and alone, i fluffink

"I don't want to," she says, low and quiet and desperate at first. She swallows hard, corrects herself, voice wavering. "I can't. I can't do that." Mr. House's expression on the monitor does not change. The image of him continues to look at her, eyebrow quirked, smile almost challenging her, expectant. It's something she's stupidly, irrationally, taken comfort in, as if it confirms that he predicts great things from her, believes that she can do it. She shouldn't be surprised that the portrait doesn't change. It never does. But, to see that face and to hear him reprimand her? "Don't tell me that you've fallen for the stories of noble paladins on crusade, preserving mankind's technology in a benighted age?" he sneers, biting and incredulous and patronizing. "Dross!" There is a pause. He is recollecting himself, reigning himself back in. All she can do is stand there, stricken, scared to breathe if it will disappoint him further. For all the open space in the penthouse, there is not enough air. There is a part of her, a very large part of her, that wants to buckle. Apologize. Seek forgiveness. There is another part of her, one that is smaller, so much smaller than it should be, that whispers, but Veronica. Imagines the look Veronica would give her, not because of the mission itself, but because she's scared to tell Mr. House no, even for this. "In any case..." Mr. House is cool again. In her mind, he is not looking directly at her. He is already dismissing her. "This is an employer-employee relationship." He says it as though he shouldn't have to remind her. "I've given you an assignment, and the directions are clear." She wants to touch him. She wants to reach out and grab him by his arms and beg him, please, listen to me. Listen to me. She's my friend. She's my best friend. That's her family. If she could just touch him, she could make him hear her. She wants to touch him. She wants to see him. She wants him to take it back, give her another assignment, one she can do and make him proud. She wants to see him smile at her as he tells her, once again, well done. "Yes, sir," she whispers. How is she going to tell him no?

Deep within the shell of Sin, Jecht keeps memories close to him. Memories of games, the greatest, the brightest, the fastest, the bloodiest blitz games in his history -- Memories of places, the houseboat, the blitz sphere, the Calm Lands under the Spiran night sky (so many stars) -- Memories of people, of Daja, creative and kind, of Tidus, energetic and bratty, of Yuna, sweet and small, of Braska, serene and sad and accepting, of Auron. Auron. Auron. Auron. Auron, moral and straight-forward and loyal. Auron. Jecht keeps memories close to him for when times are bad. Times are usually bad, but not always. Sometimes, there's peace. Sometimes, he can hide away under the ice of Lake Macalania and just sit there, do nothing, kill nothing, just sit and listen to the hymn. Sometimes, he thinks Shiva knows he's there. He thinks she, and the rest of the fayth, feel bad for him. Jecht hates it when people feel sorry for him. Times are bad. Times are really bad right now. He doesn't know where he is -- He doesn't know what village this is, he doesn't know the names of the people he's murdering -- Times are really bad right now. He clings to his memories, he sinks into them, loses himself in them. Sometimes, he hates himself for it. He always hates himself, but sometimes he hates himself specifically for this. For remembering the good times, for remembering peace and happiness while people die by his hand. For remembering sex while he burns their world. They passed by the Moonflow twice. They visited all the stops along Spira twice (except for Bevelle, except for Zanarkand), once on the way down to Besaid and once on the way up to Mount Gagazet. The first Moonflow visit was a disaster -- He doesn't think about that memory a lot. Sometimes he does, to remind himself of how he changed, to remind himself that he changed for the better -- far too late, but it happened. But the second time... The second time, it was night. The entire river -- imagine this -- the entire river, aglow. Glowing. As beautiful as the lights of Zanarkand. Pyreflies everywhere, gliding above the water, swimming under the water, lighting up the whole damn river with pastel colors. It was so bright, it was the only night he couldn't see stars flooding the sky. He'd never seen anything like it, and he told Braska and Auron so. The summoner laughed and shook his head, said something quietly about this being his second time, murmured something about a romantic evening, walked away, towards the platform where the shoopuf driver waited. Auron stood with him, beside him a moment, staring out at the magic. "Come," the other guardian finally said. "Lord Braska's waiting for us." Jecht was uncharacteristically quiet as they crossed the Moonflow. He stared over the edge, down at the water where it met the shoopuf's side. The water was darker than he expected. Because of the shadow from the basket on the shoopuf's back? Or because of the dead city resting underneath them? "Careful," Braska said. Jecht looked over at him. In the pyrefly light, his calm smile seemed ethereal and holy. "Don't get too close to the pyreflies. They're oddly strong here." "Strong?" Jecht turned to flop down on his seat. "Like, fiend-strong?" "No, just..." Braska shrugged. "These pyreflies are said to inspire strong emotions." "Emotions, huh...?" Jecht folded his arms across his chest. Braska smiled again, and Jecht knew him well enough by now to see the sadness in his eyes. "In my experience, they are especially good at taking the small feelings tucked away in your heart and making them more powerful." "Huh." Jecht looked over the edge again, watched as a pyrefly curled close to the bottom of the basket. "Do the pyreflies mess with the shoopuf, too?" The pyrefly climbed higher and higher. Braska laughed. "I don't know. It's a good question, though. We'll probably never know." Other pyreflies joined the one Jecht was watching. He leaned back, away from the edge