But you can’t give that cake to your dog because you know it’ll poison him. You know it may kill him. And while that dog may beg and plead and cry, while he may hate you for not giving him that cake, you know that that dog cannot survive eating it.” He brings his hands down in front of him and leans forward across the table. “So you do what your dog cannot understand -- you take his ability to have the cake away from him. For his own good.”

“Schneider isn’t a dog or a pet or your plaything!” She cries out, feeling like she has never before understood the phrase tearing out my hair like she does at this very moment. “He’s your son, and you had no right to take away his choice to have a relationship with his mother.”

Lawrence shakes his head.

“Surely you’ve noticed by now -- my son hasn’t done so well making his own choices.” He lists each point out with a tap of his finger against his thumb. “No college degree, no career, no real direction in life. Nothing to show, despite a life filled with every opportunity money could buy.”

She stands up in her chair, her palms flat on the desk.

“Maybe none of those things would’ve happened if he knew someone cared about him. If he knew that someone loved him -- that he was someone worth loving!” She knows her voice is rising but she doesn’t care. It’s beyond her to think that someone like this raised Schneider and can’t see what a shitty job he did of it. “Maybe it could’ve been different if he knew that his mother hadn’t just abandoned him for thirty years of his life for no reason, if he knew that his father loved him!”

He scoffs.

“Please, Ms. Alvarez. I’m far too old and you’re far too smart to think that love can solve problems like these.” He taps his fingers across the top of the desk. “His mother was an addict. My son is an addict. Love wasn’t going to solve either of those things.” He shakes his head. “And as far as how I treated him, it wasn't love that he needed but money. It was money that needed to be applied to that issue. Money that kept her from him, money that got him sober, that got him that building, that is responsible for the man he is today.”

She shakes her head angrily, her next words cold and low in her throat.

“Schneider is responsible for the man he is today.” She leans across the desk at him and glares at him. “Not you, not your money. He is the man he is today because he worked for it.”

Lawrence huffs out a harsh laugh.

“Really? Then it would be the first thing he’s ever really worked at.”

That one in particular hurts, in part because there is some version of her that would've once said the same thing. But that was before she took the time to understand how difficult of a journey his sobriety had been, before she knew what kind of man he might have been and actively fought against becoming.

“What do you think my son is going to do with free reign and five million dollars?” He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “If I were a betting man, I’d say he’s back in rehab by the end of the year.” He tilts his head at her. “And I also bet that you’ll be nowhere to be found at that time. And it’ll be me once again, who’ll pick him back up, to get him better and to get him back on his feet.”

“You’re wrong, Lawrence,” she says, the words jagged and angry. "He's so much stronger and smarter and better than you think he is, and the fact that you never thought that is part of the reason why he’s struggled so much to stay sober. Which means you're part of the reason he struggled so much to stay sober.” She sits back down, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip on the table. “And you know what? He’s going to be just fine. Because even if -- God forbid -- something does happen, I’m gonna be there for him. I’m gonna be with him and support him no matter what. And my daughter is gonna be there, and my son is gonna be there, and my mother is gonna be there. And he’s gonna be ok. For the rest of his life, he's gonna be ok, he's gonna know that he matters, he’s gonna know that he’s loved, no matter what. You better believe that I'm gonna make damn sure of it.”

Lawrence lets out a bitter laugh.

“If that is true, Ms. Alvarez...” He tips his head to the side as he looks at her with slitted eyes. “Then I have to wonder if you would've been so inclined had he not just inherited five million dollars.”

“Are you kidding me?” And she just barely manages to keep herself from adding an expletive right after the word 'you’. “Not everything is about money, Lawrence! We are not all you!”

“Ms. Alvarez, my son is an absurdly wealthy yet weak-willed man desperate for affection. You're a divorced single mother who is -- I assume -- the sole provider, or close to it, for two children and an aging mother. It isn't difficult to see what's going on here.”  

“What's going on here,” she says through gritted teeth, her body nearly vibrating with anger, “is that I care about Schneider and I want to be there for him no matter what. I couldn't care less about how much money he has in his bank account.”

Lawrence barks out a sharp, grating laugh.

That's how I know how calculating you are, Ms. Alvarez.” He shakes his head. “The way you said that was almost enough to make me believe that you aren't a liar.”  

“That’s enough, father,” Schneider snarls from the doorway, the words cracking through the air, propelled forward by cold fury.

He advances towards his father with his fists clenched at his side, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched so tightly she can see the muscle working in his cheek. For a brief moment, she actually thinks he's going to hit his father.  

Maybe Schneider does too, because he stops abruptly at her chair and grips the back of it tightly. She immediately reaches back to rest her hand on his and feels him shaking with rage.

“I don't care what you say to me, but you will not talk to Penelope that way. Understand?”

Lawrence doesn't say anything, just looks curiously at the two of them, like they're a math problem he can't quite figure out.

She feels Schneider getting ready to push off from her chair and -- what? Throw something against the wall? Fist fight his 70 year old father? She's really not sure, and she really doesn't want him to do anything he'll end up regretting, no matter how much she thinks Lawrence has it coming.

So she wraps one hand around his wrist, rests the other heavily on his hand and squeezes.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and she hears him grinding his teeth together so loudly that she winces at the sound of it.  

“Do. You. Understand.” He repeats, the words a grating rasp, ripped out through gritted teeth.  

His father levels a long, long look at him, then barely inclines his head.

“Apologies, Ms. Alvarez.”

She doesn't say anything to that -- she'd be pretty ok if she never had to say anything to him for the rest of her life. Instead she nods and picks up her clutch from where she set it down by her feet and stands up. She immediately moves next to Schneider and laces her fingers with his, wraps her other hand firmly around his forearm.    

She feels him relax a little at her touch and moves closer to him. She can still feel the waves of rage and emotion radiating out from him, and she wants to make sure she can keep him grounded enough to get out of here as quickly as possible. Of course, she's angry too that Lawrence would assume some kind of manipulative ulterior motive behind her actions, but, at the same time, the notion that she'd ever be interested in anyone -- particularly Schneider -- solely for their money is so absurd it comes back around to honestly being hilarious.   

“The paperwork is all signed and I have an appointment with Aunt Emily regarding mom’s will, so we’re leaving.” His voice is pitched low, the words taut with tension. “I’m sure anything else can be handled through our lawyers.”

There's a finality to his words that makes her think that he means them to be about more than just the trust account. She tries to see what Lawrence's reaction is, but Schneider apparently has no similar interests in such a thing. He doesn't wait for his father to say anything, just turns around and heads for the door.

She tilts her head back slightly so she can catch anything he might say -- a plea to wait or an explanation or even a goodbye -- but the last sound she hears from the room is the door thudding shut behind them. 

Schneider has about a full foot of height on her, something she's noticed before but never really thought about with too much depth.

She's thinking about it now as they walk down the hall, and she has to break into a half-jog to keep up with his pace. He's taking the longest possible strides as quickly as he can, like he can't get out of the house fast enough.

She doesn't say anything, even though she's pretty sure she's currently developing blisters from the pace. She watches as the tension fades from his shoulders every step away from his father that he takes, sees the way his expression relaxes -- eyes losing their dark ferocity, the line of his mouth softening, the furrow between his brows smoothing out.  

Still, she's glad when he stops at the top of the steps and takes a deep breath before closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the sun. She's a little bit out of breath as it is, and there's no way she could've kept up with him going down the steps in heels.

“I've never talked to father like that before,” he says quietly, his eyes still closed. He takes another deep breath before opens his eyes and looks over at her. “But I felt like I needed to say it.”

She nods and leans into him.

“I'm glad you said it to him. He deserved to hear it.”  She squeezes his hand. “How do you feel?”

He chews the corner of his lip, then tilts his head and meets her gaze.

“Weird but...good. Lighter, I guess, if that makes sense? Like maybe I should've said a lot of those things to him a long time ago.” He turns around and stares at the house for a long moment. “I don't think…” He clears his throat. “I'm never coming back here again.”

It's a goodbye and a promise wrapped into one, melancholy and satisfaction chasing one another across his features. He turns back around to face her.

“There is one place I wanna go before we leave though.” He gestures to a gravel path just to the left of them. “You wanna walk down to the beach? There's a little walkway down to it -- it's not far.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

The corner of his mouth curves up before he turns and leads them both towards the gravel path.

“My mom would take me down here all the time when I was a kid -- we’d spend hours swimming and playing and building forts.” He gives her a small smile, though it's shaky at the edges. “Even when she stopped coming around, I still loved it. I stayed out here the whole night before I had to leave for America.”  

They stop at the top of a flight of narrow stone steps. Schneider squeezes her hand before he lets go and walks down in front of her. She reaches down and takes off her shoes before starting down behind him, holding the handrail as she looks out at the landscape before her.

It’s different than the beaches she’s used to -- miles of open sand with a skyline dotted with palm trees. Here, the stairs wind down into a thinly wooded area with a rocky, log lined beach just on the other side of the treeline. The smells here, too, are different -- earth and pine mixed in with the salt spray of the sea.

Schneider reaches the treeline and looks back up at her, the wind brushing his hair, the edges of his wool coat ruffling out behind him. He’s set against a backdrop of trees, the sun breaking through the clouds in the exact right place to frame where he’s standing. She’s never really considered herself as having much of an eye for photography, but as she stares down at him, hands in the pockets of his long, dark gray coat, his tailored black suit perfectly fit to his frame, she thinks -- goddamn, that’s art.

“Everything ok?” He asks, his blue eyes made brighter by the cool tones of the forest around him.

She smiles.

“Just appreciating the view,” she calls out, and maybe she lets her tone dip into something that might be described as flirtatious.  

The uncertain look on his face fades into a grin. “You know, it’s even better up close.”

She lets out a delighted laugh, partially because it’s the kind of cheesy line that would make her laugh, but mostly because it’s the exact kind of cheesy line that Schneider would say and the fact that he’s saying it now means that he’s feeling more like himself. The grin on his face blooms into a full smile, the remaining tension leaking away from his shoulders as he takes a deep breath and leans against the railing. For the first time since they got to the house, he's back to looking like her Schneider.

Whatever it is that means.

He waits for her to come down to where he’s standing before he starts down again. The last step drops off onto the beach and Schneider hops down before reaching up and holding his hand out to her.

“Wait, you should take off your shoes first -- so you don’t get sand in them.”

He nods, toeing them both off and stuffing his socks in them, then leaving them up on the last step. She sets her shoes next to them before she takes his hand and jumps off into the sand, threading her fingers through his the moment that she lands.

“There’s something really relaxing about feeling the sand beneath your feet, you know?”

He smiles down at her and nods. She leans into him as they walk towards the ocean trying to steal some of his warmth as a shiver running up her spine as a gust of wind whips off the ocean.  

He glances down at her with a worried look on his face, then tugs her over to row of bleached logs.

“Over here ok? It looks like the one sunny spot on the beach right now.” He frowns as she tries -- and fails -- to suppress a shiver. “Or we can just go back up. I forgot how cold it gets close to to the beach -- I’m sorry, Pen.”

She shakes her head.

“Schneider, it’s fine, I’m just being a wimp.” She bites her lip as an idea pops into her mind, then before she can change her mind she decides to just go with it. “Here, I have an idea -- sit down right there -- .” She points to a sunny patch of beach right next to a large fallen log. “You can lean back against the log and I can lean back against you, and that way we’ll both be warm.”

She’s says it matter of factly, as if there is no other possible way to keep warm on a windswept beach other than the cuddle close to one another (and, really, it is the best way to stay warm and therefore stay down at the beach). Schneider, too, takes it in stride, his eyes only widening momentarily before he nods and drops down to the sand, his coat flaring out beneath him as he settles back against the log.

His legs are splayed out in front of him, knees bent, with his elbows resting on top of his knees.

She smiles before she walks out in front of him and carefully sits down on the ground in between his outstretched legs. She eases herself back until she’s right up against his chest, his arms immediately moving down to wrap around her waist. She sighs and leans back into him, and she rests her arms on top of his as she laces their fingers together.

“Are you warm enough?” He asks, his breath ruffling the hair against her cheek.

She nods even as another shiver lances through her.  

“You sure?”

She chuckles before sinking further back into him, his arms tightening around her as she does.

“This is perfect.” She rests her head back against his shoulder. “In fact, you might not be allowed to ever move from this spot again.”

He hugs her close to him, and she can feel him rub his cheek against the top of her head.

“That’d be ok with me.”

They’re quiet for a long moment -- just listening to the crash of the waves against the shore, the gulls crying out in the afternoon sky. Schneider sighs behind her, his whole body shifting with the gesture.

“I’m sorry about father.”

She turns her head so that she can meet his eyes as she shakes her head.

“Don’t be, Schneider. It’s not your fault that he’s the way that he is.”

He looks away from her and lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I shouldn't have left you with him.” He chews on the corner of his lip before he glances back over at her then away again. “I’m sorry that he said those things about you.”

“Hey.” She reaches up and rests her hand against his cheek, turns his head so he’s facing her again before resting her hand back down on his thigh. “I was fine. And you don’t need to apologize for the things that your father said. I don’t care what he thinks about me or says about me.” She tilts her head, wondering. “How much did you hear?”  

He clears his throat.

“You were both pretty loud -- I could hear you two down the hall.” He looks down at her. “I heard him say that he thought you were using me. I heard him say why he thought so.”

“So then you also heard what I had to say about that line of thinking?”

He nods, and suddenly seems bashful and unable to look her in the eye.

“You didn’t have to say those things about me, Pen.”

“Why wouldn’t I? They’re true.” She tips her head down and angles it so she can meet his gaze, but he keeps shifting his eyes so that he looks out towards the ocean instead.

“Father thought that we were together. Not just here together but -- you know -- something more.” He takes a deep breath before he looks at her. “I’m really, really sorry about that, Pen. I’m sorry that he thought that.”

It’s the strangest apology, mostly because she’s not even really sure what it is exactly he’s apologizing for. She studies his face, trying to puzzle it out. He won't meet her eyes, but she can read his expression well enough to see the self-loathing and uncertainty lingering in the downturn of his mouth and in the corner of his eyes.

She narrows her eyes as she realizes what it might mean, and it makes her want sprint back up the stairs and confront his father all over again.

She shifts in his arms so that she can more easily face him and reaches over and lays her hand on his cheek and waits until he finally looks over at her.

“Hey.” She brushes her thumb against his cheekbone. “You know that your father thinking that we’re together isn’t an insult to me.”

He looks away from her again.

“He meant it as one.”

“Well, it’s not. Schneider, hey.” She trails her fingertips across the curve of his cheek, which has the intended result of making him look back over at her. “It’s not an insult. At all.” She shrugs and gives him a small smile  “And it’s not even that crazy of an assumption to make -- the two of us being together. I’m here with you, and I’m here because I do think that you’re important and I didn’t want you to go through this alone. So however he meant it, that’s true.”

He stares at her intently, his bright blue eyes suddenly the color of the sea in a storm. The sound of the waves and the wind and the gulls drops out behind them completely as he flicks his gaze momentarily to her lips before he lets out on unsteady breath.

“I feel like I should tell you that I really, really want to kiss you right now.” He swallows, then forces his gaze back up to meet her eyes. “But I don't think it's a good idea.”

She laughs and drops her head forward, shaking it from side to side because this whole situation is absurd and intoxicating and a little bit scary.

She takes a sharp breath in and lifts her head to look at him. Sees the uncertainty and fear and hope warring across his features and decides that he deserves the same kind of honesty and openness he’s offering her -- that he’s always offered to her.

“Well, then I'll say that I really, really would like to be kissed by you --.” His eyes go wide and he starts to lean towards her, and it’s only the loud cry of a gull that jolts her out of the moment enough to hold her hand up towards him. “But I agree that it's not a good idea.”

He takes a deep breath and nods slowly, though he’s still staring at her lips.

“Uh, ok. Just --.” He bites his lip and looks intently at her, and that movement is way more attractive than it has a right to be. “Can you tell me why you think it wouldn’t be a good idea?”

“Because in the past four days, you found out your mom had died, that she was a recovering addict, that your dad had set up a contract forcing her to stay away from you and that because of it, you'd inherited five million dollars.” She tilts her head up at him. “That's a lot of emotional turmoil, Schneider, and I once heard that you shouldn't reply to someone when you're mad, make promises when you're happy and make decisions when you're sad.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“That sounds like it was something you would’ve posted on your Instagram.”

“It wasn't.” Schneider raises a brow at her. She huffs and presses her lips together firmly to try to keep from smiling. “Ok, it was but it doesn't make it less true.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right, you’re right.” He lets go of one of her hands and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Why did you think it was a bad idea?” She asks, mostly to distract herself from the sudden, ill-timed desire to run her own fingers through his hair.

He bites his lip and shrugs.

“Well, first of all, I didn’t think you would actually want to kiss me back. I kind of thought you’d say ugh or that is my nightmare or have you been bodysnatched while you were in your father’s house, and then of course I’d have to convince you that I hadn’t been bodysnatched by answering a bunch of questions that -- .”

“Schneider.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” He clears his throat. “So, that was before. But now that I know that you would in fact kiss me back I think it’s probably a bad idea to kiss you because then…” He takes a deep breath and stares at her with some absurdly attractive mix of tenderness and longing. “Well, If I kissed you now, I would never stop kissing you.”

She stares at him for a long, heady moment then scrambles away from him and stands up, her arms outstretched in front of her.

“Yeah, I cannot be in this same --.” She waves vaguely in his general direction. “I can’t be that close to you right now,” she finishes up, shaking her head with her hand out in front of her like she’s trying to ward him off. “That was too good a line.”

“It wasn’t a line, but I agree.” He gets up enough to sit himself down on the log and then scoots over to the far side of it. “I should probably just be over here for -- uh -- a bit.”

“I mean, yeah, right?” She spins her hands in front of her in a circle as she begins speaking. “There’s a lot that’s happened, there’s a lot of changes that have been going on, and this feeling is just so new for the both of us -- what?”

He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head.

“Nothing, I think you’re totally, absolutely, 100% right, I definitely agree with you on everything you just said.”

“You made a face.”

He squints at her and tilts his head to the side, his arms flung out on either side of him.

“Maybe this is just my face?”

She shakes her head.

“No, I’m pretty familiar with all the Schneider faces.” She walks up closer to him, her eyes narrowed. “You made a face, Schneider -- what was that face?”

He sighs heavily and uncrosses his arms, holding his hands out in front of him plaintively.

“Just, uh - this feeling -.” He motions to the space between them. “It’s not exactly new for me.”

She draws her brows together.

“What do you mean?”  

He takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly, his hands burrowing deep into his pockets.

“Well, uh, you know. It’s kind of like the moon -- sometimes it’s full and out there and it’s all you can think about. Sometimes it’s just a tiny sliver and you can almost forgot it’s even there. And sometimes it can seem like it’s not there at all.” He shrugs. “But even at those times, even when you can’t necessarily see it, you know it hasn’t really gone anywhere. And you know...” He gives her a small half smile. “You know that having it around makes everything in your life better.”

She tilts her head at him and smiles, because even if her emotions are a jumbled, confusing mess right now, she still can’t help but think this whole thing is unbearably adorable.

“We’re still talking about the moon?”

“Yeah, the metaphor kind of fell apart there at the end.” He huffs a laugh, then runs his hand over his beard. “The point is -- wanting to kiss you...it’s not new to me.” He shakes his head and looks at her helplessly. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

She bites her lip and takes a deep breath.

“But you’ve never said anything. Before, you know, all this.” She makes a vague gesture towards his father’s house.

“I mean, you never...did anything or hinted at...something. At least nothing that --.” She stops abruptly, because what she means to say next is ‘nothing that I would take seriously’. 

And maybe that’s the problem -- that it never really occurred to her to take him seriously. She takes a deep breath, then walks slowly over to him and wraps his hand in hers. 

“How come you never said anything before now?”

He looks down at their clasped hands and hunches his shoulders up towards his ears, his next words so soft that she has to lean in closer to hear them.

“Because you’re the moon, Penelope.” And the way he says it makes her think that her name has never sounded lovelier. He looks up at her, his blue eyes soft and tender. “Beautiful, but always out of reach.”

Holy shit.  

She doesn’t mean to say that out loud -- doesn’t even realize she has until Schneider’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts laughing.

She feels her face warming up before she starts laughing too. She tugs him forward and up onto his feet, moving towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She buries her face in his chest as his arms settle on her shoulders, his chin resting on top of her head.

“Your talent is wasted on your Instagram captions.”

Schneider chuckles softly.

"I'm just happy that you're finally admitting that you actually like my Instagram captions.”

She moves back from him enough to look up and meet his eyes.

She means to tease him and point out that his Instagram captions don't necessarily seem like the thing he should be happy about at this moment, but then she sees a melancholy kind of uncertainty in his eyes and realizes that she’s avoided answering the question he didn’t even mean to ask.

She steps away from him -- still close enough to see the worry flare up in his eyes, but far enough away where she isn’t distracted by the warmth and closeness of him.

“So you know there are footprints on the moon, right?”

He furrows his brows -- though the uncertainty in his expression lifts, a desperate kind of longing pushing in at the edges of his gaze.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So that means it isn’t out of reach.” She laces their fingers together and smiles at him. “And neither am I.”  

Schneider’s eyes go wide as a slow grin starts to crawl across his features.

“So you’re saying I’m an astronaut?”

She laughs and thinks that she really must be in deep because his response makes her want to kiss him instead of want to roll her eyes.

“I’m saying that we have some things we need to figure out.”

“And you want to figure them out with me? Together?”

She nods, the smile on her face so broad and bright that her cheeks hurt. The only reason she doesn’t feel completely ridiculous about it is because Schneider’s is equally -- if not more -- wide and bright.

“Yeah, I do.”

He nods at her, an almost dazed look of happiness on his face.

“You do. You do. Ok, wow. So you -- um -- wow. I mean, what -- uh. How --. Huh. Um.”

He shakes his head and looks so completely and adorably overwhelmed that she laughs out loud and steps forward again to give him a hug.

“I don’t mean that we need to figure it all out -- you know -- right at this moment.” She rests her chin on his chest and looks up at him. “I’m not sure one of us even can figure it out right now.”

He smiles as he brings his arms up around her.

“No, probably not.” He sighs deeply, a brief look of apprehension flashing across his features. “And we don’t really have the time, either -- we’re gonna be late to meet Aunt Emily as it is.”

She blinks rapidly up at him.

“Oh, that's a real thing.” She grins at him when she sees the confused expression on his face. “I kinda thought it was just a thing you made up to give us an excuse to leave.”

He shakes his head.

“No, she really is expecting us.”

She nods, then steps back away from him.

“So, we should get going then?”

“Yeah, we should get going.” Again, that look of apprehension flickers across his features, so heavy and dark that she could get away with calling it dread. Before she can ask about it, he clears his throat and gives her a grin that she can only describe as (and really, thank god for that SAT prep book) -- salacious. “But we could also just stay here a little longer and figure things out.”

She scoffs and steps back from him, mostly because it seems easier to say no to temptation if she’s further away from him.

“Please. You are not that cute.”

He tilts his head at her, his grin softening into something less suggestive and more charming.

“Nah, you think I am.”

She rolls her eyes at that, though she can’t fight the smile on her face as she does.

“Shut up,” she says, reaching out towards him with intention of pushing him away.

He catches her hand in his, his long fingers wrapping around her own. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brings her hand up and softly kisses her palm.

It makes her literally go weak at the knees.

“So you're sure you don't want me to kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft, rough with emotion -- or maybe, the holding back of it.

It’s almost enough to make her shake her head no -- to make her close the gap between them and press her lips against his.

But then she thinks about that look of apprehension on his face, the dread that flashed across his features, and lays her hand on the side of his face instead.

“It depends. Do you want to kiss me to kiss me, or because you want to avoid thinking about going to see your Aunt Emily?”

He closes his eyes and sighs as he leans his face into her palm.

“Both, I guess?” He sighs again before opening his eyes and giving her a rueful look. “Yeah, ok. I see what you're saying.”

She smiles, soft and warm, and lets her fingertips trace a line down his jawline.  

“When you kiss me, I want to kiss you back knowing that I’m not just a way for you to forget that you’re sad or angry or worried.” She brushes her thumb across his cheekbone. “And I think that’s what you want, too.”

He nods, his hand coming up to cover hers as he turns his face to kiss the pulsepoint at her wrist.

“Yeah, you’re right. That is what I want.”

She brings her hand down from his face and laces her fingers through his.

“So we should get going?”

He nods and smiles at her, and even though that same look of apprehension flickers in behind his eyes, she can tell the smile is genuine.

“Yeah, we should get going.”  

They walk quietly over to the steps. Before he pulls himself up to the first step, he turns around and looks out across the beach. He lets out a long exhale, and she thinks he looks sadder to leave the beach than he did leaving his father behind.

She squeezes his hand.

“We could always come back.” She smiles up at him. “I mean, not to this beach, but some other one. Or whatever other places you love in Vancouver.” She leans against him, reaches over with her other hand to wrap both their intertwined ones. “It’d be nice to come back with you when it’s not so cold.”

He looks down at her and smiles, wide and bright and incandescently happy.

“Ok.” He says quietly, that one simple word brimming hope and happiness and affection. He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of it. “We’ll make sure to come back when it’s not so cold.”

#alvareider #penelope x schneider #one day at a time #odaat #my fic: alvareider #fic: with sorrows to impart #ngl i'm pretty sure this is my favorite chapter that i've written

[blossom-hwa]

To Bloom in the Night - JOOCHAN

I accept half the blame for this fic but the other half has to go to one casey @thepixelelf​​ both for coming up with the title and for convincing me to make this angst instead of the original pure fluff it was meant to be.... anyway casey this fic and the universe as a whole is dedicated to you because without your big brain I would not have been able to figure out all the storylines

(This is set in the same universe as weaver!Bomin, whose masterlist is linked below!! Also if you want a visual for Joochan think wannabe era like in the gif) 

Pairing: Joochan x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

Triggers: cursing, brief mentions of death and blood (nothing graphic), one implication of abuse, asshole parents

Word Count: 24.4k

Death cannot exist without life, which is why Joochan can’t exist without you.

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived two princes bestowed with magic. They were beautiful, kind – even their parents’ hardened hearts could not break the bond between them. This was fortunate, for in one prince lay a secret that would set a rift in the family for years to come.

The second prince was blessed, a golden child. His charming face and smiling lips drew attention the second he walked into a room, and the mere sound of his voice made all those present swoon. His song was rapturous, magical – his music possessed the ability to heal the deepest wounds and soothe the coldest hearts. He was useful to his parents, the perfect heir, especially when they decided to pass over his brother, the first prince, for claim to the throne.

For this brother was said to be cursed, cursed with the magic of death rather than the blessing of life. His beauty was darker, eyes piercing where his brother’s were soft, and his song, though achingly beautiful, cleft the very wounds his brother healed and wrought pain on the soul. Despite being first born, despite having a kind heart that never wished a single person harm, the king and queen looked upon him with fear and disgust, lavishing their favor on his brother instead.

Yet despite their differences, the brothers loved each other to the fullest. The elder did not resent the younger for his freedom to sing and only encouraged his art, while the younger saw beyond the sorrow woven in his brother’s voice and into the goodness of his soul. All those who saw the pair marveled at their friendship, in the way their eyes shone whenever the other was near, and many whispered that the royal family was blessed, even if the king and queen themselves refused to see it – these two young princes, blessed with handsome looks and gentle hearts, were more than the cold-hearted rulers truly deserved.

But love, the brothers would learn, meant more than simply staying together. Sometimes a love born of shared blood was not enough to keep one by the other’s side. In time, the first prince would wither under his curse of death, unable to smile even with his brother’s golden light glowing upon his face, for not being free to use the voice he was gifted by the gods cut gashes in his heart deeper than even his brother’s song could heal. Music lived in his soul, song shimmering in his blood, but so long as he was a pariah in his own home, he could not exercise his gift for fear of bringing death upon an innocent.

(It had happened once already.)

So he sang at night, music confined to the corners of his room. His voice echoed between the thick stone walls, lachrymose, sorrowful even with the happiest of songs. He sang for only himself to hear, never daring even to open the windows unless he knew no one stood below on the blank patch of stubborn grass that somehow still managed to grow, even under the curse of his song.

Then the gardener came with their night-blooming roses, petals of the darkest midnight blue blossoming under shimmering stars. And when the first prince stepped onto the balcony to perform for a crowd of what he thought was no one, he heard, for the first time in his life, someone wholly, fully alive, singing words of healing back.

From then, night by night, the prince began to unfurl his withered leaves, darkened flowers reaching for the moon as starlight glinted on his petals. For in this duet with his night-blooming rose, the first prince learned the lesson of the gods, imparted to mortals in centuries past but lost to fear of the unknown, of the darkness beyond the sun.

Death cannot exist without life, as life cannot exist without death. They are opposite and the same, two sides of a single coin. And in this gardener of the night-blooming roses, the first prince had found the life to his death, a second half in ways even his brother, loving though he was, could not yet hope to contest.

