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aldryrththerainbowheart · 2 years

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Place for The Weary

So I have a lot of good pieces stuck in google docs file for me to write in whenever inspiration strucks or I want to read something I made. I don’t know where to go with most of these pieces of text but like hell I’ll let them stay in that file for another year. And since it’s Mental Health Month on Tumblr, I’ve picked three particular oneshots that fits the theme.

Take care of yourself wyrmlings and remember, it’s not a weakness to lean on somebody every once in a while.

Yours

- Aldryrth (Al) The Chromatic Dragon

(art does not belong to me)

Warnings: angst, comfort

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Characters: Dante, Vergil, Nero, V, Beatrice (OC)

Note: This is written with an OC, I know this is not everyone’s thing but she’s a nice gal. I’m sure you’ll like her.

As Bea watched the two women running excitedly towards the tree, she started to walk in the same direction when she noticed Dante hadn't moved, watching the tree silently with the pensive expression.

Before she could say anything, Dante started to walk slowly towards the entrance. She knew something was wrong, she saw Dante this serious only a few times over the long time they knew each other. Whatever was waiting for them behind this gate, it was bigger, much bigger than anything they normally faced.

Before she realized what she was doing, she quietly reached for lapels on the back of his coat and gave them a soft tug. Dante stopped, heaving a tired sigh before he turned to her, eyes silently asking for a reason they were still standing here. Beatrice opened her mouth, mind scrambling for something to say but couldn’t come up with anything. What was she supposed to say? That it’s going to be fine, that she’s sorry that his life, their lives, is such a marginal clusterfuck, that whatever it is, he can talk to her? All those things sounded either like a shortsighted foolishness or things that were already repeated in the past, only for both of them to know that one just doesn’t just start to resolve years of trauma, grief, physical and mental battle. And Beatrice learned the hard way that she cannot save everyone, cannot help everyone. Only thing she can do is offer her strength and support. And that’s exactly what she did.

“Whatever it is behind this gate, we get through this together. You don’t have to handle everything by yourself. I know you can, but... you don’t have to.”

She put an arm on his shoulder, felt his warmth even through the thick, worn down leather of his coat, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Dante stared at her for a while, his expression unreadable. She started to worry she might have offended him somehow, or what’s more common, stuffed her nose in things that don't concern her, thinking she’s being helpful.

The last thing she expected was for Dante to envelop her in a tight embrace. He moved so fast, Bea hadn't fully processed what was happening until his strong arms squeezed her, almost painfully. She hasn't felt any warmth or good-natured humor from his stance, only a silent and sad need for comfort. Before she could react the moment was over. Dante untangled himself from her and immediately marched towards the Urizen tree.

Beatrice didn’t like the flash of determined but pained look on his face. It was the look she knew almost too well.

It was the look of a person who is about to commit atrocity in the name of duty.

“Dammit, Vergil, did you see the size of that thing?!” Beatrice turned to him excitedly, wildly gesticulating with her hands.

Vergil watched her with barely contained amusement, already used to her antics.

“You were so amazing!” She beamed at this and wrapped her arms around him in the heat of a moment, squeezing him tightly.

Vergil froze. He couldn’t remember when he’s been held like this, touched without murderous intention. For those brief seconds he couldn’t bring himself to react, to push her away, stab her, scold her or, lord forbid, return the embrace.

Beatrice loosened her arm around him when she noticed how stiff he was. “Verge? Are you alright? You know I’m not gonna hurt you, so no need to stab me.” She tried to joke her way out of it, but when Vergil kept silent she slowly, as if not to alert him, started to let go.

“It’s not that.” He blurted, his mind scrambling for words, he didn’t know why he bothered to explain himself, but there was something about her, something that allowed him to let his guard down just a little bit.

“It’s just that...it has been a long time since I...I’ve been touched in this...casual manner.” Vergil cleared his throat, hoping she didn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice.

Wishful thinking, she looked at him with sympathetic eyes, eyebrows scrunched with pity and Vergil wished to be anywhere but there. He didn’t want her sympathy nor anyone else's. He doesn’t need her, doesn’t…

“Oh, Vergil…” She whispered and enveloped him in her arms again.

For a while, they just stood there. Beatrice hugging him tenderly and him awkwardly staring at her shoulder. Vergil felt her warmth, smelled the sweet scent of her hair, despite both of them being covered in grime and demon gore, and her arms, still as strong in their hold as before, as if she’s willing to just stand in this dark, grimm void as the time passed around them for all eternity, until she was certain he had enough of her warmth.

