#levi writes

during the first few visits he can’t bring himself to do anything more than simply sit with her and cry, tears wetting her mane as Link presses his face into golden locks. he missed her so much, doesn’t honestly know if he will ever get to see her again the way he could before.

gradually, it gets easier. Link visits Zelda more often, brushes fingers through her hair and tells her about his progress towards defeating ganodorf. towards bringing her home. he tells her about their new house, the one he’s building for them in tarrey town. the study he set aside for her, with the nice windows and a big desk. the stable in the back where her horse, Catherine, stays. he promises to feed her lots of apples.

sometimes, when he can gather the courage, link reads to zelda. he brings the scientific journals and textbooks from her workshop, the ones with words he doesn’t understand. he sounds them out to her carefully, tripping over syllables, practicing speech to ensure he doesn’t lose the gift while she’s gone.

she never responds. doesn’t talk back or give so much as a hum. link doesn’t hold it against her. he can still feel her there. the deep rhythm of her breath, the tears that have welled in her eyes and never seem to ebb.

Eve kneels in front of him, the boy barely old enough to understand what he is asking. Takes his face in her hand, looks him in the eye.

"Yes."

He must watch out for his younger brother, must keep him safe, must teach him how to be a boy, must make sure he knows how to pray and how to find his way home (though, to Cain, they are one and the same). He smiles at the boy who toddles behind him through the garden, mud up to his knees and elbows, smudged across his nose. This boy has his heart - he would be his brother's keeper even without his mother's word.

The first time Cain finds himself with Abel's blood on his hands, he doesn't know what to do. Abel lies bleeding in the garden - his knee is skinned and the blood is everywhere - it seeps into the soil and stains the stone and it is so sticky and red on Cain's hands as he cries for his mother.

Cain cries as Eve bandages Abel. He is still crying when Abel runs back outside to play in the garden. Cain is his brother's keeper. He should have been keeping a closer eye on his brother, should have told him to be careful, should have run slower, should have --

The rocks in the garden dig into his knees as he prays forgiveness. It feels right. It feels deserved. He stays out there until the ground is cold, the blood long since dried, and long after his mother has called him in for dinner.

* * * * *

Said Cain to his father, "Am I my brother's keeper?"

His father's back is turned but Cain can almost hear Adam roll his eyes.

"Yes."

Abel is a young man now, and almost never home. It is somehow Cain's job to know his brother's whereabouts, Cain's job to make sure his brother is home for dinner, Cain's job to ease his mother's mind when his brother is out after dark or before sunrise. Cain is, after all, his brother's keeper.

Cain has never known what it means to be a boy, to be a man, yet he has taught his brother without fail. He, however, has only ever known what it means to be the older brother. He knows that when his fathers feet ache, it is his job to pull the plow. When Eve tends the hearth until she collapses with fever it is his job to work in her stead. And his job to care for his mother as she rests.

When Abel comes home bloodied, his mother cries and his father scolds. Cain simply sighs, and hangs a pot of water over the fire. Pulls out the scrap cloth and soap. Abel grins as he regales his brother with the day’s adventure.  Doesn’t notice that the only response is a smile and a tired nod. 

Cain is the last person awake that night - tired body slumped by the dying fire as he washes his brother’s blood from his hands for the hundredth time. Cain is, after all, his brother’s keeper.

* * * * *

The last time Cain has Abel’s blood on his hands, he doesn’t know what to do.  Just stands still, sways in the breeze, watches as the blood paints the stones, paints the soil, paints his hands.  There is so much blood on his hands.  Cain knows he cannot hide from his Lord.  There is only so much time until he is pressed for a reason.  He should think - he should know what he is to say. 

He just stands there.  

Cain doesn’t know who he is without Abel.  He is - he was his brother’s keeper.  If not the older brother, who is he anymore?

It is not long before the footsteps approach and a voice sounds from behind.  Cain dares not turn to meet the gaze of the speaker.

"And where, Cain, is your brother?"