This is the story of the first prince, marked as a curse from the age of five, who grew to learn the gift behind his melody of death when it first twined with the harmony of life.

. . . . .

Joochan’s stomach roils as he stands in front of the mirror, silently waiting for the half dozen servants scuttling around his feet to finish the last adjustments to his suit. It fits him perfectly already – he doesn’t understand what they’re still doing to the hemline of his pants or the shoulders of his shirt – but Joochan doesn’t have much knowledge about clothes. Only music.

And curses and death.

His stomach doesn’t flip this time, only sinks as he closes his eyes briefly against reminders of the magic that flows unused through his veins. They don’t fade, though, only come to the forefront of his mind even as he tries to beat them back. His magic is the reason he’s wearing this suit, after all.

“Please turn left, Your Highness,” a soft voice says. Joochan doesn’t argue, just shifts in front of the mirror, and someone goes to work on his left pant leg.

Can’t show up looking sloppy today, not when he’s about to meet the princess his parents have promised him to for the rest of his life.

Joochan bites his lip hard, probably ruining the delicate lip stain applied to make his mouth appear softer, pinker, sweeter. Already he can see one servant frowning in disapproval as she dips a brush into the pink color before swiping it lightly back over his lips. She doesn’t say anything, but Joochan bows his head in apology regardless. It softens the tightness in her lips.

It seems Joochan can’t do anything without apologizing, really. Walking too loudly, biting his lip, breathing, living, being born…

He’ll probably do something and have to apologize to the princess today, too. Trip over her skirts, maybe, or spill his drink. He’s known to be clumsy, much more so than his brother Bomin (though in his defense, he never had the same lessons in posture and deportment that Bomin did, not after they erased his claim to the throne). At least this kind of thing is easier to apologize for than the reason they’re being married.

If Joochan wasn’t so cursed, after all, his parents wouldn’t be this eager to have him shipped off so early.

And he wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid suit.

A careless needle pricks the back of his shin. He flinches. Someone murmurs an apology and he ducks his head briefly in acknowledgement. A needle in his skin is less of an issue than his tiny breakfast threatening to make an appearance on the floor –

With effort, Joochan reins himself in. Just in time, too – the servants have finally stopped crouching around his feet and begun filtering out the door, leaving only Jaehyun behind to help him into the matching coat. “Ready?” he asks, settling the fabric over Joochan’s shoulders.

Joochan relaxes a little with the warmth in Jaehyun’s voice. He only ever speaks when they’re alone for fear of someone seeing him overstep his station (which would not end happily, especially if word reached his parents), but he’s still one of Joochan’s oldest friends in the palace and Joochan knows Jaehyun cares for him, feels it in the light touches, the subtle looks, the brief nods and smiles that the servant passes him when the time is right.

With only a handful of people whom Joochan can say truly know and care for him, he treasures every spot of comfort any of them can give.

“No,” Joochan replies honestly, shrugging his shoulders under the coat. He’ll have to take it off once he reaches the tearoom, what’s the point of putting it on in the first place? “You know I don’t want this. But…”

But a lot of things, all of which Jaehyun already knows.

Jaehyun’s lips turn in sympathy. “She’ll probably be nice,” he says, dreamy voice reassuring. “I mean, she’s Donghyun’s sister. Even if you haven’t met her yet, you know he wouldn’t speak so highly of someone he didn’t care for.”

Joochan swallows. Jaehyun has a point, the same point Joochan has made to calm himself many times over the past few weeks. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I hope so.”

Before Jaehyun can say any more, a knock sounds at the door, heavy and light all at once with an energy only Joochan’s personal guard can muster. “Time to go!” Jangjun calls through the stone.

Deep breaths. Joochan clenches his fist once. Lets go. Tries to relax himself as he stares at the door.

“Joochan?”

He blinks, registering Jaehyun’s concerned face. His lips tilt into a brief smile. As bad as this might be, at least he’ll have Bomin and Jangjun there, even if Jaehyun has to stay behind. Donghyun, too. Three friends out of four will have to be enough for today.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m fine.” Reaching forward, Joochan opens the door to Jangjun’s carefully stoic face.

Jangjun raises an eyebrow at Joochan’s countenance but says nothing about it. “Ready, Your Highness?”

No.

“Yes.” Joochan bites the inside of his lip so as not to ruin the makeup again. “Let’s go.”

. . . . .

Joochan’s hands ache by the time his parents have had enough of his playing and Bomin’s voice, motioning for them to sit down and take some of the refreshment they’ve been nibbling at during the hour of music. He gladly does, settling himself on the soft chair as he nurses the tension in his forearm. His fingertips have hardened after years of playing the violin, but even after nearly two decades of playing the piano, his muscles still tense after he plays too long.

He looks to the side and his stomach flips unpleasantly, remembering why he’s here.

Donghyun’s sister sits next to him, eyes carefully fixed on the small plate placed in front of her. There isn’t much there – similar to Donghyun, then, in his bird-like appetite, unless it’s just nerves – and she doesn’t look up to face him, even when he almost meets her eyes.

Something curdles in Joochan’s stomach. She’s Donghyun’s sister and Donghyun is one of his good friends. If it were anyone else he’d been promised to, Joochan might be inclined to raise a bigger fuss, but the fact that she’s a member of Donghyun’s family keeps his lips tightly shut.

Bomin wordlessly passes him a plate of cookies. At a warning glance from his brother, Joochan takes one, breaking off a piece and putting it in his mouth. Sweet frosting crumbles between his teeth but all he tastes is sawdust.

At the other end of the table, Donghyun’s mother begins lavishing praise on Joochan’s and Bomin’s talents. She’s a sweet woman, to be sure – if Joochan were normal, he wouldn’t be so opposed to being her son-in-law – but all Joochan can think of as he gives thanks for her kind words is that his parents are forcing him to inflict his cursed little self onto Donghyun’s happy family just so they can be rid of him once and for all.

Well, it’s not as if they’re completely blameless either. The princess isn’t actually royal, just the orphaned daughter of high nobility whom the palace took in when she was young. A match like this is advantageous for them, too – the first prince of a powerful kingdom, even one passed over for the throne, is a good match indeed for one who doesn’t even have royal blood. Even the insult of marrying someone barren of magic can be overlooked.

Children are only pawns for their parents, pawns on a little chessboard where their parents play. They’ll forever be pawns until their parents die, and then they’ll become the players, using their own children as pawns in the new generation’s game of royal chess…

Joochan moodily stirs sugar into his tea. The silver spoon scrapes lightly at the bottom of the cup and he flinches slightly at the grating sound. If Donghyun’s parents knew the truth – hell, if Donghyun himself knew the truth – they probably wouldn’t be pushing this marriage so hard. They probably wouldn’t be pushing it at all.

Not for the first time, Joochan ponders the consequences of telling Donghyun or his sister the real story, the one where he isn’t devoid of magic. The one where he can sing, beautifully, even – it’s just that anything alive will drop dead after the first few bars of his song.

Well, except the grass beneath his balcony window. Joochan doesn’t know how it keeps growing, but he appreciates the effort.

Bomin pokes his side. Someone said his name.

Joochan looks up, almost spilling his tea. The cup rattles in the saucer and he winces, already feeling his mother’s subtle glare out of the corner of her carefully blank eye. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you take your fiancée for a walk in the gardens?” she asks. “Our gardens are always lovely on such a clear day.”

It’s a demand shaped as a question and Joochan doesn’t bother to dispute, only nodding briefly before taking his fiancée’s arm as they stand. “Of course.”

On his other side, Bomin makes a small fist in encouragement. Donghyun smiles from across the table. Joochan does his best to return the gestures before walking out of the tearoom with his fiancée – gods, he hates that title – on his arm, Jangjun following silently behind.

“Do you actually want a tour of the gardens?” Joochan asks when he’s sure they’re out of sight. Jangjun won’t say anything, and his parents probably don’t actually care where he really goes – they just want him away for a little, presumably to get to know his future wife. Bitterness fills his mouth – future wife – but he swallows it down. “We could go somewhere else, if you want. Anywhere, really.”

She only raises a curious eyebrow, jerking her head slightly towards Jangjun where he stands, a silent presence. Joochan understands her unspoken question and smiles, this time genuinely. “Jangjun won’t tell,” he says, glancing back at his guard. He receives a wink in response.

Something in the princess’s expression cracks with relief. Her lips curve, gaze turning brighter with careful amusement. “I almost thought you were going to be one of those suck-up princes,” she says, eyes cautiously teasing. “Thank you for proving me slightly wrong.”

Joochan raises an eyebrow. “Slightly?”

“Only time will tell the full truth.” She shrugs. Joochan appreciates her honesty. “And I wouldn’t mind seeing the gardens, actually, Your Highness. Your gardeners sing to the flowers, don’t they?” Her gaze turns curious.

“Please just call me Joochan, we’re of the same rank.” We’re going to be married soon, anyway. “And yes, they do,” Joochan confirms. It’s wondrous to watch them coax withered leaves into brightness, wilting petals into bloom, even if he himself will never be able to create such beauty. “The gardeners might be on their break right now, but if they are, I’ll see if you can listen to them sing before you leave next week.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, and in another body, in another universe, Joochan thinks he could have fallen in love with her. Donghyun’s sister seems bright for the most part – intelligent, kind, curious, with a pinch of much-appreciated mischief. Her dance was captivating earlier, and she certainly has the same appreciation for music that Joochan and Bomin do.

But Joochan would always have to hide around her, hide his song and his curse. For that reason, he can’t bring himself to contemplate even the notion of truly falling for someone around whom he’d always have to pretend to be a different person.

They walk quietly for a while, stopping under larger trees every so often to admire the flowers from the shade. She compliments his skill at violin and piano, and he admires her dance. Neither of them speaks of his supposed inability to sing. Joochan dutifully picks a small bouquet and presents it to her – all different types of tulips, her favorite (his are roses, but he doesn’t mention that) – and they keep making small conversation, all the while keeping an eye out for any gardeners tending to the blossoms.

It’s a good thing Joochan knows how to talk, because as the half hour mark ticks past, there hasn’t been a single gardener in sight. The grounds are large, of course, and many are probably still on their afternoon break, but words become harder and harder to find and Joochan is almost ready to suggest turning back when they round a corner to see a solitary figure bent over a bush of roses, softly singing to the blooms.

No matter how many times Joochan has listened to those with healing music breathe their magic into plants, the scene never grows old in his mind. Listening to your song, watching the pink roses unfurl their petals under the sunlight, Joochan almost forgets the lady on his arm. It doesn’t matter, anyway – Donghyun’s sister stands just as still as he, gaze fixed on the sight.

If only he could inspire such life.

Too soon, the song ends. Joochan blinks, clearing himself of the daze of your music, and Donghyun’s sister sighs softly at his side, eyes sparkling with rapture. He’s about to suggest quietly that they move on so as not to disturb you from your work, but you turn around first.

Joochan balks as your eyes widen, taking in his dyed pink hair just before you sink to one knee, respectfully bowing your head. “Your Highnesses,” you murmur softly.

Your spoken voice is as beautiful as your song.

“Please rise,” he replies, smiling. The ever-present ache in his heart seems to have relaxed slightly with the sound of your music. “We were only listening to your song. You sing beautifully.”

“You really do,” his fiancée echoes. “Wondrous.”

A flustered smile lifts the corners of your lips and you duck your head, bowing once more. “Thank you, Your Highnesses. I am honored at your praise.”

“Are you new?” Joochan asks on impulse. “I apologize, I just haven’t seen you around before. What is your name?”

You nod. “Yes, Your Highness. I only began work a few days ago. My name is Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, I hope you have been properly welcomed into your employment.” Joochan smiles. “My fiancée and I should be going so we won’t disturb you further, but thank you for gracing us with your voice.”

The smile on your face grows wider. “The pleasure was all mine. Thank you for gracing me with your presence.”

Joochan turns away, Donghyun’s sister following on his arm. Grass rustles behind them as you presumably get back to work. “That was amazing,” she whispers, eyes still rapturous.

“I know.” Joochan shakes his head. “Every time I see it, I still can’t believe my eyes.”

They lapse into compatible silence once more, quietly admiring the flowers on all of their sides. Joochan peers at a new bush of roses, studying the white petals, when Donghyun’s sister stops beside him. He looks up. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no.” She smiles, pointing ahead at an empty patch of grass underneath a tall balcony.

Joochan’s heart freezes. How did he not realize they were coming through this way, under his own rooms?

Too late, he realizes Donghyun’s sister is waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I was just noticing that the garden was slightly empty up there.” She points again briefly. “Is there a reason for it?”

The lie, though bitter, falls quickly from his lips. “Oh, for some reason, things don’t seem to grow well over there other than the grass.” He shrugs, hoping his words don’t tremble. “The gardeners can’t figure out why. They’ve tried everything.”

His fiancée looks mystified, but she accepts the explanation without further questions. Silence falls again and stretches until they return to the tearoom, ready to face cautious siblings and eager parents once more.

. . . . .

“So?” Bomin raises an eyebrow as he and Joochan enter their shared hallway, pausing in front of his room. He looks around, but no one’s there. Jangjun got held up a couple minutes ago, and Bomin has carefully placed himself where no other guards will hear him if he speaks quietly. “What did you think of her?”

Joochan studies a crack in the stone wall. “She was nice. I liked her.”

Even without looking, Joochan can tell Bomin’s second eyebrow has risen. Why they don’t look strange against his brother’s ashy dyed hair, Joochan doesn’t know, but Bomin somehow looks good in everything. Even dark eyebrows against grey-white hair.

“Not in that way, though.”

Joochan doesn’t refute Bomin’s statement. His brother is even more perceptive than he despite his younger age – after so many years growing up alongside each other, Bomin picks up on Joochan’s nuances of language and action more easily than Joochan himself realizes. He just shrugs.

Bomin sighs. He doesn’t say anything, but one look at his carefully schooled expression reveals the apology coating his tongue. It doesn’t fall, of course, because Joochan told Bomin to stop apologizing years ago, but the impulse is still there.

Joochan almost smiles. At times like this, even Bomin isn’t so difficult to read. “It’s not your fault,” he says, words slipping off his tongue with deceptive ease.

“Still.” Bomin bites his lip, smudging the thin sheen of lip stain that’s somehow still there after the entire day. “I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” As if to prove it, Joochan widens his lips into a smile and forces his eyes to crinkle in a way that sometimes (rarely) manages to fool his brother. “At least, I might be. In the future. You know.” His lips curl in mischief. “Might fall madly in love with Donghyun’s sister after she saves me from an assassin’s knife, like those –”

A hand covers Joochan’s mouth before he can go on. He smiles behind Bomin’s fingers anyway, a real smile, because Bomin’s ears are red and nothing delights Joochan more than flustering his younger brother.

“We don’t mention those books,” Bomin hisses, face flushed. “Right?”

Joochan licks his hand and laughs at his brother’s cry of disgust. “I didn’t mention them,” he teases, mouth free. “I only hinted.”

“I hate you.” The way Bomin’s hiding a smile, though, confirms that his words are just a lie. “You absolute insufferable menace. I’m going to suffocate you with a pillow.”

“That is, unless a brave princess saves me from my evil brother –”

Joochan dodges Bomin’s swipe, cackling, before skipping over to his door and darting inside. After a second, he pops his head back out. “Goodnight!”

A grumbled “goodnight” follows with the sound of a second closing door, and then Joochan is left to feel the smile slide off his lips as he faces the stone walls of his room.

Alone.

Joochan swallows, staring at the darkened night outside his windows. The stars glitter, moonlight just beginning to seep onto the cold floor.

Already he knows it will be a sleepless night.

He goes through the motions, answers the door to Jaehyun’s light knock and allows his servant to help him undress. Jaehyun doesn’t ask much – maybe Joochan’s expression isn’t as neutral as he thought – but squeezes his arm slightly before he heads back out, closing the door behind him with a low thud. Joochan blows out the lantern on his desk with a practiced puff of breath, crawls into bed, and closes his eyes even though he knows it won’t do anything.

Sure enough, when the palace clocks strike midnight, Joochan is still wide awake. He heaves a sigh, rolling over one more time in a last ditch effort to fall asleep.

No use.

Joochan swings his legs out of bed. Using the moonlight as a beacon, he feels his way over to his desk and picks up the violin and bow sitting on top of all of his books and music. He plays a few quick scales before settling the instrument more firmly beneath his chin and turning to the window.

He wants to sing. Aches to. The longer he stands by his desk, staring out the balcony, the more he feels the urge as though the moonlight itself tugs at his heart, the way it does to the tides.

So he does. The walls of his room are thick for a reason – if no one can hear him playing his violin so late at night, no one will hear his voice, either. He draws the bow over the strings, fingers plucking in practiced motions as he raises his voice with the highs and lows in a wordless melody, achingly beautiful even to his own ears, a song of sorrow and pain under the darkness of night.

When he finishes, he’s somehow migrated to the balcony window, staring out at the barren garden below. The hand holding his bow reaches out, touches the cool glass.

No one will be out so late, not tonight. In just four days, there will be a grand ball celebrating his engagement – everyone will be catching up on sleep tonight before three days of rapid preparation. Guards have never been posted under his balcony for safety reasons (their safety, not his – Joochan honestly thinks his parents would be fine if he dropped dead), and gardeners don’t work at night until they’re tending the night-blooming flowers, none of which are in this stretch of garden. So Joochan shifts the glass aside, letting in a cool breeze that rustles his abandoned blankets and ripples through his nightshirt, and steps into the night air.

Joochan raises the bow once more, bringing it to the strings as he lets his voice loose, singing to silent audience as he leans into the violin like a lifeline. His song carries in the soft breeze, fading beyond the trees, but Joochan doesn’t care if his song merely disappears into the air instead of echoing in a tearoom, in a shrine, in a concert hall. So long as he can convince himself there is an audience listening that isn’t just him, convince himself that people can hear and love his voice as he draws his bow over the violin strings, he will be content, at least in this moment.

His song begins a crescendo and he closes his eyes, sparkling stars and the waxing moon splashed like a mural across his eyelids. His throat strains to keep the melody and he reaches the highest note, slowly, slowly climbing back down as a smile spreads across his face –

The violin almost falls from his hands when a voice begins singing back.

Someone is singing back. Meaning – someone heard his song – and they are not dead and somehow singing back –

Joochan stumbles backward, almost falling into his room. He catches himself on the side of the balcony window, shoulder throbbing where he hit it against the stone, but he can’t even register the pain because someone is down there and heard him singing and gods, maybe they’re about to die and Joochan will have killed a second person in his short life, two people, two people too many –

The song continues. Softer, yes, but deliberately so, not weakened by a failing heart or incoming death. It continues, smooth like starshine, coaxing, beautiful…

It doesn’t stop.

Step by step, Joochan walks forward and peers over the balcony edge. In the moonlight, he catches a glimpse of roses beneath the stone platform – yes, roses, midnight blue roses of Joochan’s favorite variety that only blooms at night – blossoming under his balcony which means they somehow survived the curse of his voice.

And not just them.

Someone steps out from directly under the balcony into Joochan’s line of vision. A vaguely familiar figure with a vaguely familiar voice – no, not vaguely, an entirely memorable voice from just hours before –

Y/N.

Wide, shocked eyes meet Joochan’s directly in the moonlight, confirming his suspicions. His heart leaps into his throat and stays there as you stare at each other, a prince and a gardener, one with a cursed voice and the other seemingly unaffected by it – unaffected by it, which should be impossible –

Too late, Joochan remembers that his face is memorable if not for the fact that he is a member of royalty, then by his head of dyed pink hair. Which means you can recognize him. His feet stumble back into the room and he all but crashes into the side of the balcony before managing to shove the window in place. He nearly crushes his hand and violin between glass and stone before he slides to the floor, head thudding painfully against the stone wall.

You know.

You know.

You – a simple gardener, wholly new to the palace – know now from his stupid face and pink hair that he has a curse that wilts flowers and kills people and yet somehow – somehow your voice is strong enough to make withered roses bloom once more and even more importantly, somehow you didn’t die upon hearing his song.  

Joochan doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night.

. . . . .

Jaehyun walks into Joochan’s room the next morning and upon seeing his face asks, “What happened to you?”

Joochan just groans and covers his face with a pillow. It’s day two of Donghyun’s family’s visit and he has to be up for meetings and showing his fiancée around and whatnot, but he knows he has to look like death after an entire night of racing thoughts and zero sleep. “Do I look that bad?”

In reply, Jaehyun goes and finds a small army of servants skilled in the underappreciated art of makeup who spend over an hour dispelling the gray from his skin and bringing back the slightest shade of color to his face.

It probably helps, at least somewhat. But even Jangjun, who normally can keep a neutral expression during the worst situations, makes a face when Joochan walks out the door. “Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks quietly as they set off down the hall.

“Some,” Joochan says truthfully. He did drift off sometime toward dawn. But there was less than an hour between then and Jaehyun waking him up again, so it doesn’t count for much.

Jangjun raises a disbelieving eyebrow but only follows Joochan down the hall to breakfast.

All day long, Joochan itches to run away. Not from the palace, not exactly (he’s been wanting to do that since he was a teenager, that’s nothing special), but to the garden grounds where he knows he has the best chance of finding you.

But of course there’s no time, no time at all. Immediately after breakfast he’s whisked off to Sungyoon for the morning lessons Joochan can barely pay attention to. Lunch is barely a moment in passing before Soojung takes him for his afternoon classes, then Jangjun is depositing him in front of the grand ballroom for a special partner dancing lesson with Donghyun’s sister because of course, at their engagement ball, they will be expected to dance. Together.

Joochan tries, he really does. He keeps his hands in place on his fiancée’s waist, doesn’t twitch when she puts her hand on his shoulder. He’s a fair dancer – of course Youngtaek will find areas to critique, but he’s literally a court musician and the dance instructor – but today he trips over skirts and feet and who can blame him when every unexplained sound is a knock at the door summoning him to his parents, who will then ask how he was so careless as to let a simple gardener learn his secret?

And then what would they do to you?

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes over and over to his fiancée as he finally walks out of the ballroom, Youngtaek sick of dealing with him for the day. “I’m sorry, I’m really so sorry about everything –”

“Relax, Your – Joochan. It’s fine,” she says, smiling lightly. He feels even worse – somehow, she can still muster the strength to give him a smile while he can’t even focus on an hour or two of dance. Dance is her magic, her calling, just as Joochan’s is his voice, and she’s already toning down her skill for him – why can’t he concentrate enough to respect that?

“Hey, I’m serious.” Her voice pulls Joochan out of his thoughts again. “Did you sleep at all last night? From what Donghyun said, it isn’t like you to act this way.”

A bitter laugh almost leaves Joochan’s lips but he swallows it away, opting to just sigh instead. “I sometimes have trouble sleeping.” It isn’t a lie. “Last night… was just a little worse than usual.”

She falls silent, then, lips turning down as she undoubtedly tries to process the meaning behind Joochan’s words. He panics. “It’s not – not anything to do with you!” Stupid, stupid, stupid! “I just – sometimes I start thinking and I can’t stop –”

“Joochan!” Two hands fall on his shoulders and Joochan shuts up as Donghyun’s sister stares him dead in the eyes. “Joochan, really. Calm down. It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. Okay?” She smiles again. “One bad day doesn’t mean anything.”

He swallows. “Sorry.”

She waves his words away. “Stop apologizing, I already said it’s fine.” Her gaze is full of concern. “Maybe take some time to rest and relax this evening? I think you need it.”

This evening. Joochan blinks. There’s nothing planned for this evening, at least as far as he knows. Just dinner with Donghyun’s family, then nothing…

This might be the only time he can go to see you.

“Rest,” Joochan echoes. “Yeah.” He swallows, knowing full well he’ll be doing anything but that. “Thank you.”

. . . . .

The minute the excruciatingly long dinner is over and he’s excused himself to rest (even his parents don’t argue, which says a lot about his appearance), Joochan takes off down the halls, walking fast, fast, faster until he’s running –

“Your Highness!”

Why did he ever think he could outrun Jangjun?

Joochan stops because there’s no point in trying to leave his guard in the dust. Jangjun catches up quickly, barely panting, and fixes him with a stare. “Asshole,” he hisses, eyes crinkling with slight amusement. Then they turn serious. “Where are you going?”

Jangjun knows. When he was given the position of Joochan’s personal bodyguard, he was fully briefed on everything about Joochan, including his curse. Joochan trusts Bomin above all, but Jangjun is a close second. For this reason, he considers telling Jangjun the truth.

No. Joochan clenches his fist, nails biting into his palm. Not now, at least. He needs to clear this up first – it’s his fault, after all. He’ll only consider bringing Jangjun into this if things grow exponentially worse.

Hopefully, they won’t.

“The gardens,” Joochan says shortly. “Don’t follow me. Please.”

Jangjun’s eyes narrow. “You’re not being blackmailed, are you?”

“No!” Joochan shakes his head quickly. “No, not at all.”

“No secret meetings, no rendezvous with anyone other than the princess?”

Joochan groans, face turning pink. “No, Jangjun.”

“I’m following,” Jangjun decides. Joochan opens his mouth to argue, but his guard cuts him off. “I’ll stay far enough that I won’t hear what you say, if you end up saying anything. You won’t see me either. But if you think I’m going to leave you alone when you’re acting like this, you’re crazy.”

Well, it’s better than it could’ve been. Joochan nods tightly. “Fine.”

They exit the palace and Jangjun slips into the shadows, unseen even though Joochan knows he’s there. He tries not to sprint into the gardeners’ sheds, but he still gets there too fast.

One of his hands rises to knock on the door of the largest shed. He prays you’re inside.

A gardener – Joochan thinks his name is Seungmin – opens the door. Immediately his eyes widen and he swings the shed fully open, sinking down to one knee. “Your Highness.”

Joochan tries to peer around Seungmin into the shed, but a few large tables piled high with plants and tools block his vision. “Please rise,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you as you all are leaving for the night, but I just wanted to speak to one gardener. Privately. Um, their… their name is Y/N?”

Seungmin blinks. “Of course,” he says quickly, though his eyes burn with suppressed curiosity. He ducks back into the shed. “Y/N!”

“Just a moment!” you call back from further inside.

Panic rises in Joochan’s throat at the sound of your voice, so sweet and smooth and healing, everything his isn’t. What if you’ve already told someone? What if you run away just on seeing his face?

What if you’re afraid of him?

Footsteps pad on the floor of the shed and then you push past Seungmin, looking around in apprehension. Your eyes meet.

And you freeze.

Seungmin dithers by the door, looking unsure what to do. Joochan does his best to give him a smile. “Please leave us.”

He disappears into the shed. The door shuts.

Alone with you, Joochan is struck with two realizations.

One: you look about as haggard as he does. Which means you know or at least suspect something is up with him.

Two: he has no idea what he wants to say.

Oh, gods. Joochan fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. Why did he ever think this was a good idea? Why did he even think to try and find you? If he’d just left you alone, would you have just lost your suspicion naturally? Why did he confirm things by coming here? What does he do and what does he say?

You cut his thoughts off by dropping to your knees. Joochan steps back in shock.

“Please, Your Highness.” Your voice, previously so sweet and clear, now trembles with anxiety and fear. Joochan swallows, shame and repulsion building in his heart.

Since when did he learn to inspire such terror?

“I apologize.” Your words shake as you prostrate yourself on the ground. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been there, I shouldn’t have been trying to plant the flowers at night – I didn’t know, I won’t tell, I swear by all the gods –”

Joochan falls to his knees on impulse, reaching out towards you. You flinch away. Hurt blooms in Joochan’s chest but he lowers his hand – he is repulsive, after all, a prince marked by death itself. He shouldn’t be surprised you feel the same way as he thinks.

Even if it hurts.

“I’m not here to punish you,” Joochan says, voice surprisingly steady. “Not at all, I swear. I just –” he swallows – “I just need to know how much you know…?” He winces at the uncertainty in his tone. Even now, he still doesn’t know what to say. “Actually, is there a more private place where we can speak?”

Your eyes widen. Joochan balks. “No – I – I’m not trying to take you somewhere else where I can hurt you,” he frantically explains. “It’s just – I just –”

You cut him off by pointing to a small copse of trees. “There,” you suggest, still looking like your heart wants to beat out of your chest. “We can speak… there? Your Highness.”

Joochan almost holds out a hand for you to take before he remembers that would probably make you feel even more uncomfortable. Instead, he lowers his half-raised arm before standing and following you to the trees. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

Hidden in the foliage, you look a little more relaxed, as though in your natural element. Joochan envies how easily you shift between the trees. “Is there… something more you wanted to say to me, Your Highness?”

Your voice still shakes. Joochan tries not to cry. How can he convince you that he really has no intention to do you any harm, that he just needed to come and see for himself how much you knew?

He takes a deep breath. “Did you tell anyone?”

You shake your head vehemently. “Not a soul. And I was alone that night.”

Relief replaces a touch of the anxiety welling in his heart. “May I ask why you were there?”

