#randomdrabble

I want her to burp.

Her face is lightly twisted, discomfort making her voice strained as she excuses herself. When she thinks you’re not looking, she’ll try to discreetly rub her churning tummy.

As she lets out burp after burp

Uncontrollably, becoming more frequent as time passes

Until suddenly—

A poorly-muffled belch gets stuck—

Midway—

And is followed with a choked gasp, or a

“I—I feel like—“

Beauty is such a fickle thing, isn't it?

You could have people telling you that your smile is like the sun after a week of rain; or that your eyes are so big and beautiful, they put stars to shame; or maybe that your body makes even Aphrodite jealous - yet you can't bring yourself to see it.

It's like everyone is looking at a completely different person than the one staring you back in the mirror.

Sure, sometimes it cracks and for one moment ... you can glimpse the person everyone else sees.

Then, you're stuck looking at the same person you've always seen.

The girl whose hair is way too messy. The girl with too many pimples. The girl that needs to lose weight. The girl who eyes squint too much when she smiles. The girl whose face is completely round and undefined. The girl who doesn't feel pretty without make-up, but who feels fake with make-up on. The girl who - no matter how much she wants to - cannot see the gorgeous woman standing before her.

You look to others, hiding behind the distorted glass of their own, admiring and wishing you could look like that.

Yet, little do you know that they feel the same.

The girl you envy for her flat stomach envies your curves. The girl you envy for her sharp features envies your friendly face. The girl you envy for her impeccable hair envies your wild curls. The girl you envy for her cute dimples wishes they would disappear. The girl you envy for her confidence in her own beauty is cowering behind her facade of mascara and concealer, just like you.

We are all wearing these glasses that hide us from ourselves. No matter what others say about you, we can't see through these warped lenses long even to see that they are not mistaken, we are.

Surely there is something seriously wrong with us if no matter how many people compliment us, we continue to see flawed reflections - only glimpsing the real us through the cracks of reality.

    What was left?

    They had been through everything together. Through hell and back again. They had survived the destruction of their home, and through all the events that led up to the massacre in Altissia, following the disastrous summoning of Leviathan. Each of them had lost something, and bore scars of their ordeals, having suffered individually and as a group. They had survived the everlasting night, the daemons, the end of their world as they knew it. They had brought back the light… and everything that passed, they had done it all together.

    They had always been there for each other, surviving against all odds.

    Now, their group was one short. Now, they had lost one of their own. And not just one of them. They had lost their King.

    They had lost Noctis, and this time, he wasn’t going to just appear out of the blue again. This time, he wasn’t coming back. He was gone.

    His absence was like a looming shadow, more of a presence than if Noctis had been there with them. It was in the hollow feeling that settled in their chests; the guilt, the shame, the ‘what ifs’ that all remained kept within and unspoken.

    And yet, none of them gave in to the despair that clawed at their hearts and seared their souls. They continued onwards, as they always had before. Their King had sacrificed himself for this world, had given his life to bring back the dawn.

    Noctis Lucis Caelum, the eternal King and Bringer of the Dawn. Everyone knew his name and his story, sang praises and wrote of his trials and successes, of how wonderful he had been. And that was all that remained of him now. Memories of a man whose very destiny had been to die before his time, cleaning up the mess the Astrals had let happen eons before he’d been brought into existence.

    He would always be remembered, cherished, loved. His legacy would live on, by the words and deeds of those he held most dear, the three who had seen his journey through, to the bitter end.

    And he would continue to watch over them. Unseen, unheard. An invisible presence that appeared whenever they went to visit his grave. Noctis would place a hand on their shoulder, would tell them how much he missed them, how grateful he was to them, and how he was okay. Each of the men would leave feeling just the little bit lighter, as if some of their ache and sorrow was taken from them, allowing them more air to breathe and more light to guide their way.

    And when the time came for each of them to leave the mortal world behind, long after they had brought back the sun and helped rebuild their ruined world, they would find that they wouldn’t be alone.

    Noctis was there, waiting with a bright smile and a glitter to his azure eyes. Leaning against the Regalia, arms crossed over his chest, he opened his mouth to speak.

    “Kept me waiting long enough. Man, am I glad to see you. Things just - aren’t the same without you guys. You’ve done well. I’m sorry I left you to clean up the mess, but it’s done. And now… well, this old girl’s got one last burst to her. What do you say? One last ride?”

