#like to be very clear blowing up that moon was a callous and fucked up thing to do regardless of personal connection. whoever did it.

[drinkingdeadpeopletea]

i think what's really getting me about kozma claiming to have blown up the moon and also claiming to "be" the breach and basically equating "breach collaborators" and "my allies" in the same speech is that. the breach operative we've known since season one, the person who "is" the breach as far the story's concerned, is saskia. and midst is saskia's HOME! she built the black candle with her own two hands (metaphorically, at the very least), she LOVES it there and she loves those people :( and if we take kozma's story at face value, she just threw the "centerpoint" (according to imelda) of her own operation entirely under the bus and endangered the lives not only of innocent people but also of a bunch of her own operatives without their knowledge just to destabilize the trust and frankly that makes me kind of hope she IS telling the truth simply because that's the kind of betrayal i find absolutely delicious,

#midst spoilers #midst #midst podcast #i DO think she's probably bluffing about all or most of it. i bet she was collaborating with the breach but not as closely or with as much #authority as she just claimed and i no longer think she blew up the moon #but MAN those claims leave a nasty taste in my mouth for the exact reasons outlined above. #and it certainly COULD make sense! it's a smart move to encourage/fund/organize an insurrectionary movement within your political rival! #and easy to sacrifice them--especially when it's not even all of them and you've got bigger plans now--to make an even bolder move! #she's a collector! she can move her pieces around the board! #and the scheming of it all only makes her threats have more credibility to the upper trustees she's threatening #except of course that hieronymous is sitting right there having the full perspective & caring about the breach and about saskia specificall #just one more crazy layer to what must have been going through his head during that dinner #frankly. WEEPE has the full perspective too although whether he cares about any of it remains to be seen #i do think kozma is probably going to get killed by the trust/weepe pretty quickly here. but i would LIKE for saskia to get to confront her #if kozma IS telling the truth #it's nuts even WITHOUT the breach component considering she OWNED midst until literally last week. ma'am those were YOUR people. #like to be very clear blowing up that moon was a callous and fucked up thing to do regardless of personal connection. whoever did it. #but the closer the relationship gets the crazier it feels as a thing to do or to claim to have done #i just think saskia deserves revenge or justice on SOMEONE for her home being used as a piece in this stupid game...

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Chapter 16: “Yellow (II)”

AO3 Link

i.

Poppy took little care to disguise the surprise in her pale face, her brows disappearing into her hairline as she visibly struggled to comprehend why her employer might be asking such an unexpected question.

“Ahhhh, y-yes?” Came the clumsy, fumbling reply. “H-he is, ma’am. Room 11037. I sent the flowers there—just as you asked!”

She clearly assumed that she was in trouble, an assumption that Yellow made no haste to correct as her cool gaze traveled briefly to the brass plate on her own closed door—Room 11812—which she knew to be somewhere on the sixth floor from the snatch of conversation between nurses she’d heard from the hallway earlier. She supposed this meant that their rooms were relatively close to each other, give or take an elevator ride or two.

Perfect.

“Excellent,” she murmured distractedly. “Good.”

An audible sigh of relief that wasn’t her own punctured the clinical air.

Pursing her plump lips, Yellow Diamond pulled one leathery thumb over the other and twisted to face Poppy again, who was staring at her expectantly, her ambiguous knitting long forgotten as she leaned forward in her seat, perched almost—if not exactly—birdlike. The woman had wide eyes, bright and yearning, a lovely daffodil yellow. They were almost childlike in their keenness, achingly young, and perhaps it was this reminder above all which made the businesswoman’s own eyes soften minimally as she addressed her with all her usual brusqueness of being.

“Poppy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please,” Yellow grimaced, “if only for this conversation, and ideally, all the ones to come, you can drop the ma’am’s.”

It had been gratifying to be called such the first five years of their acquaintance or so, a marker that the CEO had come into her own as a figure to be deferred to with such honorifics. (Once upon a time, she had merely been the CEO’s daughter, a title which came with no accolades other than privilege and patronization.) However, she supposed that since they were drawing close to ten years of having known each other, of having cohabited the same space for so many hundreds upon hundreds of days, that the relationship between them was already well established.

Poppy was once again stricken blind with no time to recover her face.

Her thin mouth popped open and then shut in a comical, half-moon shape.

“Yes… of course, ma—um,” she floundered, her fingers spidering nervously on her lap. “Of course…”

Yellow’s lips twitched involuntarily, a gesture she duly paid for as a sharp pain cracked through her cheek—no doubt owing to the seven stitches laced there.

Oi.

“Semantics aside”—she waved her uninjured hand vaguely and suppressed a wince—“when you called up here… were you able to discover what was wrong with the kid?”

Poppy frowned, her pointed nose twisting in consternation as she thought upon it, and it was with a small sigh that she shook her head. 

“No, ma’am”—she blushed furiously —“I mean, n-no. I don’t think they could tell me for patient confidentiality protocols… I apologize, Mrs. Diamond. Should I have pressed for an answer?”

“No,” Yellow returned shortly, her voice suddenly weary. “No, you did well, Poppy.”

“T-thank you.”

And they lapsed into a silence then that wasn’t entirely natural, taut like a wire that had only recently been strung. Yellow Diamond did not care for the silence—so alien to her and so heavy, like an intrusive embrace from a stranger. And yet, for the past four and sundry years, this very stranger had been living in her damn suite, taking up space on the couch she slept upon in the study, and accompanying her down the empty halls as she kept one ear primed to her left where the door of the master bedroom was perpetually cracked open, never closed lest she go in there and find her wife—

The stranger didn’t pay rent either.

Bastard.

Yellow went back to rubbing her thumbs together again, distantly soothed by the way that the striations of each digit intersected every so often before breaking apart again, over and over, like trains gliding over the rails of long worn tracks.

It was true she could just have asked her wife what was wrong with the boy.

Could have opened that tentative line of communication just a little further. 

Could have stuck one of her heeled boots just inside the door.

But perhaps that was the unbroken thread in the grand scheme and scope of Yellow Diamond’s life, the recurring truth that reared its ugly head through the bars of her ribcage every time she so much as breathed. 

Hypotheticals.

That was all she had anymore.

Mere possibilities.

Grains and ash and dust.

Teasing her empty fingertips.

Salting them.

I could have talked to Blue.

You would have— I would have—if only she would just be sensible .

(She’s never sensible anymore.)

(And you’re too demanding.)

(She called you cold, Yellow.)

(You’re cold. )

The thought struck Yellow Diamond cleanly, like a steel-edged blow. Her breath hitched, the strain pulling at her sore chest.

I shouldn’t have yelled at Pink that night.

I could have gone into her room.

It didn’t have to end like that.

But it did—and she did—and that was that, the damage irrevocable and irreversible and done, the finality of it all echoing pitifully through the emptiness of space and time. Like ink, its blackness spilled across the pages of her memory, seeped and spread and poured. Like sour wine, it was impossible to ever really swallow. 

But, Lord, how the woman had tried.

She had wanted to move on, to limp forward the best that she could.

She had felt as though that this was the only conceivable way she could exist in a world without her daughter.

This was the means by which she could wake up every morning to a merciless sun and live with herself—dammit.

Leave Pink Diamond behind.

Allow the very image of her to become obscured by the rubble.

Run.

But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she had been wrong this entire fucking time, and she was only now realizing it, and it was too late to be realizing it because time, oh God, time—

Time made fools of them all.

It slipped down an hourglass and through her fingers with all the mere possibilities of the life she and her wife and her daughter could have lived—grains and ash and dust.

As fading sunlight slumped through the window like a body on the floor, Yellow’s eyes dared to burn as she stared at her long hands emptily. They were stilled on her lap, intertwined lightly, with all the tenderness of a feathery kiss.

Kissed, she thought to herself.

When was the last time she had been kissed?

How long had it been since Blue Diamond’s lush lips had pressed against her own with a kind of intensity that had consecrated them both divine? Oh, God, how inseparable they had been back then—colliding stars dancing together in the darkness of their room, the rumble of their voices the only echo of a sound in the space between them. They created supernovas every time they so much as breathed into each other’s skin; they expanded, and they collapsed into each other, and they knew each other, and they tangled in the stardust of their own bare radiances.

With all suddenness, they fell apart.

Their daughter died.

And neither of them could barely stand to look at each other lest they see the reflection of that twenty-one year old girl mirrored in each other’s eyes—her vivid smile, the heels of her red sneakers flashing against the hallway floor, the way her freckles used to bundle together when she laughed.

“Mrs. Diamond?” Poppy prodded uncertainly, and it was with a jolt that Yellow remembered that she was not entirely alone. Her gaze refocused itself on the maid as a dull flush suffused her sharply hewn cheeks. Her temples throbbed. Her entire body ached.

She missed Pink.

(Dead, gone, never coming back…)

And she missed Blue.

(She was terrified to so much as look at her.)

“Poppy…” She began reluctantly, and this in and of itself was an unstudied phenomenon, for Yellow Diamond was never reluctant.

 The syllables strangled themselves in the cylinder of her throat. 

“How…” She winced at her own weakness—she loathed herself—she pressed on anyway. It was all she knew how to do. “How have I done it?”

She paused heavily as she raised her head to greet the maid’s wide-eyed gaze. The white Peter Pan collar of Poppy’s blouse pressed innocently at the base of her slender neck. She wore a necklace strung with white imitation pearls.

“Done what, ma—Mrs. Diamond?”

“How… have I inspired your loyalty all these years?” Try though she did, it was impossible to subjugate the open wound in her voice into her usual cadence of tone—the hardness, the calmness, and the simultaneous assuredness of being which so defined the image of herself she projected to the world.

But there was no such thing as the world in that tiny hospital room.

It was only her and Poppy and the gentle humming of nearby machines.

“Heaven knows I pay you well,” she continued haltingly, “but if there’s one thing I know about money”—and the multibillionaire knew a hell of a lot—“it’s that sometimes… it can prove to be insufficient payment.”

Sometimes, there was just not enough money in the world to fix, to heal, to ameliorate, to restore.

Blue Diamond had called her cold.

Do you really think I could be so callous, Blue?

You act like it sometimes.

Perhaps she had a point. (She always had a point.)

“Forget it,” Yellow said abruptly, glancing away. This was stupid; she was being childish. She suddenly wanted to be left alone so she could revel in just how stupid and childish she was being without a one person audience to watch. “I’m being silly.”

It was not a dismissal at the same time that it was a clear dismissal; she folded her arms across her stomach and neglected to be gentle with the left one.

A dull ache spasmed through her hand.

She refused to meet the maid's gaze.

And yet, for all this, for every subtle and unsubtle portent that had been bluntly thrown her way, Poppy Aurelia did not move.

For nearly a decade, she had been by Yellow Diamond’s side, attentive to her every need, a feat which was only possible because she had become attuned to every microscopic nuance in her employer’s face, her voice, her body language. So she knew that she’d been dismissed, or more exactly, Yellow knew that she knew.

So, why then was she moored to her hardback chair, staring at Yellow from those pale, lamp-like eyes of hers?

Why then, with all the silent alarms trumpeting their signals, did she stay?

Poppy’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she began to talk; she fed her stuttering words to the floor, not daring to look directly Yellow in the eye. The flat of her left shoe bobbed nervously against the cleanly tile floor—tap, tap, tap.

But still, she spoke.

And she said, quite clearly, “I… I don’t think y-you’re being silly at all, Yellow Diamond… I… just think you’re… er… asking the w-wrong question.”

It was the first time in the entirety of their acquaintance that Poppy had ever interrogated the validity of Yellow’s words. She opened and closed her spindly fingers on top of her lap; every tense line in her body looked as though it was preparing for a retribution that didn’t come as the businesswoman only raised a brow in the surest measure of her restraint.

“What question should I be asking then?”

She obliged.

She played along.

She felt compelled to.

She had no choice if she wanted an answer, if she wanted to know why there were still people in her life who tolerated and endured her, who stayed and didn’t leave. (The list was growing precariously short with the passing years, but to be fair, it had never been especially long in the first place.)

“Ask me why I came in the first place, Mrs. Diamond. Ask me why I accepted your job offer all those many years ago.” A pause and then a hurried addendum, rushed, like a spillage of tea: “Only if you want to, though, of course. Please.”

Yellow Diamond simply stared at her—puzzled, floored, and somehow, incredibly enough, haughty all at once.

“You came because I stole you right from beneath Peter Hoffman’s snooty nose,” she returned immediately, almost flippantly. “He always thought he was better than everyone else just because his brother-in-law was the governor, but I showed him—”

Poppy cut across her.

Another first in their decade long relationship.

The maid at least had enough courtesy to look abashed at what she had done, her cheeks scribbled pink, and yet, she pressed on anyway, waving her long hands frantically. 

“Not that part, Mrs. Diamond,” she said hastily. “I-I mean, it’s related to that part, my apologies, but… a-ah… do you remember what you said to me then? In the dining room? You were there for a business meeting, and all the other executives were heading into the lounge to smoke… but you… you lingered, Mrs. Diamond. You stayed.”

It was vague—she hadn’t thought much about the exchange even in the moment that it had happened—but snatches of that night began to collect like wispy clouds across the canvas of Yellow’s mind, swirling and listless, faint but undoubtedly there. 

She’d just turned forty-six, and she was on top of the goddamn world.

She had straightened her tie in the same moment she had straightened from her chair… and there had been a girl, standing at the periphery of everything, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

She stared at her hands as so many suited men left the room, wincing each time one of them so much as glanced her way.

So many of them glanced her way, taunting.

Lecherous.

“I pulled you aside because Hoffman had said something stupid,” she recalled, in that same dismissive tone from before. Hoffman, a big technology magnate in Empire City, was always saying something stupid. It was a wonder his entire body didn’t sag under the weight of his massive ego.

But Poppy shook her head slightly.

“It wasn’t… just something stupid,” she corrected softly. Every premature line in the maid’s sharp face testified to the fact that she remembered these events with perfect clarity, the words that were spoken over a sumptuous roast pig, how maybe even the shadows of the candelabra danced across the gilded walls. She continued to curl and uncurl her fingers on top of her lap for the want of something to do with them. She saw images that Yellow didn't, heard echoes that the executive had scarcely deigned to register as sounds in the first place. “He told his colleagues that while I was a good maid… it was a shame I didn’t have more of an a-ass on me. I was just twenty-three, and that was my first major job, and h-he said things like that to me all the time, Mrs. Diamond. He was awful—that man. He likely still is.”

Another quick memory.

A sharp glimpse of it.

A wedding invitation that had sat on her desk for a few weeks before Yellow had unceremoniously shuffled it into the trash with the rest of the junk—in the fall, Peter Hoffman would be getting married for the third time, and his latest soon-to-be-bride was a thirty-four year old model from Europe.

He was getting close to seventy-three.

Poppy sniffed rather loudly and tried to hide the fact of it surreptitiously, swiping her beaky nose against the sleeve of her blouse.

“So, you pulled me aside, Mrs. Diamond, and you gave me a job, yes, but you also said something to me that I haven’t forgotten since then,” she continued.

And then, quite unexpectedly, with a suddenness that Yellow dimly recognized to be bravery, the tiny maid looked her employer in the eye, daffodil striking burning gold, and somehow, withstanding the heat.

Refusing, quite defiantly, to wither.

“You told me to never accept what I didn’t deserve, Mrs. Diamond,” Poppy said matter-of-factly, her voice confident, unwavering, irrefutably sure. She straightened a little in her chair, squaring her slender shoulders. “That I had a right to demand better than what I was being given, and that what I was currently being given wasn’t deserved. It’s advice I’ve taken to heart from the moment I accepted your offer, and it’s advice that has kept me in your employ all these years.”

