#syxephraim

@syxephraim

ephraim, tied at the fingertips to all directions out in space, he is a tapestry of all the words he doesn’t say out loud and stardust, the wheezing kind, the drifting kind, eyes bright like fireworks, windows down to a constantly exploding soul. he lights up from the inside out, as though he’d been forced to swallow a star when he was younger, forced to chew roughly against its flares and heat, forced to gulp against its burning, shining, spinning mass– but now he owns it, now he keeps it, takes what they made of him and brandishes himself in it like armor, and it may be pitiful still yes, but at least it’s his. in all this catastrophic, maelstrom chaos of the universe taking and taking and taking, this one star is his. like a stained glass window, he is a kaleidoscope of bent shades and colors, melted down from extreme fires but recreated into something more than just silica, more than just dye, more than just pretty or aesthetic, housing a holiness inside him that gleams in the sunlight, stands like a beacon, not huge or grand or far-reaching, but brilliant nonetheless to anyone lost and desperate for a candle.

he’s been sharded and recaptured, bruised and discarded, rinsed and repeated, enough times to drive even a robot insane, but even if his hands don’t move, even if his fingers slacken against the bars of his cage, his eyes still glitter every time he looks up, still remembers where the ashes of his heart first came from, still remembers the flight his soul once took to get here. one day, he’ll find his way back home; this is what we must all believe in.

send me a 💔for a heartbreaking au

          my muse breaks up with yours

sometimes things can progress in funny ways. you get a job you didn’t apply for, you find treasure just lying around, you stumble into an old acquaintance on a random spaceship, you start dating a kid you could almost be the mother of. okay, maybe that last bit is not entirely true, but she still feels that way sometimes, what with the cook’s youthful face, his innocent demeanour and his usually bubbly personality.

the thing is, harper never used to consider ephraim having any qualities she could come to appreciate in a more romantic way. but then they started talking. one conversation led to another, as did one subject to another, and once they found a base of common ground - her little brother, one of his best friends - the stories seemingly just kept spilling out and bit by bit they started to form a certain understanding and appreciation for each other.

no one warned her that getting drunk with the cook one night would cause him to take her up on all the flirty comments she’d ever made to him in one single swoop. no one warned her that she would be okay with that. heck, no one warned her that she was going to wake up with a major hangover only to find someone’s limbs entangled with hers and her face tucked almost too comfortably in the crook of his neck.

and let’s face it; she didn’t mind. he sure as hell didn’t seem to mind either.

so she went with it, because why the hell not, right? that reason she should have known. the restlessness stayed away for a while, but not long enough, definitely not forever. the chef is not necessarily too little for her to be satisfied with, but she is simply just too much for him to handle. or maybe she doesn’t want to be handled. it doesn’t necessarily have to be his fault. or anyone’s.

no, it’s probably her fault. she should have never started with any of this to begin with.

so there she stands, in the door opening of the kitchen, looking at the way he is stirring whatever is in his pot to cook for dinner tonight. when he temporarily turns a little and catches her in the corner of his eye, his face brightens, and it already tightens the cavity of her chest, knowing that the bright smile he sends her way will disappear in a few moments only. that the slow and painful downfall of ephraim kim’s happiness will be her fault and hers alone.

since she doesn’t instantly step closer, nor return his smile, it seems as if he already realises something isn’t entirely right, a small frown of worry creeping onto his face. not worry for himself, but worry for her. worry that something might be wrong with her, that she might not be okay. she almost snorts at how stupid this entire situation is. at how big of an idiot she apparently is. but she holds back the almost bitter sound, and instead finally pushes herself into motion, slowly making her way over to the counter.

she doesn’t jump on it, doesn’t lean in to try and give him a kiss, and she knows he’s aware that something is truly up when he doesn’t even try to close the distance himself like he normally might have. she allows the sigh that is lodged in her chest to make it past her lips and watches the way every little bit of the young man she came to know slowly gets folded away behind a carefully constructed mask of near-neutrality.

“it’s not working out, is it?” he asks before she can say anything, and she’s suddenly torn between feeling relieved and feeling like an absolute bitch for the fact that he realises this before she has even opened her mouth. that somehow she must have been so obvious to him that he is now assuming straight away what the problem is before she has even given a clue.

“it’s alright,” he continues on after a moment, and she flinches as if he shouted the words out of nowhere rather than simply speaking them. “i know i’m not much, not enough for someone like you.” he doesn’t say it like an insult - at least not one directed at her - but somehow it hurts her all the more because of it. but what can she say? that it’s not true. it is, though. kind of. and of course she can reassure him that there will be someone who will be more than satisfied with him, who will adore him and love him till he won’t even remember whoever came before, but that would sound like a cheap excuse more than anything else right now.

so she stays quiet, then after a moment shrugs with what she hopes is apology written over her features. and ephraim looks at her for a moment longer, as if he’s hoping for her to add anything else to his words - or perhaps to contradict him - before he takes hold of the spoon again and stirs the food once more.