Beatrice didn’t hear him pull yamato out of its sheath, which was a good sign, but she also didn’t feel him move or say anything which...she didn’t know how to decipher. Vergil was bloody hard to talk to, she still couldn’t believe that he consented for them to travel together. Maybe he really doesn’t like to be touched. Not everyone is so starved for affection and protection as she is…

Is what she thought until she felt Vergil slowly pressing his forehead to her shoulder. The arm is still holding the yamato, placing itself on her waist. Beatrice smiled to herself as the blue devil little by little pressed himself closer, closer still until they were both squeezing the grief and loneliness out of each other.

And for the first time in her life, Beatrice felt the alien feeling of content settle in her heart.

“That bastard called me a deadweight!!!” An angry roar echoed around piles of rubble. Nero paced furiously from one side to the other. One hand clenching in a tight fist while the other one was running through his hair. Beatrice watched him quietly from the sideways hands folded on her chest. He needed a time to vent first before he was able to listen to anyones words, that much haven’t changed since his younger years. She understood why he was angry. It wasn’t just the words that got to him. Despite his words, Nero respected and admired Dante, even moreso than her, so being cast away like this was painful kick to the heart. Not to mention Nero’s sensitivity to rejection, something he haven’t got rid off since his earlier years in orphanage. Damn you, Dante. She knew why he did this. It was the same situation like all those years back with her. He wanted to push him away to protect him, to make Nero hate him so if something happened he wouldn’t blame himself. A shitty technique Dante used everytime someone got too close to him. It didn’t even solve anything for anyone, just made things worse. She learned that the hard way. It was only because she recognized Dante’s true intentions and then stubbornly refused to leave him, that the two of them stayed together for this long. The woman let out annoyed sigh. Dante was a mess when it came to his relatives, but what could one want from a man whose life was mostly marked by blood, steel and gunpowder. Nero wasn’t much better. The only reason why he was still stomping around here and not towards the demonic tree was because he knew she would drag him back until he’s calmed down. V’s eyes nervously danced from her to Nero. From the piece of concrete she sat him on, he looked worse then ever. Heavy, labored breaths raked his narrow ribcage and his entire body trembled. He looked like he was about to pass out. She knew they don’t have much time, but sending her devil-boy like this into fray would do more harm then good. V opened his mouth to speak, possibly to calm Nero, but Bice raised her hand in sign for him to be quiet and walked towards the agitated Sparda. Nero was still pacing angrily, his body language growing more aggresive by the second. When she finally caught up with him she caught the words like “dead to me” and “worthless piece of-”, she wasn’t sure if those words were adressed to him or Dante. Bice placed her hand on the boy’s arm when suddenly, a fist flew past her face. The only reason she didn’t get punched in the face was thanks to her quick reflexes. When Nero realized what he had done, a horror flashed in his eyes. “fuck, I-I didn’t mean to…” Nero took a step back, scared and lost, all the emotions laying bare on his face. Beatrice could see it all. “I…c-can’t do anything right!” Head bowed, both hands now clenched so furiously they were trembling and face scrunched in a pained grimace. Beatrice knew Nero was tried to process all of these overwhelming emotions by himself and was slowly losing the battle. “I’m so sorry.” “I’m so…so sorry!” All the turnmoil in his face accumulated in his eyes as they started dangerously glisten. A small involuntarily sob escaped him and Nero buried his face in his hands shame and anger. Curled up like this, he looked just like that little boy clinging to her shirt when the kids in school called him a freak, when Fortuna Defense Forces repeatedly rejected his application or when Credo died. He put on a brave face for everybody, but once he was alone… Nero felt gentle but firm hands clasping his wrists away from his face. He still kept his head down though, too ashamed to show Beatrice, of all people, just how weak he was. But she didn’t let him, she never allowed sadness to cloud his mind and helplessness to weigh on his back. She lifted his head by the finger under his chin and looked in his face. Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, too embarassed to look her in the eyes. He was met with warm golden gaze of his guardian. No judgement in them, never in those eyes. Her hands framed his face, thumbs wiping away few stray tears that escaped his eyes. At that moment, Nero felt like those palms are the only things that hold him together. “Feeling sad, lonely or frustrated doesn’t make you weak.” He stared at Bice as she gave him a gentle smile. “It makes you human.” Nero let her arms wrap around as his face buried in her collarbone. As he listened to her steady heartbeat, he felt the strong pair of arms squeezed him strongly, as if trying to wring out the stress out of him. As they stood there together, a pair of intense green eyes watched them curiously. There was something about this woman that felt familiar, it burned in the back of his mind but as soon as he tried to chase the memory, it disappeared. A human, hm?

