#physically

Eggman finally got 'em trapped in a ""fun""house.

Known as the young and wise ruler of the largest empire of the continent, you were admired by foe and friend alike as the stratagem behind numerous victories. Bordering your own territory was The kingdom of the xianzhou. The xianzhou's king, consumed by greed threatened to wage war against your own people, only for it to be crushed. To repay such an insult, the xianzhou’s ruler was offered such a deal: Either pay thrice fold in reparations or offer the first prince of the Xianzhou as hostage.

The choice was obvious for the king, either cripple his own economy and risk the commoners revolting, or bid off his own son to enemy territory. Signed and stamped, Prince Jing yuan was to be sent to your palace as a temporary hostage, but this particular hostage seems too…happy?

Bending the knee to kiss the hem of your robes, sneaking into your chambers *nightly* (half naked, mind you), and his not so obvious sly smile as he attempts to wriggle his way into your heart (and hopefully into your pants). Don’t forget that he gives shoulder massages while you work (He barged into your office). Occasionally, he would cling to you like a leech and throw hissy little fits when he sees you with other people.

Prince! Jing yuan would do little things for you from organizing your documents on your behalf just to make your life a little easier to making flower wreaths and sending little sparrows holding love letters your way.

Prince! Jing yuan is possessive, but he’s the world’s happiest hostage…

The way he would panic when the war reparations have almost been paid.

Danny wakes up. It feels different now that he’s older. Now that he’s both more and less than he was. He starts mornings out floaty, his edges indistinct, bleeding into his surroundings. He’s hyper-aware of the tentative strings connecting him to life, the blood pumping sluggishly through his veins, the breath expanding the lungs within his chest. 

He yawns. A stretch.

His brain feels like an old computer booting up, each process coming online in a slow, methodical order. Neurons firing, electric pulses traveling up and down the webbed network of sinew tangled through his skeleton. He feels the pressure of atmosphere on his skin, the floor under his feet.

It’s weird. Not uncomfortable, just strange. It’s been years, but it’s never been easy to come to terms with the new awareness of his physicality, the control he could exert over its expression and shape. What once was instinctual, settled, now flows through his fingers like water, rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest. He would say that he’s just tired, that he’s never been a morning person, but the simmer of dawn and the infinite thrumming energy beneath his skin beg to differ.

He makes his way to the bathroom. He might have walked, but probably not, he can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. There are only friends here. He’s safe. Home.

The routine of the morning is grounding. Always the same. Jazz says it should help. That it can all become instinctual again, through enough repetition. Danny isn’t so sure.

He takes his time putting together his outfit, picking accessories and being mindful of the way it all fits against him. His body might be a projection, something just to the left of real, but clothes are normal, socks, rings, a watch. He can feel normal like this. 

Another stretch. 

He wants to scream.

He makes his way down to the shared living space. He’s grateful that he’s not crammed into a tiny apartment with strangers, that he’s allowed both the time and space to be what he is. Sam’s parents may not be the most accommodating, but this is worth every glare and snide, underhanded comment he’s had to put up with for the better part of the past decade.

He knows what comes next, but his stomach rolls in his gut. He should have something solid, go through the remaining motions of self-care, even if it’s a bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. 

He grimaces and grabs a less-than-pleasant nutritional shake from the fridge. They’re supposed to be back up, an addition-to rather than in-replacement-of, but it’s early and he can’t bring himself to care. He finds himself on the roof, with the chilled bite of the morning and the chalky pseudo-chocolate flavor of his breakfast on his tongue.

He longs to shed this husk, to leave the weight of his flesh behind and see what the sunrise looks like from ten thousand feet. But it’s a Tuesday and he has an 8am. He wants equally to be the college student he is, to sit with his peers and bring numbers to their algorithmic conclusions—to describe the world around him in a way that makes sense, in a way that’s objectively true. One day he might even be able to describe what happened to him in a neat little equation. 

He breathes in and out, feeling heavy in his body. This is nice too, he supposes. He shuts his eyes and feels the brunt of the morning sun peek over the neighboring apartment complex. When he hears his friends shuffling about in their own morning fugue states, he sinks back inside. 

Tucker just about jumps out of his skin when he turns around, eyes half closed, to see Danny dressed and ready, silent, and much too close behind him.

“I made it up.”