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#i feel like a machine constantly running on empty and its exhausting
heartofspells · 2 years
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At the Healing Edge of Broken - Chapter Seventeen - Sneak Peek
He drops his head and moves around the mostly secluded car park to his bike, slinging his leg over it, the machine roaring to life beneath him. The vibration of the engine usually has an almost calming effect on him, but it doesn't sink in today, not now. Sirius' body shudders, his hands shake, clenching around the handlebars as he tries to hold himself together enough to just drive.
Sirius lifts the bike up straight, pulls his legs up, and then he's lurching forward, tires squealing a little in his haste to escape. He's halfway across the sprawling asphalt lot when he suddenly stops again, the motorbike rolling to a halt between two long rows of empty cars on either side of him. Sirius drops his feet to the ground, holding himself upright as he stares around.
Where does he go? His first thought is home, James and Lily and Harry. He sees their welcoming, concerned, loving faces in his mind and Sirius closes his eyes as they fill him up. But then they're morphing, disappointment taking away the warmth in their expressions, exasperation, exhaustion from constantly having to deal with all Sirius' little problems on an always spinning, circling basis, one barely ending and evaporating before another forms in its place.
When is he going to stop being such a burden to everyone he cares about? When is he going to stop bringing horror after horror down upon their heads? The thought of running back to his friends, his family, with this same festering, endless barrage of shite makes him feel violently ill, saliva gathering and pooling in his mouth like stinging acid. Sirius can't keep doing this, this relentless cycle of crushing despair, of brokenness that never goes away or heals at all.
Almost everything can be healed, Sirius.
He chokes, bending at his middle, collapsing over the handlebars, his spine curving from the weight of it all, eyes squeezing closed as he feels himself splitting down the center. How? he wants to scream at someone, everyone, one person.
Sirius sucks in a sharp, gasping breath, his chest, his entire body shuddering with it. He straightens, hands gripping the bars, and then he lurches forward again, wind whipping at his hair, come loose from the knot that had once been formed. Sirius goes to the only place he can think of in his nearly disintegrating mind. He goes home.
Based on the responses I got after the last chapter, you are all going to hate me with this one. But that’s okay. I am prepared. 
At the Healing Edge of Broken
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frecklydork · 2 years
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I tried again this week to reduce my retail hours to the way that they need to be (shifts being 7 hours max) but they scheduled me to have three 12 hour shifts in the next two weeks. Three!!! Twelve hour fucking shifts!!! To just stand there and do one meaningless task the entire time, jesus fuck I’m not going through with that. they have zero reasons to reject my availability when I’ve done everything right. they’re just. such bitter people.
So. Wish me luck, I’m gonna talk to them abt it Friday. again. and see what happens 😓
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lavendersuh · 3 years
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jaemin x reader | 70′s roller rink au | fluff | 2.8k words 
part of @nct-writers neo’clock event! 
warnings: none
summary: its the era of disco balls and groovy tunes, and you love working at your local roller skating rink. if only na jaemin wasn’t there to annoy you all the time.
note: hi friends!! i recently started roller skating this summer and it’s been so fun!! i finally was able to go to a roller rink (i masked up i promise!) but i wrote this beforehand while i was yearning to go haha. it was so fun and skating makes me so happy. i don’t think i’ve seen many roller skating aus so i hope you all enjoy!!
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“Hey! Will you stop going the wrong way? I have kids learning to skate and you’re getting in their way!” 
You huff out a heavy breath from your exercise. It’s always tiring to teach young kids to roller skate, but you enjoy the smiles it brought to their faces. One day soon they would be able to easily join the adults that waltzed across the shiny wooden floors. 
Your job at the local roller rink is perfect. You love the smoky atmosphere and the big disco ball. You love hearing the latest groovy songs play over the speakers. You love being able to zoom around in your favorite bell bottom jeans and best pair of skates. 
What you don’t enjoy is annoying boys that obnoxiously skate around the rink. 
You look back at the boy in question. It isNa Jaemin, of course. The boy has been the bane of your existence since he came to the rink for the first time a little over two weeks ago. 
Na Jaemin, with his blonde hair and constant grin, always so cocksure about everything. You had to admit, he’s an incredible skater, but you could never admit that to him. 
Especially when he is doing everything in his power to annoy you at the present moment.
“Are you even qualified to teach people how to skate?” he asks, with narrow eyes, “Can you even go backwards?”
You know he’s just teasing, just trying to get a rise out of you, and you fall so easily into his trap every time.
“Of course I can go backwards Jaemin! That’s not what I’m teaching right now though!” you reply. 
“Well then, I can do a demonstration!” 
“Jaemin, no.”
“Jaemin, yes.”
You let out a sigh as you watch him show off in front of the kids. They were a nice little bunch, but they were easily distracted, especially when the distraction was putting on such a show. 
Once again, you knew, it would be a long night.
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Not even a week later, you encounter the nuisance again. Tonight, someone that usually works the food counter called off, meaning you’re stuck making hot dogs and grabbing bottles of cola for a bunch of little kids and teenagers. It wasn’t the worst job, but it certainly wasn’t your favorite. 
Especially since you can’t just skate away when Jaemin comes around to annoy you.
You spot him skating around the rink with a few of his buddies, doing laps around the younger kids. You can’t help but roll your eyes. 
The last you recalled, Jaemin never ordered much from the food counter when he was at the rink, so you assume he won’t bother you tonight. You couldn’t be more wrong.
You were back behind the pretzel machine when someone came up to the counter, ringing the bell to get your attention.
“I’ll be right there!” you call out, “What can I get for you?”
“A second of your time perhaps?”
You whip your head around to see Jaemin standing at the counter, a cheesy smile across his face. His hair is ruffled and wild, and he seems to be breathing a bit heavy from the exercise he was just doing.
You huff as you walk over to him, “Jaem, if you’re just going to annoy me, go away. Do you actually want any food?” 
He doesn’t miss the small nickname that crosses your lips, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it. As always, he is on a mission. 
“I wanted to show you my new skates!” he says, moving backwards a bit to show you the new boots, “Nice wheels, right?”
You can’t help the snort of amusement that comes out. The skates are bright yellow, with orange wheels and laces. They certainly will stand out under the glow of the neon lights and the disco ball over the wooden rink.
He starts moonwalking around in front of you, and you can’t help but marvel with a smile of your own at the skates and the silly boy in front of you. He must catch you staring, because he breaks you out of your trance by coming closer.
He says , “I wonder how fast I’ll be able to go in them.”
He bounds off towards the rink, zipping around the people on his new wheels. He looks back over to see if you are watching, causing a triumphant grin to grace his face when he realizes he still has your attention. 
The only problem is, with his eyes on you instead of where he’s going, he nearly runs into an older lady, and quickly diverts his course to keep from crashing into her. His new skates take him directly towards the wall, sending him on a collision course with concrete. 
His fall is anything but graceful, as his friends laugh at him. You also let out a chuckle of your own at the silly boy who will do anything for even an ounce of attention.
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It is once again the end of a long day, and the quiet of the rink surrounds you. The music is turned off, and you’re the last one here, finishing up some cleaning before you finally go home. 
You always loved being the last one at the rink. The roller rink was constantly alive with lots of people, lots of sounds, lots of activity. It was calming to be the only one, skating around the rink with a broom to wipe down the surface. 
As you are making your way around the outside of the rink one last time, you hear a loud noise near the entrance to the building. You can’t help but grip the broom a little tighter, before you see Jaemin come through the door.
He glides over to the opening of the rink, his boombox in his hand. You do nothing but stare as he sets it up on the ground, pressing play before starting to skate. Finally he acknowledges your presence with a casual wave, like he isn’t here after hours or anything.
“What do you think you are doing?” you ask. “The rink closed ten minutes ago, and aren’t you tired? You were here all night.”
You couldn’t ignore the slip up you made, realizing you let it slip that you were aware of his presence all night. You didn’t need him thinking you were looking at him a lot, because you weren’t. Ever. 
“I like skating to my own tunes.” he says, as nonchalant as ever. 
He apparently doesn’t see a problem with the way things are unfolding, and you let out a huff. 
“Oh my god, I’m trying to clean the floor! Can’t you just come back tomorrow?”
“Aw, so eager to see me again?” he smiles as he makes his way to you, “Anyways, I can help!”
He takes your broom, skating around while casually sweeping. You might not have brand new skates like him, but you easily catch up to him, snatching it back.
Why was he even here? Just like you had pointed out, he had been here all night. What was keeping him from going home like the rest of the crowd?
“Go, Jaemin!” you exclaim out of annoyance, “And take your annoying boombox with you!”
His face morphs into a pout at this, “You turned off the music, what was I supposed to do?” 
“Go home?”
You glide over to the portable machine producing the loud disco music, turning off the switch. You manage to pick it up, shoving the boombox towards Jaemin.
“Jaemin, I’m begging you, go home! I can’t clean if you are still here, and I want to go home, too.”
He must see the exhausted look in your eye behind all of your annoyance, because he rolls over to you.
Jaemin grabs his boombox again, “Am I too much of a distraction if I sit on the bench?”
He gestures to the bench just outside of the rink, where little kids often tied their laces. For some reason, he just doesn’t want to leave, so you nod your head. 
He sits down, and turns on his boombox again while doing so. He turns the volume down lower, and looks out at you, jokingly saluting you in a promise to not be bothersome. 
You roll your eyes, finally resuming your cleaning. 
As you clean, Jaemin talks aimlessly. He talks about his classes at the local university next fall, and about how he just can’t figure out how to land a specific jump on his skates. 
While you were reluctant to let him stay, his presence ends up being really nice. His voice is soft as it fills the empty building, and as you both walk out to your cars after locking up, you are grateful to have someone by your side. 
It feels a little weird that you are having nice thoughts about the boy who is constantly a pain in your side, but you ignore the slight upbeat in your heart rate when he bids you goodnight.
You throw him a smile as you get into your car, “Goodnight, Jaem.”
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It is once again a slow Tuesday night, and you are almost about ready to fall asleep at the admissions counter. Every so often you are assigned a shift in the ticket lobby, which you don’t mind typically. On a weekend day, you would be busy taking care of admissions for people as they came and went.
The rink is not busy today. 
And you’re about to doze off. 
You sigh. The one day you don’t have a book or a newspaper or any homework to do. 
You find yourself brushing off invisible dust from your new vest and turtleneck outfit when you hear the door chime, signaling a new customer. You look up from your seat.
Of course, it is Na Jaemin.
“Hey, are you stuck out here today?” he asks, his skate laces tied together to rest over his left shoulder.
“Yeah, it's so boring tonight, kinda empty too, but at least that means you won’t plow into a sixth grader again.” you smile.
“That was one time!” he says, also grinning at the memory.
He pulls out some money for admission and you hand him the paper wristband to show he paid and brought his own skates. Just as he is about to walk through the door to get to the rink, he pauses.
“Hey, uh, what’s your favorite song to skate to?” 
“Huh?”
“Yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck. He tries to explain his reasoning, “Maybe if I play it on my boombox, you won’t make me turn it off.”
You let out a chuckle, “I’ll still probably make you turn it off.”
“Y/N, can you please just answer the question?” Jaemin seems serious now.
And while you are taken aback by the change from his normally aloof demeanor, you clear your throat, “Okay, umm, I really love that new movie Grease, right now. Have you seen it? There’s this one song that’s kinda slow, ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You,’ and it’s really pretty and fun to just skate around the rink to.”
You flush out of embarrassment for the cheesy song choice, but Jaemin nods with a smile. You ignore your traitorous heart reminding you that you had definitely played your Grease soundtrack cassette tape a few too many times since meeting Jaemin. There was definitely no correlation. 
“That song is nice.” he says, before turning away and heading into the rink, leaving you alone at the ticket counter once again. 
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A few days later you once again are stuck at the ticket counter. And finally, your shift is over. The ticket counter was nice every once in a while, but you feel tired of standing there, especially more than once in a week. You much preferred the satisfying exhaustion that came from being on wheels for your entire shift. 
The staff has mostly gone home, even your boss who just needed to lock up the cash office. You had offered to lock up the building after he left, since you felt like skating for a bit before going home. 
There is something about skating on the wooden floor when no one else is around. It is entirely quiet, with the music turned off, just the sound of your wheels spinning., And peaceful, with the air clear of cigarette smoke and loud screams of children playing. It was calming.
Your calm is interrupted by soft music coming from near the entrance. It’s only when you see Jaemin’s face and his stupidly large boombox that you realize what song it is. 
Your favorite song.
You can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across your face as he skates over, leaving the boombox on the ledge of the rink wall, coming over to you as ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You,’ echoes throughout the building.
He’s mouthing the lyrics as he skates to you, his eyes bright with mischief and something else that you can’t quite place. 
“Hey,” he says once he’s finally in front of you, “Can I join? It seemed a little quiet in here.”
For some reason, this flusters you, as you look at his ruffled hair and jean jacket. “Uh, yeah sure.”
With your approval, he begins skating, beckoning you to follow him. The song ends, but starts up again, and you give Jaemin a questioning look.
“I made a mixtape of this song on loop a couple of times,” he says, running a hand through his hair leisurely, like that’s the most normal thing in the world for someone to do. “It’s nice right?”
It makes you smile regardless. The two of you skate around for a bit, simply going around the rink as you would if lots of people were there. It’s comfortable, you realize, with just the two of you all alone. 
Finally on the third loop of the song, Jaemin comes a little closer, and grabs your hand quickly, as if unsure that he is able to do that. You squeeze his hand in reassurance.
It’s strange, wherever this night is going, but you can’t remember a time that you seemed happier to be at the rink. 
“I recall you mentioning you can skate backwards, yes?” Jaemin asks, after a few moments.
“Yes, of course—” you begin, but stop talking when he spins you to skate backwards in front of him, causing you to let out a slight squeal at the change.
It’s almost like dancing in a way, as he pushes the two of you forward around the rink and you impulsively grip his shoulders to make sure you can keep your balance. 
Eventually, the two of you slow down, and he leads a few spins, which sends laughter through the air and chills down your spine. It's hard to believe just a few weeks ago this boy was the most annoying pain in your side. 
The boombox finally goes quiet after its few repeats of the song, and the building is plunged into silence again, as you stand in front of Jaemin with a small smile and a sweaty complexion. 
The neon lights glow around you and Jaemin’s face turns serious. He readjusts his grip on your waist, sliding ever so slightly closer to you. 
“I’m sorry I was an asshole at the beginning.” he says, just above a whisper to be heard by only you, “I didn’t know how else to get your attention. Finally I changed the plan to this, and I think it’s working out better.”
“The plan?” you ask, your brain cloudy from his proximity.
He has the nerve to look bashful, making his face even more cuter, “I’ve, uh, kinda liked you for a while, and I needed a plan to tell you and see if you felt the same.” 
You smile, moving your left hand from his shoulder to his jawline, stroking his cheeky tenderly. Every piece of him that you touch leaves a burning feeling within your heart, and you finally are thinking you know how to fix it.
With a bold move like when he picked up your hand, you touch your lips to his, letting them sit there for a moment. It’s a chaste kiss, leaving Jaemin to decide what to do next.
He deepens the kiss, smiling as he fully wraps his arms around you and keeps you from sliding away by using his toe stops. 
The disco ball overhead isn’t turning anymore, and the music that typically fills the roller rink isn’t playing, but you’ve never found the rink more spectacular in your life. It’s not the atmosphere of the rink that you love, but the people within.
And right now, the person in front of you is your favorite.
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hellowkatey · 3 years
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angstpril day 1: "you have to let me go"
the five times Obi-Wan hears these words, and the one time he says them
1-Satine // 2-Qui-Gon // 3-Satine // 4-Ahsoka // 5-Anakin // +1-Luke
1
Her touch is light. A few fingers lazily intertwined with his as they sit beside one another. Knees knocking together with every restless leg shake… or perhaps, a purposeful movement. Her touch is light because Qui-Gon is in the next room, and his footsteps are virtually silent to the ear when he wants them to be-- and around the two of them it's like he's constantly padding on the tips of his toes just to raise Obi-Wan's blood pressure.
Her touch is also light because it's the last moments they have together. Satine and him seem to have different philosophies when it comes to saying goodbye. She likes to distance herself. Satine would sooner put galaxies between them and whisper her final words through a commlink than have a proper farewell. She says it's because she hates when people see her cry, so it's easier this way. While Obi-Wan doesn't like seeing her cry, he can't deny that it's when tears fall from her eyes that her eyes are bluer than the kyber crystal of his lightsaber. Breathtaking. But Obi-Wan also knows that if she starts to cry there is a fair chance he will follow close behind, which is why he lets these light touches be the thing he is etching his memory with.
If he had the choice, Satine would be wrapped in his arms, her body as close to him as they can possibly get. For as long as they can manage. He would memorize the way her hair smells, the places where their bodies fit perfectly together, and the map of her veins he likes to trace with his fingers. Given the chance, he would kiss her, kiss her the way he wished their first kiss had gone, and the way he hopes she remembers when they are worlds apart.
Her light touch twitches from its spot. Fingers separate, and he's left with nothing. Were they in the presence of others, he might accept this as their final touch, but the room is empty and Obi-Wan isn't satisfied with this goodbye. He reaches out, grabbing her hand as she stands, knowing full well she has every intention of walking out of here and not looking back.
"Please," he says. "What if I leave the--"
"You have to let me go," she says. Satine won't let him finish that sentence. Just like he would never let her finish her own version. He holds her hand for a second longer and then decides to indulge one last time.
A kiss on the back of her hand. The brush of his lips as light as her touch on his fingers, and then he lets her go.
2
His skin is cold. How can it be so icy already? Only seconds after he fell-- or so it feels-- and Qui-Gon's skin is clammy and cold. Obi-Wan is panicking. He has been trained not to panic in every situation imaginable but somehow Qui-Gon failed to instruct him what to do if he finds himself holding his dying master in his arms.
"It's… It's too late," Qui-Gon says in a tone that is much too weak for Obi-Wan to perceive as being real. Tears spring up in his eyes and drop onto Qui-Gon's chest in unceremonious splatters. It feels so un-Jedi-like to cry, but he has lost the will to care about that.
"No," the padawan protests. He shakes his head like a youngling,
"Obi-Wan," his master says. While he sees his lips moving, he is suddenly aware of Qui-Gon's voice within his head, speaking directly into their Force bond. A message only for him to hear.
"You have to let me go."
He looks at him with horror. "The medics… they will be here momentarily just hold--"
"You have to let me go, padawan. My time is over."
Even Obi-Wan feels it now. The Force wrapping around his master like a warm blanket. His skin is still cold with Obi-Wan runs his fingers along Qui-Gon's cheek, but his spirit is ablaze.
"Yes, Master."
Obi-Wan promises many things in those final moments, but the hardest comes when Qui-Gon leans back into his leg, his weight releasing and his last breath coming out like a soft gasp of relief.
3
While every other goodbye Satine has ever given has been curt and distant, leaving Obi-Wan wishing there were more, nothing prepared him for the goodbye he thought he wanted.
She lays in his lap. His arms wrapped around her, her body pressed into his chest as close as she can possibly get. Satine looks exactly as his memory stored. Golden hair he has to brush out of her smooth face, cheeks red and cheekbones high. Her hand is slipped into his and she's squeezing it hard-- were her veins not slowly releasing their content of blood he might be able to trace them with his finger like he used to when they'd lazily lay together watching the clouds overhead.
Satine's blue eyes are as vibrant as the kyber crystal that called to him as she tells him that she loves him. That she always has.
And when her hand cradles his face, a touch as light as all the rest, he is thrust back into reality. Somehow the faint touches and distant goodbyes always felt temporary. He would always see her again whether in a few months or years or decades. But somehow she is right here and already gone-- the way Satine always liked to say goodbye, especially when Obi-Wan was nowhere near ready to say it himself.
You have to let me go, she mouths to him as her eyes flutter closed. Because somehow she knows that making those her final words aloud to him would crush him in every way. When her hand falls limp at her side, he catches it.
A kiss on the back of her hand. The brush of his lips as light as her touch used to be, and though he feels like his entire world is crumbling around him, he lets her go.
4
He catches Ahsoka outside the Temple. A few tears fall from her eyes, but even as she allows him to walk next to her, she says nothing. Her shields are up. Tight. And when he looks at her he can see the dark circles under her eyes and the slouch of her shoulders. She's exhausted. Physically and mentally.
"Ahsoka," Obi-Wan stops to say when they turn the corner and he is confident they are alone. She stops but doesn't look him in the eye. "I am so sorry."
"Did you…"
"No," he says. He knows what she's going to ask, and it breaks his heart she would ever think he would. "Not for a second. I tried--"
"But it wasn't enough, I guess."
She finally looks at him. While anger, frustration, or even sadness would be expected of her, Obi-Wan is unsettled to see none of that. Rather, he sees resignation. Content. The determination that he knows all too well. His chest swells with guilt. He should have done more.
"The council will let you return," Obi-Wan says, the hope in his voice betraying him. "Even if you've already said no if you change your mind they will-- They must. They--"
"Abandoned me. The council abandoned me. Didn't believe in me. Are they even sorry?"
"The council… isn't always right."
"Master Kenobi, you're talking as though you are separate from the council."
A deep cut. He nods through the bitterness that he deserves.
"Ahsoka, whether you decide to return or not I just hope you know I tried. And I am sorry I didn't push even harder."
She nods. It isn't forgiveness but forgiveness is not what he is looking for. Just for her to listen.
"I understand. And I appreciate you coming after me. But you have to let me go."
So Obi-Wan stops. Immediately, and she almost looks shocked when he does, but she keeps on walking through the stutter-step of surprise. Her eyes linger on him for a moment long, and then her mouth that has been so set on remaining neutral flickers into a sad frown. Obi-Wan doesn't have to see her sadness for long, for his grand-padawan is as strong in will as she is in battle and she looks forward to her path unknown. Ahsoka doesn’t look back, and he doesn't expect her to.
He didn't listen to her once, and he won't make that mistake again.
5
Ten years since they battled on Mustafar, and still, standing in front of the man that was once his padawan, brother, and friend, has not gotten easier. He is more machine than man now. A glistening sculpture with a mangled interior he knows too well. The strangest part of it all is feeling his signature in the Force. Though he looks like Vader and sounds like an asthmatic bantha, and nothing about him is remotely reminiscent of Anakin Skywalker, the Force still registers his presence as a person Obi-Wan knows well.
"I always wonder if you are still in there, my friend," Obi-Wan says. His saber is already drawn, ready for a redo of the battle he thinks about on a daily basis. With any hope, he can right the wrongs he made a decade ago.
"You have to let Anakin Skywalker go," the Sith says, the annoyance in his voice palpable even through the respirator. "He died on Mustafar, where you killed him."
"It's funny, I remember that going differently. I remember Vader being the one who silenced my brother and took advantage of his power."
"Then this shall be a fight for who writes history."
Vader is the first to lunge, but Obi-Wan is ready. He never forgot the sound their lightsabers made clashing together as enemies ten years ago, and today it is all the same.
+1
The Force is singing at a time when Obi-Wan would least expect the Force to have any sort of positive opinion. How this situation can yield any good is far beyond the old man, but he has learned over the years there is no point in arguing with the will of the Force.
Vader is relentless. Since their last battle he has only grown stronger, and once he learns of Luke-- who is conveniently also present in this space station of destruction-- his lust for power will swell with the idea of having his son at his side. Luke is strong, kind, and well-balanced for as untrained as he is. Obi-Wan senses greatness from the boy, but all that will fail if he allows Vader to win.
So he seeks him out. Battles him yet again in a test of wits and swordsmanship. Nineteen years on Tatooine has made Obi-Wan rusty in some senses, but there is one thing he can count on.
Whether Vader admits it or not, Anakin is in there. He can see it in the way he duels, the way the wheels turn in his head and he approaches battles. Anakin was always creative and quick, using his environment as well as his lightsaber to attack from all sides. Vader is the same fighter behind that sword. While he may not be as limber in his cyborg suit, there is a part of him that is still Anakin. If that is the case, then the Force is singing because the time has finally come.
Are you sure? He asks the Force. Though it doesn't reply in Galactic Basic, as would be most convenient, it does wrap around him like a warm blanket. Obi-Wan can feel the Force that flows within him go ablaze, and the feeling is a familiar one.
Obi-Wan looks through the open blast doors as Luke runs in, his mouth open in awe and eyes filled with worry. He looks at Vader, too enthralled in the fight to pay any attention to the importance of the person just a handful of meters away. And the old Jedi Master smiles.
Vader staggers. Obi-Wan can practically see Anakin behind the mask doing a double-take. Wondering what in the world he could be thinking to be losing their duel and grinning at him.
Obi-Wan raises his lightsaber. I'll see you soon, Master, he says into the Force, and as Vader's swings through the air, he hears Luke cry out in protest, and then nothing at all.
"No!" Luke yells, immediately regretting his outburst when five stormtroopers take notice of their position and start firing. He can see Ben's cloak in a heap on the ground in front of the murderous monster that just cut through him, and out of desperation to save Old Ben, he starts firing back at the troopers.
Han and Leia are yelling at him to get on the Millennium Falcon, but he has already downed one trooper, and he can get the rest! He can get the rest and defeat Vader and--
"Luke," a voice says. His head turns by instinct, but it isn't a voice speaking to him aloud, nor is it Han or Leia's voice. "You have to let me go."
"Ben? Ben are you--"
"Go, Luke. All will be revealed in time."
Luke stands for a moment in a daze until Han screaming at him to blast the door pulls him out of the trance. He does as he's told, and as Vader marches toward him the blast doors slam shut in his face, separating him from the monster that killed Ben.
"Run, Luke, run." Ben's voice rings in his head. He doesn't understand it, but he listens.
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disgruntledspacedad · 3 years
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in defense of Din’s subdued reaction to losing the kid...
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gif by @quantam-widow
I know we were all thinking it. We got a 2 second reaction shot to the destruction of the Razor Crest (may she forever rest in peace), but then, Grogu gets taken, and... nothing?
What the fuck, Din? we all protest. That’s your baby on that ship! Don’t you care? Scream, curse, kick a rock, cry, make a fist, something!!
I will acknowledge that so far, the show has been excellent with giving us emotional payoff, am I right? I mean, just today we got Din laughing, twice. Twice in a row. I honestly never thought we’d see that. There have been so many excellent, precious soft!Din moments this season, and they all feel deliciously earned.
So, from a meta POV, I guess I’m saying that I have faith in the writers to get it right, and in Pedro to deliver. Duh.
In universe, though, I think it’s fair to point out the obvious - that Din is a pretty reserved guy. He’s much more of a thinker than a feeler. He’s used to keeping things bottled up, and I would even argue that his life often depends on his ability to dissociate from his emotions. Din’s entire journey so far has been about how one little baby yodito shakes his worldview to its very foundations. He’s getting there, but it’s a slow process. 
And also, consider this - we haven’t seen Din alone yet, not since Grogu was taken. For a guy who lives a guarded life literally encased in fucking armor, any display of emotion is going to be carefully protected until he’s in private.
But anyway, Din is detached, rational, a little emotionally constipated, and definitely comfortable in a stressful situation. A true ISTP if you ask me (yeah, I know you didn’t, but whatever). Often, it seems that these cool headed, logical types who have never ruffled a feather over anything in their lives are the least adept at handling genuine fear. In other words, when panic does strike, it strikes them hard. 
And guys, Din was definitely panicking during this episode. 
He’s clearly unsettled from the jump - that outburst of “dank farrik!” in the cockpit sells it, and his distress only becomes more obvious from there. Talking out loud, trying to convince himself that the best thing for Grogu is for him to be trained as a Jedi. Reminding himself of the creed. His overt caution as they approach the seeing stone. His impatience, “Are you seeing anything??”
Then there’s the effects of long term stress. Sure, a bounty hunter in the outer rim doesn’t exactly live an easy life, but Din is definitely used to the drama being on his terms. Compare Din’s body language in the opening scene of season one to when Boba confronts him in chapter fourteen. You can just feel the anxiety, the weariness, the frustration. Din has been on the run for months now, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. Notice how he even startles at Fennec’s voice? Season one Din would never have given that much away, regardless of the situation. Long term stress has clearly taken a toll on him.
So we have unsettled, stressed out Din in an emotionally charged situation. He’s exhausted, he’s scared, he’s desperate. This scenario is a recipe for even the most level-headed of adrenaline junkies to loose their cool, and that’s exactly what happens to Din. He panics, and he makes some pretty big fuckups because of it. Leaving Grogu unprotected, twice. Trying three different times to break through that “force field,” even when he knew he couldn’t. Dropping that jetpack and then just forgetting about it (I know we were all screaming about that one, or at least, I was).
So, fear is a positive feedback loop. Those neurotransmitters that do us good in a bad situation - raising heart rate, narrowing focus, shunting blood to the muscles - can also be detrimental if we get too high of a dose - tachypnea and tachycardia, inability to think critically and see the big picture, lack of blood and oxygen to the brain. Epinephrine, in particular, even inhibits the laying down of new memory pathways. In other words, stress leads to poor performance, and poor performance leads to more stress, which leads to... you get the idea.
Then, in the middle of all this chaos, they fucking blast the Razor Crest.
More epinephrine, more cortisol, more stress. 
By the end of it all, Din is a fucking shitstorm of stress hormones and pent up emotions. Notice how he seems to be on autopilot in the immediate aftermath, robotically scanning the ashes of the Crest for anything that might be left intact. Notice how empty his voice is when he says, “the child is gone.” This is a dead man walking. Din has nothing left. His whole life has just gone up in smoke, and he can do nothing about it. 
Guys, Din is holding onto his sanity by a fucking thread in this scene. “The child is gone,” he says, like he’s reminding himself, grounding himself in his shitty reality. He’s stunned. 
And helpless. There’s literally nothing he can do for Grogu. He has no ship, no credits, no resources, nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. Din literally cannot allow himself the luxury of feelings right now. He’s just got to focus on surviving this very shitty day.
