HEROICS!

little a kisses, as a treat.💚 for a familial kiss

“—-it’s okay! I’m sure they’llbe back really soon!”

⇒ Their voice lacks the confidence they’re hoping to inspire in him, but what else can they do? Sorbet and Gelato were practically inseparable, no wonder his mood collapsed when they got sent on separate missions. Not that Sorbet’s quality of work went down, of course, but in the interim period where they watched and waited and watched  ( but mostly waited ) some more he looked… despondent. In Lyric’s opinion. And when a lucky catch of a radio channel not secured by a newbie gives away the key detail they manage to finish three days early, come back and hope Gelato and Ghiaccio and Prosciutto have finished by find their presence lacking and they can feel his mood drop another notch. He sits in the armchair ( their armchair. might as well be. ) and Lyric feels personal responsibility dig its sharp fingers into their shoulders. For seeking and swearing by the timing only to have nothing.They shoo the rest of them out of the room; a real effort, full of hissing and bargaining and the chill of a winter wind only Ghiaccio can counter and he wasn’t there to do so. They push Pesci and Formaggio and Malone all out the door and shut it with their shoulders against the wood and the frame right next to the wall, stare aggressively at the mirror and assume no one is in it. ( they wish they had a blanket to cover it in case. they don’t know if it helps, but it would make them feel better. )

⇒ Lyric tiptoes around the armchair with anxiety in their gut. There was little room for niceties in the day-to-day of the hitman team—-it was the nature of the beast. In and out every week, fresh blood on their hands and nothing to show for it but another name and money, less by the day, but Sorbet was gentle when he could be. Maybe for them, seperate in the way he is for Gelato but gentle despite it, worried when they are injured too greatly and so young, with the shriek torn from their throat when the bullet goes through the hand around their stand, aiming for a target 200 meters away. The scar was still in their palm where they pulled the shell out with tweezers, poured disinfectant over the wound and stitched it tight as they could. He kept his hand on their shoulder when they clenched their teeth around the gauze, squeezing.They don’t know how to help.But they try. Leaning carefully into his vision with a nervous not-smile; out of view of his comrades he seems more lonely than they had anticipated, but only when they look closely at the fine lines in the corners of his eyes. They step closer, put their hands over his on one arm of the chair and try to keep their voice quiet.

“It’s um.It’ll be alright.I’m sure he misses you too.”

⇒ It doesn’t feel like enough. When you spend all your time beside someone it was hollow to exist without them, Lyric knew. They knew so much more than he might ever expect, just not in the same way. But they did know. And it’s hard to reconcile loneliness with meaninglessness the way they had–he has chosen just the one, standing on the shore awaiting the return of the boat. Lyric holds his hand and leans in to press a kiss to the top of his head. ( he did it for them, sometimes, on the days they shook when they let the arrow go. When the life weighed on them how they didn’t expect. ) They wonder if it’s enough.

little a kisses, as a treat.💕for a deep, passionate kiss

⇒ This pressure must be the equivalent of laying their body on the ocean floor; the dark depths crushing their ribs with the steady press, popping their lungs like too full balloons with the shiny latex surface thin and transparent from every inhale. To die would be an awfully gratuitous reaction for when he holds their hand but they feel it pull them to pursue him through the death, ten thousand leagues beneath the water’s surface where their eyes have gone bloodshot and their mouth blue and the fish take samples of their cadaver into their mouths. He makes them feel like they’ll drown, but no matter how violent the storm he never lets the world get inside of him the way the water is in them. Bloated with the sea salt that makes their tongue dry so it sticks to the inside of their mouth and they can’t call out when they want to. Don’t get lost in the water, they think. You can’t sink with me.

The image is gruesome.They’re trying to find a way to reconcile what they feel.

⇒ Just beyond the pressure is a feeling far more fearsome then death; it burns low in them when he puts a hand in the center of their back or grins with half his mouth, when he drinks half a bottle that makes space for the rest of their heart though they never liked red wines, sensitive to tannins and never eating enough meat. He smiles genuinely, with half-lidded eyes, and the feeling flares in their throat against the back of their teeth and their head feels light. Their skin buzzes when he pushes hair behind their ear and when they walk side-by-side under the expanse of the twinkling night and they ask him what he wants to do before he dies. ( you think you like him. ) Their eyes are fixed on him when their chest feels like a beartrap around their tongue, delighted to listen to every word from his mouth though they are sometimes brash and crude; a bridge connects halves of the city and he half steps every so often when they near halfway until their hip brushes against the stacked stones. ( you think you like him. ) They keep their gaze averted like they don’t know but that feeling runs circuits in their veins, makes them dizzy in a way that burns the ends of their nerves. They don’t look at him right away. He sets both hands on the bridge’s stone wall and when they look again he’s leaned in close and it burns. Their throat. Their skin. Their eyes flutter to barely open to closed and they wait.They wait and nothing comes.They crack open their eyes–God, they’re blushing–and he’s grinning, a crescent cut just in front of them at all their anticipation because it was. They were waiting and he knew it. His smirk softens into a wide smile when their flush grows darker, that feeling grows stronger until it lives in all their veins and their lungs and just below the skin. His head tilts and they breath out, gentle, hollow of anything but that single thought. ( you think you love him. )