“Poppy—” She hastened to interject, to protest, to contradict—consummate contrarian that she was. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, only that whatever she said would be an attempt to stem the praise she could not possibly deserve. This had all been nine years ago; she had simply wanted to get back at a cantankerous old bastard whom she had always despised; words were nice, but they were never reliable measures of conduct.

But again—amazingly enough—Poppy Aurelia was faster. Again, she boldly interrupted Yellow, leaning forward in her seat. The sun from the window haloed her blonde hair, highlighting even the parts of it which stuck up at the top.

“I-I know you’re not the easiest person in the world… I’ve watched you and your family, and I’ve worked for you, Mrs. Diamond, a-and I know you, I think. You can be harsh, and y-you’re often demanding. Y-you get irritable when you’re tired, and y-you're honestly always tired… but that doesn’t make you’re a bad person, Mrs. Diamond. That doesn’t make you a monster.”

Poppy paused then, and she deliberated, and she chewed on her lower lip, seemingly weighing her next words against the risk of speaking them into existence.

Perhaps they were offensive.

At the very least, they were likely inappropriate.

In the end, though, she inhaled bracingly.

She ignored all the carefully drawn lines of etiquette.

She chose to let them fly.

“That just makes you… human.”

Five words, six nervously uttered syllables.

The sentence landed with a kind of finality between them, and there was tension in the air, electricity, as the two of them stared at each other over its heaviness. 

Poppy’s eyes were protuberant with anxiety, the fear that she had finally overstepped scrawled all over her face in red blush.

Yellow Diamond could have been carved from stone for all that she could muster herself to move, her lips parted slightly.

She swallowed thickly.

A feeling like eruption constricted the column of her throat.

And then, through the silence, despite everything awful that the silence was and had ever represented, she said, very softly, very quietly, “Thank you, Poppy… I needed to hear that.”

Poppy’s mouth collapsed into a trembling smile.

She fell backwards into her chair, seemingly exhausted with relief.

Courage cost something after all.

“Of course, ma’am,” she said weakly. “I-I mean, Mrs. Diamond. I’m sorry! I—!”

But far from being affronted, Yellow Diamond laughed—actually laughed—the sound hoarse and a little reckless, half-mad and almost, if not explicitly, fond.

“You’re hopeless, Poppy.”

The maid's smile became teasing. She picked up her knitting needles again, holding up her scarf-sweater-doily-thing up to the light pouring in from the window to inspect it better.

“O-only a little, ma'am.”

ii.

When Yellow Diamond returned home from the office that evening, opening the door with far more force than the gesture typically required, she discovered her wife tucked into the far end of their white couch, knees pulled up to her chest, an open book perched cozily in her blanketed lap. The flames from the nearby hearth bathed the living room in warm, flickering tones—autumnal oranges and honeyed ambers deep enough to get lost in, tentative golds that seeped across the spruce floor. 

Readers balanced carefully on the tip of her nose, Blue didn’t so much as glance up at her arrival, absorbed by whatever she was reading—likely some verbose classic or anthology or theological theory one. She pressed the closed end of her highlighter to her lips absentmindedly, almost appearing to chew upon it. Her long, brown hair was swept across the side of her neck, billowing in graceful waves over her left shoulder.

Yellow peeled her snow-dusted overcoat and scarf off with disgust and slammed each of these articles onto the adjacent coatrack, nearly sending the pole to the floor with the harshness of the action. She flashed a hand out and caught it just in time, but…

“Fuck!” She spat, glowering at the damn thing for daring to be so unsteady. “Shit.”

And it was with a soft sigh, knowing —in that almost haughty manner of hers—that Blue replaced her bookmark between the folds of her pages and finally looked up, her dark brow lifted along the lines of her weary amusement.

“I take it you’ve had a bad day?”

“No,” Yellow growled immediately, stalking over to the couch and plopping down next to Blue’s covered feet. Perhaps in the mood to defy all the studied rules of decorum tonight, she spread her legs wide and hunched forward, shoulders impolitely slumped.

A pause.

Her wife’s lips twitched in the place of a reply.

“Yes,” she broke. She admitted grudgingly. She dragged fingers through her stiff, blonde hair, pleasuring in the sensation of finally being able to muss it up once more. It took liberal amounts of hairspray to tame it into some manner of acceptability every morning. “My mother… we got into it again today.”

As she was only thirty to White Diamond’s sixty-eight, slowly but assuredly, there was a transition of power taking place at the older woman’s pride and joy, the company upon which she had built her titanium bones—Diamond Electric. Now a multinational conglomerate, it had begun simply enough by selling top of the line household appliances… but recently, beneath Yellow’s watchful eye and grasp of the new age market, the company was sinking its teeth into more contemporary avenues of growth, dabbling in radio and television broadcasting, as well as vehicle manufacturing. 

“You’re always getting into it,” Blue said dismissively, but all the same, she placed her now closed book on the arm of the sofa—(Either/Or by Soren Kierkegaard)—and leaned forward to listen more attentively, encircling her legs with her flowing sleeves. Her vivid eyes searched Yellow’s face in that singularly incisive way of hers, as though she was combing the woman from the inside out, taking her measure without so much as saying a word. 

It was always an odd feeling.

To be so thoroughly seen, understood, and adored by another.

X-rayed, diagnosed, and still, somehow, against all odds, loved.

“But do you want to talk about it?” She pressed.

“No,” Yellow flushed immediately. She had seized involuntarily as firelight caught the warm expanse of Blue Diamond’s exposed neck, and, for the first time since her workday had begun, a feeling other than thinly suppressed frustration rose up the column of her own throat. Her mouth was suddenly dry… the beginnings of a mischievous smile rose on her lips, crooked at the corners. “There’s a different way I can work through my feelings, I think…”

She leaned forward then, very much intent on pressing her lips on the exact place fire had already touched her wife first, but with a laugh that was both exasperated and incredulous, Blue placed a slender hand on her chest and pushed her back playfully.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Yellow!” She shook her head, her lilting voice swinging with its own amusement. “Are you aroused by your own anger? Are you so neolithic that you think a hickey is going to make your problems with your mother go away?”

Rebuffed, rejected, disappointed, and intolerably aware that Blue had a point—the woman always had a point—Yellow slumped back against the couch and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uncomfortably as though she was just another one of Blue’s pupils being scolded for putting a hand in the damn treat jar.

“Well, maybe it would if you’d let me try…” She muttered impetuously, sticking her lips out.

“Later,” Blue promised, a slight purr in her otherwise light voice. “But please forgive me if I’m not especially tantalized by the idea of disrobing knowing you’re thinking about your mother.”

Another point made.

It was no wonder she was a celebrated academic.

“Touché,” Yellow groused brusquely, and it was with all the petulance of a teenager that the heiress stared upwards at the white stretch of ceiling, so as to delay the inevitable moment when she would have to meet her wife’s all-knowing gaze again. The black fan whirled through its circular rotations rhythmically, cleaving the air with long blades that reminded her forcibly of her mother’s expertly manicured nails, lacquered the color of pitch and seven inches long.

Sharp.

Potentially fatal.

Yellow Diamond had grown up knowing what it was like to be stroked softly by them—loved by their cold embrace.

Sometimes, it wasn’t so bad. 

The woman had loved her the best that she knew how—and this wasn’t an especially affectionate love, granted—but, at the very least, it was something. 

She was not entirely unbending.

She was not wholly cold…

Other times, though, White Diamond’s love was like having a knife raked down the canvas of her skin.

She never nicked blood, but the threat was always implicit in the cut of her nails.

“She doesn’t trust me, you know…” The words were seemingly spoken to the empty air, drifting upwards with the fumes from the fire. It almost felt nice to get them off of her chest. Cleansing. “I make one call for the company, and she makes another, but everyone automatically sides with her because she’s just… she’s so… well… you know how my mother is…. You know what she does to a room.”

Just by entering a door, her mother could part the Red Sea and turn it blue if she so pleased; shoulders stiffened to obeisant attention; spines straightened; people paid attention to the words which poured silkily from her black lips. 

If White Diamond said jump, employees at Diamond Electric were trained to already be ten feet from hitting the ground.

This was what authority was after all—control, power, unquestioning, unwavering respect.

“And she undermines me, Blue,” Yellow continued hoarsely, her fingertips digging into the soft press of her skin where she was holding on to herself. “And she makes me look like a goddamn court jester in front of the employees I’m supposed to be in charge of one day. Today, she called my inventory markup naïve in front of our entire team of accountants and proceeded to deconstruct why it was so inadequate for the next thirty fucking minutes… and all those bootlickers, damn them, they snickered behind their hands like were were in high school for God’s sake.”

The memory of the unpleasant meeting seared her wide-open retinas.

Much to her horror, her golden eyes burned where she sat.

She told herself it was simply the smoke.

There was a shift on Yellow’s left—the shuffle of sweeping fabric, a gentle thud as a woolen blanket fell gracelessly to the floor. And within a few seconds of these events, Blue Diamond was pressed against her side, soft and warm and faintly sweet—her clothes, her hair, her smooth skin wreathed with the scent of her favorite floral perfume. 

“Blue, you don’t have to—“

But Blue silently held out a hand.

There was a raised eyebrow of quiet invitation.

And with an immediacy that was instinct, and with an instinct that was sure, Yellow pried her arms away from her chest, and without thinking, without hesitating, without deliberation, rhyme, and reason, threaded her angular fingers together with Blue’s more slender ones until their palms touched, lifelines intersecting.

Together, they grounded each other.

They made each other whole.

“I’ve given you my thoughts on your mother before,” Blue began delicately, and these was a certain hesitancy in the polite intimations of her voice that Yellow knew was only thinly disguised disdain. The two had rarely seen eye to eye before, over matters both macroscopic and minute—but mostly over the problem of how best to love Yellow. The question, implicit but nonetheless distinct, often was, What did the woman deserve?  

Softly spoken words of affirmation, generously given? 

Or the type of tough, disciplined love which had allowed the thirty-year old to graduate at the top of her Harvard class, accolades upon accolades showered down upon her already impressive name?

“However… what I will say is this and leave it be for the night if you so choose…” Blue Diamond took a deep breath, as though steeling herself to utter something rather revolutionary. A long strand of her dark hair fell gracefully between her eyes.“She’s scared, Yellow.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Disbelieving, humored, scandalized, and perfectly unconvinced, Yellow laughed harshly and waited for the punchline that never quite came as she searched her wife over for all the telltale signs of humor, but the woman’s long face was quite serious, her thin brow collected cerebrally above her sea-sprayed eyes. “Have you met my mother, Blue?” She asked incredulously. “The woman’s got gems the size of a damn—”

But Blue Diamond cut across her incisively, frowning thin. “Don’t be crass… but I mean it, Yellow. Don’t you see? Your mother is nearly sixty-nine years old and the company is approximately half her age. She’s raised it as much as she claims to have raised you. This is her baby, whom she has cradled so tenderly for so many decades—her firstborn child that the emperor of age is now demanding that she gives up to him. Understandably, you’re too busy arguing with her to actually listen to the words she’s saying when she’s arguing back, but the message she sends is clear enough.”

“And what would that be?” Yellow returned testily, jerking her head.

Her mother was always a sore subject, tender to even touch.

But Blue, having long been accustomed to the recurring problem at hand, was unfazed; she continued with the maddeningly patient air of a teacher explaining that two and two made four to a toddler who had not quite gotten the concept yet. Her shoulder brushed gently against Yellow’s, brows bent almost pityingly.

“Every time she undermines you, she’s indicating that she’s not ready to part ways with Diamond Electric yet. Cutting you down reassures her that she’s still needed, that she hasn’t yet been rendered obsolete. Her critical eye is always going to be trained in your direction until you can prove to her that you’re ready to fill those ridiculously high heels of hers.”

“But that’s absurd!” Yellow cried. “She wants me to inherit the damn thing. That’s all she ever talks about—how I’m going to inherit the damn thing one day.”

“Yes,” Blue agreed softly, “but who said that human beings are always rational, Yellow? Our hearts are so often at war with our heads, and sometimes, logicality is subsumed by the primal. Your mother can want you to inherit Diamond Electric and also half-resent you for doing so all in one go.”

“If she’s feeling all that, then she needs to go get her head screwed on a little tighter. That’s stupid.” The words seemed peevish to her before they even left her mouth; she chewed on her own lip sullenly as the smile playing across Blue Diamond’s lips grew.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say you had to like it.”

They lapsed into brief silence then, unbroken except for the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. The redolence of the smoke and the scent of Blue’s perfume wreathed Yellow with soothing familiarity.

She breathed in slowly.

And she breathed out.

Her heartbeat evened.

And all that suddenly became important to her was the notion, the fact, the incredible, undeniable proof that Blue Diamond was warm by her side; there was not an inch between their brushing shoulders; they spoke wordlessly with the interlinking of their hands.

“So what do I do with this information now that I have it?” Yellow asked after a few moments of this, to which the school teacher laughed lightly.

Her pupil had just asked another awfully stupid question after all.

“You simply remember it going forward,” she replied matter-of-factly.“You use it to understand your mother. And by understanding her, become better than her. You can avoid the mistakes she made. You can rise above her shortcomings and know—intimately and proudly—that you did.”

Yellow’s skepticism must have shown in her face because Blue only shook her head at the expression in it, cutting across her just as she opened her mouth to respond. 

“Prodigious though White Diamond is, she has yet to realize her Achilles heel—that she, too, is vulnerable, that she, too, feels and aches and fears. And the longer she restrains herself from this self-knowledge, the less she resembles you, Yellow.”

“Me?” Yellow couldn’t help but laugh; it was her last defense against the unexpected knowledge her wife seemed to possess concerning the nature of her mother. Where she was coming up with all this, the woman could scarcely figure it out. Yellow had studied her mother for thirty years and still felt as though she was barely scratching that pristinely cut surface, smooth all over.

(Honed around the edges. Dangerous to behold.)

“Yes, you, Yellow Diamond,” she said fondly. “You, who feels so deeply. You, who loves with abandon, the telltale signs of your care scrawled all over your face in permanent ink. You and you alone.”

Blue leaned forward then, slowly, carefully, so that their foreheads were touching.

It was a familiar gesture, one that Yellow completed automatically, all instinct.

She pressed her lips against Blue Diamond’s hairline, tasting the scent of her fragrant shampoo.

“And that, my dear, is one of the many reasons why I love you,” she finished quietly. “Because I know, beyond a shadow of a reasonable doubt, that you love me back.”

Yellow’s throat suddenly tightened; she swallowed, tried to regroup, and pitifully failed.

And she failed because she couldn’t stop thinking about how right her wife was; she had a point.

She rarely ever didn’t.

“Always,” she finally whispered, grateful, overwhelmed, adoring, undone. “Always, Blue.”

“Yes.” Blue’s lips grazed her own as the shadows on the wall swelled around them, flickering, dancing, expanding, convulsing… snow swirled across the tall floor to ceiling windows, flurrying white against an infinite night sky… “I know.”

They sunk together into the couch then.

They danced and expanded, swirled and convulsed.

Infinite.

iii.

With an abruptness that was almost violent, and an almost violence that sent a sharp pang up her injured arm, Yellow Diamond braced her shaking hands on the edge of the sink in the bathroom attached to her room. There were a few lacerations on her knuckles where they had scraped tiny bits of glass and debris when she had lurched forward in her seat during the accident.

