#cw codependency

You know better than to take those days for granted; you make sure to soak up every second of it when he’s home. For a short while, he is a naturalized part of life, a constant of the waking world that your subconscious takes to be as sure as breathing. In turn, his absence is just as impossible to avoid. When he leaves- and he always does, whether he wants to or not-, all of that warmth goes with him. You wear his gloves and his mug sits on the kitchen counter, waiting for its next use (putting it away feels too certain, too final). You keep the sheets unwashed for as long as you can, just so you can lull yourself to sleep with what’s left of his scent. You leave the light on just in case. It’s a cycle you know intimately, but one that stings each and every time.

Regardless, it’s all but impossible not to dream of Ajax. Which is why when he shows up on your doorstep bandaged and bruised, you’re sure you’ve somehow fallen asleep without realizing it.

But there he is, standing on your porch with a look on his face that can only be described as expectant. The porch light shines weakly above him, tousled hair gleaming with powdery fresh snow. It almost looks like a halo; to you, it might as well be. There are a few moments of thick silence, his labored breaths lingering as clouds of frost. Getting there had clearly been an ordeal for him, but the grin that threatens to reopen his already split lip tells you he couldn’t care less.

“Hey,” he rasps, propping against the crutch neatly tucked under his arm.

“You’re supposed to be in Fontaine.” You can’t quite wrap your head around what’s in front of you. Ajax, though a wreck, is home. “When did you-“

“A week ago. Things got a little out of hand, so they sent me home to recover.” He says it with a kind of nonchalance that makes you feel ill, as if he doesn’t look like death warmed over. Even in the dim glow of your porch light, you can tell that his injuries had to have been extensive.

“A week?” You hear your voice waver, but your indignation is enough to override any embarrassment you might feel. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? Does your family know?”

He winces a little at the sound, and that lip splitting smile of his finally falters even if only for a second. “I may have asked them not to mention it. But it’s no big deal, I mean, I’m fine. And I’m here now, aren’t I?” His voice is soft and eager around the edges.

It’s considerate in a way. You haven’t had the nerve to face his family in years, so he’s ever so tactfully spared you that conversation. Besides, you both know that associating with them so publicly would only land you under the watchful gaze of The Rooster. That’s a fate you'd prefer to avoid, and you’ve made that very clear over the years.

You know that a part of him doesn’t mind. Keeping you appeased and out of harm's way has always been a priority, and having something entirely reserved for himself is a luxury he can rarely afford. Ajax is always so gentle with you- too gentle, you think. He keeps you neatly tucked away, far enough that he can obscure some of the nastier parts of his vocation, but close enough that he has to bank on you looking the other way from time to time. You both know that tonight he is counting on you to be kind, to ignore his transgressions and let him pass.

Silence swallows you both whole for a long moment. A thick blanket of still falling snow serves to muffle even the smallest sound, leaving you two on your own little island in a sea of endless, deafening quiet.

You finally notice that he’s shivering. His coat is haphazardly thrown on and only half buttoned, like he’d left in a hurry. Like he’d come to see you as soon as he could stand. “Does anyone even know that you’re here?” You look out over your frozen yard, but nothing seems out of place.

The way he avoids your gaze is an answer in itself.

“Shit- Come here, you’re gonna freeze.” You tug him inside by the sleeve, the click of the lock behind him ringing true and final.

Gratitude rolls off of him in waves. You’ve barely managed to get him out of his jacket and boots when he collapses into you, crutch forgotten by the door. The pressure nearly knocks the wind out of you, and you have to brace a hand against the wall to steady yourself.

“Ajax?”

He only hums in response, the full weight of his frame pressing into yours.

“Ajax-“

“I’m okay,” he breathes, pushing his face further into your neck and inhaling deeply. “I’ll tell you everything later, honest. Could we just- let me stay like this for a little while. Please.”

You can tell that his throat burns from the cold, words catching on raw flesh as he all but begs you. Shaky breaths fan against your skin, his weight pinning you where you stand. It’s an answer all on its own when you pull him in even closer. There’s no point in trying; you’ve never been any good at saying no to him, much less when he’s like this. The two of you stumble further into the living room, the backs of your knees knocking against the couch as he all but takes you down.