#devil may cry dante #devil may cry vergil #devil may cry nero #angst #hurt/comfort #hugzz #oh boy do they need them #devil may cry imagines #devil may cry oc #oh god should I post that?#was it good idea?#Al is still self-conscious over their writing #dante x oc #vergil x oc #nero x oc #platonic #dmc x oc

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ssson-of-sparda · 3 years

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Fathers Do Cry (DMC Vergil one shot)

Summary: Vergil remembers his last Father's Day with Sparda and doesn't really realise how similar to him he has become.

Tags: Father's Day special / DADGIL! / Vergil acting like a dad to Nero

Author’s note: I woke up this morning suddenly inspired. Doesn't happen very often so enjoy ;) ps: I just love Dadgil!

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His big blue eyes staring without blinking, the child was observing his father sitting by the fireplace in the parlour. Full of admiration, he was detailing all the features of his serious face, all the details of his confident posture and all the different luxurious fabrics that made his purple finery and as he did, he repeated to himself, wished, prayed, that someday, one day, he would grow up to be just like him. “Aren’t you going to speak, Vergil?” The father’s powerful voice asked as he finally acknowledged the boy’s presence with a small amused smile, wondering what brilliant thoughts were occupying his eldest son’s sharp mind this time. “I made this for you, father.” With a solemnity that didn’t suit a five-years-old but that somehow fitted Vergil’s young yet wise spirit and his will to be perfect son in the eyes of Sparda, the boy handed a paper sheet to his father. “ And what would that be?” The man said as he took his son’s gift. “It’s father’s day so … I made you a poem… or tried to.” The adorable embarrassment tensing the child’s traits in funny grimaces made the father's smile wider but Vergil, suddenly too preoccupied with the blue paint stuck under his fingernails, didn’t notice it as he didn’t notice the paternal pride and the love shining in his eyes. “I thought your mother wanted you and your brother to make a gift together this year.” “ You know Dante” Vergil sighed. “He has no artistic talent whatsoever. He wanted to make you a wooden sword to play with us.” “ That’s actually a very good idea.” Vergil frowned; suddenly worried that Sparda would not like his gift and preferred Dante’s – if he had made one of course. “Except when the sword looks like two twigs glued together. You should have seen this, father. It looked ri.di.cu.lous.” Sparda laughed at his son’s attitude, finding amusement in this sibling rivalry. “Why don’t you read me your poem then?” “ I learnt it by heart actually. The paper is for you to remember this day by … and also because I wanted to illustrate it. Look.” Vergil approached his father, seized the poem from his big hands and climbed on his lap to show him the delicate aquarelle he had painted around the lines. “Impressive. Did your mother help you with this?” Vergil shook his head. “No, I did it on my own. I used a book I saw in that old man’s house I often go to as a reference.” “ The old academic that lives down the hill? I thought you found him boring.” Vergil shook his head again, furiously this time and with a serious frown. “That’s Dante. Me, I really like him. He teaches me a lot of things. And he has lots of books. It’s incredible.”

Sparda ruffled his son’s silver hair whose hairdo was always made in order to somehow mimic his, thinking what a promising young boy Vergil was. Maybe more promising than Dante to be honest – though he knew he shouldn’t think that. But there was something that Vergil had that Dante lacked. Perhaps rationality beyond his age … or some kind of maturity … wisdom maybe? He couldn’t really pinpoint what it was exactly. All he knew is that it was something unique and special, just like his son, something that made Sparda certain that one day his eldest would grow up to be a great man, a man greater than him, a man worthy of the Yamato and capable of handling its burdening power.

“Can I recite my poem now?” Sparda smiled at the sparkle in Vergil’s eyes. “Sure.” The boy quickly took back his previous position in front his father, cleared his throat, put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest.

Sparda listened to every word, fascinated and amazed by his little one’s talent and profoundly moved by all the love, all the meticulousness and the time he put in each line and in each word. “Oh Vergil. The world is not yet ready for someone like you.” The father said as he let a tear roll down his cheek. “Why are you crying, father?” Vergil worried. “Because fathers cry, my son.”

