Saint

tim made an effort not look or sound foolish in front of saint. even if he was truer in front of him than in front of most, he held onto his dignity as if it were his life source. when he was a child, he was told his imagination could make and break reality – a nice way of telling him to come back in the world that matters. his visions have never been entertained by his parents, but saint clung onto them. the way he always listened to him speak made him feel validated, cared for. when the rupture happened, it felt as though no one else in the world will listen to him. perhaps it was why tim became a little more introverted after saint left, why he chose to tell all those visions to plush toys instead of humans. his favourite was a polar bear the public gave him for winning a competition. it was special, because him and saint fought over it – tim snatched it before saint could, and it has been his ever since.

he chuckles when saint tries to reassure him by stating he’s already made up a whole new game, shaking his head lightly when he thinks of it. he’s definitely used to turning the rules of the game to fit himself, but that is more so the case in the game of life. when it comes to actual games, he likes to play fair and actually follow the rules, but that’s only possible if he knows and understands them. this game… not so much yet. still, his grandson resets the board and he thinks there’s very little he can do other than try a second time.

“you’re just letting me start so i’ll make my first move a dumb one and you’ll have me from step one, aren’t you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at his grandson lightly but he’s grinning again a moment later which makes it obvious he’s just joking. “no,” he says then, “you can start.” he grins a bit wider, but does indeed wait for saint to make the first move, going along from there. this time he gets the rules a bit better, and only has to ask every now and then if something he wants to do is a good thing to do. it also takes a little longer in general for him to lose, which means at least he did better than last time. or that’s what he’ll tell himself anyway.

“well then,” he states as he slaps his hands down on his thighs. “it’s time to get something to eat and drink before i beat you in this third game.” because third time’s the charm and you can’t convince him otherwise. “do you want something?” he pushes himself up from his seat and looks at saint to wait for an answer before he’d head to the ktichen to get them whatever they need.

It was the kind of game that could be done quickly and replayed yet work out differently after every fresh reset. Therefore, it was easy to play multiple rounds in a row, and that’s why Saint had recommended it. Easy enough once you played once or twice, endless different scenarios, keeping you into it but not so much that you can’t talk. He had to say, it was a great game to play casually with friends or family. And though he feels absolutely horrible inside, it makes it easy to act cheery for the sake of his family and friends. 

Saint laughs as his grandfather suggests he’s trying to get one up on him by making him start. “Usually it’s an advantage, but since you don’t know the game well you’re right. It might be better for you if I start.” And so he takes one of his pieces and moves it. He takes one of his usual tactics for the start but doesn’t pay too much attention as they go on, it was just friendly anyways and he rather just has fun with Osiris than try to play his best. Honestly, he’s not sure if he’s ready to try his best at anything at all. Actually, he just isn’t. He interrupts his grandfather just once or twice as he tries to make an illegal move, but it just leads to laughter between them and soon enough Saint has a second win in the bag. 

❝ continued from here. ❝ @mpsaint​​ ❝ <3 by vi

bringing saint to the hospital was the easy part. staying was the challenge that tim did not know how to face. he watched saint silently for a few hours, waiting for a diagnosis, waiting for some news. but nobody was telling him anything, and the bottled emotion was too much to handle. his former instructor tried to reach him a few times before giving up and sending tim a message that he has indeed won the gold. they should drown with it around their necks. tim did not care about the gold, or the money prize. he did not care about fame, about recognition – because it meant nothing if saint did not recover. it meant nothing if he lost saint, or if saint lost his ability to compete. the noise in the waiting room was too loud, so loud that tim’s ears were ringing. and when he could not take it anymore, he left.

The last few days had been mentally draining. When he had company he was cheery but when he was alone he zoned out and stared in front of him or slept. He turned on movies to pretend like he was watching them in a sly manner of avoiding worried looks from more staff who would tattle to doctors and his family and friends. Yet he never gave up on Timothée showing up at some point. He would come. Even if he might flee after. He would come one last time at least. And so the days passed with Saint feeling sick to his stomach from the food he forced himself to eat as if he was fine and recovering. His brother had done excellent surgery but it couldn’t fix his heart. In fact even with his brothers amazing skill his leg was too broken to save his life. But his close family and Tim were the world to him even when he didn’t want to trust, so he smiles for them when they visit. 

