They sat together, facing away, which said everything about what they had become. Flynn looked out at the gently-stirring waters of the oasis, feeling too intensely the warm line of Yuri's back against his. He had no way of knowing what Yuri was seeing; all he could do was imagine, wistfully, the way he'd been imagining all along, like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Finding out that Yuri was a murderer, a criminal, should have made the feeling go away. But it only ached more, twisting in his chest until he felt like he might break. The stubborn boy he'd secretly admired all his life had done some unforgiveable things, and Flynn was the one who felt like a bastard for taking him to task for them.
But if he stayed quiet just a little while longer -- enjoyed Yuri's presence just a little while longer -- maybe he'd remember that he was not trying to punish Yuri for the path he'd chosen, but to save him from the rest of the world.
The rest of the world could never see in him what Flynn did.
Had she assumed he would never bring a woman home to meet her -- no, that wasn't quite right. That made it sound like she didn't want him to be happy, or didn't think he could be happy.
"Of course you already know Bridget." His smile so small and soft and secret and not for her.
Lenalee did know Bridget. Her brother had complained about the woman over dinner, too forceful -- too domineering.
She forced herself to smile, and of course she was happy, but deep down Lenalee knew that she was also disappointed. Her brother's perfect woman had turned out to be nothing like her.
No; the world wasn't ending, because they were ending.
Asch -- the real Luke -- was going cold in his arms. He pulled the body closer, buried his face in broken armor, and tried to tell himself it would help.
"This should be you," he told the other boy softly. "Should've been me full of arrows. Should've been me who stayed behind in that damned room. Didn't I tell you...?"
The skin beneath his lips was still cold, but Luke -- the fake Luke -- held tight, pressing closer in the most intimate way he could, and willed his flame into those ashes.
...she stirred from a deep, deep sleep, feeling strangely groggy, the way she never did when she woke up. Namine's head rolled to the side, and when she finally pried her heavy eyelids open, she could just make out in her surroundings a great darkness, broken only by an odd patch of yellow. As her blurred vision began to clear, she realized that it was an incongruous patch of flowers.
"Ah-ah-ah... After so long away, you won't even look at me now?" said a horrifyingly familiar voice.
Panic surged into her throat, and Namine struggled to sit upright, fingers scrabbling for purchase on what felt like stone beneath her, but a boot landed on her chest and pressed her onto her back again.
((That is terrible. Everyone deserves a little reward!))
Gin had been what he called pleasantly surprised by the way the child hadn't trembled in his presence. "Isn't she precious," he'd cooed. "Such a big brave girl~."
Kaname had shared his surprise but not his amusement, hand flying to the hilt of his zanpakutou, ready to strike her down for what he saw as her audacity. "No one speaks to Aizen-sama that way," he'd said, smooth but forbidding. "She should apologize."
His own smile had never flickered. The child -- Orihime -- was fascinating, her utter lack of fear something he had never seen in another creature before. But she hadn't surprised him.
Colette jumped out of the closet with her arms over her head, crying gleefully, "Boo!"
Lloyd did not give the satisfying yelp or scrambling away that she had envisioned; in fact, he didn't even blink, just saying, "Wow, Colette, it's like past midnight! How long have you been hiding in my closet?"
She deflated, pulling the white sheet off. All that work for so little payoff... "I wanted to surprise you," she said, disappointed. She'd practically fallen asleep twice and only woke up when her head hit the wood.
"It's not really a surprise when you go around town with a sheet on--" Lloyd sighed, cutting himself off and flopping down onto his bed. "I'll act more surprised next time," he promised.
Colette shut the door and headed over to drop down next to him. It was too late to go home now, and she'd spent the night often enough as children. She leaned against his shoulder, and felt him stiffen and freeze, trying hard not to look at her.
She smiled a little to herself. She still had the power to startle him.
"You love me anyway, right?" Lavi asked hopefully.
Allen stared at him flatly, and then at the photograph in his hands. It had all seemed so innocent on its own. An outgoing personality and easy sensuality, a dry humor and a cutting intellect... Red hair and a hidden right eye...
So innocent, until he'd found the photograph of Cross as a younger man, with shorter hair. A mop of shorter red hair, in fact, and a hidden right eye...
It was just a silly schoolboy thing, Ron told himself, not for the first time. Everyone went through that phase in school. After a few pints, even Harry had confessed to a fleeting, confused crush on Cedric. Ron could have mentioned it then, free of ridicule. It was just -- one of those things.