Fresh, they stood out lividly against her skin. 

She examined them with vague disinterest for a handful of seconds as a way to stall for time, to distract from the inevitable moment when she had to look up.

Brush her hair.

Adjust the collar of her pajama top.

Throw a little blush on for the hell and sake of it.

Face herself in the mirror.

Her sweat-slicked palms cooled on top of the scratched porcelain; the seconds whiled down and away, teething upon themselves with each minute she stood in that abysmally tiny room, with its cheaply tiled floors and dingy lighting.

It smelled like hand sanitizer.

Her head pounded, each thud forming a singular accusation against her temples.

(Coward.)

(The name spat itself out at her, landing directly between her eyes.)

(Coward.)

(There was no defense against its validity, no sheathe to blunt the force of its blow.)

(Coward.)

(The raw truth of it wrapped its hands around her organs and squeezed.)

In the end, she was so well-practiced in how to put on a face, that she finished getting ready to leave her room without needing to glance at herself. When she exited the bathroom, she palmed the light a little harder than was necessary.

Room 11037.

The nurse who came by to remove Yellow’s IV earlier had indicated that it was on the fourth floor in the Truman Ward, where chronically ill patients were usually admitted. This wasn’t necessarily news to the businesswoman—she had known for a couple of days now that the kid was rather sick. But even still, there was something about hearing it aloud, in such an objective fashion, that made it feel less abstract than it had when she had briefly talked to Blue about him, so overwhelmed had she been by the fact that her wife was standing in her doorway, seeking her out.

Wanting her.

It didn’t register then, like it was registering so sharply now: Blue was friends with a chronically ill kid.

A kid who might very likely die.

For the last four years, the woman had become a master at inviting her own misery, wrapping it around her shoulders like one of her favorite silken shawls.

Sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, Yellow pulled on her black loafers with painstaking slowness and tried not to resent the fact that her wife was pursuing someone whose death may very well kill her.

(For the last four years, Yellow Diamond had collected each and every last one of her resentments just beneath her skin, where they had writhed. God, how they had seethed.)

As a last minute preparation, she shoved the left hand sleeve of her pajama shirt over her brace and stood up in a motion that would have been fluid were it not for the fact that she teetered dangerously, catching herself at the last second on the post of the bed. She gritted her teeth.

She swore violently.

And then, with terrifying rigidity, unbending to the last, Yellow Diamond moved forward.

It was all she knew how to do.

One foot over the other, each step meticulously measured.

What exactly was she moving towards? The woman couldn’t very well say, much less articulate to herself in a manner that satisfied her rational faculties. Physically, it was the boy—it was the child called Steven, a stranger at the same time he was an increasingly intrusive specter in the household of the Diamonds, a ghost there with all the rest.

The simplest answer was that she wanted to see him for herself, wanted to lay eyes on the human who had miraculously healed her wife.

But the simplest answer was almost pleasant.

In the right light, it could even be construed as kind.

Yellow Diamond was many things.

 She was not, in fact, kind.

iv.

“Argh!”

It was scarcely 4AM when the sound of silence shattered with an abruptness that was quite awful. A baby’s high, inconsolable, agonized wails pitched down the narrow hallway and into the half-opened door which led into the master bedroom, where Yellow Diamond’s sleep-laden eyes opened with a start, uncomprehending of what she was hearing for a handful of disoriented seconds until her wife stirred beneath the angle of her arm. Enveloped in the lock of Yellow’s limbs as she was, Blue struggled at first to lift her head from her pillow. They wrested for a few seconds in the disoriented awkwardness of it all, but eventually, Blue propped herself up on one elbow, her long, dark hair sweeping sideways down her back.

“Pink,” she whispered unnecessarily, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. “She may need changing.”

It was more than likely then that this was true; Blue had an uncanny knack for sussing out which of their daughter’s cries corresponded to each need.

“Wait,” Yellow yawned, swiping her free hand across her tired face. “I’ll get up this time. You need to get some more sleep. Big conference today.”

Blue didn’t need any more convincing.

“I love you,” she sighed in grateful relief as she slumped back down on the pillow in a movement that wasn’t entirely graceful. “Endlessly.”

“Don’t be so affectionate yet,” Yellow teased darkly as she snuck her arm from around her wife’s curving waist. “You can cover 4AM duty tomorrow night.”

“Aye,” came a faint voice muffled by blankets. “There’s the rub.”

Yellow chuckled quietly and pressed a kiss against Blue’s warm cheek before pulling herself out of bed in a flurried mass of tired limbs, bare feet hitting the plush carpet with a thud as she unfolded into the dark air. By the time she had gained the ten or so steps to the doorway, her wife was already asleep again, her light snores drifting upwards from somewhere behind her shoulder...

The path down the hallway to Pink’s room was smooth and familiar after nearly six months of having traced it night after night, called Siren-like to the inescapable sounds of the baby’s screaming. Yellow took the trip at a jog—mostly to wake the parts of her body that the crying hadn’t already—and gently pushed upon the incompletely closed door leading into the nursery.

Softly lit by the waning beams of moonlight pouring through the high window, the crib at the center of the room seemed almost incandescent—ethereal—even if the sounds emitting from it were anything but. Her eyes still half-gummed with sleep, Yellow proceeded to the side of the cradle, bracing her fingertips on the wooden frame as she looked down at her daughter—her beloved, her beautiful, her squalling daughter, Pink Iphigenia Diamond, whose tiny, button nose was all twisted in the agony of her continuing cries, face red and wet with the exertion.

It was with a certain steadiness that Yellow bent down and brought the baby into her arms, tucking her small head gently against her neck as she patted her bottom and bounced her up and down, up and down, as she’d done so many times before.

“Shhh,” she pleaded, cupping her palm around Pink’s back. “Shh, I’m here.”

The baby continued to whine for a few more minutes still, but the intensity of the sounds lessened the longer Yellow held her and rocked, back and forth, shifting her weight from one leg to the other until the six-month old was nearly quiet in the embrace of her arms. It was then that she made quick work of changing the dirtied diaper, discarding the soiled one in the garbage, and redoing the clasps on Pink’s onesie, always cursing how many of them there seemed to be.

Now laying agreeably on the changing table as Yellow fastened the last button, Pink stared at her curiously, the tender skin around her dark eyes still edged with the trace remnant of her tears. “Between you and the alarm clock,” she told the baby sternly, “I’m never going to sleep again.”

Pink gurgled in unknowing agreement.

From the changing table, the pair of them proceeded to the rocking chair next to the crib, which Yellow flopped into quite unceremoniously, even though she was gentle, ceaselessly careful, as she cradled Pink in her arms, swathing her in the woolen blanket that White Diamond had sent from her latest retirement travels in Peru. The woman was always sending Pink expensive trinkets from sundry countries, and with them, neatly written memos about the welfare of Diamond Electric. 

Sometimes, Yellow swore her mother continued to keep up with the company’s stocks better than DE’s team of expertly trained accountants did.

She was also positively sure that this didn’t reflect well on that team of expertly trained accountants.

Between the lines of asking—(demanding)—for more pictures of Pink and declaiming—(boasting)—the exotic natures of her travels, White Diamond’s more pressing message was clear, even if it was subtle, in that overwhelmingly honeyed way of hers.

Keep moving forward.

Continue advancing.

There was never a finish line for success, and therefore, no room for complacency, so darling, my dear, keep one eye on the road and the other over your shoulder lest the wolves attack from behind…

As moonlight dripped gently upon their heads, Yellow glanced down at the now slumbering baby in her arms, whose tiny fingers failed to encompass the whole of her mother’s thumb. The glow of the night settled softly on her milk white face, darkening the freckles spread like cookie crumbs across her cheeks.

She wondered to herself, very quietly then, had her own mother ever held her like this, so softly and so tenderly in the calm of early morning?

It was absurd to imagine White Diamond as being anything other than immaculately put together, arranged in a striking jumpsuit, balancing a portfolio beneath one arm and pressing a phone against her ear with the other.

Softness, tenderness, gentleness, grace—these were not words that readily stuck themselves to her stick figure frame.

She resisted those labels.

Unfailingly mocked them.

How she’d hate to see her own daughter even now…

Pressing an almost defiant kiss against Pink’s smooth forehead, Yellow concluded that it was unlikely her mother had ever yielded to a night like this; that was what the long line of nannies and governesses had been for after all.

She didn’t feel any particular resentment at the fact; she had long made her peace with the fact that the mother-daughter relationship between them was more or less transactional, unless, of course, they were bickering and fighting.

And yet, as she rocked her own daughter in that chair which ever so slightly creaked with each rhythmic sway, Yellow pitied her mother, who—last time she had checked—was apparently drinking thousand dollar bottles of wine in Paris and still finding time to criticize her only child.

It sounded vaguely unpleasant, going through life with eyes wide open all the time, head perpetually tilted over one’s shoulder.

Surely, she thought, the woman had to be tired.

v.

If Yellow Diamond attracted one pair of eyes as she crossed the clinically white hallway, then she attracted two dozen of them as nurses, doctors, patients, and visitors alike all stopped to stare at the spectacle to which they were being treated—the city’s most renowned CEO stalking through a hospital ward, wearing golden pajamas that were somehow finished off with polished business shoes.

Whispers hissed like tiny faucets all around Yellow as the engraved numbering on the doorways increased on either side of her. 

11029.

“That’s her. Yes, I’m sure…”

11030.

“She was in a wreck, I think. Saw it in the news.”

11031.

“Looks like someone’s lit a fire under her ass.”

“Shhhsh!”

Yellow scowled, her fingers twitching irritably by her side, but nonetheless maintained a distinctly cool expression until she arrived at the fifth and equally unassuming door on the right hand side of the corridor.

11037.

The door was incompletely closed, which allowed the soft murmur of the television within to seep beneath the cracks, advertising what sounded like some… some kind of kid’s show with its high pitched voices and jaunty background music. 

For there was a kid on the other side of this door.

A mere child.

And for the first time since she had conceived of this plan—(it was hardly a plan and more of an unsubjugated impulse)—the CEO faltered, staring at the wood blankly. A choice branched before her, the very dimensions of it almost tangible as she simply stood there, on that hard-tiled floor, feeling the bareness of her own self beneath the thin layer of her pajamas, feeling the cold draft of the hospital prickling uncomfortably against the back of her neck.

She could proceed forward into the room and glean something new about her wife.

For that was what it was all about, right?

At the end of the day, at the very end of this infernal world which they had inhabited together for so many years upon years, she was whom her entire life revolved around in all of its many facets.

Blue and Blue and Blue.

(Who was this mysterious boy to give her cause to smile?)

Or, Yellow could cut her losses as they were and let this final door remain unopened; she could walk away and assuredly regroup. Burying her hurts deep beneath her skin, letting them seethe there with all the others, she could tell herself—command herself even—to be satisfied with the outcome of a battle surrendered, her weapons laid down at the threshold of the final gate that was filled with noises from a children’s television program…

Her stiff fingers reached up and gripped the polished door handle, the brass so cold that it simply burned.

And she hesitated a little.

She bit her already cut lip.

She deliberated.

She was deceiving no one but herself.

She had long already made up her mind.

Because Yellow Diamond, for all that her rigidly composed exterior implied, did not know restraint.

She had spent a lifetime and an eternity scaling mountaintops in search of the next highest peak to climb, to conquer, to revel in, to find herself alone upon.

And so, she couldn't stop.

She wouldn't stop now.

She hauled her hand downwards in a singular vicious movement.

She pushed inwards.

And the door slowly opened to a room filled with dying sunlight, orange fractures slivering onto the walls like great, yawning cuts through the slats in the window blinds.

And there, to her left, propped up in the hospital bed, was the boy named Steven, staring at her from widened eyes.

She was shameless, appalled, entirely uncomprehending; she stared at him quite wildly back.

The nakedness of shock electrified the space between them.

After all, she was a stranger who had just bursted into his room without so much as a cursory knock.

And he was—there were no other words for it—a sickly, sickly child, small and emaciated, dwarfed even by the sheets which swathed him. Wires and tubes snaked across his body, invading him all over—his oxygenated nose, his arms, his chest. There were even a few protruding from his blankets. He had curly, black hair and big, brown eyes that were sunken in his face, grooved beneath with purple shadows. 

Her wife wasn’t merely just friends with a sick kid.

(That would have been too simple, too uncomplicated, too convenient for them all.)

No, she was friends with a goddamn corpse.

The thought arrived before comprehension did, and she frowned at herself immediately, scolding.

Sickened.

Steven recovered first, hastily arranging his face into a polite smile that made one of his cheeks look swollen. With a click of his remote, he muted the show he had been watching—some kind of colorful cartoon, which, for unfathomable reasons, featured a crying egg.

Sunny side up.

“Hi,” he ventured; there was tentativeness in his voice but a certain curiosity, too. Yellow glanced to his side and only vaguely comprehended that the sunflowers she had tasked Poppy to send to him were sitting on his rolling side table, haughtily arranged in their vase. She crossed her golden-sleeved arms across her chest defensively and suddenly wished the maid hadn’t made such an appropriate choice in flora.

“Hello,” she returned abruptly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The room was much like her own, except a little smaller, maybe. Perhaps, though, it was the presence of so many machines hovering around his bedside which offered such an illusion of confinement. They were all hooked up to him in some form or fashion, humming and whirring. “You’re Steven, yes?”

“In the flesh,” he grinned cutely. “Steven Universe to be exact.”

She stared at him incredulously. 

He had to be joking.

“What kind of name is Universe?” 

He stared at her back.

Confused.

A little indignant. 

His button nose scrunched up, quivering the oxygen cannulas.

“Well, I think it’s a good name,” he huffed. “My dad chose it for us.”

“It sounds contrived,” she returned haughtily, sniffing. 

“You’re one to talk! Your name is a pun!”

Steven Universe covered his mouth quickly then, disturbing a nest of wires at they lifted into the air with the rash gesture, but the damage was already done; it was clear, painstakingly obvious, that the boy already knew her name.

“You know who I am then?” She asked sharply, demanding confirmation all the same.

“No!” 

But when Yellow arched a supercilious brow, he broke just as quickly, uncovering his hands from his mouth and letting them fall with a dull thud on top of his blankets. “Well, I mean… not technically… but uh, you’re wearing golden pajamas, and when Blue Diamond dropped by earlier, she said that you’d been in an accident… and it wasn’t difficult to, well”—he peered at her nervously, wincing—“put two and two together… you’re Yellow Diamond, right?”

But Yellow wasn’t really listening any longer.

Because Blue Diamond had dropped by earlier.

She’d been here, talked to him.

Communed.

For some reason she could not entirely rationalize to herself, the thought of it compelled her to want to hit something; she made an awkward, jerking movement, which she only dimly recovered from by leaning her shoulder against the nearest wall, collapsing against it roughly.

“The one and only,” came her affirming reply.

She hardly knew her own voice, how bitter it was and how cruel.

Steven Universe simply stared at her in silence, his mouth parted slightly for a lack of words to say.

vi.

The years scurried forward, dashing across the sands of time with tiny, pattering feet. Pink Diamond became one became three became five in the interim and the rush, her chubby limbs elongating with each passing day that she scampered around the penthouse suite despite her mothers’ protestations—both to the scampering and to the inconceivable idea that she was growing up. She had once been so small, a minuscule bundle in the warm expanses of their arms. But now, the tuft of brown hair which had once barely covered her bald head had bloomed into a spray of curls that framed the sides of her freckle-splattered face, poking up a little at the top. 

She was a funny little creature.

Exceptionally opinionated to be so young.