Then, Boba Fett upholds his end of the deal, and suddenly, Din has something to hold onto. An ally, a badass friend, some hope. I don’t think Boba shows Din that chain code in order to verify his claim on the armor - he’s already wearing it, for godssake. I think Boba shows him the code in order to catch Din’s attention - hey friend, I know you’re hurting, but I’m a man of my word. When I make a vow, I keep it. Let’s regroup and go find your kid.
And Din would totally latch onto that. A fighting chance? Din fucking leaps at it. There’s a job to do. A kid to save. All of those stress hormones are going to keep on stewing, because Din has never really come down from his adrenaline high. 
It’s like this in real life, too. There isn’t time to be afraid. There isn’t time to be sad, or second-guess, or say, oh how terrible, or wonder what if it doesn’t work? There’s just you and the job, and if you are the only thing standing between life and death, you will put everything else aside and do what you have to do, for as long as you have to do it.
And that’s where Din is at this moment. He’s running on the fumes of his adrenaline, all tempered focus, all strategy and no bullshit.
Emotional shock, my therapist buddy calls it. Apparently, it’s normal. Expected, even.
But guys, the fallout of this kind of crazy ass adrenaline high is insanely intense. I’m talking collapse to the floor, legs won't hold you, trembling, crying so hard you sling snot, shuddering breaths, stare dead-eyed and spent at the ceiling because you’re just too wiped out to even sleep kind of intense. 
And then, after the breakdown comes the angst. The detailed thinking. The oh god, what if this had happened, or, should I have done that instead? It seems like every emotion that gets put on the back burner in the moment comes back to bite you with twofold intensity when all is said and done. 
In other words, Din is definitely going to feels some things .A lot of very intense things. A reckoning is coming, my dudes. Trust me. It’s just not quite here yet.
That being said, here’s what I can expect from Din going forward:
Just like he’s is slow to acknowledge his growing parental feelings for Grogu, I think Din’s going to be slow at processing his grief at Grogu’s loss. In the next episode, he’s got plenty to distract him - getting together his hit team to take back the kid and coordinating an attack on the empire. 
However, I do think we’ll get a slow moment with Din, probably sometime at the beginning of next week’s episode if the pattern holds. I doubt it’s the full-blown breakdown that we’re all needing, but I’m willing to bet money that we’ll see Din grappling with the fact that his kid is gone. I also think that badass beskar murder machine Din from chapter three will resurface. Stress and desperation make us do irrational things, and anger is one of the stages of grief that Din will inevitably have to work through (I think he’s flickering between denial and bargaining for now).
But then, after Din gets Grogu back? I think that’s we’ll have our big, dearly earned emotional payoff. 
For one thing, Din won’t be able to deny his feelings anymore. He wants to keep this kid, it’s so very obvious. Losing him just forces it all to the forefront. 
And then the relief/joy/regret/guilt that Din is going to feel once he’s got Grogu back? Not to mention the physical exhaustion? All of the fear/terror/angst/grief that he ignored in favor of just going pedal to the metal, guns blazing, get the kid or die trying? That shit’s going to crash into him with all the subtly of a fucking tsunami. I guarantee you, we’re going to get some sort of confession, or adoption vow, or face revel, or other sort of profound softness from Dad!Din in the falling action of this season (At least, I hope we get it at the end this season but I wouldn’t put it past them to kick it into the premier of season three, just for pacing reasons, but then again, I obviously have trust issues).
Personally, I would love to see Din grappling with the long-term fallout of losing Grogu - night terrors, guilt, paranoia, etc. That’s probably the stuff of fanfiction - mandalorians don't have nightmares on screen, surely - but still, some lingering effects Grogu’s kidnapping would be realistic, and I would absolutely live for it.
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demo-simp · 3 years
Text
Tf2 Daily Routine
Sniper sighs, staring blankly at the empty coffee jar, knowing he would have to go into the base for more if he was going to have an at all productive day.
Walking into the kitchen/living area, sniper sees a very awake soldier, pouring himself a cup of coffee with a carton of sweet cream in his other hand. Soldier turns, and jumps slightly,
“Oh hey there, Sniper. Out of coffee again?” Questions Soldier, setting the carton down on the counter in front if him.
“Unfortunately” the tired Sniper says half to himself, making his way to the oversized coffee pot and pouring himself a cup.
“S’pose ill just hang with you lot s’morning, don’t let me get in the way tho” mumbles Sniper, taking a sip of the dark liquid out of his “#1 Sniper” mug.
“Oh yeah” Soldier says, mimicking his colleague, and immediately dribbling it out of his mouth and back into the cup.
“It’s still hot” soldier murmures, grimacing.
“Mate, its okay I’m not gonna judge ya, jus drink ya coffee how ya want” says Sniper, hearing the disdain of the pure black caffeine in the mans voice. Soldier only hums to himself, slowly making his way to the creamer he set down only moments before, and nearly dumping the entire carton into his American flag colored mug, along with an equal part of sugar.
The two sit at the kitchen bar for a few peaceful, silent moments before a very loud, very hyped scout enters, from his morning jog around the base.
“You two eggheads are up early” scout says, reaching for the fridge handle, grimacing at the pungent smell of coffee.
“Mr. Sniper is joining us for coffee, because he has run out” says Soldier, proudly explaining the situation.
“Very interesting” Scout says, practiced and sarcastic, pulling out a BONK can from the fridge and opening it with a satisfying Crack. He dumps the entire can into his own mug that proudly states “I’m kind of a big deal” on one side.
“Y‘know mate” says Sniper, turning to Scout, “ya really shouldn’t drink so much a’ that stuff. Could really mess with ya”
“Eh, Miss Pauling says I should drink ’em and she says they’re good for me. I trust her and they make me feel pretty dang good when I drink ‘em” says the hyper man, a bit to fast and more to himself for any normal conversation, so Snipers only response is a shake of his head and a return to his mug.
Scout continues to talk to himself about his day and responsibilities later on the battlefield while Soldier and Sniper continue to silently enjoy their respective cups of coffee. After a few moments, hardy laughing and talking is heard from the hallway, and Engineer and Heavy enter the kitchen.
“Hey there, Monday, didn’t know ya’d be joinin’ us for coffee” says Engi, turning from his friend to look at the dower man.
“Yup” says Sniper, eagle eyes still trained on the vibrating scout in the corner.
Heavy thunders to the coffee pot, pulling out two mugs and pouring into both the guitar themed mug, and the mug depicting a large man, holding a machine gun, riding a bear. They all collectively sip their drinks while Engi and Heavy recount their conversation, earning a chuckle from each of the men there.
As the laughter dies down and the coffee slowly depletes, small but heavy foot steps are heard from the hallway, and a masked pyro appears, already dressed, holding a lit zippo lighter.
The group collectively lets out a greeting to their pyromaniac friend, as they pour themselves a Guy Feiri mug of orange juice, while letting out a few sleepy, muffled greetings. The team continues their conversation, now with the edition of Engi translating for Pyro.
As spy uncloaks himself to be seen pouring bourbon into a mug depicting a fairy that states “bonjour butterfly” and the men already present all have a collective heart attack or some sort of visible reaction. All except for Pyro, who doesn’t even flinch.
“Whoa there, stranger, didn’t see ya come in” says Engineer, smiling and laughing nervously.
“Yes. That’s the point, Labourer.” Says Spy flatly. “And stop calling me ‘Stranger’. You know perfectly well who I am”
Everyone on the team has gotten a nickname from the Engineer, and all secretly love it. But, like many things within the group, its become a running gag to constantly gripe about the names.
The group collectively laughs, and returns to their beverages, with Engi beginning to make some eggs.
A few minuets later, eggs made and the coffee in the pot nearly gone, loud crashing footsteps are heard from the hallway and a very distressed and tattered Medic bursts through the door, pulling his lab coat onto one of his arms. As the door closes behind him, Medic stares blankly at the group, and slowly pulls on his lab coat the rest of the way on. Another loud Crack is heard from Scouts corner in the awkward silence, and Medic makes his way to the coffee pot, pouring the remainder of it into his mug, embellished with the word “Cyanide” in fancy lettering.
“I thought I was late” says the German doctor, awkwardly.
“Yeah that was kinda obvious” says Scout after a hearty gulp of his second BONK, not even bothering to pour it into his mug. Scout sets the can on the counter and loudly exclaims he’s going to the bathroom before they have to leave for the battlefield. As the conversation between the mercenaries about the coming battle, Medic makes his way over to the energy drink and pours a few ounces into his mug a mixing it with his coffee.
Scout returns just as another set of loud footsteps is heard from the hall, these ones sounding staggered and limping. Nonetheless, a very hungover Demoman appears in the doorway, clutching his head and making his way to the coffee pot. Opening the top and seeing nothing but dregs of coffee grounds, Demo knows what must be done for his morning dose of caffine before the alcohol. The rest of the team dreads this part of the morning.
“Hey there, Cyclops” says Engineer, drawing out the ‘hey’ and throwing in the group nickname for the Scot to attempt to stop what he, and everyone else, knows is coming.
“We can just make another pot of coffee before we leave its not that big a deal” stutters out the mechanic, but the demolitions expert is already reaching for the silverware drawer. The team collectively facepalms as Demo scoops the remainder of the coffee grounds out and into his mouth, grinding them between his molars. Scout gags and medic rubs the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses as the crunching and grinding sounds emanate from Demo, and Engi looks on, in defeat.
Hours later, control points captured and payloads exchanged, the team of mercenaries breaks for lunch at the sound of the announcers voice.
“Lunch ends sixty minutes” booms the megaphones placed around the battlefield.
“Here ya go guys” says the sweaty Engineer after a tough, but rewarding battle. Although the rest of the team would never admit, the Mercs would never survive a day off the battlefield if they didn’t have Engi. In his extremely oversized lunchbox, he always made sure to pack extra lunches and snacks for the rest of the group.
“We got,” says engineer rooting around in his lunchbox. “Sunny, that’s yours” he says, handing a package to Scout. The small man opens it to reveal a package of fruit snacks, a container of fried chicken, and a can of root beer.
“Aw boss” scout exclaims and thanks Engi. The rest of the team follows in much of the same fashion, except heavy, who always packs his own lunch. Soldier receives an upgraded version of army rations, while demo gets gatoraid (to keep him hydrated) with some crackers and sausage. Medic (often the most drained) receives two thermos’, one containing another dose of coffee, and another with a multi bean soup. Spy earns a delicate egg sandwich, and not much else as he’d rather spend that time smoking. Sniper enjoys some vegemite on toast, along with a salad that wont spoil, for while he’s camping up in his tower. Additionally, Engi has begun to bring extra water for all of them, to keep while in battle, so they don’t get to dehydrated. He packs himself a hearty lunch of a simple burger, a light beer, and some corn (on the cob, of course).
As no one has seen Pyro take off their mask, the team doesn’t exactly know what (or if) Pyro eats. Nonetheless, Heavy enjoys cutting off the crusts of his sandwich to give to the fire addict, at which point, they will promptly stuff the crusts into the pocket of their suit. The rest of the team assumes the bread is eaten, as its never seen again, but none of the men are ever truly sure.
At the end of the day, everyone on both sides is exhausted and ready to head back to their bases. All pile into the cramped van, all except, for sniper, who drives his camper to every battle, and refuses to go with the others.
Scout ends every battle (win or loose) with whining about how hungry he is, until Engi gives him a snack, usually consisting of fruit snacks or crackers. Heavy and Medic sit in the front talking about their day and how excited they are to get back to the base and watch the movie they’ve been wanting to watch. The rest of the mercs are pilled in the back of the van, shirts unbuttoned and respective weapons and helmets sliding across the floor whenever they make too-sharp a turn. Eventually, they all arrive back at the base again, tired and sweaty.
All take their respective places while they wait for Engineer to be finished with dinner. Medic and Heavy on the couch, talking to each other. Sniper and Soldier, just as the same morning, sitting at the bar, now enjoying glasses of whiskey and beer respectively. Scout and Spy retire to their rooms, the former for a nap, and the latter for some much needed alone time of smoking and cheap romance novels. Pyro finds their place up in the rafters of the base, in an uncomfortable, neon plastic blow up chair, again, staring at a lit zippo lighter. Demo reclines, nearly horizontally, in a bean bag on the floor, a bottle in his hand, cracker crumbs on his shirt, and drool, slinging from his mouth to his neck.
As the smells of baked chicken and potatoes fill the air, the team prepares for dinner. Often, Medic will retire to his lab to continue his research,but as tonight is a movie night for the German and the Russian, Medic opts to join the others. Demo stumbles to the table while soldier sets his plate his place at the table. Sniper remains at his seat at the bar, as spy remains in his room. But a pyro jumps from their seat and grabs their plate before miraculously bringing the plate back up with them to their spot. An always hungry Scout arrives midway through the meal with sleepy eyes and messy hair, demanding food. Engi obliges with all of their inconsistent eating schedules, and even manages to heat up Scouts food before he comes in.
“What’s for dinner” scout asks loudly.
“We got some chicken and potatoes for ya, sunny” says Engineer, setting a plate in front of the tired man and clapping him softly on the shoulder. “Eat up, now” he says, maternally.
“Tavish” Soldier says breaking the silence. “Did you see my rocket jumps today. I must have jumped all over that glorious battlefield” states the American, proudly.
“Aye, mate, I saw your jumps” slurs the demo man, not drunk enough yet to be quite so loud, but still slurring and swaying.
“Weren’t they good” questions Soldier, not entirely paying attention to the conversation he’s apart off.
“Aye mate” Demo replies, taking a sip of his scrumpy.
“Welp, looks like ill be off” says Sniper after a few moment of silence, slinging a dog food bag sized bag of coffee beans over his shoulder.
Engie ‘awes’ in small protest.
“You’re not gonna join us for a round a’ cards” asks the Texan.
Sniper rolls his head to the side, considering his nightly routine, before groaning, knowing he doesn’t have an excuse.
“A’right mate. One game” replies the Aussie, setting down the bag and holding up a finger. The group knows it wont just be one game with Snipers love for gambling, but celebration in heard from around the table, and even the loud leather on plastic sounds can be heard from up in the rafters, indicating Pyro will be spectating for a few rounds.
Drunken laughter and jests echo throughout the base as the rounds of Poker last late into the night. Heavy joins when the movie ends, but medic retires to his lab. Demo is seated next to Soldier, as, no matter how many times he plays with the group, he never quite grasps it and needs help. Scout reclines in his seat, confidant in his hand, and sipping a light beer. Engie hunches over his cards, utterly unaware of his face reveling his awful hand. Sniper sits with one arm casually slung over the back of the chair, and, unlike his engineering friend, is utterly stone faced. With the agreed upon ‘last game’ of the night being one by non other than Soldier, the team collectively stretches and says goodnight to the others. Pyro has long been in their room, asleep, while the others fall back to their rooms, and Sniper making the trek back to his van.
Although Scout feigns sleepiness at the table, not ten minuets after the lights had been turned off for the night, he slips to the kitchen, for a snack to take back to his room. Spy, having an unpredictable sleep and hunger schedule, does the same, but much later in the night. The others sleep soundly in their respective dwelling areas. The rooms are spaced just enough so that non of the mercs can hear each other snoring as they sleep in the hot, barely conditioned base.
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dorizardthewizard · 3 years
Text
The Revival of Akillian: Chapter 6
Prologue / Chapter 5 / Chapter 7
6. THE BREATH!
In the old Arena Stadium, the tests follow one another. The volunteers put on the biotronic suit one after the other and follow each other in the holo-trainer, from where they come out later, generally exhausted, sometimes happy to have passed the tests that Clamp had programmed on his console, most often annoyed at having failed, certain that they would not be considered during the final selection.
Then comes Thran's turn, who Clamp is happy to get rid of, because Thran has stuck with him almost from the beginning, amazed by his console ("It's a Micronics, right? - No, kid, I made it myself. - But you took a Micronics as a base, I'm sure of it!”), constantly asking questions about what appears on the screen (“It's virtual reality, OK, but how does the ball materialize? How can you feel it under your feet?”)… until Clamp, exasperated, asks Aarch:
- Let’s get through this one. If he's not good, send him home!
So Thran dons the yellow and purple combination, which takes a bit of time as he tries to pinpoint the location and function of each sensor, then enters the white cube. Aarch warns him that he will be tested in defense. He is therefore up against bald and blue sims who must take the ball before they reach the penalty area. He does not fare badly, blocking his opponents tenaciously, who however do not tire, and do not run out of steam. None of them cross the white line. Thran even manages to snatch the ball away and lead an attack on his own, finishing off with a shot at a target that happily flashes green, after which he collapses on the virtual field, breathless. On his monitor, Clamp notices this and notes a certain deficit in endurance, compensated by a remarkable tenacity and concentration. An excellent defender in short... Clamp guesses he won't be rid of him any time soon.
Then comes Ahito, whom D’jok must wake up again.
- This one, we are going to test him as a goalkeeper. - proposes Aarch.
He indeed remembers the masterful stop the sleepy man made the other day in the Cafeteria, unexpectedly preventing the ball from smashing the glasses and bottles behind the counter.
Ahito lives up to his reputation: lying in front of a huge goal, he seems to doze off as if he were on a park lawn and not defending goals. A ball flies towards him. His arm goes up in a flash, his fist hits it and sends it back. Then a second: this time it's his foot that stops it, seemingly without him waking up! Now the shots are more vicious: arched, aimed at the top bar, brushing against the posts or bouncing off them. Each time Ahito springs up, stops the ball or sends it back, with hand, foot, head, chest; leaping, tumbling, plunging to the ground, alive as a fire, the exact opposite of the sleepy dormouse that he gave the impression of being. Clamp needs to throw ten balls at once for Ahito to let two pass… for lack of arms and legs. Aarch nods, impressed: definitely, this boy has a lot of hidden skills!
- Next! - he calls.
It's Mei's turn. The jumpsuit fits her like a bag and right off the bat she points out:
- This thing’s for boys! Plus, it stinks of sweat! Don't you have anything more fitting?
- Sorry, miss, you'll have to make do, - Aarch replies. - We don't have a factory to mass-produce them, you see. If you don't like it, you know the way out!
- Well as her mother, I am offended! My Mei deserves better than that! Well, if you must... go on, my daughter, show them your skills!
Mei is impressed by the virtual dimensions of the pitch, but tries hard not to let it show. She knows that she is being watched, as if she were on a catwalk for a fashion show. She is immediately jostled by eight blue sims, who rush towards the goals she is supposed to defend.
- Hey! - she protests. - I will not play in defense! I need an attack test for me!
Her voice echoes through the micro-speakers built into Clamp's console, near which Mei's mother stands, watching the scientist as if she understands something about his instruments and his manipulations.
- Did you hear that? - she demands. - Change your program!
- Ma'am, - retorts Aarch coldly, - We are in charge here. Are you a candidate? No? Then you have no business here!
- Fifteen seconds. - announces Clamp, which starts the countdown.
This is displayed in the holo-trainer. Mei understands she has fifteen seconds to prove her worth, or she will be permanently ousted. She rushes towards the virtual attackers, throws herself at the feet of the one with the ball and mows it down just before he shoots at the goal. A new ball appears at the feet of another sim, and she takes it in a masterful tackle. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth... Mei leaps, dives, slides, kicks and heads, each time managing to recover the ball. Seven out of eight balls strike the opponent in fifteen seconds - and Mei isn't even out of breath.
152 points out of 160, displays the console in front of a dumbfounded Aarch and Clamp. No player tested in defense had exceeded 100 points, except Thran who scored 120. Both exchange a knowing smile: this is the defender they need... but without her fussy mother!
- What a spectacle, dear holo-viewers! - comments Callie Mystic, who is following the trials live for Arcadia News. - And it's not over yet, candidates are flocking to try their luck! Who would have thought there are such great players on Akillian? We can already thank Aarch for revealing them to us!
- And me? - Clamp protested. - Without my machines...
- And Professor Clamp too, of course. I'm willing to bet that his holo-trainer is going to be a big hit in Galactik Football clubs!
Tested as a passer, Sinedd does very honorably: his ball hits thirteen out of fifteen moving targets, represented by concentric red circles. The more powerful the shots, the farther the circles move apart. Right foot, left foot, on the fly, returned… even one from the head. He scores 145 points, which is not far from perfect.
- Here, try to do better... if you can! - he challenges D’jok, handing him the jumpsuit.
- With pleasure, my friend...
D’jok is also tested as a passer, but this time marked by an opponent: not only does he need to shoot at the targets, but also to prevent the blue sim from stealing the ball from him. It quickly turns into a hellish chase, in which D’jok nonetheless manages to crash any targets he spots - he quickly loses count. The sim eventually gives up and fades away, as if discouraged. The bell announcing the end of the test rings out at the right time: D’jok is at the end of his rope.
Standing behind Clamp, Sinedd watches the progress of the score bar, confident that D’jok will not hit 100. His smirk fades when the score hits 120… and the bar keeps rising. D’jok joins him as he passes 140... Sinedd grits his teeth. Finally, the bar stabilizes: the screen displays 150 points.
- How do you like that? – jibes D’jok.
Sinedd grunts, but finds nothing to complain about - he can't even accuse Clamp's machines of cheating!
- We're still live from Arena Stadium, where Aarch's recruiting tests are coming to an end, - says Callie Mystic, followed step by step by her trusty flying holo-cam. - There are hardly any candidates left... but I see latecomers still getting out of the elevator! We can say that these two have arrived at the last minute to try to join Aarch’s team!...
Heeding the voice of its mistress, the holo-cam focuses on the two latecomers in question… this is how Norata discovers them, who has installed a TV screen in his greenhouses, just to have a little company when he transplants or cuts his plants. His son, in close-up! In the company of a little brat with white hair! His arms drop, the flower box he was holding too. Roaring in anger, he rushes to the garage and throws himself into his pick-up slider.
***
- Okay, well… I think I'd better leave you. - Rocket says to Tia, when the two of them reach the holo-trainer.
- Out of the question! You brought me here, you can’t go back now (Tia softens her somewhat bossy tone with a smile). At least stay to see me play!
- Okay…
Rocket mingles with the crowd, glaring at the monitor, which shows the audience what is going on inside the holo-trainer. Leaning over Clamp's console, his uncle hasn't seen him yet. Besides, Rocket doesn't want Aarch to find out.
Tia stands in front of the entrance to the cube, from which comes out an exhausted and crestfallen candidate: apparently it hasn't been a success for him… he changes, and gives the suit to Tia without a word. Aarch turns to her:
- It’s your turn, young lady. Are you the last one?
- Uh… not really…
She looks around for Rocket, but he has melted into the crowd.
She is shown the locker room, she goes to put on the outfit, and in turn enters the holo-trainer. The virtual terrain and the artificial sky elicit a little cry of enchantment from her. Then the ball materializes at her feet. Just when she notices it, she is violently pushed by a blue sim suddenly appearing at her side. She stands up, stunned - the ball is still there.
Four avatars rush at Tia from the other end of the field. She understands that she is in a defensive position, in front of the penalty area, and that she has to prevent these four from reaching the empty net behind her. Tia concentrates... burning energy, incredible power sweeps over her, even beginning to flow over her in bluish strands. She gets the impression that time is stretching, that the four virtual players are galloping in slow motion. She can see very clearly what she needs to do to prevent them taking the ball from her. It’s almost impossible - but she feels she can do it. She starts running too - towards the attackers! As she runs, this fabulous energy carries her, fills her with inordinate force, flows from her in electric blue waves. She reaches a terrific speed, the sims move like snails next to her: all their gestures are broken down, she can guess - and counter - their every move. Having reached a meter in front of them, she shoots up the ball. She takes off in turn in a column of light and joins the ball, which seems suspended in mid-air. Everything is slowing down around Tia - or rather, she's the one that has accelerated at a phenomenal rate! She screams without even realizing it. Her foot rises in a powerful swing and hits the ball, which shoots towards the opposing goals, pulverizing the virtual goal, sinking into the net like a meteor.
Then Tia descends, spinning down her column of energy, which diminishes and leaves her as she approaches the ground... she lands gently on the ground, stunned but not really out of breath, her nerves just a little tense, as if she had received a small electric shock. She doesn't know what exactly happened, but she feels like it was pretty good...
In front of the console, Aarch and Clamp watch the event live. They stand, absolutely flabbergasted.
- The Breath! - whispers Aarch, who realizes it first.
When Tia comes out of the holo-trainer, everyone's eyes are fixed on her - dazzled, stunned eyes. Rocket even more so, who forgets to hide. Tia heads straight for him, takes off her outfit and hands it to him:
- Your turn now.
In her underwear and bra, she runs to get dressed in the locker room, followed by thirty pairs of eyes who do not yet believe what they have seen.
Aarch suddenly discovers his nephew standing in the middle of the crowd, dumbfounded, clothes in hand.
- Rocket? Does your dad know you're here?
- Yes, and I won’t allow it! - a gruff voice breaks out.
Norata slices through the audience, hobbling as fast as he can manage on his artificial leg. He snatches the suit from Rocket's hands, throws it to the ground, and holds out a peremptory finger at his son.
- You come with me! We're going home.
Head down, hands in his pockets, Rocket shuffles behind his father to the elevator. Before entering, he turns around, and sees Tia at the locker room door, staring at him sadly...
It's even worse: not only will he get a big yelling at, but he will also regret not getting to know this strange, little Obiane a bit better.
***
Everyone has been waiting for the test results for almost an hour. Standing or seated, alone or in small groups, candidates lose patience. Some have already left, confident that their more or less disastrous performance has placed them at the bottom of the scale. The others hope to have shown some talent, enough to justify their selection at least as substitutes ...
In their corner, leaning over their screens, Aarch and Clamp debate, point their fingers at such an area or that column, scribble on pocket screens, talk, argue, and seem to have trouble coming to an agreement.
Mei's mother swears to her gods that she will make a big scene if her champion daughter is not selected. Sinedd paces around like a caged lion. Tia stays away, brushing off anyone who tries to approach her. D’jok, Micro-Ice, Thran and Ahito are sitting in a circle on the floor; Ahito is dozing, Micro-Ice is fidgeting impatiently and D’jok is worried:
- They'll take me, right? - he asks Thran for the umpteenth time.
- Are you kidding or what? If they don't take you, we can all go home, I say!
- Yeah, I'm sick of this! - Micro-Ice explodes, and gets up abruptly. - We've been hanging around for an hour, I can't take it anymore! I don't care about this team, I’m leaving. - he walks away with a determined step towards the elevator.
- Your attention please! - Aarch's deep, strong voice echoes, and everyone stands up. - Clamp and I have finally picked seven of you. As for the rest of you, don't be disappointed if you weren't selected. I will keep your names because I will surely need substitutes. And don't forget, there’s more to life than football…
- That’s the first sane thing I’ve heard all day! - says Micro-Ice, who suddenly turns around.
- Clamp?
He taps on a holographic console, which projects six faces into the air above the audience...
D’jok. Thran. Ahito. Sinedd. Mei. And Tia.
Cries of joy from those concerned. D’jok, Thran and Ahito hug each other. Mei's mother, radiant, hugs her daughter against her. Sinedd has a superior air, as if to say, “I knew all along”. Tia, moved, holds back a tear. Micro-Ice stands still.
- And the seventh, Clamp? - asks Aarch.
- Wait, I’m having a little transmission problem... here it is!
A seventh face swirls in the air, positioning itself next to the other six: Micro-Ice.
- Whoa! I'm in! – Micro-Ice jumps and runs towards his friends with his arms raised. - You see, I'm part of the team! With you guys! For real, I’m so happy! Well, of course, it’s expected: you can’t do it without me, right?
***
Far away from Akillian, around a large blue star, orbits a beautiful planet that resembles an agate rock with its long bands of multicolored clouds. Surrounded by a belt of asteroids, which risk falling towards the planet. Incidentally, they are also weapons of defense... but no one - except the Humans, once - would dare to wage war against the wise and powerful Lightnings. This gem-like planet is theirs: Xzion.
Within the crown of satellites there is one that is not a weapon, but a meeting place. It is a vast sphere, connected with alveoli which contain many micro-environments and micro-climates, allowing to welcome the most varied forms of life.
It is the meeting place of the Flux Society.
In the center of the sphere slowly rotates a miniature replica of the Galaxy in which flash, like tiny fireflies, all the worlds that have a delegated member of the Flux Society. One of them sparkles stronger than the others: it is Akillian.
The alveoli are for the moment deserted, but they can be occupied very quickly, by physical beings or their virtual representations, as soon as the Flux Society is summoned.
This is what will happen in any moment, as a disembodied voice rings out, rolling its echoes across the vast sphere:
- Members of the Flux Society must assemble immediately: the Breath of Akillian has manifested!
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blarrghe · 3 years
Note
"I called you at 2am because I need you" for... is it too indulgent to ask for Dorian x Anders?
never too much! Decided on a straight sequel to the last one, so here’s modern au resident!Anders and politician!Dorian after a long shift. --
He had three hours left in his shift when he got the text from Barb. He looked suspiciously down at his phone when it buzzed. Barb’s contact was in his phone with a little butterfly next to her name, to match the tattoo on her ankle and the bright and fluttery nature of her personality. He liked Barb, but she was almost definitely asking him to cover her shift, and he debated opening the message for several minutes before doing so with a reluctant sigh. Barb was going through some things; messy divorce, two little kids to look after all on her own, the pay they made here and the stress that came with it. 
“Can’t find a sitter, can you take a shift?” read the first text, Anders was going to say yes anyway, but then two more came in, buzzing in quick succession. “unless you want to babysit? I’d give you my pay!” bright, chipper texting tone, accompanied by several hopeful looking emojis, “and brownies! 🍫” Barb did make really excellent brownies. He considered taking her up on the second offer, but he really wasn’t sure he had the energy for kids who weren’t bed-ridden or in need of medical care. He could turn on Fun Doctor Mode like a lightswitch for the kids down in pediatrics, but kids who wanted to refuse bedtime and stay up watching TV they weren’t mature enough to handle? He shook his head, half smiling over the offer of brownies, half frowning over the decision he’d made before he even opened the first message. Barb deserved to get the time with her kids, anyway. 