That day was the last time Vergil truly celebrated Father’s day for a few weeks later he had no father, no one to make poems to, no one to admire by the fireplace. Just a memory that he feared would sooner or later fade but that he would cling to dearly for as long as he could.

“Why don’t we bring flowers to Daddy’s statue in the park today?” Eva asked when Vergil was six, when Vergil was seven, when Vergil was eight only to be welcome by a heavy silence that was no longer hiding brilliant thoughts but a painful sadness. But each time he did as Eva suggested, maybe more for her than for him, maybe because he still loved and admired Sparda even if he had left him, maybe because he thought that his father might see him and smile from wherever he was now, the same way he had smiled when he had read him his poem on his last father’s day.

And that’s certainly why, more than three decades later, he was back in this park, on this very special day with a bouquet of purple peonies he had bought on his way here and a memory that never faded. A memory he could still recite.

"Whether the sun shines or the sky cries, Whether the day breaks or the night wakes, My father always as a rampart stands Protecting my house with his bare hands.

He is strong, he is brave And the day he always saves. A knight in cockroach armor To scare my terror away."

Vergil scoffed at the lines, at the way they rolled off his tongue, finding them funny and childish and not worthy of a Blake or a Fielding at all unlike what he thought when he wrote them as a child. The over-confidence of youth probably.

“Did you just come up with that?” Vergil turned around to see Nero walking towards him with a smirk. A surprise but not a bad one. “Cause the rhyming sucks a little. I expected more of you.” “ And I suppose you’re an expert in poetry now?” “ I may read have read one of your books.” He said as he tapped the pocket of his marine blue coat hiding Vergil's most sacred book with pride. “You still have it I see.” “Hey! It’s a real page turner! Can’t get my nose out of it.” Vergil had a crooked smile, understanding perfectly what his son meant.

Son? Even a year after this reveal he still couldn’t believe this boy before him, the one he had lived such a terrifying yet incredible adventure with, was his own flesh and blood.

A sigh almost escaped Vergil’s lips. How did he make such a fine young man? Someone so selfless, so generous, so loving when he was nothing like that. “ What are you doing here, Nero?” He asked, trying not to think more about this. “ Well it’s father’s day, no? So … I made you something… or tried to.” The embarrassed grimace Nero suddenly made made Vergil’s smile grew larger but Nero, too worried to keep the gift covered with the pieces of newspapers he had taped together, didn’t see it as he didn’t see the paternal pride and the love shining in his father’s blue eyes. The same paternal pride Sparda had displayed when Vergil was a little child with a small paper in his hands. “Thank you Nero.” The man said as he gently took the present from his son's hands, wondering what it was even though the long shape didn’t leave much place for imagination.

He cautiously unwrapped the thing, already feeling a happiness he hadn’t felt in years warming his heart. And when he saw a katana-like wooden sword that purposely looked like Yamato he couldn’t help but smile and let a tiny drop of water blur his blue eyes. “It was Dante’s idea. Though he might have suggested gluing two sticks together.” Nero said as he scratched his head. “It looks amazing.” Vergil’s honesty was like a knife in Nero’s chest but in a good way. It was as if all the stress and all the stupid fear he had felt while making this toy sword had been stabbed away. He felt relieved, joyful even that his always so stern father was genuinely grateful and seemed to appreciate his gift. “That way, you won’t have to tear my arm apart again cause look, you have two now.” Nero tried to joke but his words just erased the smile on Vergil’s face.

“There is not a single day I don't regret what I did to you.” This was Vergil’s way to say he was sorry. Nero was certain of it. He didn’t need to know his father that well to know it. After all, he was somewhat the same. “Hey, it’s in the past. Plus it grew back, so no harm done.” He winked, trying to ease the atmosphere with a bad pun worthy of Dante even though there was a time he would have ripped Vergil’s chest open for what he had done. And a part of him knew he would never forget and maybe never fully forgive what happened. But right now he was just happy to have a family, to have a father and to finally be able to celebrate a day he has so long hated. “ This world doesn’t deserve you, son.” Vergil solemnly declared. He had never called Nero that way and that name felt strange yet beautiful to both of them. It made the son and the father smile in ways they never thought they would smile at each other. “ Damn, are you crying old man? I thought devils never cry.” Nero suddenly harrumphed when he finally noticed the water growing in his father's eyes. “ Well, fathers do cry." Vergil declared as he allowed a tear of joy and pride to fall along his pale cheek. The first in a very very long time but one he will never regret or brush away. "Father do cry.” He repeated with a glance at the statue of his father behind him.

