Feb. 26th, 2020

danzanelfuoco: (Default)
Fandom: Death Notes

Rating: NSFW

Challenge: COW-T, w4, m3

Prompt: Non uccidere

Wordcount: 4000 parole


Note: Trigger warning - c’è un punto non-con, ma non è stupro vero e proprio e un generale senso di dub-con. 


The plan is insane, so of course, it’s gonna work. 

Light might just be the craziest person on Earth, but again he has become a serial killer and a God, that doesn’t exactly vouch for mental stability. 

So that’s how he goes to the tennis match with Ryuzaki - with L if he can believe him and right now Light is betting in his life on the skeletal and too pale man in front of him to be the greatest detective ever - and that’s how he asks him out. 

Crazy. 

Genius. 

Well, but the distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success. 

So Light asks him out, feigns surprise when L says “I suspect that you, Light Yagami, are in fact Kira” and laugh and still brings him to his favorite café, because why not, this is how Light Yagami, the best student in Japan, would behave while pretending to not be Kira. 

Light lets Ryuzaki spread all his little accusations, all his subtexts, and veiled threatenings and he smiles and laughs and feigns offense trough his ordeal, all the right expressions at the right moments. 

He lets Ryuzaki pull out the photos of the messages Kira sent him, plays the lab rat role, sorting the photo by number, by meaning, bowing his head when Ryuzaki pulled up a fourth and false photo, scolding him for not thinking about it. 

Light lets him think everything is going as Ryuzaki plans, and wonders when it will be the right moment for his move. 

The bantering over the messages are just tiring him, so maybe now it’s the moment. 

“Then, if you were me, faced with someone who might be Kira, how would you check if he was Kira?”

“I would try to have him say something that wasn’t broadcast to the public, that only Kira would know. Kinda what you were doing just now.”

“Truly amazing. I’ve asked several detectives that same question and most of them needed a few minutes to answer. But you… you immediately thought of a scenario in which Kira is speaking directly with the investigator. I’m impressed. Your deductive abilities are amazing, Light.”

 And then, Lights bites his lips and looks at him from under his lashes. 

“I - I - ” Light stutters, stutters!, and Ryuzaki looks lost, “Thank you, it really means a lot from you.” Admiration, but not enough to look like a sycophant, not enough to be suspicious. 

“I just say what I see,” L recovers, fast enough. “You truly are amazing,” he pushes. 

And if Light were Kira he would flatter him even more. 

But Light drops it, sipping his coffee, hiding behind the mug. 

Surely L has misread something in this exchange. 

“It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, though. The more impressive your answers, the more of a suspect you become,” he points out, hoping to unbalance Kira.

And that’s his cue. 

“Well, I think maybe I can prove you I’m not Kira, but…” Light looks down into his mug as if his coffee holds the exact phrasing he needs. 

“But?” L raises an eyebrow, not impressed. What now?

 “You’ll have to follow me to a place. I can’t show you here.” 

It’s dangerous. It could be a trap. 

It could mean his death. 

But no, no, Kira would never kill him with a different weapon than the supernatural - or at least very technologically progressed - one that he’s using to become a deity. 

Besides, L has always been the gambler. 

“Make way.” 


* * * 


When Light stops in front of their destination, Ryuzaki wants to gauge his eyes out to check if they’re actually working. 

A love motel. Light Yagami has brought him to a love motel. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” 

Light turns to him, red spreading on his checks. “It’s not what you think. It thought it would be safe and neutral ground.” 

“It’s not neutral if you choose it.” 

“I can make you pick another one in this area.” 

“Why this area?”

“Because I’ve chosen it. If I had you take a random hotel I couldn’t be sure it would be safe and neutral.” 

L wonders what exactly Light means with “safe and neutral”.

“So?” Light inquires, “Do you want to go somewhere else?” 

It could be a bluff, but Light seems earnest enough. 

He ponders the idea of suggesting the other way around, for L to choose a different area and Light to decide the place, but somehow he suspects the student would reply that the detective may have wired and prepared every room in every hotel in the area.

Paranoid.

Suspicious.

It doesn’t matter that L would have really done it, if only he had had any idea he could end up with Kira in a motel room.

L is about to nod and choose another structure in the street when it occurs to him that Light may have just done the same, prepared every hotel with a trap. 

Paranoid.

That has saved his life a lot, but now he’s gambling his life, trusting Light to not kill him at least for the time being, so a little trust he should have. 

“No, this is just fine.”

Light doesn’t look relieved, doesn't look like someone who wanted him to choose this particular hotel. But then again, he doesn't even look like a serial killer, maybe he’s just that good at lying.  

Ryuzaki lets Light approach the reception, asking for a room, and then follows him into the lift. 

The ride to the fifth floor - the fourth actually, shin, death, if only the Japanese weren’t that superstitious - is silent. 

Light looks at his image reflected on the button panels and L doesn’t even try to start a conversation. He wonders what on Earth he’s getting into. Light is blushing like a schoolgirl, like this is exactly what it looks like…

Except it can’t be. 

Or can it?

The student opens the door of chamber 519 and Ryuzaki is surprised by how lavish it is, too lavish for a university student who doesn’t work, with a living room separated from the bedroom and a bathroom that’s way too big. 

“Well, here we are, Light Yagami. What is it that you wanted to show me?” 

Light turns to him, unzipping his sweatshirt. “Undress.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Light doesn’t repeat it, just takes off his tennis t-shirt and throws it away, without taking his eyes off him. 

Ryuzaki shivers as he proceeds to kick away his track pant and then he’s hooking the waistband of his boxers and L slightly panics. “We’re… ah, we’re not having sex, Light-kun.”

The student chuckles. “That wasn’t my intention, Ryuzaki. Please, take off your clothes.” 

It doesn’t reassure L, but he won’t be beaten by physical proximity or… intimacy. Ugh. 

So Ryuzaki pulls over his white and worn shirt and lets his jeans crumble on the floor. 

“Everything,” emphasizes Light, doubling to take off his boxers, and L wills himself not to blush as he does the same. 

So, how exactly did he end up stark naked in a love motel with possibly Kira? 

Light moves to the bathroom, gesturing him to follow and turns on the shower, hot water steaming almost immediately, before going in. 

“What are you waiting for?” He asks and Ryuzaki asks himself if Light isn’t lying after all and this is exactly what it looks like. But no, he may have no idea nor personal experience in this field, but he’s pretty sure the only way Light wants to screw with him is mental. 

When he enters the shower Light pushes him against the wall and L loses his foot, so he doesn't have any leverage to kick back. 

Light doesn't allow him to fall, but pins him to the wall, knocking his legs apart and pushing his hand between his tights. 

“What are you -” Ryuzaki words get choked out by the spray of water trickling in his mouth and the pain. 

Light’s finger trusts in his ass, dry, and it hurts as he rummages inside him.

Then Light is out him, retreating with a calculating glint in his eyes that makes Ryuzaki shivers, 

“I apologize, but I don’t trust you enough to leave out the possibility of you having a bug up your ass.”

Wire. 

Yes, fuck. 

He should have realized before, the idea nagging in the corner of his mind if only this type of human interaction weren’t his blind spot. He had been fooled like a newbie by what? The inability to understand if Light was flirting with him or not? Shit. 