of the basket. "I think they like me." "They're probably drawn to humans," Auron said mildly. "It's all right," said Braska peacefully, watching as one floated lazily through the center of the basket. "They're harmless." "Why tell me to be careful, then?" Braska paused, his eyes growing distant. The pyrefly spiraled through the other side of the basket and disappeared. His answer came in a murmur, but it was lost under the ghostly whispers of the pyreflies around them. Jecht glanced at Auron, but the younger man wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on Braska's face, hands clenched into fists on his knees. Though Guadosalam was only walk down the last short stretch of the Highroad, the three decided to make camp on the riverbank to enjoy the rest of the night in peace. Jecht lay sleepless on his back, hands tucked under his neck. He didn't want to miss a minute of that night, he wanted to soak it all up, memorize everything, so that when he got back to Zanarkand he could... he could... But there wasn't any going back, was there? He knew that now. He took a long, deep breath, and exhaled it at the night sky. A moment later, he heard a whisper from his left. "... Jecht?" "Yeah?" He turned his head to look at Auron. This wasn't the first time the kid couldn't sleep, Jecht knew, and it wasn't the first time they'd shared a sleepless night talking, but... Auron was sitting, legs tucked in a lotus position, staring out over the water. Jecht watched him for a moment, waiting for him to say something else. When nothing else was said, Jecht sat up, too, and scratched the back of his neck. "I know. We're getting closer." Closer to Braska's death. Auron took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jecht found himself tracing the line of his neck with his eyes. "There must be something," Auron muttered. Jecht scratched the back of his neck again. "Yeah." He glanced over at where Braska slept, curled up amongst the roots of a tree. With his eyes, Jecht traced over the lines of his face, too, and saw the loneliness etched in each and every one. Romantic night, huh? he thought to himself. With his wife, yeah... makes sense. Makes a damn lot of sense. "Jecht, I..." "Look. We'll think of something, all right? There's no way we're gonna let Braska..." The words died in Jecht's throat. Auron took another deep breath. Jecht watched him for a moment, followed the line from his neck down his shoulder to the curve of his elbow. "There's so much for him to do." Sometimes, Jecht didn't understand why he couldn't just shut up. "He said he wanted to get Yuna outta Bevelle, didn't he? He's gotta see her grow up, and he's gotta show her her first shoopuf." Jecht found himself nodding, his arms folded across his chest. "And I'll be there to teach her how to swim, and how to play blitz so good she'll beat all the boys at it. And you'll, uh..." Here, he was embarrassed to admit, he faltered. "You'll be there so I can point and show her what a stiff is and teach her not to be one." He nodded. "And you'll teach her the girly stuff, like cooking and sewing, 'cause you know all that." Auron was staring at him now and, though his expression was clear in the pyrefly light, Jecht couldn't read it, so he did the only thing he knew to do: He kept babbling. "Braska's gotta live, see? He's gotta be there to help her with magic and fight off the boys, 'cause you just know they're gonna be all over her when she grows up. He's gotta be there to... to tell her stories about her mom, about how beautiful she was and how much Yuna looks just like her, and all that." Jecht gestured wildly. "He's got so much to live for, so we're gonna make sure he doesn't die. Right?" Auron, still staring at him, shook his head, bemused. "But... how?" "How..." Jecht frowned for a moment. "Aha!" He slapped his fist into his palm. "We've got time before we reach Bevelle, right? We'll talk him into stopping the pilgrimage." "What?" "The both of us!" Jecht gestured again. "We'll gang up on him, and then we'll be right there at Bevelle anyway, so we could grab Yuna and run back down to Besaid. How 'bout it?" Auron was silent for a long moment. "He won't," he said quietly. "He won't give up the pilgrimage." "... I know." And he did. He knew Braska would never give up -- There were just too many things... He would never give up. He would keep on marching, right on up to Zanarkand, and -- and Jecht and Auron would be marching right along with him, because... because... Jecht still doesn't know how it happened. He never noticed how close he was to Auron, didn't know if he was the one who moved close or if Auron did, didn't know who made the first move -- didn't know if he kissed Auron or if Auron kissed him -- it just -- happened, and before either of them knew it, they were tumbling to the ground, desperately clutching one another, struggling to keep quiet, desperately moving for more -- more friction, more heat, more contact, more connection -- Auron. Auron. Auron -- The pyreflies were so bright, so bright, like stars, Jecht thought blindly. A blanket of stars on the riverbed of regret. Times are bad, but they're getting better. He's drifting away in the sea now, far within the depths of the ocean. He thinks he can still see blood in the water, but knows it's just his mind playing tricks on him. He thinks he's bound for Macalania. He hopes he is. He really needs to hear the fayth right now. For some reason, the hymn lets him hate himself a little less. Braska, I'm sorry. Auron, I'm sorry. Yuna, Tidus, Daja, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sometimes, Jecht thinks his memories are the only things that keep him sane. He's probably right. His memories, and the fayth's song, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, Tidus and Yuna and Auron are fighting. Fighting fiends, fighting Yevon, fighting Sin -- fighting him. If they're fighting, it means they're alive. If they're fighting, it means they still have a chance to put an end to this. Sometimes, Jecht thinks that if he dies, he won't hate himself so much any more. You're late, Auron...