With the days passing eating became easier and he was now also beginning to convince himself. Living in a dream. Or a beautiful nightmare. The demigod his ears were always peaked, listening out for the heavy sounds of his eldest brother or grandfather, or the more quick and steadfast ones of Seungyeol that had a light bounce to them. As he lays there with his eyes closed he hears something in the sea of footfalls going back and forth. It wasn’t always easy to recognize them, but this time around something catches him. Call it instinct, call it intuition, call it fate... He doubt himself, he doesn’t believe, he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to be disappointed, he doesn’t want to break down more. But, as the footsteps close in after a halt outside an enter his room the hairs on the back of Saint neck rise. They’re unmistakeable for Saint. He knows with a hundred procent certainty exactly who the sound belongs to, he can predict when the next footfall will come and how his sneakers will squeak. He was quiet which meant Tim was cautious, he didn’t normally walk like this. When he was angry his footsteps were louder than Zeus’, he stomped. When he was feeling good even Achilles’ footsteps could not compare with the confidence and bounce in his feet. But it was rare for Tims steps to be this quiet, even if he tried to scare or surprise someone there was a naughty bounce to them that was missing here. He was being cautious as well. And then Saint remembers that none of these sounds really represented his friend, much like how the sound of his own walking could never be used as something to represent Saint with. Because they were skaters, and rather than stepping they glided with the sound of painfully sharp blades over ice. He might never hear the real Tim again. Can he face it? But he would have to because Tim only had skating, just like him before. Before...

saint dutifully explains to him how the game works and he just sits there following the motions of his grandson’s hands, listening to the words that are spoken to him. though he understands all of them, nothing comes together to make a clear picture in his head, so when saint suggests they do a practice game, he hums and nods. “seems like that’ll have to be the case,” he admits easily, the usual lightness in his voice. “because right now i don’t understand at all.” he chuckles softly. “nothing to do with your explanations, though, boy,” he makes sure to reassure the kid, before any sort of self-doubt can come into existence.

he runs his fingers through his hair briefly as he shifts in his seat to get ready for an actual game. it’s slightly easier to understand what he’s supposed to do when he’s actually doing it, though there’s a few times he has to show what move he wants to make just to verify with saint that he is allowed to make it. it’s not always the case, but he doesn’t hesitate in making his self-created version of this game the running joke throughout it. when their practice game ends - won by saint, of course, he’s not a lucky beginner - he sits back for a moment, breathing out a little smile.

“so far for being the smartest man in the room,” he says playfully, glancing over at his grandson again. “what did you say the name of this game was again? i feel like they should change it to something that lets you know beforehand how hopelessly lost you’ll be once you get into it.”

Saint knows Surakarta is the kind of game that is best learned while playing. So as soon as he finishes explaining in words, he wants his grandfather to just play. It really made more sense that way as you actually saw how it all came together when you played and moved the pieces along the lines on the boards. Of course, to no one’s surprise, he beats Osiris hard in the practice game. It’s after all also a game you get better at it with practice because you learn tactics along the way. Either way, it seemed they were both having fun though for a moment Saint wonders if Osiris is playing it up for his sake... People were acting cheerfully around him ever since... Well. That’s why they came. Ironically, they seemed to be the ones threading on thin ice now. While Saint has no intention of showing how utterly defeated he felt inside. Not to anyone. 

The young demigod chuckles at the god his notion, hsaking his head softly with slightly pursed lips. “You don’t know that. You did already make up a whole other game while playing this one.” He says, going along with their running joke now. “Surakarta. It’s originally from Indonesia I think? But it’s played in Thailand as well. You’re trying to say it’s addicting right?” He teases because he believes what Osiris is saying is that it is a little complicated when you play for the first time. “You’ll learn as you go. Just watch me and you can pick up some good tactics.” He says arrogantly as he resets the piece, a lopsided grin on his face. 