Ryuzaki feels the possibility of the boy in front of him being Kira skyrocket to 99,9%. 

He’s probably gonna kill him too, 89%. 

“And what are you gonna tell me that you don’t want me to record?” he keeps up his façade of imperturbability, ignoring the fact that he had Light’s fingers up his ass without his consent less than a minute ago. 

“If I were you, faced with someone who might be Kira, how would I check if he was Kira?” Light asks rhetorically, quoting him, and smiles, all teeth, and sharp edges, like he’s progressively transitioning to Kira under his eyes. “Well, I would ask him.” 

“Ask him?”

“Yes. Ask me.” 

This isn’t going as L had expected. This isn’t… right. Light is supposed to hide and lie and now… what is he doing now?

“Are you Kira, Light Yagami?” Ryuzaki asks and surely the answer will be ‘of course not’, but he’s not so sure anymore. 

“Yes,” Light invades his space, pressing him against the wall again, “yes, I am.”

Ryuzaki feels the adrenaline rushing in his vein. How long will he take for Kira to kill him? Will he be able to communicate with the headquarters in some way, least his death would be wasted?

“Why are you telling me?” 

“I’m giving myself up. I’m taking away the challenge,” Light chuckles, “You came to me at the university, L, you got me there, that was bold and really smart. And I came to you here. We're even. Game over.” 

Light presses the palm of his hands against his chest, over his heart, brushing his nipple, because that, the physical contact, is making L uncomfortable - who would have thought, L the virgin - and Light isn’t someone to give up leverage. 

“Everything you do, now, it’s no longer a win, for I yielded.” 

Now, if the person in front of him isn’t L, but just some henchman with a moral compass, Light is as good as dead. 

Light has done his researches, knew everything could be known about the mysterious detective even before, but now he has dug up everything he could find and what he gathered from his intelligence operation is that L doesn't care about justice, doesn't care about doing the right thing - he actually is very willing to bend the rules if that helps him and he’s prepared to do a lot of off-the-record things if it means solving the case. Because what L really craves is the game, the challenge, the solving of the crime, not the crime per se. 

“So, you’re cheating your way out,” L states, contemplatively, with an edge of offense, not enough disguised in his tone. 

“Yes, you may say that. But now the game can move forward.” 

Light moves away and L takes a little to realize he’s still plastered to the wall even if Kira is no longer pinning him there. 

The killer turns off the water and takes a towel, offering one to the detective. Then he pads out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the moquette. 

L follows him in the second room, the bedroom, eyeing his clothes crumpled on the floor, willing the wire in his shirt to not be so useless. 

Light closes the door behind L’s back and turns on the radio, pop music filling the room. “One can never be too cautious.” 

“Of course,” L nods because this is what he would do too. 

Disturb every interception there could be. 

Be paranoid. 

One can never be too cautious. 

“Take a seat,” Light indicates the chair at the desk and then leaves him. 

L brings his legs up, sitting in his strange position, feeling like he needs every inch of intellect he can gather. 

Light comes back with a white sheet of paper that he puts on the table, shifting it toward him with two fingers. 

“You wanted to know? I’m offering you knowledge.” 

“What is this?”

“This,” he taps on the sheet with his index, leaving it pinned down with his middle finger, “is how I kill.”

L looks at the piece of paper in front of him, so white and so innocently common. 

“How do I know you aren't a mythomaniac?”

Light smiles. “Well, for once there never was a fourth message, you made it up.”

L nods even if it's not enough. He could have deduced it, made a leaped of faith… but no, L wanted to trap him with the fourth picture, it doesn't make sense now to not believe him now. 

Then Light takes a pen from the stationary set on the desk and offers it to L. 

“Here, kill me.”

L eyes the pen as if it were a grenade, ready to explode at his first touch. 

“What?”

“I’m offering myself up. You know my name, you know my face. It’s all you need to kill me. Go on, write my name.”

He’s bluffing, he must be bluffing. 

L takes the pen. 

“Go on, the floor is yours, stop me.” 

And L is really tempted to. 

 

Game over, Kira. 

But it wouldn't be his victory, not when Kira as done all but giving him the gun, take the safety off and pointing it at his own head. 

“Why do you want so much for me to kill you?”

“Oh, I don’t actually want you to. I'm fond of living, but… can't you fell the temptation? Save the world by killing the bad guy?”

I suppose I do, Lawliet thought. 

But was it right to do so? 

‘You shall not kill’, the fifth commandment, one of the rules he had lived obliging - because he needed rules, he had always needed rules, a limit, a stop, a line he couldn’t cross, otherwise anything would do, anything could be done and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal. 

‘You shall not kill’, Watari had impressed in his mind, along with the idea that he should work for the good side of the world, and what side was it, had asked five years old Lawliet, but Watari hadn’t replied. ‘You’ll know when the time comes.’

But Lawliet didn’t know anything about ethics, about empathy. Lawliet needs someone to point him in the right direction and unleash him. 

Light had seen it through, he was there for the thrill of the rush, not for justice. 

“How do I know this is not a trap? How do I know this really works?”

Light nods, as if he had expected such a complaint, and turns on the small television. He zaps until he finds a report of some crime and stops at the apprehension of a murderer. 

“The authority has finally captured Yamada Yukio, accused of killing his wife and daughter in a raptus of psychotic violence. The man…” the journalist talks as the man gets brought out in handcuffs and his head gets covered by a hood - too late, though, Kira has already seen him. 

“Would he do?” Kira asks and Ryuzaki can’t believe what he’s offering. 

Killing that man in front of him… 

Ryuzaki nods, speechless, his skin crawling, his heart furiously beating. 

Light takes from his hands the hotel pen and bends over the sheet. The point of it hovers over the paper for what feels like a century, then Light turns to him, offering it back. “Or would you prefer to do it?” 

L shakes his head violently, refusing it so vehemently Light wonders if it’s just to push back the temptation. 

“No? What are you afraid of?”

What am I afraid of? 

That man would surely be condemned to the death penalty. 

 

What am I afraid of? I’m afraid of you, Kira. I’m afraid of becoming you.

“I can't be both jury and judge.”

“Why not?” 

“Because… that leads to tyranny. You have the monopoly of justice.” 

“But it worked. Criminality has dropped significantly, people are afraid of divine wrath and behave as they should.” 

“Why are discussing ethics?”

“Why weren't we before. I’m trying to understand your point of view, I really admire your mind, it would be a pity for us to fight till one of us dies.”

“You're not sure to win?”

“I may be a God, but I'm not an omniscient and omnipotent one.” 

“Humble,” L scoffs. 

“So, this Yamada Yukio. Do you want to do it? Or shall I?”

“I can't -”

“Very well, then,” Light writes the name and leaves the pen on the desk. “Now we wait.”

It takes forty seconds then the man dies. 

It would shock L so much more if only he was the first man he saw die. 

“Why are you showing me this?” L asks, “why are you revealing your secrets to me? Why are you entrusting me with your life?” 

Light takes a step back.

“Geniality usually calls for solitude. When people around you are so stupid even the most basic conversation becomes tiring one tries to seclude himself. You, on the other hand… your mind…” 

“What do you want, Light?” 

“Everything,” Light whispers, “I could have the world. And you could have it with me.”

“Greed? I thought it would be pride,” L mocks him. 