Even after all these years, even after all they'd been through together, even after all the peace they've known together on the Farplane, they have learned that there are still some nightmares that won't go away. For Braska - A letter, the handwriting coldly spelling out in black and white news that would shatter a world. - Simple knowledge: Choose which beloved to kill. - A small child's farewell. - Fire and pain as the bond with his Final Aeon is severed. For Auron - A dungeon, full of water and fiends and undeserved punishment. Torture. - Simple knowledge: He was too weak to save them. - A frail woman's funeral, another mark of failure. - Watching his beloved, watching both of them, fall and scream and burn. For Jecht - A child's blitzball, kicked his direction. - Simple knowledge: It was all his fault. - A beloved summoner's body, crumpled on the ground, soul torn in two, and a beloved guardian's anger and fear and sorrow. - Fire and water and wood splintering and children and innocent people screaming as he killed them, as he tore them apart, as he tore their lives asunder. There are still some nightmares that cannot be eased away with a gentle touch, a sweet kiss, the closeness of their bodies at night. And when the nightmares persist, when the screaming in their minds is louder than the heartbeats of their lovers, they sing. Ieyui... nobomeno... Because even after Yevon's betrayal, a hymn, a simple hymn, calms and soothes and restores the faith so shattered by the circumstances that destroyed them.

The more Boone learned about this courier, the more surprised he was that she ever helped him in the first place. The more he started thinking her as a kid, even if he wasn't actually sure if he was that much older than her. Most people would've charged into the REPCONN facility guns blazing, shooting first at ghoul and nightkin alike. Instead, she stumbled her way into becoming a saint in that ghoul cult and somehow managed to out-sneak nightkin "to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." Most people would've chosen to help the NCR or the Khans. One or the other. Not both. And most people sure as hell wouldn't have gunned for the safety of some people who helped get her nearly killed. But she not only challenged that lieutenant to go against orders and let the Khans go, but he actually listened to her. When she told Boone that she was rescued by a robot from a shallow grave, she said that she had to pay it forward. Her life had been saved, so she had a debt she felt she couldn't repay. That, he could understand. Had been there himself. But she was taking it to an extreme. After they killed the nightkin responsible for the death of the brahmin at the McBride ranch, she cried. Said she hadn't wanted to kill it. Insisted they bury the body, give it a proper funeral. And yet, she left Jeannie May Crawford's lifeless body sprawled on the dirt. Boone's morbid curiousity got the better of him one night as they sat around the campfire eating dinner, and he asked her about it. Her brow furrowed and she shifted uncomfortably. Bit her lower lip, the way he was figuring out she did when she was thinking about something personal. Eventually, she set her squirrel on a stick down on her leg and laughed quietly. "Well," she said, trying to sound casual, "that way, the people who cared for her could give her the funeral. Maybe it helped them find closure." Her tone raised at the end of that sentence, making it sound more like a question. Boone leveled her with an unmoving stare until she shifted again and frowned. "I..." She gestured with her hands, vaguely at first, but the movements quickened as she talked until it couldn't be called anything but mild flailing. "It's just... that bill of sale... and she... I don't -- Look, I don't know. I don't know. But every time I think about what she did, when I thought about -- When I thought about you, then I -- " She realized the way her hands had gotten out of control, and she forced them into her lap, knocking her dinner off her leg, and her fingers knit together. She stared at them for a long time, eyes fiercely trained but expression unreadable. Her mouth twitched, working words around behind her lips until they started spilling free again. "I was... angry. And -- hurt. That she'd do something like that. That she'd be so kind to me, when with that same smile, she turned against someone she... She had no right, no right, and I." Her hands trembled. She said nothing for a moment. When she finally spoke up again, her voice was quiet and guilty. "I don't know if I should have helped you at all. But I..." She closed her eyes, as if to brace herself against what she was about to confess. "I would -- do it again, if it meant that it would help you. If it meant that you'd still be here." Boone did not reply, partly in case she was going to start up again, partly because he... didn't know what to say to that. Didn't think he had anything for that. Silently, he resumed eating, and a moment afterwards, she dusted off her squirrel and worked on finishing it off. The rest of dinner went without a word. Boone didn't say a word until after she insisted that she take first watch. "Let's get moving." When she looked at him, firelight dancing in the reflection of her wide eyes, he stood. "If neither of us are going to get any sleep, might as well make progress towards Vegas." She opened her mouth, as if to protest, but then she must have thought of what awaited her there, because her expression stiffened. But then, it softened again, and instead, she quietly said, "Thank you."