“i made your favourite,” he says then, cheerfulness so fake in his voice that it almost physically hurts. “i’ll have you a bowl ready in a minute.” she wants to tell him not to bother, but the food is almost ready anyway. so she stands there, like a suddenly misplaced part of the furniture, until eventually a bowl with food is reached out to her.

he doesn’t quite look her in the eyes. she doesn’t quite try to make him.

“i’m sorry,” is all she says when she turns away to go sit down at the table.

basic information

name: henry lau nickname: hen, henners, spacechicken, engine piggy age: 28  birth date: 11/10/2488  birthplace: beaumonde 

gender: cis male romantic identification: panromantic sexual identification: demisexual

alignment: true neutral ( You don’t feel strongly about much of anything. Frankly, you can take or leave a lot of things in your life. You’re mostly guided by instinct, rather than conscious decision. ) myers briggs type: entertainer - esfp-a ( If anyone is to be found spontaneously breaking into song and dance, it is the Entertainer personality type. Entertainers get caught up in the excitement of the moment, and want everyone else to feel that way, too. No other personality type is as generous with their time and energy as Entertainers when it comes to encouraging others, and no other personality type does it with such irresistible style. )

This was not the way Issa had expected to die. Down on his knees, hugging a toilet seat. His insides felt like water, and he was fairly certain that he had expelled his weight in vomit in just the last hour alone. His throat was sore and his mouth dry. What a sight he was to behold. His auburn hair clung to his face and neck in damp clumps and his skin was covered in a thin layer of perspiration. He lay his head against the toilet seat, trying not to think about how many behinds had sat where his cheek was now resting.

His father’s words played in his mind like an old record player. Keep your eyes peeled, son. Those cowards will try to strike you as soon as you’ve got your back turned. When Issa had been a child, his father had kept a handful of trusted servants by his side to sample all of his meals beforehand. Lars had been convinced, especially in those early days, that someone was going to try to poison him one day. Issa had thought him mad then, but now, as he lay shivering in Serenity’s lavatory unit, he wasn’t so sure. Had someone aboard discovered who he was?

It occurred to Issa then that it was probably a good idea to pay the ship’s medic a visit. He had started feeling ill shortly after dinner. Perhaps someone really had tampered with his food. His insides grew cold as the paranoia began to set in. He had been aboard the ship for less than a week and already people wanted him dead. This was not good. Not good at all.

“Come on…” Issa forced himself to a crawl. His arms and legs felt like a bowl of soggy noodles. He made it about four steps from the toilet before collapsing facedown on the cold linoleum tiles.

FOR EVERY 💭 I RECEIVE, I WILL WRITE ONE THOUGHT MY MUSE HAS HAD ABOUT YOURS.

    Ephraim did it on purpose, Neo doesn’t doubt it for a second. 

    Why else would there be a mistletoe on the entrance to the kitchen? And why would Neo have been the one asked to carry the crates in? And lastly, why else would Ephraim just casually be sitting on the counter next to it? Not that Neo could find it in himself to complain, but it was all just too convenient to be a happenstance. Even if the endearing cook absolutely would not admit it was a setup for the life of him.

   When Neo stepped in with his arms piled high with boxes and took in the scene he laughed so hard to he almost dropped them. It was one of those few rare real laughs, almost falling over in the process as he put the crates down on the opposite counter. He even had to lean back for a moment, catching his breath and still letting out the remains of his amusement as chuckles, eyes not leaving Ephraim the whole time. He shook his head slowly pointing to the mistletoe. “It’s no tripwire, but it’s good.” He said, ignoring how Ephraim feigned innocence. Neo shrugged, standing up straight and stepping towards him. He wasn’t sure if it was truly a way to cajole him or whether it was just a prank to make him laugh, but either way he was treating it as an obligation, an un-agreed upon contract. 

   He stepped over to the cook quickly, fitting in between his knees where he sat on the counter, and leaned in, pressing a peck to his lips, a hand coming up to pat his cheek endearingly. “It’s very creative.” He admitted stepping back, remaining perfectly casual as always, as if it were just a normal thing to do, which he supposed it was. Neo had been known for kissing people out of the blue, general affection and a lack of awareness of personal space. It was almost as common as shaking hands to him at that point.

Land only offered a glance at the question, his eyes returning to watch the absent-minded work his fingers executed. 

Food was rarely something Land thought about; a necessity and after years of being deprived of it, he learned to eat whatever was handed to him. There was a point he ate bugs for a source of protein. He had his preferences, of course, things cold and sweet but he could never afford it and when he could, it wasn’t worth the money. For Ephriam to be asking, he probably had some kind of plan to ‘surprise’ Land. That’s what Land figured anyway. It still didn’t change the fact that Land felt like a straight answer was a betrayal of his person.