shoto’s abrupt and blunt manner of speaking still catches you off guard once in a while, and you practically spit out the drink he’d ordered for you before picking you up all over the dashboard of his nice (and most importantly, spotless) car. keeping it in, you then turn to him to catch his eyes not even off the road, and you get the sense he’s neither angry nor confessing, but there’s something else he’d like to discuss.
“um… were they used?”
“no idea. i dodged.”
you chuckle, taking another draw of your iced beverage.
“insane reflexes from our very best hero, of course.”
this does crack a smile and a glance from him.
“it did get me thinking though…” he adds, gripping the wheel gently.
“about what?”
he looks at you again, eyes pensive for a moment then quickly turning back to the road, his voice softening low.
“i want to buy you lingerie.”
your eyes flutter quickly, then your face warms.
“that’s the first thing you thought of after that happens?!”
“yeah, because if i’m going to get panties thrown at me, i’d rather they be yours.”
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i pop open a can of mandarins and eat them on christmas morning. somewhere, two states over, a stranger is eating mandarins in late afternoon. we are sharing pieces of the same fruit - an intimate act i would reserve for the dearest of my friends. take this sweetness from my plate and put it on yours - it tastes delightful, i want you to have it. an intimate act, and yet, here i am, sharing a canned mandarin with a stranger i will never know the name of. an unknown soulmate, connected by a piece of fruit split into two separate cans. every time i meet someone new, i wonder, “have i ever shared a fruit with you?”
just a little blurb i wrote a while ago. posted on my ao3
He is sixteen.
The events of years prior had sometimes left him pondering if he’d even have the capability of continuing forth in the stages of life. But, his fingers brushed his chin, and very faintly were hints of stubble- a clear sign of aging. With this information, one may argue that this ultimately concludes him as the youngest Hargreeve sibling, and with that, any knowledge of the fact that he had once been an elderly man would be thrown out the window- labeled unimportant and a stigma of the past. The past.
Five’s back leaned against the hardened oak of the sycamore tree. Its shedding leaves flew over the cliff, drifted down onto his short, groomed chestnut hair, and into his lap. This year’s autumn is particularly frigid, perhaps a good sign of the earth being properly taken care of. His fingers fiddled with a brown, dead leaf, crumpling much of its dried contents. Clearly, the autumn leaf was just another victim of life’s infinite cycle- a chess piece of time. Five enclosed his fist around the pieces, squeezing tighter until he had crushed it even more into crunchy smithereens. As he opened his hand, his eyes lingered onto the bits, distant and far.
Then, he let the withered carcass scatter about on the grass around him; wind blowing the pieces in every which way. He inclined back onto the tree trunk, sighing that signature bitter sigh of annoyance that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His eyebrows furrowed; a sign of his cold calculations- the wheels, gears, and cogs in his brain working full time as they always do- even though the world has shown recently that there isn’t much need for his equation riddled brain. Though Five could not help but consistently think and mouth and conjure up endless explanations, word problems, increasing masses of variables that could potentially help prevent another world plaguing event. His fingers twitched almost mechanically, and lips mumbled incoherently. The appearance of a crumpled leaf had given him this overloading thought, this new variable in his constantly growing equation. No one could stop him, and his brain was frying itself once more as it drank up more juice for a problem that did not exist. He picked harshly at the beds of his fingernails as his thoughts suddenly whirled to any probable suspect that should interrupt his seemingly perfect, not at all chaotic world. Should I axe them down? Or drown them in their own blood? His head snapped upward, eyeballs twitching unkindly. He seethed his teeth, stomach sinking and fists colliding with his brain that had been trained to kill and conjure up numerous techniques for different ways to slaughter, how to have fun with ending the life of victims. His balled hand banged against his skull, ripping out a shriek from his lungs. He could remember the process, the treatment of these assassinations as nothing but simple business. His tongue tasted the blood that would splatter upon his face and dirty his uniforms. His knuckles would be red, red red- fingernails are crusted with hemoglobin, arms are scratched by the nails of the pleading victims.
His head was ringing in agony, rattling with intensity, but his instincts were overwhelming as they urged him to recall every bit of Commission protocol, recite a pledge, state his badge number- grab that machete and tear up his intestines. Beads of water had fallen down the teenager’s face, dripping from his eyes; he was quite desperate for the trained instincts to fade off. He was adamant on remembering who he was, and what he no longer was, what he had never wanted to be in the first place. The boy seethed his teeth, then with force dipped his whole body forward until his frame had warped away in the blink of an eye.