The first time they have sex, they are drunk on Al Bhed ynyg and the need for completion. Neither of them will remember it clearly. It remains forever a blur of fumbling hands and hot friction and please please yes yes yes maybe I do need you after all. They won't talk about it until years later. Second verse, same as the first. But given time, opportunity, and a lack of alcohol, they develop a different pattern. She is often the one who takes charge. She is fierce, enthusiastic, and desperate. She knows what she wants, and she is not afraid to reach out and seize it. She seeks to take hold of the stability in her life, to dig her claws into it, to draw it as close to her heart as she can. She is not willing to let him go, not after everything she has lost. Each time, she claims him anew. Each movement has a whisper behind it: Can I keep you? He always answers yes. He does not fight her for control (at least, not seriously; never more than to get her more riled up, or to make her laugh). No, he welcomes it. He welcomes her. He is accepting. He is giving. Whatever she wants, he will not keep from her. Whatever she needs, he will dress in gold and roses. After all, she grounds him, she fills him, she is the one he has longed for before he knew she lived. With her, he does not feel alone. With her, he feels. He always answers yes with one request: Stay.

We used to believe we were fairies, you know? Well. I used to believe I was a fairy.  My brother would always say that he was a troll that eats fairies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  And then I’d shriek and point at him and yell “Fairy killer!” and then we’d play war. (Fairies always won.) But we were kids. The best kind of kids ever, and by that I mean the most obnoxious kids ever, but we were kids all the same.  That was back before we had to deal with grown-up things like stolen motorcycles and boyfriends and college and hiding in bathrooms, back when we could get away with believing we were fairies and fairy-eating trolls and that the fate of the universe was hinged on the outcome of our totally vicious war. Sometimes we’d get the other kids to play, too.  My brother’s best friend was always a troll, too.  The worst kind of troll, because he’d pull on my hair and put sand down my shirt and call me smelly. Then I’d run crying to where my cousin and her friends were hunting dragons.  They were fairies in disguise, you see.  They would reveal themselves when it really counted, like during tea time and when the floor was lava and when the trolls were big fat meanies.  I’d go crying to them and they’d show their true fairy nature by charging into war to avenge me.  Fairies always won.  (Except for the one time when my cousin’s boy friend betrayed us by revealing that he was actually a troll in disguise as a fairy in disguise.  It wasn’t nearly fair when it was a full-on boys-against-girls war.) It was great.  That playground -- the one down the street, you know, that used to have the woodchips and the metal slide and the seesaw that looks like an alligator -- was a bloody battlefield of sheer, unadulterated awesome. And then after the fairies stood in cheesy victorious poses on top of the slide (it was the time of Power Rangers, okay, don’t judge), we were just kids again.  My cousin’s boy friend would push me down the slide and I’d drag him with me.  My cousin’s other friend would help us both back up only to push the boy back down to prove her point. Of course, that’d just start a new war, but that’s not the point.  The point is that we were kids.  We believed we were trolls and fairies, but we just as easily turned it all off.  Back then, it was like the magic that let fairies and trolls exist would always be there.  It wasn’t going anywhere.  We could come back to it another time. Because we were kids, we took it for granted.  We took each other for granted.  Obviously, everyone would always be there to play war.  Obviously, the fact that we played war meant we were friends forever and ever, and that meant we would be together for a trillion jillion years, just like that. Fairies and trolls were immortal, because we said so.  And nothing was gonna change that.  Because we were kids. * Christmas was the best time in the whole wide universe, from childhood all the way up to… Well, Christmas never stops being awesome, if you ask me.  And it’s not just because of the whole “giving and receiving presents” thing, either.  I mean… Okay, so, like.  Family has always been a big thing for me.  It’s always been a big thing for all of my family.  ‘Cause it’s like -- All we’ve got in the world is each other, you know?  It’s felt like that ever since I was little, but that may just be because of the way my pops and brother and aunt and uncle and cousins acted.  That kind of stuff rubs off on kids.  I mean, now I know that you can depend on your friends just as much as you can your family if they’re the right kind of friends, but if you ask me, all my friends are part of my family, too, so the difference is moot.  (Unless they’re not the right kind of friend, and then you just need to kick them in the face and leave a grenade in their mailbox.  Oh, stop looking at me like that -- It wasn’t a live one.  Eesh.) So family has always been a big thing for me, and that means holidays are the best time in the whole wide stinkin’ universe, from childhood up to forever, because it means it’s time to spend time with family. Which, yeah, I mean, it’s not always a good thing.  My dad and my brother always fight, but they’ll do that regardless of if it’s the holidays or not, you know?  Sometimes I wonder if my mama would be able to calm them down if she was still with us, so I do my best to try and get them to at least shut the hell up, because really, it’s Christmas, cut it out!  (Mama died when I was real little, but it’s okay, because I know and Pops knows and my brother knows that we’re going to all meet up with her later, ‘cause that’s just how it is.  Family is family forever, and nothing like death can keep us apart for too long.) But time with family is time with family, and eventually the guys will stop fighting and we’ll all carry on with all of the awesome traditions that come with Christmas. Like decorating the tree.  That one’s always my favorite.  Well, aside from eating -- uh, baking cookies, I mean. Usually me and my cousin are the only ones to do it.  Pops is usually trying to find the rest of ornaments or something and my brother’s lazy, so it’s usually just me and her.  It’s kind of nice, really. My cousin is the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet in your life.  She’s always there when I need her and she has the softest smile.  She’s the kind of person who can listen and listen and listen, no matter how angry or upset you are, no matter what you’re saying, and still give you -- Well, no, it’s not really advice, but she’ll let you know what she thinks about the situation, and then she’ll give you a hug and, if you’re really worked up, sing you a quiet little song. I can’t remember if Mama sang me any lullabies before she left, but I like to think that she’d sing just like my cousin. I love my cousin so so so so much, and I never, ever, ever want anything bad to happen to her.  I’ll travel the whole stupid Earth and fight off a million and a half monsters just to keep her safe. Anyway.  Decorating the tree is like, something we do together.  It’s our thing.  We put the tinsil on the tree, and then we put the lights on, and then we start hanging whatever ornaments have all ready been found.  My favorite thing to do is to put the see-through or super-sparkly ones right next to or in front of the lights.  It puts all kind of color in them and they shine like snow in the streetlamps. You know, I think my cousin’s in love.  I think she’s in love with this guy we’ve known ever since we were little.  He lives in the neighborhood, you see, so he was one of the kids who came and played war with us.  He’s always had a crush on her, and everyone’s known it.  I’m not really sure if my cousin knows, but I wouldn’t be surprised; she’s really perceptive like that. But there was this one time when we were hanging ornaments on the tree and the doorbell buzzed.  I could hear my brother opening the door, and then a few minutes later, my cousin’s boy friend followed him into the room.  They were just passing through ‘cause he was there to borrow a video game from my brother, and we all waved and said hi and all that friend-y stuff. But, you know how I found out that my cousin’s probably-very-likely in love with him?  ‘Cause when he walked into the room, she lit up, like he was a Christmas light and she was an ornament. I mean… It so definitely isn’t just a crush.  I dunno if my cousin’s ever had a crush on anybody before, but I still think I can tell the difference.  ‘Cause, I mean… When I have a crush, I get all flustered around the guy and I can’t stop talking and because I talk with my hands it looks like I get all flaily.  I mean, there’s a huge difference between how I act and how my cousin acts, because I can’t sit still but she can for hours and hours.  But when that boy walked in the room, she lit up and kind of… She came alive.  All of this color came to her face and eyes and her smile was just different and… It’s like how her mom and dad are when they’re together.  That’s when I knew.  She is so totally one hundred percent seal-it-with-a-kiss in love. And I’m happy for her.  And I’m happy for him.  Because they just belong together, you know?  They’re the kind of people you can tell are going to have one of those one-in-a-hundred-million happy ever afters. So when he and my brother came back through, I jumped up and tackled him and yelled and hollered and nobody knew why but me.  And that makes me happy, too.  So I invited him to stay for dinner and everyone looked at me funny but he’s a friend and a friend is family and he’s going to be family in the future, you know, so what does it matter? The more the merrier! And if he doesn’t make her happy, if he ever, ever breaks her heart, I’m leaving a grenade on his porch.  