little a kisses, as a treat.💚 for a familial kiss

⇒ Between the two of them all the sweaters in the house reside–a necessity, Lyric would insist when they wore long sleeves in 72 degrees, to counter their Stands. Poor circulation and natural cold resistance were both pieces of a lowered body temperature ( and they made the joke on one select occasion that it made them both cold blooded ) but that didn’t mean they were comfortable. Lyric teetered in the realm of unfortunate fickleness where their fingers went numb from time to time but a strong summer’s day was enough to put them out for a week; they couldn’t speak for Ghiaccio’s state, but they had the vague sense he was prone to similar instances if not for his absolute stubbornness.Still. That’s no reason for him to be stealing their hoodies.

“Ghiaccio.”

⇒ Each consonant spoken with unnatural sharpness: it is the accusatory voice they use when someone has taken something they should not have. His body is a long line that has been holding itself tightly together for a decade, sloped over the edge of the couch and legs onto the floor, with his neck and shoulders bunched against the top of the back of the couch. It’s too short for him that way; Lyric was wide enough but not long enough for it to fit him right but some days they think he is prone to taking what he can find, maybe on not enough sleep or not enough care. They’re angry on those days, the same way. It burns in them both. They had shouting matches in living room and reconciled in the kitchen with Lyric holding the hem of his jacket with a shaky hand at three am, just beside each other, saying little, not a word.They accuse him because they are correct and irritable, but when his eyes snap to them and not his teeth it softens.They stand behind him. Put both hands on the couch and look down at the top of his head, body censored by the red frames of his glasses and hair in thick coils. For him, sometimes breathing must feel just like drowning–they think that to themselves as they stare, hear him tch when they don’t go but they lay both arms over his shoulders, lean their weight onto him and press their cheek to his like rabbits meet in photos. His skin is cold and so is theirs.

“There’s not even a tv in here.You’re just staring at the wall.”

⇒ The past is marked with cryptic carvings they hide in the stitches of every sweater they wear, armor to hide themselves in; someone said If you build it, it will come but they’ve been building for a decade and they’re exhausted. He’s exhausted. Wearing the shambles of their empire over his clothes to burn it and keep himself warm; anyone else would be a disservice to their monument but for him they allow it.It’s a bad day. They feel it when he focuses harder on the peeling paint. They lift their head and press a kiss to his hairline, arms loosely encircling his shoulders and throat when they press a second, gentler one there. Only because the room is empty. Only because the house is quiet. Fragments of their softer self where no one else could see because they both could turn tissue to ice shards until the pain moved through nervous systems like electricity in telephone wires; from all the pieces of their ruined self they might make a space something like a shelter between the two of them. Not a home. But enough.

“buccellati! i’m going with you, too!”  he’s never been the best swimmer, and venezia’s canals are less than ideal, but he will reach the boat if it costs him his life. theirs is a risk unthinkable, but narancia has made his decision. he will lose far too much otherwise. he will lose everything he believes in. but not anymore. he cries out through the waves, voice iron with conviction.  “fugo is me! his bullshit is my bullshit!”

it’s not my fault you’re wider than the day is long

@gyroics​ // dad will zeppeli said -

’ would you like to talk about it later over a game of catch? ’

   the only thing william is going to be catching is these hands if he keeps up this teasing the entire way to dio.

💙   - from jotaro

send   💙   for an accidental kiss .

     the halls are always crowded after school lets out ;   students never fail to behave like freshly atoned criminals released from imprisonment ,   clustering up in the corridors with urgency fitting for an actual   emergency .   as inconvenient   &   annoying as it is ,   kakyoin can understand their sentiments   ———   he’s never hated school ,   or viewed it as a waste of time like many of his peers ,   but it can be quite   …   suffocating .   no teenager in their right mind wants to spend   seven   &   a half hours   in one place ,   labouring away in stuffy classrooms while the world just beyond their splintery window sills looks so open   &   inviting .

     kakyoin understands how sensitive jotaro can be to crowded   &   noisy environments ,   thus ,   they usually end up hanging around in an empty classroom for fifteen to twenty minutes until the halls clear out considerably ,   so his dear friend doesn’t have to maneuver through such a noxious setting .   today is a little different ,   though ,   as kakyoin must be home at a certain time to help his mother with a gardening project ,   just as he promised .   spring is just around the corner ,   and mrs .   kakyoin is more than eager to seize the opportunity to surround their home with vibrant blossoms their neighbours would surely admire   &   envy .   she’s made it clear how   important   it is to her ,   and the last thing he wants to do is let her down .

     he’d offered to walk home on his own ,   so the other wouldn’t have to deal with the boisterous crowd of their coevals ,   but the taller boy had refused ,   for whatever reason .   kakyoin decided to let himself think it was because jotaro wished to spend time with him ,   though he knows the dark-haired male would never admit to such a thing ,   were it even true .   a boy can dream .