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of all the things that can be whispered in an intimate moment, when your gazes are still fixed to each other like the draw of two magnets, this probably isn't the one that should have come to vergil first, but you remain still. waiting. you've learned by now that loving vergil is an ordeal of patience, of slowing yourself to anger, doubt or fear, of learning to listen before running in the opposite direction.
vergil's hand still cups the side of your cheek tenderly. the ghost of his lips still haunts the skin of your face and neck. you wait for a moment, and a small smile on his features.
"i mean my mother. eva." it's said before you can ask, as if he could see the gears you've put to a physical stop to turning in your head.
your eyes flutter.
"why would i-"
"i'm only saying it because you don't look like her, but you still manage to remind me of her."
he lets out a chuckle that isn't humorless but is rather wistful, and his hand drops from your face, but you catch it on its way down, squeezing. still there. always.
"how so?"
the passionate kiss you've just shared in one of fortuna's alleyways is suddenly an afterthought as the two of you step over a few fallen demonic corpses and start your path back to your lodgings for the night. vergil's grip readjusts so that he's holding yours, rather than you holding his - so stubborn even down to minutiae.
it's that detailed spirit you find you like so much about him, however.
"if you're afraid, you don't always show it."
your eyes furrow, and vergil notices. "you can't possibly take offense to that," he starts.
"not offended, but... i'm not that brave."
vergil doesn't pause a stride.
"well, you don't fear me when you should."
"what's there to fear?"
vergil about a year ago would make you experience fear, just on a whim, just to prove something to himself. but today's vergil, your vergil, laughs once, a little too loudly, then stands still before presses a kiss to your forehead.
"that's what i mean."
you look at him quizzically for a moment, but then you see it, a trace of black ichor that blends into the locks of his white hair -
demon blood, not so different from that which runs in his veins. blood he spilled so comfortably it was an afterthought.
and yet your very human blood always stays cool, fearless in the wake of those icy blue eyes, and that too smooth, alabaster-white skin.
perhaps in this, you start to understand what he means.
sparda may have been many things to eva, but he never scared her.
and you... vergil will never evoke anything but affection, regardless of how long you live.
Lemar recanted to himself, stuck beneath the surface of dark waters. He seemed to be floating indefinitely, the wreckage of many ships surrounding him. The only lights that could possibly guide him now were the shimmering silver stars in the night sky, dancing upon the water's reflection and glimmering like diamonds. It all looked so beautiful. He thought to himself as he slowly closed his eyes.
How long have I been here? He pondered, he didn't even know where “here” was. His icy blue eyes felt so minuscule compared to the cold embrace of the waters. His body slowly rose to the surface, able to finally see the shimmering stars with his own eyes. As he rose to the surface, he found so many of them simply be gone. Had it been a trick of the water? He couldn't help but wonder.
Then more faded away, right before his eyes. The shining stars slowly died out, dark clouds slowly shrouding the skies. They shrouded the moons light, save for single crackle traveling through the suffocating haze. The moonlight shimmered through that crack, providing light for the floating man. When he managed to raise his head, he saw that the light guided him to an island with a lone figure standing in it's center. It was impossible to make out anything, but the silhouette in the night.
Mister Stonebridge. The voice spoke across the water, a gruff tone full of anger calling out. It's time to wake up.
Lemar awoke in his workshop, his eyes slowly blinking. The sun had begun to rise and the candle illuminating his night's work had long since melted down to the counter top after spilling over it's holder. He fell asleep in front of a black dress, chuckling to himself. “You would call to me.” He spoke, disconnected from the fact his assistant was standing at his side.
“You fell asleep here again, regardless it's not important now.” Lemar's assistant was a much older man than he was. He found he often needed the more matured guide in his life, someone far more grounded than he was. “Another suit got dropped in your box, pin and radio are both gone once again.”
Lemar's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a hangover and bad news were not the ingredients he needed to get the hair of the dog. “The suit? Where is the wearer?” Lemar grumbled. “Security detail is light these days, they're probably resigning and sellin' the shit worth while.”