She liked her ballerina lessons, but she didn’t like her instructor, who she said smelled like socks. She had a bright, high laugh that often threw itself down the echoing halls as her various caretakers chased her down their lengths. Her chosen color was pink independently of her name (though yello’ and bwue were pretty colors, too). She loved dinosaurs—how they stomped and bit and roared. Her favorite foods were chicken nuggets.

And yes, these were obviously shaped like dinosaurs.

The little elf, they all called her: the various employees of the Diamond household, her tutors, her imperial grandmother, her mothers most of all. This was partially because she resembled an elf with her slightly tapered ears and big, mischievous eyes, but it was also a nickname derived from her uncanny knack of getting into places she wasn’t supposed to be: the kitchen cupboards, her mother’s claw-footed wardrobe, her other mother’s study—often hiding beneath the mahogany desk to lie in wait for someone to scare. 

Usually a maid who was cleaning in there, but sometimes, Yellow herself if she could manage.

(Sometimes, amazingly enough, she managed.)

When the then thirty-six year old entered her office one sun-splashed autumn evening, anticipating a call from Hélène Colbert—a high-up ambassador for a steel manufacturing company in France—Yellow made a cursory glance beneath the furniture just to ensure that there was no silently giggling child tucked into the darkness there. But there was nothing—only that secluded strip of carpet and a few dust bunnies the maid had missed during her last sweep through of the study. 

Satisfied, she straightened in her chair and snatched up a nearby pen so as to jot notes on the legal pad she kept on her desk at all times.

It had been a damn good week.

If she could secure an alliance with Colbert, it would be an even better one. The steel company had a plant just off Delmarva’s coast, and if they could work out a reasonable deal, then Diamond Electric would no longer have to import the bulk of their steel supply from a few states away. It would save the company a hell of a lot of cost in overheads, and it’d make the Diamonds that much money more… 

The landline rang just as Yellow scrawled that it was September 30th on the top of a fresh page; her plump lips tipped upwards in a lazy smile as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Yellow Diamond, I presume?” The woman had a low, pleasant voice that rolled with her French accent.

“The one and only,” came her confident reply, and the two began to negotiate, back and forth, sparring gracefully with their words, back and forth and around the bend again. If they continued at this pace, Yellow could have an initial affidavit sent to Colbert’s office by morning… hell, she could make one of the interns drive down to Delmarva tonight.

“Thirty-five percent,” Helénè countered.

“My highest offer is twenty,” Yellow volleyed back.

And on and on.

Fifteen minutes in, just as the conversation was becoming less jocund and more argumentative, there was a dull thud against the door.

Plunk.

Yellow’s golden-eyed gazed narrowed as she stared at the diminutive crack beneath the door; a slight shadow played there, moving along the edge.

Perhaps it was that awful cat of Blue’s…. ugly creature… it shed everywhere.

“With all due respect,” the ambassador continued, irritation edging her carefully constructed words,“we would be supplying the steel for your latest line of airliners, which is no mean feat, Mrs. Diamond. We deserve at least thirty percent of the cut.”

“Steel you only manufacture for less than ten percent of the cost it requires for Diamond Electric to actually produce the planes in the first place,” Yellow reminded her smugly.

“That’s—!” Hélène seemed to be rendered temporarily speechless. DE’s accountants had done their due diligence when it came to researching the company.”That’s beside the—“

Plunk.

Plunk.

The door was rattled again—twice. Hélène paused mid-blustering tirade; apparently, this time, she had heard it, too.

“Pardon?”

Plunk.

Plunk.

“Excuse me,” Yellow said shortly, her jaw locking. “Let me just handle this… I won’t be more than a moment—“

Straightening from her chair, Yellow Diamond placed the receiver on her desk and swept to the door in a few magisterial clicks of her heels, wrenching the knob violently. If it was that damned cat again—

It was not the damned cat.

The swinging doorway gave way to none other than Pink Diamond, who was sitting crosslegged on the hardwood floor, a bouncy ball caught between her grubby fingertips, the unmistakable expression of guilt caught between the freckles spanning her face. The triangle of light from the study fanned across her tiny form; she crouched in her mother’s lengthened shadow.

“Pink!” The word pried itself loose from her mouth more harshly than she had intended. (Hélène Colbert was on the line… they were so close to securing a deal… she didn’t have time to deal with childish trifles… her nerves prickled just beneath her skin.) “What are you doing?”

“Playin’!” The child smiled sheepishly, her gapped teeth revealing themselves with the gesture. She lifted the toy and just as abruptly let it go, where it crashed to the floor with a massive plunk. “Ball!”

“Where’s Sonya?” She glanced down the hall, as though expecting the day governess’s tall form to suddenly materialize at the end of it, stammering her obsequious apologies. “Why aren’t you in the playroom?”

Pink tilted her head uncomprehendingly as the ball landed with yet another echoing thud; the cavernous ceilings did little to mitigate the acoustics of the sound.

“I don’ know…”

“Well”—she pinched the bridge of her nose in a concerted effort to stem her annoyance—“go and find her, honey. Momma’s working.”

“But I don’t wanna play with Sonya! I wanna play with you!”

“I can’t—“

“But why, Momma?” The child wheedled.

“I told you,” she said it forcefully—she almost growled it—as though she expected the five-year old to grasp the nuances of a rational refusal. Couldn’t she see that her mother was busy? “I’m working.”

“But—!”

“ Pink, ” she snapped, slamming her hand against the doorframe, “ not now! ”

The child's protestations were snatched into silence.

Horrible, gaping, protracted silence.

And then, there was a tiny sniff.

A trembling lip.

Yellow Diamond realized seconds too late that she had gone too far, had crossed the invisible line between scolding her daughter and yelling at her— scaring her. Pink Diamond’s face reddened immediately, the beginnings of tears standing in her eyes, her tiny chest heaving in the telltale signs that she was about to cry.

“Wait, dammit—Pink, don’t—“ But any words of comfort were stifled in her mouth as Sonya finally came running down the dark hall from the direction of the playroom, her horn-rimmed glasses askew, dark strands of hair falling out of her usually meticulous bun. She scooped the child in her arms, uttering her excuses rapidly between every one of Pink’s awful cries, which were now freely being wept. “—playing hide and go seek… got away from me… so sorry, Mrs. Diamond… won’t happen again.” 

“Sonya. I mean, Pink. I—“

But before she could finish objecting, could explain, could thoroughly justify why she had made her daughter cry, the lithe governess had already pivoted in the opposite direction just as quickly as she had come, stroking Pink’s feathery hair and whispering soft words of consolation against her head, for the child had buried her face in Sonya’s turtleneck.

Like ghosts, they disappeared together around the corner.

And in the resulting quietness, the remaining darkness, Yellow glanced down.

Pink’s bouncy ball remained—red, abandoned, and ultimately harmless now without the agitations of its owner.

She kicked it away to release some of her feelings.

It plunked, plunked, plunked down the empty hall.

Slightly disoriented, irate, her chest prickling, the CEO eventually returned to her study, closing the door behind her with a click and apprehending the receiver again, where Hélène Colbert had waited, her silky voice armed with renewed rebuttals as to why the deal needed to be renegotiated. They sparred, and they fought, and Yellow unsheathed the best and worst that her blunt tongue had to offer.

And when they finally closed half-an-hour later, with Hélène swallowing twenty-five percent as pleasantly as she could manage without breaking the decorum of her own forced politeness, Yellow Diamond poured herself a celebratory glass of Moscato and reminded herself that she deserved it.

Pink was only a child.

She couldn’t possibly understand…

One day, though…

When she was older…

vii.

The silence staggered thin between the two of them for what seemed like an infinity, and within its breadth, for the first time since she’d woken up that morning in an unfamiliar bed, Yellow wanted to collapse beneath the weight of her own tiredness.

She was exhausted.

She was always exhausted.

When had there ever been a moment, in four goddamn years, when she had not been a corpse cruelly animated by the beating of a heart that was exhausted—spent, empty, irreparably, irretrievably drained?

Her entire body was the bruise that she leaned all her weight upon simply by standing upright as she met Steven Universe’s shy gaze in that crowded hospital room. The wall propped her up, rescued her, preserved what was left of her fragmented dignity; fleetingly, she thought of Blue Diamond’s silver cane.

“So…” Yellow hesitated, reluctant, unsure, lingeringly bitter. She attempted to subjugate these vulnerabilities into a voice that only barely managed to pass as level. “… my wife came by.”

She supposed, in the end, that it wasn’t this child’s fault that her marriage was on the brink of dissolution.

And so she concluded, if this indeed was the case, that she frankly couldn’t hold it against him.

(For the most part.)

“Not for very long,” Steven offered quickly, as though he thought that would help. “She looked really tired… she said she’d been in your room all night.”

It wasn’t lost upon Yellow Diamond how remarkable of an image that must have been: Blue sitting by her side—diligent, solemn, studiously concerned, her silvery brow skimming the tops of her oceanic eyes. For years, it had precisely been the other way around with them, the vigils she had observed by her wife’s calcified form long and unbroken. The sun would spread its arms around the morning sky, washing pink across Yellow’s weary face in gentle, ritual greeting. She would get up then, from the hardback chair where she sometimes sat, and begin her day anew: drink a cup of coffee, arm herself in a three piece suit, make business calls, go to the office, and call Livia constantly throughout the day for updates. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Sometimes, she would kiss Blue’s wrinkled forehead before she left.

Other times, she couldn’t bear to so much as look at her.

Acid would rise up the column of her throat.

Anger would scrape her fingers into fists.

Resentment.

It simply poisoned her.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

“I see,” Yellow returned unimpressively, glancing downwards; there was a scuff mark on one of her shoes, aberrant and unfathomable. (There were so many scuff marks across the neatly polished contours of her life; she could see every one of them clearly now, how they pulsed, how they bled, how they so inexorably bruised.)

Steven shifted in the bed as much as the tubes encumbering him would allow.

She looked up again.

“Blue also said you hadn’t been injured too badly… but I’m really sorry you were hurt in the first place.”

He paused uncertainly; the silence limped forward between them; it dared to approach.

The child had big eyes, brown and rather deep, even though they were sunken in unnatural hollows.

Pink’s eyes had been brown, too, chocolate smooth.

Playful and mischievous and kind.

The parallel did not invite comfort.

She would never see her daughter again.

“Are… are you okay?” He asked, his voice soft.

Tender.

It extended a warm hand across the silence between them; it tried to breach the gap. And this, above all, was the most inscrutable behavior to the practically minded businesswoman. This, above all else, simply galled her. Steven Universe didn't know her. In the three minutes since she had arrived here, she'd done nothing more than rudely abused his name, and still, he tried to breach the gap. Still, he was kind.

“You look like you’re... tired.”

“What’s it to you?” Yellow shot back instinctively, the words forsaking her before restraint held them back. Ashamed, irritated, weary, exhausted—she was always exhausted—she rubbed a chastising hand across her mouth, the heel of her palm rough against her lips. “I mean—shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You don’t appear so rosy yourself.”

Even though she had just insulted him (again), Steven laughed, his bright eyes cutting through the gray flatness of the room. 

“Maybe not,” he grinned, “but that’ll change soon enough… I’m getting kidneys today!”

He puffed his chest out proudly.

His smile, incredibly enough, widened.

And in that moment, his joy, his happiness, his unburdened, unmitigated relief was almost so tangible, that Yellow Diamond could barely stand to look at it. Painted in broad strokes all over his sunken face, it was impossible to miss. 

Dying, somehow, he was the most alive entity in the room.

“You are?”

“Yup,” he laughed—exuberant, simply radiant. It was simply spilling from him now. “We just got the news this morning. Dr. M—she’s my nephrologist—she’s gone to get them… oh, but you wouldn’t know Dr. M… Dr. Maheswaran, I mean. She’s really…”

He babbled on.

It was inconceivable to Yellow Diamond—downright unfathomable—that he could be so buoyant and light, ensnared by so many running tubes and wires as he was, buried beneath them, dependent upon them, trapped. She tried to comprehend how he could nurse such pure emotions in a world that had been nothing but unkind to him. Always a rationalist, even to the bitter end of a universe which made no sense, she attempted to understand how anyone could still find it in themselves to be so good.

But when comprehension failed her—as it so rarely didn’t—she itched to be away from him.

The feeling swelled in her chest.

It choked her.

And yet, the woman couldn’t look away either, drawn, magnetized, inexplicably compelled like a flower leaning towards the sun, bent towards its light and warmth.

Was this what Blue Diamond had sought when she had befriended Steven Universe—this travesty of a human, this mere child?

Was she, too, looking for some of his sunshine to grasp onto, to bask in, to claim and call her own? 

And if this hypothesis had merit—as so many of her hypotheses often did—then how could Blue Diamond possibly stand it?

(Blue, who had stretched out in the darkness of their unshared room for so long. Blue, who had decomposed in a bier of a bed that had been made for two. Blue, whose long face was lined with weary shadows. Blue, who was but a mere shadow herself. Insubstantial. Spectral. Going but never entirely gone.)

Steven Universe’s face, the very expression in it, was sunshine.

It was unbearable.

It was irresistible.

And it was unmistakable most of all.

Tenderness and goodness and an eruption of kindling, all-encompassing warmth—they had long evaded Yellow Diamond’s searching grasp, and now they stared at her openly, from the face of a small child in a hospital bed. 

He smiled at her, and somehow, the very act of it was miraculous.

Because he, too, had been wrung out by the machinations of the world—he, too, knew its cruel hands, its ceaselessly grinding gears—and somehow, even still, he smiled.

The thought came to her, unbidden, that she once knew a child who would have done the same.

“Everyone’s so happy,” Steven finished, slumping backwards in his bed. It appeared as though the simple act of talking had worn him out.

The heart monitor on the wall fluttered a little more rapidly than sounded normal.

“And I’m also happy… and a little sad… but happy at the same time.” His brow furrowed as though it, too, was confused by the contradiction of emotions he was seemingly experiencing.

He coughed into the back of his hand, and the sound was rather terrible; it wrenched his entire body in a convulsive motion.

Yellow stared at him baldly while he caught his breath.

“I get the happiness,” she returned bluntly. (She didn’t really get it at all, but she wanted to—she was desperate to—and perhaps that made up for some of the difference.) “But why the sadness?”

He was going to get to live, and so that was the end all, be all, was it not?

Herein marked the end of his struggles?

Forever and ever—amen?

But the boy’s expression suddenly became modest again; he glanced away, a dull pink just barely layering itself over his cheeks which had ever so slightly paled further from when he had coughed.

“Well… I mean, everything happy is always a little sad, too, isn’t it?” He asked, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t particularly looking for an answer. “S-someone… died, so I could get their kidneys… and I guess… you know… that’s something to be sad about, even when I can be happy at the same time.”

Yellow Diamond hadn't expected this.

In all the tortured imaginations she had given to the faceless boy over the past couple of days, agonizing over who he was, and tormenting herself over what could be so special about him, and half-convincing herself that there was probably nothing really extraordinary about him at all, she hadn’t anticipated—in all her haste, her haughtiness, her great offense—to be proven wrong.

Because the words he had just spoken complicated everything she had hoped to confirm in the child.

For he was sage beyond his years.

His face looked as though as it was about a hundred years old.

He seemed to understand, in a more intimate way than Yellow had ever grasped in an entire lifetime, that emotions were not binaries, nor were they monoliths unto themselves.

It was entirely possible, Steven Universe said, to be happy and sad at exactly the same time.

It was possible, Poppy Aurelia had implied, to be neither good nor bad but some mixture in-between. 