“I’ve got you covered.” Kissy face cat emoji, knife and fork emoji. 
“Lifesaver!!!!!” every single colour of heart.
He pencilled his name in on the clipboard for the next rotation, and began to regret the fact that he’d so quickly stuffed down the pastry Dorian had brought him earlier as he tried to remember if he had enough coins in the pockets of his coat for both a bag of pretzels from the vending machine and the bus home. He didn’t, but he’d have more luck charming the bus driver into a free ride than the vending machine into giving up its snacks, so he went to his locker and fished out the last of his bus money. 
The rest of his shift went by in a blur of activity, up and down halls as his white-soled shoes squeaked and squawked along the linoleum floors, up and down stairs that were faster than waiting for elevators, thankless pages from doctors all across the sprawling hospital, avoiding his shift supervisor in case she asked about Barb. Then Barb’s shift was much the same, for the four and a half hours after that. It was nearing two am when he finally staggered out to the bus stop, and well past it by the time he arrived home — on foot, because the bus driver had not, in fact, let him ride for free. Just what he got for putting hope into the kindness of strangers. One kind act was, apparently, the extent of his daily karma allotment. Fair enough — he could still almost taste the honey of that pastry on his lips; either an uncommonly good morsel, or he was just drastically underfed. The latter, but the pastry-giver was certainly more than he deserved.
Shit. Dorian. He’d asked him to call. Anders looked blearily at the clock on his stove as he kicked off his shoes and plodded over to the cabinet to dish out some kibble for Ser Pounce. The cold tile floor was a welcome relief on his worn out feet, though the fact that he could feel it at all was a testament to the grave state of his socks. Ser Pounce pounced down from his perch above the cabinets to give some love and a swath of shedding cat hair to Anders’ legs, then nibbled at his food while Anders opened his fridge to try to figure something out for himself. He sniffed at the milk, decided it was probably still fine, and then poured it over a heaping bowl of sugary cereal. Yeah, he’d have made a pretty shit babysitter. 
Anders took his bowl with him to his bed, flopping down on the lumpy mattress with a sigh that fully emptied his lungs, and pulled out his phone. He opened his message history and pulled up the conversation with Dorian. Not much there, but what there was made him smile. Mostly short, friendly messages. No emojis except for the one he’d stuck next to Dorian’s name in the contact page — a snake, not his first choice, but he’d embarassed himself by asking the man which one he’d like when he first scored his number, and snake was what he’d picked. Anders would have gone with the diamond, or the little tophat, or maybe the cat with hearts for eyes…
Anyway, then it had turned out that Dorian was a very formal texter. Proper punctuation and fully articulated words and all that. Anders had spent far too many minutes in their text-based conversations together fretting over how immature it would come off to use an abbreviation for laughter versus spelling out the words “haha”, or if even that was too juvenile. But he and Dorian were both all sarcastic humour and chastising bits of flirtation, and he also fretted about the tone of that without it. 
“you up?” he wrote, then hovered his thumb over the send button for thirty or so seconds before deciding that it was worth the shot. Worse came to worst, Dorian would reply with a friendly apology and an offer to chat the next morning. He was dependable like that. 
“Depends, is this a booty call?” came the almost instant reply. Alone in his room, Anders blushed. 
Blushing emoji, monkey covering his eyes emoji, sweat-smile emoji… delete, delete, delete. “No, just miss you,” DELETE, definitely delete. He tried typing some other things. “Just got in, but thinking of you…” no. “You wish lol” haha? Neither. He erased the message and began again, but then the phone screen lit up with “Dorian🐍”, buzzing as it rang. 
“The little dots were driving me mad. Did you just get in?” His voice was like honey, too. 
“Yeah, covered for Barb.” 
“Again?” 
Anders leaned back against his pillow, closing his eyes as Dorian’s concern blanketed over him. “She couldn’t find a sitter.” 
“You’re too nice for your own good.” Dorian scolded him gently through the phone, and it probably said something unhealthy about Anders that hearing Dorian admiringly call him nice made the whole last five hours of life-draining overtime and bitter walk home worth it. 
“She offered me brownies,” he shrugged the compliment off, “what can I say? I’m a sucker for chocolate.” 
“I’ll remember that.” Dorian purred, causing Anders to almost second guess his response to the idea of a booty call, exhausted or not. “So, not a booty call then?” Anders groaned inwardly, wishing it were, but no. Not unless Dorian wanted to talk to him on the phone the whole way over to keep him from falling asleep before he arrived, and even then.
“I just — uh…” he was going to say something about the book, but he hadn’t actually had time yet to look at it. His heart rate quickened with panic, he needed to find something to keep Dorian on the phone. “Thanks for the visit today.” Yes, because that warranted a phone call at three in the morning. “Sorry if I woke you…” 
“Nonsense. I’m always awake at this hour. It’s a terrible habit of mine.” Dorian did indeed sound very wakeful. Probably also very disappointed in the grogginess of Anders’ own voice. 
“Mm,” Anders muttered, his eyes closing under the warmth of Dorian’s voice through the phone again. 
“But you sound awful.” 
“Ran out of bus fare,” Anders explained, “had to walk… long day.” On a better night, Dorian might listen to his work gossip and share some rants of his own; they made quite a pair, both always seeming too short on time and too packed with stress to get out much, both always angry with their bosses — though Dorian was frustrated by beaurocracy constantly getting in the way of his efforts at world-saving, while Anders’ patients gave him fulfilment enough, it was just that his pockets were perpetually empty and all his managers were slave drivers. 
“Why don’t you have a bus pass?” Dorian sighed at him. A bus pass was a hundred bucks up front at the beginning of the month, and with payday always landing two weeks after but every other bill needing to paid right then too… but he didn’t really want to explain that particular predicament to Dorian, who had a flashy suit for every day of the week and a car that cost about as much as Anders was worth in medical school debt. “Well, you can call me next time. I’d give you a ride.” he purred on that note too, having fun with his double entendres. Anders chuckled. 
“I’ll keep you in mind,” he promised. Though the thought of begging his quasi-boyfriend for a ride at two am made him shudder. Still, not quite a lie; he always seemed to have Dorian on his mind at the end of a long shift. 
“Since I have you, dinner?” The inflection of the question was a little high. Anders crunched on a mouthful of cereal with his eyes still closed and mumbled something unintelligable. “You’re off Friday, aren’t you? Do me a favour and don’t pick up any more shifts. I have a place in mind I think you’ll like.” 
“Mm?” He thought about the kind of places Dorian would think were good spots for a dinner date, and was very glad that he couldn’t see the blue-tinted milk running down his chin. 
“It’s a surprise.” Back to low purring, that nervousness or whatever it had been apparently gone again. Anders liked the warm flirtatious tone, but the little breaks into uncertainty were what kept him coming back for more. So much in common. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Anders “mm”’d through his mouthful of cereal in the affirmative. 
“Amatus?” Even his pet names were classy. Anders would go with “love” if it weren’t so close to an unthinkable state of being, or “babe” if it weren’t for the fact that Dorian outshone that by a mile with amatus. His thoughts were all cat-with-heart-eyes emoji at the sound, and not much else.  
Anders swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Get some sleep.” 
“Mm.” Anders moved the bowl from his lap to the cluttered chair at his bedside, and leaned deeper into his pillow. “See you Friday, Dor” Dor, was that really the best he could do? 
He heard Dorian hum contentedly on the other side of the line, “looking forward to it.” he said. 
“Night, love.” Anders muttered, then very very quickly he hit end call, and shut his eyes tight. 
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alolanrain · 4 years
Text
Ash scrambled for something to hold onto, completely forgetting that he’s in an open area. Machines and men laying dead and destroyed around him. Ash’s bones sang with pain, feel his joints popping with every sway as his body tries to pull him down more towards the floor. He can’t do that yet, he has to wait, wait for Lance or... or someone to come help clean this mess up.
He had pressed the button on his Pokédex, bit different then the other ones Trainers get. The bottom was small and green on the side, a little lower then the volume button, but it was discrete and that was all Ash needed. Pressed it half way through the battle when Charizard was knocked down the first time out fo five. That lizard never quite and Ash can’t ever be thankful enough.
So Ash waits. He hears it before feeling the wind from the helicopter. Standing perfectly still even though his legs want to crumble under the force of the wind and just how tired he was.
The helicopter shakes the building a little as it lands, another Team Rocket bade Ash has torn to shreds after getting kidnapped, he hears Pikachu’s cry of relief but his eyes refuse to open until the wind died down. When it did Ash peeled an eye open to spot Pikachu getting piked up by Agatha’s Gengar. Both Pokémon chirped and growled at each other as the shadow Pokémon made its way back to the oldest Elite Four.
Ash’s eyes were dragged away as he spotted Lance and Lorelei charge at him. They were lucky because Ash’s legs have our just as Lance reached him. Slotting his arms under Ash and cushioning his fall.
“You motherfucker!” Lance snarled at him. Grabbing and tearing his Poké balls off his belt and shoving them into her hand. “Take these and go round them up - You can’t even go a month without being kidnapped!” Lance turned his focus more fully on to Ash. Tugging him up more into his arms and wincing when Ash let out a weak sob. A knife he didn’t notice until now shifted in his side.
“Oh Arceus fucking Arceus.” The Kanto Champion hissed. “You’re so grounded when you’re healed.”
“Sorry.” Ash mumbled into the cape where it draped over Lance’s shoulder. Head almost rolling off until Lance shifted his hands about so he could cradle Ash more securely. Lance’s tight frown and scared eyes were the last thing he saw before exhaustion pulled him down into murky black water.
————
Next thing Ash knew he was in a hospital bed. The first thing his eyes focused on was Pikachu. Bandaged up and sleeping near his knee, head tucked under Ash’s only Unbandaged hand.
Looking to the left he spotted Lance. Arm crosses and head titling to the side, enough that it was going to create a pain in his neck. Ash wanted to reach over and nudge it back up, to make sure that Lance isn’t cranky and okay.
His arms felt to heavy, like they were being tied down. A sloppy slow look proved Ash wrong, he couldn’t really tear his eyes away from the white bandage covering his fingers and palm. He doesn’t feel the tightness and itchy ness that came with gauze. So that must mean his enhanced healing kicked in and took over the worst part of his inflicted wounds.
Ash rolled his head back to the left. Lazily watching Lance and how he breathed. Up, down, up, down. It was soothing. Enough so that Ash found himself matching his breathing and soon he slipped back to sleep. Fingers still curled around one of Pikachu’s ears.
————
Ash woke up once more, a bit better then the last time but now he was in a different bed again.
He knew this room alone wasn’t his, though it held the Kanto catsle aesthetic with its high ceilings and curved border on the ceilings to hold it up. Electric candles were placed in a few holes in the support arches, glowing but no where near enough to even light the room lowly. It was still dark except for the dark clouds and small Plink! Noises coming from the large windows on either side of the bed. 
The sheets felt like silk more then cotton and felt nice against his worn skin. The pillows here the same, cushioning his head with nice cold sheets. It did well with the warm heater of a person laying next to him.
Looking to his left again Ash spotted Lance. A yellow eye cracked open as he slowly watched Ash sit himself up in his bed.
Lance’s room was much different then Ash’s. His was more for memory holding. All his pictures in big photo books stacked high on shelves; fairy lights glittering almost constantly since Ash finds it better to sleep with them on sometimes; his bed was much larger with tons of pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals he won and various games and festivals with his friends. Over all his room was much more detailed to a teenager then Lances.
From what Ash could groggily remember, Lance’s room in the day time resembled kind of a monarchs bedroom style. Good and dark rich colors. Neatly cleaned all the time and the bed stationed in the middle of the room against the back wall with an entryway to a large balcony that reached to the large Kitchen. No pictures or anything and the only personal item Ash has ever seen in the room was a large comfy bed by the fireplace for his more freedom roaming Dragonite. Chubertson didn’t like staying in his ball for long periods of time unlike Lance’s other two.
“You good?” Lance grumbled besides Ash. One of his arms reached out to settle over Ash’s lap. He didn’t move much more after that.
“What happened?” Ash croaked out. Eyes watering from how dry is throat was and how it hurt to whisper.
Lance moved again before even responding. Reaching out over to the nightstand at his side and grabbed a cup of water with a straw. Shifting up and holding the straw to Ash’s lips, “Don’t down it.” Was his only warning.
Ash tried to not suck the water down greedily. Eyes trained on Lance’s golden eyes that seemed like they were glowing in the dark. He made a questioning noise, hoping Lance would start explaining. He did.
“You were completely trashed,” Lance chuckled nervously, “you and your team destroyed the entire base. No one was alive but for yourself and you’re Pokémon. Covered in blood both your own and not. It was a horrifying sight to see you, eyes closed and standing, as the helicopter landed.” He reached out. Running the knuckles down Ash’s face and then taking the empty cup of water.
“Thanks.” Ash whispered. Choosing to lay back down as Lance shifted again. Leaning an arm into his pillow so he could... well not really tower over Ash, but he still had to look down at the younger trainer.
“You clinged onto him, hard, when I came into reach. Arms clutching my elbows as I struggled to lift you up. Blacked out soon after. Lorelei got your Pokémon and Pikachu is somewhere in the room,” he tilted his head to look around but shrug his shoulders after he couldn’t spot the yellow mouse, probably under the bed, “you were admitted into the hospital and you slept for like three days straight.”
Ash wheezed a little at that. Curling close to the warmth that Lance radiated. The arm Lance wasn’t sent leaning reached out and curled over Ash’s shoulders. Hand splaying protectively over his shoulder blades.
“Now your here, healthy as you can be at the moment but your probably still tired.” Lance mumbled. Shifting once again down more under the coveres. Dragging Ash until his head settled under the older a Champions head.
“I am,” Ash yawned, “thanks for taking care of me.”
“Thanks for saving the world.” Lance grumbled into his messy hair.
“It’s... my job.” Ash tried to stifle yet another yawn as his eyes started to flutter shut.
“Then I gues taking care of you when you need it is my job as well.” Lance argues back.
“Night.” Ash mumbled.
“Night.” Lance whispered back.
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talabib · 4 years
Text
How to Break Free From The 9 to 5 Grind And Find A More Meaningful Life.
What did you do last week? Was each day about getting up, going to work and coming home exhausted?
Is your house filled with gadgets and toys meant to distract you from the dreadfulness of those 50-, 60- or 70-hour work weeks?
In case you haven’t realized this for yourself, there’s little happiness to be found in devoting your life to a job that only provides you with a paycheck. And to make matters worse, the meaningless things we buy to make the job easier to cope with only serve to clutter up our lives and cause more anxieties and distractions.
As these post points out, it’s time to reprogram our minds and bodies away from the corporate culture of fast-food, disposable goods and instant gratification. With some simple techniques and a bit of effort, you can reclaim your life, declutter it of all that’s hollow and useless, and refill it with meaning and purpose.
Money and stressful jobs are not keys to happiness.
Many people grow up with the expectation that getting “a good job” is everything. From this perspective, true “success” is based on how good the job is – which is largely dependent upon the size of the paycheck. But the truth is: money doesn't buy happiness.
Even rich people will tell you that more money comes with more problems, including being so stressed that you resort to comfort eating, waste money on meaningless gadgets and constantly think about the future while never enjoying the present.
Success often comes at another great cost: very few hours to spend with loved ones. Hired help raises many children from families of success-oriented adults, just so their parents can spend more time earning money.
So, more often than not, the thing that money really buys is unhappiness. Ask yourself this: Is any stressful job worth having?
Ryan Nicodemus asked this question while working at what many would consider to be a great job. He was even on the rise, getting promoted to a managerial position, but the role came with 80-hour work weeks and huge amounts of responsibility and pressure. What it added up to was debilitating anxiety, stress and depression.
Nowadays, Nicodemus believes there is no amount of money to justify the toll a stressful job has on your mental health. However, when you’re wrapped up in the job-is-everything mentality, it feels like you always need to make more and more money.
Both Nicodemus and his friend, Joshua Fields Millburn, thought they would be happy once they hit $50,000 a year. But after reaching that milestone, the goal quickly crept up to $75,000, then $100,000 and so on. At no point did they feel satisfied.
Part of the reason for wanting more was that, as their paycheck grew, so did their financial commitments and responsibilities – in the form of loans, cars and mortgages. Eventually, enough was enough and they both quit their jobs and decided to live on less money.
It was at this point that Millburn and Nicodemus finally experienced happiness. All thanks to their decision to adopt a minimalist lifestyle of working and consuming less.
But as we’ll see, the minimalist ethos is about more than money and work; it’s about letting go of everything that holds you back.
To begin your shift to minimalism, pay off your debts and declutter your surroundings.
If you were to ask yourself “What are the anchors that are dragging me down?” the answer might not be readily apparent. But there’s a good chance that you have some form of debt, be it a mortgage, credit cards or student loans, that weighs heavily on your well-being.
That’s why the first and most crucial step to minimalist living is to pay off all your debts.
At some point, you may have been fooled by credit-card ads or a banker telling you to take advantage of a certain mortgage, but let’s be clear: there’s no such thing as “good debt.” All debt is bad, plain and simple.
As Joshua Milburn was preparing for a minimalist existence, he followed a strict budget and spent two years saving as much as he could to pay off his debts. This meant a hundred weeks of no vacations, no restaurants and no luxuries of any kind. But it was worth every minute for the relief he felt in finally paying off his debts. He was now free to live the life he wanted.
While you’re decluttering your finances, you should also turn your attention to reducing your material clutter.
First of all, it’s important to recognize that your possessions aren’t a meaningful statement about who you are as a person. Instead, you should ask yourself whether your belongings truly help you live in the present or if they prevent you from doing so.
For decades, Joshua Milburn’s mother had four sealed boxes in her home that she never opened. They contained every scrap of work John had brought home from elementary school, from handwriting tests to drawings.
Millburn understood that she was hoarding these things in an effort to hold on to her little boy, but the cherished and meaningful things in life aren’t objects, they’re our memories and relationships. This doesn’t mean you need to throw away everything, but Milburn’s mom could keep one meaningful drawing in a frame rather than four sealed-up boxes.
By decluttering, we not only give ourselves more physical breathing room, but we also provide more mental breathing room. Having objects everywhere vying for our attention can easily weigh us down mentally.
Minimalism is also about reducing the amount of junk you put into your body.
There’s no shortage of diets or fitness programs out there. In fact, the sheer amount can seem overwhelming. But you can avoid trendy diets and temporary fixes by reprogramming the way you think about your body.
From now on, think of it as a machine: when you give it high-quality fuel, you’ll allow it to perform at its maximum potential. With this frame of mind, it should seem obvious that junk food, like processed and prepackaged goods, should be avoided.
This kind of food is full of additives and preservatives that add zero nutritional value to your diet. All they provide are empty calories, especially sugar, which are terrible for your health. Sure, these foods may taste good in the moment, but they can often make you feel awful afterward. So any temporary pleasure is far outweighed by the long-term damage they can cause to both your physical health and your mood.
A good decluttering regimen should also include dairy and bread. We’ve been eating wheat and pasteurized milk for a relatively short period in human history – only since the invention of agriculture. Our bodies were never designed to digest the vast quantities of dairy and bread contained in the average modern diet.
So, whether you have a gluten or lactose intolerance or not, you can benefit from cutting back on these foods and replacing them with natural whole foods like vegetables, fish and beans. Once you’ve made this adjustment to your diet, you’ll soon find yourself with a surplus of energy. And this is a good thing to have for the next step: getting the most out of your body.
Fitness is something that works best when you have a constant growth mind-set, which means you’re always aiming for more than last time – whether it’s a faster running time, more repetitions or heavier weights.
To adopt this mind-set, you need to demand more from yourself. To help make this happen, you can reprogram your thinking away from “I should...” to “I MUST...”
Don’t tell yourself “I should go out jogging three times this week;” instead say “I MUST go for a run tomorrow at 8 a.m.” With some persistence, you can even make yourself accomplish new things.
Maybe you can’t do a single pull-up now, but you can probably hang from the bar for 30 seconds. So, do that and then tomorrow, hang for 40 seconds, and then continue doing more until you build up enough arm strength to do a pull-up.
Change and improvement don’t have to impact your authenticity; they can lead to better relationships.
Friends and loved ones are important. If you’re currently feeling isolated or unhappy with your relationships, it may be time for another round of reprogramming, this time to become more accepting of others as well as appearing more acceptable to others. The first step to making this happen is to have a willingness to change.
It’s hopeless to try and change other people – in fact, it’s cruel to even attempt to do so – but it is possible to improve yourself.
However, you may be resistant to the idea of change if you think that there’s nothing wrong with being your “authentic self.” But it’s important to take an honest look at your behavior and recognize when you’re doing something that upsets people or is a turnoff.
If you’re unhappy about being shy, a poor listener or overweight, don’t think “that’s who I am.” Instead, do something about it and be proactive in your self-improvement.
Changing yourself isn’t betraying your authenticity; it’s simply a way to attract better relationships. Would you rather be lonely or would you rather work on yourself so that you’re a better conversationalist and a more appealing person?
Another avenue toward self-improvement is to be more accepting of those with different opinions than your own.
Don’t think that you’re meant to find someone who thinks and shares the same opinions as you – this is just another fallacy. Relationships aren’t about hobbies and tastes; they’re about love, so you should accept that people are going to think differently than you.
If more people were open-minded about whom they hang out with, there would be far fewer lonely people in the world!
So, don’t just tolerate and accept your loved ones' peculiar habits; respect and appreciate them!
Let’s say your loved one has a hobby you find annoying, like collecting action figures. After all, isn’t a silly collection the opposite of minimalist living? Actually no, especially if they get a lot of meaning and pleasure out of that collection. So don’t deter them; understand that the collection enriches your partner’s life and therefore should be cherished as part of what makes them the person you love.
With this in mind, here are the four steps to help you better tolerate, accept, respect and appreciate the person you’re with:
Tolerate their unique hobby or passion;
Accept that it will always be there;
Respect the effort your partner puts into their pastime;
Appreciate the hobby as a part of your life because it is an important part of your loved one’s life.
Don't let work define you as a person.
Just as we saw the importance of breaking away from the idea that money and work are the most important things in life, so too should we avoid thinking that our jobs define us.
Think of it this way: You’re a complicated person with a variety of interests and talents, some of which make money, some of which cost money. So you’re far more than just your job. Nevertheless, it's easy to fall into the trap of letting your job title define you.
Many people will find a job in a certain industry and feel they should stick with that industry for the rest of their lives as if it's a part of who they are. But remember, a job is just a job. In fact, your job might even be an anchor that weighs you down.
Consider this: your job isn’t even one of the top five most important aspects of life. Those are: your health, your relationships, your passions, your personal growth, and your contribution to society.
These are the aspects of your life that make sense to measure yourself against, not your job title or how much money you make.
This is why you should avoid the annoying small-talk question of “So, what do you do?” This is often asked early on in a conversation as if it were the most important characteristic of someone’s life and not just a different way of asking, “So, how much money do you make?” Instead, why not ask them, “What are you into?” or “What are you passionate about?”
And if someone asks you, “What do you do?” you can redirect the conversation by saying something like “Oh, I do a lot of things, but my current passion is gardening. How about you?”
For more freedom, reduce your dependency on money.
One of the primary purposes behind minimalism is to spend less of your life working at a job. Naturally, this means finding ways to become less dependent on a big paycheck.
There are a number of ways to help with this, including learning how to make things yourself rather than buying them, and selling off the needless clutter in your home. But the next reprogramming you should learn is how to live on a small income.
The first step here is to create a monthly budget and stick to it. So start by making a list of needs, which includes all your fundamental household costs, such as food, pet food, gas, electricity, insurance and transportation. These are basic needs that have to be met, so there’s no getting around them.
Next, start a second list of wants, which might include categories like new clothes and entertainment. Now, at the start of each month, separate your extra money so that both of these categories are given a budget. And to make sure you don’t break the budget, you can separate them into different spending accounts.
Remember, every dollar in the budget should be accounted for. So, if you dip into the entertainment budget to buy new shoes, you’ll have to wait until next month to go out to that restaurant.
To reduce hard feelings and make things fair, get the entire household to agree on the budget. Since everyone has a say, there should be a feeling of mutual responsibility for making it work. For example, by making the kids part of the process, they’ll know not to bother trying to get extra money for video games when that money is being set aside for school supplies. But it’s still wise to set up a safety net.
Once you get yourself set up, you’ll find that it isn’t hard to live comfortably with less money, but that doesn’t mean life won’t surprise you with something unexpected, like an illness or the car breaking down.
This is why it’s smart and sensible to establish a safety net of at least $500 to $1,000 at first. You should not only do this as soon as possible, but you should also put the money in a place where it isn’t easy to spend.
Once you're out of debt, you can add to this safety net. And with your new found powers of budgeting, you’ll find that this fund can grow quite quickly.
Make life more rewarding and purposeful by taking on difficult work that contributes to society.
So you’ve cut all your anchors and are finally free from your dependencies. The only question now is: What are you going to do with your newfound freedom?
Sure, you have your new plans to get healthy, fit and friendly, but you won’t get far without a strong purpose in your life. And true purpose only comes from a meaningful life that allows you to actively contribute to society.
You might think that donating money to a charity means doing enough for society, but you can only have it be meaningful and purposeful if you’re directly involved.
What you’re sure to find is that the most rewarding activities are the ones that are the most challenging.
Some activities are easy, like reading in the park or swimming in the pool, and while easy activities are fun, they aren’t very purposeful.
Challenging activities, on the other hand, might make us feel uncomfortable while we’re in the middle of them, but afterward, they make us feel fantastic. This can include child rearing or running a marathon – there are a lot of difficulties involved, but the rewards make these efforts feel worthwhile, and they become the most significant experiences in our lives.
That’s why these are the kind of events we should seek and build our lives with, especially when we don’t just contribute to our lives but to society as a whole.
Fortunately, there is no shortage of charities looking for volunteers for this kind of meaningful work, whether it’s building affordable homes for the poor or turning vacant lots into community gardens. This is tough work, but it’ll be extremely rewarding when you’re looking back on it.
You can still make these tasks fun, too. If you’re building homes for the needy, there’s a good chance some days will be rainy or cold, and morale might take a dip, but you could rally together to sing songs. Or you could have an emergency supply of hot chocolate with marshmallows.
But unlike a cushy office job, where you may not even understand how your work contributes anything of value, this difficult work comes with a strong sense of purpose that will make your days a lot easier to get through – no matter how bad the conditions might get.
You are not your job, and you don’t need as much money as you think. You can restart your life by dispensing with all the “stuff’ you don’t need and the relationships that are dragging you down. Living simply will help you open up to and relish a more meaningful life.
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thosemeddlingducks · 3 years
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The Long Road Home 1
Fifteen years after the car accident that changed their lives and tore them apart, childhood friends and members of the Mighty Ducks peewee hockey team are finally coming home for the 20th anniversary of their championship win over the Saurians. Through twists and turns, unexpected stops along the way, and dead ends they paths have once more converged in their hometown of Isboro. This serendipitous intersection would change their paths forever.
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318952/chapters/66747010
Night had long fallen over Minneapolis when Will ‘Wildwing’ Flashblade wearily stumbled into his modest two-bedroom apartment. He let out a sigh and finally allowed the exhaustion that had been lingering on the edges of his control flow deep into his bones. Suddenly the false energy that had spurred him on through the workweek fled and his entire body felt like one big weight. He shed his rumpled suit jacket and neatly hung it up on its customary hook next to the front door. He dropped his keys in the little basket where his younger brother’s colorful keychain already sat. Relieved that he didn’t have to worry about his baby brother running around the city like the hooligan that he was. Wildwing wandered slowly into the kitchen where he grabbed himself a bottle of water and a piece of cold pizza from the bare bones of the fridge. He ate the pizza almost robotically, out of habit rather than because he was actually hungry. Once he finished his meager meal, he made his way into the living room where his little brother was passed out at an odd angle on their worn-out couch, the TV blaring nonsense, and lighting up the dark room with its eerie light. Wildwing shook his head fondly and quickly located the remote so he could change the channel and turn down the volume to a level that their sleeping neighbors would no doubt appreciate. He let the monotony of the news drone on in the background as he gazed down at the sleeping form of his baby brother.
Noah ‘Nosedive’ Flashblade was sprawled over the entirety of the couch, his long gangly limbs draped over the back and front of the couch so that he was practically spread eagle. His long golden hair was already a tangled mess from the typical shiftings and squirmings of Nosedive’s nightly routine. Wildwing felt a silent chuckle bubble up in his throat as he took in the almost childish way that his brother’s face was smushed into a couch pillow. His mouth was open and emitting a soft whistly sound but the most important thing was that he looked relaxed, peaceful. In a rare moment of nostalgia, Wildwing remembered nights like this when a young Nosedive would cuddle up next to him on the couch and they would watch reruns of famous hockey games. Nights like these had almost always ended in Nosedive’s face smushed uncomfortably into Wildwing’s side much like it was now. Wildwing reached down and brushed some wayward locks out of Nosedive’s face, and for a second his brother was 5 years old again. In a flash, he was once again staring at the face of a 23-year-old, not a child, but they were one and the same to Wildwing. Nosedive would always be his baby brother, his responsibility, his family.
Content with his memories, Wildwing moved over to the window and gazed out at the vast expanse of the city below and around them. Not for the first time, looking out the window and seeing dense buildings, asphalt and concrete felt… wrong. He shook off the strange feeling, but it lingered in the back of his mind, waiting for another time to strike. He ran a hand through his pale blonde hair and adjusted his glasses in a familiar nervous fidget that he had picked up in his childhood. His glasses were mostly for reading but he wore them constantly at work in an attempt to avoid the inevitable end-of-the-day headache that came from straining to read the small type on his computer every day. He could already feel that pounding sensation in his temples building up and with a sigh, he turned away from the window in pursuit of aspirin. Once he had dug the bottle out of their cluttered medicine cabinet Wildwing made his way back to the living room with the mission of persuading Nosedive to move his hibernation to the pit that was his room. For his own sanity, the anal-retentive man avoided ever entering his baby brother’s self-proclaimed ‘man cave’.