As Lemar rambled on about his own gripes, his assistant retrieved a note from his pocket. He handed it over to Lemar, it was clear that it had been opened just enough to peak inside, then quickly shut. When he opened it, he found a letter stained in blood, Lemar's nostrils flaring up as he recognized the scent. His eyes whipped over to the assistant, then to the letter.
Theobald means bold person, and even when he hasn’t really gone by the name for several centuries, it couldn’t have been more fitting.
He doubts his mother could have known though, when she held him in his arms, tiny, a runt, crying all the time in the midst of an icy autumn that came way too early, and with it storms and high tide, that he would be here, in a world that’s so different from anything his mother would ever know.
He can’t remember her face. Not really, not since him and Manfred fled their village on the morning of their execution.
Witches, they’d called them, whispered between ducked heads and behind draped curtains, when Theobald turned their back on them.
Two men, approaching forty summers, whose appearance didn’t change for so long until people started to talk.
It hit Manno worse than him – he has always been the more sensitive out of the two, even though he has and to this day does hide it well, behind stoney faces, tightly pressed lips and dark glares, as sharp as the arrows he was so adept at making and firing.
They hadn’t realized how serious it was until the two friends had been cornered by most of the members of the council – people who they’d called friends prior facing them with weapons, backing them into a corner before locking them up.
Their trial was short. Theobald doesn’t remember what their arguments were, but suddenly every old farmer’s wife had observed them praticing pagan rituals in a full moon, talking with animals, cursing people who had then fallen ill.
At the time, he’d thought it to all be complete bogus, and it was – except that he had looked at his hands, and they were the hands of someone maybe in their early thirties.
He didn’t have time to think about it for long until their execution was decided. They’d locked them back into their room. Manfred had looked apathetic, as if every emotion had been sucked out of him, his eyes empty, his blond hair – shorn at the sides, long braids on top – matted.
Theobald had tried to talk to him, but it had been to no avail. Only when he woke in the middle of the night, he’d realized that the other man was sobbing, cowered into himself, making himself as small as someone of his size possibly could.
That night was the first time Theobald had wrapped him in more than a fleeting hug that friends exchange after a while of separation, rocking him in his arms until the bigger man’s sobs had turned into tiny whimpers as he buried his face in Theo’s neck.
“It will be okay,” he’d whispered, fully well knowing nothing would be okay at all.
It was looking at the pure despair in Manfred’s eyes that made him make a decision. They would get out of there, or die trying. Because what did it matter, when outside, there was a pyre waiting for them, and he knew that if they stayed, they wouldn’t see the sun rise again.
It’s been over 1200 years, and he still remembers every detail of that night so clearly as if it had been only the day before.
That’s the cursed thing about bad memories – while the good ones in the end just leave an impression that tastes of comfort, the worst ones never really leave you alone.
He hates seeing Manno cry. Of course, today’s tears are a lot less heavy, born out of frustration rather than fearing for his life, but it still sends daggers into Theo’s stomach just like it did back then.
Of course, whereas they were only friends, brothers in arms back then, now they’ve been the other part of each other’s soul for over a millenia.
“Hey, my love,” he whispers, their dead language heavy on his tongue, but not forgotten be the man by his side, “it will be okay.”
Manno’s smile is grim, but he rubs his hand over his hair – short now, cropped back down to two or three inches every time it gets just a little bit shaggy – sighing.
“I know. I just hate it. I still do. It’s childish, I know, especially considering–”
Considering all the wars they’ve lived through, considering they’d spent most of the last century apart, believing the other was dead after all, considering that they never said goodbye to their families back then, and that everyone they’ve grown up with has been dead for so long that their bones have fallen to dust ages ago.
Theo shakes his head. “It’s not. It just means that even after all of it, you’re still achingly, painfully human. No matter what anyone else would think. And now,” he offers him a hand, pulling him up, his back groaning, “let’s go. The others are waiting for us. And for them, ten minutes can feel like a lifetime.”
Manno rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking as he picks up his bag, swinging it onto his shoulder.
“Mortals, ugh.”
Theo laughs and takes his hand. It’s risky, after all, there are still people around – but considering everything, he thinks, he’s allowed to feel a little bit daring.
–––––
italics indicate “Theo” speaking Germanic or Old High German (I haven’t really decided yet when they were born and uhhh my last linguistics class was also a while ago)