It was human, very likely, to experience so many things all at once: grief and joy and aching relief and horror and kindness and sadness and warmth.

Perhaps then, it was conceivable… rational even… that she could worship the very ground her wife walked upon and still be angry with her.

She could be goddamned relieved that she was doing better and equally bitter that it hadn’t been because of her.

She could love Blue Diamond and wonder why she hadn’t been enough.

Why they hadn't been.

The realization staggered her.

Simply undid her.

And perhaps the naked emotion must have shown across her face because Steven winced, as though he had perceived he had done something wrong.

“I’m sorry… was that too much?” He asked, averting his eyes. “I know that’s kinda, like, weird to think about.”

“No,” Yellow Diamond replied immediately, and she was surprised to discover that her voice wasn’t entirely unkind.

Her lips jerked.

It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t quite a frown either.

“No…” She repeated distantly, and somehow, the sound became softer in the ensuing echo. “It wasn’t too much at all.”

In fact, maybe, just maybe, it had precisely been enough.

“D’you want to sit down?” He asked softly, inclining his head towards the empty chair next to his bed. “I don’t think my folks’ll be back for a bit…”

His smile was its own invitation.

It tilted lopsided across his mouth.

Yellow hesitated, and she chewed on it, and she ultimately shook her head, inadvertently loosening a crick in her stiff neck.

“Well," she said dryly, "I suppose I have nothing else better to do.”

Blast him and damn him, Steven Universe simply beamed.

viii.

“Here, Starlight.” Extending a skeletal hand from the swaths of woolen blankets covering her lap, White Diamond pressed a handful of quarters into her granddaughter’s outstretched palm. Caught by the stark, gray light leaning in from the window, the matriarch’s complexion seemed especially frail and powdery next to the thirteen-year old’s smooth, unbroken skin. “Take these and buy yourself something interesting from the vending machine.”

“Thank you, Gran,” Pink returned hastily, flustered, flushing, pleasantly surprised. She, like her mother, had expected this visit to comprise of White lecturing her over the tiniest details: her dyed hair, the length of her shorts, the couple of piercings running up the length of her ear. But instead, she was being handed a readymade out after only ten minutes of being informed that she needed to buy clothes that didn’t have artistic tears in them. Her fingers flashed to a close on top of the coins before she unceremoniously shoved them in the back pocket of her “too-scant, hardly appropriate, vaguely promiscuous” shorts, where they jangled next to each other with a telltale clink.

“Just avoid the crackers, darling. They’re awfully stale.” White’s darkly painted lips curled upwards in an encouraging smile. “And take care not to choose anything too sugary either. Heaven knows the damage you could wreak upon your teeth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pink grinned—(her grandmother didn’t catch the implicit sarcasm)—before she flounced off, the heels of her red sneakers clipping against the tiled floor with each exuberant movement.

A door opened, and a door just as abruptly closed, and the cheerful footsteps died down the hall, leaving Yellow Diamond alone with her eighty-two year old mother.

There was silence then.

Strained.

Fraught.

And a wordless tango that only the two of them knew. 

They stared at each other coldly, appraising each other without so much as saying a single word—one sitting stiffly in a fancily upholstered armchair, while the other somehow wore her wheelchair like a throne. The matriarch’s bony elbows rested judiciously upon the armrests, fingers templed delicately beneath her pointed chin. Her spiked hair was combed back in its usual fashion, voluminous and almost wild looking, rather like the mane of a lion. 

It was an impressive effect—it always was with White Diamond—marred only by the unexpected context of her surroundings. Ritzy though the Spire certainly was—by plebeian standards anyway—it was still an assisted living home, and because it was an assisted living home, because it implied age and dependence and a lack of self-possession, it was an affront to the founder and former CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Desultory to the regal majesty with which she had always comported herself.

Offensive.

“I was beginning to believe you had forgotten me,” White began, the sugar in her voice acquiring a crystallized edge. “What has it been? Two weeks? Three? Forgive me for not knowing the intimate details, dear. Senility, you know.”

“Please,” Yellow rolled her eyes. “Spare me the histrionics, Mother. This is a temporary arrangement until—“

But White interrupted sharply, breaking the bond of her hands to wave one airily. “Until my physician concurs that I have fully recovered from an incident that I could have perfectly rehabilitated from in the comforts of my own manor. Yes, I am well aware.”

Nine weeks ago, she had stroked out and only barely survived to complain about the tale. She laid in a hospital bed for weeks upon weeks. It had only been luck, if such serendipity existed in an unthinking, unfeeling world, that the maid was cleaning that day, that she’d found her employer stretched out across the marbled floor in the kitchen.

The line of Yellow’s pursed lips thinned.

“You’re being too cavalier,” she said bluntly, shifting a little in her chair. “You almost died.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t, and now I’m here, and my own daughter can hardly spare a moment from her schedule to visit her poor mother in the nursing home she consigned her to.”

“Your doctor recommended—“ She began hotly.

“My doctor, wuss that he is,” White cut across her again, her thin nostrils flaring ever so slightly, “indicated that the fate of my whereabouts rested in your capable hands, and I see that you have chosen to wash them both free of me, a Pontius Pilate arranged in an Armani suit. How charmingly novel.”

Each word was expertly chosen, a weapon drenched in syrup so sweet, that to swallow it, was saccharine.

Silence simmered between them again, electric like exposed wires seething through the air. 

They challenged each other with nothing more than their eyes.

They waged a quiet war.

And Yellow lost.

Spectacularly.

A recurring theme when it came to her mother.

“I’ll arrange for you to be sent home tomorrow,” she folded, her voice clipped, almost petulant. Her arms covered her chest so tightly that she imagined she was leaving an impression exactly upon the spot where they laid.

“Thank you,” White returned, equally curt. “That is all I have asked for.”

Then cut.

End scene. 

Cue the curtain descending upon a familiar stage.

This was how appointments with her mother usually concluded after all, with her asserting the final word and Yellow tucking tail to run, hide, nurse her shining wounds, and pretend that they had never been inflicted in the first place come the next morning.

But then, complicating everything that Yellow had ever known about her, upending every assumption she had ever made in forty-four years of having been her daughter, White Diamond did something quite unexpected.

She sighed, the sound filtering thinly through her nostrils.

It was just a sigh, but it was also an implicit gesture of vulnerability.

An admission to weakness from a woman who had marketed her entire persona upon being impenetrable.

And the both of them knew it.

Rather than acknowledge it, though, White glanced away immediately, staring out into the wide window which stood next to her wheelchair. The pale light gently touched her face, bringing the lines etched into those leathery folds into starker definition. Countless botox injections and cosmetic surgeries had not entirely worked their magic, for Yellow saw, in that protracted moment—viscerally understood—that her mother was getting old, if she was not considered old already.

The thought gripped her.

Inexplicably stung.

On top of her blankets, the ridges of the matriarch’s bony fingers trembled slightly against an invisible cold.

“Mother…?”

“Starlight is getting so tall these days,” White murmured, as though Yellow hadn’t said anything at all. “You were tall, too, when you were her age, I believe… but you always slumped your shoulders, dear, and it detracted from the effect. I scolded you when I caught you at it.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the autumnal day collapsed down Yellow’s rigid spine. She had never once, in so many unflappable years, ever heard her mother engage in nostalgia, an emotion she had always more or less derided to be regressive.

Looking backwards, after all, distracted from the now.

White’s ebony gaze never left the window, though she continued to speak, her voice ever sharp but somehow, simultaneously distant .

Detached.

As though the two women, scarcely four feet apart though they were, occupied two different realms of existence.

“I scolded you tor so many trifles, Yellow,” she went on, giving no visual indication that she remembered her daughter was in the room. “Your grades, your occasionally taciturn personality, the very way you spoke sometimes, fearing naturally that your youthful shortcomings would reflect upon our hallowed name.”

“Mother,” she tried again.

Yellow wanted it to stop.

For nearly five decades, their relationship had been a contract that they had both meticulously observed, and now, before her very eyes, White Diamond was ripping it cleanly asunder.

She was looking back, and she was sighing.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go; this wasn't how their world turned.

“You don’t have to—“

“And maybe,” White Diamond hummed, the sound glasslike, almost fragile in that light filled room, “I scolded you too often. I instituted so many boundaries upon your life and nary gave you a means to shake them… goodness knows I likely didn’t intend you to… you are, after all, everything I ever dreamed in a progeny—successful, confident, shining… but I wonder… mmm, I suppose… no… no…”

She trailed off then.

The words fell emptily to the ground and laid, injured, at her slipper-enclosed feet.

Yellow Diamond attempted to pick them up the best that she could, though they shivered in her palms.

“You did your best, Mother,” she said, her voice strained.

Small.

She almost felt like a child again, standing outside her mother’s study, hoping to be let in.

“That counts for something, yes?”

There was a pleading note in her voice.

She loathed it.

She despised herself.

She had long since convinced herself she didn’t need her mother’s approval to illuminate the successes of her life, and yet, here she was—forty-odd years later, still begging for it, nearly on her hands and knees to get it.

White Diamond sighed again, the gesture infinitesimal. She never quite divorced her eyes from the window. Mist swirled across the flat expanse just beyond the glass, smoking the world beyond it silver, shroud gray.

“You should take a day off every now and then,” she only replied. “Accompany Starlight to buy less vixen-like clothes. Perhaps arrange a vacation between the three of you. Paris is always lovely in the fall.”

It was unexplainable, even to herself, but anger suddenly seared her chest as she realized what White was driving at.

“Mother—“

But before she could continue, before she could defend herself against White Diamond’s unsubtle accusations, before she could point out the hypocrisy of it all coming from her of all people, the door opened again. Pink came back in laughing—she was always laughing—boasting of her acquisition of the last pack of gummies in the vending machine.

And in all the commotion, washed beneath the noise, Yellow almost didn’t catch the words that slipped from the side of White Diamond's pinched mouth.

“Maybe I should have taken you to Paris, too.”

ix.

The adjustment from the wall to the chair next to Steven's bed came with no small relief, her body reveling in the sensation of finally being able to rest her tired bones. For Yellow, admit it though she never would, had overexerted herself, had walked too long and stood for even longer. As subtly as she could manage, she massaged the outer part of her right thigh where it had struck the side of the door during the wreck.

Without really knowing it, she knew—almost certainly—that the impact had left a bruise.

(Oh, well.)

(It could join all the rest—the contusions and scrapes and cuts and aberrant scuff marks.)

(Just another quantity more in the collection of open wounds that made up her life, that haunted it, haunted her.)

Careful not to disturb any of the lines and tubes which tethered him to so many humming machines, Steven Universe painstakingly twisted his tiny body to stare at her through the rails of his hospital bed.

And Yellow Diamond stared at him just as intensely back.

And somehow, quite instinctively, she gleaned the impression that he pitied her.

She shrunk uncomfortably beneath the emotion.

Protestation immediately sprang to her defense.

But in the end, he was kind; he only asked her a simple question.

“You sent me those flowers, didn’t you?”

With a small smile, he tilted his head to the tray which now stood directly in front of Yellow, where honeyed light from the window caught the petals of so many sunflowers crowded in a blue vase. She cursed Poppy once again for choosing such a metaphorically apt arrangement; she despised, viscerally, how one of the flowers seemed to drip below its peers, its long neck broken.

Hopeless.

Pathetic.

“And what of it?” She asked stiffly. Irascibility remained her go-to safeguard against uncomfortable questions, all those pesky, prying things. “That’s simply what you do when someone is in the hospital. You send flowers. You tell them to get well.”

But, once again, Steven was brighter than she had initially given him credit for because his rebuttal was such that even the Zircons couldn’t have refuted it, prodigious at making counterarguments though they were.

“Sure,” he grinned, mischievous, shit-eating. His dark eyes twinkled with his own playfulness. “But that’s not really something you do for total strangers, right?"

No, no in fact, it was not.

Damn him.

“At ease, Sherlock,” Yellow scoffed, simply fuming. She half-hated this child still. She crossed her arms over her chest and felt as though she would never unbend them from her stony frame again. “You only received them because of your relationship to my wife, of what you mean to her.”

But even the very mention of Blue Diamond did something to her, transformed her in the instant it took to articulate her existence.

Her golden eyes softened.

Her hands clenched on top of her lap.

And she was weak; she almost felt indecent; she glanced away.

“You mean a lot to her,” Yellow shrugged, hesitant, almost childish. It was childish to talk about one's emotions in such a bald way. “And that, in return, means something to me.”

She could feel his dark eyes settle upon her, sensed the intensity of them, the quiet warmth, and once again, the hackles of all her best self-defenses attempted to stir to her aid, dull anger writhing in the pit of her stomach.

She stared outside the window, at the indigo drapes that were pulling themselves over an orange sky, and tried to master herself.

She returned her gaze to the sunflowers almost against her will.

And found yet another thing to hate about the whole arrangement.

How the vase was midnight blue.

“You... you mean a lot to her, too, you know,” Steven whispered. Each word fought to be heard over the sounds of the many machines which kept him alive, but still, they fought; they ached to be heard. “She loves you… she’s just… she’s—”

“What?” Yellow pounced upon the words harshly. She clung to every last one of them as though they promised the secrets of the universe in their hesitant syllables. She didn't even attempt to strangle her question into a murmur to match Steven's own.

She was desperate.

Craven.

Blue Diamond loves me, but what?

What unspoken things remained in the gulf between them? (There were so many, likely too many to ever really surmount.)

What final barrier tore their collective world asunder?

(Was it Pink? Was it grief? Was it Yellow herself? Perhaps, simply enough, it was everything; it was all.)

Steven was gentle, almost apologetic, as he proffered an answer.

"She's... forgotten how to say it, I think," he said. "And she's trying... she's really trying... to remember how."

It was three mere words.

They were trite and cliché; every child knew them.

I and love and you.

And yet, for the first time in four years, Yellow understood her wife perfectly; she knew that it could hardly be as uncomplicated as that.

For it was those same three words that never came easy, even if they were said, even if they were masterfully articulated.

Because love was not a string of syllables.

It was not a phrase, nor a trivial, commercialized thing.

It was bigger than that, grander and more terrible.

More inconceivably profound than three words could ever possibly hope to suggest.

Love was action.

It was light and touch and sound.

I and love and you.

"I love her too." The words came before Yellow Diamond ever really registered them; they seized at her constricted sternum; they eviscerated her raw throat.

"... but you've forgotten how to say it," Steven finished for her.

Yes.

But she couldn't bring herself to admit it, so she nodded thickly, and somehow knew, from the way that he smiled sadly at her, that Steven Universe understood.

x.

Dusk fell through the high window in Yellow’s study in strange shafts of amber light, illuminating the stack of papers she was attempting to decipher in the growing dimness. Her readers sliding down the edge of her nose, her mouth moved soundlessly to the heavy cadence of the words, the words, the words—but her tiredness unmoored her; her comprehension only barely kept pace with the speed with which her eyes skimmed the long sentences. So it was a relief when a faint knock at the door gave her a tailored excuse to set the damn thing down for a brief moment. 

Indeed, she was so glad not to be reading a dense passage on consumer statistics, that she forgot to sound irate at being interrupted.

“Come in,” she called, her voice hoarse from hours of disuse.

Obligingly, the heavy door creaked inwards, and there, in the triangle of light thrown forwards by the lamp on Yellow’s desk, stood Pink Diamond in that ratty, old hoodie that Blue so despised, a pencil caught in her feathery pink hair, an apologetic smile caught on her lips. She had only recently turned seventeen a few weeks ago, and for some reason, right then and there, it struck Yellow Diamond that it absolutely showed. 