#vergil #devil may cry #devil may cry one shot #dmc one shot #vergil one shot #nero #sparda #fanfiction #dadgil

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izzielizzie · 4 years

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Hi. Could you write a one shot where Nate and Bronwyn are childhood besties. And do everything together like tissue masks on a Friday or something? And they secretly like eachother?

Hi! Yes! This is very long and not my best work so I apologize, but enjoy! Also there are some notes at the end (because I obviously need to make this longer than it already is)

Thirteen Years Ago (age three):

Anna Rojas did not expect anything extraordinary to happen when she took her oldest daughter, named Bronwyn, to daycare for three hours. All she wanted was a break from the overly curious toddler, who had been pulling her younger sister Maeve’s auburn curls to see if they would fall out. Needless to say, neither Anna nor Maeve were very impressed.

Bronwyn, who had been surprisingly calm as her grey eyes surveyed the room filled with loud children and multicoloured toys. Finally, her eyes stopped at a small bookshelf, and her face lit up. “Mama! Down!”

Anna obliged, and she watched as the small girl walked towards the books. The daycare runner stepped up next to Anna. “She’ll be in good hands Annalise.” Anna turned to look at the woman next to her, who had the same vivacious red hair and clear grey eyes as she did.

“Don’t call me that, sis”

Annalise’s sister, named Eabha, just grinned and gently pushed her towards the door. “Have a good three hours! I’ll make sure your oldest is in one piece and ready to pull hair when you’re back!”

Yes, Anna did not expect anything extraordinary at all.

Ellen Macauley didn’t think that three year olds needed to listen to their parents arguing, which was why she felt it was a good idea to send her son Nathaniel to a local daycare. The daycare itself was a child haven, but her anxiety was piling on. What if something happened? Knowing that if she stayed for too long she would take Nathaniel back home, causing even more anger from her husband, Ellen left as fast as she could. Through the haze of tears that disgusted her, Ellen couldn’t see where she was going, and she walked straight into a woman with bright red hair who was dressed fashionably in a cashmere sweater and black leggings. Everything about her screamed money, Ellen thought.

“Sorry,” Ellen mumbled, stepping back and nearly stumbling. The woman clamped an arm around her forearm.

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman pulled her up and looked at her closely. “Are you crying honey?”

Ellen didn’t know why this woman cared, but her expression was so motherly that Ellen found herself talking about how she was afraid that her arguing with her husband would hurt her son and that she was always so anxious and tired and she wanted to make sure her baby was okay.

The woman, who introduced herself as Anna Rojas, gently guided Ellen to the front window of the daycare. “Which one is yours?”

Ellen didn’t look through the window, but recited his looks: black hair, dark blue eyes, wearing a green shirt and black jeans. Anna gently squeezed Ellen’s arm and pointed through the window.

“Is that one Nathaniel?”

Ellen looked through the window and saw a red haired woman who looked remarkably like Anna sitting with a book in her hands. One side of her was a girl with dark curls. She had a bright, curious expression on her face and she was looking at the picture book intently. Sitting next to her, with his hand clasped tightly in hers, was Nathaniel. He looked happy. Ellen released a small laugh. “Yes it is. He looks so happy.”

“He’s with my little sister and daughter. He’s in good hands I swear.” Anna paused and looked at the woman standing next to her. “Care to get a coffee with me?”

“Sure,” said Ellen.

Three hours later the two women were good friends. They expected to maybe see one another a couple times around the city. But they didn’t expect their children to become inseparable.

Five Years Ago (age eleven):

Nathaniel was used to screaming. His parents argued so frequently that he couldn’t remember the last time it was quiet. He just stuffed his head under a pillow and tried to zone out. He was surprised however, when the arguing stopped. He could hear his father screaming “Come back!” over and over again, a door slammed, and everything was silent. Fearing the worst, Nathaniel climbed out of bed and crept into the living room. His father was standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. He turned when he heard his son.

“She’s gone. I need to get out of here.”

Nathaniel was suddenly terrified. He had no idea where his father was going, his mother was gone, and on top of it all, a thunderstorm was in that night’s forecast. The thunder terrified him, especially at night.

“Dad, where are you going?”

“For a drive. I’ll be back soon.” He became suddenly very serious. He grabbed Nate by the shoulders and shook him hard. “You don’t leave this house do you understand? And don’t let your mother in. If she comes back I’ll… I’ll…”

Nate could imagine a couple of things that his father would do. His father shook him again. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Yes,” mumbled Nathaniel.