And he loved Hermione. He really did. Would never have traded their life together for anything. He wasn't an idiot.
So Ron didn't mention it. He just finished his drink and said he'd never had thoughts like that himself, really.
A year later, Draco Malfoy married Pansy Parkinson, and Ron tried very hard not to feel like someone had just punched him in the gut.
Izuru paused as he caught sight of them and then, self-consciously, snuck up to the nearest column and hid behind it, just barely peeking out to see them. Hinamori and Nanao were sitting demurely on the steps, laughing together and cutting little pastel flowers out of a strip of cloth. He couldn't imagine what they were for -- some decoration or project for their divisions -- but it didn't even matter.
She was so... sweet and kind and gentle. Cutting out pastel flowers suited her so perfectly that he wondered why he hadn't just known somehow that she would be doing it. Izuru imagined his house, filled with cloth cut in the shape of flowers, a baby with her hair and his eyes in a pastel baby carriage, a--
"How can you be that whipped," Renji said behind him, and he jumped right out of his skin, "by a girl you're not even dating yet?"
Her hair, brushing against his nose when she pressed herself close. Her hands, sliding to her hips when she was irritated with him. Her eyes, narrowed or crinkled affectionately. There was something familiar about all of it.
But it didn't really sink in until he brought her home to meet Jennifer, and was greeted with a squeal. "Omigod," his mother said with relish. "It's been such a long time. And how did you talk him into wearing that?! It's adorable!"
Yuuri stared at her, then turned back to his pretty blonde girlfriend, and even the expression on her face -- confused, but too proud to admit it -- was exactly the same.
They were in bed. Ikkaku was still shivering, still unguarded and blissful.
Yumichika stroked long fingers over his lover's smooth scalp and said, "Why haven't you ever called me beautiful?"
"Fuck," Ikkaku replied eloquently into his shoulder. "Don't -- ask shit like that -- right now."
"I know I am," Yumichika went on, and worked a thumb behind the other man's ear, rubbing gently. "But you never say it."
Ikkaku softened against him, almost purring, but then twisted free of the manipulative touch. "You're pretty," he agreed. "But the beauty's in your fighting stance."
Yumichika smiled, slightly surprised, and pulled his lover down for a soft kiss.
Odile had many swans to care for, and her father was forever adding new ones to the flock, but she had learned, over the years, to tell each swan apart. She knew the long tail feathers and precise pattern of black markings above the bill that separated Odette from her swan sisters.
She had no sympathy for Prince Siegfried when he failed to be so distinguishing.
"There will be other men," she murmured into Odette's silken feathers. "His love was far from true. He should have seen at once that I was not you."
Something warm and wet soaked through her sleeve. Odile pretended it wasn't her princess's tears.
Someday he's going to cut her open. He's going to stick his hands inside. It isn't something she can avoid, no matter how clever she is.
In fact, if she's really clever and eludes him once or twice, it'll only make him more violent when he finally gets his hands on her. It isn't something he can avoid, no matter how much he half wants to.
Were he a normal man, he supposes this might be his version of courtship. Buying her flowers and candy, taking her to nice restaurants.
His version of I love you is so much warmer and more personal, but it will kill her. Shame, that.
Rita stared at her friend with accusing eyes. "What do you mean you couldn't go through with it?!"
The other girl smiled. "I love Yuri," she said simply. "He changed my life. I'll never forget that. And he will always... have a special place in my heart."
"Estelle." Rita kept her voice reasonable and calm. "Those are all great reasons to marry him."
Estelle shook her head. "He did ask me to marry him, but I think -- he was only trying to make me happy. And there are... other things that would make us both happier."
It started with the idiot maître d'. "We have tables in the back, if you would like more privacy."
Toushirou stared at him for a long beat, silent. Hinamori's surprise was turning to amusement behind him, and it made him scowl. "We don't need privacy," he snapped.
Then the server and the busboy made the same damned mistake. By the end of the evening, Hinamori was smiling into her menu, and Toushirou wanted to hurt someone.
"I'm sorry," he without looking at her as they left. "I know this wasn't a date."
"You're quite sure this is what you want?" he said, for perhaps the eightieth time.
Gwendolyn closed her eyes, and tried not to smile too broadly. "Yes," she told him. I have never been more certain of anything in my life/
She knew that at least part of what she felt for him was a spell, punishment for her betrayal and her father's humiliation at her hands. She did not care.
Oswald loved her, as no one in her life it seemed had ever loved her, and there was no spell on him. Even if the sweet ache in her heart was a lie, the feelings he seemed to have for her...