“Greed, pride, wrath, envy, gluttony, sloth… lust,” he whispers a few inches from his mouth and Lawliet shivers at the feel of his breath over his skin, “I can own them all. I could create an eight if I so wish.” 

Light taps nonchalantly the pen over his phalanges. 

“The tv is still talking about crimes, you know? It rises their ratings. Look a madman trying to rob a supermarket has taken the clients as hostages. Doesn't it remind you of something?”

“Your first kill,” L breathes.

“Yes, my first kill,” there’s nostalgia in his tone. “But I’m not gonna kill this one.”

L eyes him, wearily, analyzing his expression. “If I wanna save these people, I need to do it, is that what you are saying?”

Light grins. “Yes. I’m not interfering. This will play out exactly as it should, no divine intervention. Well, unless you can’t stand to some people killed.”

“You don’t know he’s gonna kill them.” 

“I don’t. But usually, the right lays with the one who thinks the worst. It’s a gamble. Fifteen hostages or one kidnapper?” 

“No.” 

“Fine. Wash your hands, then.” 

“I’m not -” 

“You are. I’m giving you the power to change things for the better. You prefer to be a bystander. I won’t criticize your choice. I thought you were different though.”

 “Just because I’m not willing to kill someone…” 

“Are you?” 

“Of course I am.” 

“Then take this damn pen. Hold it in your hand as you watch those people get slaughtered. You are condemning them.” 

“You won’t make me see things as you do. It’s wrong.” 

“How is it wrong? If a policeman had that man in the line of fire he would have already shot. You have that man at gunpoint and you are refusing to pull the trigger before he kills his hostages.” 

Light grips his chin in his hand, forcing his head up to meet his stare. 

“What’s your moral imperative now? Thou shall not kill? Primum non nocere? Or is it saving people? Is your soul worthier than any of those innocent people? Would you let them die before dirtying your hands? I know you. I know your hands are already dirty enough you wouldn’t notice another stain.” 

Lawliet truly looks, for the first time, in Light’s eyes, big and angry and full of fervor. 

 

He believes it. 

 

Hell, I believe it. 

“Write that name,” Light thrusts the pen into his hands and slams it on the table. “Save them.” 

From the television speakers, the bang of a gunshot thunders in the room. 

“Now!” Light bellows. 

Tentatively, L unscrews the cap of the pen and lays it down on the paper. 

Am I really gonna do it? 

Another shot. 

“You’re down to thirteen. You can still save those,” Light whispers in his ear, tempting as the snake in the garden of Eden. 

Yamada… 

Lawliet hesitates. 

“Bang,” Light pressures him.

…Yukio.

It’s done. 

“Forty seconds,” Light reminds him and Lawliet feels like he’s about to throw up. 

“The hostages are leaving the supermarket!” The journalist screams in the background but neither of them is watching the screen right now. 

“It looks like the kidnapper had a heart attack. Further investigation is to be made, but the man was thirty-five years old, so maybe we should thank Kira for this…” 

The journalist gets censored and gets cut off and suddenly there’s advertisement streaming. 

“Yes, we should thank Kira” Light grins, and grins, and grins until he’s all sharp teeth and a manic laugh. “Thank you.” 

Lawliet shivers, because he has done it. Has done it and no divine lighting as struck him down - not that he expected it to, but still…Thou shall not kill and yet he did and he’s still there and thirteen people are still alive. 

Adrenaline is rushing in his blood, and his muscles are so tense and he just feels like he had run a marathon even if he had done absolutely nothing. 

“How do you feel?” Light asks, bothered and worried and the perfect university student he’s playing when everyone’s watching. 

“Tired. You don’t need to pretend concern.” 

“But I’m not pretending,” and as he smiles, Lawliet can still see the edges the sharpness of his soul. “I really want you to be fine.” 

Light tilts his chin with a finger and then kisses him. 

It’s chaste, Lawliet’s first kiss, and it’s happening after he killed a criminal and became part of the most famous serial killer ever.

How fitting

And worse, worse than killing, worse than kissing back Kira, worse than everything it’s that he has to look at himself and know that he had got into the situation on his own - he can’t even pretend Light forced him to, he didn’t threaten him, he just let him choose. 

Light lets him go and takes a step back. 

“Not that I want to, but I can't kill you now. I don't know your name and I don't want you to give it up to me. Let's call it your life insurance. You can keep the paper, you’ll need it…”

L doesn’t even try to protest.  

“I know you can still kill me with that sheet… But, as it is, you could also put a bullet through my head, right Ryuzaki?” 

Light doesn’t even wait for a reply and unfastens his towel, dropping it on the floor.

“Are you coming to bed, L?” 

Lawliet looks at the paper, at the bed and closes his eyes, overwhelmed. 

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. 

But maybe he could try to be different. 

Maybe he could even succeed. 

Maybe he’s just foolish and insane as Light. 

“Yes, I’m coming.” 


* * * 


The detectives at the headquarter look at him and L doesn’t lie. 

“Light Yagami can’t possibly be Kira. He was with me when Yamada Yukio was killed and he did nothing.”

Soichiro Yagami looks really relieved. 

 “Actually, with his amazing deductive skills, he’s gonna became part of the task force.” 

Light, as his side, smiles, and blushes, playing the really sheepish genius who doesn’t want to stand up. 

Hiding in plain sight. 

And L has stared enough in the abyss for the abyss to stare into him. 


Hellebore

Feb. 26th, 2020 09:21 pm
danzanelfuoco: (Default)
Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Zoro/Sanji
Rating: Safe

Challenge: COW-T, w4, m4

Prompt: I’m on watch here, so close your eyes and get some rest Wordcount: 4000 parole




They say it could be cured with a kiss.

If only life could be so easy, Sanji would even go as far as to pay for it and get rid of the damn disease. 

But since the disease spreads from unrequited love, only a kiss from the loved person will work - and to make the matter worse, the kiss must be meant. There’s no cheating this fucking disease, there’s no loophole to find, no way to circle it. 

For the Hanahaki to stop, the unrequited love must become requited. 

So Sanji might as well prepare his will because he’s on for coughing bloody flowers ‘till the end of his very few days until the roots of the plants growing in his chest crush his lungs putting him out of his misery. 

Oh, he always knew his lungs would be the death of him, smoking so many cigarettes a day he was doomed. How ironic is life. 


- - -  


The first to know something’s wrong with him, somehow, is Zoro. Of all people. 

Sanji would laugh, instead, he keeps coughing until he crushes on his knees, a hand on his chest, his throat burning as the green petals scratch his palate. 

Zoro lowers his swords, frowning, then sheathes them, abandoning their fight. “Oi, shitty cook, what’s wrong with you?”

Sanji would very much like to reply that nothing’s wrong with him, but the cough doesn’t allow him to speak and flowers fall from his mouth. 

The swordsman reaches over. The flowers are green, with a hint of yellow, five petals around stamens and pistils, all soaked in blood and saliva. 

“What are those? Why are you coughing up this shit?” he asks and Sanji would really like to answer him, but he’s still gagging. 

“What the fuck, cook, you have the Hanahaki?” Zoro looks at the flower in his hand and then at Sanji, trying to make out another sense to what he’s seeing. But there isn’t another explanation. “Of fucking course, you would have that stupid disease, who else? You fall in love with every woman who so much as walks in front of you.”