With that, he was gone, just as a clap of thunder shook their rundown house. Nathaniel jumped. He knew what was going to happen: his mother would come back the next day, argue with his father, and leave for good. His father would drive and drive until he found a bar with enough beer to tide him over, and he’d show up tomorrow afternoon drunk and tired and ready to argue with anyone and everyone.

He needed someone who would stay with him tonight, he decided as the thunder became more frequent. Without thinking whether he should or not, he picked up the ancient phone on the coffee table and dialed the one number he knew by heart.

Bronwyn arrived, soaked from head to toe. Her aunt, who she had been living with for the past few months as her younger sister underwent chemotherapy for her Leukemia, honked her car’s horn once to alert them that she was pulling out of the driveway. Seeing Bronwyn’s bespectacled face calmed Nathaniel. He and Bronwyn were both in agreement that the best day of their lives was the day they met. When Bronwyn was panicking over school or her sister’s health, she turned to Nathaniel. And when Nathaniel’s home life became terrifying, he stayed with Bronwyn.

“Nathaniel, I’m so sorry,” Bronwyn stood on her toes to give him a big hug, which he returned, despite getting the front of his shirt soaked. Nathaniel closed his eyes. He felt better whenever he was around his best friend.

He pulled away. “Yeah, well, not much I can do. But we should get you some dry clothes.”

Nathaniel led Bronwyn to his room, where he pulled a sweatshirt and sweatpants out of his drawers and handed them to Bronwyn. She walked to the bathroom, and while he waited for her, Nathaniel lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was strange really, how three hours ago he came back from soccer practice feeling hopeful. He had scored three goals in a row, a personal best. Never had he imagined that this would be the day his whole life changed. Nathaniel didn’t move until Bronwyn came back and curled up on the bed next to him.

“Nathaniel? What are you thinking?” Bronwyn asked him this a lot, especially when he put up walls and ignored everyone.

“I need a new name. Like, I don’t know, Tim.”

Bronwyn scoffed and rested her head on his shoulder. Even in his clothes she managed to smell like green apples. “Tim sucks, you need something better.”

Nathaniel appreciated that Bronwyn didn’t question why he wanted a new name. She knew why. She knew that Nathaniel carried too many connotations. She knew that Nathaniel was the result of a dysfunctional family. She knew that names carried power.

“You’re right. What about Dante?”

“You wanna be named after an Italian poet?”

“I have no idea how you know that, but no, I don’t.”

“He wrote about hell or something. I read about it in a book the other day.”

“You read a lot. What about Niel?”

“That’s worse than Dante.” Bronwyn snuggled closer to Nathaniel. She was silent for a long time, and Nathaniel thought she had fallen asleep when she suddenly sat up, nearly knocking her glasses off. “I’ve got it! Nate!”

“Nate?” Nathaniel sat up too.

“What, do you not like it?”

“No, no, I love it. Bron… it’s perfect.” You’re perfect was what he nearly said. Embarrassed at himself, but also overjoyed at the new names that somehow fit him, Nate lay back down and stared at the ceiling again. Bronwyn, who was used to Nate’s bouts of silence, simply took off her glasses, put her head back on his shoulder, and drifted off to sleep. Nate stayed up longer, turning his new name over and over in his head. After a few minutes, the word Nate lost all its meaning and he turned instead to Bronwyn, who was snuggled up against him. He watched her for a moment as his chest grew warmer, a strange new feeling overtaking him. It would be nearly three years before he figured out what the feeling was.

It was love.

Present Day (age sixteen):

Friday nights always came as a relief to Bronwyn, who could take a break from her stressful life and just relax with her best friend. Although, since most of her stress was caused by her best friend, tonight would not be relaxing. Bronwyn wasn’t quite sure when she crossed the line from friendship to love with Nate Macauley, but she had some guesses. Maybe it was the night she lay in his arms and helped him come up with his new name as his old life came crashing down around him. Perhaps it was the day he came running into her little sister’s hospital room, barefoot and still in his pajamas, just to be with her when the doctors were sure that morning would be Maeve's last. Or maybe it was when he too cried tears of joy when Maeve pulled through. It was the first time she ever saw him cry. Or maybe it was the night he stood out in the rain with Bronwyn so they could wait at the bookstore to get the final book in her favorite series. Or maybe it was when he punched Evan Neiman in the nose when he wouldn’t leave Bronwyn alone.