“I just saw that that part of the garden was more or less empty,” you say. “I thought it would be nice to plant something there, and night-blooming roses are my favorite, so I…” You trail off. “I didn’t realize there was a reason for that. No one – no one told me I wasn’t supposed to be there –”

“It’s not your fault,” Joochan says automatically. “If no one told you, then you can’t be blamed. I’m at fault, mostly.” He looks down. “I shouldn’t have opened my window, I just didn’t think anyone would be outside that night.” A lump rises in his throat. “I can’t sing around most people, you know.”

Silence falls. Joochan starts to panic again. He said too much, definitely said too much – why did he even say that last bit, what was the point –

“Most?”

He lifts his head. “I’m sorry?”

“You said most people.” Your eyes brighten slightly with curiosity. “Are there any who can…?”

Joochan swallows as his earliest memory surfaces. His breath catches and he shoves the recollection away. “No, just you,” he whispers.

“Are you sure? It could just be that your magic only withers plants, I might not be –”

“It’s just you,” Joochan snaps.

Silence falls. Joochan takes a deep breath. He tries not to think of his disastrous first and only singing lesson but that just makes the image more vivid – his instructor’s smile freezing, legs buckling, hand coming up to clutch his heart as blood trickles from his lips –

“Your Highness?”

With effort, Joochan jerks himself out of his daze. He looks at his hands, almost expecting to see his instructor’s blood dripping rivulets down his palms, but there’s nothing. “I’m sorry,” he chokes hoarsely. “Please don’t press it. It’s just you.”

You bow your head. “I apologize.”

Quiet fills the air once more. Joochan is pretty sure the conversation is over. “I’m sorry for taking up your time when you were probably getting ready to go home.” He tries to smile. “I’ll leave you now, I know you must be tired after a long day. I apologize for any anxiety I have caused you. Just please, don’t tell anyone, because then I don’t know…” Panic crawls up his throat. “I don’t know what would happen to me or you.”

“Never.” You shake your head. “I’ll keep my silence. And I apologize for any anxiety I have caused you, Your Highness.” You look down. “I should have asked before deciding to do what I did. Speaking of… would you like the roses to be taken away? I could –”

“No!” Joochan flushes with his sudden outburst. Check yourself, Joochan. “No, please don’t,” he continues more softly. “I like them there, if you have the time to keep tending them.”

The small, genuine smile that creeps up your face nearly makes Joochan take a step back. Even as the sky grows darker, moonlight replacing the last rays of the sun, your eyes seem to glow in the deepening night, sparkling softly almost like the night-blooming roses you’ve planted beneath his balcony. “It’s my job, Your Highness.” You bow slightly. “I am honored to serve.”

Joochan feels a smile widen his lips slightly, glowing in the light of your own. “Thank you.”

. . . . .

The rest of the week comes and goes. Joochan puts on a blithe smile, escorts his fiancée anywhere they need to go, dances with her at the ball like a dutiful future husband. He tries to enjoy his time with Donghyun, who’s the only person from the delegation that he’s really happy to see, and when his family eventually leaves at the end of the week, there’s a little bit of genuine sadness at their departure.

It doesn’t match up to the utter relief at not having to pretend anymore, though.

So Joochan settles back into his normal life, deciding to make the most of the next few months alone without fiancées or future in laws, just his blood brother and two friends. His parents seem satisfied with how he conducted himself during his engagement bar the first couple of days, and Joochan slowly slips out of notice as their attention returns to Bomin’s upcoming kingship.

That’s one side effect of Joochan’s semi-exile from royal life that he doesn’t mind. The pressure of being the crown prince, having to act the perfect child even when he wants to do nothing but scream… sure, Joochan doesn’t actually scream when that happens (not until he can bury his face in his pillow, at least), but he has a little more freedom to act out than Bomin does.

Good thing Bomin has always been a good actor.  

But with Bomin’s busy schedule, Joochan has less time to talk to him. And he has so much he wants to talk about – mostly about the marriage, yes, which still turns his stomach every time it’s mentioned, but also other things. Inane things. Stuff like how Soojung could be a little less sarcastic when he’s forgotten a math concept or how the flowers in the garden have begun to fully bloom.

More specifically, the flowers just under Joochan’s own balcony.

They’re growing well. Joochan doesn’t know how many nights you’ve spent tending to them over the past couple of weeks, but the bushes of midnight blue seem to be growing even faster than they usually do. The last time he took a walk through, the buds were just appearing. That was a week ago. He didn’t see you then. In fact, he hasn’t actually seen you since the night you two spoke.

Which is normal. Gardeners don’t usually interact with princes, and Joochan himself doesn’t spend as much time as he’d like walking through the grounds. Besides, not all gardeners have shifts at the same time. But Joochan kind of wishes he could hear your voice again, if only for your song to soothe his mind.

He doesn’t dare go out onto the balcony anymore, though. If you’re working on the roses, it’s entirely possible that someone else might be with you on any given night, singing to the blooms. The flowers would die. And just because you’re somehow immune to his song doesn’t mean anyone else will be.

Joochan does not want to test that out.

So he keeps singing to himself within the thick walls of his stony room to an audience of his furniture and books. He sings more often these nights – life feels a little more barren with a lack of Bomin’s presence and the knowledge of his marriage hanging over his head – but he won’t go out onto the balcony. Not again.

Until a bouquet of roses is delivered to his room.

Once every week or two, gardeners and servants switch out the flowers around the palace. Joochan likes to keep a vase on his desk, usually some variety of roses, and it’s always nice to see a new bouquet replacing the wilted flowers of the past week, their faint scent perfuming the air.

When he walks into his quarters after a long day to see a bunch of midnight blue roses streaked with white sitting on his desk, clustered in a delicate vase, Joochan doesn’t think much of it. He smiles a little – of all roses, the night-blooming ones are his favorite type – but they don’t seem to signify anything deeper until he sees a tiny piece of something white poking out from behind the petals.

It’s a bit of ripped paper. Eyebrows furrowed, Joochan unfolds it.

You are still welcome to sing, you know. No one comes with me - they all seem to think I have some magic touch.

Then, almost as an afterthought:

You have a beautiful voice.

The note isn’t signed, but only one person could have sent it.

Joochan’s chest tightens the longer he clutches the note. You sent him roses, roses from the bushes underneath his balcony – maybe you were even the one who placed the vase on his desk – and left a note, too, a note that welcomes him to sing during the night when you are there.

You have a beautiful voice.

His stomach flips when he reads the line again, but not in the same way it always flips at the mention of his engagement. It feels lighter, sweeter, nervous but almost playful.

It feels nice.

But he still doesn’t dare go onto the balcony and start singing unannounced, so that night, he heads to the garden instead of standing above. Jangjun doesn’t stand guard at night, and it’s much easier to get past the night guard than to get past him. He waits by the rose bushes nervously, knowing there will be many questions if someone somehow catches him.

You appear after the moon has risen. From the way you start, Joochan gathers you didn’t expect him to actually be here on the grass, waiting for you on land instead of on his balcony above. Still, you take it in stride, bowing low as you approach. “Your Highness.”

“Y/N.” He nods slightly. “Thank you for the flowers.”

At that, you smile. “I thought you might like them.”

“I did, very much.” Joochan looks away, fiddling with his shirt sleeves. “I… saw your note. I appreciated that too.”

Your smile grows more hesitant, but it doesn’t disappear. “I apologize if I was too forward, Your Highness.” You swallow visibly. “It’s just that… forgive me for my presumption. I couldn’t live without my song. I can’t imagine how it feels for you.”

Pain, a pain that cuts even deeper than Bomin’s ability to heal. It can be soothed by another’s song, but only singing himself can truly heal it. Joochan barely knows how to describe the feeling – it’s been present ever since he can remember. But he doesn’t say any of that. “Thank you for your sympathy,” he says, trying to smile. “And for trying to understand.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Your smile heals Joochan almost as much as your song.

The conversation lapses into silence, then. You turn to the flowering bushes, pruning some of the longer tendrils and singing softly to the growing buds that have begun to open slightly under the influence of your magic. Joochan sits down against the palace wall and closes his eyes, listening to your soft melodies fill the air –

“I gave you the note with the intention of you singing, Your Highness.”

Joochan’s eyes fly open to see you looking at him, a teasing smile lifting the corners of your mouth. “You came here to sing, didn’t you?”

“But the roses,” he protests. “They’ll die.”

“And I can bring them back,” you counter. “Sing, Your Highness.” Your gaze softens. “It will help.”

Joochan doesn’t know how you know his pain, or even a semblance of it. Your magic heals, doesn’t kill – that means something else must have happened for you to understand a fraction of what he feels. Somehow you do know, though, and Joochan feels more compelled to listen to you than his own doubts when you say that it will help.

He leans back again and hums a brief melody, warming up his throat. Immediately the leaves closest to him begin to shrivel at the edges and he almost stops, but you hum a bar of your own, perfectly mixing your voice with Joochan’s song. You nod, still clipping leaves, and Joochan continues with your encouragement.

The song starts and finishes quietly, Joochan not wanting to disrupt your work too much, but his heart feels lighter by the time he closes his mouth around the last bars. The roses look no worse for wear – your soft humming, barely audible beneath Joochan’s quiet song, seems to have sustained them – and you wear a soft smile on your face that fairly glows under the moonlight. “That was beautiful,” you praise.

Joochan feels blood rush up to his ears. “Thank you, but I never had any formal training,” he says, dipping his head. “I’m nowhere near your level.”

“I know.” Your eyes twinkle when he looks over at you in surprised confusion. “I can tell you haven’t had lessons. It’s something in…” You pause, contemplating a rose. “Something in your technique. It’s a little lacking.” You look up from the bloom. “But regardless, your voice has a very raw power. That can’t be learned. If you had any training at all, I think you might sing as well as your brother, Your Highness.”

“You’ve heard him sing?” Joochan tries not to feel jealous.

You hum a short melody to a bud, which eagerly responds to your song. “Once or twice, at festivals.” Your gaze turns to him, still teasing. “I watched you play your instruments at those same festivals too, you know.”

Joochan flushes again. Was he that obvious?

From the glint in your eye and the restrained smile on your lips, the answer is yes. Thankfully, you don’t push it. “Would you sing again?” you ask instead. “Your voice truly is wonderful, Your Highness.”

Courage bursts in Joochan’s chest and he opens his mouth. “Will you teach me to sing?”

You blink. “You already know how to sing? Your Highness.”

“You said my technique was lacking.” Joochan plays with several blades of grass nervously. “Could you give me pointers? Or at least tell me what you think is the problem?”

“I – Your Highness, I’m not a professional.” Moonlight shines on your face, uncertainty now painted across your lips. “I mean – I just – I don’t want to say anything wrong –”

“If you really don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Joochan cuts in, already feeling regret for asking. His fingers wrap around a blade of grass. It comes away in his hand. “But…”

You cock your head, listening cautiously.

His voice grows small. “You’re the only one who can listen to me without dying.”

Silence falls after his admission. Joochan doesn’t dare look at you for fear of pity or rejection in your eyes.

“I… will try.” You meet Joochan’s wide eyes, uncertainty still present in your own. “I mean, I’ll do it, Your Highness.”

Joochan almost reaches out to touch your arm, touch your hand, anything in thanks, but he restrains himself. You’re already probably uncomfortable enough. “If you really don’t want to, I won’t force you,” he repeats, despite the hope filling his chest.

“No, I want to.” Uncertainty fades in favor of a gentle smile. “I’ll do it, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Joochan breathes. “Thank you so much.”

“It is my honor,” you reply, dipping your head. When you raise it, there’s a twinkle in your eye. “Now sing, yes? I can’t critique you without a song.”

Joochan has never opened his mouth faster.

. . . . .

With you so uncertain, Joochan wasn’t honestly expecting too much from you as a vocal instructor. You seemed so hesitant about the whole affair – he only really hoped for a few basic tips every now and then. Maybe, as he just got more used to singing, he would get better naturally.

But that first night, you give him a lesson, a whole lesson like the ones his paid instructors give. Open your mouth a little more, Your Highness, close it here. Hey, try a falsetto – see, it sounds much better like that, right? Don’t strain your throat too much, Your Highness. Your voice doesn’t only come from the throat, it comes from the body. Use your chest – yes, that’s it. You’ll have to practice this more on your own, but don’t be discouraged if you don’t get it in one night. It took me weeks to master it.

You’re a good teacher. Really good. Joochan would even hazard to say you’re better than some of the royal tutors and instructors he’s had over the years, and by the time the moon has fully risen and you decide it’s been long enough, Joochan feels like he’s soaring among the stars.

“Remember to practice,” you remind him before you part that night. “I may be the instructor, but it’s your voice.”

He does. Night after night, on those evenings he doesn’t steal away to the gardens to meet with you, Joochan runs through his scales and the vocal exercises you gave him the last time. He scribbles notes, questions, reminders on scraps of paper that he hides in his drawers but shows you on those lovely nights under the moon and stars, singing for you and the roses to hear.

“You’re dedicated,” you say one evening, smiling. “If I were a full-time instructor, I think I’d be blessed to have you as a student, Your Highness.”

Joochan colors at your praise. It makes him feel like one of the roses you tend, blossoming under the sound of your warm voice. “I have a good teacher,” he replies, focusing hard on one of the blooms to avoid your eyes. It’s fully open, silky petals spread wide under the moon. Little stripes of white sparkle like stars on the midnight blue. “How are you so good at this? Who taught you?”

For several seconds, you don’t reply. It’s long enough that Joochan looks up, heart beating uncertainly in his chest. Did he say something wrong? “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer if it’s not something –”

“No, it’s okay.” You swallow, not even noticing you interrupted him (the first time you did, Joochan had to reassure you over and over that it was completely fine). Joochan stays still as your lips thin, eyes trained on the bud you’ve been coaxing open. “My father taught me.”

Your father. From the forced flatness in your tone, Joochan gathers there’s something more behind your words. He stays silent, waiting to see if you’ll continue.

You do. “My mother died giving birth to me, so it was just me and my father for as long as I can remember.” Your smile doesn’t look like a smile, more of a pained gash across your face. Involuntarily, Joochan shudders. “He was a real vocal instructor. Taught me most of what I know of healing, and all that I know of singing.”

Snip. Joochan flinches as a leaf goes fluttering to the ground, cut off by your shears.

“He died when I was eighteen,” you say bluntly, shears held in a vice grip. “Without him, I came to the capital to… you know. Try my luck. I was always a better gardener than a physical healer, so I worked at some of the noble estates before someone recommended me here.”

So that’s the pain. Joochan clenches his fist. That’s the pain that helped you understand even vaguely how he feels, unable to release his song. Different types of pain, yes, but similar in intensity.

He tries to imagine what it would be like to lose Bomin, Jangjun, Jaehyun. Knives seem to dig into his chest.

Your pain is probably even more intense.

“And, well.” Your voice interrupts Joochan’s thoughts. He looks up as you shrug, smile sardonic. “Here I am.”

Joochan swallows, picking at the grass. He knows how empty his words will sound before he even says them. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it wasn’t your fault.” Your smile is understanding, though, even in its sadness. A bit of a teasing tone finds its way into your voice. “You sure apologize a lot, don’t you, Your Highness?”

Hearing the mischief in your words, Joochan would normally feel a smile beginning to creep up his own face. This time, though, a little needle wedges itself into his ribs, deep enough to wound even if not enough to kill.

You’re right. He does apologize a lot. It’s kind of hard to stop when he’s been made to apologize for his entire existence.

“I apologize.”

Joochan looks up at your words. You hold his gaze, unflinching. “I apologize,” you repeat again. “I assumed a level of familiarity that we haven’t reached yet.” This time, you look away. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s not –” Joochan swallows. “It’s not about familiarity. It’s… other things.”

He catches the exact moment your eyes widen, the exact moment you understand. Your mouth twists and you look away again, though Joochan sees shame in the thin press of your lips. “I understand,” you reply softly. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“It isn’t your fault,” he says automatically, the same way he does to Bomin. The words leave a bitter aftertaste – it never gets easier, absolving people of blame they never even incurred. His mind searches for a way to change the topic. He’s good at that. “As for familiarity…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hm?”

An idea pops into his thoughts, an idea he’s been toying with for a while but that he was too shy to suggest. “Don’t call me Your Highness anymore,” he says boldly. “Just call me Joochan.”

It takes a moment for you to process, but then you scoff. “You’re funny, Your Highness.”

“Joochan.”

“Your Highness.”

Unconsciously, he pouts. “You were the one who brought up the topic of familiarity,” he points out. “Shouldn’t you be happy about this?”

“Ever heard of too much of a good thing?” you retort, putting down your shears. “Too much familiarity won’t mean good things for either me or you, Your Highness.”

“Joochan,” he corrects. “And does that mean you think us being familiar is a good thing?”

You groan. “Walked right into that one,” you mutter. Joochan grins, but you’re not done. “Your Highness, there’s a level of respect I have to maintain for you and your position. I’m sorry, but me calling you by your given name is not something I see myself doing in the foreseeable future.”

Joochan’s pout deepens. “We’ll see about that.”

“Is that a challenge, Your Highness?”

“And if it is?”

You pinch a bud between your fingers, scrutinizing it under the moonlight. Your head turns just slightly so Joochan can see the twinkle in your eye. “Then, Your Highness, I’m afraid you’ll be fighting a losing battle.”

. . . . .

Joochan thinks you might have underestimated his stubbornness.

“Your Highness, don’t you have better things to be doing than bothering me all night?” you ask, pausing in your humming to face him. “Royal duties and whatnot? Or, I don’t know – sleeping?”

“I feel like we’re becoming more familiar even if you refuse to call me by my name,” Joochan says obnoxiously. “What happened to propriety? Speaking respectfully to a prince?”

You pat some soil into place. A few nearby blades of grass seem to perk up when you hum briefly. “Calling you by your title is about the last mark of respect I’m still giving you,” you point out. “Do you really want that taken away, too?”

“Why not just let it go, if we’re already that far?” he counters. “Jaehyun calls me by my name when we’re alone. So does Jangjun.”

“Jaehyun…” You frown, then snap your fingers. “Is he that servant? You know, the puppy-eyed one?”

Joochan blinks. Jaehyun does have large eyes like those of a puppy. “… Yes? I think so.”

You look sidelong at Joochan. “If it helps, I like your eyes too, Your Highness.” Your gaze narrows teasingly. “They’re sharper. Like a fox.”

Joochan’s cheeks burn. “What –”

You burst into a peal of laughter. “Work on not pouting when you want attention,” you say, grinning.

Too late, Joochan realizes his lips have unconsciously turned downwards into a pout. He lifts them immediately, cursing internally – no wonder he’s so easy to read. “Don’t change the subject,” he says, catching himself again before the corners of his lips fall. “Why can’t you just call me by my name like Jangjun and Jaehyun?”

“You’ve likely known them far longer than I’ve known you and you’ve known me, Your Highness.” You put down your small shovel. “It makes perfect sense that you could convince them to bow to your whims, if you’ve been friends for as long as you say.”

Joochan gives up on suppressing his pout. “It’s not a whim,” he says. “I really do want you to call me Joochan.”

“Be that as it may, it isn’t proper, Your Highness, and I’d rather not get scolded for accidentally calling you by something above my station on accident.” Your eyes narrow. “Actually, is something wrong, Your Highness?” you ask, the teasing bite fading out of your voice. “You aren’t usually this forward about just your name.”

Something tightens in Joochan’s chest. He knows you’re perceptive, has known it ever since you rooted out that little bit of jealousy at the mention of Bomin’s singing, but as admirable as it is, he sometimes wishes you couldn’t read him so easily. “What, you don’t like it?”

“You’re deflecting.” Leaning forward, you fix him with your gaze. “What’s bothering you, Your Highness?”

Lots of things. There are only a few months until Donghyun’s family comes back for the second round of forced courtship. His parents are giving him more unwanted attention – asking about his studies in their cold, uninterested voices, reminding him of his duties every time his lip so much as twitches in rebellion.

And earlier in the day, he had the first fitting for his wedding clothes.

Joochan shudders, remembering white silk sliding over his arms, pins poking all over his body as the fabric tightened against his skin, smooth, cold, cloying around his throat and shoulders and torso. It was only the shirt for today – there are still the pants and coat and jewelry, not to mention different hairstyles and makeup combinations to try, all so his parents can get him out of the palace once and for all – and just thinking of how much there is left to do makes Joochan want to throw up.

“Your Highness?”

Your voice, full of concern, brings Joochan back to earth. “Sorry.” He blinks the memories out of his eyes. Gods, he has another fitting in a week, even though the wedding is still months away. “I – yes. Some things are bothering me.” He curves his lips into the imitation of a smile. “I’ll be fine, though, if you would just stop being stubborn and call me by my name.”

By the look in your eyes, you don’t believe him, but thankfully you don’t push it any further. “I’m the stubborn one?” You scoff lightly. “Who’s the one who’s been pressuring me to stop using your title this whole time? I didn’t bring it up.”

“Please?” Joochan asks, making sure to pout as fully as he can. “Please?”

Something breaks in your expression and you shake your head, suppressing a smile. Joochan’s heart lifts in victory –

“No.”

His jaw drops. “You –”

“I’m kidding.” You turn back to him, eyes sparkling. “If it really will make you happier, I’ll stop calling you by your title, Your –” You catch yourself. “Joochan.”

Something bursts in Joochan’s heart when he hears his name from your voice, sweet, clear, songlike in the melody of your tones. A rose in bloom, perhaps, petals unfurling from the bud at his name on your lips…

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His words tremble slightly despite his attempted bravado.

You smirk. “Almost sounds like it was harder for you, Joochan.”

Damn your perception. “Am I going to regret this?”

Your smirk deepens. “Whatever happens, just know you brought it on yourself.”

. . . . .

“You look happier,” Bomin remarks one afternoon.

Joochan looks over. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” His brother nods. “There’s more… something.” Bomin waves his hands around aimlessly. “Something in your face. And in the way you walk.”

“Something.” Joochan snorts. “Is that what all of those literature and speech lessons are teaching you to say?”

“Shut up,” Bomin snips, pushing him away. His gaze turns more serious. “I’m glad.”

Joochan blinks. “Glad about what?”

“You being happy.” Bomin smiles. “Did Donghyun’s sister finally win you over?” He shoves his face into Joochan’s. “Exchanging romantic letters?”

The grin freezes on Joochan’s face as visions of you flash through his mind. Dark nights, pale moonlight, stars shimmering on your eyes and hands as you hum a melody that twines with his, keeping the roses in a delicate balance between alive and withering away…

He could tell Bomin. His brother is a secret-keeper to the last and knows how to act. But something tells Joochan that he would disapprove is he said anything, and even if that wasn’t the case, there’s a selfish desire to keep you to himself.

Joochan doesn’t want to share this… whatever it is, between you and him.

“Something like that,” he lies.

And for some reason, Bomin looks like he believes it.

. . . . .

Except, apparently, he doesn’t.

. . . . .

There is no moon when Joochan steps onto the balcony, peering over the edge to see whether or not you’re there, pruning the bushes. You don’t often come out during new moons – something about the absence of light not inspiring your song – but Joochan checks anyway.

To his surprise, he sees a sliver of movement, a flash of metal just beyond the balcony that looks like your shovel or your shears. It doesn’t take long for Joochan to sneak out of his room and into the garden grounds, a smile on his face as he rounds a corner to see –

“Joochan.”

Jangjun?

His guard steps forward, arms crossed and eyes visibly narrowed even in the darkness. Starlight shines coldly on his face. “Who are you meeting out here every other night?”

Stall? Lie? Joochan keeps his mouth resolutely shut as his mind races for something to say. He can’t mention you, can’t bring you into this mess that you never asked for, but Jangjun has known him for so long and might even be more perceptive than you so what kind of lie will even sound believable when Joochan is right here in the garden like he was expecting someone –

Jangjun’s eyes widen with realization and Joochan’s stomach plummets. “You’re meeting that gardener. The one you were talking with when Donghyun’s sister was here.”

Joochan just stares. How did he figure it out so fast?

“Tell me it isn’t true, Joochan.” Jangjun steps forward, lips pursed. Any sign of his usual mischief has fled from his eyes. “Joochan.”

He stays silent.

“Gods.” Jangjun rubs his temples, the metal of his arm guards catching the faint starlight. Damn, that was what fooled him. “Joochan, seriously? What are you doing with them? You weren’t lying before, right – they’re not blackmailing you or anything?”

Joochan ignores all of his guard’s questions in favor of his own. “How did you know I was sneaking out?”

Jangjun sighs. “I don’t know why you still sometimes think you can lie to Bomin.”

Bomin?

A conversation from two weeks before flutters into Joochan’s mind.

“Did Donghyun’s sister finally win you over? Exchanging romantic letters?”

“Something like that.”

Bomin. Joochan shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath, trying to dissipate the flames of anger beginning to lick in his chest. Of course it was Bomin. Bomin sees through everything.

And right now, Joochan hates that.

“So Bomin sent you to figure out what was going on with me.” He laughs, short, bitter. “Even though he said I was happier, he still –”

“You lied to him, Joochan,” Jangjun cuts in. “You never lie to him and he never lies to you.”

“So maybe I lied for a reason!” Joochan snaps. “Seriously – why is it that you can’t just leave me alone like my parents –”

“Because we care about you!”

“Then why are you trying to cut off the reason I’ve been happy?”

Silence follows his outburst. Jangjun actually takes a small step back. Joochan clenches his fist and takes a deep breath. Calm down.

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens them again. “So what are you going to do now?” he snaps. “Report to Bomin about my actions? Report to my parents?”

“Joochan –”

“Actually, don’t.” He scoffs. “I’ll go talk to Bomin myself. And Jangjun, even if you won’t leave me alone about this, listen to me on one thing.” Joochan steps forward. “Do not bring Y/N into this.”

With that, he turns on his heel and storms back into the palace.

. . . . .

Bomin’s attendant, Sanha, opens the door with a confused expression. “Your Highness?”

“Where’s Bomin?” Joochan demands, brushing past.

His brother pops out from behind one of the doors, eyebrows furrowed. “Joochan?”

Joochan bites his tongue to keep from shouting right then and there. “Dismissed,” he says bluntly, barely returning Sanha’s low bow. The door shuts.

And Joochan snaps.

“You sent my own guard to spy on me?” he yells. “With all the spies our parents have in the palace, you seriously sent Jangjun after me – my literal guard and one of the few people I trust – because you thought I told one lie?”

“I was worried!” Bomin says, eyes wide. “Joochan, you never lie to me –”

“Don’t tell me that’s it,” Joochan snarls. “There’s no way this is the only time you’ve ever thought I lied – if you sent Jangjun after me every time –” his eyes narrow – “unless you did –”

Bomin shakes his head wildly. “No! It’s just – I’m worried about with you and Donghyun’s sister!” He steps forward, eyes pleading. “Joochan, if your marriage doesn’t go through –”

Joochan laughs into his hand. “You too?”

“… What?”

“It’s always my marriage, my stupid marriage,” he rants, voice rising. Thank the gods for thick stone walls. “Has anyone ever considered that I don’t want it, I don’t fucking want it –”

“It’s your escape, Joochan!” Bomin snaps. “It’s your ticket out of this palace, so you can be free from –”

“From what?” Joochan laughs, high and mirthless. “From what?”

“From us!”

“And you’d have me gain my freedom by forcing me from one prison to another?”

Bomin’s mouth snaps shut.

“I can’t do anything because I have this stupid curse,” Joochan snarls. “I’m the unwanted son – don’t argue with me, you know it’s true – it doesn’t matter that I’m the oldest, I’ve literally been passed over for the crown because of it! And I don’t even care about that – all I fucking care about is being able to sing and of course I can’t do that either because people will drop dead half a second after I open my mouth – remember my first voice instructor? You think that’ll change once I get married? You think that’ll change?” He scoffs. “Donghyun and his family don’t know for a reason! And even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because singing around them would make them drop dead too!”

Tears have begun to burn in Joochan’s eyes. He blinks furiously, trying to keep them at bay, but months of pent-up rage and anger only make them push harder. Bomin’s eyes shine – they look watery, too – but Joochan turns away with thinned lips. He doesn’t have the energy to apologize to his brother, much less comfort him. It isn’t even his turn to be comforted.

“You don’t understand,” Joochan manages when the silence has grown too thick. “I love you, Bomin, and I know you love me too, but just like I’ll never understand the pressures of being the crown prince, you won’t understand what it’s like not to be able to sing.” He swallows. “You couldn’t even heal that sort of pain. And just when I’ve found someone who can listen…”

When Bomin sucks in a breath, Joochan realizes what he’s said. He panics, mind scrambling for a way to cover up his slip of the tongue – Joochan, you absolute idiot –

But it’s already too late to take anything back.

“You – someone can listen to your song?” Bomin whispers, almost as though he can’t believe it. “How…?”

Joochan groans, putting his head against the wall. Why can’t he do anything right? “It was an accident,” he says shortly, brushing away the stray tears that have fallen.