     so they’re on their way .   things aren’t as bad as they could be ,   though kakyoin can tell with a   single glance   that jotaro is irritated   ———   he feels bad ,   wishes there’s something he could do ,   but yelling   ‘   everyone shut the fuck up !!  ’   on his friend’s behalf surely isn’t the smartest ,   nor most polite option .   he just figures they ought to hurry to the nearest exit ,   though going faster only seems to make it   worse .   well ,   at least a crowd of   ogling girls   isn’t trailing them .

     the redhead offers jotaro another concerned gaze ,   solely to check on him   &   soothe him if he needs     (     or offer his best efforts ,   at least     ) ,     but while he’s failing to pay attention to the rest of his surroundings ,   a troop of   excitable first years   knock into his side ,   throwing him off balance .   the visceral panic of losing his footing causes him to reach out ,   grasping for the nearest   sturdy object ,   which just so happens to be his 195 centimeter ,   82 kilogram companion .   it works ,   kakyoin is able to keep himself from hitting the floor or wall ,   but jotaro is     (     understandably     )     just as taken aback ,   which compromises his own stability .   kakyoin feels a pressure at his biceps as jotaro holds him in place ,   his own hands grope awkwardly at the other’s jacket ,   and though they narrowly avoid becoming a pile on the floor along with their clumsy juniours ,   something even   more embarrassing   happens .

     milliseconds tick by before kakyoin realizes what’s happening .   the sudden warmth at his lips ,   the heat against his face ,   the gasps of the few female classmates who had been walking by   ———   oh no !!   his entire face turns red ,   and he instantly pulls away ,   scrambling to hold himself up against the wall as his heart starts pounding so violently ,   all he can hear is his blood rushing in his ears .   where he could only find himself looking at jotaro before ,   he can’t bring himself to meet his friend’s gaze ,   now ,   nor anyone else’s ,   for the matter .   their juniors begin to apologize with frantic abundance ,   but kakyoin only brushes them off ,   still unable to produce words out of pure shock .   he   &   jotaro just kissed .   admittedly ,   it’s something he’s always wanted to happen ,   but not this way   ———   not in front of a handful of other students ,   and an accident .   the fact that the other still hasn’t said anything only makes his anxiety unbearable ,   makes it harder to think ,   let alone speak .   he only straightens himself out   &   walks briskly away ,   tension curling around his muscles so tightly ,   every step nearly hurts .

     just forget it even happened ,   he tells himself ,   trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat ,   the   emotion   swelling in his chest ,     that’s probably what he’s going to do .   what’s the fucking point of getting all worked up about it ??   it was an accident .   he hated it .   he’ll never want to kiss you again .

     it didn’t mean anything .

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE

⇒ There’s still blood on their clothes and on their skin; they don’t know if someone told him where they were working tonight or he was wandering this way all along, if some unseen thread knotted itself up around their throats and around streetlamps, iron gates and table legs, only to tie them back together. There is blood drying on their skin from a man who didn’t die right away and a knife they keep in their back pocket for that explicit purpose–Mista made an offhand comment that they look like Hell, as they sometimes do when exhausted and blood-soaked, but with some familiar grin that he said it with made it comfortable despite the rudeness. They scoffed at him. He’s not in great shape either: the streetlamp is doing nothing for his complexion.( that was only half a truth. The light cuts his cheek and his silhouette and Lyric remembers why Mista would be tripping over suitors if he made his outfit a little less garrish. )They roll their eyes and turn their head in a moment of banter, easy like they didn’t kill people and live their lives right beside death, and their hair falls over their eyes. Just as quickly his hand comes to push it out of their eyes and behind one ear; it lingers a little too long when his fingertips brush along their jaw and the skin of their cheek. They move their tilted gaze to see…. something. The expression on his face is changed in the light, but they dared to say it was between longing and sadness.They dislike how mournful his voice sounds.

“… but we don’t …”

⇒ It’s disgusting how pitiful their voice sounds, how soft. They ought to strike themselves down for how the words spike sorrow in them–if he held their face in both hands and kissed them they would lose. He’d have them again in a moment and they’d be between cycles again, always at odds: Lyric who works too much, perhaps obsessively, and Mista who only does as needed, never forces himself to be inconsiderate of personal needs. Lyric who would sooner discard all their aspirations and be a weapon because it was easier that way, and he who lives all his life at the cusp of hedonism. Lyric, who puts aside themselves and watches, sometimes hardly speaking a word. Lyric, who feared nameless death and the brush of his kiss in equal measure.Lyric, who wanted desperately, deeply, and could say not a word of it. Where did they draw the lines? When did they fit together and when did they not? He was like creases in pages they couldn’t get rid of: the worst of it gone, but never erased. They had never been together to begin with and Lyric too timid to ask. Too unsure.Their hand, clad in leather shooting glove, rests gently against his wrist where his fingers cradle their jaw.( you never knew how much you’d miss him. )