Said Cain to his Lord, "am I my brother's keeper?" and for the first time -

Go give her art some love 💗

Sam first feels it walking home from school. He's in fifth grade and Dean goes to the middle school. They're supposed to meet every day at 3:45 on the corner of Wilson and Main. Sam always goes where Dean tells him to go so he's on his way when the creep sloughs down his spine. Maybe last year he wouldn't have felt the prick of being watched but he's nine now and he's started to notice things. Things like how Dean's throat has a bump in it where his does not. How his father and Dean have hair where Sam's skin is smooth. He's started to notice his chest and how it's slowly but surely getting bigger. It makes him nauseous, these understandings, but he doesn't know why. Doesn't know why it makes him want to punch a hole in the wall. All he knows is that last week Dean tried to be brotherly and take him to go get "feminine" stuff and he threw a tantrum so big the motel owner threatened to kick them out.

At least Dean hasn't mentioned anything about it since.

Still, Sam automatically scans his surroundings. He's older now, his father has taught him things. Nothing like Dean, who Sam thinks could fight the world and win. No, John treats him like he is breakable. He shows Sam how to curl a fist, how to dodge one, and how to aim a gun. He never shows him how to take a hit. Not like Dean. But still, he's started to teach Sam more about the world they really live in, so he watches the shadows carefully, waiting for movement.

When he doesn't find any, he turns back around. He immediately bumps right into someone. It's a woman. She's taller than him. He's still achingly short for his age. He hopes one day he'll get a growth spurt like Dean did.

The lady looks down at him and Sam gets an uneasy feeling. John has told him to trust these feelings so he does. He takes a step back. The lady just smiles more, raising her eyebrow at him. She's pretty, Sam notes, with smooth skin and long black hair, a dress that reaches her knees. "You okay there?" she says, and her voice is silky in Sam's ears.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and he hates how his voice sounds. That he can't manage the gruff tone of Dean and his father even when he tries, the only traces of it coming out when he screams.

"What a polite young girl," the woman says.

Sam flinches involuntarily. He doesn't really know why. Just that it sounds wrong to him, those words strung together. Still, he's always supposed to be polite. "Thank you, ma'am," he says, looking up at her. If he doesn't go now he'll be late meeting Dean.

"You don't like that, do you?" the woman says. It's an inquisitive tone, not a fact, like she's observed something about him. Sam doesn't like that she has read him so easily.

"I'm a girl, ma'am, no worries." Yet the words feel like ash on his tongue. A curse given voice.

"Do you want to be? Sam, do you want to look like me when you grow up?"

And he has not given her his name. Sam backs up for real now, and yet takes her in all the same. How her hips are gentle curves, how the dress hugs her thin waist, her full chest. How the apple of her cheeks are adorned with blush, how her eyes are soft with mascara and shadow. How her hair cascades in thick waves, slightly curled. She's beautiful.

Sam does not want to be beautiful like this.

"I-I need to get Dean," he says, more to himself than her.

"I'm not here for Dean," she says, taking a step. Her eyes flick to black before settling back to brown and Sam shoots straight up. He's nine. This is a demon. Dean will never make it here in time. "I'm here for you, Sam." She crouches down to his level and takes his face in her soft yet firm hands. "I'm not here to hurt you, little one. I'm simply asking you a question. Do you want to look like me, Sam?"

"I don't want to make a deal!"

"No deals, Sam. I promise. Just yes or no."

He opens his eyes to look at her, forces himself to be brave because Dean would always be brave in times like this. Dean's not scared of anything. He thinks he's seen Dean scared once or twice, when their dad comes home drunk or angry, but those times he just locks the two of them in the motel bedroom until morning.

The woman's grip doesn't ease. Sam is nine, he can't outfight another being. So he squares his shoulders like he's seen Dean do and looks straight into her eyes. "No," he says, glad his voice doesn't shake.

"Okay," she says, releasing him. "What do you want instead?"

"What?"

"You don't want to be a girl, Sam." She runs a finger along his arms, a gentle nail down his throat like she has read his innermost thoughts. "What do you want instead?"

Sam looks at her long, long hair. It sways at her waist. His is almost as long. It's dark and brown and thick. He hates it, but every time he begs for a cut he's ignored. There's never enough time, enough money.

He curls his hand into a fist. "Sh-short hair," he hisses out, almost ashamed to say any of his wants to this thing, this demon. "I want short hair like Dean's."

"Okay, Sam."

There's a soft snap of her fingers, and when Sam looks again, the woman is gone. It's only a second before he hears his name being yelled from down the block in that gravelly voice that's still creaking and cracking in the middle.