To his surprise, Nosedive was now sitting up on the couch, staring sleepily at a late-night cartoon that they had watched when they were kids. When Wildwing re-entered the room, Nosedive gave him a sleepy smile that quickly morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Wassup bro?” Nosedive asked through the yawn, pulling a small chuckle from his reserved brother. “You just getting in?” He glanced at the clock and then fixed his older brother with a knowing look when he realized how late it was.
“Yeah.” Wildwing rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “It was a long day. But I’m headed for the sack you should be too. Don’t you have flying lessons in the morning?”
He fixed Nosedive with his patented ‘older brother’ look and held out a hand to help leverage his baby brother off the couch. Reluctantly Nosedive took his offered hand and allowed himself to be shepherded to his bedroom. He paused at the door and looked back at his older brother. Wildwing was tall and broad-chested where Nosedive was slim, his hair was so pale it was almost white where Nosedive had long golden locks. If it weren’t for the shared golden color of their eyes it would be hard to tell that they were related. Wildwing had always been reserved and responsible, which had allowed nosedive’s wacky and often reckless personality to flourish. Looking at his brother now, Nosedive realized that it had been far too long since he saw the spark that used to live in his eyes. To be frank, his brother looked drained in every sense of the word. Wildwing was a shell of himself.
“Yo bro?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silent staring contest that had lingered in the hallway between them. “You okay man? You don’t look so hot.”
His question seemed to stop Wildwing in his tracks as he considered the question for a few minutes before answering with a heavy sigh and a little shrug. “I’m just tired Dive, no need to worry. I’ll be fine after I get some rest.” With that, he disappeared into his room and the door clicked shut softly behind him. Nosedive lingered in his doorway for another minute, staring at the closed door across the hall and thinking. He snapped his fingers as an idea hit him and he hurried into his room to dig up his old contacts. His brother needed a vacation and he was gonna make that happen. After all, what were little brothers for?
As the Flashblade brothers settled down to sleep, the heavy clouds that had been lingering over the Twin Cities for days released a flurry of delicate little snowflakes onto the city, blanketing the world in a layer of pure snow.
-
The snowfall was light by the time the last bus rolled into Minneapolis and the lone passenger stepped off and onto solid ground. His boots were expensive yet solid and worn and his equally valuable martin overcoat fit his muscular form in the way that only tailored clothing could. Slung over his broad shoulder was a ratty duffel bag that contained his every possession in the world. The only part of his body that was exposed to the growing winter storm was his face, and he adjusted the high collar of his overcoat in an attempt to protect himself from the biting cold of the innocent snowflakes. The man-made his way over to the main building and hurried into the meager warmth that the indoors provided. In the harsh lights of the station the man’s rich umber skin looked a little washed out and his tired dark eyes searched the abandoned station for somewhere to rest. When he caught sight of a cushioned bench squished in between two vending machines, he felt a flooding relief that was extravagant for such a modest couch. With his target acquired, Duke L’Orange sauntered over time the ticket desk where the late-night worker was reading a nondescript romance novel. He weaved through the maze of empty metal barriers, his wet boots squeaking on the tile floor, feeling more and more ridiculous with each passing second. When he reached the desk he took a deep breath, set his ratty bag out of view, and hoped that he didn’t look too bedraggled.
“Scuse me.” He drawled, and the minute the woman looked up he hit her with his most charming and non-threatening smile. Such a smile was equally difficult and easy for an experienced thief like Duke to pull off. It was hard because the long scar that cut through the left side of his upper and lower lip often gave the impression of danger, but the expression came to him like second nature. Despite this slight disadvantage Duke skillfully used his suave good looks and practiced charm on the poor woman.
“I have an early bus tomorrow morning. Would it be alright if I rested here for a while?” He asked, actively suppressing his thick Brooklyn accent to appear innocent. The woman looked him up and down, obviously taking in his expensive clothes and good looks before deciding that he wasn’t homeless and was therefore allowed to sleep in her station. Her stony expression turned to something closer to a slight smile and she gestured to the cushioned seats that he had been eyeing.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Duke winked at her and then strode over to the bench, this time avoiding the metal maze. He gratefully collapsed into the worn cushions and congratulated himself on his impeccable flirtation despite how insanely rusty and old he had felt the whole time. The now blushing woman returned to her book and Duke was left to his own thoughts in the peace and quiet of the empty station. He positioned himself on the bench so that he was watching the snow flurry uncontrollably, practically dancing about.
It was refreshing to see the world from a window that didn’t have bars on it. To be free to walk out into the snow and truly experience the world rather than the disappointing taste that was yard time. Sure he had technically been outside, but he had still been trapped. Five long years he had sat in a cell and contemplated what he missed about the world, what he missed about living. Sure he had enjoyed being one of the most notorious jewel thieves in the world, the life had been glamorous, fast-paced, and… empty. At the end of the line, he had been alone in that court room. His ‘Brotherhood’ had left him to rot in jail like a common cat burglar. It was cliche, but the experience of being arrested and imprisoned had changed him. The time had reawakened something in him that he had thought long dead, a piece of his childhood had taken root and flourished in the five years that he dwelled on it. It had taken him a whole year in the hole, getting into fights and generally raging at his circumstances before he realized that the change had taken root inside of him. His anger faded just as quickly as it arose and he spent days just remembering what life had been like in the small town of Isboro, sitting on his bunk and wishing that he could go back in time and change the course of his life. It wasn’t until a couple of days later when he was sulking in solitary for what felt like the millionth time, nursing a black eye and a split lip, that he realized that he didn’t have to go back to change the course of his life.
From that day on he had been a model prisoner, his gaze firmly fixed on the day that he would get out of that hellhole and head straight for his icy paradise. Just two days ago he had walked away from Rikers Island with only the clothes on his back and a small rucksack of his belongings that some faceless girlfriend had handed over to the cops after they had raided his apartment. What money he had left in the world he had used to book a bus ticket back to Minnesota. He had been determined to leave his dark past in New York and start fresh back in the one place that he had been truly happy.
Duke settled back into the scratchy cushions of the couch and let his eyes slowly drift closed. He may have next to nothing, no way to get to Isboro apart from his own two feet, and no idea what of his idyllic hometown would be the same when he got there... but he was on his way.
-
Coming home to Isboro hadn't always been… awkward for Mallory McMallard. At one time she had loved coming back to the sleepy little town nestled in the thick forests of Minnesota. She remembered very vividly coming home from her first tour of duty and finding relief and peace in those wide-open spaces. She had savored the quiet and the simplicity of the small town and it had become a place of rest and recovery before she was once more itching to get back into the service. It wasn’t until now, after her third and longest tour of duty that she felt imprisoned in Isboro. Suddenly she felt vulnerable out in those wide-open spaces. Everywhere she looked people were greeting her, touching her, getting too close.
MUCH too close.
She had been out shopping with her mother exactly once since she had come home. It was their little ritual and one of Mallory’s favorite pastimes and she had been looking forward to it. She had been filled with that familiar happy bubbly sensation for the entire drive, but the moment she stepped out of the car things had gone downhill. The slam of her mom’s car door had made her jump with a sudden jolt of fear and she found herself pressing up against the vehicle, her green eyes frantically searching the busy main street for attackers. Her chest constricted and she opened her mouth to gasp for breath when she felt a warm, familiar hand on her arm. She jerked sideways, stumbling away from her mom who was looking at her with concern, her hand outstretched where Mallory had stood only moments before.
“Mally girl? You okay hun?” Her mom’s voice cut through her paranoia and suddenly Mallory realized that she was in her hometown not in an active combat zone. She was safe here. Mallory stood up, straightening her favorite maroon jacket that she had slipped over her favorite green crop top. She felt herself calming down but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling she was in danger. She gave her mom a shaky smile that was meant to comfort her but she could see the lingering concern in her mother’s slightly wrinkled face.
“Fine mom.” She forced out and linked her arm with her mother’s so she could lead her towards their favorite boutique: The Ugly Duckling. Once they were surrounded by clothes, jewelry, and makeup Mallory felt that weird tension in her body fading away. She was browsing some tops when a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind in a tight hug. Mallory immediately went into attack mode and she grabbed the arms around her with a bruising grip, digging her nails in until she heard a pained gasp and the arms let her go. Mallory immediately spun around and swept her leg out as she fell into a crouch. A body fell to the floor in front of her but she didn’t even register who it was as she scrambled back to a dressing room and scrambled for a weapon. She settled for a coat-hanger that she fit between her fingers as she pressed herself against the corner of the dressing room and tried to think over the cacophony in her mind.
Mallory felt her chest tightening in panic and she jerked violently against the changing room wall when someone started banging on the door. She tightened her grip on the coat-hanger and slid down until she was crouching on the floor, panting wildly and staring at a changing room door without even really seeing it. Her mind supplied the gunfire and explosions to the dressing room and Mallory squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to drown out the noise and focus. For a few more seconds that felt like an eternity, she focussed on the darkness of her inner eyelids and the pressure on her chest slowly began to fade, taking with it the sounds of gunfire and leaving behind the sound of frantic knocking on the door.
She slowly opened her eyes and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror that took up one side of the wall. Mallory was shocked at what she saw. The young woman staring back at her looked haggard and scared, clutching a freaking clothes-hanger like it would protect her from anything. She let her ‘weapon’ drop and rubbed her aching fingers. She had been holding it so tightly that her fingers echoed with the pain of her white-knuckle grip. She ran a hand through her sweat-damp red locks and shakily got to her feet, shuffling towards the door so that she could unlock it.
She came face to face with her frantic mother, a concerned shop owner, and a frightened-looking girl that she vaguely remembered from high school. Ignoring their onslaught of questions she all but collapsed into her mother’s arms.
“Can we go home, mom?” She asked quietly, speaking into her mother’s greying hair and basking in the familiar embrace of her mom.
She hadn’t really left the house since then.
And here Mallory sat, decked out in her ultimate comfort-wear. She was wearing her fluffiest robe, her favorite slippers, and her red hair was wrapped up in a towel. She was perched on her childhood bed, painting her nails as she waited for her face mask to finish its work at relaxing her. In the background, she had Clueless playing. Despite all of this, she was still restless, unable to fully relax and feel at home.
She glanced out of her window and watched as a light dusting of snow drifted down to coat the town of Isboro in its white blanket. She let the gentle dance mesmerize her and a tentative calm washed over her. Her eyes grew heavy and she barely had time to turn off her bedside lamp before she was overtaken by sleep.
-
The peaceful silence of one of Isboro’s many culdesacs was broken rather unceremoniously by the slam of a car door and a few whispered curses as Tanya Vanderflock wrestled her overflowing messenger bag out of her car and onto her coat-clad shoulder. She let out a little huff at the extra weight of the bag before diving back into her Subaru to retrieve a haphazard stack of papers, notebooks, and folders. Clutching the precious mess to her ample chest, Tanya closed her car door with her hip and used her one free finger to lock the little car. She carefully made her way up her driveway and front steps, self-consciously looking down at the ground in an attempt to avoid slipping in the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. The storm was growing thicker with her every step and she shuffled faster when she saw that the snowflakes were beginning to dampen her papers.
Tanya finally made it under the cover of her modest porch and took a second to let out a frustrated huff of breath before deciding to brave the chaos of her purse in search of her house keys. It was slow going as her increasingly numb fingers fished around in a sea of receipts, pens, gum, allergy medications, and about a million different chapstick flavors. She cursed colorfully again, this time slipping into Russian, and her pale face screwed up in frustration as her searching became more aggressive. After what felt like an eternity in which she had yet to find her keys, her front door yanked open to reveal her younger sister Leona, clad in her winter pajamas, a face mask, and bunny slippers. She was clutching a cup of cocoa and for a moment the two just stared at each other, Leona in judgment and Tanya in exasperation.
“Well, are ya gonna, ya know, help me?” Tanya finally broke the silence between them. Leona merely rolled her eyes and awkwardly snatched Tanya’s purse from where it was dangling on her arm. Tanya rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be ushered into her own home by her much younger sister who was living in her basement.
After making sure she was relatively clear of snow, Tanya abandoned her boots and the door and slid over to her kitchen table in crazy sock-clad feet. Today she had been assigned one frog sock and one hot dog sock. She abandoned her pile on the kitchen table and tossed her messenger bag into a chair with less care now that she was indoors. She made her way into the kitchen where Leona was waiting with a mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows identical to the mug she cradled gingerly in her own hands. She watched as Tanya awkwardly struggled to unzip and she’d her puffy purple winter jacket, her face straining as she held back laughter. When she was finally free of the purple marshmallow Tanya tossed it over a barstool. She snatched up her waiting cocoa and cuddled the warm mug close as she took a tentative sip. The two leaned against the kitchen counter for a while, just enjoying the comforting drink as Tanya recovered from the bone-deep chill of a Minnesota winter.
The two painted an interesting picture in the modest kitchen of Tanya’s house. Tanya was tall and curvaceous with pale skin and golden curls that she piled on top of her head. Her curly mop had evolved over the years until she had gotten tired of it and had shaved the sides and back of her head so that her curls balanced precariously on the top of her head, occasionally spilling over in an attractive, if not slightly messy, style. Tanya wore her signature purple round-framed glasses over her blue-grey eyes. She looked every bit of her Russian heritage personified.
Across from her, Leona was petite with honeyed skin and dark hair that fell in long strands over her shoulders and down her back. Her brown eyes remained uncovered and frustratingly (for Tanya) perfect. Leona was a complete anomaly in the family of tan blondes but the moment she had been brought home by the Vanderflock parents at 3 years old, she had somehow fit perfectly. Though they didn’t share blood, Tanya and Leona had developed a kind of unbreakable bond unique to sisters. It was through this bond that they were able to exchange a silent conversation right there in the kitchen.
‘You’re home late’ Leona said with a raised eyebrow and slightly pursed lips.
‘There’s not enough time in the day’ Tanya replied with a heavy sigh and a slight slumping of her shoulders. Leona chose to remain silent and took the rare opportunity to observe her older sister when she was still. Tanya was usually running around doing one thing or another at home and work so it was often hard to get her to stand still long enough for Leona to get a read on her. Now, however, she could see the lines of exhaustion etched into her sister’s face. They were deep and Leona frowned her concern at her sister.
‘You okay?’ She asked with a slight frown and a deep furrow of her brow.
“I’m fine.” Tanya broke their silence with a wave of her hand and a yawn, “I’m just, ya know, tired is all.”
Frustrated with the brush off, but unwilling to push Tanya, Leona stubbornly stared down at the chocolate depths in her mug, hoping that it held the answer of how to help her sister. The hot cocoa stared back, silent, and unhelpful.
“Is he asleep?” Tanya asked after a long drink of cocoa. Leona shrugged and copied her long sip with an even longer one.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tanya huffed grumpily, unconsciously popping her curvy hip to one side and resting one long-fingered hand on it. Leona rolled her eyes at the familiar pose and grinned into her hot chocolate.
“It means that I put him to bed a couple of hours ago but I can’t guarantee that he’s asleep.” She said sassily and pushed away from the counter and headed back to the living room where her nest of blankets sat waiting in front of the TV, which flashed with the colorful opening credits to yet another Disney movie. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Tanya exit the kitchen a few seconds later, sans mug, and head for the stairs.
“Night.” She called distractedly, not even tearing her eyes away from the screen in front of her.
Tanya rolled her eyes at Leona’s blanket-covered form but her smile gave away her lack of real annoyance. She called back her goodnight and trudged up the stairs with what little energy she had left in her body. She walked quietly down the narrow hall until she reached the door at the end of the hall. It was covered in stickers and hand-drawn signs claiming that a TOP SECRET lab lay beyond the door. Tanya felt a tired but fond smile spread over her face, softening it. She slowly and quietly opened the door to reveal the cluttered bedroom of her four-year-old son.
She picked her way through the mess of toys on the floor and over to the Spaceship bunk bed that she and her father had spent hours assembling. She rested her arms on the railing that came to about her chest and leaned on it. The blanket covered form let out an excited wiggle and an exaggerated snore that she was very familiar with.
“Buzz....” she sighed fondly and grabbed the bundle of blankets, pulling it down to reveal the grinning face of her little boy. His usually spiked blonde hair lay flat on his head and his blue-green eyes squinted at her from his cherubic, glasses-less face. She gave him an unimpressed grin and he sat immediately sat up and wrapped his little arms around her neck like a koala bear.
“Mommy!” He cried out excitedly and Tanya couldn’t help but hug him back. When he finally pulled away she fixed him with her best interrogation look.
“We’re you good for Aunty Leona?” She asked and received an equally serious little nod in reply.
“Then why are you, ya know, still awake?” She fired back, but instead of looking contrite another bright, innocent smile broke out on his face.
“I was waiting for you, Mommy.” And just like that Tanya was defeated. Her heart melted and she laid him back down in bed, running her long fingers gently through his hair in a soothing motion.
“Well, that was very no- nob- sweet of you honey.” She stuttered slightly as her throat closed up with emotion, “But you need your sleep for ice skating lessons tomorrow.”
She smiled when she saw Buzz’s eyelids drooping sleepily as he held back a stubborn yawn. The yawn broke free of his hold and g he e tried to talk through it, resulting in an almost unintelligible protest.
“But I’m not tired.”
Tanya chuckled good-naturedly and kept running her fingers through his hair. Buzz pouted adorably and nuzzled his face into her arm.
“Can I have a story?” He mumbled against her skin.
Tanya could tell that he was already mostly asleep but she decided to indulge him nonetheless. “What do you want to hear tonight?”
“Mighty Ducks.” He crowed out sleepily and Tanya let out a full belly laugh at that.
“But you hear about them almost every night. Are you sure?” She watched as her son nodded vigorously and looked up at her with those big pleading eyes.
“All right.” The minute she gave in he burrowed further under his warm blankets and peered up at her from the depth of his big fluffy pillow.
“Once upon a time there was a hockey team in Isboro called the Mighty Ducks. They were the best team of them all... because they were a family.”
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secretsantasides · 4 years
Text
Gift #7: Wishception
Gift for @pessimisticvirtuoso​
Request:  Soulmate AU with Analogical
Warning: this is ANGSTY as requested. There is some abandonment, internalised homophobia, self-hatred, manipulation (implied), emotional abuse (implied), financial struggle/poverty, panic, bad endings, injury/burning, intolerance, one-sided love, ambiguous soulmates, mentions of sex and nudity (nothing graphic), crying, ematophobia, insomnia, toxic relationships.
Roommates.
she/her and it/its pronouns are used for mentioned (side)characters. Everyone is either a cis male or an AMAB.
''That is 3.25, please'', the barista spoke as he rung the cash register and accepted the money that was pushed towards his hand. He took the bill and quickly grabbed the fitting change so the transaction would finally be over with.
Once he gave the money back, the coffee was already made by one of his co-workers and he received the cup. He handed it over to the costumer.
Polite words were exchanged and Virgil nodded with a service smile on his lips.
Empty, rosy, void of emotions.  
He brushed his fingers through his purple hair and sighed. He turned away from the register and faced the inside of his work place.
The coffee machine was cleaning itself in-between and his colleague was running a rag over a few wet stains around the sink. The metal cover was supposed to be shining and gleaming in the low lights of the small cafe.
Technically, the small space was supposed to feel homely and safe. The narrow space saved money and brought people together, made them socialise and feel at home—a place where it was common to share space, bump into one another and just be close to other people. All Virgil saw was people forced together, made to interact with personal space being a rare commodity—something Virgil had so little of and wanted more than anything.
The dim lighting was supposed to be inviting instead of sleep-inducing.
The sweet smell was supposed to sugar-coat the pressure of passing time and encourage customers to shove more empty calories down their throat.
Dark furniture and opaque, warm colours welcomed and embraced but Virgil just felt repelled. He didn’t deserve to be embraced—and he obviously wasn’t ready to be comforted or loved.
He was not worth the auburn couches, the warm blankets or the colourful pillows. Virgil had never done anything to earn the feeling of warm tea easing the pain in his shaking fingers. He did not qualify to smell the spicy sweet scent of a drink made for him in exchange for money he didn’t have.
 He prepared to rush out on a quick smoke break but at the ringing of a bell, he looked up from his shoes.
The door had opened.
 The door swung shut, letting a weak blast of icy air that cut into the warm room. 
It was so hot.
Virgil’s counter was too far back to let him smell the snow, the cold or the fresh oxygen but he could see some guests shiver for a moment, their noses powdered with the sweet frost of outside.
It might have been cold and it might have been cruel, but at least it wasn’t a trap for idiots. 
 He dragged himself back to the register, his heavy black and brown boots made his steps heavy, and he tried to hide his infinite disappointment with a forced smile.
A man with dark blonde and chaotic curls approached his sacred space.
 Virgil has his lip ring pulled into his mouth where he could chew on it, and he to the inside of his lips until it was sucked in enough for his teeth to play with it.
He immediately let go, his teeth releasing the Titan and letting the opened ring snap back into place. Right now, talking had a priority over nervously biting his discomfort into unresponsive metal.
 ''Good day, Sir, may I take your order?'' his usual greeting came out a little flat.
Virgil had bags under his eyes darker than the eyeliner he had used in an attempt to make his eyes pop and look a little lessdead. After all, experience had shown that the tip jar usually ended up more filled whenever he had some makeup on.
 It was a superficial, judgmental world.
 The blond curly mess shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. The black eyewear framed his tired, dark-yet-soulful steel eyes like portraits as he returned Virgil's exhausted stare.
The pale skin under his ocean eyes was darkened, and his lips were a faint rose colour. Virgil spotted a few faint freckles, barely darker than the skin of the new costumer's face.
 Typical nerd.
 The guest spoke up, his voice somewhat deep.
Something about it reminded him of a curious dog experiencing new territories and strange smells, tail between his legs and ready to run at the first sign of trouble.
 Weird.
But who was he to judge? He had piercings in his face and wore makeup--despite being a guy. He was lucky he got a job in the first place and nobody called him a fag or tried to beat him up or deprive him of his salary.
He was lucky. He even had a scholarship.
Maybe he was weird. 
Yes, he had to be the weird one and he still dared to be a prick and judge others despite being the one who should change to be less embarrassing. 
 ''Good day. Double iced coffee. Dark, please.''
 The order was quick and straightforward. It felt classic and oddly fitting despite out of place quirkiness of the person before him.
 He nodded and turned to make the coffee at the machine. His skin, looking as if it had been made of olive oil and fresh baked baguette, showed as he pushed his sleeves up enough to have his fingers show. 
The tall man let his right curl around a big  plastic cup and he shoveled crushed ice into the big container before he pushed it under the machine.
He punched in the order so theclueless technology would do its part of the work. Saved him the trouble of doing a more active job.
He really did not like to work. 
 His upper lip pushed over the lower one and his teeth graced over his two lip piercings. This time, there were no favourites as the black plated metal  was pulled between his teeth and he caught the titan, then let it go just to latch his teeth onto the half-rings as well and pull at them so much that his pierced through skin nearly hurt with physical abuse.
 The black balls of his piercings scraped the insides of his upper teeth as he released the jewellery.
 His sun-kissed skin seemed even darker in the dim light of the cafe. He turned back to Logan and quickly dialed some buttons before the cash register ringed again.
 ''Three, on the point'', Virgil declared and the guest got out his purse to pay the right amount.
It took him only some moments to get out a ten and hand it over to the barista.
For a moment, Virgil actually looked over at the guest, really making eye contact for more than a fleeting second. Metal and mahagony met. 
 The world was standing still and the lights around them seemed just bright enough to illuminate one another completely. They were exposed with flaws and abilities, with pain and joy and resistance.
Hearts. Beating and growing together. Their minds seemed to intertwine in a soulful hug, invisible to the eye yet very much tangible for their hearts.
Time was not running anymore. The colours and sounds around them faded in favour of showing their own true colours and reveal every sound they could and would make.
 Logan felt his answer get stuck in his throat and he instinctively put his wallet away. 
He was ready to abscond.
Never had he once believed in the idiocy that was surrounding the myth of people being chosen to belong together. Not once in his life did he even consider the name on his arm to be of any more meaning but a reference to epic literature.
 Virgil Prafure.
 It was an odd name. Strange, rare. So provocative. He had suspected the person to be from another country but he could not tell. The person before him seemed just as mysterious as the letters tattooed into his skin.
But was this a coincidence? Was this really a connection and did he really feel the other's feelings and could he hear his heart beating like he could feel his own organ burst in tired energy. 
 Was he just an exhausted fool who had been forced into a marathon of Disney films alike?
Stay tuned because Mister Science will find out.
 ''Keep the change'', he spoke quickly.
 Virgil nodded, mind absent and gears turning.
Their eyes were still locked and their hands moved on their own. Money was put away into the usual spots and clamped into the register. Fingers rubbed over the seven bucks in his hands and the worker nodded again. His dry mouth swallowed down his questions and he turned to put the money into the near empty tip jar.
 Was it really just the eyeliner? It felt like more, there was more between them. There was more in him.
Well, whatever it was, his heart did not like it. But that might have been nothing but the missing nicotine and the counter action that had been an extra shot of caffeine in his early morning cup. Yeah, that had to be it. 
Or maybe it was no more but the caffeine slashing into his empty stomach instead of even a little bit of food. All he had eaten in the past four (going on five) days was a few leaves of fresh basil they had at home. He remembered the look of fire and disapproval his girlfriend had given him when he had made breakfast and dared to lay the table with a second plate.
A common mistake.
She had given him the sweet, sweet lecture. She was so patient with him, even after weeks and months of dating, she was still ready to let him off the hook easy instead of punishing him like he would deserve to. He knew he was too fat and she constantly reminded him of it whenever they met, when they hugged and when they made love. She would squeeze his upper arms, she would give his stomach a pat and let out these elongated vocalisations when he would join her for cuddles or dared slipping into her lap.
He was lucky she was so good with him, helped him vomit when he had eaten without explicit permission. He could basically feel her hand sliding down the curve of his back when he hunched over the toilet and hugged the seat for stability in his dizzy spells. She was always there for him.
He was lucky with her by his side, literally and figuratively.
 There was nothing going on. There was no magic no shit no nothing and the only lingering voice he certainly heard in his mind was the echo of the coffee machine groaning and people chattering so loudly, he wanted to rip his ears off.
He needed to sleep but he had a project due and he needed to beg his professor for an extension. Again. This idiot would lose his scholarship like this. Then all he could be able to do was drop out of schooling and life for good.
 Virgil could not afford fucking voices and magic. He needed to work and earn his rent and get his shit done and make his love happy because she really wanted something nice for Valentine's Day and he was the luckiest loser to have her around still despite being in debt and missing his due dates on a daily.
He had taken extra shifts because his shitty job did not give any Christmas pay like other workers enjoyed. He was basically working full-time yet he was treated like an intern.
She had been so upset when he had been able to merely afford a little house party with her friends and work colleagues for her birthday. She had cried for hours and he had ended up on the couch he had exchanged for another wave of debt just to make her happy. The door had been locked and only when he negotiated getting her an extra gift instead of his trashy art, she was happy.
Just more debt. He could not tell her that he would need to stop paying the bills if she wanted another present. But he could also not tell her how much money and how many hours he had invested in the painting he he had made for her. Even his art professor had been pleased. Virgil had considered giving him the painting instead or use it for his portfolio or promotion but he had been too late. When he had been back with a real gift, something paid rather than self-made, she had already sold his work for a few bills and gotten herself a big lunch.
When he had cried about that, he had lost his food all at once without her helping out (which was a shame ,considering the party had been a rare occasion of him receiving some snacks).
 ''Thanks''.
 Suddenly, Logan's voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Maybe he had and he just forgot. All kinds of things happened. He wouldn't be surprised. There were so many thing he had never heard of, so many incredible possibilities he did not know about-
 But honestly, right now he just did not know. Anything.
 And it scared him.
 The barista nodded again and turned his attention back to the coffee after his tip jar was filled up with an additional bit of money.
He swiftly finished the order, his shaking somewhat alternating between being its worst and also completely gone at the same time.
 And then, everything seemed to happen at the same time.
 His co-worker was back from his what? Piss break? He returned and made himself some hot tea and poured it into a cup while Virgil retrieved the iced coffee and got a straw and lid ready. 
He put the things together and was done building the order. His hands shoved the business away from him and at the same moment, Logan extended his hands.
 Now, what did the Braniac think and why was this important?
 Well, whether soulmates existed or not was easily answered. He had seen his parents and his friends fall in love and bond for years and decades, side by side. 
He had witnessed it, he had researched it but he knew that soulmates could go wrong. People whose souls were connected could hate each other, they could be in love like friends or be strangers to one another-
Sometimes, most times, though, they were each other's love of their life.
 Some more research he had done had revealed that there were no records of his soulmate online. 
On another note, he had just expected that maybe, just maybe, his soulmate had changed names because of adoption. Or maybe it was a dead name, perhaps they needed to change it for their own security.
In the times of social media, everyone had a profile on one of these many platforms. 
 But one of the most important things he had learned was that soulmates had different soulmarks. While his was the name of his mate, there were several other soulmarks and indicators to show that you belonged together, as per usual, people who belonged together had the same kind of soulmark in a very similar spot.
 While Logan had the feeling settled in his guts that Virgil was the person his mark referred to, there was just one solid way to prove his thesis.
He needed to see his arm. Arms, actually. It would be the safest to check out both sides just to make sure he did not miss anything.
 With this train of thought, Logan did not particularly reach out for the cold cup before him but he as much as rammed his hand into the plastic container. 
Cold, brown bean juice spilled over his and the barista's hands. Crushed ice pieces flew all over the counter and in an attempt at saving himself, Virgil reflexively moved backwards without letting his eyes move from the scene before him.