“But how –”

“Don’t ask me about it,” Joochan snaps, whirling around. His previous anger comes back in full force – not anger at Bomin, at least not as much, more anger at himself for not controlling his mouth, but it’s easier to direct it at his brother. “And don’t send my own guard after me for any more answers. If you think I’m lying, say it to my face, Bomin.”

Before his brother can say another word, Joochan throws open the door and stalks out.

. . . . .

Joochan doesn’t know what to do about you.

Well, there isn’t anything to do about you, per se. He just doesn’t know how to convey that he let things slip and now both Jangjun and his brother have more knowledge than they need, and maybe you two should hold off meeting for a little while.

You aren’t supposed to come around for a few days or so – you and Joochan have worked out a rough sort of schedule based on when the roses need tending and how often he wants a singing lesson – which should give him a few days to work something out. Instead, all he uses the time for is to sulk.

He’s still annoyed at both Jangjun and Bomin. More so at his brother because Jangjun has less leeway when given orders (which were given by Bomin in the first place), but still both of them. Bomin stays quiet when Joochan is near and Jangjun doesn’t even attempt conversation, though Joochan catches him staring over sometimes with a strange look on his face. He doesn’t bother to question it.

By the time night has begun to fall on day three, Joochan still has nothing. He debated going to the sheds and trying to find you there, but that would draw attention from anyone else who happened to be present, and also Jangjun never leaves his side. He tried to catch you in the gardens on the off chance that Jangjun isn’t looking, but you seem to disappear when he’s there – it’s like you magically end up on the opposite side of the palace grounds when he’s looking for you on the other.

In the end, all Joochan has is a rolled up piece of paper and a long piece of string that he hopes will reach the garden from his balcony. He hopes you can read. It’s not that uncommon anymore for commoners anymore, but there are still some. You were the one who wrote him that first note, though, so he isn’t too worried about that.

He’s more worried you’ll be angry with him.

Night comes. You appear at the end of the garden. Joochan waits on the balcony, heart ready to beat out of his chest, and sings a brief note when you get closer.

You look up. The waxing moon glows on your face.

Swallowing, Joochan waves a hand in the air, the hand holding the rolled up note attached to the string. He walks to the edge of the balcony and lets it drop.

The string tenses slightly, then goes lax. You’ve pulled it off and are hopefully reading it. His explanation, his apologies, his understanding if you don’t want anything to do with him anymore out of fear of your own safety…

Nothing happens. Joochan’s heart keeps pounding. You make no sound, no indication that you read anything he wrote –

Then the first bars of a song wisp through the air. Your voice flutters up to the balcony, soft and warm and inviting, singing words of forgiveness, melody soothing to his ears. It’s a little thin, laid slightly bare from the distance separating you, but Joochan latches onto the notes, sitting against the balcony rail and closing his eyes to the sound of your voice.

Your song tapers away eventually. Joochan swallows around a lump in his throat when it ends, fully expecting you to pack up your things and go once you’ve finished tending to the roses (it shouldn’t take as long as usual today since he’s not singing), but the ensuing silence almost has an expectant quality to it.

Like you’re waiting for something in reply.

Joochan clears the lump from his throat. Opens his mouth. Begins to hum softly to wake up his voice, then starts singing back.

It’s strange, not hearing your voice meld with his. You must be humming a little to keep the roses alive, but from his balcony, Joochan can’t hear it. After so many nights of singing duets with you, changing your melodies to fit the other’s, it feels a little strange to listen to himself sing like this in the open air. But he continues until the end of what he has, voice fading into the night.

A beat of silence follows. Then you begin singing again, but it’s a familiar melody this time – one of those that you like to use as a starting point for Joochan to follow, letting your voices twist and harmonize until you’ve created something new together, something fleeting but beautiful in its improvisation.

“You won’t remember the melody afterwards,” you say, cutting off a branch. “But you’ll remember the feeling, and sometimes that’s more important. Music is about making people feel, after all.”

Feeling. Joochan feels a lot, day by day. It’s part of being human. Tonight, singing an ephemeral melody with you…

He feels at peace.

. . . . .

Weeks pass. Joochan tries to live on his biweekly duets on the balcony with you. It won’t fill the void of not being able to talk to you – it’s just more natural to moderate the volume of his song, whereas calling down from a balcony would be more of a hassle – but it’s enough to hear your voice. Or so Joochan tries to tell himself.

(You sometimes leave him notes with the new flower replacements, white paper nestled between dark green thorns and midnight blue petals. Joochan puts them in the box under his mattress where he keeps his most treasured belongings and threads a hair between the lock to make sure no one gets in.)

Jangjun apologizes. So does Bomin. Joochan accepts it – he can’t stay too upset at them for long – and they go back to normal, Jangjun snickering whenever Joochan trips over a rock, Bomin suffering through Joochan pinching his cheeks whenever he so pleases.

Yeah. Normal.

Until weeks have somehow flown by and Donghyun’s family is arriving at the palace gates once more for the second stage of courtship.

They arrive late in the night, so Joochan thankfully isn’t required to be awake to receive them. Their meeting will be at dinner the next day, giving the entourage more than enough time to freshen up, which just means Joochan has more hours to sit on the floor of his rooms after lessons and stare at nothing while he waits for his impending doom.

He knows he’s being dramatic. But he also knows that he really, really, really doesn’t want to go through with this marriage, even more so than before.

His gaze lights on the latest bouquet of flowers sitting on his desk. The roses are white this time, interspersed with light pink blooms. You probably didn’t choose them – there was no note – but they’re pretty, anyway, even if they aren’t the night-blooming roses growing under Joochan’s balcony.

Joochan walks over to the flowers. Contemplates them for a moment. Picks up one of the white roses, imagines it in his fiancée’s hands as she walks down the aisle…

Thankfully, a knock sounds on his door before he has enough time to imagine more. Getting overly dressed for dinner is preferable to locking himself within his mind.

But then dinner actually comes.

And Joochan literally does not know what to do with himself.

His parents keep up chatter at the other end of the table, of course, all polite greetings and inquiries about the trip and we hope your quarters have been to your liking despite the fact that Donghyun’s family stayed in the exact same set of rooms last time they came and liked them just as much back then. Not to mention that said rooms are the fanciest guest rooms in the entire palace. If they weren’t satisfied, Joochan doesn’t know what would work for them.

Meanwhile, at his end of the table, Joochan is trying very hard not to make so much as a single noise against his plate or cup because if he does, everyone will look at him and he’ll be forced to break the awkward silence.

It’s even worse than the first time. At least then, Donghyun was still smiling, and his sister attempted conversation with Joochan. Bomin was fairly able to put people at ease when even Joochan’s social tendencies failed. But now there’s a tense set to Donghyun’s jaw, a burning anger in his sister’s eyes, and Joochan can’t think of anything he might’ve done wrong considering he hasn’t seen them in months. He’s sent letters to both and acted (at least outwardly) like he was fine with this arrangement. He hasn’t done anything to his parents’ knowledge that would indicate he’s opposed to it – he knows that because if he had, he would’ve gotten a scolding and maybe something worse –

Joochan winces as an old scar on his back suddenly twitches with pain. Bomin looks over, concerned, but Joochan quickly schools his face back to neutrality. Damn the memories.

“Is anything not to your liking?” Bomin asks quietly, bravely breaking the silence. His gaze flits uncertainly between Donghyun and his sister.

Both of them blink in tandem. Donghyun’s face relaxes a little and some of the anger fades from his sister’s eyes, their lips upturning slightly in sheepish surprise. “No, not at all,” his sister replies. “I apologize. The trip was long, and some of our nerves are… frayed.”

Judging from the shadow that passes through Donghyun’s eyes, “frayed” is a weak way to put it.

The silence, lifts though, and they converse more normally after that. Joochan catches a flicker of relief in his father’s eyes when they meet for the briefest moment, and even his mother gives a tiny nod of approval when the excruciating meal is finally over.

Everyone splits off, then, to do whatever they have in their plans for the night. Joochan and Bomin take a walk in the garden. Donghyun and his sister disappear to who-knows-where. It’s peaceful. More or less.

Until Joochan and Bomin are returning (they didn’t see you) to their quarters for bed and they happen to pass by the guest rooms, where shouts echo faintly behind closed doors. With unspoken agreement, the brothers start walking quickly down the hall, trying not to listen to what the other pair of siblings is saying.

Then a door flies open and catches Joochan in the face as his fiancée storms out in a swirl of skirts and fury.

For a moment, there is only dead silence as everyone tries to comprehend what just happened. Joochan brings a hand to his nose. It comes away bloody.

Great.

“Gods above,” his fiancée whispers. “Your Highness – Joochan – I’m so sorry –” She turns to Bomin, who still looks like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. “Where’s the infirmary?”

So Joochan ends up sitting on the edge of a white infirmary bed, pinching his nose between large bundles of gauze. Bomin has gone off, presumably to tell Donghyun what happened, and Joochan’s fiancée sits next to him, wringing her hands in apology even as he tells her over and over again that it’s fine – actually, it’s even a little funny.

Bomin will definitely be teasing Joochan about this by tomorrow.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, staring into her lap. “I was just so angry – I didn’t see you –”

“I’m fine,” Joochan repeats, voice still slightly distorted by the residual pain in his nose. “If you were as upset as you sounded, I completely understand.”

She stiffens. “I – you heard us?”

“Not much.” Joochan winces in embarrassment. “I could only hear that you were yelling, neither I nor Bomin could actually make out anything. The walls here are thick.” For a reason.

Relief floods her face. Joochan looks at her for a moment, trying to see if it’s anything he should be worried about, but he turns away. He’d be alarmed if anyone heard any of his arguments with Bomin, after all, even if they were light.

One of the physicians comes in soon after. His nose doesn’t look to be majorly injured, so he sings Joochan a brief, warm melody that stops the bleeding (his voice isn’t as pretty as yours, though) and sends him on his way. Donghyun’s sister helps him wipe away the last of the dried blood, and then they walk back down to the guest rooms, where Joochan bids her goodnight.

She pauses before entering her quarters, though. “I just remembered – could we take a walk in the gardens tomorrow, Joochan?” Her eyes sparkle strangle, a mix of eagerness and muted anxiety. “I couldn’t forget watching the flowers bloom over these past few months.”

Joochan blinks. “Of course,” he says, even though his mind whirls with possible reasons behind the sudden request. The flowers are beautiful, of course, and there are new varieties blossoming with the change of seasons, but the anxiousness etched into the set of your lips speaks of something more than wishing to listen to some song. “In the afternoon? We can take a walk after lunch.”

“That sounds perfect.” She smiles. “Thank you, Joochan.”

He returns the smile. “It’s no problem.”

. . . . .

Everyone seems surprised when Joochan leaves together with his fiancée after lunch, citing a stroll in the garden, but it isn’t bad surprise. Bomin looks interested, Donghyun less annoyed, and Joochan even catches something like satisfaction in his parents’ eyes as they sweep out of the room.

It makes his stomach curdle a little inside.

Joochan starts the conversation, idly talking about the new season and which flowers the gardeners have begun putting into the ground. The air is crisper, cooler, and Joochan takes comfort in the breeze against his cheeks as he walks her around the grass, pausing every so often to listen to one of the gardeners sing. She doesn’t speak much, but at least the singing seems to make her look a little happier.

They pass by the stretch where Joochan’s balcony is, providing a spot of shade under the afternoon sun. Joochan tries to hurry past – he doesn’t want questions about the roses now stretching across the walls, blooming beautifully from your song – but then his fiancée gasps in surprise. “The roses!”

Something tightens in Joochan’s chest. He doesn’t know what it is – it doesn’t feel good, like a cross between fear and anxiety and… he can’t figure it out. None of it. But his fiancée is looking at him and he has to put on a smile so he curves his lips and nods, trying to ignore the feeling. “Yes, one of the newer gardeners managed to make them grow. You met them last time.” He tries to ignore the feeling in his heart, even as it tightens its hold. “Y/N.”

Y/N. You. You made them grow with your gentle hands and lovely voice. You made them grow despite Joochan’s cursed song, molded your melodies with his so they wouldn’t kill so easily, wouldn’t act so much the curse they were always meant to be…

He swallows, trying to banish all thoughts of you from his mind. For the first time on one of his walks in the garden, Joochan feels guiltily glad that he hasn’t seen you.

You and his fiancée don’t exactly coexist well in his thoughts, for reasons Joochan doesn’t have the time or energy to pick apart.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispers, clearly oblivious to Joochan’s internal conflict. She steps forward until they’re both under the shade of the balcony, marveling at the midnight blue roses streaked with white, galaxies in the night sky. “Do they bloom year round?”

“Yes, this variety does.” Joochan rubs a soft petal between his fingers, trying to recall just how many nights have passed since he last saw you face to face instead of just hearing your voice from up above. Too many, probably. “They wilt a little more easily in winter, but they can still grow if the snow isn’t too heavy.”

She hums in acknowledgement, still staring at the flowers. Her fingers twitch near a couple of the blooms, but she doesn’t do anything more than touch their petals.

Oh. She wants to pick one, maybe. Take it back to her rooms. Admire it.

For some reason, the thought of your flowers in his fiancée’s hands and in her rooms makes the feeling in Joochan’s chest intensify.

His lips fight hard to stay in a neutral smile as he reaches out, fingers trembling, to snap off one of the flowers just above the crown of five leaves at the base of the stem, the way you showed him how to so many weeks ago when he still met you under the moon and the stars, listened to your voice wash over the plants and his ears next to you, not from far away. Carefully, as his fiancée watches, Joochan pulls off the thorns, all the while trying not to feel like he’s betraying your song, your art, then nestles the bloom gently behind her ear. “For you,” he chokes, forcibly ignoring the tightness in his chest.

She touches the rose gently, fingers brushing against the petals. She looks beautiful in that moment, eyes shining, figure lovely against the green garden and sunlight, and not for the first time, Joochan wishes he could have just fallen in love with her. It would make things so much easier.

But the knowledge that he’d have no freedom in this marriage even if he was able to love, keeps his heart from racing too fast in her presence. He couldn’t fall in love with Donghyun’s sister, never – there are too many secrets and hidden agendas behind their match.

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. For a moment, her eyes sparkle with true peace, true happiness, and Joochan feels a little happier for her. But then a shadow falls over her gaze and she looks away, hand falling limply from the rose to her side. Silence stretches.

“Shall we keep going?” Joochan finally says once he feels uncomfortable enough that he needs to speak. Thankfully, she nods, the smile reappearing on her face as he takes her arm once more, leading her out of the shade and into the sun.

He tries not to look at the midnight blue rose he tucked behind her ear as he forces conversation. “Do you truly like the flowers here?”

“I love them,” she says earnestly. Joochan can tells she’s speaking the truth. “My kingdom has flowers too, but for some reason, the ones here just… they’re so much brighter. Livelier.” She smiles briefly. “Maybe it’s the song.”

Joochan knows what he should say next. He should say something like, “when we’re married, we’ll have a garden of our own,” something that a fiancé in love with his future wife would say.

He’s not in love, but he says it anyway. Because he should. And he thinks maybe the thought of a garden for herself will make her smile a little more, even if the marriage he mentions isn’t anything she wants.

At least, he thinks it isn’t what she wants. She’s polite enough and hasn’t said anything to indicate it, but body language and silence sometimes speak more than words.

Her smile turns smaller, lips pressing together as she shifts away from him, ever so slightly. Joochan confirms his suspicions. “That would be lovely.”

The expression on her face indicates anything but. And even though she was the one who initiated the walk, was the one who seemed to want to talk, she doesn’t speak for the rest of the afternoon. 

Neither does Joochan. 

. . . . .

Several days fly by in a blur. There’s another ball next week, even bigger than the last – Joochan will present the second courting gift to his fiancée, as per his kingdom’s tradition (the first was sent on a long time ago), and she will engage him for the first dance, as per hers. On the one night you two are scheduled to meet, Joochan lowers down a note saying I’m sorry, Y/N, but I’m exhausted tonight – I can barely stay awake long enough to write this.

You’ve taken to bringing a stub of a pencil with you on these nights so that your communication isn’t only by song. This time is no exception, and Joochan quickly lifts up the string at your subtle tug.

Need a lullaby?

Your voice almost soothes him to sleep on the balcony.

He gets through the next couple of days, gets through the last minute fittings for new clothes (as if he needs more), opinions on the appetizer menu (shouldn’t they be asking the cooks?), what flowers would fit best the theme best (they bring in a vase of night-blooming roses and all Joochan can think of is you). Joochan tries to go through it with a smile on his face – he doesn’t trip over his fiancée’s feet or skirts when they have their lessons, which makes Youngtaek seem a little more satisfied – but when the night of the ball actually arrives, Joochan almost fights Jaehyun when his servant comes to drag him out of bed.

The flowers in his room were replaced about a week ago, yellow and red tulips forming a bright sunburst on his desk. Perhaps someone was just trying to cheer him up. Or maybe they somehow knew his fiancée’s favorite flowers were tulips and decided to make a little joke.

Joochan tries not to look at their slightly wilted stems. They only remind him of a certain night-blooming rose whose face he hasn’t seen in weeks.

He wears a dark suit, deep blue trimmed with silver embroidery around the shoulders and cuffs. Jaehyun puts a few last touches on his makeup and hands Joochan an earring, telling him to put it in – “You’re the servant, shouldn’t you be dressing me?” “Are your fingers that inept, Your Royal Highness?” – before taking the prince’s crown off the pillow it was delivered on, silver and jewels glinting in the evening light filtering through the window. The cold weight settles on Joochan’s head.

“There,” Jaehyun says softly. “You’re ready.”

Joochan lifts his gaze to the mirror. A young man stares back, faded pink hair swept elegantly off his forehead, an earring glinting just above his shoulder. Makeup around his eyes makes them darker, more piercing, and he wears a fine blue suit, slim silver chains draping over the shoulders and around the neck. The jewels in the crown sparkle brilliantly, even in the fading light.

He swallows hard. The young man copies the movement. He averts his eyes, clenching his fist.

This man in the mirror, the man Joochan knows is himself, looks fine and elegant and handsome, almost exactly what a prince should be. If he didn’t know he was cursed, Joochan might even dare to say he was the perfect model of royalty, second only to maybe his brother.

He’s never hated it more.

Jangjun’s characteristic knock sounds at the door before Joochan can take more time to hate himself. Jaehyun helps him out of the chair and squeezes his shoulder slightly, their previous teasing mood forgotten in the wake of what they both know Joochan has to do next. With a brief “good luck” and “thanks,” Joochan opens the door.

Both of Jangjun’s eyes rise the second he sees Joochan. “Looking good, Your Highness.”

Joochan scoffs lightly. “You just want me to say you look good too, right?”

He does look good. Few people are blind to the fact that Jangjun is actually very handsome, and Joochan has caught more than a few servants staring sometimes when he walks down a hall, his guard stepping along right beside him. With him dressed as a partygoer instead of in his usual uniform, Joochan thinks his guard will attract even more stares than usual tonight, but Jangjun doesn’t need the ego boost. He can live without it.

“Caught.” Jangjun’s eyes crinkle into a smirk. “But I know I look good, so I don’t need you to say it.” The smile fades, replaced with determination and concern. “Ready to go?”

No.

“Yes.” Joochan steps further into the hallway. Briefly, he wonders how people would react if he tripped while presenting the gift to Donghyun’s sister. “Come on.”

. . . . .

He doesn’t trip. The princess gets her gift without anything more than the usual fanfare, a circlet of gold with a moonstone set into the front that Joochan places on her head with hands shaking both from nervousness and just in general not wanting to be there. Whoever did her dressing left her hair devoid of accessories, thankfully, just some clips holding a few strands back, so Joochan doesn’t need to awkwardly remove things or try to fit the circlet around preexistent ornaments. One less thing to worry about.

He accepts his dances, too, sailing about the ballroom on feet much heavier than hers that seem to be made of air. No mistakes on his end, though – he notices Youngtaek nodding in approval somewhere in the watching crowd – and when they separate at the end of the ball with the last traditional song, Joochan feels satisfied, even if not happy, that he’s at least played his part well.

(It doesn’t matter that when he walks his fiancée back to her rooms and bids her goodnight, he sees the rose he picked for her standing upright in a vase, taunting him with memories of you.)

(It also doesn’t matter that when he returns to his own quarters, the wilting tulips that were on his desk have been replaced by a bouquet of midnight blue with a tiny note sticking out from behind the petals, almost blending in with a streak of starry white.

Sleep well.

Joochan lies awake for at least another hour.)

. . . . .

Because the gods have somehow managed to keep him from seeing you on his walks in the gardens, Joochan doesn’t feel too worried that you’ll meet when he wanders down to the flowers after another wedding suit fitting. He needs to feel sunshine on his skin, not cold silk and satin.

To his surprise, he meets Donghyun’s sister by a patch of roses, and at her suggestion, they continue on together, mostly keeping a comfortable silence. It chafes at Joochan a little – was there something she wanted to say last time, something that she can still say now? – but she doesn’t say anything about it, only admires the flowers. He follows suit.

Then Joochan rounds a corner, trailing his fingers along a vine that creeps up the stone palace walls, and sees a familiar figure kneeling over a small patch of tulips.

He freezes. No, there’s no way that can be you –

The figure’s head lifts, and Joochan catches their eye almost accidentally.

He’d know that face anywhere.

“Your Highnesses.” You bow low, stiff, formal. Joochan aches for even a bit of familiarity to bleed into your voice, your actions, but you keep your face neutral as he bids you to stand. He searches your eyes, your lips, for something, anything –

But there’s nothing. And Joochan understands. It isn’t just you and him, this time – his future wife stands at his arm, and you must maintain your composure.

His fiancée’s voice jerks Juyeon out of his thoughts. “I believe we’ve met before, haven’t we?” she smiles. “You sang beautifully the last time I was here.”

Your head dips in respect. “Thank you, Your Highness. Your words honor me.”

“Joochan told me you were the one who managed to make the roses bloom under the balcony where no other gardener succeeded,” she continues. Joochan hides a flinch when his name falls from her lips, startlingly casual and almost a slap in the face to you, who can’t use his name as you always do for fear of punishment. Something in your eyes flickers, too, but Joochan can’t do anything more than hope his silent apology reads clear in his gaze as his fiancée keep speaking. “Your gift is great.”

Again, you bow in thanks. Your eyes remain downcast, demure and humble, as you speak. The lightest hint of detached teasing colors your tone. “Perhaps the roses were only waiting for the right person’s song, Your Highness.”

Donghyun’s sister clearly thinks you meant to teasingly brag about your own ability and she responds accordingly, laughing with a brightness he rarely sees on her face. But as she laughs, you lift your head slightly, fixing his gaze with yours.

Perhaps the roses were only waiting for the right person’s song.

The right person’s song.

The right person…

Joochan stares into your eyes, watching them soften. You meant him, he’s certain, as self-centered as it sounds. By the right person, you meant him.

Oh. Oh, gods…

“I agree,” he replies softly. 

Only he thinks that the right person was you.

Your eyes widen for a split second as you take in Joochan’s meaning. Something cracks in your expression, something raw and beautiful and so, so sad, and Joochan tries to memorize it so he can pick it apart later on – why do you look so radiant and so defeated all at once as your eyes flicker to the laughing fiancée at his side –

The right person.

The right person…

No. No. Joochan swallows hard, breaking his gaze from yours as his mind races. Nights spent under the moon, talking, singing, laughing as you clipped roses and leaves and soothed him with your voice…

Joochan is not in love with you. He isn’t, he can’t be, not when his fiancée is literally standing on his arm –

Your gaze catches his once more, and Joochan barely manages not to lose himself in your eyes.

He’s in love with you. Completely, wholly in love with you –

In his mind’s eye, Joochan sees your gaze flicker over to his future wife, turning dark upon contact.

Oh.

Joochan is in love with you.

And you might be in love with him.

He almost falls with the realization. Only his fiancée’s grip on his arm keeps him from swaying forward. Joochan looks at you, drinking in the sight of your eyes and you let him, staring back with a fervor as great as his –

But Joochan’s fiancée has finished her peal of laughter and you both have to look away, your eyes clouding into something darker while Joochan fights the ache in his chest. “Well, we won’t disturb you further,” she says, seemingly oblivious to his pain. “Thank you for your time.”

You bow, and when you straighten, your eyes linger on Joochan for a second longer than it should. “The pleasure was all mine.”

. . . . .

Joochan lies awake that night and several more, still reeling with the sudden realization that he is in love not with the person that people would like him to love, but with a gardener whose voice makes him feel like a night-blooming rose, petals opening in the night, free to blossom and free to grow, free to sing without causing pain.

And this gardener is in love with him too.

He tries to hide it. No one really notices – he keeps up a joking banter with his brother and Donghyun, fights playfully with Jangjun, and performs his duties as a future husband without fail. But several times, he catches Bomin looking at him with a weird expression or Jangjun staring over out of the corner of his eye.

It might be easier if he could tell them what he’s done, how he feels. But both would probably disapprove – Jangjun already suspects something about you, and Bomin, though he now understands Joochan’s revulsion to the marriage, wouldn’t be happy about him having fallen in love with someone else. It will only hurt Donghyun’s sister, too, and she doesn’t deserve that.

When Joochan makes his way back to his rooms several nights later, debating whether or not to even go out onto the balcony because he still can’t think properly, he doesn’t expect Jangjun to stop him just outside the door, a strange expression on his face.

“Joochan.”

He blinks. “Jangjun?”

The guard’s eyes flicker. “Go see them.”

“I –” Joochan frowns. “What?”

“Go see them,” Jangjun repeats in a hushed whisper. “They make you happy, don’t they?” A faraway look comes into his eyes for the briefest second before it disappears. “And you can sing in front of them.”

Joochan’s eyes widen. “How did you –”

“Don’t get mad,” Jangjun says, holding up his hands. “Bomin told me what you let slip to him. I didn’t tell him anything about Y/N, I swear – I just put two and two together, and, well. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He holds Joochan’s gaze. “Don’t get mad at him. He’s just trying to understand. He hasn’t said a word to anyone else, not even Sanha.”

Joochan leans against the wall, trying to process all of the information. “I – Jangjun, what in the world –”

“Listen, Joochan.” Jangjun steps forward. “I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.” His lips twist in a grimace of pain that Joochan barely has time to decipher. “If you’ve found someone who is able and willing to listen to your song, I’m not going to stop you.”

I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.

Joochan frowns. As far as Joochan knows, Jangjun is ungifted – he just doesn’t have magic. What part of himself would he have suppressed, and for what reason?

The look on his guard’s face convinces him not to ask.

Swallowing, Joochan takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the meaning behind Jangjun’s words. He wants him to go, to meet you in person under the moon and stars and sing to the roses until midnight. A sick feeling rises in Joochan’s stomach. If Jangjun had said this months earlier, maybe even weeks, he would’ve run out right then and there. But now that he knows what he feels for you, not just for your song but you as a person…

Joochan swallows. He does need to speak to you, though, even briefly. And if Jangjun is willing to cover for him in case something goes wrong, then he should take this opportunity, shouldn’t he?

He nods. “Okay.”

Jangjun gestures to the end of the hall, down the secret passageway Joochan always took to find you. He doesn’t bother to question why Jangjun knows about it. “Then go.”

. . . . .

When Joochan arrives, you’re already under the balcony, humming to some of the rosebuds. You look up at his approach, eyes wide with first fear and then surprise. No wonder – you probably expected him on the balcony again, not right in front of you on the grass.

Joochan’s heart thumps. Gazing at you now, ethereal under the pale moonlight, he has to wonder how he didn’t realize he was in love with you until just a few days ago. Every piece of him aches to reach out, to hold your hands in his, to walk with you around the garden like he does with his fiancée…

His stomach twists at the thought of Donghyun’s sister. Why did their parents have to arrange this marriage?

“Joochan,” you breathe, standing up from where you were kneeling by the bushes. “I –”

“I love you.”

You freeze. Joochan freezes. For a moment, all that hangs in the air is silence and the echoes of Joochan’s words in the wind.

He doesn’t know what made him say it now, so suddenly like this. All he knows is that when you turned around and he heard you say his name, the only thing he could think was I love you, I love you so much I can’t even say and then it all came spilling out.

Finally, you swallow. For the first time since he spoke with you that day in the shed, you look rattled, discomposed, hands shaking as you fight to keep your voice steady. “You – you love me?”

Joochan swallows. Dips his head. “Yes,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Your expression cracks the same way it did when you met in the garden under the light of day, speaking of the roses right by you with his fiancée at his side. Splinters appear in your eyes, a rose’s petals withered past the point of growth even with the help of song, and Joochan can’t help but step forward, try to take your hands in his –

You jerk away and Joochan falters, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. Did he read you wrong? Do you not care for him the same way he cares for you? Because if you don’t, hell, Joochan doesn’t know what he’ll do –

“Joochan.” You swallow. “I mean, Your Highness.”

Pieces splinter off his heart, ice shards shattering on the floor with the sound of his title and not his name from your voice.