He always fits so well above you, bodies slotting together like it was meant to be this way. Sometimes you like to think that it was; perhaps this is all either of you were ever meant for, a tangle of limbs and hushed murmurs against skin, the full brunt of his weight crushing you into the cushions below. He presses himself flush to you, never quite satisfied with the proximity. Every move is a desperate attempt at getting closer, closer, closer.

Damp hair tickles your cheek, faintly scented with the smoke of his mother’s wood burning stove. It’s been years since you’ve properly stepped foot into that house, but the smell is still just the same. The familiarity is dizzying and all consuming but you’re more than happy to be swallowed whole if it’s by him. Careful fingers trace along bandaged sides, making him shiver hard enough to wince. You don’t ask what’s underneath- you’re sure you’ll see the scars one day, but for now the thought makes you sick. Another part of you, something worse, wishes you could find a wound big enough to house yourself inside of him forever, a spot you could stitch closed behind you so that you’d never have to be apart again.

“This kind of reminds me of when we were kids,” he says suddenly, ending that train of thought. Whether reeling you back in or tempering his own eagerness, he’s always had a knack for pulling you back together. You can tell he’s started to smile, not just because of his tone but in the way his teeth graze your throat.

“How so?” Your fingers twirl strands of copper idly as you listen. You know what he’s getting at, but Ajax has a way of coloring the past with a golden haze of nostalgia. You don’t usually indulge in it with him, but tonight you’ll make an exception. Things always sound so much prettier coming from his mouth. You’re not sure if it’s a gift or a curse- he would call it both depending on the day.

He just hums for a moment, lips pressed to the thrum of your pulse. “When I’d sneak in at night. You know, when you’d leave your window unlocked for me.” You feel him giggle more than you hear it, his lips brushing against your skin. “And when it’d get stuck. How I’d have to sit out there and hope you noticed before I froze to death.”

That earns him a small smile on your part. “Yeah, and if you had, it would’ve been your fault.” There’s no malice in your tone, just a softness only he could pull from you.

“I mean what else was I supposed to do? They weren’t gonna let me see you anymore,” he says it as playfully as he can manage, but you don’t miss the way his grip on you tightens.

Your smile fades as quickly as it comes, and his attempt to lighten the mood has gone sour. But he’s right, of course. Your family decided Ajax was a bad influence ages ago.

When he’d gone missing in your youth, you’d all assumed the worst. No one was expecting him to come back in the way that he did. He’d returned to you sharper, steeped in a kind of brutality you’d never conceived of. It was as if a switch had flipped, and suddenly his parents were left with a stranger wearing their son’s face.

But despite his outward changes, so much of him remained exactly the same. Below his newfound confidence and thirst for battle you could still feel him burning with the same ambition he’d always carried. He still knew you entirely, and in return you made every effort to relearn him. In the end, only you seemed to still recognize your dearest friend.

Not that it mattered, of course. Your family had already deemed him broken, some kind of corrupting force that would ruin you completely if left unchecked.

Keeping you separated only made things worse for everyone involved. It made you bitterly resentful- nowadays, you hardly speak to your own family. You think most would find that preferable to Ajax’s subsequent outbursts. Part of you blames yourself for just how volatile he was back then. It makes facing his family an impossible task. Had you never met, would he have adjusted after his return? Perhaps you were the broken thing, the catalyst that pushed him further than he ever would have gone alone.

In the end, you don’t think it matters all that much. He is what he always has been; all you could have done is make him more honest about it. You know he’s done the same for you.

In truth, that’s what’s always made Ajax so inescapable: it’s the way you see one another exactly as you are. It doesn’t matter that others refuse to do the same. No matter how badly you may want to hide the less palatable parts of yourself, he’s always had a way of drawing them to the surface. All he has ever done is nurture what’s already there, and your own unflinching resolve to understand him keeps him just as tethered. You couldn't get away from each other even if you tried, not when staying together means feeling this whole.

“Things are different now,” you finally murmur into his hair, rubbing abstract patterns along his spine.

“What does that mean?” He tries to hide his hesitancy with short laughter, as if he expects you to reject him for the very first time. You just shake your head. He should know better than that by now, but you don’t mind elaborating.

“Now you don’t have to leave before the sun's up. And you can use the front door,” your fingers drift upwards, grazing over the nape of his neck. “And we don’t have to hide you in my closet when there’s a noise down the hall.”