 His back bumped into his co-workers, but it was not just about bumping into him and nearly falling to the floor. 
No.
No, of course not because Virgil's life was a fucking nightmare. Everything was against him and he felt just how much life was against his wretched ass when near-boiling coffee soaked into his long, black sleeves and the wet fabric immediately stuck to his skin.
The heat bit into his flesh, eating away at his arm with boiling temperatures. It was an unbearable pain, close to the feeling of being impaled with more and more white hot anger piercing through any layer of his skin.
 ''Fuck!!'', he yelled out in surprise.
His face distorted into a mask of anguish and disgust as his glance wandered over the steam that rose from his soaked shirt. 
 ''Virgil, take it off!'', his colleague screeched and pulled him over to the sick. The tap was turned on and cool water started running over his covered arm.
The punk sighed in relief but he felt it was not over.
 Tears were pricking at his eyes and he could feel his heart thumping so violently it felt like the muscle was trying to escape his rib cage for good.
It reminded him of his landlord after he failed to pay rent on time for a first. He had been banging against the door so much, he had feared for the wooden plank to finally give in, tired of protecting the cowardice of his actions.If the door has had any soul, it was beaten to death until now. Other than that, he was convinced that not even a soulless piece of dead tree would stand up for him. In that seemingly infinite moment, the door had saved his life. It was still his lifeline, the protective barrier between him and the rest of the world with its society of strict, judgmental eyes. 
 Virgil's eyes were glossy from the tears he held back. All his impulse control had left was the hope of relief from the hot burning pain. The cool water soaking into his shirt made his pain somewhat more bearable but at this point, it all felt dull and the pain was seated deeper than just on his arm. It was deeply buried within him. It seemed as if it wrapped around his bones. Maybe it was just an invisible idea of pain that tripped into the space of his arm.
Was it even his arm anymore?
He did not know, he did not know anything.
All he knew and felt was the pain and the rush and the horrible panic his mind limited itself to. If his thinking was a community, it shut itself down and put barricades up just to have a safe space to frantically run up and down the streets while emitting deafening screams of despair.
Huh, even his mental images of his mind seemed gruesome.
 ''Fuck'', he cursed again, his lips unstoppable.
With his mind on lock-down, he at least did not have the psychic capacity to wonder about what other people thought or what they would feel about his shit. Heavens, right now, he did not even consider whether he could lose his job over all this because his reason was closed down for the season of emergency.
Alarms were started like fires in his neurological connections. It felt as if even his brain was on actual fire.
''Fuck'', he choked again. It was the most expressive his mind could be when voicing his well-being. Not that there was too much well-being to really talk about. Actually, there was very much none of it. ''Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Why.''
 His voice was a silent hiss competing the continuous sound of numbing water running down his arm.
 He heard someone tell him to take off his clothing, and orders and such were shot around the room like loose bullets during an inexperienced heist that got out of control way too fast.
 His mind was reeling.
Slowly, the panic of pain dissolved only to merge into a new hysteria.
The intense stinging and biting was so old, so many seconds ago that his heart was spitting on the whole ado and spitefully rammed against his rib cage. Maybe he was wrong about that but it seemed like his heart beating so vengefully made his lungs hurt.
His breathing felt so flat and so... so empty.. No air was really arriving, not any efficient one anyway. It was thin and used and did not give him enough respiration.
 Nice.
This was just short of another tragedy to make this day an even better disaster, honestly.
 Lucky enough for him, the gracious hero of all, the panicking man who had caused the whole scene, was by his side by now and cutting the sleeve open.
 Fuck, his lap had been attacked too but it was minor and frankly, he had been a really lucky bastard to wear pants that did not really absorb too much water. The apron that covered his torso down to the middle of his thighs with its tight fabric probably did the trick as well.
Maybe that part of his body would not get fucked up. It did not really hurt but maybe that was the adrenaline. Or the pure focus on his burned arm.
 Wow, maybe he had actually been lucky. If you could call one lucky circumstance in a horrible situation within the most horrible life to be an actually lucky thing. Perhaps it was just prolonging the inevitable horror of his existence.
He did not know.
His mind was still too busy steaming to consider all of this shit.
Huh, steaming. Very funny.
 The person next to him said something and carefully pulled the cut through sweat shirt sleeve away.
That was his only piece of clothing his manager had not shot down for this work place. He did not know whether he could afford another one and his paycheck was so far away.
 ''s-stop'', he breathed out and pulled his arm away.
How did he have the lung capacity to talk? He did not know but today was full of shitty miracles so maybe that was just adding up.
''I - I have work''.
 The person was taken aback and suddenly his co-worker rushed back in. When did anyone leave?
''I called the manager! We will get someone to cover for you. The ambulance is on the way.''
 The punk felt his breathing stop.
Stop. Pause. Put on break and twisted backwards.
 Say what now?
 The empty face of his co-worker shushed the guest away to no avail. Virgil felt himself being tugged over to the break room behind the doors that had this typical ''employees only" sign. It was so cliche but it was also so necessary.
Stupid people, stupid rules.
But rules could be nice and protecting sometimes.
 The punk kept blabbering about something to do with work.
He needed to go back.
Had he not heard the bell? Had he not seen a new costumer?
He had to make money, he had to get tips. He needed to get his order done. Oh, and he had crushed his co-workers coffee. He would hate him now. Virgil fucked up again. 
  He always did.
 He had fucked up. Fucked up. 
 He had fucked up. He always fucked up, fucked up fucked up fuckedup.
  ''Breathe, Virgil'', a voice instructed him.
 Who?
 The world around him seemed so blurry and his body seemed so far away. Everything was out of focus and so strange and somewhat it was darker and lighter than usual. His environment did not look like that. Why did objects stick out so much and how could he still not tell what they were when it seemed so clear, it kind of became razor blurry again.
 ''I-I can't. I have work, I have courses'', he whimpered in desperation.
His voice was so thin. So thin, like his wrists were thin.
If his voice had bones, they would be clearly visible whenever he used it. Audible? His mind did not make any sense anymore.
 ''I have a deadline'', he repeated, his mind blanking as the realisation hit him.
His shift was nearly over and he needed to go to his professor and beg for time and another try. He was about to fail, he could not drop out. This degree was nearly complete and he could not afford fucking this up. His scholarship was the only thing that made life bearable.
His girlfriend would give him so much shit for this. He was a loser and she would finally lose hope in him and leave him because he could not provide for he because he sucked and he was unstable and useless.
He was the real burden, not her being unemployed because of workplace discrimination.
Who discriminated against her again? They.. they were both white cis people- What.. he did not know but he believed her, he always believed her because she would never lie to him. In fact, all she said was honest, sometimes brutal but at least direct and clear as acid if not just as hurtful.
 Oh he fucked up. He fucked up.
He would lose her and his job and his scholarship. Just because of a coffee, why had he hold onto this stupid cup. He should have been faster and more aware. How could he not have been aware, he was vigilant. That was even in his name- he was hyper-vigilant even so and he still had managed to fuck up enough to not get this right. He had fucked up, it was his fault.
 His fault, his fault only. He always fucked up. He deserved to be left alone and abandoned. He deserved it. He had fucked up.
 Virgil squirmed as he felt some dull sensation press into him. It felt so distant yet something firm about it seemed to almost be comforting. Water was running down his arms again. The stream was slow and cool.
It was the same as before but in a more private setting, probably to have less pairs of eyes stare into the mess Virgil had caused.
 It took him a while to acclimate and realize that the room looked much different than the location he had been in before. 
Odd. So odd. He had not moved, he knew he had been moved but he did not feel as if he had changed anything at all. Not a location, not his body. Nothing, really.
 "No", he repeated and he squirmed further. The stranger trapped him between the sink and his own body.
 In his mind, the only work he could hear was "work". He had to get back to work and finish and then meet his professor and present his project because he was done. He was actually done enough to hand it in and get a decent grade without failing this course. 
It was not like failing the course was a problem anyway, he reminded himself. For some reason, he had decent grades - only soiled by the dirty record of breaking through ever deadline that has ever existed in the world.
He had been ahead of his birth - the one and only time he had ever been early and even then he had crashed the expectations others had in him.
 Honestly, he nearly believed he would miss his own death or something. He was so busy trying to work for others or make someone happy or hand in his notes and do some project for them and meet all these demands. Fulfil all these requirements, that was his goal.
He had to. 
There was no other way. If he did not get this done, he would not be able to graduate and get a decent job with good pay and a stable contract so he could provide for his family. 
If he did not get this shit together, his only good relationship would break into pieces like the ice cubes that had been crushed for all these cool beverages he usually made from day to night.
 Huh, somehow it was still funny to him that he could oversleep his own death because he was perpetually tired from overworking himself and running from one burning fire to another to put up with everyone's requests.
Somehow, he was never good enough. He was a weak yet constantly dropping sachet of water over a fire and he kept shedding some liquid into the burning abyss. However, he was certain that at some point, the flames would catch up to him and dry his insides out, have his liquid evaporate and eat him alive with bright flames catching and tearing at him.
 ''I need to work, get off'', he repeated again.
Up until now, his worries had been twirling him into a horrible dizziness and he surely did not felt anything but the irregular thumping of his heart.
It was probably knocking on heaven's door. Begging for relief and such. But Virgil was too busy for that, he had no time for panic and his heart and whatever else bullshit.
 ''Virgil'', the person spoke and a sudden shudder overcame him.
 It worked like magic because the words flew through his wind and seemed to sweep his hurricane of thought away with the simple blink of an eye or the draw of a breath.
It was simple. It was most natural.
And it was frankly the most confusing he had ever been in a sober state.
 He looked up, eyes open as much as his mind was blank.
The punk was met with the intensity of a steel blue, he thought was a joke made by the art industry when they gave their funny names to different shades of colours. To be honest, steel blue had always been something like a personal favourite. Destiny seemed to laugh into his face. It was his favourite and it had him left in a state of being so out-of-himself that he had forgotten himself and his world.
Now there he was.What had his favourite gotten him into? 
 He stared over at the extension of his torso.
It felt so strange to him, like a prosthesis clicked into his system but never having been a part of him before. It was not a replacement, it was just something so new that did not belong to him.
 ''I am okay'', he tried again.
The barista did not even hear how droopy and choked his voice seemed to the outer world. Then again, everything seemed foggy and generally unusual to him.
He did not really care, to be honest. He was just confused. 
 This voice.. this blue.. they were all he could see.
His whole body, his entire existence seemed so odd to him like he had never been aware of how weird Being was before. But these eyes.. this colour and the sound of a deep yet angelic voice seemed to be in his soul.
He did not perceive these things with his senses but with his soul.
 ''You are not, please stay where you are'', the guest instructed.
He barely saw the orbs move away and the owner of these soulful body mirrors seemed to move again. The silhouette was cut out from the rest of Virgil's background. It felt like these funny camera modifications of blurring out all that was not in focus.
Huh-
Funny.
 So, essentially, the curly-hair stranger was his focus now? He could not really complain but he did not exactly have the capacity to flirt yet alone be groomed by some rando. He had a monogamous relationship with his Logan, sweet and lovely neighbourhood darling Logan Berry.
She was a beloved daughter but an only child, other than Virgil.
Despite their differences and how much she teased him about his bad habits like eating a whole plate or sleeping in when he could, the two loved each other and had been together for a while.
She was the light of his life. Whenever he saw her muddy brown eyes, he saw the sun-lit skin of trees and the calm life of slugs.
 His thought continued flying in a tornado of nonsense.
 Without her, he would have studied something funny like nothing at all or maybe had gotten into the cinema branch.
Who knew? He was a pretty salty bitch and loved giving harsh reviews with criticism he did not know how to fix but was quick to point out.
He had an eye for weakness, after all, he had been his worst nightmare of being a miserable weak spot all his life. At least this could have given him the opportunity to wake the best of his flaws.
 But she knew better and honestly, being an artist made him happy too. It just also gave him a lot of anxiety and pressure.
 Sometimes he wanted to drop out but what else was he supposed to do? He had gotten into a scholarship, yet again, with Logan's help, because his little loganberry was always by his side.
 Man, his thoughts were so weird. They seemed to just flow into him like the water flowing over his burned arms.
He could hear the ticking of a clock in the background. When he looked at the side, he could spot a timer running. The stranger’s phone, possibly.
 ''Cant..'', he whispered but the other did not seem to care and carefully pressed him back into his position.
 ''Virgil, please do me the favour. This whole endeavour is my fault in the first place. I want to make sure I can give you adequate care until the ambulance takes over'', he explained calmly.
His voice was so nice...
 ''Who.. wh-'', he mumbled softly and curled into himself but once more, his action was discarded as mere attempt when the guest softly tugged him into a more comfortable position, ''what is even your name..?''
 "Logan", the other spoke and Virgil's mind started twitching and churning in sickness. 
That.. That couldn't be. 
I believe I'm your soulmate, Virgil. I do have your name on my arm ", Logan explained to him. 
  Virgil only dignified the action with another groan but there wasn't any more he felt like saying. Not that he had chosen to make any sounds in the first place but sometimes things just happened. 
His body has betrayed him already with all this weakness that made him unable to keep working even though he had to. 
He needed to, indeed! 
 The nerd went on, his voice twitching and wiggling line the wagging tail of a puppy facing a treat. 
"I felt it when - when our eyes met and the world. Virgil, the world seemed like it was standing still! Can you believe it?" 
 Now, even his fate kicked him in the butt. Well, it was less of this. A kick to his lazy butt usually was a thing his actual soulmate and girlfriend did to him whenever he slacked off and thought he could manage to spend money on this nice concert he had dreamed to go to. Or when he intended to buy that crushing album by his favourite band. 
But she was always right because she knew better. She always knew when people were about to back-stab him or when they were lying and mean. She knew what he could and couldn't afford and what the good investments in life were.
 She was his fate and she would only ever hurt him in the short-term to protect him in the long run.
This. This was different and it was only about seeing whether he was really loyal to her but he was and he would do his best to show it.
 Logan, on the other hand...well, he seemed to feel strongly about this, like Virgil. But his feelings turned into a more romanticised version of events.
  "And and", he continued and smiled, his lips twitching upwards, "I have never believed in soulmates. Not really, not for me. Virgil, I thought my mark had been a mistake and that this was just some weird magical superstition but I felt it. I felt us! I could feel you as if you have always been a part of me!" 
 But his fate said that it was all wrong. His fate said he had one of these people as soulmate. The string connected to his would seemed to ask for both or nine of them. 
Why was there no last name to this mark? Why did he have an ambiguous mark like that? 
 Whatever. 
 He was sick and the voice making him dizzy and pushing the truth into him only made him want to puke and cry. 
Virgil didn't deserve it. 
 "You're not." 
 He wasn't gay. 
He wouldn't date this guy. He knew that this was bullshit and some sort of crazy thing. Fate was fucking with him. His hallucinations were fucking with him but it certainly wasn't his soul being attached to a guy like that. 
 " I'm dating someone. I've got Logan. We're together, we're dating - we.. We", he started but his voice rushed further and further. Virgil nearly forgot about oxygen when his pace picked up even more. 
"You and I aren't soulmates. This is bullshit." 
 He moved his arm away, out of reach from Logan's careful touches. The curious fingertips were abandoned and he curled his arm around himself as if in a half hug. 
The punk was protecting his gut or maybe he just tried to absorb the pain of his arm into his body if he just pressed the limb enough into him. 
 His burns missed the cooling sensation of the water and he commented on his pain with a vague hiss. Virgil willingly retreated his arms to let the water immerse his injuries once more.
Better.
The corner of his lips moved to one side, letting his jewellery shift along. His bottom lip popped out a bit as if to pout but all he could muster up were scornful, bitter words.
  "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You must be confused or whatever. I don't really care. You fucking ruined my mark, the mark of me and my girlfriend's love and you think I'm gonna laugh and suck it up and jump into your fucking arms or what?
You think life is like that? It's bullshit. This is all fucked up, cracked up, dirty shit and I've got no idea what the fucking shit you ran into but I'm not your soulmate, I never will be and you have to leave right now, you-you life destroyer. "
 The student nodded. 
His head said acceptance but his face looked like he had lost the battle of battles, the one that should have decided the war. 
And now he was standing there, having lost his youth and life and all his vitality for the sake of a fight he had ended before it had started. 
He was disarmed and caught, but then spit out again because he wasn't even good enough to be kept as a trophy or to make an example out of his humiliation of believing in hope and soulmarks. 
 Magic had failed him. He.. He shouldn't have. 
The unfamiliar warmth, that had crept into him when Virgil's and his eyes had met, faded from his heart and disappeared into thin air like the faint smell of pleasant vanilla. 
Light, easy. Great yet so easily under-appreciated or dismissed. 
And he had lost it. 
 "And for your information, I'll probably fail my deadline with that fucking ambulance you called up. Great job. If you're so desperate for love, you better try out some fucking online dating. I'm not your guy" 
 Logan nodded. Again. It was all he could do. After all he had done, after all he had caused it was almost a good joke to see that he was so powerless right now.
 He started walking away until he heard another groan. 
His heart was aching and life seemed to lose colours before him. 
Hope was stinging in his eyes and laughing at his face with mean hands that teared at his skin, his heart. 
 "If my arms wasn't fucking burned because of you, I'd fucking give you a nice mark of mine", Virgil hissed to himself and sat up. 
 As Logan excused himself from the room. Phone in hand, timer ticking as twenty minutes of cooling time had run out, the ambulance rushed in. 
At least some people could be of constructive use by now.
 ***
 It had taken hours and Virgil was back at home, at last. Hospital bill and a doctor's slip in his hands, he knew he had to try and at least message his professor again and tell him about his accident. 
Maybe that could be enough for making this clear and getting his art back into the play so he could ace this depressing course. 
 It was pressure to no end and he didn't know whether he enjoyed the dulling pain of rushing and brushing and colouring again and again and more and like this and that. This was mass-produced art at most but it wasn't his heart-felt pain of life, it wasn't the joy of his giggling heart or the hope in his curious mind. 
 The project was another painting, another photograph. It said "replicate this" and "interpret that" or "to be inspired by". 
Bullshit too. But he did what he had to do do. 
 Maybe it was fine. 
 He quickly unlocked the door. 
Or tried to, at least. The door wasn't locked. It wasn't even closed. The old plank was just there, vaguely resting against the door frame and leaving enough space for his right hand to slip in and pry the door away from its little slumber curled up against its frame. 
 His home was dark. 
No Logan, no nothing. Not even lights. 
Weird, usually she would be at home and do her nails or talk to a friend. It sounded cliché but she was busy so she did many things as once. 
 Well, maybe she was late. He was late too. She had been taking extra shifts and worked after hours and such because the company had made a lot of pressure. 
He really should make her some food so she could relax when going home. 
 He could not help and fear the darkness was another unpaid bill he had forgotten about in his storm of obligations. The uncountable amounts of hands pulling and tearing at him to get his attention and have him finish all the issues that needed fixing - all these things caused him to fail at life every now and then.
However, he was sure he had paid this. Or Logan did. But he had been there and they had paid December and November together.
 Virgil's arm was still hurting and his heart was stinging like something was ripped out of him but he really wanted to make her happy. 
She deserved that. 
She deserved more than he was anyway but he would always try his best to make up for it so she would never have to regret. So she would never have to think someone was much better and more suitable than he was.
There was plenty anyway.
 He moved his uninjured arm to touch the light switch and he flipped it. His movement was casual and nonchalant as always. It was a usual business to turn on the light and make sure he could see something but apparently, the lights did not the the same.
The familiar 'click' sound echoed through the emptiness of his blank mind as the switch was flipped yet the darkness remained. The absence of light imposed itself onto his vision and it merely took a few more moments to get his phone out and turn on the torch so he could see something.
 Shit, he must have forgotten to pay the bills again. Fuck, fuck. He needed to fix this. If Logan saw that, she would get really mad and he could not handle cleaning up after the messes of her tantrums. He did not have the time and his aching heart was not in the state to handle another break.
 But he was sure they had paid it. He had been so sure of it.
 His.. that was stupid, he was not heartbroken. He was not affected by some silly stranger showing up and getting their soulmarks mixed up.
 The audacity to force his desperate ass onto others was something Virgil would never understand. His Logan was markless but he knew that some soulmark would develop later like when people marry and he just felt it in his head that they belonged together.
He knew it. He felt it. It was a truth he believed in.
 Whatever.
 Virgil quickly dropped his bag on the kitchen table and rushed to get some candles. 
 Digital torch in his hands and fingers floating around the drawers, he quickly pulled out some candles and spread them around the kitchen, as he lit them up. One by one, there was a little source of warmth and light filling the room.
Just in case this winter would have to be spent without heating as well, these candles would sort of work like a little campfire or a fireplace. ... rather a fireplace. They lived in a rental flat anyway and the fire alarm would instantly go off when there was an actual fire in their room.
 Actually, this was kind of romantic. Maybe Logan would like that. After all, she kept saying that together, they made the best out of the worst and it somehow worked out every time.
He loved it.
His mouth twitched into a little smile and the light ultimately reached up to his face. His mind curled up to rest in the warmth and soothingly calm light of the candles surrounding him.
 Virgil tended to the stove.
Huh, that seemed to work. Well, it was a gas-driven apparatus anyway. 
 He quickly got a pot and some food ready.
What could he cook, what should he make... They did not have so much food. Well, dang. He needed to go get some food tomorrow morning before class. He could just get up at five and it would be fine. Logan needed to rest after a hard day at work, especially if she has had to work into late at night like right now.
 As Virgil started cutting up some vegetables, his mind had settled on the idea of making some nice chicken soup. They only had some frozen meat for it but it would be fine. Logan did not like meat anyway and it was just good enough for him. 
It did not have any frost bites so it was fine. Only the best for his dear sweetcheeks.
 As he chopped up the food, he felt his mind wander. Maybe creep and slither was the more appropriate term at the moment but that felt of little significance at the moment.
 Did he not pay rent for the two and Logan handled the bills?
Sure, they both had their names on it but her bank account was connected to do the payments so he would not have to worry about that.
She was just too nice. She always allowed him to be a little late with the payment because he bought the food and provided rent. And also cooked. He really wanted to make up for his delays and all the unreliability he tainted the relationship with.
 In his confusion he had dearly forgotten about all this. How could he had forgotten that he did not pay the utility bills?
 ...Logan usually paid on time. What had happened? Was she okay? Maybe someone had hacked her account and emptied out her money and now they were both in debt and had trouble handling the big apartment together.
Oh fuck, what if-
 No. No.
He should not think like that. Logan hated when he did that and she would yell at him to stop and she was right about that because he would just start shaking and crying and he would do the ugly snapping.
Nobody deserved to be snapped at. He had even snapped at the guy Logan and while he had been a fucking dick, he had not deserved to be snapped at.
Virgil... He had just been so angry at people invalidating his relationship and feelings all the time and he was so so done over this prejudice of dating a markless.
Countless people had markless people as soulmates! The marks were often just delayed or worked with one-side only, as well!
 He felt the darkness creep into his heart again.
None of this. 
None.
 He should just text Logan and ask her about the bills and then call their provider and tell them he would pay the next opportunity he had! It would be fine, people were usually so nice when you just talked to them and if not then,.. then they could get candles and it would be fine and nice and they needed to sleep more anyway and artificial light was bad for the mood, right?
 He felt his throat feel like someone started choking him and he took a deep yet shallow breath.
 His hand quickly got to the phone and he typed a little message to his dear.
 This message could not be delivered.
 Huh?
Curious. Why would that happen?
 Well, maybe there were some server issues or something. Nothing too great to worry about. Sometimes that happened with the best messengers. He should just try another one or maybe a simple text message so she knew that the lights were out.
Was it all electricity or just the lights? He did not even know and he had a generally bad feeling biting at his guts like acidic bile burning into him. He just did not dare let it get the best of him in the sanctity of their home where Logan cared so much for him.
 He carefully arranged the soup basis and made sure to set the stove to as low as he could possibly get so nothing would burn or overcook.
 The punk picked up his phone again - his little torch - and went to get his things he had abandoned on the kitchen table.
Maybe he should call her?
 Well, first things first were mailing his doctor so he quickly unpacked his slip and send it to his professor with a quickly apology and explanation.
He was still smiling but his lips felt strained and the excitement in his heart was so bare, so stripped and exposed that he felt as if this was.. not quite it. It did not reach him the trembling of novelty did not reach up to him or his heart and the electricity delighting his body was so far away.
 He looked at the time. the clock already read 7pm. Odd. Just odd. Usually Logan would have texted him demands of certain meals and some questions about whether he was still in his course or had failed.
The usual.
But there was nothing still and that was more than confusing to him.
 He bit the insides of his mouth, his teeth trapping the flesh between them before he bit threw and swallowed the tiny bits of rosy meat he cursed his own.
 Something was wrong. Something was wrong, something was wrong. It was wrongwrongwrong!!
 His restless fingers pushed the phone around in his grip and pushed against the touchscreen, his empty taps selecting Logan's contact again and again but the screen did not accept his attempts. A part of him felt calmed down by the barrier between him and her but he loved her and he was worried and he wanted to know whether she was okay or whether something had happened to her.
 Eventually, it worked and he carefully withdrew his hand to his head and trapped the device with the cracked screen between his fingers and his ear.
The familiar sounds of ringing were missing out and instead, his natural funnels had to be pestered with the usual ''The person you are trying to call is unavailable at this moment''.
His heart cracked and he could nearly hear the tears falling from is eyes and crashing down onto his heated cheeks.
Virgil lowered the phone and caught sight of a piece of paper his torch had shone onto.
 There was a single note and the curved letters in big black ink of ballpoint pens just screamed Logan to him.
He picked it up, his hands still shaking as if he had spent an entire night outside with the temperatures in the negative. 
As far as he knew, the cold temperatures made the body cold and the shivering was a protective mechanism the body started instinctively in order to give as much movement as possible so the burned energy would be converted to heat and warm up the body, possibly saving it.
 Right now, his own shaking just made him sick or maybe it was the sight of letters that looked so wobbly and blurry through his thick,wet tears.
 ''Found my soulmate. Got my mark. It is not you. Do not contact me, loser.''
 Virgil barely knew words or sights as he blindly marched through their apartment to look for the void she had left when she took all her things away. Most of the furniture was missing, even the bed was gone and not even a mattress was left behind.
The couch was gone.. all.. all.. There was merely the bathroom furniture left and some of his products. If you could call liquid soap a product but it would have to do from now on. then..then all else there was left in the apartment and his heart was the depressing light of candles and the devastating Virgil who curled himself up under the kitchen table.
 Well, there was also a closet.
 There had always been a closet in his life. Every night the closet around him had teasingly spread its doors for him to see the sweet outside world of coming out but he had never done it and he never would. It was comfortable in the sorrow of his own tears and the snot running down his miserable face. He was safe in the world of messy clothing and abandonment.
 He was safe because he was used to it.
 And there was nobody to change a thing about it.
 ..It was not fair...
 His phone popped with a notification and he saw another message having arrived.
Maybe Logan had changed her mind? It would not take away the hurt from being called a loser. The word still seemed to shove him into imaginary lockers that did not exist in the empty loft of his heart but they were there, deeply buried under the heavy blankets of his heart.
 No, even the last bit of hope was dying down on him.
 ''I am sorry but you missed the last extension of your deadline. You'll have a failing grade for the semester with a missing project.''
 He sobbed and his heart was but a mess of shatters around him. His fingers were too shaky and slippery with the tremors of his pain and the damp liquid of his tears.
 He had to .. to move out... to.. to  turn off the stove
 ''Why..''
 He curled up under the safety of the table. It protected him. It was all he had right now.
His hands gripped the light material of his worn out, patched up jacket.
 Why did fate mess with him so much?
 He merely felt bitter sobs and chokes for air being replaced by the hysterical insanity of insomnia paired with famine taking over his system and making him laugh a horribly distraught sound of gruesome horror.
There was no happiness in his laugh, there was not a single thing that identified it as an expression of laughter or joy for that matter. Only the mere idea of imitating this sacred display of emotion qualified his torn, terrible shrieks as alterations between manic laughter and ear-piercing wailing sobs.
 He lost it all. Even his mind.
  ***
  Logan stepped into his shared flat. Logan and Adam (or Ada, depending on the time and date and the given indications or less subtle clarification) were living together but sometimes Patton, its boyfriend, would come over and the two were shamelessly.... passionate about each other. So to speak.
 Today, sadly, had been one of these days and Logan in his asexual glory could not help but shriek at the sight of his roommate and its partner trying to somewhat impale one another or whatever, The sight of strange genitals burned into him and the nerd quickly made his way over to his room while the couple minded their own business.
He heard Patton's little protests, her voice soft and nearly comforting but they soon turned into loud, drawn out moans. Logan could see the two move together, naked skin of dark and light tones wrapping around one another and merging into one.
 EW.
Ew. ew, ew ew ew ew ew.
 He slammed his room door behind him and quickly slammed the door shut. For some reason, he had expected the others to sleep after this film marathon but they were not asleep and he was sick, so sick and oh fuck.
Sometimes, he forgot how averse he was to all of this..this stuff.. His skin was crawling and shivers of disgust were running up and down his body.
 The nerd was curled up on himself, before he slid down with his back pressed against the solid wood. He was hugging himself as his body contracted painfully and he felt bile burning at the back of his throat.
In a brief moment of clarity (due to nothing but being used to these sensations ganging up on him),he reached forward to catch his black plastic bin and hug its rim before he emptied his body into the nearly empty bag within it.
 His disgust was quickly spewed into the container and he had the great mind and heart to tie up the bag and place it at the end of his room so he could get rid of the horrible contents the moment he would exit his room.
He was not sure but Logan felt that the love-struck couple would take some more moments together to be extra affectionate in the commons.
 No, no. He could not go back to think about all of this. It would just make him sick.
 Still, why did they have to do it right there? They knew he was more than just grossed out by the plain idea of such acts. He had honestly reacted like that before because he just was not that type of ace to be cool about sex. 
 Ugh.
 He felt his energy drain. 