“You can’t – you can’t love me,” you whisper, pointedly looking away. “You have a title, you have a fiancée, you have everything –”

“I don’t have freedom,” Joochan interrupts. “No one can hear my song without dying and for that I don’t live, breathe the same way other people do – do you know how much everything hurt before I met you?” His eyes search yours for understanding, but you blink them closed. “Y/N, please.”

“Is that all you love me for, then?” you ask, features twisted in pain. “Just that I can listen to you sing, despite your curse?”

“No!” Joochan shakes his head wildly. “No – I love you for everything you are, beyond your voice and song –”

You remain silent as he speaks, words stumbling over more words as he tries to articulate everything he feels for you, his night-blooming rose under the moon and stars, one of the few people he trusts, one of the few around whom he feels like home. He loves your wisdom, your gentle teasing and sweet song, he loves the way you care so deeply for every living thing around you bar the pests you see sometimes eating the plants, he loves you for you, everything that makes up you –

“I love all of you,” he finishes, tears pulsing behind his eyes. “Not a part of you. All of you.”

Your gaze glitters with unshed tears. You don’t say anything.

Joochan panics. “Please, say something,” he pleads. “Just – anything. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll go away and I won’t come back, I promise, just please say something – tell me if you feel the same –”

One hand drags across your eyes. You swallow hard, finally meeting his gaze. “I do,” you say roughly. “I do love you, but we can’t – I can’t –” An angry sigh bursts from your lips and you wipe your eyes again. “Joochan, this could never end well.”

The relief at you using his name and not his title softens Joochan’s sadness, but only barely. “Run away with me,” he says desperately. “Just give me the word, Y/N, and I’ll run away with you. I won’t look back.”

“No.” You shake your head. “Neither of us is going to run away, Joochan. You have your life and I have mine. What we feel…” Your lips curve into the barest smile, lovely, haunting in the moonlight, before it disappears. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Joochan protests.

“And it matters to me, too.” You attempt a smile and more pieces shatter from Joochan’s heart at the sight of you trying your hardest to remain strong when he’s already such a wreck. “But it won’t matter to others. You have a fiancée and a whole life ahead of you. My life will stay here, with the flowers.” Your smile grows briefly. “It’s okay. Just knowing that I will see you in the gardens is enough for me.”

“What if it isn’t enough for me?” Joochan asks. “What if I want to marry you, not my fiancée? What if I want us to have a garden together, not just one where we’ll see each other periodically –”

“That life isn’t for us,” you say softly, voice cutting clearly through his desperation. “It isn’t for us, Joochan.”

And with that, the last of Joochan’s heart falls away, cracks to pieces on the cold ground. For a moment, you only stare at each other, a million silent words filling the still air.

“Can we just have tonight, then?” Joochan whispers. “Just tonight.”

You chew on your lip. Joochan’s heart pounds.

Then you nod, and within seconds, he’s folded you into his arms, memorizing the warm weight of your body pressed against his. You shudder into his shoulder – you’re crying, he realizes, just as tears begin to fall from his own eyes – and then wrap your arms around him too, pulling him even closer than before. “Sing for me?” you whisper, voice cracking with tears.

He opens his mouth, begins to hum a song he learned years ago from sitting in on one of Bomin’s lessons. It speaks of hope, a new day, love blossoming as flowers do in a garden, as a night-blooming rose does under the moon. It’s strange, singing alone without your faint humming in the background as you keep the roses alive, but even as the flowers wither, Joochan steadies his voice enough to sing softly, smoothly, knowing that this will be the only night he can hold you like this.

You pull back after his song and for one brief, terrified moment, Joochan thinks you’re going to leave. But you only stare at him, stars sparkling in your eyes, and brush a strand of faded pink hair out of his forehead before your gaze lowers, settling on his lips. “May I?” you whisper, sounding almost frightened that he will say no.

Joochan doesn’t deign you with a verbal reply, only closes the distance and kisses you.

Bitterness on his tongue, sugar on your lips, Joochan pulls you close, close, closer, tasting the bittersweet from your mouth as you kiss under the moon. You separate for air and Joochan gasps a little, dizzy from the taste of your lips, and then you kiss him again, deeper, sweeter, again and again until it finally feels okay to stop for a little longer and you end it with a last brief peck on his lips.

“I love you, Y/N,” Joochan whispers as you bury yourself against him once more. “I love you.”

Your voice shakes as you reply. “I love you too, Joochan.”

(Neither of you notices a shadow at the edge of the wall, disappearing into the night.)

. . . . .

By some unspoken agreement, you and Joochan don’t meet under the stars anymore, not even with him on the balcony. That last night was an ending to something bittersweet and beautiful, but you made it clear that that was where things had to stop. Joochan is just grateful you let him have those last hours with you.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, even as he stops singing to himself in his empty room.

It isn’t the same. Joochan can’t sing, doesn’t want to sing if there isn’t someone to listen, to smile, to sing back a melody of their own. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like a betrayal.

You still come under his balcony sometimes to check on the roses. Joochan sometimes sits under the railing so you won’t see him (at least not as clearly), straining his ears to listen to you hum your song to the buds. The seasons are going to change soon, spring turning to summer, and you’ve talked about the changes you need to make when tending to the blooms with the shift in weather. He listens to the faint sounds of your movements and your voice, and he thinks you know he’s there, too, even if he doesn’t join in on your song.

Jangjun begins to look more and more confused as the days pass and Joochan just looks worse. He knows his guard meant well and expected him to be happier after that meeting he encouraged, so Joochan doesn’t have the heart to reveal what actually happened. Jangjun doesn’t ask, but he knows something went wrong.

You disappear from the gardens again. Joochan doesn’t see you when he takes his walks, and even his fiancée remarks on how they never encounter you after a few weeks pass with no sign. For you, Joochan is grateful – it clearly only hurt you to see the two of them together, and he doesn’t want you to hurt at all – but selfishly, he wishes he could see your face just one more time.

“It’s okay. Just knowing that I will see you in the gardens is enough for me.”

What’s the use of that when you never let yourself see him in the first place?

But Joochan respects your wishes, and even when people start remarking on his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles, nods, says I’ve just been busy lately, don’t worry about me, and carries on. No sense in telling anyone about his broken heart.

He takes a walk in the gardens one afternoon, alone. Bomin offered to come, but Joochan wanted to be by himself (well, by himself with Jangjun, of course). Almost unconsciously, his feet take him under his balcony, where the night-blooming roses grow.

Joochan sits on the grass in the shade looking at the roses. Most of the buds have blossomed with the warmer summer weather, and he fingers a few of the midnight blue blooms, runs a hand over the soft white streaks on their petals.

Then he blinks. Scoots back. Takes in the scene from a farther distance, eyes narrowing in confusion, then widening in surprise.

They’re overgrown. Not by a lot, but still a noticeable amount. The branches that you kept so carefully trimmed now crawl up the wall, creeping past the shade and just barely into the sun.

Joochan frowns. There’s no way you would be this careless normally, but maybe you’ve been busy over the past week or so and haven’t had time to tend them. After all, the rest of the gardens are your main focus – this bush was something extra, since nothing is ever really planted here out of fear of his voice. Come to think of it, Joochan hasn’t heard your voice from the balcony in a few days – he thought it might’ve just been you singing too quietly, but maybe you weren’t there at all.

Busy. You must be busy. Joochan stands, casting one last uncertain glance at the overgrown rose bush before walking off, ignoring Jangjun’s look of concern. He’ll come back and check in a few days to see if they’ve been trimmed.

A few days pass. Then a week. Joochan waits on the balcony every night, straining for a single note that sounds like your voice. Nothing.

And the rose bush is out of control.

. . . . .

On the fifth visit, Jangjun finally says something.

“Your Highness –” he looks around before deciding they’re alone, then drops the formalities. “Joochan, seriously, is something wrong?”

Yes. Something is very wrong. Joochan has come to look at the roses five times and each time they’ve just grown even more out of control. No one is taking care of them.

Which means you haven’t been here. In weeks.

Joochan swallows, debating whether or not to tell Jangjun everything. He could help – Jangjun knows the palace almost better than Joochan himself does, and he has a way with words that lets him seek out the information he needs without giving away what he wants. Joochan might talk to Bomin, but his brother is both busy and in closer proximity to his parents. Plus, he doesn’t have as much freedom to maneuver as Jangjun.

He swallows. “Jangjun, can you find out if something has happened to Y/N?”

Jangjun frowns. “The gardener? Why?”

“They haven’t been here to tend the roses in weeks,” Joochan says helplessly. “Please don’t ask me how I know, but…” He gestures at the overgrown bush. “I think something’s happened to them.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Jangjun sets his jaw. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you.” It isn’t a question.

“Not… not now,” Joochan allows. “If something happens, though…” He takes a deep breath. ���I’ll tell you what you need to know. All of it.”

Jangjun nods. “Fine. Give me a few days, I’ll see what I can find.”

Joochan only hopes he isn’t too late.

. . . . .

Two days later, Jangjun grabs Joochan out of nowhere and shoves him into an empty room.

Joochan coughs on dust particles flying in the air. “Jangjun, what the –”

“Joochan, you need to tell me everything.” Jangjun’s eyes hold no mischief whatsoever. “Y/N is sitting in prison underneath us this very minute and I need to know how it could have slipped that they know of your curse.”

How it could have slipped.

Slipped.

How –

“What?” Joochan sputters, heartbeat rising. “I couldn’t – I don’t know how anyone would have – we haven’t spoken in a month –”

“Seungmin told me they haven’t been at work for at least two weeks and that they just disappeared. It matches up with the time a new prisoner was brought in,” Jangjun snaps. “Try to remember. Something, anything.”

Joochan closes his eyes. Tries to think. You’re in prison, in prison, because someone somehow found out that you know of Joochan’s curse even though no one has been around when you two sang together – that has to be true or else they would’ve died at the sound of his song, and no one died –

Was there a time when he wasn’t singing?

Oh.

There was – that last time –

His eyes fly open. “That time you told me to go –” he chokes, does his best to continue – “we met, and I told them that I loved them but –”

“But what?”

Joochan puts his head in his hands. “We agreed that it couldn’t work out so we just spent that one night in the garden – nothing happened, don’t look at me like that – but neither of us sang much and someone could’ve heard something and – they could have pieced it together?”

“Okay.” Joochan hears Jangjun take a deep breath. “Okay. That would… that would explain it.” Hands place themselves on Joochan’s shoulders and he opens his eyes to Jangjun’s serious expression. “What do you want to do about this?”

Joochan blinks. What does he want to do about this? What kind of question – “I need to get them out, obviously!”

“Then they’ll be on the run for the rest of their life,” Jangjun counters. “Granted, they’re just a gardener and they might be able to blend in somewhere on the outskirts.” He squeezes Joochan’s shoulders so hard it almost hurts. “Would you go with them?”

In a heartbeat. In a heartbeat.

“Even if it meant giving up living in the palace, bringing a lot of trouble on Bomin and possibly breaking your fiancée’s heart?”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Bomin – Bomin will understand,” Joochan says, desperately trying to convince himself. “And Donghyun’s sister doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”

“There will be political ramifications,” Jangjun warns. “I know you weren’t raised as the crown prince, but you have to know this much.”

Joochan scoffs. “My parents will try to pull it off as a kidnapping or something,” he says. “No way would they let it slip that I dared to run away.”

“Then they could send an assassin or a mercenary after you. Kill Y/N, bring you back. Force you to return to everything you tried to run away from.”

Fear bubbles in Joochan’s stomach, but he swallows it down. “If Y/N is willing to deal with it, so am I.”

Jangjun searches his expression for several excruciating seconds. When Joochan doesn’t flinch from his gaze, he finally pulls back and nods. “Prison break is the last resort,” Jangjun says. “Right now, you need to go to your parents and see if you can convince them to let Y/N go. Swear them to secrecy, keep them under watch in the palace or something – it doesn’t matter. Getting them out of here will be much easier if they’re not imprisoned in the first place. Tell Bomin, ask him to help you convince them if you think that’ll help.”

Joochan swallows, still feeling the burn of Jangjun’s hands on his shoulders. The residual pain clears his mind, helps him think. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

. . . . .

Bomin takes it about as well as Joochan thought he would, which is not as well as he would’ve liked but better than it could have been. After seemingly endless explanation, he agrees to back Joochan – you’re only a gardener, after all, this is kind of overkill, and Bomin is just a good brother like that. It almost makes Joochan cry again.

As the doors to the throne room open, Joochan’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He hates facing his parents, hates looking at them and speaking to them more than most things in the world, but for you?

He’ll do it.

Joochan walks into a silent room, boots thumping on the cold stone floor. Bomin’s footsteps just behind him give him strength as he looks up to his mother and father, sitting with blank expressions on their thrones. “I request that the room be cleared.”

His father searches his gaze. “Request granted.”

It takes a minute for all the guards and officials to filter through the doors, during which Joochan tries to calm his beating heart. Finally, the room is empty save for his immediate family.

Joochan swallows. “I ask that you take Y/N out of prison.”

Eyebrows raise. Joochan hates that they don’t even seem to recognize your name. “The gardener,” he almost snaps, reigning himself in only just in time when he catches Bomin’s warning look.

Faces clear. Eyes become stone. “They know the secret of your curse,” his father says, voice flat and cold. Joochan can hardly believe he has healing power – his voice sucks all the heat out of the room. Your voice always made him feel warm. “They cannot be left to wander the kingdom and spread the word.”

“So bind them to secrecy. Keep them under watch in the palace,” Joochan counters. “They shouldn’t have to be stuck in prison – there are already people outside our immediate family who know, and they’ve kept their mouths shut!”

“They have not been vetted by the palace,” his mother snaps. “They are liable to speak, and as such, they must be kept away.”

Kept away. Like an inanimate object, a toy from ages past, to be locked in a cupboard and never shown the light of day…

Bomin shoots him a sharp glance, but Joochan is sick of this.

“Are you serious?” he yells. “You – have one single ounce of sympathy, will you? Or is that impossible with the way you’ve been running your kingdom – your household – for so long?”

“You are marked by death,” his mother snarls. “It is imperative that no one know this beyond all those necessary.”

“Father, they’re just one person,” Bomin breaks in before Joochan can explode again. “It’s entirely possible to not keep them in the prison and just keep watch over them –”

“You clearly have much to learn before you become king.” Their father shakes his head, as though disappointed. “Just one person? One sick person can spread an illness to a city within days, and illness travels even slower than words. How fast do you think news of this would spread if your gardener decided to speak?”

Joochan scoffs. “You never have any problem paying people off to be quiet or do things you want them to do. What’s so different this time?”

“I? Pay off a gardener?” His father laughs. “Who do you think I am?”

Joochan explodes.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” he yells. “You think so highly of yourself just because you wear a crown made of some shiny metal and jewels – you think you have the right to rule because of your supposed royal blood even though there’s nothing but cold evil under the surface? We are the descendants of killers – your father wiped out the weavers and you have no sympathy, so how can you think you have the right – why do you think you can just play people as pawns and have them do whatever you want – even your children – do you ever think about what we want?” Angry tears brim in his eyes but Joochan keeps them back. “I never wanted any of this! I never asked for my gift, I never asked to be born, I never asked to be the evil, death-marked child you always made me out to be, I never asked for the arranged marriage, all I ever wanted was to be happy and to use my gift but I couldn’t even do that – and now you’re taking away half the reason I still want to live by shutting them in a prison because of something they found out by accident –”

“You have no gift,” his mother intones, voice icing Joochan’s veins. “You are cursed.” Her lip curls. “Your song is no gift to us.”

Bomin makes an outraged sound in his throat, but Joochan barely hears it. All he can register is the blood roaring in his ears, the cold look on his mother’s face, the abhorrence and disgust on his father’s –

And he knows it isn’t true. You’ve taught him otherwise. Death is a part of a cycle – some flowers you can’t even bring back from their withering, it is just their time – and life needs it just as much as death needs life. Just as much as he needs you.

But hearing the words come directly from his mother’s lips, the woman who bore him, hurts almost more than your words can heal.

Joochan swallows. He could end it all right now. Tell Bomin to get out, sing, watch his song wither his parents away like the petals of an old rose – no, not a rose, even a withered rose is a sight better than the two monarchs sitting in front of him –

But he isn’t a killer. Not by far. He can’t do it.

Joochan steps back once. Twice. His voice, though small, carries in the silence.

“You know,” he chokes, “for people who pride yourselves on your ability to heal, all you really do is cause pain.”

He doesn’t wait for Bomin to follow before he runs out of the room.

. . . . .

Jangjun finds him in his quarters with Bomin half an hour later, sitting on the floor and staring at the wall. “It didn’t work out.”

Joochan doesn’t need to say anything to confirm it.

“So what happens next?” Bomin asks, still rhythmically patting Joochan’s back. It helps a little.

“We break Y/N out,” Jangjun says. “And they run away with Joochan.”

Bomin doesn’t look surprised, but Joochan’s heart still twists. He doesn’t want to leave Bomin or Jaehyun or Jangjun behind – they’re some of the only people who’ve kept him sane since he was old enough to think – but at the same time, he’s been itching to just leave the scrutiny of his parents for years.

After so much pain, even brotherly ties won’t keep him here for much longer.

“I’m going with you.”

Joochan’s head snaps up. Bomin furrows his eyebrows. “What – Jangjun?”

“They might send assassins after you and Y/N.” Jangjun crosses his arms. “I know you’re good in a fight, but Y/N doesn’t know anything about that sort of life. I do. You need me there to lead people off track, plant evidence –”

“That’s not the only reason,” Joochan interrupts. His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something.”

Jangjun’s jaw works. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, maybe worried –

No.

For the first time Joochan has ever seen, his guard looks scared.

Bomin casts Joochan a concerned look. “Jangjun, it’s fine –”

“I’m a weaver.”

Joochan’s jaw drops. So does Bomin’s. Jangjun just stares back, defiant, arms crossed to hide the shaking in his hands.

A weaver. Joochan’s guard is a weaver. His loyal guard is one of those his forebears tried to wipe out generations ago – so why is he here, protecting the descendant of those who probably killed his family, his ancestors –

All of a sudden, Jangjun’s words from so many weeks ago make sense.

I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.

He’s a weaver. One of those who wove stories into clothes, one of those his grandfather tried to massacre.

“Why?” Joochan manages.

“I was decent at fighting and needed a stable roof over my head that wasn’t the orphanage,” Jangjun explains. An unreadable look flashes through his eyes. “Took the first opportunity I could get and thought I would hate it. But then I realized… neither of you are your parents. Not even close.” He swallows. “So I stayed. Longer than I expected to.”

“So why leave now?” Bomin asks. “You could still stay – I mean, if we’re the only people who know –”

“Daeyeol knows too,” Jangjun says. Bomin starts at the name of his personal guard. “He knows, and he told me that some of the higher ups have been getting suspicious of… things. My unknown parentage. Why I’m so good at sewing.” He scoffs. “Like only commoners can be good at sewing. But yeah. No one will care how loyal I am if they find out I’m a weaver, so I’m going to have to run off at some point.” His jaw sets. “I might as well go along with you.”

Joochan has to try hard not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be a sap.” A sliver of the old Jangjun comes back in the scowl that paints itself across his face. “Bomin, you could come with us, you know that right?”

He shakes his head. “No, I need to stay back. If both of the princes disappeared, there’s no telling what our parents would do.” Bomin swallows. “Who knows. Maybe one day, when they’re gone, you might be able to come back.”

That would be a dream.

“Thank you, Bomin,” Joochan whispers.

His brother squeezes his hand in response.

“Well, that settles it.” Jangjun snaps his fingers before Joochan can do something stupid like cry. “Get moving. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

. . . . .

Joochan does not like the prisons. He’s been there before, but every time, the mildew smell and darkness make him want to hurl.

The fact that you’re in here, though, spurs him on.

Jangjun makes quick work of the last guard, slamming the handle of his sword into his head. The man crumples to the ground. Joochan stands over another unconscious man, peering forward into the darkness. “Down the hall?”

“Yeah.” Jangjun looks down at his arm. “Oh, come on.”

“What happened?”

“Just a scratch.” Jangjun waves him off. “Go and find them. I’ll stand guard here. There should be one more left, two at most. You can handle it.”

Heart in his throat, Joochan turns towards the dark. Several torches flicker light onto the stone walls and he takes care to remain in their shadows as he creeps down the line of cells, eyeing the guard standing at the end.

One shot. One chance. Joochan takes another step. Another –

The guard turns around.

For a moment, they only stare at each other, eyes wide. Then Joochan leaps forward.

Metal clangs. Armor crashes. Joochan whirls, dodging a metal-covered fist before slamming his sword against the side of the man’s helmet. He crumples to the floor.

Joochan experimentally prods the body with his foot. Breathing, but unconscious. Good. He plucks off the ring of keys –

“Joochan?”

He spins around at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze, face thinner, eyes wider, but still you. Still you.

“Y/N,” he breathes, rushing forward. His fingers tremble as he tries one key after another, all the while trying not to cry. What did they do to you? “Give me a second, we’re getting you out.”

A key finally clicks and Joochan drops the ring, pulling open the cell door and letting you fall into his arms. He holds you close as you shake against his shoulders, chest heaving, not crying yet but the small sounds in your throat make it seem like you’re close –

“We need to go,” Joochan whispers, squeezing you one more time. “Come on, Y/N.”

You lift your head. “Where are we going?”

Good question. Joochan doesn’t even know. Just away, away from the palace, away from everything…

“We’re running away,” he says. “Both of us. And Jangjun.”

To your credit, you take it without question, only nodding and pulling back. Joochan wants to hug you again, but there’s not time. “I guess we should go, then.”

. . . . .

Bomin meets them as they emerge from a dark passageway, immediately pressing a bag into Joochan’s hands. Something rattles inside. “Money,” he says. “And hair dye. You need to get rid of that pink.”

He wraps Bomin in a hug. “Thank you.”

“Live a good life, yeah?” Bomin pats his back, hand steady even as his voice trembles. “I’ll see you again.”

Joochan blinks back a tear. “Definitely. Tell Jaehyun, okay?”

“Of course.” And with that, they separate.

Joochan only hopes that another meeting will come to pass.

Jangjun leads them down endless halls and passageways, some even Joochan doesn’t know. All the while he holds your hand, pulling you forward anytime it feels like you’re faltering, and in the end, Jangjun pushes open a last door and you burst into the early evening, a floral scent in the air. The gardens. 

He looks around. 

Meets a familiar face.

Shit.

“Joochan?” His fiancée takes a hesitant step forward, eyes flickering between the three. Your grip tightens on his hand. “What – where are you going?”

Jangjun looks at him. So do you.

He says nothing.

Her eyes widen. “You’re running away.”

No one needs to confirm it. Their clothes, the bag on his shoulder, the weapons strapped to his and Jangjun’s waists say everything.

“Yes,” Joochan finally says, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression sinks, though she puts a smile on her face. “I understand.” Her gaze shifts to you. “You were never in love with me. It was obvious.”

The ache in Joochan’s heart grows even stronger. “I –”

“It’s fine.” Her smile takes on a semblance of mischief. “If it doesn’t hurt your ego too much, I was never in love with you.”

Joochan almost laughs. “I figured.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Her lips turn down slightly, a little wistful. “Shame, though. I think we could’ve been friends.”

“I think so, too.” And it’s true. If they hadn’t been forced into all of this…

“Well, I never saw you. Not even a glimpse.” His former fiancée begins to turn around. “Don’t mind me, just walking in the gardens.”

He calls her name, just before she fully turns. She looks back. “Hm?”

For a moment, Joochan falters. This could go very wrong.

But he decides to take a chance.

“Find Bomin,” he says. “Tell him I said he could tell you everything. Donghyun, too. And for what it’s worth…” He swallows. “I really am sorry.”

“Things rarely go according to plan.” She smirks. “Our parents should’ve thought of that first.”

They really might have been friends. Joochan tries not to think of what could have been as he follows Jangjun between bushes, helping you through trees, crawling under fences until they reach the edge of the forest that borders the palace.

Jangjun plunges in, but Joochan pauses. Looks at you. Even gaunt, thinner from weeks of prison, you are radiant under the rising moonlight that filters between the trees.

You smile at him, squeezing his hand. “Ready?”

So many times, he’s been asked that question before balls, before events, before arranged marriage meetings, and every time, though he said yes, his real answer was no.

This time, however…

“Are you two done being saps?” Jangjun hisses from further into the forest. “Hurry up!”

Nothing is certain anymore. He might now technically be a fugitive. But tomorrow is a new day, and though Joochan is on the run, he’s with you. 

And he’s free.

Joochan smiles at you, ignoring his guard. “Ready.”

Together, you slip into the night.

. . . . .

The palace called it kidnapping. There was a manhunt for months, search parties looking for a gardener and a royal guard, the prince’s alleged kidnappers. Many thought it ludicrous, however, that a mere gardener and a guard who had been known to be loyal to the prince for years would attempt something as ridiculous as this, and simply left the palace to fumble through its affairs in the wake of the disappearance.

The former prince himself dealt with assassins sent after his partner, bounty hunters charged to bring him back (dead or alive, he learned, it didn’t matter – if he were dead, at least no one would have to deal with him anymore). The guard lured them all away. Together, the three plunged further into the country outskirts until there was no trace left, not even of the last assassin who had been sent to take care of them all.

This is where the story should end, with two black-haired brothers and a gardener settling quietly at the edge of a forest. Yet though the words now come to close, the world still remains.

The end of one story, after all, is only the beginning of another.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for a certain trio + a prince back at the palace)

#kpopscape #golden child #golcha #gncd #joochan #hong joochan #golden child joochan #golcha joochan #golden child scenarios #golden child imagines #golden child oneshots #golcha scenarios #golden child joochan scenarios #golcha joochan scenarios #golden child x reader #golcha x reader #hong joochan x reader #joochan x reader #golden child joochan x reader #golcha joochan x reader #fluff #angst #fantasy #tw death #tw cursing #tw blood #royalty!au #wisdom weaver!au #to bloom in the night #scriptura-delirus

[dasphinxone]

Book of Nile: Ancient Rome/Gladiator AU Prologue

When you’ve spent WAY too much time outlining and creating timelines for your fic and all you have is a damn prologue...which is an exposition dump.

Rome. It was all anyone seemed to talk about anymore.

From kingdom to republic and now empire. The people of Palatine Hill grew greedy with each new conquest. It was as though every city or kingdom they fought on their borders ended their days razed to the ground. The people sold into slavery, its earth salted. Within a few decades, the Romans would return to replace it with a new town. “Founded” by some distant ruler locked away in its decadent capital city, their emperors could care less for most everything else outside of the palace walls.

Nile Freeman, Princess of the Kingdom of the Crimson Mountains within the Belezma Range of the Aurès Mountains, swore it would never happen to her people. Not so long as she drew breath. Her homeland was called crimson due its red clay. Along with how her tribes would make their lands run red with the blood of any invaders who dared trespass.

Rome won the Second Punic War over 300 years ago. It gained them a foothold in North Africa bordering the eastern side of the Mediterranean Sea. All while General Hannibal proudly drank his poison rather than fall into the hands of the enemy. In the aftermath, the remaining nomadic tribes of the Crimson Mountains to the west of the newly acquired Roman lands swore an oath to unite under the Freeman banner. If only to avoid Hannibal’s fate befalling them all. “Strength In Numbers, Strength With My Sisters and Brothers” it was said of them.  

The third and final Punic War brought about the total destruction of Carthage a half-century later. Located only three hundred miles west of the tribes’ base, refuges from Rome’s savagery poured in. Roughly half of them voluntarily joined the Freeman tribes. The rest refused. Their distrust of power and hatred of the Romans had them going at it alone. Squeezed between Roman military outposts and the united tribes, they harassed both entities.

Rome’s influence cut deeper with each generation until the tribes could no longer safely outmaneuver them. Nile’s great-grandfather therefore agreed to ally with them. But only if they kept their mutual enemies of the renegade tribes in check. In exchange, trade with Rome would be open and free. Along with the Romans dwelling no further than their military outposts.

The tribes rapidly modernized their weapons and arms from Roman iron brought in from the Hispania provinces. They eagerly adapted them to their legendary calvaries. In turn, the Romans gained the luxuries of fruits and the life-giving crop harvest of wheat, barley and oat grain. The less nomadic tribes grew them in the terraced valleys, wide basins and surrounding fertile plains of the mountains. They were then shipped to the Italian peninsula on grand barges. Flooding the Kingdom’s treasury with immense gold and silver, The Freeman tribes shaped their territory into the most powerful in the region.    

By the time Nile was born, her people enjoyed long lives of peace and prosperity. Their culture flourished. Trade caravans constantly crisscrossed the kingdom with little fear of bandits due to their well-guarded paths and safe taverns and inns. Save skirmishes with the renegade tribes or deserter Roman soldiers, they had few worries. The Roman legion never left their outposts,  as promised.

All was right with the world. Well, until it wasn’t.

Nile always trusted her instincts. In her near 16 years of existence, she’d learned to sniff out when life was about to disrupt its usual patterns.