He practiced things that he'd say to her when she woke up. "Oh, no, Rukia-san, really, it didn't hurt me at all. You used Hisagomaru -- it didn't even leave a scratch. I was shocked, not wounded. You don't need to worry about me."
Then she woke up and she raced right back out to save Inoue-san.
Hanatarou told himself that she would definitely, definitely apologize to him when the crisis was over. After all, saving the world from Capta-- from Aizen was certainly a higher priority than talking to some medic who had gotten hurt because he hadn't done anything right.
But somehow when she did come to him, and she said seriously, "Hanatarou, I heard from my brother what happened. I wanted you to know that I'm really sorry -- I would never, ever hurt you," all of his practiced words fell right out of his head.
She found him on a hilltop looking out at the ruins of Edo where he had fought earlier in the day, wearing a sweater his master had given him to replace his ruined uniform. It was hard to walk after the battering she'd given her legs, but she had never been one to let pain stop her.
Kanda didn't turn to look at her as she drew up next to him, but he didn't stiffen or hide his thoughts either. He just kept looking out at the homeland he probably couldn't even remember with that dark, tense expression.
After a few minutes, Lenalee said softly, "Thanks. For coming back."
He made a vague sound of acknowledgment, and she drew closer, twining her fingers into his reassuringly. It was hard to keep coming back when you had nothing.
Law didn't feel much sympathy for the little lordling, not when he had problems enough of his own, but Cadian spent half of the night looking down at his wrists, the marks the shackles had left on his delicate skin. With his keen observational skills it was hard not to notice, and finally he said, "So, how was prison?"
To his surprise, the younger man didn't sneer the question off. He stared at his hands a while longer, and then tossed his head. "Boring," he stated. "If sleep and flavorless food are enough to break most criminals, I don't think we have a very high standard of criminal."
Fair enough. Law nodded a little. "So," he asked instead, "How was being a criminal?"
Cadian's fingers curled in, fisting in front of him, and he didn't have a glib answer for that.
They sat together on the floor in the library, reading, at some point having slid together until they were shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Rita had found a book on advanced core glyphs that she hadn't read a hundred times before, and Estelle had found a small stack of books. A few of them were treatises and history books, different perspectives on things she'd already read -- but most of them were fictional stories, romances and adventures.
Rita finished her book first, and closed it, and then she sat there, nothing left to read, for a few long minutes.
"Did you find," she asked, very distantly, "...that book you were talking about the other day? The one with -- your ideal man?"
Estelle looked up, surprised. "Yes, actually. I saw it on one of the bookshelves."
"...which one?" Rita asked, glancing away. "I'm just curious."
He taught the boy to read newspapers, not just for the words or even for comprehension of the words, but for what the words didn't say. Brazil abolished slavery? Why would they do that? Who led the movement? What else are those people connected to? Did anything happen that might be related, in the secret dark ways that moved nations?
The boy was a quick study, mostly because he was interested in words, and liked to think. He was never content to passively take in information that came to him; he was driven to actively seek it, reaching out with his own hands to take the knowledge and play with it, shape it until he was satisfied. It was a trait that would make him a good Bookman, even moreso than simply possessing the recording eye.
Still, Bookman taught him the ways, over and over long after they had been ingrained in the child's avid mind. No matter how quick the boy was to dismiss human connections like relationships and names, the only way to keep humanity at bay was to reinforce the habits of the recorder deep, in layers, forever.
Bookman knew. The reminders were for him, as well.
He was already starting to feel the enthusiastic child creeping into his heart.
Caring for him was counter to her mission; she'd known that from the very beginning. The only thing it would ever do was slow her down and, eventually, get her killed.
He didn't even know her real name.
But as she delivered the spin kick that caught him in the back of the head and took him down like a ton of bricks, Ada Wong still hesitated before leaving him behind.
Leon Kennedy was like a little kid playing a grown-up's game, and she should have been tired of saving his butt from behind the scenes, but damn it if he wasn't cute asleep.
No reply. Leafmon twisted around in his partner's arms to look up at the boy's face and saw that Ken was smiling, but not looking.
"Ken-chan?"
Ken put a finger to his lips, and then pointed ahead of them, to where Daisuke was craning his neck so hard to look that Chibimon, perched on his head, was having to struggle to keep his balance. "Where, where, where?!"
"It's over the ocean," Ken told him helpfully, and Leafmon caught sight of the smile softening on his face, before Ken turned his head to hide it in the night.
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