A live one.  ‘Cause the only kind of person who can do something like that to my cousin is obviously secretly some kind of evil troll-monster. * It’s kinda funny how when kids grow up into teenagers, they want to rebel, don’t you think? I mean.  I totally understand.  Because I did, too.  I didn’t want to be anything like my brother or my pops, ‘cause, I mean, look at ‘em.  They’re lame and they fight all the time and who ever wants to be like that?  I didn’t like them at all.  I wasn’t related to them, not really.  I was adopted.  I was a stepchild from Mama’s other marriage!  Look at me, I’m hurt and my family will never, ever, ever understand me! But, like.  I think that maybe teenagers need to rebel, even if it is kind of silly.  ‘Cause there’s a lesson to be learned in that, you know?  All kinds of lessons. Like, “this is how you sneak out of the house at two in the morning without waking anyone up.” And, “this is how you hotwire your brother’s motorcycle.” And, “this is how you don’t kill yourself driving it down the street to see your brother’s totally hot best friend.” Uh, no, wait, that’s not what I mean.  Ignore that!  You didn’t see that! There’s all kinds of lessons to be learned as a rebellious teenager.  Like, the whole balance between walking your own path and walking in other people’s footprints.  Because, I mean… There’s nothing at all wrong with finding your own road.  Nothing at all.  Unless you hurt the people important to you when you don’t have to, even if you tell yourself that they’re not important at all. Like, take the thing with the motorcycle, for example.  Do you know how many times I came close to breaking my dumb neck trying to drive that?  Not that I really cared at the time.  I thought every narrow escape from death was all kinds of exciting and cool and awesome, and I thought that the guy was gonna be so impressed because I was so brave and daring and more than just his best friend’s kid sister who used to believe she was a fairy.  And, you know, he kinda was impressed.  ‘Cause I didn’t know how to drive it, not really, so making it down the street without cracking my head open on the asphalt like a cream-filled chocolate was nothing short of a miracle.  He told me that, and then he told me I’m a stupid idiot, and then he told me to move over, he’ll drive, because at least he knew how to. It was our first (and only) date.  Ish.  Thing.  It was actually kind of lame.  Do you know how many places are open at two in the morning?  Not many at all.  Maybe there was the odd bar that was still open, but like hell they’d let in a couple of teenagers on a stolen motorcycle, even though all we wanted was a basket of cheesy fries and a couple of Cokes.  So all we did was drive around and throw rocks at birds and make stupid jokes that didn’t make any sense because it was two in the freakin’ morning. And then I got home and found out that my brother has the same sleeping patterns as his best friend.  Oops. I was in Trou-ble.  Like, see that capital T and the bold and the slanted letters there?  Yeah.  I was in so much trouble that I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere but school and home for two weeks.  And I was so mad, because I didn’t understand why at all.  I was being a rebellious teenager!  There was nothing bad about that!  Everyone does that kind of stuff at that age!  How dare they, I didn’t do anything wrong, they couldn’t do that to me!  Rawr!  Anger anger rage-y hate I don’t like you any more tantrum! But, you know… That was the first time I’d ever, ever seen Pops that angry.  And to be honest, I was kind of scared.  Not of him, not really.  But of the look in his eyes.  Because it wasn’t just anger there.  There was fear and hurt and I’d never, ever seen him look so terrified, except for when we got the news about Mama’s accident.  I was real little at the time, but that stuck with me.  His expression, I mean.  That look of heartbreak and no no no this isn’t happening and… And I never realized just how much I didn’t want to see that look again.  Not until that night. Do you think you know the lesson now?  It’s not as obvious as you think it is.  Yeah, there’s the whole “your dad is scared of losing you” thing, but… Nah, I won’t say it.  You’ll figure it out. * I think I’m jealous of my cousin.  Stupid, isn’t it?  I mean, I should be happy that she’s happy, because she so totally is.  The guy she’s in love with finally got up the nerve to ask her out, and now he’s not just my cousin’s boy friend, but he’s my cousin’s boyfriend.  And they are so, so happy together, and they deserve each other and every ounce of joy and glee and sunshine they have. But I think I’m jealous of her, because… I don’t know.  It’s stupid.  I mean, why should I be jealous?  I don’t want to steal her boyfriend or anything like that.  He’s a sweet guy and all, but I could adopt him as another brother so that’s just all kinds of ew. But… Okay, so.  