He sits up just enough to meet your gaze, finally allowing you to get a good look at him. Bruises creep along his throat like ivy, mottled greens and purples unfurling across alabaster. A half healed gash runs from temple to jaw- a new scar to add to his ever growing collection. You can only imagine what he looked like a week ago. Clearly Fontaine took him to task, but you refrain from rubbing salt into that wound.

His new injuries have started to mingle with the ones you’re already familiar with. More mature scars glint dimly in the warmth of your tableside lamp, hints of silver skin catching the light when he tilts his head just so.

“I missed you,” he murmurs sweetly, mouth pressed to the inside of your wrist.

“I missed you, too.”

“Nobody gave you any trouble while I was gone, right?”

You shake your head with a small sigh before cradling his face in your hands. You carefully run a thumb along his brow bone, smoothing away the furrows of worry that have started to form. “No, nothing like that.”

He watches you for a moment through low lashes, as if deliberating on whether to press you further. Eventually he just sighs and pushes his cheek into your palm.

It’s a reasonable concern- you live alone and have history with a Harbinger, one who is frequently abroad at that. You imagine that could make you some sort of target while he’s away. For Ajax, there is no need to imagine anything. You know he is keenly aware of the danger that comes with being in his orbit. And yet that never stops either of you; you’re both just selfish enough to keep seeking out this very moment again and again.

It’s evident when the adrenaline that pushed him to your doorstep starts to wear off. Exhaustion takes him slowly, honey colored lashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open.

When you were children he’d clambered through your window to make sure you were safe, just so you could sleep through the night. Now that you’re both older, it’s only natural for you to keep watch- you know he won’t rest any other way.

“You should get some sleep.” You gently guide his head to lie against your chest, your nails dragging along his scalp. “We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

He doesn’t reply, instead letting out an airy sigh of what could only be relief. When the tension melts from his features he looks nothing short of angelic. He’s all soft edges and warmth, auburn hair flickering a halo of flames in the lamp light. It’s fitting that the Tsaritsa herself would choose him to be an implement in her holy war against the gods.

But for the moment, he’s not a weapon in the hand of or against any deity. He is not the Eleventh Harbinger Tartaglia, or Childe, or any of the monikers he’s collected while abroad. For now, while he sleeps quietly on your chest, he is just Ajax. In the morning you’re sure you’ll hear the musical lilt of his voice as he tries to make you laugh, the weight of his calloused palm in yours. He will drink from his favorite mug that has waited for his return all these months, and he will laugh the same laugh you’ve known for all of your life.

You know these things because they never change, and because you would know him in any form he could ever take. He is who taught you how to ice fish and use a short sword as a child, who still has the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, whose warmth is all that you ever dream of. He is the dearest companion you have ever known, and he has finally found his way home to you.

Idk how I feel about this one??? Idk I need to get it out of my drafts lmao. @madaqueue like a week+ ago I mentioned writing something with Ajax throwing his weight around like a bag of potatoes. This is it. I am a firm believer that he would all but crush you into him.

@gum-gum-time I’m just biting the bullet and posting it pls be proud of me

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pyrophilia, n. • the (often unhealthy) love of fire, flames, or explosives.

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people wax far too much poetic about the difference of a house and a home - really, it is only in concept that they contrast. a house is an architectural structure. there are rules, and if you break those rules, someone could die. not necessarily the builder, nor the person who approves the design, but an innocent bystander, someone hoping for a roof over their heads. a home is a figurative thing, a place of belonging.

there are rules, and if you break those rules, someone could die.

i cannot feel the pair of eyes upon my neck as i sort through chests, but i see them dance along the wood, little slits cutting through red nectar as scarring in the wood matches up with scarring in the gaze. red is nowhere else to be found, though, as my stash of redstone was all used for traps. i suppose it makes sense, we have to get kills at some point, but what does it matter if the last thing someone sees is a sight as damning as red, red eyes? a trap offers anonymity, but if you known well enough, fingers will point in your direction.

still, i gather up sticks and turn around. like blood in charcoal, iso's eyes are discs of liquid, tearing real holes through my fake excuses the same way acid forms faux scars on wings that could carry me far, far away if i so wished. they only move when i do, sliding the disc of charcoal, daring to make a mark on the paper that has been clean until now. when all the dust is brushed off, the scene may be tragic - it may be beautiful.

