#solawrites

in which theodore nott falls into the very thing he despises most.

t.w.: mentions of addiction, loss, harm, death; i am not responsible for your media consumption!

a/n: it’s been a long time coming! thank you to the lovely @nottendo for dealing with my brain dumps while i write. love you all and enjoy some good old fashioned angst!

at the age of four, theo did not like the smell of smoke. It was icky, it stung his tiny nose whenever his father smoked cigars at home. his mother would tut, shoo-ing the man to the balcony saying, “not in the house!” after a bit of bickering, his father would go out for hours, and little theo would wonder what was so appealing about the nasty smell? but he would be so easily distracted by his mother’s tender care and the fresh air that smelled faintly of lemon that the question- and the smoke- were quite easily dismissed.

at the age of seven, theo came home from playing at a nearby park to the smell of smoke in the house. he thought, for a brief moment, that it was merely his father smoking indoors because mom wasn’t home- but no. this smoke didn’t smell like cigars or the tobacco theo’s father used. it smelled all wrong, like ozone, charred herbs, and burnt flesh. he wandered further into the house, the air growing heavier with each step, the smoke closing in on him as if it knew where he was going. the closer he got to the balcony, the stronger it became: clinging to his clothes, his skin, his very breath. he called out for his mother, certain she would make it go away like she always did- so certain that she would hold him again and the smell of fresh air would finally relieve his little lungs. hands caught him before he could reach the mangled body on the floor that was his mother, his father’s grip iron, his voice sharp as he told him not to look. that night, the house was quiet in a way it had never been before; magic scrubbed at the walls and every window was thrown open. but the smoke lingered anyway, settling into the rooms and into the spaces where everything he loved used to be.

at the age of twelve, theo sat in a train compartment on his way to hogwarts. he’d spent all of the night before scrubbing his skin raw, trying to rid himself of the lingering smell of smoke that never seemed to leave his home. afraid it would follow him all the way to his new school. in his compartment there was a boy with black, curly hair who hadn’t stopped talking- mattheo, he’d said- and a girl sitting quietly by the window with light spilling in around her. she smiled at theo and for a brief, terrible moment he saw his mother. the feeling hit him all at once. sharp, throbbing, equal parts fear and guilt. he learned it then, sitting there with the countryside blurring past the glass. he could not afford to care for people. no matter how kind they were. every time he did, smoke seemed to follow, an ominous ring of inevitable destruction of everything theo cared about.

at the age of fifteen, theodore learned their rhythms. mattheo always loud and funny and reckless in a way theo couldn’t fully shield himself from. the girl was quieter, more kind, always bringing fresh air into rooms theo could have sworn were sealed up like tombs before she walked in. the three sat together in classes, shared homework answers and sweets and laughter- and through all of it, theo never allowed himself to let them in. he let mattheo talk at him, not to him. when he tried, theo replied with practiced half truths and a carefully guarded heart. when the girl smiled, he smiled back- just never long enough for it to mean something more. when she leaned closer, he leaned back. the girl felt too much like fresh air, like if theo breathed in too much that she would slip away into smoke. mattheo was noise and chaos- survivable to theo, but her? she was clear skies and easy to breathe in, and theo had learned the hard way not to trust such easy, beautiful things. to him, this was how things were always going to be- he never let their warmth seep in, because where warmth was, smoke always followed.

at the age of sixteen, theodore smoked his first cigarette. the air was already changing. the second wizarding war loomed close enough to taste, thickening the halls with whispers and fear and things no one wanted to name yet. mattheo still talked, loud and reckless and endless. but theo heard the gaps forming between his words. the girl still brought fresh air with her, still laughed by open windows, still sought theodore out and leaned in close. it all was beginning to feel wrong to theo, the way things had felt right before his mother vanished. theo knew what waited for him- the dark mark tugged at him long before it ever burned into his skin. smoke had found him once without asking. this time he chose it. the cigarette burned slow between his fingers. he inhaled. exhaled. it was the only way he could think of to let the smoke settle in his lungs on his own terms. it was the closest he had come to breathing where his mother had disappeared. the cigarette might have been everything theo hated, but at least he could control when the smoke came.