Sanji shakes his head, but Zoro ignores him. 

“You need to check up with Chopper, to tell this woman -”

“No” Sanji breaths out, his voice rasping, his throat sore. “Nobody can know…”

“Are you out of your mind, you stupid cook? You are gonna die.”

And then, in a moment of clarity, Sanji sees what is really gonna happen to him. He tells Chopper and Chopper cries, because there isn’t a cure to this crappy disease, and then guilts him with his big round raccoon eyes into telling this person, so Sanji does and Zoro punches him in the face. Or worse, Zoro kisses him out of pity and it doesn’t work. Of course, it doesn’t work. 

“I’m not telling Chopper. There’s no cure he can concoct. I’m as well as dead.” 

“You can’t really be giving up.” 

Sanji doesn’t have a reply. 

Zoro beats the crap out of him, without even unsheathing his swords, bruising his knuckles to bring him to his senses and Sanji lets him because there is nothing that Zoro can do to save him. In the end, he still doesn’t have a reply. 

“And what about your dream? What about the All Blue?” Zoro asks and, for a second, Sanji thinks he cares. Ah, wishful thinking. 

“I suppose you’ll have to find it for me” he answers, his throat still sore, his cheekbone throbbing where the swordsman landed a punch. 

Zoro looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time ever and leaves him there, surrounded by bloody green flowers. 

- - - 


Zoro hadn’t told anyone, Sanji is sure of that, as he was sure that Zoro wouldn’t want him or anyone else to disclose what happened on Thriller Bark. After all, they are alike - so much alike they clash and grind and go under each other skin - and they always were the ones to take the blows and suffer in silence, because admitting a weakness would make them stumble and get undone. 

So Sanji is sure Zoro hadn’t told anyone, but Robin knows about it nonetheless. 

“Sanji” she addresses him, entering the kitchen while he’s washing dishes and Sanji forces himself to smile hoping there isn’t blood smeared on his teeth. 

“Yes, my dear Robin? How can I help my sweetheart today?” He asks, his eyes twinkling but not as heart-shaped as usual. It takes effort to achieve that effect and Sanji’s tired. It happens when half the oxygen you inhale goes to a fucking plant in your chest instead of your muscles. 

Robin’s usually cryptic expression has been replaced by a concerned frown. “I think you lost this.” She extends her hand and, when she opens her fingers, in her palm there’s a flower. 

“I -” he doesn’t really know how to continue. 

“Hellebore,” she states, holding the evidence of his vulnerability between them. “May I suggest you talk to the object of your affection very soon?” She doesn’t need to remind him that a weak nakama makes his whole crew weak - she isn’t even implying it - but Sanji can’t see anything else than reproach in the fold of those green petals. 

Sanji pries his eyes away from the flower. “Well, if you would be so kind as to kiss me…” Sanji tries to put up his ladies' man façade. 

Robin’s lips turn in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It is a strong flower, the hellebore. It takes a lot to grow in the middle of winter. And a green variety, nonetheless. Quite uncommon. It could make someone wonder.”

“Wonder?” 

“About why the Hanahaki had decided to manifest itself with such a particular flower.” The way she stresses her words makes Sanji shiver. She knows - he doesn’t know how, but she knows. 

“Be careful, cook-san, for the hellebore is also poisonous and you are producing completely formed flowers. You don’t have that much time left to waste flattering me.” She leaves the flower on the kitchen table. 


- - - 


Luffy doesn’t ask for lunch, shouting for it at the top of his lungs, and that should worry Sanji more than anything. But Sanji doesn’t immediately take it in, not when he’s doubled over the kitchen sink, spitting blood-smeared flowers in the basin. 

He has time to wipe his mouth and plaster a fake smile on his face, his throat still burning and raw as he waltzes out of the galley with the food, before realizing Luffy had waited politely, sitting without fuss. 

He feels his chest contract and for once it’s not his bloody disease. 

They all know. 

Sanji doesn’t know how they know - Robin would never and Zoro would never, for different reasons, different moral compasses, maybe the whole crew had just figured out on their own - but they do. 

Or if they don’t, by now Luffy’s weird and out of character behavior is making them wonder. Because for the Captain to be as silent surely something must have happened. 

So Luffy knows - Sanji is still sure Zoro didn’t tell - and now Nami is eyeing both of them wearily and it’s not even close to the thoughtful expression on Usopp’s face as he looks at food in his plate and then at Sanji. Franky has a big question mark on his face while Brook, of course, is unreadable as always, having no muscles, and Chopper is fretting over Luffy, too worried about him to wonder about anything else. 

The only one behaving as if nothing is wrong is Robin, politely accepting his food and eating. Zoro, on the other hand, has his arms crossed over his chest and his gazing into the ocean, stating a clear “I don’t give a shit, you already know what I think”.

Sanji puts his plate down and sits awkwardly, feeling at loss about what should happen now. 

Nami fixes her gaze on him, unwavering and pondering, and that’s when Sanji takes it in. She doesn’t know, she is not sure.

No one knows - well, except for Zoro, Robin and now, apparently, Luffy - no one knows what is wrong. But they know something is wrong. 

And Sanji’s playing them all. 

He’s pretending everything’s fine when actually, everything’s not fine at all. 

“I don’t want to eat,” Luffy states and the whole crew gasps and hold his breath. “I want you to talk.” 

“I -” I don’t have anything to say, but that’s not fine either. 

He should tell them. 

It’s difficult because then they would ask who and would push him to tell and he doesn’t want to. He knows he’ll just give in if they keep insisting and he fears it more than he fears the death at the end of his inaction.  

“Sanji…” Luffy pushes and Zoro snarls “Tell them, stupid cook” and it’s all it takes for the blossoms in his to thrive and flourish. 

Sanji bends over, his whole body shaking for the coughing fit, and when he looks up there’s blood smearing his lips and trailing down his chin. 

Robin reaches for his shirt and takes a few flowers that haven’t been spat on the floor, leaving the hellebore on the table, green as an accusation. “You have to tell this person, cook-san.” 

Sanji’s throat is hurting and burning, “I - I can’t.” 

Zoro is the first to leave, with a tsk, anger stiffing his steps. 

One by one the other members of the crew try to convince him, uselessly, and then they leave him alone - Chopper with the promise he’ll come to the infirmary as soon as he’s done working - until Sanji’s alone with Luffy. 

“Why aren’t you talking?” 

“I can’t.” 

“No. You already said it. Why?”

Sanji could reply it would be pointless, it wouldn’t work. Instead, he just goes with the truth.  

“It hurts too much.” 

Luffy nods to himself. 

“I don’t think it's me,” he says, serious, “but if it’s me…” 

Sanji shakes his head in a silent 'no', not daring to look his captain in the eye as he asks permission to die. 

Luffy nods again and then, as he’s leaving, he stops to put his hat on Sanji’s head. “Right now, you need it more than I do.”


- - -


Chopper frets and squeaks and all in all he is worried, but when he speaks he’s professionally calm. 

“The roots have already infiltrated between the lobes and reached the pleura, it’s a matter of weeks before they move inside the lobes squeezing the parenchyma. Then you die.” 

His voice doesn’t crack nor weaver, Sanji knows he’ll cry later. 