Or maybe, Bronwyn Rojas had always been in love with Nate Macauley.

Love, unrequited or not, was always better dealt with on spa nights, as Bronwyn’s other best friend Addy had said that morning. Which was how movie night turned into spa night. Bronwyn was surprised Nate agreed with the change. Now, as he rang the doorbell, Bronwyn wasn’t sure she wanted to spend any time with Nate, lest she say or do something stupid. She couldn’t afford to lose this friendship. Before she could pretend to be sick so she could back out of what was certainly going to be an awkward night, Nate was bounding up the steps and barging into her room.

“‘Sup Bronwyn.” Nate collapsed onto Bronwyn’s bed. He looked really nice in black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a deep blue shirt that brought out the colour of his eyes.

“Not much.” Bronwyn turned in her desk chair and stretched out her feet so they were resting on the bed beside Nate.

“Nice. So, spa night? Why?”

Bronwyn shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. “Felt like changing it up. Also, it was your turn to pick a movie and you were just going to pick Ringu weren’t you?”

Nate shrugged. “Do not ask and I shall not lie.”

“That’s not a real saying.”

“Whatever Bronwyn, let’s just get this over with so we can eat a bunch of your mom’s brownies.”

An hour later, Nate and Bronwyn were lounging on the couch, charcoal sheet masks on their faces and a plate of brownies between them. Nate looked away from the TV, which was tuned to a kids show the pair used to like.

“God Bron, what does your mom put in these?”

“Coffee,” said Bronwyn as she took another brownie from the plate.

“I wouldn’t mind some coffee.”

“Nate, it’s nearly nine. No one drinks coffee this late.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn, you are mistaken. I drank coffee at one last night.”

“This morning.”

“What?”

“One in the morning Nate.”

“Yeah, yeah okay. Anyway, the spring dance is coming up.”

“Yes it is. Are you taking Amber?”

Amber and Nate had been a couple since freshman year, and it definitely didn’t bother Bronwyn at all.

Nate gave Bronwyn a weird look. “Um no, we broke up.”

Bronwyn sat up and nearly knocked the plate to the ground with her foot. Nate lunged for it and caught it just in time. “The brownies are safe!” He declared before popping another one into his mouth. Bronwyn took the plate from him.

“First of all, no more, you’re gonna get a stomach ache. Second of all, why did you break up with her?”

“No Bron, you have it wrong. She broke up with me,” Nate paused and looked at his hands. “She thought I was in love with someone else.”

Bronwyn paused. She was about to stand up to put the brownies in the kitchen, but she seemed rooted to her spot. Not another one, she thought.

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“In love with someone else?”

“Oh. I mean, yeah.”

“Who?”

Nate gave Bronwyn a pitying look. “You sweet naive girl,” he said. He took the plate from her hands and leaned forward until he pressed a small kiss to her lips. He pulled back and grinned at her.

Bronwyn’s head was spinning (the fact that she wasn’t wearing her glasses wasn’t helping anything), and she wasn’t quite sure why Nate had kissed her when he was in love with someone else.

“Wait, but, who is it?”

Nate closed his eyes and sighed. It seemed like he was praying for patience. “You obviously, you idiot. I’ve been in love with you since we were eleven, although I didn’t realize it then. I mean, who else would I do this with?” He waved at his face, which still had the mask on it.

“I, but, Amber?”

“Amber was just an, I dunno, an attempt to move on. You obviously don’t care for me that way, so…” He trailed off and stood up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to mess up this friendship. I should, I should go.”

Bronwyn was stricken dumb for only a second. Nate was heading towards the door. Bronwyn jumped off the couch and raced after him. “Wait!”

He turned around, looking hopeful, and Bronwyn stood on her toes and put her hands on his shoulders. “Nate?”

“Yes?”

“You still have a mask on your face.”

“And?”

“You should probably take it off before I kiss you.”

Nate grinned slowly. “Hey,I kissed you and you have one on too, Rojas.”

Bronwyn just laughed.

“I love you Nate Macauley.”

“I love you too Bronwyn.” He put an arm around her and led her to the bathroom. “Now can we please take these things off now?”

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Okay, so notes time!