at the age of seventeen, theodore learned that smoke could still find him without asking. the dark mark burned into his arm with the same stench he remembered from that night- burnt flesh and ozone and charred magic that stole the air from a room instead of lighting it on fire. it was his mother all over again. the same smell, the same suffocating finality. theo hid it beneath long sleeves and silence and cigarettes. he smoked more than he ever had before, chain smoking until his lungs ached and the smoke blurred the edges of everything he could not bear to name. mattheo had been marked too. theo did not speak of it- neither of them did- but the girl noticed anyway. she saw the way theo flinched when fabric brushed his arm. the way smoke clung to him now like a warning. on one fateful night, she came to him. he’d been smoking in the astronomy tower, cigarette after cigarette until his eyes blurred and his lungs ached. she called for him in that sweet voice theo knew he didn’t deserve to hear anymore. she approached. reached for him with a concerned furrow of her brows- and that’s when he rolled up his sleeve. the following words were his projection- angry, hurtful things that should’ve managed to push her away completely, words that should have protected her from theo’s smoke-filled life. somehow, for some unnameable reason, the girl stayed and pulled him into an embrace so tight and warm that theodore suspected it wasn’t the smoke burning his eyes anymore. it was her- her stubborn way of charging headfirst into smoke he couldn’t save her from.

at the age of eighteen, theodore felt like he was dissolving into smoke. the second wizarding war was at its apex, and the cause that branded his arm was a constant reminder that he was fighting on the wrong side. on nights after long, terrible missions, he would smoke. smoke. smoke. and wonder what his mother would think if she could see him now. he had tortured and killed and done things so unforgivable that he was certain she would hate him for them. the girl should have hated him too. yet somehow, after every mission, he returned to his dorm to find her waiting on his bed with open arms. she never asked what he had done. never asked what he had seen. she only held him while the smoke bled out of his lungs and into the air between them. sometimes she cried quietly into his shoulder. sometimes she just held on tighter. devastated. not by who he was, but by what the world had done to him. at the age of eighteen, theodore made a decision. he learned her weight by heart. the way she breathed when she slept. the way her hands shook when she thought he was gone for good. he stopped wondering what she saw in him and started worrying what would happen to her if he disappeared. and somewhere between the smoke and the horrors of war, theo made a decision that he would survive this. for her.

at the age of almost nineteen, theodore lit a cigarette and did not finish it. the war still raged on. the dark mark still burned beneath his skin, and the weight of all he had done made smoke was the easiest thing to reach for. he inhaled once. maybe twice. felt it settle where it always had, safe in the way ruin often is. then he thought of her. asleep in his bed. breathing clean air, trusting him without knowing how often smoke followed him home. theo stared at the cigarette burning down between his fingers and realized he did not want her lungs carrying the same ache his did. he did not want smoke touching something that had never belonged to it. so he stopped. pressed the cigarette out before it could finish what it started. for the first time in years, theo opened a window. the rest of it disappear into the night alone. for the first time, theo did not need to watch the smoke leave. it was enough to know that while he lived, she would never have to breathe it in.

- Rating: Mature - Ships: Killugon, Leopika/Senritsu polyship - Major TWs: systemic adult abuse (psychological), disordered eating, innuendo/sexual humor

Summary:

Gon plays rugby on the college team, and his skill on the field definitely has national recruiters eyeing him. But then he meets Killua in art class, and unsurprisingly, they hit off almost immediately. But Killua is closed off, friendly but excruciatingly private, and Gon can quickly sense that something is amiss. If only Killua would talk to him...

Killua is the latest in a long line of world-class gymnasts in the prodigal Zoldyck family. But since training under his father and brother takes up the majority of Killua's time, he can't see Gon too often - a pity, because he's discovered a passion in rugby (and in Gon himself, but that’s beside the point.)