Now that his belly was emptied out and his body had moved in all possibly harmful and torturous ways, he felt the lack of caffeine and the missing hours of sleep from the past night rain down onto him. His body felt wet and heavy like a sack of stones being dumped into chlorine-stinking water.
 Everything was gross and he just wanted this to be over.
What exactly? He did not know.
Right now, the idea of taking a small break of life and feelings sounded like the most genius invention he had ever heard of.
And he kept track of the science magazine all the time!
 The student decided to take control of what he could change. It would be, as always, rather literal so he made sure to undress his body completely and vest himself in more clean and silky clothing.
A shower would be due as soon as the room was cleared. He just hoped for Patton giving him a heads up about it because she was this kind of caring person.
It was a pure wonder she had not yet knocked at his door but he appreciated the time for him to arrive and adjust to.. this day.
 Changing was slow and it seemed to drag out the last bit of energy that tickles his finger tips but once he had dressed himself in more casual clothing, he was sure everything was just a bit more bearable.
He set his glasses aside and took a sip of his water that he always kept next to his bed just in case he would get thirsty in the middle of the night. With his all-nighters and tendencies to stay up in the stubbornness to finish all he had started in one go, this happened much more often than it was probably healthy.
 He curled up on bed this time and pulled out his journal so he could write down the events of his day and evaluate them. Many people had advised him to spill his thoughts onto skin rather than just keep them bottled up or worse than that, use his favourite coping mechanism.
 Encapsulation - it was essentially about the separation of experiences and the feelings related to these in order to be able to calmly store these as memories and be able to report them as factually as possible.
Personally, he did not see it as a bad way of managing himself but people told him he had the tendency to snap at others and honestly, he very much felt more anger and“sass”sitting in his bones right after this day.
 So, sitting down and writing down the events so he could feel into them and then bury it all forever.. that would be how he would deal with himself until emotions would finally start to make sense to him.
 His fingers started writing already, starting with the previous night and the film marathon but his mind kept screaming at him.
 He probably would be more comfortable with sex if he had a soulmate, he probably would feel more if he felt loved for a change. Logan would probably be more open to his own experience and pain if he knew someone to share it with, unconditionally.
Before he knew it, his precious notebook was stained in darkening drops of water. His face was cold and apathetic as always as the tears ran down his impartial face.
The tears kept falling and falling and his breathing was so calm and so scarily whole. 
 This was not normal. He was not normal.
He did not deserve a soulmate. He was probably rejected because he did not know how to handle humans, because he was awkward and sucked at social interaction.
 His face trembled and wrinkles fell into his skin, pulling at his head and pushing a aching heat into him as exchange. The liquid was still floating like a silent stream of molten ice from the mountains. But by now, the sobs wretching his throat and ripping through his lungs seemed far more attention-demanding than his tears. 
Those were independent. The tears knew what they were doing and they did not need Logan but these sobs, they were scary.
 Logan curled up again and hugged his legs against his chest.
It hurt and he could not breathe but he wanted this he.. he.. he could not bear having his knees away from him because it was just too much. He could not handle any more distance, any more rejection and humiliation. 
Today had been too much.
 He felt shivers wreck through his body and his hold onto his knees became tighter, bruising, nearly.
Logan just wanted to feel.
 He did not hear the careful knocks of Patton's caring hands before some called out for him.
 ''Logan, I am coming in now'', she called and Ada(m) was right on her heels to follow in. The two engulfed him with their fresh smells of a refreshing, cleansing shower.
The sex and body sweat was gone.
Patton was so nice...Patton was so considerate.
 ''Logiebear, my dear, what is wrong'', she asked and Ada(m) carefully patted his knee while Patton pulled his head gently into her lap and carefully brushed through his hair.
The touch felt so caring, it just made him cry harder. His hand curled around the soulmark on his arm and he opened his mouth just to sob out in frustration again.
 ''I lost him'', he breathed eventually. His chords pushed the words out of his body and he hastily took more erratic breaths to calm his trembling lungs.
''V-Vi-...Virgil'', he stuttered as explanation and Patton's worry-knitted wrinkles eased into the blank realisation.
 Oh no.
 More sobs could be heard but Logan was clearly unable to do any more talking than he had already forced himself into.
Adam (at least Patton had called it so in front of him) had spoken some ambiguous words of perspective-related wisdom and its girlfriend produced more little reassurances.
 Logan had allowed himself to feel and he now he paid the price for having all these emotions welling up inside of him.
 But deep inside, Logan knew that the moment he had tried to reach out for Virgil, he had not just destroyed his soulmark but also much more. And deeper inside, he knew that Virgil had stepped away from him after he had tried to deliver his order because soulmates or not..
 Not every soulmate was a datemate.
Especially not if your name was Logan.
21 notes · View notes
spacegaywritings · 4 years
Text
Love burns hotter than coffee
gift for @pessimisticvirtuoso a3o summary: angsty Soulmate AU with AnalogicalVirgil is a student working his butt off to finance himself and his girlfriend Logan through life. Life sends him Logan, the costumer -who does not believe in soulmates- to mess things up. Warning: this is ANGSTY as requested. There is some abandonment, internalised homophobia, self-hatred, manipulation (implied), emotional abuse (implied), financial struggle/poverty, panic, bad endings, injury/burning, intolerance, one-sided love, ambiguous soulmates, mentions of sex and nudity (nothing graphic), crying, ematophobia, insomnia, toxic relationships. Roommates.she/her and it/its pronouns are used for mentioned (side)characters. Everyone is either a cis male or an AMAB. Soulmate/coffee shop AU with Analogical
story under the cut
 “That is 3.25, please”, the barista spoke as he rung the cash register and accepted the money that was pushed towards his hand. He took the bill and quickly grabbed the fitting change so the transaction would finally be over with.
Once he gave the money back, the coffee was already made by one of his co-workers and he received the cup. He handed it over to the costumer. 
Polite words were exchanged and Virgil nodded with a service smile on his lips. 
Empty, rosy, void of emotions.  
He brushed his fingers through his purple hair and sighed. He turned away from the register and faced the inside of his work place.
The coffee machine was cleaning itself in-between and his colleague was running a rag over a few wet stains around the sink. The metal cover was supposed to be shining and gleaming in the low lights of the small cafe.
Technically, the small space was supposed to feel homely and safe. The narrow space saved money and brought people together, made them socialise and feel at home—a place where it was common to share space, bump into one another and just be close to other people. All Virgil saw was people forced together, made to interact with personal space being a rare commodity—something Virgil had so little of and wanted more than anything.
The dim lighting was supposed to be inviting instead of sleep-inducing.
The sweet smell was supposed to sugar-coat the pressure of passing time and encourage customers to shove more empty calories down their throat.
Dark furniture and opaque, warm colours welcomed and embraced but Virgil just felt repelled. He didn’t deserve to be embraced—and he obviously wasn’t ready to be comforted or loved.
He was not worth the auburn couches, the warm blankets or the colourful pillows. Virgil had never done anything to earn the feeling of warm tea easing the pain in his shaking fingers. He did not qualify to smell the spicy sweet scent of a drink made for him in exchange for money he didn’t have.
He prepared to rush out on a quick smoke break but at the ringing of a bell, he looked up from his shoes.
The door had opened.
The door swung shut, letting a weak blast of icy air that cut into the warm room. 
It was so hot.
Virgil’s counter was too far back to let him smell the snow, the cold or the fresh oxygen but he could see some guests shiver for a moment, their noses powdered with the sweet frost of outside.
It might have been cold and it might have been cruel, but at least it wasn’t a trap for idiots. 
He dragged himself back to the register, his heavy black and brown boots made his steps heavy, and he tried to hide his infinite disappointment with a forced smile.
A man with dark blonde and chaotic curls approached his sacred space.
Virgil has his lip ring pulled into his mouth where he could chew on it, and he to the inside of his lips until it was sucked in enough for his teeth to play with it.
He immediately let go, his teeth releasing the Titan and letting the opened ring snap back into place. Right now, talking had a priority over nervously biting his discomfort into unresponsive metal.
“Good day, Sir, may I take your order?” his usual greeting came out a little flat.
Virgil had bags under his eyes darker than the eyeliner he had used in an attempt to make his eyes pop and look a little less dead. After all, experience had shown that the tip jar usually ended up more filled whenever he had some makeup on.
It was a superficial, judgmental world.
The blond curly mess shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. The black eyewear framed his tired, dark-yet-soulful steel eyes like portraits as he returned Virgil’s exhausted stare.
The pale skin under his ocean eyes was darkened, and his lips were a faint rose colour. Virgil spotted a few faint freckles, barely darker than the skin of the new costumer’s face.
Typical nerd.
The guest spoke up, his voice somewhat deep.
Something about it reminded him of a curious dog experiencing new territories and strange smells, tail between his legs and ready to run at the first sign of trouble.
Weird.
But who was he to judge? He had piercings in his face and wore makeup–despite being a guy. He was lucky he got a job in the first place and nobody called him a fag or tried to beat him up or deprive him of his salary.
He was lucky. He even had a scholarship.
Maybe he was weird. 
Yes, he had to be the weird one and he still dared to be a prick and judge others despite being the one who should change to be less embarrassing. 
“Good day. Double iced coffee. Dark, please.”
The order was quick and straightforward. It felt classic and oddly fitting despite out of place quirkiness of the person before him.
He nodded and turned to make the coffee at the machine. His skin, looking as if it had been made of olive oil and fresh baked baguette, showed as he pushed his sleeves up enough to have his fingers show. 
The tall man let his right curl around a big  plastic cup and he shoveled crushed ice into the big container before he pushed it under the machine.
He punched in the order so the clueless technology would do its part of the work. Saved him the trouble of doing a more active job.
He really did not like to work. 
His upper lip pushed over the lower one and his teeth graced over his two lip piercings. This time, there were no favourites as the black plated metal  was pulled between his teeth and he caught the titan, then let it go just to latch his teeth onto the half-rings as well and pull at them so much that his pierced through skin nearly hurt with physical abuse.
The black balls of his piercings scraped the insides of his upper teeth as he released the jewellery.
His sun-kissed skin seemed even darker in the dim light of the cafe. He turned back to Logan and quickly dialed some buttons before the cash register ringed again.
“Three, on the point”, Virgil declared and the guest got out his purse to pay the right amount.
It took him only some moments to get out a ten and hand it over to the barista.
For a moment, Virgil actually looked over at the guest, really making eye contact for more than a fleeting second. Metal and mahagony met. 
The world was standing still and the lights around them seemed just bright enough to illuminate one another completely. They were exposed with flaws and abilities, with pain and joy and resistance.
Hearts. Beating and growing together. Their minds seemed to intertwine in a soulful hug, invisible to the eye yet very much tangible for their hearts.
Time was not running anymore. The colours and sounds around them faded in favour of showing their own true colours and reveal every sound they could and would make.
Logan felt his answer get stuck in his throat and he instinctively put his wallet away. 
He was ready to abscond.
Never had he once believed in the idiocy that was surrounding the myth of people being chosen to belong together. Not once in his life did he even consider the name on his arm to be of any more meaning but a reference to epic literature.
Virgil Prafure.
It was an odd name. Strange, rare. So provocative. He had suspected the person to be from another country but he could not tell. The person before him seemed just as mysterious as the letters tattooed into his skin.
But was this a coincidence? Was this really a connection and did he really feel the other’s feelings and could he hear his heart beating like he could feel his own organ burst in tired energy. 
Was he just an exhausted fool who had been forced into a marathon of Disney films alike?
Stay tuned because Mister Science will find out.
“Keep the change”, he spoke quickly.
Virgil nodded, mind absent and gears turning.
Their eyes were still locked and their hands moved on their own. Money was put away into the usual spots and clamped into the register. Fingers rubbed over the seven bucks in his hands and the worker nodded again. His dry mouth swallowed down his questions and he turned to put the money into the near empty tip jar.
Was it really just the eyeliner? It felt like more, there was more between them. There was more in him.
Well, whatever it was, his heart did not like it. But that might have been nothing but the missing nicotine and the counter action that had been an extra shot of caffeine in his early morning cup. Yeah, that had to be it. 
Or maybe it was no more but the caffeine slashing into his empty stomach instead of even a little bit of food. All he had eaten in the past four (going on five) days was a few leaves of fresh basil they had at home. He remembered the look of fire and disapproval his girlfriend had given him when he had made breakfast and dared to lay the table with a second plate.
A common mistake.
She had given him the sweet, sweet lecture. She was so patient with him, even after weeks and months of dating, she was still ready to let him off the hook easy instead of punishing him like he would deserve to. He knew he was too fat and she constantly reminded him of it whenever they met, when they hugged and when they made love. She would squeeze his upper arms, she would give his stomach a pat and let out these elongated vocalisations when he would join her for cuddles or dared slipping into her lap.
He was lucky she was so good with him, helped him vomit when he had eaten without explicit permission. He could basically feel her hand sliding down the curve of his back when he hunched over the toilet and hugged the seat for stability in his dizzy spells. She was always there for him.
He was lucky with her by his side, literally and figuratively.
There was nothing going on. There was no magic no shit no nothing and the only lingering voice he certainly heard in his mind was the echo of the coffee machine groaning and people chattering so loudly, he wanted to rip his ears off.
He needed to sleep but he had a project due and he needed to beg his professor for an extension. Again. This idiot would lose his scholarship like this. Then all he could be able to do was drop out of schooling and life for good.
Virgil could not afford fucking voices and magic. He needed to work and earn his rent and get his shit done and make his love happy because she really wanted something nice for Valentine’s Day and he was the luckiest loser to have her around still despite being in debt and missing his due dates on a daily.
He had taken extra shifts because his shitty job did not give any Christmas pay like other workers enjoyed. He was basically working full-time yet he was treated like an intern.
She had been so upset when he had been able to merely afford a little house party with her friends and work colleagues for her birthday. She had cried for hours and he had ended up on the couch he had exchanged for another wave of debt just to make her happy. The door had been locked and only when he negotiated getting her an extra gift instead of his trashy art, she was happy.
Just more debt. He could not tell her that he would need to stop paying the bills if she wanted another present. But he could also not tell her how much money and how many hours he had invested in the painting he he had made for her. Even his art professor had been pleased. Virgil had considered giving him the painting instead or use it for his portfolio or promotion but he had been too late. When he had been back with a real gift, something paid rather than self-made, she had already sold his work for a few bills and gotten herself a big lunch.
When he had cried about that, he had lost his food all at once without her helping out (which was a shame ,considering the party had been a rare occasion of him receiving some snacks).
“Thanks”.
Suddenly, Logan’s voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Maybe he had and he just forgot. All kinds of things happened. He wouldn’t be surprised. There were so many thing he had never heard of, so many incredible possibilities he did not know about-
But honestly, right now he just did not know. Anything.
And it scared him.
The barista nodded again and turned his attention back to the coffee after his tip jar was filled up with an additional bit of money.
He swiftly finished the order, his shaking somewhat alternating between being its worst and also completely gone at the same time.
And then, everything seemed to happen at the same time.
His co-worker was back from his what? Piss break? He returned and made himself some hot tea and poured it into a cup while Virgil retrieved the iced coffee and got a straw and lid ready. 
He put the things together and was done building the order. His hands shoved the business away from him and at the same moment, Logan extended his hands.
Now, what did the Braniac think and why was this important?
Well, whether soulmates existed or not was easily answered. He had seen his parents and his friends fall in love and bond for years and decades, side by side. 
He had witnessed it, he had researched it but he knew that soulmates could go wrong. People whose souls were connected could hate each other, they could be in love like friends or be strangers to one another-
Sometimes, most times, though, they were each other’s love of their life.
Some more research he had done had revealed that there were no records of his soulmate online. 
On another note, he had just expected that maybe, just maybe, his soulmate had changed names because of adoption. Or maybe it was a dead name, perhaps they needed to change it for their own security.
In the times of social media, everyone had a profile on one of these many platforms. 
But one of the most important things he had learned was that soulmates had different soulmarks. While his was the name of his mate, there were several other soulmarks and indicators to show that you belonged together, as per usual, people who belonged together had the same kind of soulmark in a very similar spot.
While Logan had the feeling settled in his guts that Virgil was the person his mark referred to, there was just one solid way to prove his thesis.
He needed to see his arm. Arms, actually. It would be the safest to check out both sides just to make sure he did not miss anything.
With this train of thought, Logan did not particularly reach out for the cold cup before him but he as much as rammed his hand into the plastic container. 
Cold, brown bean juice spilled over his and the barista’s hands. Crushed ice pieces flew all over the counter and in an attempt at saving himself, Virgil reflexively moved backwards without letting his eyes move from the scene before him.
His back bumped into his co-workers, but it was not just about bumping into him and nearly falling to the floor. 
No.
No, of course not because Virgil’s life was a fucking nightmare. Everything was against him and he felt just how much life was against his wretched ass when near-boiling coffee soaked into his long, black sleeves and the wet fabric immediately stuck to his skin.
The heat bit into his flesh, eating away at his arm with boiling temperatures. It was an unbearable pain, close to the feeling of being impaled with more and more white hot anger piercing through any layer of his skin.
“Fuck!!”, he yelled out in surprise.
His face distorted into a mask of anguish and disgust as his glance wandered over the steam that rose from his soaked shirt. 
“Virgil, take it off!”, his colleague screeched and pulled him over to the sick. The tap was turned on and cool water started running over his covered arm.
The punk sighed in relief but he felt it was not over.
Tears were pricking at his eyes and he could feel his heart thumping so violently it felt like the muscle was trying to escape his rib cage for good.
It reminded him of his landlord after he failed to pay rent on time for a first. He had been banging against the door so much, he had feared for the wooden plank to finally give in, tired of protecting the cowardice of his actions. If the door has had any soul, it was beaten to death until now. Other than that, he was convinced that not even a soulless piece of dead tree would stand up for him. In that seemingly infinite moment, the door had saved his life. It was still his lifeline, the protective barrier between him and the rest of the world with its society of strict, judgmental eyes. 
Virgil’s eyes were glossy from the tears he held back. All his impulse control had left was the hope of relief from the hot burning pain. The cool water soaking into his shirt made his pain somewhat more bearable but at this point, it all felt dull and the pain was seated deeper than just on his arm. It was deeply buried within him. It seemed as if it wrapped around his bones. Maybe it was just an invisible idea of pain that tripped into the space of his arm.
Was it even his arm anymore?
He did not know, he did not know anything.
All he knew and felt was the pain and the rush and the horrible panic his mind limited itself to. If his thinking was a community, it shut itself down and put barricades up just to have a safe space to frantically run up and down the streets while emitting deafening screams of despair.
Huh, even his mental images of his mind seemed gruesome.
“Fuck”, he cursed again, his lips unstoppable.
With his mind on lock-down, he at least did not have the psychic capacity to wonder about what other people thought or what they would feel about his shit. Heavens, right now, he did not even consider whether he could lose his job over all this because his reason was closed down for the season of emergency.
Alarms were started like fires in his neurological connections. It felt as if even his brain was on actual fire.
“Fuck”, he choked again. It was the most expressive his mind could be when voicing his well-being. Not that there was too much well-being to really talk about. Actually, there was very much none of it. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Why.”
His voice was a silent hiss competing the continuous sound of numbing water running down his arm.
He heard someone tell him to take off his clothing, and orders and such were shot around the room like loose bullets during an inexperienced heist that got out of control way too fast.
His mind was reeling.
Slowly, the panic of pain dissolved only to merge into a new hysteria.
The intense stinging and biting was so old, so many seconds ago that his heart was spitting on the whole ado and spitefully rammed against his rib cage. Maybe he was wrong about that but it seemed like his heart beating so vengefully made his lungs hurt.
His breathing felt so flat and so… so empty.. No air was really arriving, not any efficient one anyway. It was thin and used and did not give him enough respiration.
Nice.
This was just short of another tragedy to make this day an even better disaster, honestly.
Lucky enough for him, the gracious hero of all, the panicking man who had caused the whole scene, was by his side by now and cutting the sleeve open.
Fuck, his lap had been attacked too but it was minor and frankly, he had been a really lucky bastard to wear pants that did not really absorb too much water. The apron that covered his torso down to the middle of his thighs with its tight fabric probably did the trick as well.
Maybe that part of his body would not get fucked up. It did not really hurt but maybe that was the adrenaline. Or the pure focus on his burned arm.
Wow, maybe he had actually been lucky. If you could call one lucky circumstance in a horrible situation within the most horrible life to be an actually lucky thing. Perhaps it was just prolonging the inevitable horror of his existence.
He did not know.
His mind was still too busy steaming to consider all of this shit.
Huh, steaming. Very funny.
The person next to him said something and carefully pulled the cut through sweat shirt sleeve away.
That was his only piece of clothing his manager had not shot down for this work place. He did not know whether he could afford another one and his paycheck was so far away.
“s-stop”, he breathed out and pulled his arm away.
How did he have the lung capacity to talk? He did not know but today was full of shitty miracles so maybe that was just adding up.
“I - I have work”.
The person was taken aback and suddenly his co-worker rushed back in. When did anyone leave?
“I called the manager! We will get someone to cover for you. The ambulance is on the way.”
The punk felt his breathing stop.
Stop. Pause. Put on break and twisted backwards.
Say what now?
The empty face of his co-worker shushed the guest away to no avail. Virgil felt himself being tugged over to the break room behind the doors that had this typical “employees only” sign. It was so cliche but it was also so necessary.
Stupid people, stupid rules.
But rules could be nice and protecting sometimes.
The punk kept blabbering about something to do with work.
He needed to go back.
Had he not heard the bell? Had he not seen a new costumer?
He had to make money, he had to get tips. He needed to get his order done. Oh, and he had crushed his co-workers coffee. He would hate him now. Virgil fucked up again. 
 He always did.
He had fucked up. Fucked up. 
He had fucked up. He always fucked up, fucked up fucked up fuckedup.
 “Breathe, Virgil”, a voice instructed him.
Who?
The world around him seemed so blurry and his body seemed so far away. Everything was out of focus and so strange and somewhat it was darker and lighter than usual. His environment did not look like that. Why did objects stick out so much and how could he still not tell what they were when it seemed so clear, it kind of became razor blurry again.
“I-I can’t. I have work, I have courses”, he whimpered in desperation.
His voice was so thin. So thin, like his wrists were thin.
If his voice had bones, they would be clearly visible whenever he used it. Audible? His mind did not make any sense anymore.
“I have a deadline”, he repeated, his mind blanking as the realisation hit him.
His shift was nearly over and he needed to go to his professor and beg for time and another try. He was about to fail, he could not drop out. This degree was nearly complete and he could not afford fucking this up. His scholarship was the only thing that made life bearable.
His girlfriend would give him so much shit for this. He was a loser and she would finally lose hope in him and leave him because he could not provide for he because he sucked and he was unstable and useless.
He was the real burden, not her being unemployed because of workplace discrimination.
Who discriminated against her again? They.. they were both white cis people- What.. he did not know but he believed her, he always believed her because she would never lie to him. In fact, all she said was honest, sometimes brutal but at least direct and clear as acid if not just as hurtful.
Oh he fucked up. He fucked up.
He would lose her and his job and his scholarship. Just because of a coffee, why had he hold onto this stupid cup. He should have been faster and more aware. How could he not have been aware, he was vigilant. That was even in his name- he was hyper-vigilant even so and he still had managed to fuck up enough to not get this right. He had fucked up, it was his fault.
His fault, his fault only. He always fucked up. He deserved to be left alone and abandoned. He deserved it. He had fucked up.
Virgil squirmed as he felt some dull sensation press into him. It felt so distant yet something firm about it seemed to almost be comforting. Water was running down his arms again. The stream was slow and cool.
It was the same as before but in a more private setting, probably to have less pairs of eyes stare into the mess Virgil had caused.
It took him a while to acclimate and realize that the room looked much different than the location he had been in before. 
Odd. So odd. He had not moved, he knew he had been moved but he did not feel as if he had changed anything at all. Not a location, not his body. Nothing, really.
“No”, he repeated and he squirmed further. The stranger trapped him between the sink and his own body.
In his mind, the only work he could hear was “work”. He had to get back to work and finish and then meet his professor and present his project because he was done. He was actually done enough to hand it in and get a decent grade without failing this course. 
It was not like failing the course was a problem anyway, he reminded himself. For some reason, he had decent grades - only soiled by the dirty record of breaking through ever deadline that has ever existed in the world.
He had been ahead of his birth - the one and only time he had ever been early and even then he had crashed the expectations others had in him.
Honestly, he nearly believed he would miss his own death or something. He was so busy trying to work for others or make someone happy or hand in his notes and do some project for them and meet all these demands. Fulfil all these requirements, that was his goal.
He had to. 
There was no other way. If he did not get this done, he would not be able to graduate and get a decent job with good pay and a stable contract so he could provide for his family. 
If he did not get this shit together, his only good relationship would break into pieces like the ice cubes that had been crushed for all these cool beverages he usually made from day to night.
Huh, somehow it was still funny to him that he could oversleep his own death because he was perpetually tired from overworking himself and running from one burning fire to another to put up with everyone’s requests.
Somehow, he was never good enough. He was a weak yet constantly dropping sachet of water over a fire and he kept shedding some liquid into the burning abyss. However, he was certain that at some point, the flames would catch up to him and dry his insides out, have his liquid evaporate and eat him alive with bright flames catching and tearing at him.
“I need to work, get off”, he repeated again.
Up until now, his worries had been twirling him into a horrible dizziness and he surely did not felt anything but the irregular thumping of his heart.
It was probably knocking on heaven’s door. Begging for relief and such. But Virgil was too busy for that, he had no time for panic and his heart and whatever else bullshit.
“Virgil”, the person spoke and a sudden shudder overcame him.
It worked like magic because the words flew through his wind and seemed to sweep his hurricane of thought away with the simple blink of an eye or the draw of a breath.
It was simple. It was most natural.
And it was frankly the most confusing he had ever been in a sober state.
He looked up, eyes open as much as his mind was blank.
The punk was met with the intensity of a steel blue, he thought was a joke made by the art industry when they gave their funny names to different shades of colours. To be honest, steel blue had always been something like a personal favourite. Destiny seemed to laugh into his face. It was his favourite and it had him left in a state of being so out-of-himself that he had forgotten himself and his world.
Now there he was.What had his favourite gotten him into? 
He stared over at the extension of his torso.
It felt so strange to him, like a prosthesis clicked into his system but never having been a part of him before. It was not a replacement, it was just something so new that did not belong to him.
“I am okay”, he tried again.
The barista did not even hear how droopy and choked his voice seemed to the outer world. Then again, everything seemed foggy and generally unusual to him.
He did not really care, to be honest. He was just confused. 
This voice.. this blue.. they were all he could see.
His whole body, his entire existence seemed so odd to him like he had never been aware of how weird Being was before. But these eyes.. this colour and the sound of a deep yet angelic voice seemed to be in his soul.
He did not perceive these things with his senses but with his soul.
“You are not, please stay where you are”, the guest instructed.
He barely saw the orbs move away and the owner of these soulful body mirrors seemed to move again. The silhouette was cut out from the rest of Virgil’s background. It felt like these funny camera modifications of blurring out all that was not in focus.
Huh-
Funny.
So, essentially, the curly-hair stranger was his focus now? He could not really complain but he did not exactly have the capacity to flirt yet alone be groomed by some rando. He had a monogamous relationship with his Logan, sweet and lovely neighbourhood darling Logan Berry.
She was a beloved daughter but an only child, other than Virgil.
Despite their differences and how much she teased him about his bad habits like eating a whole plate or sleeping in when he could, the two loved each other and had been together for a while.
She was the light of his life. Whenever he saw her muddy brown eyes, he saw the sun-lit skin of trees and the calm life of slugs.
His thought continued flying in a tornado of nonsense.
Without her, he would have studied something funny like nothing at all or maybe had gotten into the cinema branch.
Who knew? He was a pretty salty bitch and loved giving harsh reviews with criticism he did not know how to fix but was quick to point out.
He had an eye for weakness, after all, he had been his worst nightmare of being a miserable weak spot all his life. At least this could have given him the opportunity to wake the best of his flaws.
But she knew better and honestly, being an artist made him happy too. It just also gave him a lot of anxiety and pressure.
Sometimes he wanted to drop out but what else was he supposed to do? He had gotten into a scholarship, yet again, with Logan’s help, because his little loganberry was always by his side.
Man, his thoughts were so weird. They seemed to just flow into him like the water flowing over his burned arms.
He could hear the ticking of a clock in the background. When he looked at the side, he could spot a timer running. The stranger’s phone, possibly.
“Cant..”, he whispered but the other did not seem to care and carefully pressed him back into his position.
“Virgil, please do me the favour. This whole endeavour is my fault in the first place. I want to make sure I can give you adequate care until the ambulance takes over”, he explained calmly.
His voice was so nice…
“Who.. wh-”, he mumbled softly and curled into himself but once more, his action was discarded as mere attempt when the guest softly tugged him into a more comfortable position, “what is even your name..?”
“Logan”, the other spoke and Virgil’s mind started twitching and churning in sickness. 
That.. That couldn’t be. 
I believe I’m your soulmate, Virgil. I do have your name on my arm “, Logan explained to him. 
 Virgil only dignified the action with another groan but there wasn’t any more he felt like saying. Not that he had chosen to make any sounds in the first place but sometimes things just happened. 
His body has betrayed him already with all this weakness that made him unable to keep working even though he had to. 
He needed to, indeed! 
The nerd went on, his voice twitching and wiggling line the wagging tail of a puppy facing a treat. 
"I felt it when - when our eyes met and the world. Virgil, the world seemed like it was standing still! Can you believe it?" 
Now, even his fate kicked him in the butt. Well, it was less of this. A kick to his lazy butt usually was a thing his actual soulmate and girlfriend did to him whenever he slacked off and thought he could manage to spend money on this nice concert he had dreamed to go to. Or when he intended to buy that crushing album by his favourite band. 