    And if there were tears, who was to fault any of them? Piling into the Reglia was like taking a step into the past. Ignis was at the wheel, sight returned and made whole after he had left his body behind. Prompto settled into the front, Gladio behind him as Noctis hopped over the top and slid jumped into the backseat, settling behind Ignis.

    The Reglaia gave a purr as Ignis tapped the gas, the noise familiar and welcoming. The sun beat down on them from above, the road before them stretching to the horizon.  Noctis smiled wide as he let loose a laugh. Three pairs of eyes glanced in his direction, and he shook his head, smile still playing on his lips.

My target is wearing a bright red hoodie with dark blue jeans, his shoes are sneakers. From his clothing, there isn't much he can hide, he would barely be able to hide a gun in the big pocket of his hoodie. His heartbeat is increasing rapidly, it's evident that he's nervous, his eyes are scanning the surrounding area; looking for any way to escape.

Hook was back in Emma's apartment again. He had tried to kill that bloody Rumplestilskin, or Gold as he went by in Storybrooke and Swan and her annoying, bloody charming father had promptly arrested him.

Rather than taking him straight to the station, Emma had said she needed to pick up a few things from her apartment; so here they were. Hook had wandered back into her bathroom, staring at the same mirror he had studied his reflection in just the other night. 

He gazed closer at the reflection, eyeing his flask warily. "Swan!" he called down the hall. "Is this a magic mirror?"

She stuck her head into the hall and looked down at him. "No. It's just a mirror... Why? Please don't tell me you're trying to make out with yourself again. I really can't handle this right now, Hook."

He scowled, not answering. His fingers ran over the stubble on his cheek and he watched as his reflection did the same thing. His fingers ran over dried blood from his nose. There. That bloody Rumplestilskin had hit him with his cane a good many times. He could taste the dried blood on his cracked lips as well. There was no blood on his reflection though. No cracked lips. The blue eyes were clear and untouched by alcohol...

What the bloody hell is this?

He raised his hook, twisting it and looking at it and his reflection did the same. He grimaced and watched as his reflection did the same. He smiled, flashing white teeth and watched as the apparition on the other side did the same. The smile on his reflection reached his eyes which danced with merriment.  He looked brave and unselfish. A true pirate hero.

Hook's own smile didn't reach his eyes and he didn't feel bloody unselfish and it had been a long while since he knew what it was like to truly laugh. He peered closer at the mirror, his breath fogging the glass. "Are you me, mate?" he asked.

Before he could get a response (would he?), Emma walked in. "Seriously, Hook. Did you not have mirrors three hundred years ago? Its your reflection, its you. What is your fascination with this?" She tapped him on the shoulder, turning to leave.  "Come on. Time to go visit your favorite jail cell before I have to go get Henry from school"

April the first just didn't mean the same to her anymore.

Before, Fred and George had always made April Fools' Day. No-one had ever been able to top the twin prankster kings on their birthday. Looking back, Ginny couldn't remember a year when she hadn't fallen victim to one of her brothers' good-natured pranks. While she hadn't found many of them funny at the time, she now smiled at the memories. Though it was a bittersweet smile.

Because that was over now, wasn't it?

In her mind's eye, Ginny could still see it now, Fred's battered body, lying on a stretcher in the Great Hall. George weeping bitterly over the lifeless corpse of his twin. She swallowed an old lump in her throat. She had thought she'd got over it, as much as anyone could get over the death of such a close brother, but today was proving her wrong.

It seemed surreal, and nastily so, to see all the younger students running around, attempting half-baked pranks on each other, oblivious to the fact that the greatest prankster to ever attend Hogwarts was prematurely dead. It had just been too much for her, and Ginny had eventually excused herself from her classes to be alone. Professor Flitwik seemed to understand and had let her go.

She had thought about wandering down to Hagrid's, then changed direction at the last moment. As dear a friend as Hagrid was, she didn't want company right now. Retracing her steps back towards the castle, Ginny took a left turn and headed for the owlry instead. It was dark, musty, and full of birds inside, but it was secluded, which was good enough for her.

She briefly considered writing to George, who must be feeling even worse today than she was, but after retrieving a quill from her bag, couldn't think of anything to say. What even could be said?

She sighed, moving to the window between rows of owls, a few of which watched her curiously, while the rest slept. Staring out across the lake, there was only one thing Ginny could think to say, whether it made sense or not.

"Happy birthday, Fred," she whispered. "I hope you're at peace."