Her mother, the queen, always proved the more practical of her parents. She insisted her daughter’s uncanny senses were the result of her education. Learning to predict the strike of a sword, the stab of a dagger or the thrust of the spear facilitated the concept of anticipation. Becoming one with the bow imparted fortitude in the face of chaos. Riding a horse granted patience for manipulating things with minds of their own that could be led. Her tutors further stimulated the mind with their lessons in history, languages, mathematics, astronomy and writing. The temple clerics instructed her in how to pray to and celebrate the guardians of the gods. Not for herself but for the fates of her people.

Her father, the king, preferred to think with his heart. So he called his daughter’s intuition her sacred blessing. His lessons in battle strategy he’d taught her from the time she was old enough to sit freely upon his knee honed it as well.

It certainly explained her dread before he left for his last battle.

Nile found herself unable to keep any of her meals down. Nightmares of his blood spilling on the sands constantly plagued her. Her headaches had her downing wine and herbs to dull her throbbing brain. So she spent all of her waking hours with him whenever possible. Acting as his secretary to go through his correspondence in his study until the candles burned low. Cleaning his armor and weapons. Supervising his aides in supplying the troops heading out with him with the best provisions.

Yet he still died fighting against the enemy tribes harassing their Roman allies at their military outpost in Timgad. Cut down just a season ago, less than 50 miles southwest of the kingdom.

As firstborn, Nile was granted the right of Queen. The first Queen of the Crimson Mountains due to birth rather than marriage since the end of the Roman Republic over a hundred years ago. Except Rome was now an imperial power. Drunk on its supposed supremacy, everyone knew the Romans had little regard for female rulers. Combined with their increasingly grating demands of the Kingdom with each passing generation, a solution would have to be swiftly found.

Nile was therefore named regent in the days after her father’s death. That in turn enabled the throne to pass to her baby brother, Tumsilt. She would remain so until he came of age at 16. While only nine years old, the child king would at least be male and respected by the Romans. If not for her parents preparing her for the possibility a few years before her father's untimely death, Nile would have been livid at losing her direct rule. But her people’s survival superseded their traditions of absolute primogeniture. She also loved her brother with all of her heart. So rather than Queen, she would here forth be known as "Lalla" or Lady Nile.

The Roman emperor sent condolences on the loss of her father. After that, they heard no more from him.

Perhaps the tribes would be left alone. Perhaps Nile’s life would carry on, her coming days with little in the way of conflict or sorrow.

A pity how wrong she was.

#book of nile #nile freeman #nile the old guard #booker #sebastien le livre #booker x nile #nile x booker #booker/nile #nile/booker #fanfiction #wip #wip wednesday #fanfic #potential fanfiction #the old guard #tog #tog fanfic

[rexlapi]

i know no one who follows me is into genshin bUT im so proud of this au so i’ll post it anyways

moongod!zhonglixmotal!childe, chang’e/hou’yi au (no previous knowledge of the mid autumn festival is needed, hopefully i explained it well enough in the fic)

am i yours?

rating: teen for inexplicit self harm  wc: 2k

ao3

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It had only been a century since the god of the moon, known to the people as Morax, had first come to the barren rock he would soon have to call home. He had no emotional attachment to the place, however he had no other place to call home. Too many years since the man who had once been Zhongli had last seen his love, too long since he had known happiness. 

The earth was rising into view from his palace on the moon, the blue waters always reminding him of his lover’s bright eyes. Zhongli stood on the cold stone floor, staring out into the distance. It was the anniversary of the day when Zhongli had first ascended to yue, a day many mortals celebrated, offering him yuebing, or mooncakes, in hopes that he would bless their families. Every year, he found it in himself to smile upon those who still remembered his story, hoping that one day, his good would come back to him in the form of the one he loved. But of course, the world was a cruel place, leaving the immortal nothing but a barren rock to live his sad eternity on. 

Despite the people’s celebratory gifts, this day was always one of sorrow for Morax. He had only experienced a few decades of imprisonment on this rock, yet somehow Zhongli felt so, so very old. This day only ever reminded him of what he’s lost, of what he will never have again. To be fair, almost everything reminded him of his Tartaglia, from the waters of earth to the orange of the sun. More than anything, these things reminded him of his biggest mistake.

There was nothing in this that the moon god regretted more than his reckless action that got him stuck on this barren rock, never to see the face of the one he loved again. 

The day that ruined Zhongli’s life had been a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days he had ever seen. The skies were a vibrant blue, streaks of puffy white clouds dotted throughout the sea of blue, the sunlight warm and bright. He had planned on proposing to Tartaglia that day He had everything prepared, an elaborate basket of luxurious gifts for the other man’s family, as well as a lovingly self-crafted pair of matching dangly earrings, for each of them. Zhongli unconsciously brushed his hand over his ear, toying with the rare orange jade bead at the end of his. 

He had been waiting for Tartaglia to return home from an assignment when one of his own students had broken into his house, looking for the small potion of immortality Tartaglia had received for shooting the excess suns out of the sky. His Tartaglia had always been an adept warrior, being proficient in nearly every weapon. Zhongli smiled to himself, wishing he could see the way Tartaglia bounced on his toes before every right, his face stretched into a broad grin, ready for the rush of adrenaline that every fight gave him. 

Zhongli had always loved teaching, wanting to impart his knowledge and wisdom on the next generation of bright minds. He would never forget the look of horror his student wore when Zhongli angrily shoved a spear through their stomach, snatching the elixir out of weakening hands and downing it in one gulp. It wasn’t until Tartaglia returned home shortly after the incident when Zhongli realized what he had done. He remembered how Tartaglia’s eyes had widened, his voice calling out for him, but Zhongli could already feel himself floating away, becoming weightless, as if he had become a spirit. The distraught cries from his love that morphed into sobs, calling his name, begging him to stay, telling him he loved him These cries would forever ingrain themselves into his memory. The elixir would have let them be happy and together forever. Instead, it separated the two of them for the rest of time.

Every year on this day, he would talk into the sky, hoping that maybe, one day, Tartaglia would hear him. Hoping that maybe one day he could see him smile, hear him laugh again. This year was no different. Zhongli busied himself in the kitchen, preparing some of Tartaglia’s favorite foods. He would eat a bite of each dish before leaving the rest as offerings to whatever greater powers lay above him, asking them for mercy, for freedom for this barren rock. Though, behind all of these, he would always ask to see his love, one last time. 

Please, Celestia. This is all I can offer for you. Please, I’d like a way off this rock, freedom from my past mistakes. He looked off into the distance, at the painting he had done of Tartaglia. Please, I’d like to see Tartaglia again. Please.

Years like this one passed. Years became decades, and decades became centuries. Time passed quickly for the immortal, and though it may pass fast, it had no end. Every year, Morax asked the same things of Celestia. Every year, he received no response. He had grown so very tired. 

On his 8880th mid-autumn festival, he awoke to see a sharp periwinkle dagger wrapped in silver silks sitting on the edge of his bed. He carefully unwrapped the fabric to reveal a beautifully carved glaze lily embedded on the handle. A small piece of paper fell out of the wraps, peaking Zhongli’s interest. He carefully set the dagger down onto his bed, picking up the small slip. 

A note, written in elegant, looping, traditional Liyuen. It read: Morax, your prayers have been heard. Celestia sends its regards as well as apologies for taking so long to process your request. Take this dagger as the key to the next journey in your life, where the one you love is waiting. It has been enchanted so there will be no pain. However, if you decide to take this chance, do know that it is irreversible. Do as you wish with it, take the chance or do not. 

I hope you find your peace, Zhongli.

The note was not signed, but somehow Zhongli felt as though he knew the person who had written the note. “Thank you.” he croaked out, his voice rough from lack of use. His hands shaking, he picked up the dagger once more. It was the perfect weight, a perfect balance of light yet solid. It had been, well, ever since he had come onto this rock since he had held a weapon. Not a weapon, a key. A chance. Hope. 

He took a walk around the empty palace where he had lived in solitude for thousands of years, as if saying goodbye. It was a goodbye he was happy to say. He retrieved the hand carved wooden box containing his most prized possession from it’s secret location, securing it in his pocket. He carefully rolled up the scroll containing the image of a smiling Tartaglia and slipping that into another pocket, scared that if he did see Tartaglia again, that Zhongli wouldn’t be able to recognize him. 

He stared down at the dagger in his hands, his fingers curling around the elegant glaze lily. He felt his grip grow tighter, then he felt his hands start to shake. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He was ready to leave this barren place behind. I will see you again, Tartaglia.

As promised, the blade brought him no pain. 

... 

Zhongli opened his eyes to see an ethereal forest, the trees not quite opaque, as if they weren’t quite there. He looked down to see the beautiful blade that had been gifted to him stained with golden blood. He wasn’t bothered by the golden blood, for it was the blood of immortals after all. He was however, awed by the trees he saw. He hadn’t seen vegetation in what felt like years, not having to eat food in order to sustain himself after ascending to godhood, saving human food for very special occasions. 

He looked around, though he didn’t see anyone. Where the one you love is waiting, the note had said. Zhongli wandered around the forest for what felt like days, looking for a head of bright orange hair or a pair of deep ocean eyes. He saw neither. Had the sender lied? He couldn’t help but lose a little bit of hope, though wherever he was now was still certainly better than the hellhole of a rock he had resided on for millennia. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, feeling more and more energetic by the moment. 

Say something. His brain told him. He was running out of options, so he did as his inner monologue asked. Clearing his throat, he recalled the song he would sing to his Tartaglia. Humming the first few lines to get warmed up, his hope growing with every beat. 

“Xu ni sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai,” His voice shook as he switched from his native Liyuen to lover’s Snezhnayan. “Always and forever, in this heart of mine…” The forest was silent. Zhongli felt his heart shatter, not wanting to accept that he really would never see his Tartaglia again. He knelt on the ground, his hand clutching the blade of the dagger, a cascade of golden blood dripping onto his spotless black-gold hanfu. He wished he could feel the sharp pain of the cold blade biting into his skin. 

“Xu ni sheng sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai,” 

Zhongli had never stood faster in his entire life, the dagger falling to the ground, forgotten. His eyes widened as the familiar face of his beloved appeared from behind a tree. He stood stunned. The sender didn’t lie.

The sun seemed to illuminate the younger boy, his orange hair glowing golden, his typical gray ensemble billowing in the breeze. Zhongli had never seen such a beautiful sight in his thousands of years of existence. “Always and forever, in this heart of mine… longer than the heavens, and the stars that shine…”

Zhongli and Tartaglia both rushed forward at the same time, the orange haired boy taking the other’s bleeding hand in his, while Zhongli gently placed his uninjured hand on his lover’s face. “Xiang si qing nan nai, yuan yu ni tong zai,”

They both broke out into smiles filled with grief and disbelief, their voices shaking as they finished the verse together. “I am yours, I am yours, forever”

Collapsing into the other man, Zhongli let himself cry. “Tartaglia I-”

He felt strong arms hug him tighter, only making Zhongli sob harder. “Shh it’s okay, I’m here now. You’re here now.” Tartaglia had begun to cry too, having fallen to the ground with Zhongli, the two a tangle of limbs and tears. 

“I love you so much.” Zhongli choked out, letting more and more of his years and years of pain and loneliness fade away with every moment in the other boy’s arms. 

Tartaglia kissed Zhongli through teary eyes, trying to convey the words he couldn’t say in the action. “I’ve never stopped loving you, even after all these years. I love you, Zhongli. So much. Please, don’t be an idiot again and cause us another eight-thousand years of separation. I don’t think I can go through that again.”

Zhongli laughed through a sob, placing a kiss on Tartaglia’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He pulled out the box he had carried around with him since he had been banished to the moon. Carefully, he pulled out the other earring he had crafted all those years ago, the same shape and pattern as the singular one Zhongli himself wore. “Tartaglia, would you be mine forever?”

“Only if you’re mine forever" He responded, the biggest shit-eatting grin on his face. 

Zhongli nodded solemnly, completely serious in his consideration of the agreement. “That is a fair contract.”

Tartaglia laughed before kissing Zhongli again. “It was a joke, of course I’ll be yours.”

He dipped his head down, allowing Zhongli to attach the earring to his ear. Perfect. Zhongli couldn’t help but think. The blue jade matched his eyes perfectly, just as Zhongli’s earring matched his own amber eyes. “Forever?”