When Dean catches up to him he nearly stops in his tracks, mouth still half open to yell at him for being late. "Dude. What the fuck did you do to your hair?"

Sam's fingers move slowly up his neck, and even then he can feel it. The soft fuzz of his hair on the nape of his neck. It's been shaved down, and when he shakes his head slightly, he can feel the shaggy layers against his cheekbones. His head feels inexplicably light. "Oh. Uh, I cut it. In the bathroom."

Dean assesses him. He reaches out and runs a hand through Sam's hair, then slaps him across the head. "Dad's so gonna have a fit."

Sam sticks his tongue out at him. "I don't care." And he doesn't, because for the first time in recent memory, Sam feels like Sam.

Dean rolls his eyes and throws an arm over his little brother's shoulders, steering him in the direction of the motel. "Whatever. Looks good, kid."

Sam shoves him and takes off, sticking his middle finger up back at Dean. He laughs when he hears the sound of his brother's footsteps running after.

Hiya!~ Of course I can!

look, I don't think I delivered exactly what you asked for, but Logan does smile! twice! also sorry this took approximately ten years, Remus is like the most difficult to write, right next to Logan lol

warnings for: Remus typical stuff, swearing

All the stars in the sky could not compare

Remus glowers at Logan across the room. stupid fucking Logan.

Remus has cracked all the other sides. Cracked them right open like a head hitting hard marble floors at 69mph. he knows just how to get under their skin, he’s an expert in the matter even. In Janus’ case he would literally peel off his own skin and bleed all over his favourite rug. Remus is quite proud of that one. It had taken so long to figure out his cracking point, for Remus to push him hard enough that he broke, but he had done it, even if only for a moment.

But Logan remains a mystery. He had tried outright violence but had been met with a calculated calm. He tried outrageous imagery, only to be given a cool analysis of the biological inaccuracies. Once he had just stood in front of Logan and s c r e a  m e  d but Logan had simply picked up his notebook and continued reading.

-

I hear they’re discontinuing crofters,” Remus comments from the counter, half-naked. Logan stops for barely a moment, before flicking his eyes up at Remus, then back to his puzzle.

“Falsehood,” he says calmly, slotting a piece into place.

-

“What if instead of making a thumbnail, we all got naked and used dick pics for the cover art!” he suggests as Logan plans the schedule for the coming week.

“We would be marked explicit, our views would be diminished and the video might even be taken down.” Logan marks the calendar dates, snaps his diary closed and walks away.

-

“There’s nothing stopping Thomas from murdering his neighbours. Maybe he can cover it up and keep using their house as an extension to his own,” Remus supplies as Logan comes back from helping Thomas organise his paperwork, his eyes bleary and glasses askew. Seeing the other side so rumples sparks something somewhere inside of him. Logan stares at him blankly for a few moments, then continues walking without another word.

The spark turns into an angry fire, and Remus reaches out to grab Logan’s arm. “Fine! Don’t reply, it’s not like I need you anyway!” he throws his hands up into the air, spinning on his heel as though to be the one to walk away. “All Logic does is get in the way of Thomas doing great things. None of us need you.” He sneaks a look back at Logan before he goes, and is met with a stare, not quite as blank as it was a moment ago.

Several emotions flicker across him, and Remus sees him go to utter a “Falsehood”, but doesn’t quite manage to bring himself to.

“I see,” is all he says in the end. From there he doesn’t bother walking away, simply sinks straight out of the room.

For some reason getting the rise out of Logan doesn’t feel as good as Remus was hoping.

-

Remus lies awake thinking of Logan. was this the reaction he wanted? He’s sure it was. He knows that somewhere, Logan is thinking of him. Thinking of his words. He made an impact, and that’s all that matters. People will remember Remus. That’s all he cares about. Still, for some reason something inside of him won’t quiet. He finds himself wandering the halls of the mind palace. It’s strangely quiet, and he remembers somewhere in the back of his mind that Thomas did a video recently. He doesn’t quite know what went down, but he has hear Patton whispering Janus’ name late at night, like a forbidden secret. Seen Roman curled up into Virgil, crying about something. knows that there was something big, and that the corridors have been oddly silent in the past few days.