But when Gon convinces Killua to play rugby, the lie of a world-class gymnast and a private family unravels. There's definitely a reason that Silva and Illumi hired in-house physicians, and the school's resident clinician, Leorio, is far from the type of person to let this lie. So he gives an ultimatum: if Killua wants to stay on the team, he has to pass a physical exam.

Only…there’s no way he can – not with his parents in the picture. But with Gon by his side?

...Maybe it's possible after all.

AO3 LINK

(my first Hollow Knight ficlet asdaksdjfadsj)

It was following her, and she did not like it. But she kept leaping through grasses that brushed her horns with gentle tickling strokes, ignoring the little ghost behind her.

Normally, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Several of them had found her before – or rather, she had found them – and she’d made short work of them. Many of them were weak little things, just strong enough to clamber out of that dark, corpse-covered hole. But her Nail sent them back quickly enough, tiny shadows crying voicelessly as they sank back into the darkness they’d been born in.

Sometimes she felt a little bit guilty about putting them back in that solemn, silent abyss.

But the alternative was letting a weak Vessel crack the same way the current one had. The one hope that her sort-of father had was flawed, and she couldn’t let just any Vessel fix the problem. It could only be the strongest, most perfect Vessel.

So she kept challenging them. And they kept dying.

Until this one.

They’re sitting, side by side, with legs swinging free over a black ocean that glitters under stars. The drop would be dizzying, a yawning stretch of potential freefall waiting to grasp them, but- there’s life in the ground beneath him, he can feel it.

He wonders how he’s never noticed before. It explains so much, so terribly much.

The campfire crackles in the silence. It’s been a long time since they’ve sat on this high concave cliff, stars overhead winking like the knowing twinkle of melancholy in Mito’s warm eyes. Gon doesn’t say anything in response, breathing in the spaces of Killua’s exhales. Maybe it’s been too long. A lot happened all those years ago - a lot of pain that left festering wounds, throbbing with the knowledge he’d been left behind. Throbbing with the knowledge that he’d done the leaving.

Alluka was powerful now, though. Strong in a way the Zoldycks would never have guessed. Strong in a way he’d never predicted. That he’d never been taught to predict. Maybe Gon would have known - not that the wasted years will ever rewind and give him a chance to start again.

And so, here he was, back where he started, like a pendulum finally falling back toward its starting point. Was Gon his center? The thought makes his breath fade to nothing. Amber eyes finally flicker to his face, emotion swimming liquid through that single glance. Is there Nen there again? It’s too bright to tell, and Killua’s always been just a little lightless moon, trapped in Gon’s orbit.

That’s really what he is, isn’t it? Cold rock, little more than a husk, spinning around a living, breathing, bursting planet.

What is there to talk about, again?

Then Gon’s hand curls around his wrist, lacing through his fingers. The stubble on that tan chin is faint - he tries to keep clean-shaven, Killua can tell by the tiny nicks along his jawline.

“I know I hurt you, back then,” Gon says to him, and his voice is rough and cracking. The air has disappeared again and Killua tries not to choke. “...I just...wanted you alive. Even if it hurt you.”

He chokes anyway. There must be waves in his eyes now, rippling water waiting to break and rain down his cheeks.

“...I would have died with you,” he says, and the creaking ocean sits silent when the tears fall. Gon’s free hand cups his chin, brushing saltwater away. Somber expressions didn’t suit that wide face, the planes of bronze unnaturally stiff.

“I know that now.”

There’s no apology, not this time. The apology for the hurtful words was over and done with, years in the past. This is something else - something Gon is not sorry for. Killua takes a shuddering breath, sea salt in his nose.

“We won’t do that again,” Killua whispers. “I have other things to live for.”

Gon nods, lunging forward and wrapping time-broadened shoulders in a tight hug. His shampoo smells like pinecones and Killua closes his eyes, arms open.

“And I know what my life means now. Especially to you.”