“Your options are limited. You could eradicate the pathology by telling the people you love…” 

 “That’s out of the question.” 

“Fine, then -”

“You aren’t gonna plead your case?” 

Chopper looks at him with earnest eyes. “I cannot force cures on you. I am your doctor right now, I will respect your decision on your health.”

Sanji nods. “It’s pointless if they don’t love me back.” 

“Are you sure of that?” Chopper inquires.

“Positive.” 

“Then the alternative is surgery.” 

“There’s an alternative?”

 “Yes. You should have come to me sooner, we could have saved the memories if we eradicated the disease when it was just petals, when it was limited to your major bronchi. Now that has infiltrated that much, it will be more difficult and painful and the complications are gonna be enormous. There is a small chance you won’t forget.”

“What? What will I forget?

“The person you love. You won’t love them anymore, you won’t even remember them. The probability of memory loss at this stage of the disease is… 95%, more or less.” 

Sanji looks at his hands, wondering what it would be like to wake up in the morning, breathing freely and wondering who the hell is the green marimo sleeping in the hammock next to his. Would he even call him marimo again?

“I - I can’t.” 

- - - 


Nami comes to him in the dead of the night, when the only people still up are Zoro in the nest crow and Sanji in the kitchen, washing the last dishes and starting the preparation for tomorrow’s breakfast. 

She slides in, closing the door after her and leaning on it, head reclined and eyes closed, as if she’s gathering an internal force, still debating with herself. 

“Nami-schwann?” Sanji inquires, curious. His tone strangely isn’t full of treacle.

Nami doesn’t speak a word, she just looks at him with cold determination in her eyes, before moving. She takes the dishcloth from his hand, putting it on the table, then she cups his cheeks with her hands and she plants a firm chaste kiss on his lips. 

Time should stop, firework should explode, only months before Sanji would have given an arm for this to happen. 

Right now, though, it’s nothing. 

Nami takes a step back, watching his face to see some reaction.

“You don’t love me, Nami, do you?” he breathes. 

Her face crumbles. “You are my nakama, Sanji. Of course, I love you, just… not in that way. I hoped it was enough.”

Sanji takes a step back and recovers the dishcloth. “It’s not your fault Nami. I love you too, just not in that way.”

“Who is -?”

“I’d prefer not to tell.”

“Why not? If it’s Robin…” 

“It’s not.”

“But they are one of the crew, are they not?” 

“Nami -”  

“Sanji,” she pleads, “Please. You are gonna die. You can’t just let this thing consume you without fighting. Tell them, whoever they are.” 

The cook pinches the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to reply, even if it’s against his policy to contradict a lady. 

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. This person… they won’t react well.” 

Nami smiles sadly. “Every person on this ship loves you. We are nakama. We won’t let you die.”

“But this kind of love isn’t enough. I need him to love me romantically and it will never happen.” 

It doesn’t matter anymore if she knows whom he’s talking about. 

“Aren’t you even willing to try?” Nami asks, relenting. “You might be surprised.” 

“Goodnight, Nami-schwann.”

- - -  


When Zoro comes to the crow's nest to start his watching duty, Sanji should leave - would leave, if only he had enough energy to get up. 

“I saw Nami joining you in the kitchen,” Zoro speaks, looking in the distance. 

Sanji gets up and reaches him at the window. Right now climbing down looks like hell, but maybe if he stays up long enough his body will cooperate. 

“She kissed you, right? So you don’t have the Hanahaki anymore?” 

“She kissed me,” Sanji nods. “But I still have it.”

“She doesn’t love you enough,” Zoro snarls, as if that was her fault in any way. She tried, at least. 

I don’t love her.”

“Excuse me, what?” 

“I am the one that doesn’t love her,” Sanji repeats, because why not, and Zoro looks at him like he had just stated the sky has always been green. 

“Then who the fuck is this person, if not Nami?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. You are gonna die, you need to tell them.”

Sanji laughs, then coughs, nothing too serious, no blood nor petals. “You all seem to think I don’t know I’m gonna die. I realized it and I’m scared as hell. But there’s nothing anyone could do about it.”

“Tell me who this person is. I’m gonna find them and make them love you. Then they’ll kiss you and we’ll be done.”

“You can’t force people to love me,” Sanji chuckles, “it’s not that simple. 

“Yes, it is.”

There’s something in his voice. Something that goes along the lines of ‘yes it is that simple to love you’, something that scares the shit out of Sanji.

“What do you mean?” he asks, uncertain. 

“Nothing,” Zoro doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“What do you mean, asshole?"

“I’ve said nothing.” 

“Zoro -”

“Tell me it’s me,” Zoro blurts out, almost a plead. 

“What?”

“Tell me it’s me this person you’re loving so desperately to die for them. Tell me it’s me so I can save you.” 

Sanji’s so shocked he just tells the truth. “It’s you.”

Zoro tsks, the bitter smile of someone who thinks he’s been mocked painted on his face. 

“It is you.”

“Yeah, sure.” 

“It’s green.” 

“What.”

“It’s green. Thousand of flowers in the world and I’m coughing up the only green one.” 

“You don’t know it’s the only one.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“Yeah, I suppose it’s not.” 

Sanji wishes he could smoke one of his cigarettes without coughing out his lungs at the first puff - how ironic this was what made him quit. 

“It’s you and you can’t save me, because nakama-love, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it, isn’t enough.” 

Sanji thought it would be more embarrassing, opening up like this. Maybe it’s that he’s gonna die, that puts everything in perspective. 

Zoro puts a hand on his arm, “I’m gonna kiss you now,” and Sanji takes a step back because, fuck no, he doesn’t want his pity, he doesn’t want to know Zoro isn’t in love with him. 

Then his chest is hurting, spasms bringing him to his knees as he tries to breathe enough air - but it’s not enough, it will never be enough, Sanji’s dying and Zoro is crouching beside him, gripping his shoulder to support him. 

Sanji spits, blood and hellebore, red and yellowish-green mixed together on the wooden plank of the crows' nest. 

His respite is so short, Sanji is not even sure it has even happened, that painless moment of freedom that came with emptying his bronchi. Then pain is there, again, and Sanji’s chest is constricting under the pressure of the roots in his lungs. 

“Sanji!” Zoro is shouting and the cook coughs again trying to take what little flow of air he can. He doesn’t remember Zoro ever calling him by his name. 

 “Sanji! Fuck! Are you ok?” 

Sanji would laugh if he only could. Yes, he’s just trying to expel his lungs, he’s perfectly fine. 

Zoro takes his head between his hands, forcing it up so he could look at his face. 

Through watery eyes, Sanji sees concern and worry and he shouldn’t be surprised because they are nakama, but somehow he is nonetheless. He hadn’t expected Zoro to be so worried. 

Sanji could almost imagine Zoro really loves him, could almost imagine his expression being something else, something more than nakama affection - he could, he can and his heart breaks a little more because he perfectly knows he’s deluding himself. 

Another flower blooms in his throat and Sanji lets out a strangled gasp. 

Well, if he’s dying now, at least he’s dying at his side. There are worse deaths than this. 

And then Zoro is kissing him, crushing their lips together desperately.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls against his mouth before kissing him again and again and again and Sanji thinks he’s already dead and for some strange reason, he went to Heaven, despite all. 