“Forever."

~~~~~~~~~~

Xu ni sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai -> Let your love live forever,

Xiang si qing nan nai, yuan yu ni tong zai -> Love-sickness is unbearable, I wish I were with you

#mine* #IVE NEVER BEEN PROUDER OF MY WORD VOMIT BRAIN #NE VER #im actually in love with my own writing? who could've known #anyways if you enjoyed mayahps a comment or reblog? #genshin impact #chili #zhongzi #childe x zhongli #zhongli x childe #zhongchi

[novantinuum]

Everything is Different Now (SU short)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 1K~

Summary: After her unfortunate exile, Bismuth returns to her forge to work, and to reflect on her mistakes. (AU, part of the Crack the Paragon series)

This is a quick bonus scene set after chapter 5 of Crack the Paragon, an AU diverging from the season three episode Bismuth. This is probably best enjoyed with full context, but for anyone who’s checking this one-shot out blind, the brief is as follows:

Steven got cracked and split in two during the fight in the forge, a turn of events that also led to the early reveal that his gem is a pink diamond. He was healed, but Garnet decided to exile Bismuth as punishment for harming a fellow Crystal Gem. This short checks in with her after she’s returned to her forge, alone.

-

AO3 link can be found in the reblogs! If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well- especially since this one is kinda a niche fic, being part of a series. Thank you! <3

_____

Clang.

Shapeshifted hard light slams against metal, red-hot and malleable.

Clang.

Each and every hit is precise, calculated, the living legacy of a weaponsmith who’s been perfecting her chosen art upon her own volition for hundreds of years. Homeworld may try to exert her rigidity and control on everything she touches, may try to claim that every subclass of Gem is fundamentally indistinguishable within their role and potential, but mark her words, there’s not a single Bismuth out there who possesses the same level of aptitude as she does in the forge.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The billet gradually lengthens, becoming thiner as the metal spreads. Clenching her teeth all the while, vying to exert every ounce of focus she can muster on her work, Bismuth forms this miserable hunk of metal into a base for a quartz sized sword. Once she’s drawn it out to the appropriate length and tapered the end into a point, she wills her working hand to shapeshift from a mallet to a round-nosed fullering tool. She grabs a material hammer with her free hand, presses the rounded nose to the surface of the blade, and then slams the hammer’s steel face down atop it... over and over and over again, forming a ridge all the way down the length of the sword.

When she’s finally done with this blade she turns around with it to thrust it into the lava waterfall to heat treat, reveling in the tingling sensation of molten rock coating her hand. One, two, three, four, five seconds in the heat and it’s done, afterwards dipped into the vat of water she keeps beside her anvil to cool. Breathing heavy, she lifts the finished blade out of the vat to inspect it, and— seeing the metal already beginning to warp— lets out a yell of frustration, the edges colored with a bitter mixture of blistering resentment and despair. She winds back and hurls the blade to today’s junk pile, populated by a good dozen scrapped swords that have all either cracked or warped after cooling, a clandestine monument to her failure as both an artisan, a-and...

“—as consequence for striking a fellow Crystal Gem in cold blood—“

That youthful, terrified face, tearstained eyes blown wide, desperately scuttling away on hands and feet as she, boiling with misplaced fury, rears back to vault across the bubbling lava—

Her form shaking upon the memory, she clenches her fists in resolution and stubbornly goes at it again. Clutching a new handful of iron pellets, she thrusts them under the molten waterfall to compress them into a new billet within her grip. She’ll get it right this time. She will get it right. She’s Bismuth, for shard’s sake! She’s the only specimen of her cut who’s stubborn and determined enough to get the job done, to outfit an entire rebellion with material weapons in but a fraction of a cycle’s time. She’s a Crystal Gem! She’s—

“—no longer welcome in the temple,” Garnet’s recent words hit her square in the chest, a metaphoric breaking point.

Her face screwing tight in every shade of her shame, she shapeshifts her working hand into a mallet again and begins to pound away at her new hunk of metal. In body her action is repetitive, precise, and yet within the recesses of her mind she’s unable to match this level of focused discipline, unable to dodge the bitter reminders of all her mistakes.

Clang.

The sound of a cracking gemstone, of a crusade gone too far. She throws her deadly weapon aside, filled with dawning horror for what- w-what she almost— Two bodies. There’s two bodies now, one pink and glitching and looking so much like him, and the other... oh stars, pick him up, pick him UP—

“I was angry at Rose,” (that two-timing, upper crust of a LIAR!) she tells the others later, "not Steven...”

Clang.

“I was so sure that this was all just another one of her lies that I—“

Bismuth clenches her teeth, crushing the thought of her former leader’s betrayal underfoot as she begins to slam her mallet down upon the slowly lengthening blade over and over again, relieving just a shard of bitterness and sorrow and outrage with each successive hit.

Clang, clang, clang!

But it won’t ever be enough. Not ever, even if she continues outfitting a nonexistent rebellion force alone here in this forge for the rest of time. Everything she ever thought she could place her trust in was a lie. The Crystal Gems were just a front for a diamond’s games, this small half-human boy she almost shattered had nothing to do with Rose’s tricks all along, and now her few remaining friends don’t want anything to do with her ever again. She’s been exiled, stripped of rank. And the worst part is, she knows they’re absolutely right for doing so. She cracked one of their own at point blank, without hesitation. A Gem like that isn’t safe to have serving alongside the rebels.

Garnet should’ve bubbled her again anyways.

She flips the blade over on the anvil, hard light swirling through her form like a maelstrom to match the trajectory of her turbulent emotions.

Clang, clang, clang, clang!

Bismuth lifts her hand high above her head to impart a fifth and final hit to the lengthening sword. Upon impact, however, the cooling metal cracks in half right through the middle, a stress fracture to mirror her shattered soul. Even though she’s more than capable of quickly fixing such mistakes, more than capable of re-heating these pieces and hammering them flush even stronger than before, something about the sight of the jagged edges laying vulnerable and abandoned is enough to make her externally break. Tears bud at the corners of her furious, anguished eyes. With an audible sob, she crashes to her knees, fluid now streaming down her cheeks. Slumping across the head of her anvil, she mourns the new life with her friends she could’ve had, should she have made different decisions in the heat of the moment.

Everything is different now.

#su #steven universe #bismuth #su fanfiction #crack the paragon #my writing stuff

[manymanycupsoftea]

On a Porch Swing ch 2

I aM BACK BITCheS with the next installment of this fic!  It was written a while ago but I forgot to post it on here :|

    Sophie slipped inside the mansion of Havenfield by the back door, hoping to avoid her parents. Sandor had gone inside to give her some privacy, and her other bodyguards were around here somewhere, but distanced enough to let her cry in peace. She walked quickly but quietly through the hallways, but fortunately it seemed Grady and Edaline were outside working with the animals. Climbing the stairs to her huge room, she opened the door, walked inside, and fell face-first onto her bed, feeling the tears start to come again.

A few teardrops ran onto her comforter, but she pushed herself up sharply, wiping her eyes. “No. I’ve got to stop crying.”

Determined to be calm enough to see Keefe, Sophie walked briskly into her bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water a few times. She wet a washcloth with some facial toner and pressed it to her swollen face until the redness receded and the swelling started to go down. She studied her reflection critically, then pulled a brush through her hair, swiped on some lip gloss, and, after contemplation, put on the gold-flecked eyeliner her friends thought was so pretty on her. (She told herself it was just to hide the fact that she had been crying.)

Walking purposefully into her room, she squinted at her clothes, frowning. Dirty, covered in bits of grass and Panakes pollen, they certainly needed to be changed. She shucked off her tunic and pants, tossing them into her laundry bin, then walked into her closet to see what was available. She pulled out a purple fitted tunic and put it on, stepping into her favorite pair of pants, a high-waisted royal blue pair that were reminiscent of her favorite pair of human jeans. She added a pair of boots and grabbed a cloak, as it was cold in the evenings during this time of year.

She decided to hail Keefe and see if he was free. She hoped he was. If he wasn’t, she would change right back into some sweatpants and a cozy tunic and curl up under some blankets with some mallowmelt for the rest of the evening. But she didn't much want to wallow in her sorrows right now. Keefe picked up on the second ring. “Hey Foster! What’s up? Did you miss my awesome hair so much you had to call me?” “Hey, Keefe.” “What, nothing about the hair? I’m embarrassed for you, Foster. You should be missing me. Actually, you should be asking right now if you can come over, because then I can say yes and avoid doing this boring Elvish History homework.” Ro butted in. “Please get me out of this! Lord Funkyhair here won’t stop sniveling about how boring it is! Not that it isn’t extremely boring listening to a bunch of puny elves boast about how awesome and sparkly they are, but I don’t have to do the homework, so I don’t want to hear about it.” “Well, actually, I was in fact calling to see if you wanted to hang out,” Sophie said, once she could get a word in edgewise. “YES! Foster wants to hang out with me!! Score one for team Foster-Keefe! Wanna leap over now? We can eat mallowmelt and annoy Ro with our awesomeness!” Sophie laughed. “Sure, Keefe! I’ll be there in a couple minutes.” She hung up and pumped her fist at the thought of seeing her friend. Grabbing her Imparter and stuffing it in a bag with a few other things, she called to Vertina. “Vertina! How do I look?”

Her mirror came to life with a smirk. “Whoa, you all of a sudden care? Who are you seeing? Is it that Fitz of yours?” His name hit her hard, and Sophie winced. "I might as well get used to telling people we’re over", she thought. “No. We broke up today.” Vertina paused for a minute, looking embarrassed for once. She said softly, “I’m sorry.” Sophie was surprised at the usually cocky and smart-alecky mirror’s compassion, but she appreciated it. She also didn’t know what to say in answer to that, so she just went with a simple “Thanks” and a half smile.

She continued, “It was for the best, I think. It hurts like hell, but I’ll be alright eventually. I just hope Fitz is okay.” Vertina looked annoyed, saying, “Girl, you need to stop thinking about him. Wondering how he’s doing won’t help you get over him. Focus on yourself and getting over him. Why’d you break up, anyway?”

“We’re hurting too much,” Sophie explained. “Fitz and I are both struggling emotionally and we aren’t--I mean weren’t--helping each other heal. We have to become more happy and emotionally stable before we put emotional energy into a relationship, and I started to realize that recently. When I talked to Fitz about it today, I didn’t know if I wanted to break up, but he said he’d been thinking about it too, and thought it would be the smartest thing for us both to separate. We talked it over, and I agree with him. So that’s the end of us. We’re both sad about it, but I hope this means we can grow and heal more.”

Vertina whistled. “Wow. Well, I’m sorry you ended things, but it sounds like it was a smart thing to do. Anyway, you asked me how you look. I think you look great, but I’d suggest a hair clip to pull your hair out of your face.” “Thanks, Vertina, but I’ll pass this time,” Sophie said with a shrug. “I don’t really want to have my full face exposed to the world today.” “Okay, I get it. Have fun wherever you’re going!” Vertina said, clicking off.

Sophie grabbed her bag, quickly wrote a note to Grady and Edaline explaining where she would be, leaving it in the kitchen for them to see when they came inside. “Sandor! I’m going to Keefe’s! Coming?” Sandor walked in from the living room, where he had been reading on the couch. “This is random,” he said in his squeaky voice. “Any particular reason you’re going to Keefe’s after breaking up with Fitz?” He sounded a bit suspicious. Sophie raised her eyebrows at him. “No, not really, just wanted a friend right now.”

“Okayyy,” Sandor said, still seemingly unconvinced. “Let’s go, then.” They headed to the LeapMaster and disappeared into a ray of light.

#fanfic #sokeefe #keephie #sokeefe fanfic #sokeefe fic #sophie x keefe #sophie x keefe fic #keeper of the lost cities #keefe #sophie foster #keefe sencen #kotlc #kotlc fanfiction #keeper of the lost cities fanfic

[amyrallis]

So I Waged War Against The Skies -The Old Gods Are No More-

Written for my amazing anija, @sleepysenseis (love you uwu) because they are great and they're perfect and so is their art and anija knows exactly how to enable me, dammit. Enabled™ smol otouto me and here is the MASTERPIECE:

--------

“No.” Tobirama breathed, his body a mess from all the times he had been stabbed straight through, the pain barely registering. He sometimes thought it was a good thing he had never finished with the Edo Tensei. This was one of those times.

Madara hummed next to him, his now a greenish white hair drifting in the breeze as he surveyed the broken battlefield in front of him. “No? They already lost. There’s no point in denying it, Tobirama. It’s not like you.” The purple eyed man turned around, a madness that made Tobirama lose his breath settled deep in his eyes.

Tobirama knew Madara was right. The battlefield had gone painfully silent, the symbol of hope that Naruto was having fallen somewhere in the chaos and left them stumbling blindly in the dark. He closed his eyes as another pang went through him. To attack this man so openly without any plan was nothing short of foolish, something that Tobirama had known for a long time but Naruto had somehow missed.  

Sasuke laid on the ground close to them, his blood a pool of red around him as the wind blew over the battlefield –more like massacre, Tobirama couldn’t help but think, a pang of sorrow rushing through his veins- lifting the dust and leaving the painful picture clear for all to see. They had lost and Madara had won.

It was ironic. The way a defeated air hung around the place, the one driving force one side had, lost in grief, ıt reminded him all too clearly of another battlefield. One where Madara had laid on his back and said, me or the village Hashirama. One which Madara had said those things, his sharingan spinning an entirely new shape in his grief and looked straight at Tobirama while doing so.

His breath had hitched lightly, his eyes turning to avoid the cursed red of the sharingan –cursed by gods, cursed for daring to love so very deeply, in a way that no mortal, no god had ever dared to and cursed for caring so much, enough to give everything for fleeting lives. Tobirama knew the feeling very well, in the blood that ran through his veins, in the way that his eyes were the same shade of red as the curse of gods, the beat of his heart as he held pieces of his younger brother in his arms… really, he should’ve known in the beginning- and felt something in him burn. Izuna may have had been an enemy but he was also human. They were at war and Tobirama had his own family to keep safe. He didn’t have to regret protecting his family.

Even if it was at the cost of another’s, for that was how life had dared to work, always so cruel against those who took the chance and thrived in it. 

He already had too many of those very same family’s blood on his hands because Hashirama was brilliant, a sea of hope in the midst of a thunderstorm, burning bright and beautiful and Tobirama could only hope to rest in his shores for some time, before he had to get up and stop the storm from breaching that sacred place, because even though Hashirama was impossible and brilliant and everything, he was only one men. And men were good at one thing above all. Falling.

Tobirama had to stop that, he had to interfere and help his Anija against the fate that was so very determined to stop him and if the cost was his own conscious, nights spent awake, feeling like his very soul would never feel together again and sitting up once more because he could never hope to be enough but that never meant he couldn’t try his best, that was his own problem.

Anija tended to overlook lives, tiny and insignificant as they were to him, for his eyes were burned and blinded by the future he was always marching towards but Tobirama was there to ground him and carry the burdens that grounding would normally lay on Hashirama. He had chosen Izuna for a reason.

Izuna was close to his power, so very close in chakra, maybe even in strength but Tobirama was an inventor and a seal master, he wasn’t known as the greatest suiton master ever seen for nothing. 

Izuna, just, didn’t match up. But Tobirama made it so, allowing the illusion of him being equal to power because if he didn’t, he would have to reach behind him and go full force, after revealing his entire power and skill set, there’d be no stopping for him, he’d be pushed to do it and not even Hashirama could try for his peace when so much of the Uchiha had been slaughtered by his own heir, no one would trust them.

İf the cost came with the Senju that Tobirama hadn’t been fast enough to protect while engaging Izuna, the ones he would’ve been able to had he already gotten rid of the other younger brother, then those were his own demons, hidden behind to be revealed at night, after everyone was asleep and the graveyard in his mind had been awakened once more.

His eyes snapped open as Madara’s hand clasped his chin, forcing his eyes to meet the Rinnegan and the shorter man leaned down slightly with an intense look in his eyes. “What have they done to you? I’m sure you could make the Edo Tensei work so much better than this. All they did was bring back you at  your last second. Truly pitiful like they are. I'm not surprised at all that they had to bring you back to fight me and still managed to mess it up.” Tobirama glared up at him, unable to retort because the Uchiha was right but also unwilling to let the slight against his village go while stubbornly denying the back handed compliment.

“As pitiful as your plan, I suppose? Or are you truly that gone in the head Uchiha? Your plan has so many loopholes in it that Anija could stick his head in it.”

Madara’s eyes twisted with fury even as he slowly caressed Tobirama’s cheek, a wondering look replacing the fury in the next second and making Tobirama question if it had even happened.

“That’s why you’re the one who plans things, Tobirama.” Madara murmured, a slight smile pulling at his lips as he leaned down even more. Tobirama struggled in his kneeling position, the callousness burning at him even as he hid the discomfort from the way Madara looked at him. 

Madara chuckled, his hand coming up to keep Tobirama in place and circled him. “You were always so beautiful when you got angry.” Madara stopped behind him, his fingers sinking into Tobirama’s hair and yanked his head back. Tobirama looked at him, his neck bent at an odd angle as pieces of paper floated in the air. “What are you talking about?” he said, trying to ignore the pressing feeling in his mind.

Madara always acted strange when Tobirama was around, Hashirama had said once. His eyes would focus on Tobirama and all his words would be for him, like he was literally unable to forget that the albino was there and that he existed, even for one moment.  His chakra would seek Tobirama out during the day and his questions would be pointed to Tobirama, something that made Hashirama wonder a lot. Tobirama had tried to ignore his Anija’s foolishness, instead thinking that it was Madara assessing the highest likely threat to himself, because it was so obvious that Hashirama wouldn’t hurt him, the bumbling buffoon.

Hashirama wouldn't hurt him? Like he hadn't killed Madara? Tobirama couldn’t help but question. Just like Madara hadn’t sometimes sought Tobirama out, his chakra exhausted and on the verge of something that Tobirama had never known what? Instead, his mind had been focused on trying to stop what had felt inevitable to him, always, always dangling just over their future and overwhelming. Because even if Madara hadn’t been so beloved by Anija, and hadn’t that always burned so deeply inside him, Tobirama respected the man. For his strength, maybe, for his ability to look past the Senju elders, always trying to manipulate everything, certainly, for his kindness with children , always. 

Tobirama was a man of practicality, he liked solutions and ideas, he liked his science and he liked building things –sometimes, in the midst of the night when everyone was asleep, he dared to think he’d have made a good teacher, a good adventurer, maybe even a good man. In another life. Good for life, maybe or maybe good for humans, perhaps even good as humans had decreed it, he didn’t know. He supposed he’d get used to not doing so. It was one of the first things he had resigned to never knowing, but certainly not the last (the last had been the question, will it ever truly end?)- he always liked kids and helping them. There’d been a certain joy to be found in imparting knowledge to others and knowing that, at least in that way, they’d be safer. Madara had always been that way, something that Tobirama had  known to respect in humans.

Madara was also complicated. Sometimes, they’d tear each other’s throats out and sometimes, it’d be silence in a winter midnight, something that could almost be called amiable between them as the snow rested on their faces and hair. Once, Madara had approached during that time, his hand slowly extending to brush against Tobirama’s cheek and he had muttered, snow is a good look on you, Tobirama. There had been the potential of so many things in that second, and perhaps they had taken that potential and used it, in another life.

Madara had left the other day, gone for a whole week before he returned, one last time, on the back of the Kyuubi and so very desperate. They had come across each other when Madara had waited for Tobirama in his room and there had been an unspoken question before his gaze had sharpened.  Tobirama had looked into the sharingan for the last time and into Madara’s eyes, the first. –the first time he had looked into the sharingan since he had when he was five and there was blood in the air and Anija was gone, gone, gone, missing and the very air was screaming with him and the world had cracked open, the fury of gods falling upon it with his loss, his desperation-

-a bargain was made that day-

“You, Tobirama, I’m always talking about you.” Tobirama’s breath got stuck in his chest, his mind on the cusp of something, a realization so dangerous, too much to even contemplate. Madara gazed towards the skyline, the mural of his victory laid out before him and a self deprecating smile painted on his face. “Always.” 

Tobirama didn’t want to hear it. Tobirama didn’t want to hear anything, he was dead and he was gone, he had done everything he could for this World and he had deserved his happiness, his end, his rest. If Madara wanted him so badly, he could join Tobirama –and Hashirama and everyone he had loved and lost because why was he trying to drag them back up to the very place that had destroyed them, why was he so damn selfish?- in the Pure Lands, saving everyone the pain and exhaustion. Why did he have to be so stubborn, so damn blind? If he loved them, then he could’ve come to them, because his time was over but Madara was always chasing the fleeting wasn’t he? And there was the problem, Tobirama thought bitterly, the man who loved him –he had felt that for a long time, but he would save the breakdown till later- was an Uchiha, the very epitome of loving the fleeting and cursing the ethereal, the endless.

Those eyes weren’t given for naught. 

Amaterasu, seeing their pain  and loss, had blessed the sad, fallen mortals with the chance to always remember their loved ones and in doing so, had also cursed them. There was a reason that Gods didn’t walk the earth anymore, didn’t interfere with their affairs.

-Gods could fall too-

 “Look at me. All the sights of the world, laid out at my feet and I can only look at you.” Madara turned his gaze back down to Tobirama, his hair swaying in the wind as he did so.

Tobirama stopped the imitation of breathing, all his senses focused on Madara. Why was he saying these things? Why now? The war was over, he had won, so why was he still playing this game? Tobirama had seen the way Madara had looked at him as he clashed with Naruto, the other Kage, always, a part of his attention was on Tobirama, he could feel it like the gaze of someone on his back, the feeling of a breath on his nape, with his everything. 

For once during the battle, his chakra had reached out, coaxing and playful and tried to intertwine with Tobirama whose eyes had widened, his attention turning to the Bijuu he was next to. He had departed right after, the idea of pressing the advantage forming in his head. Madara was somehow calm towards Tobirama, something that could’ve been used for their advantage and if Tobirama could give the others an advantage to press forward by making Madara focus on him, then he would. Madara had always been a creature of passion, someone who could easily focus elsewhere if one knew how to play him. It hadn’t worked.

The bright golden of Minato and Anija echoed in his senses as the silence continued, Madara having leant down and sat next to him. His arm raised, grabbing Tobirama’s hair once more and using it to angle his face to stare at Madara. Tobirama's eyes narrowed.

“Close your eyes, if it irks you so.” Madara gave a surprised laugh, the sound escaping with a strange timbre like he honestly hadn’t expected Tobirama to respond that way –and wasn’t that stupid, Madara always knew Tobirama had a sharp tongue, and was logically wary of it. Perhaps he had foolishly thought being in Madara’s hold would stop him from lashing with it, an idea fit for clueless people because Tobirama wasn’t one to bow to pressure.- and he threw his head back for a second before leaning down and crushing their lips together. 

Tobirama froze stiff, his entire being wanting to continue to reject the very idea of the situation yet his mind so very aware as Madara pressed impossibly closer, his eyes wide open and running over Tobirama‘s face reverently, the edge of something insane burning in them.

Madara slowly drew back, a satisfied smile on his face as he gave Tobirama a smug look. “I prefer to continue looking. You’re quite the sight, after all.” 

Tobirama looked back, something sharp in his gaze. He had never wanted any of this. He was tired of his life always being one battle, one challenge after another and just when he thought he was done, he had closure…

“I’d rather not to be looked at actually, especially by a madman who can’t even plan.” He bit back, his words trying and failing to mask his unease. Madara smiled and leant down, leaning his head against Tobirama’s shoulder and raising his lips to his ear.

“Always with the insults, To-bi-ra. Don’t worry, I’ll have enough time to look my fill. Right after I’m done with them.” Madara muttered, his body tensing once more. Tobirama lightly flinched at the touch of his horn against his neck, his instincts overwhelming him as he tried to ignore the words, to leave this world and go back to his tranquil existence of before. “Then we can be together, like we’ve always wanted.”

The chakra receiver through his head warmed lightly as Madara moved his hand over it and melted over his body, binding Tobirama more thoroughly than anything else ever could. The edges of panic peeked from his mind as they did, Tobirama having to fight an uphill battle to push them back

Madara was gone with the blast of a wind, his outrageous claims not seeming so stupid. Tobirama knew, there was no way they’d be able to win and Madara was just gloating his victory over them. Naruto was gone, truly honestly dead in the way that Tobirama could sense his chakra pooling out of his body, leaving an empty husk and he didn’t want to think anymore.

He didn’t want to think about what Madara was implying, didn’t want to think about how he wasn’t able to get free as long as Orochimaru didn’t set him -and he wouldn’t if he was trapped in an endless dream, Tobirama was well and truly stuck in a way he’d never been, had always avoided, even without the seals that had locked over his form and bound him to the mortal plane-  he didn’t want to think about losing once more –because no matter what was said, Konoha had been a loss. One that Tobirama had tried his best to salvage but perhaps, perhaps some things weren't meant to be saved.- about all the people who laid dead for a system that had been made to kill them in the first place, the system that Tobirama himself had failed in creating properly and thus, left them to their fates, sent them to their deaths.

Instead, he closed his eyes and let go, his mind soaring through nebulae and galaxies, starlight and  black holes with a pale moon lighting the way home.

#uchiha madara #senju tobirama #madatobi #YEET HOPE YOU LİKE #ANİJA İT'S ALL YOUR FAULT #UNREPENTANT ™ #from discord lmao #anija tag

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (3/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Honestly, this chapter might just be a celebration of my love for Lucien and Vassa, and I'm okay with that. Also, Lucien briefly quotes Manon from Throne of Glass early in this chapter, because I couldn't resist. You can find all chapters here.

Lucien is inside Vassa when he hears the growl outside the window. He succeeds in not cursing, not wanting the queen sprawled on the bed below him to think he’s at all distracted. Her bronze skin picking up the luster of the candles and her hair its own firelight, spread across the pillow, her lips open as she moans, scrabbles her fingers on his back, pulls him closer. As much as he adores Vassa in the middle of a clever conversation, outsmarting everyone around, he prefers her in this wordless state.

Lucien decides that Tamlin can wait, and runs his thumb against Vassa’s lower lip, thrusts inside her until she stifles her moans into his hand.

She rises from the bed within minutes, not wanting to waste her hours in human form, and he follows her, adjusting his jacket as he winnows to the grounds of the Greysen manor, his mechanical eye whirling in search of Tamlin.

“You’re sure the human queen hasn’t enchanted you?” his old friend asks, prowling out of the shadows. Lucien decides that pointing out the irony of the statement would be unwise.

“I’m surprised you were allowed past the gate,” he says instead.

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to scare a human.” Tamlin glances at the backs of his hands, as if he’s not sure whether the claws are still visible. After all the conversations Lucien has had with him in his beast form, he supposes it’s a reasonable concern. “And I’m surprised to see you’ve given up on your mate so easily. I’d thought you’d be a model of courtly love.”

Lucien does his best to look mollified. He has told many lies in his life, dancing between truth and half-truth and truth’s opposite so nimbly that he considered his lies blessed by the Mother herself. After centuries, what’s most embarrassing is that he assumed these lies would always come easily to him and slip away with no resistance.

Then came Hybern, the Cauldron, and the dozens of golden threads Lucien watched form between Tamlin and the newly-Fae Elain Archeron, the mating bond so clear he wondered why he was the only one who could see it, though such uncanny sightings were not unusual for him, especially with his new eye.

Within seconds, Lucien had known what would happen if the bond was revealed. Feyre would never let her sister go to the Spring Court. Rhysand -- Feyre’s true mate, Lucien knew, could not reveal to Tamlin for fear of the resulting furious explosion, a regret that had already lit a fire in his gut -- would go to war over the weeping girl, more and more luminous with each tear that spilled from her sweet brown eyes. Prythian would be shattered, invaded from both coasts. And Tamlin would be destroyed. He’d gone to battle with the Night Court over the woman he loved and doomed his actual mate to kidnapping and the Cauldron, trauma and a life she’d never wanted, a cosmic joke that would have been funny if Lucien had read it in an epic poem written millenia before.

The lie, then, was easy.

You’re my mate, he’d told Elain, the shock and wonder and horror true as anything else in his long and miserable life.

Lucien had been sure that Tamlin would confront him, raging about the fact that Lucien had claimed the female who the Mother had given to Tamlin himself. But Tamlin had only doted over Feyre, stalked his lands, conspired with Ianthe and Hybern, and Lucien had been forced to keep up the lie to everybody. It had not been difficult to leave the Spring Court with Feyre, despite everything, and though the constant rejection from Elain had been grating, the smug disinterest of the Night Court an annoyance that gnawed at his very core, Lucien found that these discomforts were bearable, at least in the beginning. Even the times Feyre pried into her mind and he had to cloak his thoughts did not bother him as much as he would have thought. He’d dealt with worse. It was the span of the deception that rankled, the fact that Tamlin never seemed to realize he’d met his mate, that Elain had fallen into love or else infatuation with Azriel when there were both real and imagined bonds pulling her elsewhere. The stream of invitations from the Night Court, trying to pair Lucien and Elain together. Gradually Lucien realized that he was the only one who knew the substance of his lie, the only one who’d even glimpsed the truth.

And of course Vassa had only complicated the situation further. He’d tried for months to stay away, if not for an imaginary love story with a woman who did not want him, for the sake of Prythian, for the sake of all involved. He’d even thought that Vassa and Jurian would anger each other enough to wind up lovers, and once he lived with them in their Band of Exiles, breaking up their constant arguments had left him feeling dried and worn. If he hadn’t been used to being overlooked, it would have been a blow: considering the way Vassa burned bright in either form, her mind always analyzing a situation on a dozen levels but her mouth often blurting out the truth as she saw it, refined just enough by her confidence for diplomacy. Her lips twin rose petals, her words the thorns bent on ensnaring lesser minds and beings in her net. She was beautiful, of course, but her mind was gorgeous. His fear and regard for Koschei and the other human queens were predicated on the fact that the death-god could have imprisoned such a woman.

Last month they’d talked late into the night, the embers of the fire giving her face a fragile golden outline, and it occurred to Lucien that he and Azriel and Rhysand were no closer to determining the breaking of Vassa’s enchantment, that she might live out the rest of her life under this imprisonment. And still her whole face brightened with their conversation, about the latest innovations in the Dawn Court and their potential implications for Prythian and the human realms, Scythia in particular. How lovely her amber eyes were, lit with her hope and intelligence, the curve of clavicle shaded by the night. Lucien had been certain that he’d never met someone less deserving of her curse, and still she dreamed of the ways in which she might aid her kingdom on her return.

He’d taken a step toward her, another, pressed his lips to her cheekbone, gentle and slow, giving her a chance to pull away. Instead she smiled and said I was hoping you’d get the idea, and so he kissed the curve of her jaw, the curves of her ear, until she’d reached out for him and pulled his mouth to her, her tongue on the seam of his lips within seconds, their bodies flush against each other.

Despite the month they’ve spent in and out of each other's beds, Lucien hasn’t told her about the lie. As far as he can tell, Vassa thinks she is a second choice, or a rebellion against the Mother’s wisdom. He cannot risk a daemati peering inside Vassa’s open human mind and learning this secret, and in spite of this, the lie burns most heavily on him when he’s with her, so that, despite decades of training himself in deceit, he has almost revealed the truth to Vassa a dozen times.

“My mate has centuries to come around to the idea of me,” he says now, trying to sound sly instead of weary, “but I find the prospect of this wait no longer holds much appeal. What brings you to the human lands tonight, Tam?”

“Rhysand wants you in my court, along with Vassa. He’s sending your Elain as his emissary and thinks she requires protection.”

Matchmaking aunt Rhysand, Lucien thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face. The scent of Vassa’s skin still on his fingers.

“And you allowed this?” he asks instead, playing for time.

“You know that Rhysand only begins his strategies with polite requests. I’d wake up one morning to an invasion.”

“I can be at your estate tomorrow.”

“In a week.”

“Why the delay?” Lucien has never known Rhysand to bide his time. Once a plan is put in motion, there are no delays. Even if he’s grateful for the reprieve. He does not know what he will say to Vassa, or Elain.

“Apparently my estate requires renovations.” For the first time in years, Tamlin’s face is rueful, a surprising expression after so much rage and sorrow and self-pity. “The most crucial will be completed in that time. Your mate has claimed my gardens and will begin installing flowers. The Morrigan is winnowing her.”

Lucien weighs the possibility of telling the truth right then, telling Tamlin that the female in his gardens is his own mate, that there is a reason his voice goes soft, approaches tender, when he speaks of her. But this is the best he’s seen Tamlin look since before Amarantha appeared on their lands, the first time it’s been easy for Lucien to remember why he’d always liked the High Lord of Spring in spite of more recent evidence to the contrary. Perhaps Tamlin will realize the truth on his own.

“I’ll be at your estate as you request.”

“Make sure you wash the smell of the human queen off before you arrive.”

“Her name is Vassa,” Lucien snarls, a brief unleashing of his temper.

“While I have no interest in who is in your bed, you know that Rhysand would not accept the slight to his court so easily.” Tamlin is trying to help, Lucien knows, but he’s been stalking the forests for so long that he does not realize Lucien has had three meetings with Rhysand since the first night with Vassa, preceded by scrubbing and spells that leave him raw and nearly without scent.

“Perhaps it would be a relief to Elain.” He’s reaching, the lie too heavy for his shoulders when he imagines where he’ll be in seven days. Already he’s forming a plan for every night until he must appear at the Spring Court with Vassa.

“Females generally like to do the leaving, I find.”

“You sound ridiculous when you speak that way,” Lucien says, giving the words a breath of laughter to soften them. He is pushing as he never did before, but instead of bristling, Tamlin sighs.

“I used to think I understood this world,” he says, and Lucien thinks that now, with so many befores to consider, for once he does not know the story Tamlin’s telling himself.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vassa knows that something’s wrong as soon as she finds Lucien back in bed. Generally he spends his nights awake with her, sleeping in the pockets of time when he’s not needed elsewhere in Prythian. Now he’s sprawled on the mattress, jacket discarded on the headboard, his breathing too light for sleep.

“Who summoned you?” she asks, knowing that he’s more likely to tell her than if she asks what’s wrong?

“We’re both expected in the Spring Court in a week. Elain Archeron will be there as well.” He mutters the words into the quilt so that Vassa has to lean closer to him. He forgets, sometimes, that she has only human ears.

“Why would Tamlin need me at his estate?” She does not point out that much of his estate lacks intact walls or windows, that its High Lord was the building’s principal destroyer. These facts only poke a would inside of Lucien, and so she holds her tongue.

“Rhys wants us there.”

“More questions about Koschei, then.” She’s told the Night Court all she knows, unless the sorcerer took her memories, in which case Vassa wishes he’d remove the more painful of her recollections, the horrors of the life she lived imprisoned on his lake.

“Azriel has been investigating. Maybe there’s a way to break the enchantment on you.” He reaches out for her hand and traces the lines of her fingers. Vassa holds back a shiver of anticipation, knows that he will hardly touch her as soon as they’re in the Spring Court. Six nights together, perhaps the last that they will ever spend, if the enchantment is somehow lifted and she’s able to go back to her own country. These years in Prythian were always meant to end.

“Tamlin knows I’ll need a place that cannot burn?”

“I’ll show you all the lakes the Spring Court has to offer. You can choose your favorite.”

“I’d prefer a new location every day, I think.” She reaches out for him until she’s lying next to him, letting the warmth of his body still her whirling mind. So many hours pass every day where she cannot think like a human, where she’s trapped inside the body and mind of an animal, and although she’s managed to gain some control over the firebird, the most gutting loss is her own right mind, its familiar quicksilver darting, so that it seems to work in triple time whenever she’s human again. The mind of the firebird is slower and angrier than Vassa has ever allowed herself to be. The anger of a queen is deadly, and she has always been mindful of her citizens, how best to rule them.

“You know it’s you I want to be with, don’t you?” He props his cheek on his hand, gazing at her, and Vassa raises her eyebrows. The mating bond between the High Fae is the stuff of legends, stronger than love or fear or desire.

“I could never marry you,” she says, meeting his russet eyes only because she’s been so immaculately trained since childhood. “I need to return to my country as soon as I can.”

“It’s not as if I’m bound to Prythian.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You are employed by half the High Lords and held in high esteem by nearly all. I don’t think you’d know what to do if your days weren’t filled with counsels and entreaties and schemes.”

“Plenty of schemes to hatch in the human lands.” He reaches for a lock of her hair, wraps the tendril around his finger until she’s so close there’s nothing to do but kiss.

“What about your mate?” she asks, after a kiss long enough to make most females, Fae or human, forget the thread of the conversation.

“I do believe she will survive.” He pulls her toward him again, this time working at the fastenings of her dress, the corset beneath, and all the while Vassa thinks, even while she runs her fingers against his copper skin, that this cruelty towards his mate seems so incongruous with everything else she knows about Lucien. She does not flatter herself that he has fallen in love with her. They have known each other for three years now, hardly a moment in his long life, shared beds for only a month. Soon he will forget all about her, Vassa is certain. And perhaps a certain amount of longing is dignified for a queen, helps her to understand the plight of her citizens, the secret sufferings in their own hearts.

If she had more time these days for contemplation, Vassa would have a chance to realize that she’s deluding herself. Still, she presses herself to Lucien until they’re barely more than heated skin and ragged breaths.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #elain archeron #elain is my queen #elain x tamlin #tamlin #tamlin redemption arc #tamlin x elain #lucien vanserra #queen vassa #vucien #vucien is goals #inner circle #nessian #feysand #post acosf #acosf spoilers #gwynriel

[luminousbeansarewe]

what are your takes/version of how the sequel trilogy went down? because i also have my own version in my head, not.... that, but im really interested in the ideas other people have had for it