1) I had not intended to make one section from their moms’ points of view, but it kind of happened and I kind of like it

2) I have no idea what Mrs. Rojas name is, so I made it up. I also don’t know what her sister’s name is, so I made that up too. (Technically they’re not made up, they’re the names of my sisters)

3) I know that Maeve doesn’t have auburn hair, or curls, but I like to think that her hair darkened and straightened out as she got older (am I pulling from my own El Salvadorian/Irish heritage because there’s absolutely no cannon stuff written about their childhood? Yes)

Okay, I hope you liked it!

#nate x bronwn #izzielizzie's fics

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animebw · 5 years

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Gankustuou: Series Reflection

There’s a tendency among some critics to value so-called “serious” storytelling over more “juvenile” forms. It’s a concept I’ve talked about a lot of times in this blog, and I suspect this won’t be the last time either, but the idea that a piece of fiction has to carry itself in a certain way to be deemed “respectable” has always felt like bullshit to me. Storytelling shouldn’t segregate into kids’ tables and grown-up tables or treat that distinction as any sort of value judgement. Stories that are simple, straightforward and emotionally driven can be amazing. Stories that are subdued, methodical and even cynical can be amazing. Hell, stories that do both at once can be amazing as long as they find out how to pull those two strands of thought together. But whichever route you end up taking, what truly makes the difference between a success and a failure is how well you commit to that route. Don’t promise your audience one thing and end up slipping into another, unless that subversion of expectations is part of the point. Because stories can survive a lot of flaws, but the one thing they can never survive is audience confusion. If your audience struggles to connect with what level they should be taking your tale on, no other positives can save you. And if there’s one issue that’s truly stymied Gankutsuou for me, no matter how excellent it is in other respects, it’s that exact fundamental confusion.

Make no mistake, there’s a lot about this show that really, really, really works. That visual style is still one of the coolest fucking things I’ve ever seen. In all honesty, there’s no way it should even work at all; it meshes so many conflicting aesthetics and textures and patterns and even entire mediums together that everything sticks out like a garish sore thumb. And yet, that utter dissonance somehow loops back around to feeling cohesive in its lack of cohesion, a carnival stageshow of a world built from utter chaos that sucks you into its mesmerizing sheen. It’s a true work of wonder, and I can’t imagine how much work it must have taken to keep it all holding together. Meanwhile, Dantes’ labyrinthine revenge plot never ceased to amaze me with just how damn good this bastard was at stringing his little puppets along exactly where they needed to go. At its best, Gankutsuou was a fascinating spiral into indulgent madness and mirthful insanity, punctuated by the warm glow of Albert and Franz’ relationship at the center. Had it the same level of manic drive and focus as Death Note, I think I’d feel comfortable ranking it among anime’s best thrillers.

But as good as Gankustuou could get, once the story got going, I just could not get over that one major stumbling block. The dialogue, the situations, and the characters’ attitudes all seemed to speak of a sinister, darkly disturbed 19th-century melodrama, while the design and overall attitude more favored a straightforward anime-ized face-off, and those two halves just could not find common ground where it really mattered. The melodrama was let down by weak character turns, the anime earnestness suffered under the lurid, sensationalized twists, Andrea just mucked around making both sides of this problem worse, and by the time it reached the finale, it all fell apart into an unsatisfactory mess. So many of the show’s best ideas- the exploration of the meaning of love outside of rigid definitions, the conflict between revenge and its collateral damage- never get the conclusion they deserve, left floundering and mushy by a story that can’t figure out if it wants to be cynical or sincere so it tries to be both and ends up being neither. There’s a lot I really like in here, but it all deserves better than what it got. Danes deserved a more fitting end to his revenge plot, Eugenie deserved a more fitting role in the show’s back half, Albert deserved a better chance to prove himself or crumble trying, and the entire story deserved a more thoughtful, lasting conclusion than the one it got. At least Franz was wonderful all the way through, but there’s only so much damage a single character can repair.

I don’t have Gankutsuou, and I don’t even really dislike it. Like I said, there’s a lot of good to it, enough that I’m glad I saw it. I’d certainly recommend it for the style alone, because you’re never gonna see anything else like it. But I’m always going to be disappointed that a tale with so much potential never figured out how to fully live up to it. Thus, I give Gankutsuou a score of:

6/10

Well, at least Peppo’s happy in the end, and that’s all that matters. Thank you all for sticking with me, and in case you missed the memo, I’m going to be devoting the rest of September to Haikyuu and assorted movies/shorts until my schedule finally clears up a bit. So if you have movie/OVA/short recs, let me know and I might just get to them. Thank you all, and I’ll see you back in October for the return of Symphogear!

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #gankutsuou #the count of monte cristo

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