"out mining again?" his voice cuts through my reverie, tinged with too little venom to sting. when i stand my flower crown feels heavy, as though i'd dipped it in water before leaving, mixing with the roses to create the scent a façade leaves behind.

because the roses are gone, replaced with mourning flowers that remind me of iso, black seeping into red, fangs finding a creature with a scarred neck, blood on the charcoal-stained page. which consumes which, i am not sure. "we're low on redstone. gotta get a kill at some point, right?" i almost feel jamie's words echoed in my own, one of the only people who can catch my companion's gaze.

jamie, and me.

"it's dangerous out there," they murmur, "want me to come with you? two swords beats one."

bile, in the back of my throat. i cannot gather if he is right next to me, because if something goes wrong, i will freeze until told to do otherwise. if i am safer with or without him remains to be discussed. because there is strength in numbers, but i feel my strength unnecessary if they are around, and that is not a mindset i can have at this stage.

i reach upwards, blindly fiddling amongst the cornflowers and the twigs i attached to act as thorns before i find the poppy. it makes its way upwards, nudging itself at the top of his ear, petals just avoiding its point. "here. i can't leave for good if you have this, right?"

iso cannot meet my eyes. it hurts like a hunger, so i offer my best smile, hoping it conveys how much i would rather paint with blood than sketch with charcoal, how much i despise the darkness the night creates. the moon is so dim faraway torches are more tempting.

like the warmth of a fireplace they look at me, chasing away the chill, the layer of too much too much faint compared to the wispy strands of light he gives off. "can you promise you'll stay safe, moth?"

"as much as i can promise that this house is made of spruce." my smile doesn't stretch as far as it should, because i am nocturnal only in theory, and my fatigue sets in even further when all i want is but a whispered ask away. i cast it off. "don't worry yourself, acid. i'll be back before dawn."

before they have the chance to object, to offer anything further, i am out in the night. forest presses in all around me, even as the crunching of my footsteps on a gravel path drowns out the sound of nearby mobs. when i take out my torch, it is as red as my surroundings seem to be lately, but there is not enough flame to justify it as an expense -

my ally does not know where all of our redstone keeps going -

so i shiver, fearful that my wings and my noise make me stand out like blood on charcoal, prey to larger bugs. that instinct rears its head when i catch my hair on webs or hear a hisssss from afar, and it is sickly green, neon and pulsing and melancholy compared to the sour taste of red haze; if iso is a healing potion that stings going down, i grant night vision with addiction to the blinding.

my fingers are covered in dust that makes men monsters, glows when i hold it up to torchlight, reminds me that i need to brace the sour to get to the sweet. when i am a panicked and inconsequential thing thrashing around blindly, redstone keeps me ethereal, because iso is reflected in it.

when i get back, the sky is tinged the shade of pink my fingers will be even after a good wash, or the tips of my ears under the scrutiny of an enemy - when we go to meet opposing factions, iso makes sure my hair is covering my ears, so they do not see my weakness. i hear voices inside, so as sneakily as i can muster, i press my pink, pink ears to the door. i hear jamie, names like gray and mulsea and even mine getting thrown around, but iso's words are quiet enough where they are obscured.

i open the door. any conversation comes to a halt, though i can see the way this interaction has irritated the both of them, my ally's eyes wavering like blood in the water. jamie's are wide as saucers, living up to his honorary title, and he asks, "why are you back so early?"

"what does it matter to you?" iso snaps.

jamie turns on his heel and leaves. i sidestep him, giving our ally an awkward smile, still not sure what had just happened. iso sucks in a breath through their teeth when the door is left open, and when it slams, a vase nearly topples to the ground. my eyes are questioning, but he gives me no indication that anything can happened, only sighing and leading me with their eyes to somewhere warmer.

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Optimus, most versions of Optimus really, might end up accidentally encouraging it if he doesn’t realize what’s going on bevause he just can’t say no to you, you know? When you seem so scared, needing help, needing his help, it’s hard for him to resist his own compulsion go try snd give you solace and safety. He might need an intervention from someone else just to be told he’s encouraging something he shouldn’t be. Accidental codependency with Optimus is my Roman Empire, I think we should have more of it sometimes