Gone were the traces of baby fat from the girl’s heart shaped face, replaced by a certain angularity which bore the trace distinctions of pride, confidence, and the beginnings of a distinct ego. Gone were the gapped teeth that had defined many of the photos from her childhood. Gone were the awkwardly lanky limbs that had made her so self-conscious during her tween years; as she entered the office, her movements were graceful, shaped by all those years of ballerina lessons. She walked on the tips of her toes, gliding silently across the wooden slats.

Her daughter had grown up somewhere in the rush of so many years.

And somehow, it had escaped the woman’s attendant notice.

Was it not just yesterday that she had fit perfectly in Yellow’s arms, cooing at her softly through the darkness?

Was it really today that she presented herself before her mother as a young woman, so close to becoming an adult and simultaneously so far from actually being one?

Pink broke the trance first by collapsing into the armchair in front of Yellow’s desk, pulling her spindly legs up from the floor, so that she could cross them. There was a My Little Pony bandage on her left knee where she had only recently scraped herself trying to shave.

For some reason that she couldn’t entirely articulate to herself, the presence of it soothed the businesswoman.

Reassured her, perhaps, that there were some parts of the child who still remained.

“Well, Mother,” Pink sighed heartily, “I’ve finished my History essay. Can I go to Carmen’s party now?”

Carmen Luíz, as Yellow knew, was both a classmate of Pink’s at the private school she attended and the daughter of two wealthy business executives who were highly reputed in all the important social circles as parents who let their underaged daughter throw raucous parties in their manor on Wide Island any time they found it upon themselves to celebrate their wealth by taking vacations.

They often celebrated their wealth.

Yellow exhaled through her nose and returned to her papers; the paragraph on statistics hadn’t become any less incomprehensible in the couple of seconds it had taken for Pink to ask her asinine question.

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time,” she returned, her voice clipped as she adjusted her readers, pushing them back on her nose. “You know my position on parties.”

“But—“ 

“But nothing, Pink.” Yellow never entirely looked up, uncapping her favorite red pen to make a few scratch marks on the packet. They were less in the service of productivity than they were the illusion of it. “My word is final.”

Pink fell silent; she knew better than to cross her mother’s carefully drawn lines so late at night; instead, she picked sullenly at one of her mismatched socks, the pink one with patterns of roses embroidered across the cloth.

Yellow scowled, partially in response to the particularly dense sentence she was trying to divine meaning from, and partially because she hated when her daughter grew taciturn. It was a tactic which worked well enough on Blue when Blue was feeling merciful, but she, on the other hand, had as much tolerance for moping as she did country music—which was to say little all.

“Is there anything else you needed?” She asked pointedly, glancing up once more. “I’m rather busy—”

But her daughter’s dark eyes had shifted away, her ever veering attention suddenly caught by a point of interest somewhere just behind Yellow’s shoulder. Yellow followed her gaze slowly and immediately understood that she was staring at the photograph perched on the shelf there; the sunset caught the edges of the silver frame and swept an orange hue over the subject it contained.

With a faint jolt in her stomach, she recognized it at once—a picture of White Diamond holding Pink on her third birthday. The two of them were sidled together in an armchair, the toddler sitting on her grandmother’s lap. White looked ever impeccable in a stunning black jumpsuit, which was cinched at her tiny waist with a silver belt. She wrapped her bare arms around Pink and placed the point of her sharp chin atop of that abundant spray of brown curls.

Meanwhile, Pink was laughing in the image, her childlike exuberance radiating across the space of so many elapsed years, her face covered in what looked like the vestiges of chocolate cake.

A smile that was remarkably genuine pulled at the corners of White Diamond’s black lips.

Somehow, amazingly enough, her eyes creased pleasantly beneath all the botox.

It was the happiest Yellow had ever seen her own mother, and perhaps that was why she kept the reminder in her study.

It was a testament to the damn near miracle that the woman hadn't entirely been made of ice and burnished steel.

That she had loved—incrementally, sparingly, meticulously—in the best way that she knew how.

“Gran,” Pink murmured, a small smile threatening to disturb her freckles. “I’d forgotten she always wore a lot of eyeliner.”

“When I was younger,” Yellow returned slyly, “she used to inform me that there was no point in putting on makeup unless it was to create an intimidating effect.”

“Which explains the black lipstick,” Pink laughed, miming the act of drawing a smile across her lips with an invisible tube.

“Precisely.” Her own laugh was like a bark, short and rather blunt. Amusement climbed up her chest and nostalgia—the press of so many memories in the span of a handful of seconds.

But then, to her horror, there was a lump in her throat that had nothing to do with either emotion.

White Diamond had only died a year ago, but sometimes, only sometimes, the fact of it still caught Yellow off guard when she was least expecting it. 

It had been her time.

Assuredly.

Absolutely.

She had been eighty-five.

She had had another stroke.

But still, the woman—her mother—for all her many faults, had always been there—the stubbornly unyielding presence at her shoulder.

Unshakeable.

Invincible.

Some days, it registered with Yellow a little more forcibly than usual that she would never pick up the phone again to be treated to a forty-five minute lecture on production inefficiencies at Diamond Electric.

And more often than not, this realization did not come on the heels of relief.

“It’s weird,” Pink said quietly, voicing what her mother had silently been thinking, “but sometimes, I kinda forget that she’s gone, you know? She only dropped by so rarely… it’s almost like she could still be vacationing in Rome, Milan, Tokyo, or any of her other favorite wine spots.”

She had many favorite wine spots.

“Yes, well”—with some effort, Yellow pulled her head back to its forward position—“that feeling goes away eventually.”

She tried to glance down at her packet again.

The words glittered malevolently beneath the lamp.

“I mean,” Pink pressed softly, “I don’t know… it’s kind of comforting to think she’s still out there somewhere, right? I-I know she’s not, but, like—“

“You’re right,” she returned flatly. “She’s not…”

The dismissal in her voice was clear.

She dared to glance up again and saw that an embarrassed flush had scrawled itself across Pink’s cheeks. But this time, the teenager obediently unfolded from her seat, stretching her limbs high over her head before bringing them down by her sides.

“Yeah… I’m just being silly,” she said, glancing away. “I’m going to go see if Mom’ll edit my essay for me. My conclusion paragraph’s shit.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, dear.” Yellow penned yet another useless mark on her paper. “You know how she feels about plagiarism.”

“True,” Pink smirked, regaining some of her youthful jauntiness, “but she hates the idea of me making anything less than an A even more.”

“Touché.”

The door opened and then closed once again, leaving Yellow Diamond alone in an office full of dusk and dust and thin, fading light. With as much delicacy as she could spare in the silent seconds that followed, she replaced her pen on top of her desk and templed her hands lightly on top of her stomach, breathing in deeply.

Exhaling harshly through her nose.

Perhaps it was the rationalist in her—militant, rigid, almost unfailingly correct—who took no comfort from the fantasy that her dead mother was still somewhere in the world, enjoying a fruity cocktail, smiling lazily beneath a European sun.

Or perhaps it was the pain which such an image inexplicably wrought.

Subtle, though sharp to even prod.

For there was no comfort in death, no assuaging its keen sting.

There was only the coldness of its reality, the aching bitterness, the confrontation of an unassailable truth...

But perhaps she had been premature in teaching Pink that.

Perhaps she had been too hasty in preventing her from holding on to one last childish daydream more.

After all, the seventeen-year old had plenty of time to grow up—to learn, to know, to intimately understand that the world turned viciously, perpetuating its endless cycles over and over again—recapitulating them.

It turned and turned and turned.

And sometimes, all they could do was turn with it.

#bellow diamond #yellow diamond #blue diamond #pink diamond #steven universe #s: steven universe #mimiku #flower child #;-; oh my god it's finished

[alma-berry]

Kit’s Secret Fire Message #14

Masterlist  

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

Kit hated running.. there was no other way of putting it - he just hated it. Not that it mattered, he did it anyway. 

During the years that passed since he first learned of his angelic heritage, he forced his body into an excruciating training regiment. If he was being honest with himself, a practice Kit made a point of keeping to a minimum, he didn’t hate all forms of training. He liked the feel of a dagger in his hand, how the hilt fit perfectly into his grasp, like his family ring. He still had the Herondale dagger Jace had given him, and he always wondered if there was a special magic to it, a reason for why it’s touch calmed him and why he fought best with it than any other weapon. 

There was something in the physical pain that felt like a safe place for him, a place to let loose and feel the things he didn’t want to feel, without having to acknowledge them. He put his infinite anger, for himself, for his father’s betrayal, for the mother that was taken from him, for the familiar ache of rejection and longing that came every time the moon became just as silver as Ty’s eyes, and poured them with every bit of force that he had, which was now a considerable amount, into his training. Into that pain. Into sweat and bone grinding bone. 

He hated running, but he needed the pain of it. It sharpened his mind, it helped him clear out all of those blurred moments that weighed so heavy on his heart. 

He slowed down just before the entrance to the institute, spotting a dark figure leaned on one of the massive stone pillars that decorated the massive building. 

For some reason, Kit wasn’t surprised to see that it was Ty. He felt that confusing assortment of excitement and hesitance he was growing accustomed to whenever Ty was around. Though Kit wished he didn’t catch him like this, sweaty, disheveled and sleep deprived. 

“Hi.. what are you doing here?” he asked as soon as he got close enough for Ty to hear him, but stayed far enough for him to feel in control. 

Ty seemed to dismiss that idea, and took a step towards him, a blunt defiance in his moves.

“I was waiting for you.” He said in a tone that indicated his annoyance with having to state the obvious. “Do you like running?”

“What? No, I fucking hate it” Kit felt a bit dizzy from the sudden question, “I just had to.. work out some.. things.”

It felt like such a lame explanation, but what was he supposed to say? I was trying to figure out if you even care about me at all, and then there’s the question of how do I stop myself from being a goddamn bomb waiting to explode when I’m around you?

Ty looked like he was seriously considering his words, and said “I understand.”

“You do?” Kit felt weird. He didn’t know much about Ty’s new life.. maybe he developed a habit of jumping out of extremely tall trees whenever he was troubled, though Kit doubted it was the case.

“Yes.. I do.”

A silence fell between them. It wasn’t awkward so much as it was.. charged. Kit felt completely aware of how hard his heart was beating, of his flushed cheeks, and scavenged for something to say.

“So… you never told me, Mina didn’t vandalize Irene, right? She’s pretty bossy for a three years old. We once found Church with a pink bow glued to his head. Best day of my life.”

He was rambling, but Ty only laughed, a soft, honest laugh that lit up his face. 

A light wind caressed them, and his black hair was blown away from his face, revealing his eyes, as they rested on Kit’s jaw.

He was so pale, and the opaque sky of the London morning made his skin shine like porcelain, a delicate, stark white spot in the almost colorless picture that surrounded him. There was still a softness of morning in him, his lips slightly swollen, but when Kit looked at them he could feel the tight band of control he was holding onto with dear life slipping out of his hands like he was trying to hold down water. He ripped his gaze away from the dangerous bow of Ty’s lips to the safety of his own treacherous, callous hands.

“No, actually.. Irene seemed fairly content with her. I admit it was a bit disconcerting.”

Ty lifted his hand and traced a long finger down the curve of Kit’s neck, at the juncture point that connected to his collarbone, where he could undoubtedly feel the war raging on the inside of his skin, fighting desperately to break free. There was no air left in Kit’s lungs, but he couldn’t make himself breath. The touch of Ty’s finger, as slow and deliberate as it was, felt like a sudden blow.

A drop of sweat trickled down in between the softness of Ty’s skin and Kit’s hammering pulse. 

Ty lifted his finger, slim, elegant and wet with Kit’s sweat, and put it to his mouth. 

Kit felt his eyes widen in shocked surprise as Ty said in a measured voice, “You should get a shower”.

“I.. what?” 

Was he hallucinating? Did something in him truly snap, and he was floating unconscious through the Thames? Because this didn’t make sense. It hardly made sense in Kit’s dreams, though it didn’t stop him from dreaming them.

“There’s something I need you to do”

Kit couldn’t utter a single word, he just gaped at Ty, uncomprehending.

“For the investigation, we need your.. special area of expertise”

“My area of expertise?” Ty nodded.

Even in his state of haze, Kit didn’t need to think about it. There was only one thing he knew better than any other Shadowhunter. 

“You need me to go to the shadow market”

Ty flashed his brilliant, mischievous smile, something Kit remembered rarely seeing on him.

“Exactly, Watson. Now do get a shower, it’s rather distracting when you’re all covered in sweat”

At that, he turned and walked towards the institute.

Kit wanted to call after him and ask why was it distracting, but by the time he found his voice, Ty was already inside, leaving Kit shaking all over.

That shower, Kit thought while trying miserably to catch his breath, is going to be a long, long one.

**

Kit was fast, faster than Ty remembered. It was to be expected, he was a grown Shadowhunter, not the scrawny boy who had a hard time keeping up with Ty as they ran down the golden sand of the beach. But he was even faster than other Shadowhunters Ty knew, fully trained Shadowhunters. Someone must have trained him very, very well.

The night was brightly illuminated by a strand of glowing lights, floating all across the busy rows of the shadow market. When Ty decided to follow Kit, he took into consideration that the market he remembered had probably changed quite a bit, but it seemed to be almost unrecognizable. 

Three years ago, there was a menacing, almost feral air to it. Now, the market felt alive. Aisles of cramped stalls stacked with shimmering crystals and colorful tincture bottles labeled with the delighted promises of an eternal love, a failure free luck, and even one that Ty thought was supposed to be a natural stamina boost. 

Kit walked around the narrow path, lingering to greet some of the merchants. A young looking fairy girl with hair as purple as the petals of a Morning Glory that cascaded down her slim figure rushed to her feet as soon as she saw Kit. She eyed him with an interest even Ty found obvious. Her voice was high pitched, animated, and her hands kept twirling the curled of her long hair. Ty never liked purple, but something about the sight of her made him hate the color completely. 

It was obvious Kit knew her. He grinned his deep, unravelling grin, and touched her shoulder lightly in response to something she must have said.

The whole situation felt unsettling to Ty.. and it wasn’t the purple of the girl’s hair, or the tight knot that fastened in his stomach from the sight of the familiarity between them. It was that she was a fairy, and from what Ty had gathered from Jem’s words - the reason Kit was threatened involves fairies. So why wasn’t he taking more care?

Come to think about it, as much as Kit seemed at ease in the market, it was odd that he didn’t even try to keep a low profile. He was, in a way, on a mission. Kit was visibly a Shadowhunter, even with his sleeves down and no marks showing, Ty thought as he pushed between two heavily perfumed vampires, trying follow Kit’s progress without being noticed. 

He wants to be noticed, Ty realized. Clever, allowing the one he searched come to him in his own terms, or her, in that matter. Clever, and dangerous. 

Kit paused near a wide table, a richly embroidered banner spread on top of it, displaying glittering glass jars that changed colors every few seconds. 

Ty took a deep breath and tried to focus his gaze on Kit. It was hard, walking through the crowds like it didn’t mind him, like his head wasn’t about to explode from the pressure of their voices, their steps, their nearness. But he didn’t dare to put his earphones on. He had them on his neck, their weight a small comfort, but he had to be able to act fast. If Kit was in danger, he needed to be able to react. If someone said something to him, or about him, he needed to be able to hear it.

But Kit just stood there, frowning to the the large, mirror like glass. 

He seemed to be debating where to turn, as if he wasn’t sure if to continue where he was headed, or take a different road. 