The other day, we were all hanging out, the whole group.  Me and my brother and his best friend and my cousin and her boyfriend and our mutual friend, a girl who used to play fairies with us.  All six of us were hanging out at the mall, just hanging out and occasionally pelting food at each other and that kind of thing.  It was the first time in a long time we actually had a chance to do that, because everyone’s been busy with school and all.  I’m still the youngest one, the only one still in high school.  I’ve only got one more year, granted, but everyone else has been off on their various campuses and whatever.  So it was the first time in a long time we actually had the chance to hang out.  My cousin’s boyfriend started complaining about this test he’s got coming up in math, his worst subject, and that spawned a whole conversation about their classes and their “instructors” and “there’s this beautiful tree on our campus” and “my dorm is co-ed, right, and the other day” and and and so on and so forth and blah blah blah oh my god I don’t care. I mean… I do?  Because they’re my friends?  But… I slipped out of my chair and said I was going to the bathroom, but I didn’t think anyone heard me, and I kind of ran and hid myself in a stall so I could hit my head against a wall without anyone giving me funny looks. I’ve been trying so hard, you know?  I’ve made all kinds of new friends at school and got myself involved in all kinds of clubs and activities and whatever, anything and everything from chess to muscle car club to choir to theater, and I barely have enough time to do homework but I manage to turn everything in anyway because I’m cool like that.  I am a superhero when it comes to time management, and it makes me feel awesome, being able to juggle it all without blowing up from the stress.  It’s a lot of fun, and I’m enjoying myself, I really am, but… but… I’m still stupidly, outrageously jealous of not just my cousin, really, but all of my friends.  I don’t get it.  I’m happy where I am and I’m happy for them and they’re happy so what’s the problem?  I mean, I don’t get to see them very often any more, and of course I don’t like that, and of course it means that I don’t know anything about the new things that make them laugh or what it’s like to live in a dorm or what their dreams are now compared to back then but but but -- None of that really matters because they’re happy and I’m happy that they’re happy, right?  It doesn’t matter because they’re making their own footprints and I’m trying to follow them but no matter how much I run, I can’t catch up, so I’m running and running and running and -- I apparently spent more time in that stall than I thought I did, because the girl who used to play fairies with us came in to check on me.  She’s really cool, you know?  All calm and collected and sarcastic and she could kick anyone’s ass, no matter how big and beefy they are.  We all look up to her, even the guys, because she’s all kinds of awesome and probably more manly than they are.  I’m still kind of surprised that it was her and not my cousin.  She’s not really the type to do heart-to-heart talks or anything girly like that. “You okay in there?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Haven’t fallen in or anything, have you?” “No!” “Good.  You coming out any time soon?” “Maybe.” “We’ll be waiting.” I listened for her footsteps, for the door to swing open and shut again.  I didn’t hear anything. “What?” I asked. “What what?” she intoned. “You’re still here.” “Yeah.” “Why?” “Because you need to know I am.” I didn’t know how to answer that.  I just kinda stood there and stared at the green metal of the stall and chewed on one of my braids.  If I tilted my head enough, I could kind of make out her outline in the crack of the door.  She was still standing there, and I think her arms were folded.  I unlocked and opened the door, just a little, just enough so I could see her expression.  We met eyes.  I didn’t move. “Okay,” I said. “C’mon,” she said, tilting her head back towards the door. “Let’s get back before your brother eats all my cheesy fries.” I’m jealous of my friends, but I think it’s okay.  Because even though they seem so far away, they’re not, not really.  They’re off making their own footprints, but they’re still waiting for me.  And once I finally catch up, I’m gonna skip and jump and do somersaults and all kinds of cool stunts and steal my brother’s cheesy fries, and everything will go back to the way that it was, except not really.  We’re all grown up now, you know?  And that means that we’re different people even though we’re still us.  We may not be walking side-by-side any more, but we’re all still on the same beach, so I’ll meet up with them later.  But in the meantime, I can take the chance to settle down and straighten out my footprints, because right now it just kind of looks like I’ve been scrambling around like a crazy squirrel.  I can’t catch up if I’m running in place, right?