@mpsaint

In response to Black Out and Fake Light || ;-; 

Sungyeol had been on call in departments when his brother had come in after competition, injured beyond compare. He had been told initially that he couldn’t help since he was too close, but Saint was family. He wouldn’t let his own brother down. It would be horrible. Having fought his case, Sungyeol was allowed to take the lead on his brother’s surgery. The other had been drugged so that they could take a look and Sungyeol’s heart broke at how bad it seemed. It took hours before the damage was repaired, but even then, there was only so much that surgery could do for the younger. The rest would be years of recovery, physical therapy and professional competition? was completely out of the question. He had delivered the news with sad sigh and almost pity. He felt deep sadness at the the younger. He was only 21, professional skating had been everything and to get back to the prior level, would take years.  

This time he hears arguing and finally the sounds quiet as whatever was the discussion seems to be resolved. He has no idea what’s going on except that his leg hurts like hell and he’s not skating. Not skating. Not skating... His life. 

Moments later he’s in a dream. An illusion, hallucination? He can’t tell, under the effects of anesthetics. In his dream he’s flying or gliding or skating. All of them at the same time. He feels cold winter air on his skin, arms bare, but he isn’t cold. The landscape is like a beautiful winter lake that is too surreal to exist because the surroundings remind him of his hometown in way hot Thailand where these kind of scenes are out of the question. In his dream he looks to the side and he’s there again, talking to him. French words like little happy tweets of a bird reaching his ears. He knows it’s French and that he’s happy to hear whatever Tim said, while having no idea what he said. He just knows that Saint inside the dream is happy. The landscape changes and he’s soaring in the air along his family, blue skies and bubbly clouds like cotton candy that disperse when he flies through one. But he has never flown, unlike his brothers. His wings never formed. Yet here he’s flying. It becomes different again and now he can see Horus, then Osiris behind him and a little bit away... Isis. He doesn’t know her well. His father is patting his head before Osiris pulls him into one of his familiar bear-like hugs. Where’s his mom? At once he is back in Thailand. The weather is hot and he’s sweaty. He realizes something, he is small. He must’ve been a kid and he is running. As he turns a corner he sees her. Her bright smile before she picks him up into her arms, lifting him off the ground as she spins him around in the air. Flying, flying, flying. 

Hours pass. He doesn’t feel anything. IV drips and machines make little sounds around him but the drugs are working in his body. Very slowly Saints eyes starts to open, then close again in a blink. There’s light and the vague sound of scratching. It’s the sound of... A marker. His chest expands as he takes a breath in and then he feels the pain. Even with the drugs he still feels the dulled pain. It’s like in his dream, he hears the familiar tone of his brother’s voice. But he doesn’t sound like himself exactly. He knows why. He’s not okay. He’s in a hospital bed. He’s hurt. He didn’t finish the competition. He fell. He broke. He crashed on the hard ice floor like a baby bird falling from the nest. He did never fly. Not even on the ice. 

which means he’s more than happy for this day he’s just spending at his grandson’s place, making sure he’s got everything he needs. he’s never been a doctor before - too afraid of how it would affect the image he has of himself - but he has been a nurse in several lifetimes, and so he’s more than capable of taking care of saint while he’s in recovery. perhaps he can’t handle the emotional side of things too well currently, but luckily he’s not the only person saint has to depend on, though perhaps he is one of the few.

so today he’s focused mainly on the practical side of things. there’s laundry hanging to dry, there’s several boxes of meal prep ready in the fridge so no one has to make too much effort over food in the coming week or so, and he’s cleaned the entire apartment while keeping up an almost mindless conversation with his grandson about random things.

He wants to skate. 

He wants to fly in beautiful soars and dives. 

Despite on the phone or video chat saying that he doesn’t need someone to be with him all day, he can’t bear it to say no too many times. He doesn’t know if he hates being with people or alone more now. Alone he was crushed by his own self-defeat, with others he felt like a bother and he constantly kept his calm demeanor. Because what else could he do. There was no point in crying, there was just reality. Despite a single outburst Saint had been very mellow ever since. 