He stands outside Logan’s room, and quietly, he lets himself in. he isn’t sure what he’s doing in there. Maybe he could tell himself he’s going to hide in the shadows to spook Logan as he tries to drift off to sleep, or he’ll sneak out in the middle of the night and fil his socks with jelly. But Remus has never been one much for lying to himself. He knows that he has something he needs to do in there though.

The rooms is quiet. Logan doesn’t look as Remus enters, simply lying on the ground, hazing up at the stars. Stars?

The whole room is alight with the glow of the night sky, and Remus gasps gently. He isn’t sure what he expected form Logan’s room. maybe a library? A lab? Not this. This is something he might have expected from his brother, never logic.

For maybe the first time in his existence, he sits quietly. Logan’s eye flickers over to him as he takes a spot beside him, but he says nothing. There’s something in the body language though, a tensing that Remus wants to smooth out. he doesn’t know why he doesn’t. he’s trying something new here. Is this what Roman would call restraint?

It can’t last long.

“That one looks like a butt,” Remus points up at the sky.

“No it doesn’t.” Logan’s reply is firm, but soft. Remus grins and manages to catch his eye, distracting him from the heavens above for a moment. A moment is all he needs.

“Yes it does.” Logan’s eyes longer on Remus’ for a second too long, and when he looks back Remus could swear he sees a smile flicker at the corners of his mouth as he takes in the re-arranged sky.

“I suppose it does.”

Remus grins ear to ear, and happily starts pointing out more constellations, until he sees Logan look away. He falls silent for a second, and Logan speaks.

“Did you know that constellations are often the same across cultures, even when they have no reason to be?” Logan seems scared to speak, as though expecting to be dismissed. Remus blinks for a moment, letting that knowledge settle in. for once, he decides to stay quiet a moment and listen.

“Orion, the ancient Greeks saw a man pursuing the seven sisters of the Pleiades star cluster. In the great Victoria Desert they saw him as Nyeeruna,  chasing the Yugarilya sisters.” Remus looks up to create Orion, as an impulse more than anything else. Most of what Remus is is impulses. The two of them stare at the constellation a moment. It feels like Logan is trying to say something, but Remus isn’t really one for reading between lines. Neither is Logan though come to think of it. Maybe he just wants to share interesting astronomy facts. Still, something sits heavy in Remus’ chest.

“And what about that one?” Remus points up. Logan smiles again, easier to spot now that Remus knows how to look. A twitch of his lips caught before he shuts it down.

“That’s a penis.” Remus grins.

“Exactly what I thought too. Maybe there is something to the idea.” He smiles at Logan. “What else should I know about the stars?”

--

⋆ A drabble turned mini fic for @yamagucji

☄As the sun sets and the moon rises, you hold each other. After a long day, it's soft nights and quiet reassurances like this that make it all worth it.

☽ Yamaguchi Tadashi

He held your free hand in a loose grip, rubbing small circles on the back of your hand, occasionally kissing your knuckles while leaning back against your chest. Your other hand busied itself with his hair, gently playing with it, twirling the strands around your fingers and softly grazing your nails on his scalp. The show you were watching, volume turned down as the sun set, was left forgotten in the background as you got lost in each other's quiet comfort.

It's when he fully relaxes against you, head resting on your shoulder with a soft kiss to your temple and a small sigh.

"Tadashi?" It's quiet, the tv being the only noise besides the crickets outside the cracked open window. A light breeze brushing the curtains and drifting into the room. He hums in acknowledgement, close to dosing off from your calming ministrations on his head. A soft smile graces your face as he looks up at you with sleepy eyes, watery as he yawned. Yams pulled the blanket over your shoulders, burrowing himself between it and you. He murmurs to himself about how warm it was, whining quietly when you stop petting his head but stopping when he feels your arms around his waist. His hands enveloped yours, a little rough from years of practice but still soft in a way.

Having your hands clasped in his, he looks at you. He looks at you for comfort and reassurance. His vulnerability and insecurities splayed out in the open for you to see. You've never judged him for it, and he could never be more thankful for that. He rubs your knuckles with his thumbs when he asks,

"Do you love me?"

It's a question he asks every night. A routine neither of you planned to break.

"I do. More than you could ever know."

The answer was simple, but it was enough. A smile on his face as he kissed your forehead. Your grip on his waist tightened slightly when you ask,

"Do you love me?"

A cheeky grin crosses his face as he turns and you both move to lay down. Tadashi gently pulls you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head.