"You..." Xion scowled sharply, her brow knitting together as her hands balled into fists at her sides. It was at that moment that Roxas knew they pushed the wrong buttons. He looked up at Axel half-worriedly, half from fear. What was going to happen now? Axel had an apprehensive look on his face, too, like he wasn't sure what she was gonna do, either. And that's never a good sign. "You..." she said again. Roxas gulped. She took in a long, deep breath through her nose, and then shouted, "You STINKBRAINS!" She stamped her foot, spun about-face, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Roxas and Axel stared after her, bewildered. "We need to stop letting her hang out with Vanellope," Axel said with a weak laugh. "What's a... stinkbrain?" Roxas asked. He thought about standing on his tip-toes to try to sniff and see if Axel's brain really did stink, but he knew he wasn't tall enough, so he didn't bother.

The poem quoted throughout the story is This Too Shall Pass Away by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Lyrics: - From Wickedthe musical - From Drops of Jupiter by Train - From dismantle.repair by Anberlin

I started to explain her backstory, but this post got REALLY SUPER LONG so I have decided to save that for another day.

when the sun came up, we were sleeping in sunk inside our blankets and we were dreaming Roxas stirs when he feels his bed depress. Something warm and soft presses against his back. He blearily blinks his eyes open and turns his head. He catches a glimpse of black hair and a small body. "Xion...?" he mumbles. It's too early and he's not a morning person, so that's the best he can do right now. She doesn't say anything in response. She just buries her face in his shoulders and takes a deep breath. She exhales slowly and Roxas thinks he can feel her hands fisted in the back of his shirt. The silence is easy and familiar, like an old song whispering through his mind. She's warm and soft and comfortable against his back. He decides not to question her and lets himself be lulled back to sleep. When he wakes up, he's facing her and they're semi-curled around each other. The knuckles of his hand are brushing against her wrist and he can feel her knee against his calf. She's still sleeping, so he just watches her. After a moment, he moves his forehead forward half an inch so it barely touches hers. He falls asleep again not long after. They sleep most of the day away together. we'd share each other like an island until, exhausted, close our eyelids and, dreaming, pick up from the last place we left off

Elle's dreams were always conflicted and confused any more. Not like that's changed, but at least before, it was consistent. Before, they would be full of fog and vague movements, half-formed shapes thick with color and smells and forgotten emotions. They mixed and stirred and left her with that feeling of having something at the tip of her tongue she just couldn't make real enough to shape into words. Sometimes, she would wake up with names in her mouth, familiar without her knowing why. Avery. Leland. Elena. Erro -- Now, she was visited by these phantom memories only if she was lucky. Now, she dreamed vividly. Too vividly. The Cloud filled her nostrils, her mouth, forced her awake with chokes and coughs and the all-consuming fear of suffocation. Mechanical whirs and emphatic shouting made her ears ache as she stood arguing with the Think Tank. Her eyes stared widely at red walls of earth and rock, at plant-life leafy and healthy, at rain as it fell from honest-to-Joshua's-God clouds. Wind hot with irradiation burned as it whipped at her skin, as harsh and unforgiving as the hatred of the Marked Men, as Ulysses' vengeance. She dreamed of eyes on hers, too intense for her to hold but too deep for her to look away. They are blue, blue, blue, lighter than her own and more piercing. She dreamed of almost-touches, of a fleeting but fierce longing to reach out and brush her fingers against bandaged ones. Of being too afraid to hurt with a tender touch. She dreamed of could-have-beens and never-could-have-beens. She dreamed of hands, cold, firm, controlling her every moment. A man hovering over her, his hair still perfect and unruffled, his eyebrow arched in confidence, in a challenge, holding her down. He could hold her down with his eyes alone. She dreamed of desires she had never pursued. She dreamed of heat and movement and she ached and her confused mind would change the man's face. He flickered, and sometimes he would wear a checkered suit, other times his skin would be dark and his hair hang like ropes, or perhaps he was a ghoul, sunglasses slipping low to reveal a flash of dangerous eyes. Sometimes, he wasn't even a man, and soft breasts pressed against hers and her vision would be taken up by a freckled face with sky blue eyes. Sometimes, the body would warp before her eyes. Skin would fall away so red muscles glared under the heat of the sun, and then grow back slowly until the sunglasses-wearing ghoul returned, hands at her throat, his screaming of it's mine, I tell you! only barely audible over beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeep in her ears and then he withered, shriveled, skin paling and his screams changed as he clawed at her defenseless body, traitor, traitor, traitor -- Rarely, she dreamed of running. Someone ran by her side, firing back at their pursuers. Familiar laughter rang clear and true, and it made her heart leap and ache. She could never make out his face, could only know he dressed as she did now, in a long trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. Those dreams were the ones she hated most.