But she was always right because she knew better. She always knew when people were about to back-stab him or when they were lying and mean. She knew what he could and couldn’t afford and what the good investments in life were.
She was his fate and she would only ever hurt him in the short-term to protect him in the long run.
This. This was different and it was only about seeing whether he was really loyal to her but he was and he would do his best to show it.
Logan, on the other hand…well, he seemed to feel strongly about this, like Virgil. But his feelings turned into a more romanticised version of events.
 "And and”, he continued and smiled, his lips twitching upwards, “I have never believed in soulmates. Not really, not for me. Virgil, I thought my mark had been a mistake and that this was just some weird magical superstition but I felt it. I felt us! I could feel you as if you have always been a part of me!" 
But his fate said that it was all wrong. His fate said he had one of these people as soulmate. The string connected to his would seemed to ask for both or nine of them. 
Why was there no last name to this mark? Why did he have an ambiguous mark like that? 
Whatever. 
He was sick and the voice making him dizzy and pushing the truth into him only made him want to puke and cry. 
Virgil didn’t deserve it. 
"You’re not." 
He wasn’t gay. 
He wouldn’t date this guy. He knew that this was bullshit and some sort of crazy thing. Fate was fucking with him. His hallucinations were fucking with him but it certainly wasn’t his soul being attached to a guy like that. 
” I’m dating someone. I’ve got Logan. We’re together, we’re dating - we.. We", he started but his voice rushed further and further. Virgil nearly forgot about oxygen when his pace picked up even more. 
“You and I aren’t soulmates. This is bullshit." 
He moved his arm away, out of reach from Logan’s careful touches. The curious fingertips were abandoned and he curled his arm around himself as if in a half hug. 
The punk was protecting his gut or maybe he just tried to absorb the pain of his arm into his body if he just pressed the limb enough into him. 
His burns missed the cooling sensation of the water and he commented on his pain with a vague hiss. Virgil willingly retreated his arms to let the water immerse his injuries once more.
Better.
The corner of his lips moved to one side, letting his jewellery shift along. His bottom lip popped out a bit as if to pout but all he could muster up were scornful, bitter words.
 "I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You must be confused or whatever. I don’t really care. You fucking ruined my mark, the mark of me and my girlfriend’s love and you think I’m gonna laugh and suck it up and jump into your fucking arms or what?
You think life is like that? It’s bullshit. This is all fucked up, cracked up, dirty shit and I’ve got no idea what the fucking shit you ran into but I’m not your soulmate, I never will be and you have to leave right now, you-you life destroyer. ”
The student nodded. 
His head said acceptance but his face looked like he had lost the battle of battles, the one that should have decided the war. 
And now he was standing there, having lost his youth and life and all his vitality for the sake of a fight he had ended before it had started. 
He was disarmed and caught, but then spit out again because he wasn’t even good enough to be kept as a trophy or to make an example out of his humiliation of believing in hope and soulmarks. 
Magic had failed him. He.. He shouldn’t have. 
The unfamiliar warmth, that had crept into him when Virgil’s and his eyes had met, faded from his heart and disappeared into thin air like the faint smell of pleasant vanilla. 
Light, easy. Great yet so easily under-appreciated or dismissed. 
And he had lost it. 
“And for your information, I’ll probably fail my deadline with that fucking ambulance you called up. Great job. If you’re so desperate for love, you better try out some fucking online dating. I’m not your guy" 
Logan nodded. Again. It was all he could do. After all he had done, after all he had caused it was almost a good joke to see that he was so powerless right now.
He started walking away until he heard another groan. 
His heart was aching and life seemed to lose colours before him. 
Hope was stinging in his eyes and laughing at his face with mean hands that teared at his skin, his heart. 
"If my arms wasn’t fucking burned because of you, I’d fucking give you a nice mark of mine”, Virgil hissed to himself and sat up. 
As Logan excused himself from the room. Phone in hand, timer ticking as twenty minutes of cooling time had run out, the ambulance rushed in. 
At least some people could be of constructive use by now.
***
It had taken hours and Virgil was back at home, at last. Hospital bill and a doctor’s slip in his hands, he knew he had to try and at least message his professor again and tell him about his accident. 
Maybe that could be enough for making this clear and getting his art back into the play so he could ace this depressing course. 
It was pressure to no end and he didn’t know whether he enjoyed the dulling pain of rushing and brushing and colouring again and again and more and like this and that. This was mass-produced art at most but it wasn’t his heart-felt pain of life, it wasn’t the joy of his giggling heart or the hope in his curious mind. 
The project was another painting, another photograph. It said “replicate this” and “interpret that” or “to be inspired by”. 
Bullshit too. But he did what he had to do do. 
Maybe it was fine. 
He quickly unlocked the door. 
Or tried to, at least. The door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed. The old plank was just there, vaguely resting against the door frame and leaving enough space for his right hand to slip in and pry the door away from its little slumber curled up against its frame. 
His home was dark. 
No Logan, no nothing. Not even lights. 
Weird, usually she would be at home and do her nails or talk to a friend. It sounded cliché but she was busy so she did many things as once. 
Well, maybe she was late. He was late too. She had been taking extra shifts and worked after hours and such because the company had made a lot of pressure. 
He really should make her some food so she could relax when going home. 
He could not help and fear the darkness was another unpaid bill he had forgotten about in his storm of obligations. The uncountable amounts of hands pulling and tearing at him to get his attention and have him finish all the issues that needed fixing - all these things caused him to fail at life every now and then.
However, he was sure he had paid this. Or Logan did. But he had been there and they had paid December and November together.
Virgil’s arm was still hurting and his heart was stinging like something was ripped out of him but he really wanted to make her happy. 
She deserved that. 
She deserved more than he was anyway but he would always try his best to make up for it so she would never have to regret. So she would never have to think someone was much better and more suitable than he was.
There was plenty anyway.
He moved his uninjured arm to touch the light switch and he flipped it. His movement was casual and nonchalant as always. It was a usual business to turn on the light and make sure he could see something but apparently, the lights did not the the same.
The familiar ‘click’ sound echoed through the emptiness of his blank mind as the switch was flipped yet the darkness remained. The absence of light imposed itself onto his vision and it merely took a few more moments to get his phone out and turn on the torch so he could see something.
Shit, he must have forgotten to pay the bills again. Fuck, fuck. He needed to fix this. If Logan saw that, she would get really mad and he could not handle cleaning up after the messes of her tantrums. He did not have the time and his aching heart was not in the state to handle another break.
But he was sure they had paid it. He had been so sure of it.
His.. that was stupid, he was not heartbroken. He was not affected by some silly stranger showing up and getting their soulmarks mixed up.
The audacity to force his desperate ass onto others was something Virgil would never understand. His Logan was markless but he knew that some soulmark would develop later like when people marry and he just felt it in his head that they belonged together.
He knew it. He felt it. It was a truth he believed in.
Whatever.
Virgil quickly dropped his bag on the kitchen table and rushed to get some candles. 
Digital torch in his hands and fingers floating around the drawers, he quickly pulled out some candles and spread them around the kitchen, as he lit them up. One by one, there was a little source of warmth and light filling the room.
Just in case this winter would have to be spent without heating as well, these candles would sort of work like a little campfire or a fireplace. … rather a fireplace. They lived in a rental flat anyway and the fire alarm would instantly go off when there was an actual fire in their room.
Actually, this was kind of romantic. Maybe Logan would like that. After all, she kept saying that together, they made the best out of the worst and it somehow worked out every time.
He loved it.
His mouth twitched into a little smile and the light ultimately reached up to his face. His mind curled up to rest in the warmth and soothingly calm light of the candles surrounding him.
Virgil tended to the stove.
Huh, that seemed to work. Well, it was a gas-driven apparatus anyway. 
He quickly got a pot and some food ready.
What could he cook, what should he make… They did not have so much food. Well, dang. He needed to go get some food tomorrow morning before class. He could just get up at five and it would be fine. Logan needed to rest after a hard day at work, especially if she has had to work into late at night like right now.
As Virgil started cutting up some vegetables, his mind had settled on the idea of making some nice chicken soup. They only had some frozen meat for it but it would be fine. Logan did not like meat anyway and it was just good enough for him. 
It did not have any frost bites so it was fine. Only the best for his dear sweetcheeks.
As he chopped up the food, he felt his mind wander. Maybe creep and slither was the more appropriate term at the moment but that felt of little significance at the moment.
Did he not pay rent for the two and Logan handled the bills?
Sure, they both had their names on it but her bank account was connected to do the payments so he would not have to worry about that.
She was just too nice. She always allowed him to be a little late with the payment because he bought the food and provided rent. And also cooked. He really wanted to make up for his delays and all the unreliability he tainted the relationship with.
In his confusion he had dearly forgotten about all this. How could he had forgotten that he did not pay the utility bills?
…Logan usually paid on time. What had happened? Was she okay? Maybe someone had hacked her account and emptied out her money and now they were both in debt and had trouble handling the big apartment together.
Oh fuck, what if-
No. No.
He should not think like that. Logan hated when he did that and she would yell at him to stop and she was right about that because he would just start shaking and crying and he would do the ugly snapping.
Nobody deserved to be snapped at. He had even snapped at the guy Logan and while he had been a fucking dick, he had not deserved to be snapped at.
Virgil… He had just been so angry at people invalidating his relationship and feelings all the time and he was so so done over this prejudice of dating a markless.
Countless people had markless people as soulmates! The marks were often just delayed or worked with one-side only, as well!
He felt the darkness creep into his heart again.
None of this. 
None.
He should just text Logan and ask her about the bills and then call their provider and tell them he would pay the next opportunity he had! It would be fine, people were usually so nice when you just talked to them and if not then,.. then they could get candles and it would be fine and nice and they needed to sleep more anyway and artificial light was bad for the mood, right?
He felt his throat feel like someone started choking him and he took a deep yet shallow breath.
His hand quickly got to the phone and he typed a little message to his dear.
This message could not be delivered.
Huh?
Curious. Why would that happen?
Well, maybe there were some server issues or something. Nothing too great to worry about. Sometimes that happened with the best messengers. He should just try another one or maybe a simple text message so she knew that the lights were out.
Was it all electricity or just the lights? He did not even know and he had a generally bad feeling biting at his guts like acidic bile burning into him. He just did not dare let it get the best of him in the sanctity of their home where Logan cared so much for him.
He carefully arranged the soup basis and made sure to set the stove to as low as he could possibly get so nothing would burn or overcook.
The punk picked up his phone again - his little torch - and went to get his things he had abandoned on the kitchen table.
Maybe he should call her?
Well, first things first were mailing his doctor so he quickly unpacked his slip and send it to his professor with a quickly apology and explanation.
He was still smiling but his lips felt strained and the excitement in his heart was so bare, so stripped and exposed that he felt as if this was.. not quite it. It did not reach him the trembling of novelty did not reach up to him or his heart and the electricity delighting his body was so far away.
He looked at the time. the clock already read 7pm. Odd. Just odd. Usually Logan would have texted him demands of certain meals and some questions about whether he was still in his course or had failed.
The usual.
But there was nothing still and that was more than confusing to him.
He bit the insides of his mouth, his teeth trapping the flesh between them before he bit threw and swallowed the tiny bits of rosy meat he cursed his own.
Something was wrong. Something was wrong, something was wrong. It was wrongwrongwrong!!
His restless fingers pushed the phone around in his grip and pushed against the touchscreen, his empty taps selecting Logan’s contact again and again but the screen did not accept his attempts. A part of him felt calmed down by the barrier between him and her but he loved her and he was worried and he wanted to know whether she was okay or whether something had happened to her.
Eventually, it worked and he carefully withdrew his hand to his head and trapped the device with the cracked screen between his fingers and his ear.
The familiar sounds of ringing were missing out and instead, his natural funnels had to be pestered with the usual “The person you are trying to call is unavailable at this moment”.
His heart cracked and he could nearly hear the tears falling from is eyes and crashing down onto his heated cheeks.
Virgil lowered the phone and caught sight of a piece of paper his torch had shone onto.
There was a single note and the curved letters in big black ink of ballpoint pens just screamed Logan to him.
He picked it up, his hands still shaking as if he had spent an entire night outside with the temperatures in the negative. 
As far as he knew, the cold temperatures made the body cold and the shivering was a protective mechanism the body started instinctively in order to give as much movement as possible so the burned energy would be converted to heat and warm up the body, possibly saving it.
Right now, his own shaking just made him sick or maybe it was the sight of letters that looked so wobbly and blurry through his thick,wet tears.
“Found my soulmate. Got my mark. It is not you. Do not contact me, loser.”
Virgil barely knew words or sights as he blindly marched through their apartment to look for the void she had left when she took all her things away. Most of the furniture was missing, even the bed was gone and not even a mattress was left behind.
The couch was gone.. all.. all.. There was merely the bathroom furniture left and some of his products. If you could call liquid soap a product but it would have to do from now on. then..then all else there was left in the apartment and his heart was the depressing light of candles and the devastating Virgil who curled himself up under the kitchen table.
Well, there was also a closet.
There had always been a closet in his life. Every night the closet around him had teasingly spread its doors for him to see the sweet outside world of coming out but he had never done it and he never would. It was comfortable in the sorrow of his own tears and the snot running down his miserable face. He was safe in the world of messy clothing and abandonment.
He was safe because he was used to it.
And there was nobody to change a thing about it.
..It was not fair…
His phone popped with a notification and he saw another message having arrived.
Maybe Logan had changed her mind? It would not take away the hurt from being called a loser. The word still seemed to shove him into imaginary lockers that did not exist in the empty loft of his heart but they were there, deeply buried under the heavy blankets of his heart.
No, even the last bit of hope was dying down on him.
“I am sorry but you missed the last extension of your deadline. You’ll have a failing grade for the semester with a missing project.”
He sobbed and his heart was but a mess of shatters around him. His fingers were too shaky and slippery with the tremors of his pain and the damp liquid of his tears.
He had to .. to move out… to.. to  turn off the stove
“Why..”
He curled up under the safety of the table. It protected him. It was all he had right now.
His hands gripped the light material of his worn out, patched up jacket.
Why did fate mess with him so much?
He merely felt bitter sobs and chokes for air being replaced by the hysterical insanity of insomnia paired with famine taking over his system and making him laugh a horribly distraught sound of gruesome horror.
There was no happiness in his laugh, there was not a single thing that identified it as an expression of laughter or joy for that matter. Only the mere idea of imitating this sacred display of emotion qualified his torn, terrible shrieks as alterations between manic laughter and ear-piercing wailing sobs.
He lost it all. Even his mind.
 ***
 Logan stepped into his shared flat. Logan and Adam (or Ada, depending on the time and date and the given indications or less subtle clarification) were living together but sometimes Patton, its boyfriend, would come over and the two were shamelessly…. passionate about each other. So to speak.
Today, sadly, had been one of these days and Logan in his asexual glory could not help but shriek at the sight of his roommate and its partner trying to somewhat impale one another or whatever, The sight of strange genitals burned into him and the nerd quickly made his way over to his room while the couple minded their own business.
He heard Patton’s little protests, her voice soft and nearly comforting but they soon turned into loud, drawn out moans. Logan could see the two move together, naked skin of dark and light tones wrapping around one another and merging into one.
EW.
Ew. ew, ew ew ew ew ew.
He slammed his room door behind him and quickly slammed the door shut. For some reason, he had expected the others to sleep after this film marathon but they were not asleep and he was sick, so sick and oh fuck.
Sometimes, he forgot how averse he was to all of this..this stuff.. His skin was crawling and shivers of disgust were running up and down his body.
The nerd was curled up on himself, before he slid down with his back pressed against the solid wood. He was hugging himself as his body contracted painfully and he felt bile burning at the back of his throat.
In a brief moment of clarity (due to nothing but being used to these sensations ganging up on him),he reached forward to catch his black plastic bin and hug its rim before he emptied his body into the nearly empty bag within it.
His disgust was quickly spewed into the container and he had the great mind and heart to tie up the bag and place it at the end of his room so he could get rid of the horrible contents the moment he would exit his room.
He was not sure but Logan felt that the love-struck couple would take some more moments together to be extra affectionate in the commons.
No, no. He could not go back to think about all of this. It would just make him sick.
Still, why did they have to do it right there? They knew he was more than just grossed out by the plain idea of such acts. He had honestly reacted like that before because he just was not that type of ace to be cool about sex. 
Ugh.
He felt his energy drain. 
Now that his belly was emptied out and his body had moved in all possibly harmful and torturous ways, he felt the lack of caffeine and the missing hours of sleep from the past night rain down onto him. His body felt wet and heavy like a sack of stones being dumped into chlorine-stinking water.
Everything was gross and he just wanted this to be over.
What exactly? He did not know.
Right now, the idea of taking a small break of life and feelings sounded like the most genius invention he had ever heard of.
And he kept track of the science magazine all the time!
The student decided to take control of what he could change. It would be, as always, rather literal so he made sure to undress his body completely and vest himself in more clean and silky clothing.
A shower would be due as soon as the room was cleared. He just hoped for Patton giving him a heads up about it because she was this kind of caring person.
It was a pure wonder she had not yet knocked at his door but he appreciated the time for him to arrive and adjust to.. this day.
Changing was slow and it seemed to drag out the last bit of energy that tickles his finger tips but once he had dressed himself in more casual clothing, he was sure everything was just a bit more bearable.
He set his glasses aside and took a sip of his water that he always kept next to his bed just in case he would get thirsty in the middle of the night. With his all-nighters and tendencies to stay up in the stubbornness to finish all he had started in one go, this happened much more often than it was probably healthy.
He curled up on bed this time and pulled out his journal so he could write down the events of his day and evaluate them. Many people had advised him to spill his thoughts onto skin rather than just keep them bottled up or worse than that, use his favourite coping mechanism.
Encapsulation - it was essentially about the separation of experiences and the feelings related to these in order to be able to calmly store these as memories and be able to report them as factually as possible.
Personally, he did not see it as a bad way of managing himself but people told him he had the tendency to snap at others and honestly, he very much felt more anger and “sass” sitting in his bones right after this day.
So, sitting down and writing down the events so he could feel into them and then bury it all forever.. that would be how he would deal with himself until emotions would finally start to make sense to him.
His fingers started writing already, starting with the previous night and the film marathon but his mind kept screaming at him.
He probably would be more comfortable with sex if he had a soulmate, he probably would feel more if he felt loved for a change. Logan would probably be more open to his own experience and pain if he knew someone to share it with, unconditionally.
Before he knew it, his precious notebook was stained in darkening drops of water. His face was cold and apathetic as always as the tears ran down his impartial face.
The tears kept falling and falling and his breathing was so calm and so scarily whole. 
This was not normal. He was not normal.
He did not deserve a soulmate. He was probably rejected because he did not know how to handle humans, because he was awkward and sucked at social interaction.
His face trembled and wrinkles fell into his skin, pulling at his head and pushing a aching heat into him as exchange. The liquid was still floating like a silent stream of molten ice from the mountains. But by now, the sobs wretching his throat and ripping through his lungs seemed far more attention-demanding than his tears. 
Those were independent. The tears knew what they were doing and they did not need Logan but these sobs, they were scary.
Logan curled up again and hugged his legs against his chest.
It hurt and he could not breathe but he wanted this he.. he.. he could not bear having his knees away from him because it was just too much. He could not handle any more distance, any more rejection and humiliation. 
Today had been too much.
He felt shivers wreck through his body and his hold onto his knees became tighter, bruising, nearly.
Logan just wanted to feel.
He did not hear the careful knocks of Patton’s caring hands before some called out for him.
“Logan, I am coming in now”, she called and Ada(m) was right on her heels to follow in. The two engulfed him with their fresh smells of a refreshing, cleansing shower.
The sex and body sweat was gone.
Patton was so nice…Patton was so considerate.
“Logiebear, my dear, what is wrong”, she asked and Ada(m) carefully patted his knee while Patton pulled his head gently into her lap and carefully brushed through his hair.
The touch felt so caring, it just made him cry harder. His hand curled around the soulmark on his arm and he opened his mouth just to sob out in frustration again.
“I lost him”, he breathed eventually. His chords pushed the words out of his body and he hastily took more erratic breaths to calm his trembling lungs.
“V-Vi-…Virgil”, he stuttered as explanation and Patton’s worry-knitted wrinkles eased into the blank realisation.
Oh no.
More sobs could be heard but Logan was clearly unable to do any more talking than he had already forced himself into.
Adam (at least Patton had called it so in front of him) had spoken some ambiguous words of perspective-related wisdom and its girlfriend produced more little reassurances.
Logan had allowed himself to feel and he now he paid the price for having all these emotions welling up inside of him.
But deep inside, Logan knew that the moment he had tried to reach out for Virgil, he had not just destroyed his soulmark but also much more. And deeper inside, he knew that Virgil had stepped away from him after he had tried to deliver his order because soulmates or not..
Not every soulmate was a datemate.
Especially not if your name was Logan.
16 notes · View notes
tfwhynoy · 5 years
Note
Timer soulmate au with Tfp Shockwave perhaps? I think it would be cute. Also, I absolutely love your work, whatever you are getting paid in whatever job you may have isn't enough because you deserve much better
Idk if this could be considered cute but hopefully it’s interesting. Had fun writing it though!
When you told the bots you’d meet your soulmate within a week everyone was ecstatic for you. They congratulated you and jokingly had you promise to tell them everything about them.
When you had less than twenty hours you were so giddy and excited. It was strange too since you would meet then near night but it’s something you knew months prior and excepted.
You went with Smokescreen on to grab energon while you waited for the day to tick by. The energon mine that had been reclaimed long before was chocked full still and all that really needed to be done was refine the crystals that were already strewn about, put them through the refinery, then take the pure stuff back to base. It was nothing special and while you couldn’t actually help much you still chatted with Smokescreen while the machines refined it.
When a ground bridge opened you both were confused. No one else was supposed to be joining you two.
When vehicons began to flood through you Smokescreen launched into battle as quickly as he could. He was only one mech though, and an inexperienced one at that. He couldn’t even com for help because you were deep in a mine so his comlink didn’t work. You were scared for him and for yourself. You couldn’t help but run as far as you could away from the fight. Even as you ran part of you said to stay and help but what would a single human do against several dozen cons.
You ran deeper into the tunnels till you were out of breath. You hid in a corner that was mostly out of view. Smokescreen would escape and he would go get the rest of the team to save you. They had to. You couldn’t get out alone.
An hour passed. Then another.
It began to hurt to sit in one place for so long.
You were small and quick, at least by cybertronian standards, so maybe you could sneak out and call for help?
The tunnel you ran into was empty as you got out from your hiding spot. You walked quietly and as quickly as you could down then next. Hugging against the walls anytime a vehicon drew near. Thankfully with you being so short they never looked far enough down to see you there, let alone pay attention enough when you crouched behind a rock.
It's in the main area that four caught. With vehicons constantly extracting energon from every wall there just wasn’t anywhere to hide. Despite your best attempts, a vehicle found you and scooped you up immediately. With your relation to the Autobots, you’ll be a better asset alive.
You expected them to interrogate you immediately but apparently when Shockwave heard the news shortly after your arrival he wanted to do it himself. He claimed he’d be more efficient and get some experiments done along the way.
You’ve never really met any of the main cons. You’ve only seen Starscream and Megatron from afar. You’ve heard plenty about everyone else though and didn't like a single thing. Seeing them in person certainly didn't disprove what everyone said and the thought of meeting the emotionless and cruel Shockwave was terrifying.
Of course, it didn't matter what you felt so you kept your lips sealed the whole time you were on the Nemesis. None of Starscream’s mocking got you to snap something back, none of Megatron’s intimation got you to beg for freedom or mercy. You just acted like they didn't exist.
You were put in Shockwave’s lab alone. You wanted to try a daring escape, somehow MacGyver your way to freedom but there was no way you could. The glass of the container you were in was at least an inch thick. The top is only removable from the outside by a cybertronian. You were stuck at step one of an escape, let alone the next dozen.
You watched your timer tick down. Less than ten hours now. Would Shockwave bring someone in that would turn out to be your soulmate?
And yet Shockwave seemed to put you rather low on the priority list. No one came into the lab and you could only twiddle your thumbs.
An hour in and you tried to rock the container onto its side. Maybe you could push it off the edge or something. No matter how you threw your weight around it wouldn't even tip.
Three more hours and you began to feel the effects of such a stressful day. You felt emotionally spent and exhausted. You curled up into a small ball. A small nap wouldn't hurt considering the alternative was just to twiddle your thumbs for who knows how much longer.
You closed your eyes and pretended you were at the Autobot base. The kids had taken up the whole couch so you were just resting on the floor now. You were just spending the night and there weren't enough blankets, that's why you didn't have one. It was a fragile fantasy at best but you weren't trying to really fool yourself into believing it. Just relax enough by pretending you were there so you could rest.
The feeling of movement woke you up. It was Shockwave, his servo tightly holding the container and moving it someplace else. Someplace out of the lab you realized as he walked through the door.
You looked at your timer to see how long you had been asleep. How much longer till you met your soulmate now?
It was all zeros, the grey remains of the timer showing that you had met them.
But you had been asleep! When could you have met them?! Unless…
You looked up at Shockwave. Did you ”meet” him? Even just by waking up and see him? Was this emotionless robot of a cybertronian your soulmate?
”Shockwave?” His head kibble perked up slightly as he turned to you.
”What?” His voice was deep but flat. He almost seemed annoyed.
You opened your mouth to ask him but as his single red optic burned a whole through you the question died in your throat.
”Nevermind.” He tilted his head for a moment then returned to how he had been before you distracted him.
It felt like ages before the destination was reached and you were slightly surprised at what you saw. It just looked like a habsuit. Space and hardly used with only a few datapads stacked neatly here and there to even indicate it was even taken but this was a habsuit. There was a large berth in the corner and a table in the opposite with the formerly mentioned datapads. Looking again and there was a single crate of energon next to the table but nothing more. Why were you here?
”Okaaay. I’m not sure what type of interrogation I was expecting but I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”
”This is no longer an interrogation. With the recent development of you being my sparkmate you will be kept here for observation for the time being.” He set you on the table for a moment but you were still slightly shocked.
”Wait, you’re seriously my soulmate? And you’re just gonna leave me here all day or just sit and watch me or-”
”However illogical it is the simple fact that you are my sparkmate remains unchanged. You will be carried with me to each lab. I will inform Megatron you had nothing of value and that you died in experimentation. I will be collecting things to care for you but for the time being you must remain here.”
You open and closed your mouth wanting to protest but nothing came out. What could you say? You had no power here. You just wanted to go home…
”Will I ever be let go?”
”A logical query. Yes, when I am confident you won't run to the Autobots pleading for help I will let you return to your home.”
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Your stuck here for God only knows how long
With him
Lovely
140 notes · View notes
sergeanttpoliteness · 5 years
Text
➹puppy love➹(peter b. parker x reader)
Requested by @connorshero➝  “Something fluffy and sweet: Peter B surprises Reader (his best friend, who he's in love with) with a puppy after Reader lost their previous puppers.”
Forget listening to sad songs as you eat pizza that burns the roof of your mouth— Peter B. Parker believes a puppy is the medicine for a grieving heart.
word count: 3.5k
a/n: finally, i wrote something short. hello! i’m sorry this took so long, @connorshero , i’m going to be 100% honest and admit that i struggled quite a bit lol— i wrote the entire thing but i decided to delete it and start over bc i wasn’t happy with it. but i finally finished and here it is! requests are open, so feel free to send some if you want (: hope you enjoy!
A desperate thumping on your front door along with the fierce crackle of the storm roused you from the light slumber you didn’t even know you had succumbed to, your body jerking as you choked on the drool that had managed to slip down your chin. You grimaced, wiping the gross saliva off of your face with one hand while the other rubbed your eye. You sat on your floor, your back against your sofa which explained your sore neck and shoulders, staring at the carpet until the knocking returned and brought you fully back to consciousness. You didn’t know what time it was— it felt as if an entire year had gone by whilst you slept, honestly, but you were certain it was too late for it to be your landlord reminding you about your rent payment. You clumsily stood to your feet, the lack of illumination dooming you to knock your shin into the sharp edge of the coffee table. You screamed, but continued limping toward the door anyway, flinging the door open with a scowl as you held onto your throbbing leg. Your expression softened, however, and your brows drew together for in front of you stood a dripping wet Peter B. Parker wearing a large coat that barely covered the red and blue suit underneath it, and… holding a puppy covered in dirt?
“What the fuck?” You muttered, suddenly fully awake. It was an odd and unkind greeting, but Peter really couldn’t blame you for your reaction. He opened his mouth, laughing nervously as his eyes shifted down to the creature in his grasp.
“Hey? Sorry if I woke you up, I just… kinda had an emergency.” He nestled the puppy on his chest and your attention came back to it. The animal shivered wildly, and so did your best friend who smiled at you while his teeth chattered.
You silently moved aside for him to walk in, your brain working hard to figure out what in the world was happening and trying to arrange all the questions speeding by. Peter briefly studied the living room— images of days prior, when he embraced you as you dampened his neck with your tears in that same spot he was in, flashing through his eyes. A twinge of worry invaded him when he took in the abandoned box of pizza on the couch, and the two empty cans of beer littering your red rug. Meanwhile, you might as well have heard the dog talk, because your stunned face— eyes as big as a full moon, your eyebrows almost reaching your hairline— represented just that as you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the stray puppy huddled against the man. “Oh my god,” You finally said, gasping and your hand reaching out to hang above its head. “Why do you have a puppy with you?”
“It was a surprise, to say the least.” He allowed you to take the animal from him, groaning when he saw the grime on his hands and coat. You didn’t mind much about the dirt, though, as it was a dog; laundry day was tomorrow, you told yourself as you hugged the puppy like a young child with their favorite stuffed animal. “I was in an alleyway when I heard something break behind me and so I went to investigate, but instead of a homeless person or something, I found this little girl right here.”
“And you decided to take her with you?”
“Well, yeah, we… had a connection.”