“Don’t you dare die on me, you idiot” Zoro murmurs between kisses and it doesn’t make sense, because Sanji’s already dead, is he not? 

“You can’t die on me, you hear me? You can’t!” And the moist on his skin… are tears? 

Sanji opens his mouth to reply and Zoro slides his tongue inside, gripping and pulling at his hairs and Sanji can’t breathe - again - but this time it isn’t the flowers that are choking him. 

Everything clears, here there are fireworks exploding and time stopping and his heart feels so warm, this is too much… 

Sanji pushes Zoro away and he stumbles back surprised, but the cook is already coughing and vomiting and the sounds he’s making feel so painful Zoro almost panics. 

It lasts a few seconds, no more than ten - but to the swordsman, they feel like centuries, centuries during which Sanji is dying and dying again - and then Sanji looks up at him, eyes red, tears from the strain rolling down his cheeks. 

His breath is fast and ragged, like someone’s emerging from an apnea. 

At his feet, wet and soaked in blood and saliva lays a hellebore bush, complete of rots and leaves and flowers. 

Zoro bolts at his side as he waverers, almost collapsing onto the floor.

“Are you alright now? Was it all?” The swordsman asks, taking Sanji in his arms and moving him onto the couch. 

“Yeah… I think. I don’t feel anything in my chest anymore, so maybe… Hopefully, it was all.” 

Zoro leans over him and Sanji tries to push him away

“No, no, I’m dirty. I just coughed up that damn thing. It’s gross!”

 “I don’t give a fuck” Zoro whispers over his cheeks and then proceeds to kiss him. 

Sanji humpfs against his mouth but kisses back. 

When they part he doesn’t cough. 

“Just to be sure,” Zoro plants another kiss on his mouth and then leaves him on the couch to keep his watch. The sea’s calm, no ships crossing the horizon. 

“So… you love me.” It’s not a question. Sanji doesn’t have a plant growing inside him anymore, after all. 

“Yes, I love you,” Zoro admits. “God knows why I’m in love with an idiot like you.” 

“Hey!” Sanji sounds too affronted for someone who was about to die less than five minutes before. 

“You are an idiot. A stubborn one. You would have given up your life, your dream… for what? Your honor? Why didn’t you want to tell me.” 

Sanji doesn’t answer and when Zoro turns to face him, he finds him deeply frowning at the ceiling. 

“So? Answer me.” 

“I thought you would never…” he trails off, no need to complete that sentence. 

“You were not even willing to try!” 

 “I didn’t want your hate.”

 “I would never -”

“Or worse, I didn’t want your pity. I preferred not knowing what it was like to kiss you if the kiss was not meant. And I didn’t think, not for one second, you could mean it.” 

“But Chopper said… the surgery…”  

“I’d prefer to die true to myself than survive to betray what I feel. I love you, and it’s part of me, and I would never, never cut off a part of me.” 

“Would you die before amputating one of your legs, if necessary?” Zoro looks affronted, he was ready to cut out his legs to survive. 

 Sanji shakes his hand. “A leg can be replaced by something very similar. A feeling… A feeling is there because what I am generated it. To cut away a feeling, it would mean to undermine my own personality so much there would not be a base anymore for that feeling to grow up again. Would you forget who gave you your swords if it meant surviving?” 

“No,” he answered softly. 

“Then you understand why I couldn’t forget you. I love you because I, Sanji, cannot not love you. If you take that away, am I still me? Is it still worth living, no, surviving?” 

Zoro shakes his head. “I suppose I can understand you.” 

“Good,” Sanji yawns and Zoro wonders when was the last time he had slept decently. 

“You should sleep.” 

 “No, I -”

“I’m on watch here, so close your eyes and get some rest.”

Maybe it’s the fact that with his cough he hadn’t slept well in ages, but Sanji closes his eyes and in a few seconds he’s sleeping. 

Zoro should watch out for threats, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Sanji’s chest, raising and lowering without labor. 

Maybe he should call Chopper, have him make sure Sanji’s really ok. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

They have time now. Zoro will make sure of that.


danzanelfuoco: (Default)
Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: BakuDeku

Rating: Safe

Challenge: COW-T, w4, m4

Prompt: Come on now, you knew you were lost, but you carried on anyway

Wordcount: 3910 parole


Kirishima hadn’t thought it through when he had picked up the stack of papers from the bin. 

It was just that he was curious. 

Usually, Bakugou was so minimal in his waste that his bag lasted him two weeks. And now a whole stack of paper, printed, in Times New Roman, 12. 

The thing was: Kirishima knew what that was about. 

The school festival was approaching and again this year class 2-A and 2-B would need to do their part. They had thought about resurrecting last year rock band, but the idea had been vetoed by the teachers on the note that it was a lazy idea and they would need a little more effort to gain a better mark - yes, had glared at them Aizawa sensei, it would be evaluated in the final grade. 

So they had decided to stage a play. 

What play, though, it was still to decide. 

Present Mic had suggested they write their own, but so far the results were less than impressing. 

Aside from Mineta’s not safe for work erotica script - that cost him a detention with Midnight and a lecture on sexual harassment and the lack of appropriateness of certain behaviors - Momo had wrote some obscure piece of noh, Kaminari had just taken a Shakespeare comedy and changed all the names and Midoriya, cheeks red as a traffic light, had thrust into Present Mic’s hands a script so full of corrections and erasures it was difficult to figure out even the names of the protagonists. 

“And I don’t think a tragedy where everyone kills themselves at the end it’s appropriate either,” the teacher had said giving the script back to Tokoyami, proceeding then to ask if someone else wanted to submit their work. 

Between the “not yet, I need to add more glitter” that Aoyama said and the “I’m still working on it, it needs to be perfect” from Iida, Bakugou, had snarled that “this shit is stupid”, his hands sparkling from little explosions. 

So, Kirishima hadn’t expected him to actually write something.

And now this. 

If curiosity killed the cat, Eijiro was very willing to be turned to crisp.  


* * * 


 

Exterior, garden

 

IZUMIchange the fucking name! - sits on the floor, she is trying not to cry, 

 

She is alone, KATSUO - for fuck's sake, could you be more explicit? - reaches her, but he keeps his distance, hands awkwardly stuffed in his pocket. 

K: What are you even doing here?

I: (without looking up) What do you care? 

K: It’s not polite to answer a question with another question. 

I: You don’t deserve politeness. 

 

KATSUO sits down and slides closer, but not too much

 

IZUMI still keeps looking down

K: I know I don’t. I was a shit, an assholefuck, I can’t swear! - I hadn’t been the best of friends, but I care for you. 

I: (sarcastic) Oh, really? You care for me? 

 

KATSUO nods. 

I: Well, too bad you are incapable of showing it because for what I could see, you wouldn’t give a fuck care less if I died tonight. 

 

K: You are unfairno, fuck, it’s fair. Change this line

K: You are right. That’s because I’m an idiot. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but…

 

K puts a hand on her shoulder, trying gently to make her turn to him and look him in the face.

I: (slapping his hand away) Don’t touch me. I just wanted to be your friend and you… You wouldn’t even acknowledge me as a person. 

K: I wish I could do something to show you, how sorry I am.

I: There’s nothing you could do, now.