hoo boy there’s a lot of ground to cover here lmao i will try to keep them as short as i can... i also enjoy multiple versions of events and outcomes for the sequels as long as they’re in-character so i’m not trying to say no other version of the sequels is good or cool bc only a sith deals in absolutes amirite? (i won’t apologize for that dumb joke.) first the jumping-off points:

first of all, i fully support Force-sensitive Finn. even if he didn’t become a full-blown Jedi, if the entire concept of the Jedi was reforged and we don’t see him become the kind of Jedi we saw in the prequels (more on that later), i see him as someone who was attuned to the Force in a way that is similar to how i conceive of Barriss; empathetic to the suffering and joy of others. this would drive him to defect from the Empire and fear it, too. i also saw him becoming a reluctant leader for the rebellion, and there’s a GREAT fic which i’ll link here that riffs on the idea that he creates a spark within the stormtrooper ranks and more and more of them begin to defect... which i love

Rey being a nobody is cool to me. the ONE character moment where she became super relatable for me was when she realized how frightened she was of her own Force abilities. but i don’t think she has to be the legacy of Palps to have that. she doesn’t need supercharged powers to be spooked by them in a post-Jedi Order world where the most recent memory anybody has of the Force is Vader. (also Rey being a Kenobi seems more out of character for Obi-Wan than anything else lol he was pretty committed to the ways of the Order even after they were destroyed, plus he already had one kid to furtively watch over... just imo). this also ties into my expansion on the Force.

Poe being not a carbon copy of Han. i think Leia looked after him, found him somehow after she sent Ben to the Jedi Academy and was a motherly figure in his life. i like the idea that he was a little shit, and she’s the one who taught him to turn his reactive defiance of authority into bravery when fighting for the rebels. i think he looked up to her, wanted to be a leader like her. i saw him in the position of generals like Akbar by the end, as he learns to balance risk-taking with steady leadership. I wanted to see that growth, how those leaders are formed, see Leia get to impart her wisdom to someone. (also i fully support Finn/Poe and Finn/Rey/Poe, i’m not a committed shipper so i’m down with no romance at all between them but those ships are choice af and Stormpilot is all Oscar Isaac wanted anyway, so...) plus can u imagine the dichotomy of Ben the fallen son with Poe, the “adopted” son who became what Ben couldn’t? the guilt of Leia for not knowing how to teach her son about the Force, doing better half-raising a nobody who had the same shitty attitude as Han when they met but no Force ability? THIS IS JUICY CHARACTER CONTENT

Rose was given cheesy lines to introduce an important topic: that fighting is all well and good but throwing away your principles defeats the purpose of the fight in the first place (an important theme in the Clone Wars era, too.) she was there to be the voice of the truly little people in the gffa, who we don’t hear much about in the other trilogies. Finn’s sensitivity puts him at risk of the sorrow-to-hate arc i described for Barriss; Rose is there to be the empathy that sustains hope rather than becomes a crushing weight. i love the idea that she might rally volunteers from blue-collar places (like... Lothal, for example?) and spearhead the notion that the New Republic should be very different from the old one, calling out the fact that working conditions didn’t change with the shift from republic to empire and the First Order simply took it to an extreme that left her and her sister with nothing else to lose.

Ben Solo, hoo boy. so here’s the thing, we don’t KNOW Ben Solo. we were expected to want him to be redeemed because he was the son of Han and Leia, and that’s it. that’s lazy as fuck. him killing Han in the first movie (if it happened it should have been in movie #2, that’s how fucking second acts work) was an excuse to shock people, subvert the ‘i can’t kill my own father’ thing, and make sure we knew he was “evil” even though we’re supposed to also want a redemption arc? you have to read the Rise of Kylo Ren comics to learn that he was a) hounded by the voice of Snoke in his head from childhood, manipulated by it, which is horrific bc it’s like grooming... or b) that he felt HUGE pressure as a legacy Force-user to save the galaxy, lead the New Jedi Order, etc. these are much more empathy-generating and we should have learned them in TFA. echoes of Anakin much? which is why i think him being redeemed in a way other than self-sacrifice (which made sense for Vader given his long history of being a terrible person, knowing it was too late for him in the end, and really just wanting to save his son rather than “become good again”) is more interesting than him just falling (which is too much the same as the prequels.)

it should have been Finn’s call, a moment of Truth that held the balance of Finn as either falling prey to darkness or learning forgiveness, whether or not Kylo got redeemed. Finn and Rey working together to get to that point while Rose and Poe took on the military aspect of the Big Finale would have been great. Finn with a lightsaber to Kylo’s throat, feeling the temptation to murder him instead of making him face what he’s become in a meaningful way? Rey trying to urge him away from darkness as she’s been tempted before, but this is the first time Finn’s really been tested, and he was the one who so often reminded her of her own humanity? Rey calling up Rose’s point of creating a new paradigm instead of recreating the old one, of Poe’s growth or Leia’s willingness to take Ben back showing it’s possible? shiiiiiiit

the rest is going under a cut!

SO... given those things as a basis...

there being no scene where Force-ghost Anakin bops Kylo on the head (but you know, more subtly and with gorgeous metaphor ofc) was a travesty. we needed some version of that, also imo that reaffirms that Anakin was the chosen one... as him redirecting his grandson away from that path would be restoring hella balance

Snoke should have had his own fucked up backstory, if he was even there at all. a dark sider fucking with Ben Solo is reasonable to me, but Snoke could have been someone who looked up to Palps as much as Kylo supposedly looked up to Vader. that would have been interesting... maybe there are multiple “nobodies” who are being touched by the Force, just like there always were in the prequels era, but some are going dark with no Jedi to try to convince them otherwise? or, maybe Snoke’s life was ruined by the Empire and he chose to become the beast that harmed him, whereas Kylo becomes the version where you think you want to do that but then realize that it’s just as bad and you still have empathy and regret what you’ve done?

Thrawn being the main military antagonist, since they couldn’t be arsed to make Hux into anything but a sniveling baby fascist (despite his really upsetting backstory of an abusive father, also found in the comics... noticing a trend here?). Thrawn was already established and beloved in the legends. why would you not use him. whY?? he’s like a foil for Tarkin. contention between him and the Force-users in charge (Snoke and Kylo) would have been VERY interesting, esp with the character of Thrawn in the new canon seeing the Empire as a ‘necessary evil’ and now maybe having the potential to make it into something else? how’s JOINING WITH THE NEW REPUBLIC for a subversion of the classic tropes, Rian?????? you fucker????

if Thrawn’s history is “too storied” for a bunch of cowards to "fit” into a new movie trilogy, invent another antivillain to take Thrawn’s place whose history is a little more concurrent with the sequel era... you cowards

Luke fucking off after his failure isn’t out of character IMO. he was THE STRONGEST JEDI EVER and his star pupil still fell? maybe he broke under the same pressure Ben did. maybe that’s what allows him to reach back out towards Kylo and reconnect, admitting his failure. i want to hear more about him cutting himself off from the Force bc i LOVE KOTOR 2 and Kreia, but maybe that’s too much for one trilogy to delve into meaningfully, i dunno

Han fucking off after Ben wrecked the temple isn’t OOC either. i think Han was always a little frightened of the Force, the way many non-sensitives are. I think he was critical as a father, because he was critical of himself and Han is the king of projection. i wanted more of the dysfunctional relationship between him and Ben.

if Kylo kills Han, the scene needs to show more of the fact that Kylo actually regretted it, which Snoke only alludes to in TLJ, foreshadowing his future. i rewrote Han’s death scene for a friend and got a lot of good feedback about it so maybe i’ll post it here sometime. i can get behind a version where he doesn’t die, too, i just haven’t fleshed it out in my own head.

i like the idea that the Jedi Order needed to be remade, and that Luke saw the failure of the old order when he saw Ben turn like so many of the Jedi in the Order did. i like that Rey and Finn might spearhead this, and maybe Kylo’s role is to know the dark side intimately enough now that he can actually teach how it works, how to deal with it... how inevitable its temptation is. because...

in this canon, i don’t think the Force has light or darkness. i think it’s Force-users who do. it is their internal landscapes which cause them to “fall” or be redeemed or not, after all. Finn can attest to the same, so can Rey and Luke... so like, all the Jedi need DBT therapy or something i guess. lmao hold the dialectic, you nerds

the Force has shown time and time again that it cannot be “balanced” so maybe it is ourselves who need to become balanced instead

the Force is chaos, a never-ending series of colliding butterfly effects that to us will always and inevitably be seen as turmoil, cause and effect on a cosmic scale. if you drink too greedily of its power, or try to exert total control over it, by its nature it will consume you because it is beyond your mortal ken. whatever you hunger for, the force will give you more and more of it until you are overwhelmed, drowning in it

this is why peace was a central teaching of the Jedi... peace, the antithesis of chaos, which can only ever be created from within, the eye of the storm which must be sought time and time again

anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk? i’m always down to hear other people’s ideas for these characters tbh. and always down to get more into these topics if you want to know more... esp as it relates to the failure of the Jedi Order, or KOTOR 2 and Revan and Kreia, or OF COURSE my OCs because Sol has a very interesting relationship with the Force.

thank you for this ask lordimperius!! ^_^

#star wars sequels #this got way deeper into my meta than i meant for it to but i can't help it #my headcanons #asks #if you read all of this or even most of it you're an actual angel

[teaandcrowns]

Cultural Examinations: Water Tribe

The thing that drew me in the most about the Avatar world is the influence of so many different cultures.

To me, it’s more subtle than just throwing a world-wide mix of cultural analogs together (which is also fun, but will yield a completely different story), and that’s something I very much appreciate.

When I approach writing fanfiction within this universe, I try and take as much care inserting and adding details unique to each culture, as inspired by ones that exist on our world—much as the creative team did for the shows themselves.

When writing fanfiction in such a lush world as Avatar, I do my best to take care and put as many cultural details and cues as the show had visually. This means doing research into the cultures that are analogued or used as inspiration for the ones that appear in the show. Though a fanfic can be written without this, I know that the fics I’ve enjoyed reading the most have all had deeper cultural inclusions and references. It gives both the fic itself and the world its set in more weight and breadth, and I consider that if it’s something I deeply enjoy reading, I should do the work to put the same effort and detail into fics that I add, as well. (Also, enjoying doing that doesn’t hurt, either.)

The Water Tribe is not solely based off of Inuit/Arctic Peoples, but also Mongolian. The parkas they wear are very Arctic in inspiration, but the robes resemble the Mongolian deel.

The Water Tribe is very family focused, as are both of these types of cultures. Inuit/Arctic Peoples are not one uniform culture, nor are Mongolians, though there are commonalities held throughout. The Water Tribe is well suited to this type of connected but not uniform culture, as the Tribe itself is split into two main sister tribes, and also I feel that with the expanse of the antarctic region we see in the show, there would certainly have been more than one gathering of tribesmen before the Fire Nation decimated the population.

Aside from their dress, what else can we know, culturally, about the Water Tribe?

We know they are very close-knit with one another—both within blood family and outside blood relatives. We know that at least half of the Water Tribe people, the Northern, are severely patriarchal, and it seems that perhaps the Southern Tribe was to a much lesser degree. They are a seafaring people, comfortable on the ocean and sailing in community-built ships, and they are a people who feel a deep sense of cultural pride and connection to tradition.

With as family oriented as Water Tribesmen are, it’s easy to see smaller clan-like settlements being the norm rather than a crowded city. Despite the appearance of a large city in the Northern Water Tribe, it’s easy to believe that there are settlements outside that city—or at least were, perhaps before smaller clan units retreated to the city for greater defense and survival during the War.

While Sokka exhibited misogynistic views at the beginning of the show, it’s most likely because of his fragmented upbringing rather than the South holding to as fiercely patriarchal ways as the North. Hama, for example, was a combative waterbender, as were plenty of other women waterbenders fighting against the Fire Nation.

This was probably known between the Tribes, which would be the reason Kanna left the North and her arranged marriage to find her own path (and husband) in the South. The fact that the North did not keep in contact or appear to offer any real help to their Southern tribespeople during the Fire Nation attacks (despite the claim that the Northern Water Tribe leader headed both tribes), could also be evidence that the North did not exactly approve of the South’s views. Then again, the lack of help could also be because of the risk across such a great distance to send help, but Water Tribe people have a deep sense of kinship toward one another, even if they never met (see Foggy Swamp Tribesmen Huu, Due, and Tho welcoming Katara as kin). I am of the belief that it’s the disapproval of the more liberal Southern views rather than simple complex and risky logistics.

Both Inuit/Arctic Peoples and Mongolian peoples have the same tribal/clan-like sense of community, and are welcoming into their homes. One of the traditions of the Mongols is a host offering tea—it is so ubiquitous that a host would not think twice about offering tea and the guest would not think to decline. It’s simply good, expected hospitality. 

This reflects nearly directly in the Water Tribe. The Northern Water Tribe hosts a great feast to which of course Aang, Sokka, and Katara are invited; Hama immediately sets about making a personal feast of traditional Water Tribe fare for all the kids without question; and the Foggy Swamp benders share their fires and food with the group as soon as they discover they’re distant kin. Even Bato unquestionably makes Aang an honorary Water Tribe member after Sokka’s Ice Dodging—not because he’s the Avatar, but because he’s a close friend of Sokka and Katara.

On the same token, Katara, Sokka, Hakota, and Bato all express deep sorrow, akin to physical pain, upon the separation of them from family. For Hakota, it’s being separated from his children for so long; for Katara, it’s the loss of her father and her mother, which still affects her years later as keenly as it did when she was eight; for Sokka, it’s mostly the loss of growing into the brotherhood of warrior tribesmen on top of losing their father for years; for Bato, it’s the loss of that same brotherhood, established for years, that he feels most, however temporary it may be.

What seems the most tragic about the Water Tribes, however, is their loss of culture. It is especially so for the Southern Tribe, which by all exhibits seems to have some significant differences from their Northern cousins. Even this is reflective of both Arctic Peoples and Mongolian cultures, though primarily more in the former. A lot if heritage has been lost, by assimilation of other, more dominant cultures—such as post-AtLA when the Northern Tribe sends benders and tribesman to help their sister tribe—and by simple loss of elders and people and their knowledge. It’s a shame that Hama wasn’t able to impart more cultural heritage knowledge to Katara and Sokka before her confrontation with them. With all that, it’s easy to see how people have internal conflict about moving forward after the War is over—is it really okay to make new traditions and technological advances that ultimately have an effect on culture, or should a greater effort be put into relearning and preserving?

This theme of traditional culture versus progress at the (potential) sacrifice of those traditional ways being in conflict in both the world’s nations and in individual characters is a repeated one that I feel is one of the more important themes to the entire series. The Water Tribe still struggles with this even into the story of Legend of Korra, some seventy years after the end of the Hundred Year War.

It doesn’t wholly define the Water Tribe, no, but it does have a hand in defining it. Every culture experiences its own growing pains in the aftermath of the War, and we can see that it’s not something that even a generation and a half has been able to solve.

It’s easy to see both sides of the argument, especially for the Water Tribe. Half their people were lost, it’s time to move on to newer and better things. But at the same time, half their people were lost, they should honor the memory and keep tradition alive, especially when that tradition seems to help preserve the very balance of the world.

I don’t think there’s a true right or wrong answer of one side over the other, but that, as with another integral theme in the show, of balance. With the Water Tribe, being who they are, I feel that so long as they are able to maintain their sense of community and family (blood or extended), they will always be able to adapt with change and make it work to their advantage.

There are, of course, a lot of cultural details that I like to add when I write fic concerning the Water Tribe that are by no means in any kind of canon. What I feel fits and gives greater depth into a world may differ from what another author may decide. I don’t uniformly migrate details over, either—I pick some that I feel would fit with how the Tribe is presented and how it will add to and impact whatever story I am writing. So long as it meets all the criteria—does it honor whichever culture it comes from? Does it fit into the Avatar world? Does it add to and/or impact or deepen the story itself somehow? Does it feel Water Tribe enough?—then it gets added in. Like an artist would do with visual clues that don’t immediately stand out but enhance the scene and world anyway, I believe adding these cultural details achieves the same effect in fanfiction.

#avatar the last airbender #avatar: the last airbender #atla #a:tla #the water tribes #the northern water tribe #the southern water tribe #// meta tag #this is an old post #so forgive any datedness or incompleteness of it #i know a lot of people have talked about stuff like this #but this is just my own take #because i enjoy it

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

oh lmao i forgot to say odaat fic!! my b. also yeah ive read most of your stuff (i think? maybe some if your older stuff i havent gone back far enough for) so other authors would be great!

cool, that was my guess but i didn’t want to assume. sorry about the delay on this, it was much wittier yesterday before my inbox ate my reply. i figured the rec links are the part that really matters so hopefully you can forgive my lack of bonus rambling this time around so i actually post this. :)

and just fyi, characterization is my jam when it comes to fic, it’s what i care about most–i love authors who see the characters similarly to how i do. readability matters to me too, but i can withstand some typos if i really connect with a fic. mostly i’m a bit picky though? so once you’ve gotten started it would definitely be worth diving deeper into ao3 in case you love some authors i just haven’t connected with for one reason or another.

so. my fave authors for odaat fic are @fandammit, @finehs, @witasaweapon, and @jicklet. i’ll read anything they write. if you like the samples below, definitely check out their others on ao3.

there’s no avoiding an alvarez by @witasaweapon is a post-s3 fic that kicks off with another schneider relapse but takes it in an interesting alvareider direction. jo is really good at mixing fun with angst, i’m usually more of a fluff person but i enjoy the way she writes.

not an exclamation mark, but a colon. by @jicklet is some of my favorite smut ever and definitely peak alvareider. the voices and the tone are perfect and it all just makes sense. every time i think about writing smut for my otp i end up rereading this one instead because i love it.

would you want me if i want you? by @finehs this one is shorter than dani’s usual but since it was my prompt and i’m weak for kisses and tension, i’m partial to it. she was writing for and shipping alvareider long before i got here and i’m thrilled whenever she brings her fic back to the fandom.

with sorrows to impart by @fandammit is a slowburn alvareider epic that’s technically a WIP but ends well as it is. it dives into schneider’s family background and is just trope-filled shippy goodness. fun fact: lelanie wrote this before s3 but schneider’s father is still named lawrence. because she’s magic.

other faves:

phoenix rising by @hondagirll​ is a post-s3 slowburn alvareider that includes the whole family. steph only just finished it and it’s her first in the fandom, but if she writes more she’ll definitely be on my ‘always read’ list.

the time it takes by @sidras-tak​ is an alvareider soulmate au that was so good it inspired one of my own.

don’t be scared; it’s only love by @forcolorfulskies is an alvareider set after schneider’s relapse, and baby let’s take the long way home by philindas is an alvareider road trip fic. both are WIPs but i like their potential so far.

and these two, along with @finehs​‘s work, were my intro alvareider fics when i first arrived. i reread them a lot, they’re classics and my forever faves:

hold on tight they’ll muddle through by jesshelga is a seriously adorable and hot (sometimes literally) take on pen & schneider getting together.

in spite of ourselves by @carlytenney is a shorter, sexier alvareider hookup fic. this more than any others convinced me i wasn’t crazy for shipping them, back before i found my friends and wrote 10 million ways they could be canon.

thanks for asking :D have fun!!

#fic recs #odaat #alvareider #finehs #fandammit #hondagirll #jicklet #witasaweapon #replies #anons are love

[fandammit]

When will you be updating WSTI??? I’m DYING.

anon! i haven’t forgotten it, I’m sorry! the last update took a lot of brain power, so I decided to break for a few days. THEN i was gonna start back this weekend...but then my older sister had her baby early!! i’m flying out tomorrow night to spend time with her and my (first ever!!!!) niece, so depending on how hectic it is, I may have some time to work on it. basically, at the earliest...mid next week...at the latest...sometime during the first week of june. I promise to make it a long update though (it’ll be pretty angsty though fair warning!). 

thanks for sticking around and thanks for being patient!

#my fic: alvareider #alvareider #fic: with sorrows to impart #penelope x schneider #odaat #one day at a time #Anonymous

[jicklet]

“Schneider, hey.” She trails her fingertips across the curve of his cheek, which has the intended result of making him look back over at her… “I’m here with you, and I’m here because I do think that you’re important and I didn’t want you to go through this alone. So however he meant it, that’s true.” He stares at her intently, his bright blue eyes suddenly the color of the sea in a storm. The sound of the waves and the wind and the gulls drops out behind them completely as he flicks his gaze momentarily to her lips before he lets out on unsteady breath.

- "With sorrows to impart" by @fandammit

One of things I love most about this fic is it has such a strong feeling to it, and I wanted to try capturing that.

#it's sad and melancholy but has this intimacy to it #reposting because I think posting the fic link made it get blocked. -_- tumblr...... #alvareider #Penelope x Schneider #v posts things #you ever get the urge to do something totally self indulgent bc you just wanna see how it looks #also please don't take this as pressure to update just appreciation for what's already there bc it's lovely ♥ #odaat #hmm

[klaineharmony]

Unfinished fic snippet

So I was talking to @whatstheproblembaby last night, and I really wanted to be writing fic and writing angst, except I was up to my neck in correcting paper drafts. The angst fic I had in mind is still floating around in my head, and I may write it and I may not. But it occurred to me that I have pieces of a story that contains plenty of angst. This is in the same ‘verse as “We’ll Be There to Defend One Another,” but would be three or four novels down the line, if I ever get that far. This one is set during World War One, and at this point in the story, Jack, David, and Les are all enlisted and overseas, and Kath and Denton are in France as war correspondents. This particular scene is mostly about Sarah, and is pretty emotionally wrenching. Warning: there are oblique, period-appropriate mentions of abortion in this snippet. If that upsets you, I would recommend not reading.

@elozable, @livingchancy, @penzyroamin, @thelittleredheadedmusician, as my other loyal “Defend” readers, you might be interested in this as well.

Sarah swayed, gripping the chair back in front of her abruptly, and Esther started up from her chair in concern.

“Sarah? Whatever is the matter?” her mother said, and Sarah closed her eyes. She didn’t want to say it aloud, she didn’t, but there was no one left to tell except her mother, and she needed - she needed Jack (oh, God, she needed Jack), but he was across the ocean in a hell of mud-filled trenches and mortar fire, and she needed someone -

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, and felt the tears start to slide down her cheeks. “Oh, Mama, I’m pregnant.”

Her mother didn’t say anything at first, but Sarah felt her mother’s hands land on her shoulders, light as butterflies, felt her mother’s love wrap around her just from the one gentle touch.

“I - I have no idea what to feel,” Sarah confessed, still whispering. “I can’t shake the thought that this might be  - that this little one might be all I ever have left of Jack - that I’ll have to be mother and father both to Lizzie and Jacob and whoever this little one becomes - and I’m so much older now, Mama, and it frightens me so much. I haven’t felt like this since right after Lizzie was born. I don’t - I don’t want to leave them without either of their parents,” she choked, and with that her composure cracked, and she turned and sobbed in her mother’s arms.

“Sarah,” her mother murmured. “Oh, Sarah. My baby. My daughter.” Her mother rocked her gently, just letting her cry and stroking her hair, and while it couldn’t banish the ache in her heart and the fear that haunted her every day, it did give her comfort, in a way that she’d almost forgotten.

“I’d wondered what was upsetting you so, but I thought it might be better to let you come to me,” her mother said softly. “Sarah. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s - because now it’s real,” Sarah said, more sobs escaping from her. “Because now it’s real and I can’t keep hoping that I’m wrong, or hoping that I’m not, or hoping that I’ll wake up in a world where Jack is here, and not across an ocean getting shot at every godforsaken minute of every day,” she hissed, fury momentarily eclipsing her sorrow. “A world where my brothers are here to be uncles to my children, where Davey is here to take care of Zachary, where Katherine isn’t sleeping in mud and picking lice from her hair and carrying a gas mask and a revolver everywhere she goes. Where I’m not praying every day that no one comes to the door with a telegram. God, Mama,” she cried. “Who wants to bring a child into a world like this? Why does Yaweh do this to us?”

“Sarah,” her mother said again, and Sarah could hear the tears in her voice, could feel her mother’s tender hands trembling as they held her. “My child. You aren’t alone, my little girl. Your father and I are still right here with you, and we will keep helping you take care of our family - and we will love this little one just as much as we have loved all the others. If that’s what you want,” she added, and it took Sarah a moment to realize what her mother meant. She lifted her head, and her mother’s knowing eyes looked back at her.

“Do you know when, my daughter?” her mama asked carefully.

“It - it was the night before Jack left for overseas,” Sarah said, burying her face in her hands as she began to cry again. “It had to be. There were no signs before then. I’d been regular for a long time. I’d started to believe that I just couldn’t conceive again, it had been so long - almost hoped for it,” she admitted. “Not because I wouldn’t welcome another child, but because it’s so much riskier as one gets older. I know Jacob’s birth was easier, but I didn’t want to tempt fate. And now I’m pregnant in the middle of the worst war the world has ever seen,” she said, and instead of a sob, an almost hysterical laugh escaped her. “Wouldn’t that be terrible irony, dying in childbirth in the middle of a war?”

Her mother reached out and gripped her shoulders, hard. “Sarah! Look at me,” Esther commanded, and Sarah had just enough rationality left to respond to her mother’s voice. She raised her head and stared into her mother’s eyes. “Breathe, slowly.” She took a deep breath, and her mother breathed with her.

“That’s good, sweet one,” Esther said. “Keep going. Nice long breaths.”

Sarah kept going, and Esther kept breathing with her, until she could breathe normally without breaking into tears. Then she reached out and clutched at her mother, afraid that if she let go she would never find her way out of the darkness that seemed to have covered her very soul.

“Oh, Mama, what am I going to do?” she said softly.

“It’s early enough,” her mother answered, just as softly. “And sometimes - sometimes another child, another birth, is too much, for any number of reasons. I will help you, Sarah, if that’s what you think is best - and I will never tell another soul,” her mother promised.  

Sarah stayed in her mother’s arms a long time, thinking, and Esther simply waited and held her tightly. Eventually, Sarah found a kind of peace in her own heartbeat, in her mother’s, in the blessed quiet of their home (and only now did she realize that her head hadn’t been quiet for weeks), and she was able to think of herself, and of Jack, and of the life inside her, without any of the searing pain that had been her constant companion of late.    

“I can’t,” she finally breathed. “If I knew - if I knew for certain it was just going to be me, I would. I couldn’t do this again, if I knew I was going to be alone. But I don’t know that, and I can’t know it, no matter how much my heart fears. And if Jack - when Jack comes home,” she amended, trying to find some of the old conviction that had served her so well, through so many battles, “he deserves to know this child. To love this child. We both do.”

Esther nodded, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek. “All right, then, sweeting,” she said tenderly. “But we are going to do some things differently for you, from now on. I am going to see if Charlie and Elsa will come stay with us for a while. It will do you good to have other friends, other company here with you. We have plenty of space for the two of them and their children, and having more hands can only be a good thing. And you need to rest, Sarah - and eat,” her mother said sternly. “You’re far too thin, even if you are only eight weeks.”

My Dearest Katherine,

I know I am not your most constant correspondent, and I hope you know that it is not because I lack the desire to write, to let you hear from home. It is harder for my hand to hold a pen than it used to be. Please forgive your Mama Jacobs the difficulties of aging.

I wish I had happier news to impart to you in this letter. I write with a request that will probably pain you, but that I hope you will consider, and with news that only has the potential to be happy.

I should start from the beginning. Since Jack and David and Les left to go overseas - and I thank the Lord above that they were on a ship that left from the city here, since it meant we could see them even briefly - Sarah has not been the same. She has been - almost mechanical, is the only word I can think to use. She barely eats; she takes care of the children, but with none of her usual joy; she still performs her labor organizing duties, but they exhaust her, instead of energizing her as they used to. Having all three of my boys leave has left my heart sore and aching, despite my immense pride in them, but it seems to have numbed Sarah in a way that alarms me terribly.

Then, this evening, she broke down in my arms and confessed that she is with child.

I have never been so concerned for her, Katherine. She was despairing and almost hysterical by turns, and at one point I was afraid I was going to have to slap her back into sensibility. My sweet girl, who has always had a such a quiet inner strength, seems to be drifting in a mental storm, and I fear for both her and the child, if she cannot find an anchor. You know she has always tried to hold the world together, while you and Davey and Jack tried to change it - and now I am afraid that with all of you gone, her world is crumbling.

She has not confided in anyone but me, and I ask you to please keep that confidence. I am still not certain that she will carry the child to term, even if I can get her into an easier frame of mind.

Could you, would you, consider coming home, if only for a little while? Surely the paper would grant you the leave, after all the work you have done in the past two years. And the war shows no signs of ending, Yaweh have mercy; there will be plenty for your pen once you go back.

In the meantime, I am going to ask Charlie and Elsa and their children to move in here with us; it will save them some expense, and I hope cheer Sarah, to have some friends with her and help her think of things outside this horrible war.

Katherine, my darling girl. If you can come home, if there is even the smallest chance that you can get leave to be with us for a little while, please consider it. For Sarah’s sake, if not for mine. You know I would not ask except in the most serious circumstances.

Always, with so much love,

Your Mama Jacobs

Katherine read Esther’s letter in the middle of a trench full of mud in . . . . She had been shocked to see Mama Jacobs’ letter come with the mail, as it had been a long time since she had had a note from her mother-in-law. A high whine of panic started up in her brain as she went through the paragraphs, and she could have sworn her heart paused in its beating. Not Sarah, not Sarah, oh, God, please.

Denton was watching her narrowly, and she knew that the blood must have drained from her face, even if he couldn’t yet see the tears in her eyes.

“Kath. Is it bad news?” he asked quietly, and she once again gave thanks for the calm steadiness that seemed to carry Denton through the worst and most brutal situations.

She nodded, trying to get her lips to work. “It’s - it’s Sarah,” she managed. “She’s not well. I - oh, here,” she said in frustration, thrusting the letter at him and brushing tears from her eyes. “It’s not as if you aren’t family, Bryan, and after everything we’ve seen, nothing in here can possibly shock you. I know this is safe with you.”

Denton read, his face still and solemn, while Katherine allowed herself the luxury of just a few tears and then wrestled herself back under control. She was mostly calm again when Denton looked up and handed the letter back to her.

“I’m so sorry to hear this, Kath,” he said gently. “Sarah’s a good woman and a good friend, and it sounds like she’s had almost too much to bear these past few months. ‘Holding the world together’ - that’s maybe the best description I’ve ever read of the difference between Sarah and the rest of you. Of course you should go home. It will do her a world of good to see you.”  

Katherine was perusing the letter again, doing math in her head and trying to read between the lines. She knew roughly when Jack and Davey and Les had left for the front, thanks to the date of Sarah’s last letter. “Mama Jacobs wrote this almost a month ago,” she murmured. “If Sarah - if Sarah has carried the child this long, she’ll be past the most dangerous time. But that doesn’t mean that something still couldn’t go wrong, if it hasn’t already.” She looked up. “But I would feel terrible leaving you here, boss,” she said soberly, despite the nickname. “What about our teamwork? I can’t just abandon you.”

“Katherine, I’ll be fine,” Denton reassured her. “Once we get back to Paris, I’ll work from The Sun’s office there for a few months. One of the clerks can do my transcribing for me. It won’t be the same as having you do it, but it will be good enough. And it will give me a break from being out here that my body sorely needs. Go home. See your Zach. Take care of Sarah. Esther is right; there will be plenty still to write about, if you decide to come back. I don’t see this war being over for at least another year.”

“Oh, Denton,” Katherine breathed. “So long?”

Denton nodded grimly. “I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am. Go home, Kath. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“All right,” Katherine agreed finally. She was worried about leaving Denton to work alone, but her heart was crying out for home, now, every protective instinct she had reaching toward Sarah and the little life she carried.

“Denton, I know the odds are astronomical, but - if you run into any of the boys, don’t tell them,” Kath said urgently. “It’s for Sarah to tell, and it will only make them worry, when they can’t do a thing.”

“I wouldn’t betray her confidence, any more than I would yours,” he said soberly. “Whatever happens, she deserves to break the news to Jack and David and Les in whatever way she feels is best. But I’ll be praying for her, Kath, and for the little one.”

Katherine leaned over and kissed his cheek, her eyes full again. “Thanks, boss,” she said, giving him a wobbly smile.

Denton nodded, giving her a warm smile of his own, and then his brisk, business-like demeanor returned. “Now, let’s get the hell out of this damn trench and find a ride back toward Paris.”

#Newsies #fic #Klaineharmony writes #WIP #unifinished #Over the Wall

[marauder--harder]

(I'm going to do this in separate messages sorry) Ok so I have a problem and idk what to do. So I like this guy who is one of my friends and my friend Nicole kept bugging me to tell him so I gave up and told her that she could tell him if she pleased but to do it quietly and privately with him. But she FREAKING SCREAMED in the packed hallway "(my name) LIKES YOU (his name) SHE LIKES YOU" and afterwards she told him that he should ask me out (which he obviously refused)

PART 2 (the separate story thing) and I had to track down one of his friends who refused to give me his number (I'm kinda a troll in school so ppl don't want me to mess with them on texts(which I don't do btw)) and I got my friend to text the same person and she immediately got his number so I had to explain that yeah, i like him, but I don't want to date and i just want to be friends (which he only responded with 'ok' everytime i said something) and now we haven't been talking for a while now..

PART 3 (sorry) so we barely talk anymore and only do so when I put paper in his hood ( it's a thing that I always have been doing with him to mess with him) and I've known this guy since I was 5, started liking him when I was 7 and now I'm 13, and I think our friendship is ruined and my friends say whenever I do talk to him I'm clearly nervous and "visibly shaken" and I think letting Nicole tell him was a big mistake bc I don't know how this'll ever blow over - it's been months

I’m assuming that this was the end of the thread as I didn’t get anything past it and I waited for a bit. Sorry if it wasn’t, my bad. This is going to be a long post so like, hit that keep reading for the full message and if you are not interested, feel free to never hit the link. I promise, I’ll never even know. 

As for your dilemma, it seems like you have a serious case of the awkwards. Which is fine! Lots of people are diagnosed with it, even me. It is something you definitely can manage and make it seem like you are even cured! (or possibly even be cured! only time will tell!) It seems to me like you need to just tell the guy you like, in person, that you don’t want to go anywhere with your case of the mushy gushy feelings (trust me, that is the scientific term here) and you still want to be friends. It seems like you would have enough history where y’all could definitely get past it. 

But two things stood out to me more in your messages than anything else. So, in my years and years of absolute wisdom (sarcasm heavily implied here) I am going to impart two of the biggest pieces of advice that I have learned as I’ve grown. Take it as you will. 

1. Don’t put yourself down.

Everyone has their insecurities and everyone has self-confidence issues. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t have them, because in my experience it isn’t that simple and quite frankly not possible to not have insecurities and love every part of yourself. (Note: this is not to say that you can’t love yourself or that it is impossible to be confident. It definitely is but I think that self image is not as linear as most people attempt to make it; but I digress.) 

Thus, no self-deprecating comments. No ‘which he obviously refused’ here, missy (assuming u a girl. if not, my apologies, my mans). Even if you think that you aren’t good enough, (to which, I am not saying you aren’t) putting yourself down will only do worse for yourself in the long run. So try to shy away from comments that put yourself down and try to twist it to have a different spin. 

It isn’t an easy task. It is a task that is time consuming and something you have to work at. A lot. But I found that when I was your age, I constantly put myself down and I think that it not only hindered how I saw me but how others saw me too. Ya feel?

2. Try not to blame others. 

I’m not saying this lightly. I am well aware that some things are other people’s fault and we can’t control everything so this is something that is a lot more difficult to find the line to tread. It will come with age and practice and maturity. Do not beat yourself up for any of it (as I did when I was about your age too, but that is yet another digression). 

I find that blaming others usually only fosters resentment and anger towards that person and it doesn’t do much at solving the problem at hand. And your problem can be solved, if you talk to the people involved in person. So much can get lost in a text, trust me I have many a people to back me up on that. 

I do wish you the best in this, hon and try not to sweat it too much. If things don’t work out (and they might not, which is a shitty piece of advice that I don’t want to tell just as much as you probably don’t want to hear but there’s a possibility that the guy you like also has a case of the awkwards and it just no longer meshes the way it once did) feel free to drown your sorrows of a lost friend/crush in the biggest bowl of ice cream you can find and read some fluffy (or angsty if you are me and love to hurt yourself worse) fics. Do know that it is just one person and as much as it sucks, all of your eggs are not laid in his basket (wow, that was a horrible expression to use and my 12 year old self is giggling like a child). 

You are more than any friendship and more than any embarrassing thing that may happen in your life. Be open and honest and talk to people in a clear way that avoids playing all these round about games that so many in the younger generations (mine included) tend to play. Lay down the facts and let him make the choice to either look past it or walk away. 

But you deserve that straight answer from him. 

Good luck and much love, xoxo.