“Ah, okay, I’ll explain it to you.” Saint says with a soft smile to his grandfather. Osiris had come in the morning already, the time at which Saint usually just laid awake in bed wondering how long he should wait before he has breakfast and what he should eat. Everything was so different now. At least Marcel still made him his meal and they were brought to his apartment. At least there was something consistent. Like not everything had fallen apart. Either way, the god had done a lot, which honestly... It was nice of him but Saint had looked on with a little surprise and suspicion. Not because he was doing a lot, he knew his grandfathers excited nature by now. But... There was something just a little bit strange about how he seemed to... He seemed to keep himself busy. 

his breath got lost in-between his hot fire and cold blizzard. it was as if his throat started to freeze up, and soon he might cough up some snow or the winter herself. he wanted to push saint away, simply because he did not know how to handle it, how to handle feelings. he liked to stand tall and mighty over everything, but he had to admit it to himself that emotions often ruled over him, no matter how much he would like to deny it. merde. fuck. shit. damn it. his breath more erratic, not calming down in the embrace but getting tighter, he felt strangled. he breathed out, and for a second, he imagined himself elsewhere.

It isn’t long before the moment comes that Timothée’s elegant hands shove him in the most tender way, in his eyes which knew the other demigod inside and out. He lets him. Saint watches while taking the step back as Tim slides down to sit on the stone of the pavement, against the brick of the buildings. It didn’t fit him at all. He remains standing over him like that for a little bit longer, looking at his Tim. Perhaps... Perhaps they were both obsessed and addicted. With each other. All he knows is that even like this he adores him and he even feels somewhat happy that his impact on him was to this extent. He didn’t feel sorry. They were both like this, selfish when it came to the other. 

With a soft exhale and hint of a comfortable smile, Saint does finally lower himself so he is no longer threateningly standing over Tim. He sits down opposite him, crossing his legs and just playing with his fingers a little as he patiently waits and just sits in his company. He doesn’t disturb him, keeping his eyes on his own fingers. Similar to this, it didn’t matter to Saint where Tim was. He could always, always, feel him. As much as he had impacted him, no less could be said for Tim affecting him. There wasn’t a day where he didn’t spend hours thinking about him. In the most casual of ways. Because rather than interrupting thoughts, it was like Tim was his breath, his air, the vortex lifting him up in the air to soar across the sky. 

In one moment he felt both nothing and everything.  Immense pain and a total numb. In one moment he could’ve been the winner and now everything was lost.

Saint lays on the ice, unmoving in not only his leg that he just knows he should keep still and even if he wanted he couldn’t bare to attempt to move. His head lays back against the cold icefloor and he can feel the sensation on his back where the ice meets his warm and sweaty back. The cold stings and at the same time drowns out all his feeling. The rink lights above him are what he sees. The artifical indoor light, but he loves it when the spotlight follows him when he skates. This reminded him of a story Tim had told him, the story of Icarus. Except he had never been able to fly.

❝ continued from here. ❝ @mpsaint​​ ❝ <3 by vi

a well-rounded performance. tim did his best, and his best was often more than anyone would expect of him. pretty outfit and an elegant posture – his blindfold on, and then off. lights raining down on him. him, always the artist lost in applause. him, always the selfish snow, bathing in naked glory. he did well, he could feel that he did. he knew he set up the perfect scene for his rival-friend saint, and he made sure he threw a smirk at him – it was game on. it was their thing, playing on and off of each other. tim would not admit that the idea of beating saint actually made him stronger, better, more courageous. saint made him a better skater, and tim knew it. he knew his performance depended on the tension they created on and off the ice, on that strange connection they had.

In response to Blackout ;^; @mpsaint

Jinseok had taken his role as older brother to Saint very seriously. And by seriously he meant doting on the younger and hyping him up any chance he got. He could tell the younger was extremely focused and driven but he also knew it was to a fault. The kid had to take a break sometime or he would burn himself out. Or worse. Still he was nothing if not supportive and encouraging so naturally he made it a point to make it to every competition of Saint’s that he could. And damn his little brother was good. The competition was stiff but he had full faith that Saint would be amazing and he was.

He was probably the loudest person in the crowd, whooping and shouting and clapping along with the crowd every time Saint hit his move. He knew next to nothing about ice skating but he knew that his little bro was the best. He could never hope to be that graceful on the ground let alone on the ice. Saint was really something and a swell of pride bloomed in his chest as he watched the younger fully in his element. The crowd held its breath as Saint moved into another jump but his eyes widened a fraction as he realized what was happening. 

he’d gone to saint’s performance as promised. of course he had. there are few promises he breaks and never those made to friends and family. so it had been inevitable; for him to be there, for things to go as they did, for him to sit amongst the audience when his grandson flew over the ice, spun and twirled and did what he seemed to do best and perhaps love most in life. it had been beautiful and warm and delightful, and osiris had felt proud of the boy who had done nothing in his life but strive to make his father love him, it seems, when he was already so loveable from the very beginning.