Abruptly, he took a sharp turn to the left, where the crowd quickly thinned into an obviously, much less populated part of the market. 

Ty was grateful, even though he feared the lack of hiding places meant he might be seen, he still felt the strain loosen in him. 

A tall woman approached Kit, who was studying a handwritten glittered sign that advertised a vintage looking book stall. Ty heard the clicking of her heels before he got a full view of her face - Hypatia Vex. 

She wore an elegant looking, pearl white, split sleeved cocktail pantsuit. It hugged her tall figure and dark skin down to her ankles, shining with every move she took like it was studded with tiny diamonds. A sheath of golden metal caged the narrow of her waist in a way that made Ty wonder about the uncomfortable lengths that people went just to look a certain way. He could appreciate her beauty, but it meant little to him.

“Herondale! Why are you making me look for you around the market?” She asked Kit in a clipped tone. Ty was right, Kit did make her come to him, and it seems he didn’t plan to take that strange turn to this almost abandoned part of the market. Ty wondered why.

“I needed a.. quite surrounding this evening. Less noise, less prowling eyes.”

Kit seemed unsurprised to see her, and he made an exasperated face at her sulky expression. 

“Common Hypatia, don’t be vexed wit-“

“You know perfectly well I don’t appreciate that joke, Kit Herondale. Really, you should work on some new ones. Your reputation is already questionable ever since you had that nightly adventure with the werewolf boy.. what was his name?”

Now Kit did seemed alarmed, “It wasn’t an adventure, nothing happened,” Ty almost thought he looked straight at him when he said it, but a second later a mocking smile crawled to his lips and he was glaring at Hypatia with a defiant expression, “And my reputation is impeccable.” 

“If it was really nothing, than you should definitely have a word with the boy.. because he’s going around for months, saying that you took him to-“

“Hypatia,” Kit’s voice was slightly shaking. Whether it was from anger or something else, Ty didn’t know. He only knew that the knot in his stomach now felt like a massive tangle of twisted thorns, hurting his every breath, his every movement. He wasn’t sure what nightly endeavors meant, but he could make a calculated guess.

“I’m here on business. I need the assistance of the owner of the shadow market.. I need your help.”

“Well..” Hypatia gave him a measuring look, “You don’t usually cut straight to point. What is it that you need, Shadowhunter?”

Kit took a deep breath, looking relieved that he got her to stop talking about his personal life, and told her about the Moloch demons attack, of his suspicion that a sacrifice might be made, and finally, about the danger that could come to a large group of mundane children.

“I need to know if they were seen around downworld. They usually come in groups, which is hard to disguise, especially because of the whole empty eye socket spitting fire thing.”

She gave him a long look before she answered. 

“I don’t like giving information to Nephilim.. but you are different, aren’t you, boy?”

Kit didn’t answer, a shadow darkening his clear sky eyes. 

What did she mean by different? Different in his behavior? Because he was raised at the shadow market?

“Alright,” Hypatia put her hands together in a loud clap and took a step towards Kit.

“There is a warlock named Marvin. Unpleasant sort of fellow, moved here from New York a while ago. He mostly keeps to himself but I had reasons to know him in the past. He goes around in circles that might know of what you seek. You should ask him.”

Hypatia made a tiny flick with her right hand and a golden piece of paper appeared out of thin air. She handed it to Kit, who nodded at her.

“There's no need to mention me, of course. But, if you may, please send my regards to Ragnor Fell, next time you see him,” her starry eyes glittered under the dark silky sky.

“I didn’t see him in years, not since his impressive performance on the imperishable fields. He is kind of hard to get a hold on, since..”

Kit left before she could finish the sentence, leaving Ty alone and confused. He made his way hurriedly back towards the institute, questions rushing through his head like a lightning storm. As he breathed the cool air of the night, a long forgotten memory lingered on his mind. It was something Barnabas Hale once told Kit, in a Los Angeles market;

“We tolerated you because the Shadowhunters hadn’t found you yet. But now they have and it’s a hop, skip and a jump until you find out who you really are“

**

Ty was sitting in the parlor, trying hard to steady his breath. He managed to outrun Kit and sneak back into the institute before the rain started to fall. Though he could have explained his wet hair by claiming he took a shower, or taken a walk out in the rain. Not that Kit would have any reason to question him.. but Ty liked to be prepared.

When the main door creaked open, he sprang to his feet and went out to greet him. He knew he might be better at seeing him only in the morning, but he wanted Kit to know that he waited for him. He planned every move he made since their conversation in his room, specifically to make Kit understand how much he cared for him. 

He rested his hand on the chipped wooden door frame to steady himself, and called for Kit.

“How did it go?” 

Kit gave him a strange, curious look. His hair was wet, glistening with sparks of what seemed like fireflies. Ty remembered how he looked this morning, sweaty and flushed and unbelievably attractive. But now, as beautiful as he was, Kit looked exactly like the mystery that he was. The dimmed lights above them made his skin shine like dark brass, smooth metallic. Ty focused his gaze on an old tapestry depicting the angelic rune that hung right behind Kit.

“Good. I got what we need.”

“Oh, great. Than.. tomorrow at breakfast. You can tell us tomorrow at breakfast.” Ty felt the words cluttering as he tried to speak them. Kit cocked his head to the side and studied him in silence. 

“So good night,” Ty breathed and turned towards the staircase. 

“Ty..” Kit’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was a steadiness in it that made Ty feel a hum of uneasiness. 

“I am going to give you the opportunity to explain yourself.” He said it slowly, deliberately. There was no anger in his voice, which calmed Ty by just a fraction, but there was a careful wariness to it.

“I’m.. I don’t know what you-“

“I know you followed me.”

Kit let his words hang between them, clearly waiting for Ty’s response. But Ty didn’t know what to say. How did he see him? He concealed himself from head to toe. 

“I can assume for myself why you did it, but I want you to hear it from you. My assumptions night not be so positive.” Ty risked a look into his eyes, and regretted it immediately. 

There was wistfulness in it, and hurt, but that wasn’t what caught at Ty’s heart. There was hope there. Kit truly wanted Ty to reassure him, to give him a reason that wouldn’t mean a betrayal of his trust. But Ty couldn’t give him that, he couldn’t say the truth, not that the truth would be much of a reassurance. He couldn’t just tell him that he listened on his and Jem’s private conversation about the big secret that he’s hiding, and that he followed him to the shadow market because he guessed there might be a clue there to his mystery. The second reason, him wanting to look after Kit might not be a improvement, but Ty was terrible at lying. He went for the second option.

“It was just a backup. In case something happened.”

Ty looked up into the almost invisible ends of the ceiling, clasping his hands so they won’t show his agitation. 

“You’re either lying to me, or you don’t trust me at all. I honestly don’t know which one is worst.”

Kit’s voice was strained, a thin thread of anger hidden between it’s layers.

“It’s not-“ Ty started, not even knowing what he was about to say.

“It’s not what I think it is? It’s not what you meant? It’s not what it looks like? Come on, Ty.. I’ve seen that movie. I know how it ends. You don’t trust me, so you follow me to the market to see that I don’t mess up your investigation.” Ty opened his mouth to protest but Kit was far ahead of him. “And don’t tell me that you went there to have my back. You’ve seen me take down at least half a dozen Moloch demons with one seraph blade and two daggers, while you guys were chilling in the back. You know what I can do. And you know I don’t need anybody’s help in the shadow market. Isn’t that why you asked me to go there to begin with?”

Kit breathed heavily, and Ty felt the quick rising of his chest like blows handed down upon his heart.

“So tell me, Ty. Am I wrong?” Kit hissed through gritted teeth. Ty searched for words but none came.

“I see. I guess some things never change, right? I remember, you see, what you told me once. Watson is backup.”

There was an immense pain in his voice, steel and stone as it was. Ty lifted his hand towards Kit, but he took a step back, shaking his head.

“No. You don’t get to do that, Ty.” His voice cracked at his name, and Ty felt the slow sting of tears forming in his throat. 

How did he manage to mess this up so badly? And how, how did Kit figured out he was there?

He couldn’t help himself, and the words slipped out of his mouth before he could think better of it.

“How did you know-“

Kit let out a hard, pained laugh.

“How did I know you were following me? Of course that’s what you want to know.. I saw you, Ty. I saw your reflection in the color changing glass jars. I noticed the white band of your headphones poking out of your black hood. You should really consider earphones next time.”

He walked to the entrance door and stopped with his back to Ty. 

“I’m going out now. Please, do not follow me.”

And without looking back at him, he left, slamming the door with a loud bang that Ty felt down to his bones.

#THE KIT HERONDALE SUPPORTIVE ARMY #kit herondale #Ty Blackthorn #christopher herondale #tiberius blackthorn #kitty fanfiction #kitty #kitty blackdale #blackdale #heronthorn #kit rook #kit-herondale-blackthorn #kit x ty #KIT TY #kit #kit's secret fire message #ty #fanfiction #fan fiction #tda #the dark artifices #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #TWP #the wicked powers #jem carstairs #gotsm #ghosts of the shadow market #herondale #herondale poetry

[antomec]

our nights are endless, just like the stars and sand

heyo! back with another fic. this one is the third part to the series the skies are bright tonight, and so are you.   [part 1]     [part 2] 

beta’ed by the lovely @newghet

summary:  gray hadn't expected that their first date would go flawlessly. hell, he had absolutely zero expectations even for the second one. but the fact that they have had to reschedule their first date three times – probably because the universe hated young love – keeps throwing gray for a loop.

words: 4.5k

rating: T for swearing

you can also find this on AO3 and FF.net!

gray is a man of simple habits. he wakes up, suffers through classes, and maybe goes out to the convenience store on the corner of the street to stock up on instant ramen and the rare vegetable. he even gets dragged to the occasional party. although that was more cana’s thing than him.

but dating someone like natsu would be a...first.

don't get him wrong, gray adores natsu. he's utterly sweet, texts gray all the time, listens to him ramble. he even showed up with emergency coffee that one time gray tried to pull an all-nighter for his midterms.

but natsu is wholly different from gray than he first assumed. and gray doesn't know why, but he’s attracted to natsu. it'll probably take him a month at the very least to disentangle those feelings, and gray has no plans to do any kind of emotional dissecting soon.

perhaps there's some truth to that old phrase: maybe opposites do attract.

cana grumbles, and shakes her nearly empty styrofoam cup. “i really don't wanna listen to you go on about how natsu is the moon to your sky, please. i've already suffered through one of these with juvia, i don't wanna go through this again.”

“cana, for the love of all that's holy-”

“whiskey, definitely.”

“-will you just help me plan a goddamn date?”

cana stands up. “you're a big ball of fluff, that's what you are. just ask him out already. take him out to see a movie!” cana throws her hands up in the air, flinging the cup expertly into a nearby trash can. “for fuck’s sake, he's been staring at your ass ever since that party i took you to.” cana pauses, and adds, ”you know, i kinda regret that decision now.”

gray bites his lip in worry. “do you think he’ll want to go out with me?”

cana sputters in disbelief. “i literally just told yo-you know what? i'm leaving, goodbye!”

gray watches mutely as she walks away. he yells her name, and cana gracefully reacts by flipping a finger above her head.

was it just him, or did cana seem sort of averse to all his planning? maybe he should just listen to her and take natsu out for a movie – he couldn’t fuck up a movie, right?

this is it. moment of truth. all he has to do is walk up to him and ask natsu out. knowing himself, that's probably the one thing that he'll fail to do.

juvia kicks his foot under the table. “it won't be weird unless you make it weird.”

“sage advice,” gray grumbles.

juvia kicks him again.

they're in natsu's place of work, the university coffee shop, and maybe the universe really has it in for him, because no sooner does juvia kick his ankles again – “god, how does lucy put up with you,” he hisses under his breath – natsu looks up from the register and locks eyes with gray. he waves him over, gesturing wildly.

gray swallows. takes a deep breath. and gets up to go over.

natsu smiles when he approaches. “took you long enough. don't worry, i don't bite,” natsu adds, snapping his teeth playfully. “your usual, then?”

gray nods, and hands him the change. gray moves over to the next counter, where lucy’s already making his drink, and he's not completely sure, but it feels like juvia’s staring holes into his coat, so he just goes, fuck it, and says in a rush, “why don't we go out tomorrow? there's a movie playing that i wanted to watch.”

and this is when gray’s stomach drops, because natsu was serving a customer when he'd asked, so now he has four pairs of eyes on him.

the customer clears their throat awkwardly, and moves on the next counter. gray is flushing. he can hear juvia snickering behind him.

natsu, though – oh bless this adorable man – natsu simply laughs and repeats himself. “took you long enough.”

natsu comes over early to pick him up for their date. gray nearly has a fit over the callous attitude cana adopts – until she gets fed up and throws a dark blue sweater at his head.

natsu's wearing a peach coat, and gray finds it oddly adorable, the way it doesn't clash but rather complements his similarly coloured hair.

and judging by the way natsu blushes when gray catches him staring, natsu must be a little less confident tonight.

gray: 1, natsu: 0.

since the theater is close enough to walk, they decide against a taxi and take to the streets. as they walk, gray notices how long natsu's arms and how they swing past. he's wearing long sleeves under his coat, so there's no chance of seeing his tattoos tonight. gray sighs inwardly.

they make idle small talk as they walk, and gray's eyes keep darting to natsu's (empty, his mind supplies unhelpfully) hand, until finally, gray prays to the stars above and quietly takes hold of natsu's hand.

natsu jerks and looks at gray for a second, but immediately softens and smiles. gray’s eyes are still wide.

natsu softly squeezes back in reassurance.

snacks? check.

drinks? also check.

movie? the ads have begun playing, so partial check.

natsu? in the bathroom; he promised to be quick.

it's just a simple date, but he anxiety keeps blowing it out of proportion. no, natsu is not doing this out of pity, it's out of genuine interest in him. no, nothing will go wrong eith-

“hey! so, did i miss anything?” natsu says as he plops down next to gray.

“nah, you're just in time.”

gray passes over the popcorn, and settles in as the movie begins playing.

they're barely fifteen minutes in before gray suddenly sits up, and whispers urgently, “natsu, is it just me, or do you smell something burning?”

natsu looks confused for a second. he takes a deep breath and frowns. he suddenly smiles and leans in to whisper in gray's ear, “maybe it's my heart burning for you.”

gray pulls away and looks at him with unconcealed disgust. “really? of all the things y-”

gray stops, because the acrid smell of smoke suddenly gets stronger, and someone in the front row screams.

natsu and gray both get up, and with the added height, they see the source of the smell.

the screen is burning. flames lick across the edges, and gray is suddenly jostled out of the row, as natsu pulls him along to the outside.

“call the fire department!” natsu yells at the cashier.

between the two of them, and the cashier, they manage to get out the very few people inside. it isn't long before the fire department shows up and hurry inside. meanwhile, the rest of them are carted to the street, and the police take down their information in a notepad like a badly written cliche.

natsu bumps his shoulder against gray's. “well, this is a date i won't be forgetting soon,” he jokes.

gray stares at him in horror. “i can't believe this happened.”

natsu laughs. “yeah, but our friends are gonna get such a kick out of this.”

gray swallows. “how about we go home?”

natsu grins. “and reschedule?”

“definitely.”

“you should have just taken him to a diner.” cana’s lying on gray's bed, head hanging off the edge. she yawns, flips over on her stomach, and holds her chin in her hands. “cheeseburgers and fries solve any kind of crisis, trust me.”

gray lifts his head from his desk and looks at her murderously. “you're the one who convinced me to take him to a movie,” he grits out.