K: I know. (to himself) Trust me, I know very well.  


* * * 


In the end, Kirishima was crying and laughing and mentally screeching because that thing was a piece of Bakugou’s heart and it was heartbreaking and moronic. Bakugou had written a tragedy, the story of an idiot who didn’t know how to be in love and lost the girl because of that, a bittersweet play that showed that sometimes you strain things so much they can’t be fixed, for even with the redemption arc where Katsuo made up to Izumi, helping her through her issues until she could reach her dream of becoming a doctor, showing that he actually cared with actions (since words were fleeting and he didn’t know how to use them - very untrue, considering how good was the script in front of him), in the end, he couldn’t win her back, and ultimately gave up every hope of being with her, letting her go and be happy with another man. 

Closing the script and hugging it to his chest, Kirishima allowed himself to think that Bakugou was a fucking idiot (yes, cursing, he deserved to do it after that emotional rollercoaster). 

Even if Eijiro could understand why Bakugou didn’t want to submit the paper - it was evidently about him and Midoriya and moreover, it wasn’t only personal, it was a love letter. A beautiful love letter, but somehow not the entire class business, - still, he didn’t think that script deserved to be thrown away. It was by far one of the best things Kirishima had ever read and with that, they would that the best mark ever. 

Well, it would need some corrections - a lot of corrections, the names, for starters - and the most important thing: Bakugou’s consent. 

Kirishima was sure he would never get it, even though Bakugou could only gain from the situation. How could Katsuki think he was too late with Midoriya when the poor boy was just waiting for an opening to be his friend again? 

Because Bakugou was an idiot, he reminded himself. 

And Kirishima was a good friend, so he would help him out. Even if it was suicidal. 

So he drew out his phone. 

Because he always did what he had to do, even if it meant his death.


Bakubro! 01:12

It was amazing! 01:12

I didn’t think you had it in you! 01:12

You truly are amazing! 01:12

 As Midoriya always says 01:12

 And speaking of him 01:13

You should definitely tell him 01:13

 I mean 01:13

He wouldn’t reject you 01:13

What you wrote is amazing, but untrue 01:13

He would never hate you, you know? 01:14

You know, right? 01:14

You can’t “not know” 01:14

Come on, Bakubro, ANSWER ME 01:16

How can you not know?!?!?! 01:16

How can you think he would really never forgive you! 01:17

Have you looked at him? 01:17

OMG 01:17

I’m shipping you two, now 01:18

Bakubro, I’m a fangirl! 01:18

It’s your fault. 01:18


What are you even talking about, shit for brain? 01:19

It’s fucking 1 a.m. 01:19

Why the fuck are you not sleeping? 01:19

Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night 01:20


Your fantastic screenplay! 01:20

Seriously Bakugou, hadn’t you read what I’ve just written to you. 01:20


I'M GONNA KILL YOU 01:21

WHY 01:21

THE FUCK 01:21

HAVE 01:21

YOU 01:22

 READ 01:22

 IT??? 01:22

IT WAS IN THE FUCKING BIN 01:22


I know 01:25

I shouldn’t have taken it 01:25

But, Bakugou! 01:25

It really IS amazing! 01:26


I DON’T GIVE A SHIT! 01:26

IT COULD BE AKUTAGAWA MATERIAL FOR WHAT I CARE 01:27

FUCK! 01:27

IF YOU SAY ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW ABOUT ME AND FUCKING DEKU I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU 01:27



Kirishima actually thought about joking on his “fucking Deku” but reconsidered. He wasn’t Kaminari, after all, he still had some preservation sense. Not that much, though. 


You know I would never 01:27

I won’t tell anyone 01:28

But I still think YOU should talk to Midoriya. 01:28


No chance. 01:28

Fuck off 01:29


I thought so 01:29

Goodnight 01:30


As if. Needless to say, Bakugou didn’t sleep at all that night. 


Kirishima had foreseen the consequences, but still, he had had to do it. He needed Bakugou to know he knew. It was all part of the plan. 

Even if Bakugou hated him. 

And Bakugou hated him, for days, snarled at him and yelled at him - even if not so loud that other people would come asking what was happening, because Katsuki knew his classmates and knew how noisy they could be and was sure that if someone got the hunch that Bakugou had hidden something they would dig until they found out - but eventually, Bakugou forgave him. 

A thing that should have never happened, because Kirishima now thought he could freely talk to him about his crush and how idiotic Bakugou was for thinking he had screwed up with Midoriya so bad he would never forgive him. 

“What is this obsession of yours to see me with Deku, eh?” 

Kirishima placed a hand over his heart, theatrically offended. 

“I’m your friend! I want you to be happy! I’m not obsessed! Well, a little, but only because you refuse to acknowledge I’m right!” 

“Because you are not! Now leave me be, shit for brains!” 

And Kirishima did, relenting in his pressing, almost not bothering him anymore. 

He had a plan he needed to run, after all, and it could perfectly go on without Bakugou.


* * * 


“Oh my God, but it’s so sad!” Midoriya cried, tears falling copious down his cheeks. “Why did you had me read it! It’s really amazing, but… the ending! Why did you have them split apart?” 

Kirishima didn’t know if the piece was really that good or if Midoriya had felt - more or less subconsciously - the connection with Izumi enough to make him upset about the outcome of his not (yet) existent affair with Bakugou. 

“I thought it would be best that way, but now I’m not really convinced,” Eijiro lied, leaving Izuku in the dark about who had actually written the script, “that’s why I’ve asked your help! I think they just could end up together if only… I don’t know. I think the problem here is that I don’t know what Izumi should reply when Katsuo tells her that he wishes she’ll be happy with Satoru.”

Izuku bit his lips, considering, and started mumbling. 

“Izumi it’s out of character, she is in love with Katsuo and she feels rejected and abandoned, yes, and even if Katsuo realized too late he was in love with her so she wouldn’t just throw herself at him because she’s done being his doormat, that doesn’t mean she would outright reject him, especially since he has redeemed himself, showing her he actually cares about her, showing her what he’s willing to do for her and to give up for her…”

And, oh dear, Midoriya was crying again, a hint of despair in his tone - because he didn’t know this was written by Bakugou, he didn’t know the person he loved was as stuck as him, Kirishima realized. 

“I know! It’s not how I wanted to end it, either. Look, Midoriya, how would you change it? How would you react if, let’s just say, the person you loved went overboard to show you they’re sorry?”

He could see the pain in his big green eyes, and Kirishima had to convince himself this was all for the best. It was a little sorrow now so they could be happy lately. Or so he hoped because right now, he felt a little shitty and he wanted to spill it all out to Midoriya, how it was not him, but Bakugou who had written the script, how Bakugou was an idiot who didn’t know how to apologize… But Kirishima knew, that if he were to say something like that Izuku would throw himself at his friend, and Bakugou would reject him - he knew that, because when had Bakugou ever made things easy? He would just go on with his decade long denial. 

No, Bakugou had to see Eijiro was right, but from a safe viewpoint, one where he wasn’t exposed, one from where he could withdraw. 

So Kirishima braced himself and pretending everything was normal - pretending that Midoriya wasn’t about to crack his heart - he handed him a pencil. 


* * * 


 

Exterior, garden.

 

KATSUO is looking in the distance, at the audience. 