A lovely trail of footprints and droplets of mud now adorned your floor which you had actually swept hours earlier; not the makeover you wanted, exactly, and it would’ve irked you except that you were too exhausted and confused to save a place for an extra emotion. You glanced back at Peter, studying his shivering body, and sighed. The man could be bleeding out to death, yet he wouldn’t complain nor do much about it unless you physically dragged him to a nearby hospital; it wasn’t an exaggeration, rather a characteristic of his you gathered after having a friendship with him since prehistoric times, but also since (to your dismay) the exact same scenario had occurred many times before. “You had a connection, huh? Alright, dork, I bet there’s a forgotten collection of your clothes in my closet— go get changed while I get the bath ready.”
There was a certain weakness that threatened to attack Peter, and the fact that he was freezing after swinging to your apartment in the ruthless downpour easily might have been the culprit of that; but as bad as he wanted it to be that way, it was evident in his heart that you were the true delinquent— you, with your tangled hair perhaps from the slumber he disrupted, with just your presence really, continued to transform him into a teenager who wrote long melodramatic poems about his crush and doodled their initials on his school notes during class. It was absurd, truthfully, how you managed to do such thing to a fully-grown man. But you were his time machine, his youth potion, that remedy that allowed him to see life as colorful as a pure child did, and he’d never complain about it, because that’s just what he needed all the time.
Peter had forgotten about the pile of clothes belonging to him that neatly rested on one shelf of your closet. Ever since you two were in college— when he’d pretty much constantly live in your apartment for an entire week— you’d been assembling the shirts and other articles of clothing the man often left behind as if clothes were as expensive as a carton of milk that’s about to expire. So that’s where that shirt went, he thought as his eyes settled on a green flannel he used to wear religiously back before Christ, partially because you always voiced how much you liked how he looked with it. You’d truly had him wrapped around your finger for the longest time, he realized, and yet he’d never had the guts to make a move. That frustration abandoned him, however, when he put on an old shirt and it smelled like you; there was that youthfulness again as contentment pecked his entire face, coloring his skin a rosy tint. Like a new man, he headed down the hallway to the bathroom where he could hear water running. He peeked his head inside, the corner of his lips tugging upwards when he saw you on the floor caressing the puppy on your lap and talking to it. “I see you two already became friends.”
You looked up at him, directing to him a tired twitch of your mouth. “You better be scared, ‘cause your title of best friend is at risk. Could you close the door?” You gestured your head toward the entrance and your wish was his command as a gentle click left the bathroom’s door when he closed it.
“Again, sorry about bothering you. I just didn’t know where else to go, and you’re the best person I know when it comes to dogs.” He shrugged, descending to sit down in front of you, his knees uncomfortably tucked close to his chest to fit his long legs in the small room. The puppy forgot about you, and was determined to snuggle under Peter’s knees as he jumped off of you. “No! I just changed!” He groaned and wriggled away from the animal into the wall.
You giggled, quickly grabbing the excited creature before it tragically attacked your friend’s immaculate clothes. “I don’t really mind, honestly. I wasn’t exactly having the best night anyway; so thanks, Prince Charming, for coming to rescue me with a stray puppy— hic!” You hiccuped, the alcohol finally getting to you. You stood up, waving your hand which you weren’t cradling the puppy with for him to do so as well.
He hummed, amused, his hand on his hip as you closed the faucet. “I’m excellent when it comes to bathing dogs.” You glanced back at him, quirking a brow and narrowing your eyes.
“You sure? Because every time I asked you to help me give Webster a bath you just watched while I did all the work.” A grin may have remained on your features, but the rain cloud of sorrow that showered over you was evident after you mentioned that one name— the one you used to cheerfully call all the time, but now tried to avoid at every chance you got. Peter noticed, his eyes sad, but he elbowed you playfully hoping that it would help somehow, even if just a little bit.
“Lies, I think I did a pretty good job at holding him still.” It was unavoidable, no matter how hard he could’ve fought, the dreamy smile that etched on his face simply as a consequence of your empyrean laugh; such a minor thing that had a tremendous effect on him, and it embarrassed him, but again, he wouldn’t ever complain. It was baffling how you’d never noticed the stares that lasted too long whilst you just existed, or the utter and raw infatuation his eyes burned with as you smirked up at him.
“Sure, keep lying to yourself. I really need you to help me, though, because this girl is a shit ton more hyper than… uh, you know.” Peter recalled in his head the trip to your place and the humiliating amount of times he yelped while swinging as the dog would continuously squirm out of his grasp and attempt to climb onto his shoulder. He nodded, releasing a big puff of air because you had no idea. You grabbed a red a bucket from the cabinet and handed it to him. “Okay, just use this to pour the water over her.”
“Am I going to get something if I do a great job? You know, like a sticker?”
You shrugged, kneeling down before the bathtub. “I don’t know. A kiss, maybe.” You stared back at him when moments passed and he didn’t say anything, both of your faces as red as the bucket he shakily held. “It was a joke. C’mon, get down.”
He waited for you to take your words back, or maybe add something along the lines of “but if you’re down so am I” if the cosmos decided to bless him for once. You remained quiet, though, and a quiet sigh slipped through his lips as he decided to leave it behind for his own sanity’s sake. “Why did you make me stand up if we were gonna get back on the floor again?” He grumbled, following you suit. He looked at you confused when you began to laugh at him. Was he still blushing? You did always make fun of him when he blushed. “What?”
“Why are you making those dad noises?”
“Me? Dad noises?”
“Yeah, like—” You let out a low grunt, your lips puckered and your eyebrows scrunched together, and then breathed out obnoxiously loud and heavy. “That’s what you sound like— hic!” You hiccuped for a second time, and he threw his head back as he laughed.
“Shut up, you can’t even handle drinking two cans of beer, look at you right now.” He teased, the many times you’ve flirted with him throughout the years after getting hammered with a ridiculous quantity of alcohol in the back of his head.  He stretched out his arms, making grabby hands at the puppy, the bucket abandoned and floating in the water. “Gimme.”
Your mouth curved into a smile at his childlike actions as you carefully placed the creature in his hold. “I can’t believe you’re such a dad, but also a man-child, it’s adorable.”
He chose to say nothing, lest his voice decided to backstab him and crack like a fourteen-year-old boy during an oral presentation. He took a deep breath, instead focusing on the dog who believed it was a menacing beast as it chewed on his finger, and the grey layer of mud covering its short fur. He frowned, thinking of different scenarios of how the poor pup could’ve possibly ended up such way, none happy. He filled the plastic bucket with water before draining it slowly down its back, revealing its true dark brown color. “She’s so cute, I might have to cry.” He mumbled, his expression strangely serious in spite of his words.
“What are you gonna do with her?” There was a glint of what he wished was hope in your tone, anticipation clouding your features as you tried to nonchalantly squirt a generous amount of dog shampoo on the palm of your hand.
The animal tried to escape as he rinsed the grime but he held it in its place while he waited for you to start washing it. He raised his shoulders, glancing sideways at you. “I don’t know, I guess I’ll take her to a shelter or something.” You almost announced your disappointment, but you nodded, drawing your lower lip between your teeth. “You look disappointed.”
“Me?”
“Uh, no, the fucking ghost in your bathroom.” He said sarcastically. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, of course I meant you.”
You chuckled, shaking your head as you massaged the shampoo into the puppy you cared about too much despite only knowing it for less than thirty minutes, creating enough foam that miniature bubbles drifted in the air. “Did you know that my apartment is haunted?”
Peter snorted at your spontaneity. “Oh, is it?” In a mere second, however, he completely tuned out everything along with your response; all purely because of the accidental caress you gave his hand as you scrubbed the dog’s loin. Was it accidental? Your touch lingered for too long for it to be, no? Or was he just overthinking? Most likely. He desperately needed to put himself together, he groaned internally— and if only he’d done so sooner, then he wouldn’t have been too distraught by a hand touch to notice the rapidly approaching mountain of foam on your hand until it was too late. He felt pressure on the top of his head, and that’s when he recognized your hand sliding down the side of his face, lathering the bubbly liquid on his skin. He jumped, pushing your arm away as his eyes widened. “Why did you do that?!”
Your beam was as contagious as a virus as you giggled, your foamy hands proof of your crime. “I asked you something like twenty times and you didn’t answer!” You defended while he wiped his eyebrow with the back of his hand. “Hey, I saw the opportunity and I took it!” Red alarms went off in your head, and you regretted everything when you saw his sly smirk. You lifted your finger up as a warning when he picked up the bucket and loaded it, innocent eyes staring at you. “Don't you— hic!— fucking dare…”
“Your shirt’s kinda dirty. Here, let me clean it for you—” He spilled all the water over your head and you shrieked, wielding yourself with your arms, which was nothing other than pointless as— regardless of your efforts— you still finished entirely soaked. Peter held his fist up to his mouth, wheezing while you glowered at him with wet hair stuck to your forehead.
“You dick…” You chuckled incredulously, giving him no time to feel satisfied before scooping more foam and launching yourself at him, slamming your hand into his mouth.
It was the cafeteria food fight you’d always dreamed of having; except that it was just two people (and a puppy playing in the bathtub) in your bathroom instead of a big cafeteria, and food was exchanged for water in an old bucket close to breaking and wasted dog shampoo with enough bubbles for a little kid to have a stroke from the excitement. Not a degrade, but an upgrade, indeed— one you’d accept without a doubt; even if you could already imagine how much your back would hurt after you mopped up the mess you two made, for it was impossible not to as Peter grinned widely at you with his fake bubbly Santa Claus beard, and you held your soaked stomach as you hysterically laughed. Peter’s body tingled when he thought about dropping all his fears and doubts to crash his yearning lips against yours; to hold your chin with the delicacy you deserved, inundate the room with all his repressed lust and emotion, like a volcano that’s been asleep for eons gushing everything out for the first time in forever. He held himself back, though, like he always did, and just admired your sunshine from afar.
You lounged on your couch, your arm hanging off the side while Peter rested on the floor with his head against your knee, ignoring the discomfort just to be as close to you as possible. It was a well-deserved break after your puppy bath-time-turned-into-a-water-fight as you two watched the clean animal almost do a handstand while trying to eat from the larger bowl. You chuckled, your cheek squished against the cushion. “Did you know I named him Webster because of you?” You mumbled, and you felt Peter’s head graze your knee as he glanced at you, humming questioningly. “Webster. Web.”
“And you waited seventeen years to tell me that?”
“Thought it was sort of obvious.”
“I kinda just thought you were really passionate about the dictionary.” He said and you let out air through your nose, gripping the worn Mickey Mouse blanket wrapped around you. You clutched the memory of Peter gifting you the cloth for your dog’s first birthday close to your heart— the cloth which would become the Australian Shepherd’s most beloved possession, even up till to his last moments and as you said goodbye to him. You sniffed, closing your eyes when your vision began to blur.
“Spidey was an option at first, but I felt really lame calling my dog ‘Spidey’. Plus… he also really reminded me of you.”
His eyes softened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, y’know: brown hair, brown eyes, adorable…” He almost had a heart attack. “He was always there for me and I… I really loved him.” You whispered.
Peter’s stare moved down to your hand, and soon you felt his fingers curl around yours. “Hey, Y/N?”
“Hm?”
“I have a confession to make.” You peeked an eye open. “I didn’t just bring the puppy here so you could help me clean her up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I, uh,” He scratched his stubble, trying to find his words. “Webster took care of you when I couldn’t, y’know? Not just that, but I hate seeing how much it hurt you to lose him. It hurt me as well— you saw me bawling my eyes out like a baby when they put him to sleep.” He laughed.
You frowned, giving his hand a squeeze. “Thank you for being there with me. I probably would’ve broken down if it weren’t for you. But why’d you bring the stray puppy here?”
“I know I said I was going to take her to a shelter, but I really just wanted to see your reaction. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to replace Webster, though, because nothing ever could, and he deserves better than that.”
You then sat up, holding his hand on your lap as you began to understand what he was trying to say. “Peter…” You warned him— you truly weren’t in the mood for a prank, but his voice and features expressed nothing more than honesty. Peter rose from the ground and you immediately followed him, your hands linked as he walked up to the puppy.
“Sorry, bud, but I’m gonna take you for a sec,” He muttered as he bent down and scooped the dog. He faced you, your heart glowing at the sight of his sheepish smile and his giggles whilst the dog began to lick his neck. “I need someone to watch after you now that Webster can’t, and this girl right here is perfectly fit for the job.”
You were aware of how ridiculous you were for tearing up, but it was bound to happen when Peter handed out the puppy— your puppy to you. You gawked at him, taking her gently into your arms, blinking furiously when she washed your knuckles with her tongue. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” He scoffed, although showed you a crooked grin. You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, and took a step closer to him before landing a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth, lightly brushing his lips. He gulped when you pulled away, his eyes going round. “O-oh.”
“It’s not a kiss like I said back in the bathroom, but it’s what you’ll get for now.” You murmured shyly, suddenly your feet much more interesting to look at than the flustered man in front of you or the sweet creature you held. However, once again, you missed that stare of his and his growing smile as his whole face lit up.
“I really can’t complain.”
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quickeningheart · 4 years
Text
Twenty-Two
  Stoker was seriously contemplating building himself a new hideout. While the laboratory he kept well-hidden in the wilderness was large and well-stocked with equipment and supplies, it was becoming more and more difficult to come and go as he pleased without detection. He'd done his best to keep his whereabouts a secret, but Limburger was definitely onto him, if the amount of hired thugs constantly sent out to tail him was any indication. The goons might not have been particularly intelligent, but they were annoyingly persistent; Stoker knew that one of these days he was gonna slip up and lead someone right to his lab, and then everything he'd spent the last ten earth years trying to achieve would be sent straight down the proverbial crapper.
   Even the thought of all the work it would require to set up a new workshop was exhausting, but he couldn't risk his project by staying where he was, and he didn't want to move house to one of his other, smaller hideaways scattered across the country. Moving farther from Chicago—and therefore from his comrades—just didn't sit well with him.
   Which was why he found himself cruising down the ruined streets of the large warehouse district not far from Charley's garage. What had once been thriving industrial businesses were now nothing but empty husks of their former glory, ranging from mildly dilapidated to completely demolished. Not even the street gangs and city lowlifes bothered much with the abandoned neighborhood anymore; there wasn't any point as there was no longer anyone left to terrorize. Now they tended to hang out in other areas, living it up in the massive chasms edging the outskirts of Chicago.
   The result of Limburger's past handiwork, the Pits had become home to every sort of human criminal in Illinois over the past few years. Everyone knew it, including the police. Yet, for some reason, they never seemed to have enough of a reason to go in and raid the place. Stoker was certain that was the result of Limburger's handiwork, as well. He'd bribed the law enforcement and government officials to leave the Pits alone; in exchange, the Pit Boss left Limburger's extensive enterprise alone, and provided all the hired muscle needed to do his dirty work. It was a very beneficial business arrangement all around.
   While that knowledge really ground Stoker's gears, right now it worked well to his benefit. Nobody bothered with this district—including Limburger—which meant he had free access to the empty warehouses. And on the off-chance that anyone should get a little too nosy, they could easily be taken care of; after facing down squadrons of Plutarkian soldiers, a few stray punks were hardly any threat. He'd become an expert at setting alarms and traps. If Limburger sent more goons to trail him, they'd be in for some nasty shocks. He couldn't do much in the way of self-defense in the middle of the wilderness, but abandoned factories full of potentially hazardous junk was a different matter altogether.
   With a little planning and a lot of fortification, Stoker was sure he could rig up a decent laboratory to continue his work while he was on earth. A little careful rerouting would give him ample power needed to run his diagnostics, and he'd be right on the home turf, ready to lend a hand should the rookies need it. As much as it aggravated him to admit it, those hours-long rides between the city and his lab were really starting to wear on his body. It would be a nice change to not have his muscles and bones constantly aching from the strain.
   A sharp beep snapped him out of his inner musings, and he nearly lost control of his bike when it made a sudden veer to the left, narrowly missing the lone figure trudging down the middle of the street, who yelped with fright and scrambled out of the way. "Watch where you're going!" she screeched, and Stoker's eyes widened when he immediately recognized Alley's voice. He slammed on the brakes and made a sharp turn, coasting back her way. What was she doing, wandering these streets all by herself? True, he hadn't seen so much as a stray cat in the general vicinity, but still. She had to know that walking alone wasn't safe! Had something happened to her? Again? He chuckled and shook his head. That woman was a walking trouble magnet, and if he had any sense, he'd keep his distance.
   Too bad his sense always seemed to shrivel up and die whenever those gorgeous blue eyes turned his way.
   He pulled to a stop beside her, opening his visor to turn on the charm … and it was then that the distinct odor of Plutarkian hit him full in the face.
   He reared back with surprise and mild alarm; a soft whufff escaped before he could catch himself, and Alley scowled at him, not missing the flash of disgust that wrinkled his sensitive nose. She started to walk on, but he didn't give her a chance. He was off his bike in a second and blocking her path, frowning down at her. "What happened?" he asked, concern sharpening his tone.
   "Nothing," she snapped, her scowl deepening. He felt her defenses go up, preparing for a fight, and bit back a sigh. As much as their bantering amused him, she could be downright exasperating when she set her mind to it. And while he knew she had every right to be a little peeved at him for his behavior the night before, right now it was time to let bygones be bygones. He wasn't about to let her clam up on this subject. Not when her safety was at risk.
   "Nothing?" he repeated, one eyebrow raising. "I can smell Plutarkian all over you."
   "Then feel free to take yourself upwind." She attempted to step around him. Again, he blocked her path, and she glowered. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Get out of the way!"
   Stoker exhaled a deep sigh and tried for patience, resting his hands on her slim shoulders. "Alley," he began gently, and a startled expression crossed her face at the rare use of her name. "If Limburger did anything to you, hurt you in any way, you need to tell me. Please."
   Her brow furrowed and she glanced around nervously; it occurred to him that she never seemed to know how to respond when he was being serious with her, filing that information away for later consideration. "Did Limburger lay hands on you?" he pressed, and she winced when his fingers inadvertently tightened at the thought. He immediately gentled his grip, rubbing her shoulders briefly in apology.
   "He didn't touch me," she finally mumbled. "He just … caught me by surprise, and one of his guys came up behind me and forced me into his car."
   "Why didn't you fight back?" he asked, offering a wry grin. "You've got a hell of a right hook."
   "Yeah, well, wouldn't do much good against the gun in my back."
   A low growl erupted deep in his throat, making her eyes widen. He forced himself to calm down. "What happened next?"
   "That's nobody's business but mine." She tried to ease away, but he maintained a steady grip on her shoulders and gazed patiently down at her. When she stubbornly refused to talk, he sighed deeply and nodded toward his bike. "Hop on. I'll give you a lift back."
   "There's nothing wrong with my legs."
   "Just do an old soldier a favor and get on. Your cousin would skin me alive and use my pelt as a coat if she found out I'd let you walk through this neighborhood by yourself."
   "Fine." She huffed a sigh and stomped to the bike, started to swing a leg over the seat, only to stumble when the machine rolled smoothly forward. She eyeballed it cautiously and tried again … with the exact same result. She nearly fell that time, Stoker's quick reflexes the only thing keeping her from a pair of scraped knees.
   "Stop that," he scolded, scowling and giving the rear wheel a light kick. "What's got into you?" He was answered with a series of sharp beeps.
   "Your pet doesn't seem to like me," Alley muttered, backing away.
   "Hmm. Maybe 'cause you clocked me?" He winked. "She's kind've protective of me."
   "You deserved that and you know it!" she snapped.
   He sighed and scratched his head. "Yeah, I sorta did," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Stuck my foot where it didn't belong, I guess."
   "Yeah. Straight up your—" Alley broke off with a yelp when the bike suddenly rolled backward, the rear tire missing her foot by mere inches. "Okay, that's it." She turned to stomp away. "No way in hell are you gettin' me onto that homicidal machine! I've seen too many movies with these scenarios and they never end well."
   "Now look what you did," Stoker scolded the bike. "Way to make an impression."
   It gave a sulky grumble in reply.
   "I don't wanna hear it." He waved it away. "Take yourself back to the garage and think about your actions. I'll walk." He strode after Alley, leaving the still-grumbling bike to roll off like a dejected puppy.
     ~*~*~*~*~
   They'd only been walking a few minutes more before they caught sight of Charley racing full-tilt up the street toward them, a panicked expression on her face. He easily deduced the cause of her fright, holding out his hands in a reassuring gesture as she approached. "Relax, we're both fine," he said.
   She came to a stumbling halt, bent double with hands resting on her knees for support as she gasped for breath. "You scared the crap outta me, Stoke," she scolded. "Your bike came roaring into the garage all by itself… I thought something had happened to you!"
   "Nah, just keeping a pretty lady company." He jerked a thumb in Alley's direction.
   Charley shot her an exasperated glance. "And do I even wanna know why you're here? I thought you were at the school."
   "Long story," Alley muttered.
   "She had a run-in with Limburger," Stoker supplied bluntly.
   Alley pursed her lips. "Okay, not that long."
   "What happened? Are you okay?" Charley started to look panicked again.
   "I'm fine." Alley's shoulders slumped. "We just talked, that's all."
   "After forcing her into his car at gunpoint," Stoker put in.
   Alley glared. "Feel free to take yourself back to the garage," she snapped, pointing in its general direction.
   "Alley Cat, come on. You know we're just trying to help," Charley coaxed, slinging an arm around her cousin's shoulder. "Just tell us about it, and maybe we can come up with a game plan."
   "I wasn't supposed to let anybody know anything," Alley sighed, head drooping. "If Limburger finds out I told…"
   "He'll have to go through us to get to you," Stoker growled, expression darkening. "And we won't make that easy for 'im. Trust me on that."
   "It's not him getting to me that's the problem," she complained. "It's what he won't do that has me worried."
   "Which is…?" Charley prompted.
   Alley sighed again. "Just lemme get back and take a shower to wash this stink outta my hair. I'll fill you in on all the gory details later." At their dubious expressions, she cracked a small smile and held up four fingers. "Scout's honor."
   "Alley Cat, that's still the—"
   "Oh, shut up."
     ~*~*~*~*~
   Feeling much more humane now that she could freely breathe without the lingering odor of Eu de Dead Fish in her nostrils, Alley sat down in the kitchen with the entire gang and related the story over plates of hot dogs.
   When she finished talking, there was immediate uproar, with all of the mice in favor of storming the tower and blowing it up again. Alley panicked at that. "I knew I shouldn't have said anything! You macho lunkheads are gonna ruin the whole thing and then I'll never get back into college!" she wailed.
   Stoker ran a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "So, seems like this is my fault," he muttered, scowling. "Limburger got suspicious of my actions, now Alley's the one sufferin' for it."
   "It ain't like you knew he was gonna target her," Throttle pointed out.
   "Yeah. If we're gonna play the blame game, you might as well point fingers my way. He targeted her 'cause she's related to me," Charley added.
   "Oh yeah! That's another thing." Alley glanced at her cousin, frowning. "He called me Parker. He knows my history. He deliberately dug it up for some reason."
   Charley tsked. "Now, what was that supposed to accomplish?"
   "Beats me. He seemed to think us not being blood related would—" Alley cut herself off, suddenly aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on her with varying levels of surprise. She raised an eyebrow at the gawping mice. "What?"
   "You … ain't related?" Modo ventured, frowning.
   Alley blinked at him, then glanced at Charley. "Didn't you tell them?"
   "Oh. I guess it never came up. Honestly, never even occurred to me to mention it." The mechanic shrugged with a grin.
   "What it?" Vinnie asked.
   Alley shrugged. "I'm adopted," she replied simply, and smirked when four furry jaws dropped. "Look, it's easy. My birth dad died when I was really little, like barely two. My mom met the Davidsons when her car broke down, and she and Charley's uncle hit it off and eventually got married. That happened when I was five. Dad officially adopted me just after that and I became a Davidson, too. I mean, it's all there in public records and all, but it ain't like it's right up there for anyone to just stumble over—"
   "—which means Limburger deliberately went digging around fishing for info about you," Charley finished with a frown.
   "Yeah. He seemed to think I'd be willing to help him because we're not 'really cousins'." Alley quoted the air with her fingers.
   "Heh. Typical Plutarkian family values," Stoker snorted. "They ain't exactly known for their loyalty to kin. Theirs is a fish-eat-fish world. Literally. Plutarkian clans are spawned in the thousands, and, well … you ever watch those nature shows? About the fish and insects that hatch and it's basically survival of the fittest from the get go?"
   The women gaped at him. "You mean they actually try to eat each other?" Charley looked disgusted at the idea.
   "Yep." Vinnie wrinkled his snout. "The ones who survive to adulthood are the lucky ones."
   "Yeah," Modo put in. "An' it ain't no wonder they're all the baddest, meanest species in the known universe."
   "They'd be somebody's lunch if they weren't," Throttle finished with a shake of his head.
   "Wow. That's enough to almost make me feel sorry for them," Alley said. She was met with blank stares all around. "I said almost," she huffed, then sniggered. "Given the size of him, Limburger's probably an only child by this point."
   "Ugh. And here I didn't think I could loathe the Plutarkians any more." Charley wrinkled her nose. "So, anyway, now that we know what Limburger is up to, what're we gonna do about it? He's gonna expect an answer soon. And he'll get suspicious if he doesn't get one."
   "I ain't just handin' over my plans," Stoker said firmly.
   "Well, nobody expects that. But I do want to know what these plans of yours are." Charley fixed him with a stern look. "They dragged my family into this mess, so fair's fair. If he's desperate enough to find out what you're up to, who's to say he'll stop with Alley? What if he decides to expand out and go after our parents as well? They have no idea what's going on over here. They'll never stand a chance!"
   "He's never gone after them before," Throttle said doubtfully.
   "He's never gone after my cousin before, either. Now that the idea's in his brain…"
   Vinnie placed a comforting arm around Charley's shoulders. "Time to fess up, Stoke. What've you been up to down here that has you wanderin' off all the time?"
   The old general sighed and sat back in his chair, considering. "No harm in telling you now, I guess," he grunted, before getting to his feet and stomping down to the garage. He returned moments later carrying a long cylinder tube, from which he pulled several rolled blueprints. He spread them over the table, using cups and plates to hold down the curling edges. The mice and Charley gathered around to examine the plans. Alley took a quick glance but quickly gave up; they were a bunch of layouts for what looked like a weapon of some sort, but the writing was all in an alien language. Judging from the growing astonishment and beginnings of delight spreading on the boys' faces, though, it seemed to be something amazing.
   "Stoke! This is—" Modo couldn't finish the thought, swallowing several times. His single eye was suspiciously glassy.
   "Does this mean…?" Vinnie breathed, looking awed.
   "We-we're saved," Throttle murmured, shaking his head. His eyes were wide behind his specs. "Mars will be whole again." He seemed dazed.
   Alley leaned in to whisper to Charley, "Is it a super laser or something?"
   "No," she whispered back. "It's no weapon. I can't make sense of all of it, but it seems to be some kind of a … a conductor."
   "I call it the Regenerator." Stoker glanced around the table, smiling. "It's a matter-conversion device that will hopefully restore Mars to its former glory. It can create water, food, plant life … the possibilities are endless, really. Right now, it's nothin' more than an idea and a bunch've parts and supplies I've been gathering. It requires very specific ingredients that are difficult to come by. Ironically, the most important ingredient—its power source—are tetra-hydrocarbons, found only on earth."
   "So you've been out searching for them?" Charley asked.
   "Yep. In the wilds. Deep in the mountains. They're rare, though. And hard to get to."
   "Why all the secrecy, Coach?" Throttle asked. "We could've helped you search—"
   "Negative, soldier." Stoker shook his head. "Tetra-hydrocarbons are dangerous to work with. Too much exposure can lead to nasty results. Mutation of cells and other such pleasant experiences. Not only that, I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up too high, in case it's a failure." He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "I can't make promises that it'll even work. But I had to try."
   Charley placed her hands on Stoker's shoulder and squeezed. "Stoker, in all this time I've known you, you've never let us down. When you say you'll do something, you always do it and succeed. Mars has faith in you. You will definitely be able to build your Regenerator and it will work."
   "No pressure!" Alley chirped, smiling innocently at her cousin's exasperated glance.
   "We definitely can't let the stinkfish get their greasy hands on those plans," Modo rumbled, frowning. "It'd be disastrous."
   "Well, couldn't it be a good thing?"
   All eyes turned to Alley, who squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. "Look, hear me out. I mean, this Regenerator is supposed to build stuff, right? Like natural resources?" She waved a hand. "Say it does work. So, the Plutarkians attack other planets 'cause they're on the endless quest for stuff for their planet. But if they had a machine that made endless resources, they wouldn't have to go out hunting down and stealing everyone else's! They could all go home and waste resources to their hearts' content and leave the rest of the universe alone. Happy endings all around! Yay!"
   Vinnie's jaw dropped. "Say, that ain't a bad idea!"
   "It does seem pretty logical," Modo agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
   "Nope, wouldn't work," Throttle grunted, earning a frown from Alley. "The stinkfish are fighters by nature. They're born straight into it and it's all they know. If Stoke's right and you can build anything with this machine, what's to stop 'em from makin' bigger, better weapons and ships and findin' some other reason to attack planets?"
   "Have to agree," Stoker added. "Aside from that, tetra-hydrocarbons aren't limitless. Their power would eventually run down, and as it's something the Regenerator can't recreate, earth would always be a prime target for Plutarkians. They'd tear this planet apart looking for new replenishment."
   Alley sighed and Charley patted her shoulder. "It was a good idea, though. Smart thinking," she encouraged.
   "It was, actually." Stoker rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought as he stared down at the blueprints. "It might actually hold a bit of merit."
   "Uh-oh." Charley raised an eyebrow. "I recognize that look. What are you thinkin' now?"
   "I'm thinkin' I can recognize a good opportunity when I see one." Stoker glanced up, a sly grin curling his mouth. "Ladies and gents, I think it's time we set up a little trap of our own."
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