and then fate had thrown a curveball, saint’s foot got stuck while his body flew on, tilting his leg at a bad angle that he knew before it snapped would be the worst thing in existence. he’d not frozen like the others, but jumped up, instantly stormed down the stairs. he’d identified himself as saint’s family and was allowed to come a little closer but there was little he could do. he has some medical skills, but definitely nothing that could help him fix a broken leg or keep his grandson from losing everything he’d worked so hard for in a single second.

and so he’d only been able to sit there as actual paramedics did what they could before saint was carted out. he followed, of course, to the hospital, doing what true family should, what to him is the only thing he could do. he sat in the waiting room, pacing, waiting, wishing to hear the verdict. he sat through hours and hours of it, and it’s not the first time he’s done it by far, but somehow it felt worse knowing it was saint in there and the outcome of this entire thing could make or break the rest of his life; all his hopes and dreams no doubt as well.

he waits patiently, ever so patiently, but as he sits back down in a chair for the umpteenth time - and he can feel other people’s gazes on him but he doesn’t care at all - he wonders what kind of news would be given to him when the doctors come out; and he wonders whether saint will be upset that osiris claimed this important spot in his life and had the doctors tell him the truth of the entire situation. but he couldn’t ask for permission. 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀     ❝  

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀ you think I lost my faith ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀ you won’t speak my name ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀ forbidden, won’t see you again ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀ I chose a life of sin ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀  ⠀⠀⠀⠀ wish you could forgive

lying on the cold ice – streams have stopped flowing underneath, his hips sought for release in the cold wind. his eyes covered with lace – closed underneath, for he needed not to see. one roll, cold ice against his chest, against his bare arms. dragging himself like the undead – waking up from a long slumber, crawling out of the ice. breaking the surface, as if trapped inside all along. perhaps he was, trapped – dragging his fingers over the cold surface, panting in his motion. a monitor beeping in his ears, leg moving to glide against the surface clumsily.

starter for @mpsaint

A sweet smell of honey and nuts still lingered in the kitchen of her new apartment, in which Isis moved in just yesterday. Moving cartons are standing around and she hasn’t even started unpacking them, when she has nothing but caring for others on her mind. She baked cookies for every demigod/dess, who are living at the Sphinx apartment, almost all night long. She felt the urge that every “child” of hers should know she is here now and is within their reach whenever they need her. She will be there and will take care of them.

With a plate of Kahk, Egyptian traditional cookies, Isis walk down to the floor, where the demigods/desses are living, to visit one after the other and to introduce herself to them. She looked up beforehand basic information about every resident like name, age, god parent and so on to be prepared and make a good impression when meeting them for the first time. So before knocking at the next door she fish out the note of her pocket to glimps at the information.

Suppapong Udomkaewkanjana alias Saint 21 years old professional figure skater child of Horus

A small squeak of excitement left Isis mouth when reading the note. A baby of my baby Horus! She will take good care of him. He seems to be a special boy with his profession, but the name is complicated. She’ll call him Saint for now and learn how o pronounce his real name.  A sound of knocking fills the corridor of the apartment building whilst Isis is waiting for Saint to open the door to finally meet him.

“Osiris?” Saint calls out as he hears the bell to his apartment ring. Sitting in his apartment with his leg propped up, he turns to look at the door but he can’t do anything but call out. Not with his whole leg stabilized after his injury a little while ago... From his ankle to his hip, his right leg was in utter shambles. His left had survived but it wasn’t like he could skate with just the one leg. “It’s open, you can come in!” He shouts after, because he thinks it must be the god coming to check on him. It was hard when either Timothée or Osiris wasn’t around. Nothing agaisnt the others who came to visit or help him but... He just preferred the two of them, it made him feel a little bit better. Though he understood that Tim was also feeling a lot of pain as a result of his injury, and stupidity at that... He’d honestly caused himself this. Tim had told him many times, about the ice and that he should be careful with his landings. Why’d he have to feel the need so much to make it a show? Feel the incomparable need to show he could win, how good he was, how hard he worked every single day...? ...It didn’t matter now anyways.