“well,” cana begins, “in my defence, it was like nine in the morning, much like right now, and i'd only had one cup of coffee.” she himself, and adds thoughtfully, “you know, now that i think about it, that theater’s been standing for like thirty years. what did they say caused the fire?”

gray lets his head hit the desk with a low thud. “the projector apparently overheated,” he says.

cana lets out a loud laugh. “this is not funny, cana!” gray says, but he can't keep off a tiny smile from his face.

“yeah, but can you believe the timing of-” a sudden chirp causes her to jerk, and she balances herself on one elbow as she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

gray gets up and falls on his face next to cana. “who is it this time?” he asks, voice muffled by the bed.

“mira – she wants to meet up.” cana sighs deeply.

“oh, really? have you told her what happened with laxus yet?”

cana glances darkly at gray. “no. and she doesn't need to, either.”

“just saying, it would've been better for her to hear it from you than someone else. that would be like a bad cliche.”

cana grunts.

“alright then, shakespeare,” gray snarks. cana gets up and sits on his back in retaliation.

gray's trying to shake her off his back when there's a knock on his door. it takes cana by surprise, and it's enough for gray to topple her to the ground. so when gray looks up at the door, natsu's wide eyes are trained on cana.

“huh,” natsu says. “is this a bad time?”

“life is a lie,” cana says from the floor. “time is a concept made by capitalists. what are we humans, but mere-”

“okay, that's our cue to leave,” gray interrupts as he gets up and grabs his coat from where it was hung on the back of his chair. “we can listen to your existential crisis later.” he pushes natsu out of the doorway and waves goodbye to cana. “i'll buy some instant ramen on my way back!” he yells as he pulls on natsu's wrist and runs through the corridors.

once they're outside the dorm building, natsu stutters to a stop, halting gray as well. “well, that wasn't weird at all.”

gray laughs. “nah, i needed to get out of there, anyway.” gray cocks his head. “wait a second, why did you come over?”

natsu scratches behind his ear, and says, “i wanted to ask you if you wanted to go out. with me, i mean. there's this flea market in town and i thought you'd want to go – with me, obviously.”

holy shit, he's so adorable, gray coos internally. thankfully, he doesn't say it out loud. instead, he says, “yeah, i'd love to.”

natsu takes him to the park on the other end of town. thought he doesn't mention it, it isn't gray's first time at this particular park. the only way natsu will ever know his past adventures with cana would be either over his dead body, or if he got cana drunk enough.

the market is big, bright and colourful; the vendors sell cheap trinkets like bracelets and plastic toys. they're beautiful, but gray can tell that they won't last a month.

natsu is almost like an overexcited puppy in the way that he pulls gray to each stall. natsu pulls him more often to the food vendors but gray won't complain. cana had begun her spiel early enough that he wasn't able to eat any breakfast, and once natsu learns this, he eagerly pushes gray to the closest park bench.

“you have to eat,” natsu repeats, and gray smiles fondly at his actions. it isn’t long before their table is filled with enough food to supply a small army. natsu laughs at the analogy when gray tells him.

“sure, but we’re a two-man army, we gotta fill up,” natsu says thoughtfully. “oh,” he adds, “let me go buy a bottle of water. be back soon!”

gray watches him walk away mutely. if he hadn’t been fortunate enough to walk into the university coffee shop rather than the one he usually goes to, gray wonders if he would have met natsu in some other way. maybe it was meant to be.

or maybe the sap in him was clawing his way out.

gray hasn’t taken his eyes off natsu even though natsu had muttered a quiet, “you can start eating, it’s okay,” before leaving. it’s precisely because he hasn’t stopped watching natsu that he sees what happens so very clearly.

natsu’s walking on the bicycle path back to their table, but before gray can tell him to step off the path, he sees a cyclist behind natsu coming at an unimaginable speed. gray gets up and yells, but the damage is already done.

natsu’s on the ground, hand clutching his head. the bottle of water he had bought rolls away from him, and gray scoops it up as he runs over. a few people are already crowding around natsu and the cyclist. gray pushes his way forward through the crowd, and kneels next to natsu.

“that was a hell of a crash,” gray starts. “are you okay?”

natsu doesn’t reply, and merely points to the cyclist next to him. she’s clutching her foot, and her face is screwed up in pain. gray shifts over to her, once he glances over natsu to see he’s okay. “on a scale of one to ten, how much does your foot hurt?”

“ten,” she whimpers out, and gray blindly reaches back for the bottle of water he had set down before. he hands it to the girl and she gulps it down hurriedly. natsu appears behind gray, and nudges him. “do you wanna take her to the hospital?”

the girl doesn’t seem to hear natsu, so gray relays the question once again. she hesitantly nods, and says, “i need to call my parents though.”

“sure. do you want to borrow my cell phone?”

the crowd dissipates, and after a while, gray talks to the girl’s parents himself. they agree to meet at the small clinic close to the park (gray doesn’t know where it is, but natsu shakes his shoulder and says he’ll guide them), and gray hangs up.

“so,” gray begins awkwardly. natsu jabs him in the ribs with his elbow and helps the girl onto her feet. she’s shaky on her feet and her knees nearly buckle, but natsu holds on.

“i’m asuka,” she says. gray notices natsu cock his head slightly at her voice.

“wait,” natsu interrupts. “asuka connell?”

asuka grins in surprise. “yeah!” she suddenly frowns. “i'm sorry, do i know you?”

natsu shakes his head. “no, no, i know your parents! i haven't seen them in a long while – this is going to be fun.”

gray crouches down, and with natsu's help, they get asuka perched on gray’s back. gray stands up straight, and asuka giggles.

the clinic is right around the bend, and they arrive in less than a minute. natsu barges ahead and opens the door for them, and a little bell sounds overhead. the place smells of faint disinfectant, gray notes, though that was probably expected of medical centres.

a head pops up from behind the counter, and gray whips his head around. asuka giggles from behind his shoulder and exclaims, “hello, wendy!” wendy is a short blue-haired girl who looks younger than gray, but seems to be old enough to hold down a job, judging by her nametag. wendy frowns at gray, and gray is confused for a moment before he realises that he still has asuka on his back. he moves to set her down, and wendy comes closer. “i’m pretty sure we’d be out of business if asuka didn’t come in every other week,” she jokes. “what is it this time?”

asuka's parents arrive fairly quickly, and after a quick lecture on safety, they spot natsu, and there's a sudden cry of joy. natsu hugs them so fiercely it has gray feeling slightly jealous, but he’s soon pacified when natsu holds his hand afterward and introduces gray as his boyfriend.

it isn’t until they’re walking back that it suddenly hits gray – their date was ruined again. gray looks over at natsu to voice his thoughts, but he falters when he sees the serene smile on his face.

gray holds his hand a bit tighter.

he opens his mouth to speak but natsu beats him to it. “this is sort of funny, you know.”

“how so?”

“i don’t think i’ve had to work this hard for a date in a long, long time.”

“that’s a big fucking mood,” gray breathes out, and they both burst into a fit of giggles.

“do you wanna try again? i mean, there’s only so many dates that could go wrong before the universe decides to throw us a bone.” natsu shrugs, and gray finds it endearing enough to want to tease him.

“someone’s pretty eager,” he remarks, and gray won’t deny it, it’s an absolute pleasure to see natsu’s ears go red.

natsu glares in faux anger, and gray laughs and pinches his cheek. natsu gently shoves his hand off and pouts. “let’s reschedule again,” he sighs.

and gray doesn’t know what possesses him to do it (cana would say that he was “in the moment”), but he tugs on natsu’s hand, leans in, and softly kisses him. when he pulls away, natsu’s looking at him with wide eyes. “that was... nice,” natsu tells him.

they both flush red, and natsu refuses to speak a word out of embarrassment all the way back to the dorms.

gray still kisses him again when they get to his room, even if it’s just to see the red on natsu’s face again.

cana slaps his thigh in laughter. “watching you two dance around each other is giving me an aneurysm,” she tells him mid-cackle.

they're in the common grounds in front of their dorms, cana sprawling across the grass and gray with his legs crossed leaning against a tree. the tree is large enough to provide shade for a good two meters in perimeter and gray wonders how old the tree actually is.

cana slaps him again. “hey, don't ignore me!”

“i wasn't aware you had anything to say.”

“you know, it sucks being the only single one in your friend group,” cana huffs, “because then i have to listen to all of your whining.”

gray narrows his eyes. “juvia's been talking to you, huh?”

gray laughs when all cana does is groan out loud. “you don't get to comment,” cana says. “i still think you should take natsu to a diner.” “cana, please.” “it’s indoors, safe, and also an additional bonus: food. the worst you can get is a coffee stain on your clothes.”

“is mira not available to annoy? or is this special treatment?” “i oughta lock you out of your room for this disrespect.”

“i still have your photos from when you were a teenager, do you really want to piss me off?”

“...have fun on your date.” cana acquiesces. “that’s what i thought.”

gray whips out a pair of tickets and waves them in front of natsu. “so? how about it?”

“you’re delusional if you think i'm going to turn that offer down,” natsu scoffs. “i mean, cotton candy? it’s a big yes from me.”

“good, the carnival’s only half an hour away and the next train is in twenty minutes,” gray says, grabbing natsu’s hand and pulling him along. the wind is cold against their face, and gray pulls up the collar of his coat. he’s wearing his lucky brown coat, the one that’s long enough to cover his knees. this is the third time they’ve rescheduled – gray is going to need all the luck he can get.

natsu pays for their train tickets (“you got us the carnival tickets, so shush”) and the train pulls in exactly ten minutes later. natsu looks a bit green when they climb aboard, but gray doesn’t mention it. it’s only after a while when natsu looks absolutely dead inside that gray cautiously asks him if he’s alright.

“oh yea- just peachy,” natsu chokes out. gray gapes at him in shock.

“no way,” gray says. “are you motion sick?”

natsu doesn’t reply – rather, he just looks at gray pleadingly. if that look was supposed to make gray sympathetic towards natsu, then he had another thing coming.

gray pulls out his phone. “blackmail is always a good choice.”

they’re entering the fair when gray cheekily pipes up, “so i suppose roller coasters are a no, then?”

natsu whines as gray laughs at him. “don’t be mean to me,” he pouts, and it’s so unbearably adorable that gray reaches up and kisses him. natsu smiles at him so sweetly afterwards that it physically hurts gray, and since gray doesn’t know how to handle it, he pulls them to the closest food stall. by his logic, natsu should have his attention diverted.

“cotton candy!” natsu exclaims. fuck yeah, gray thinks.

natsu sneakily puts his hand in gray’s coat pocket, and gray simply curls his fingers around natsu’s and doesn’t mention it. they make their way around each stall, not buying much, content with just perusing.

“haunted houses are a must,” natsu says a few minutes later, through a mouthful of cotton candy. gray fights back a smile because natsu probably thinks that he’ll scream, but gray doesn’t know how to break it to him that he’s never been one for jump scares.

he doesn’t tell him, and instead enjoys the disappointed look on natsu’s face when they come out. “you didn’t even scream once,” natsu accuses.

“were you expecting me to?” “it would have been appreciated, seeing as i was the only one who did scream in there,” natsu says.

“yeah, but you have to admit – it was sort of funny.”

natsu scowls and walks ahead, forgetting that gray still had his hand in a vise grip. as a result, gray gets pulled along roughly too, and he nearly trips. natsu looks over his shoulder at him, and asks in a singsong voice, “are-you-okay?”

“that’s it, come here,” gray yells, and natsu books it. gray chases him as fast as he can, but natsu’s too fast for him, and gray ends up having to rest on a little bench by the entrance. natsu tries to walk past him, pretending to ignore him, but gray reaches out a hand and pulls him down to sit next to him.

they sit close together, natsu slightly out of breath, and gray humming. they sit in silence, watching family and friends enjoy the carnival. there’s a little girl with a teddy bear running around with her brother, and gray points them out to natsu. he smiles at the sight, and in turn points to a boy piggybacking a girl through the carnival. gray laughs – the scene is absolutely adorable.

“okay,” natsu says. “not to freak you out, but i think it’s – maybe? – raining.”

gray sticks his palm out and almost immediately catches a few drops. “oh fuck,” he utters.

natsu grabs his hand and pulls him quick to the exit hoping to outrun the rain, but the rain is hard and it is fast. it doesn’t take long before they’re both completely wet, and gray has to fling his overly long coat over the both of them to protect them. they duck into an storefront that has a sunshade over the front. they're accompanied by a family of five, and gray stands as close to natsu as possible so as to let them stand comfortablely. it's while he's shifting that gray sees it – a diner, right across the street.

cana's words float in his head, and gray laughs out loud. natsu cocks his head and looks at him oddly, and gray simply points to the diner.

“do you want to go in?” asks natsu.

“it's warm, safe and there's food. you're delusional if you think i'm going to turn that offer down,” gray says with a cheeky smile.

they run through the rain one last time and approach the door of the diner. they're shielded from the rain at this angle, and natsu shakes himself dry like a wet dog. gray puts his arms up, and yells, “no, stop it! bad natsu!”

that only makes natsu shake his head faster, and gray’s previously dry face is now completely wet.

“you’re horrible,” gray tells him. natsu sticks his tongue out at him in response.

the blast of warm air from inside the diner nearly knocks gray off his feet – he wasn’t expecting it at all. the diner’s pretty crowded, mostly full of people who were caught in the rain like themselves. the waiters are passing out spare towels to the ones who came in, and gray and natsu thankfully accept. gray starts toweling his head and watches as natsu does the same. when they’re done natsu excuses himself to go to the restroom and gray tries to find a spare table.

he finds a small table in the corner, wedged between two others, and natsu joins him soon. they flag down a waitress and they order themselves cheeseburgers (gray can already hear cana's laughter in his head) and fries.

“why do you keep giggling like that?” natsu suddenly asks.

gray's caught off guard. “say what?”

natsu repeats the question. gray buries his head in his hands. “that's because cana kept telling me to take you to a diner as a first date, and i kept shooting her down.” gray gestures around them. “and now look where we are.”

“and why didn't you? take me to a diner, that is?”

gray pauses. “because i wanted to take you someplace fun.”

natsu clicks his tongue and places his hand on the table. gray automatically places his hand on natsu's and natsu clutches it tight. “you keep forgetting that i'm trying to date you because it's you. as long as you're there, any place will be fun.” natsu has an earnest look in his eyes, and fuck, if gray isn't weak for big expressive eyes.

“that's...a very sweet thing to say.” gray finally says.

“i meant it,” natsu tells him.

their food arrives and they unlink hands to dig in. it isn't soon before they're done and paying the check (“let's split it,” natsu says, and gray agrees). the rain hasn't completely stopped but it's turned into a light drizzle. the station isn't far away, and they make it there before the rain picks up again.

“are you sure we can't walk back to campus?” natsu chances.

gray looks at him, affronted. “campus is half an hour away, natsu! and that's by train!”

natsu grumbles, and he turns a little green when the train pulls in to the station. gray holds his hand tighter and tells him, “you can lean on me if you want.”

“that would be appreciated, thank you,” natsu answers gratefully.

he's adorable, gray thinks. and when they're seated and the train begins to pull away from the station, and natsu immediately leans his head on gray's shoulder, gray thinks that it would be very easy to fall in love with natsu.

very, very easy.

#gratsu #gratsu fanfiction #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction #fanfiction #gray x natsu #natray #natray fanfiction #TTTF writes #ft #ft fanfic #our nights are endless just like the stars and sand [gratsu]