 

From offstage comes music and people chatting and waves of laughter. 

 

IZUMI enters from the right, behind KATSUO, who doesn’t notice her until she speaks. 

IZUMI: It must be lonely out here. 

KATSUO: Izumi… what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the party?

I: I was looking for you. 

K: Oh. You shouldn’t have. 

I: Maybe. I just wanted to check on you, since you left. 

K: Well, I didn’t want to spoil your party. It was kind of you to invite me, after… after all we went through. 

I: Katsuo… (scrolling her head) you organized it, of course, I would invite you.

K: How do you -?

I: Know it was you? I’m not stupid. 

K: (almost to himself, but high enough for Izumi to hear him) Never thought you were. 

I: I would have invited you anyway, you know that right? Even if you weren’t behind all this. I would have invited you. You are my friend. 

K: (smiling sadly) I don’t really think I deserve to be. 

 

They stay silent for some seconds, each one thinking. 

I: Why did you do all this? 

K: I did so much to screw you up… I really want you to be happy. 

I: I don’t know if I could be. 

K: I’ll be, I don’t think you should worry. You are where you wanted to be, and… Satoru looks very into you. 

I: (scoffing) You don’t know anything, do you? 

K: What? 

I: You are throwing me into his arms, but have you ever stopped to ask me what I want? 

K: But I though…

 I: Are you giving up? What was this, your final goodbye? Or did you just wanted to play with me? But this doesn’t make sense. If you wanted to screw me up again you would have done it in plain sight, you would have made sure I knew it was you who pulled the strings, who asked Doctor Kurosawa to take me as an internship, who helped me pay off the loan…

 

KATSUO looks surprised she knows but doesn’t say a word. 

I: But you didn’t. You didn’t want me to knew it was you, so it doesn’t make sense for you to pull back now. Why are you pulling back now? 

KATSUO looks away, sealing his mouth

I: Come on now (pleading), you knew you were lost, but you carried on anyway. So why are you pulling back now? 

K: Because I know I am lost. I know I could never, never, love me back. You should never. I’m not good for you, you’ll be happy with Satoru. Happier. He won’t hurt you as I did. 

I: You know nothing, nothing, about what I feel. Katsuki, I’ve loved you my whole life… 

K: (to himself) Loved. 

I: … and I love you still.

K: You do. 

I: I do. (smiling fondly) I love you. 

 

IZUMI offers him his hand. 

 

They stay like this a little, then KATSUO takes it. 

 

Offscreen music gets louder. 

 

Curtain falling. 


Kirishima looks at the happy ending on the pages in front of him. 

Yes, well, there were still some corrections to make - ah the Freudian slips, Midoriya had written a "Katsuki" instead of a "Katsuo" and still, Bakugou didn’t think Midoriya could ever forgive him. What a bunch of idiots, they were. 

Yes, just a few more corrections, then the next step of the plan. 


* * * 


AKIKO: Come on now (pleading), you knew you were lost, but you carried on anyway. So why are you pulling back now? 

YUKIO: Because I know I am lost. I know I could never, never, love me back. You should never. I’m not good for you, you’ll be happy with Satoru. Happier. He won’t hurt you as I did. 

A: You know nothing, nothing, about what I feel. Yukio, I’ve loved you my whole life… 

Y: (to himself) Loved. 

A: … and I love you still.

Y: You shouldn’t. 

A: But I do, anyway. I could never stop loving you. Would you reject me, again?

 Y: You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

A: I think I do. And you? Are you so scared of what could be? 

Y: (looking lost) Yes. 

A: Don’t be. I can be brave for both of us. 

 

AKIKO offers him his hand. 

Y: You already were. I can’t ask you more. 

A: You are not asking. I am offering it. 

 

They stay like this a little, then YUKIO takes it. 

Y: I’m not that selfless.

A: I wouldn’t want you to be. 

Y: I love you too. 

A: Then that’s enough. 

 

Offscreen music gets louder. 

 

Curtain falling. 


Aizawa put down the screenplay, cleared his throat - because that was a long reading to do out loud - and looked at his classroom. 

“This was anonymously submitted, and since the note attached to it said it was the joint work of three people, the mark will be shared with the whole class. Unless those three people want to make themselves known now.” 

Aizawa waited, but the class kept silent. Students were shifting in their seats, awkwardly looking at each other as if a neon light would appear over the head of said three people. 

No one talked, but Aizawa didn’t need them to. He saw Midoriya’s head snap up in Kirishima's direction, the guilty expression over Kirishima’s face as he pointedly looked at the blackboard, refusing to meet his gaze, and the death glare Bakugou had thrown at him before looking away, fuming. 

Ah, yes, here they were. 

But if they didn’t want the acknowledgment, Aizawa could respect that. He was an underground hero, after all. 

“No? Very well, then” the teacher nodded, ending the scrutiny. “This is the play we’re gonna stage. Objections?” 

There were none, even if Bakugou looked about to explode and Midoriya had reached the color of mature tomatoes. 

“Fine. Then we’re gonna talk about the logistic. I wanna hear your ideas.” 

“Aren’t there too few characters? I’ve counted ten, including background actors.”

 “Part of you will need to be staff and take care of the music, the scenography, and the props. It should be work enough for any of you.” 

“Can I take care of the music?” Asked Jirou. 

And then, before Aizawa could reply, Kirishima tried to kill himself. “I think Bakugou should play Yukio.” 

Katsuki stood up so abruptly, his chair fell over. His hands were contracted in fists, wisps of smoke trapped between his fingers. 

“I. Don’t.” He growled. 

Aizawa flashed his eyes at Bakugou and his hands were suddenly normal. Sweating, but no longer explosive. 

“Sit down, Bakugou. The roles are gonna be assigned lately.” 

Bakugou sat. 


In the end, when everyone had done a tryout, Mina ended up being Akiko, Tokoyami as Yukio - “well, yes, he’s tormented enough that I can understand him, but are you sure, Yamada sensei?” “De-fi-ni-te-ly!” - and Iida would be Satoru. 

Bakugou, Midoriya, and Kirishima were staff and for that Aizawa thanked every god in every pantheon ever existed. 

* * * 


Bakugou seized Kirishima's arm and dragged him in an empty classroom as soon as the bell rang. 

“Explain.” 

A single word gritted between his teeth. 

Kirishima would have expected anger and explosions, but this… this was so much more worrisome. 

“You know I’ve read your script, it was very good, I just couldn’t let you waste it.” 

“You… couldn’t?” Katsuki spat, gripping the collar of his shirt, menacingly. 

“I’ve adjusted it, it’s not so explicit as before, no one will recognize you or…” 

“Don’t say the name.” 

 “Fine! But it’s true. Your secret is safe, relax, no one will know you have a heart.” 

Katsuki let go of him, and then almost as an afterthought. “And who the fuck is this third person?!” 

“Relax, I said, they don’t know it was you who wrote this. They thought I did.” 

The lack of a direct answer bothered Bakugou more than tranquilized him. 

“Tell me you involved Pikachù. Or Pink Skin. Tell me.”

 Kirishima let out a strangled sound that sounded as if he didn’t want to answer and Bakugou grew more worried. 

“Who the fuck is the third person?” 

“I think that would be me.” 

Midoriya was standing in the doorframe. How much had he heard? 

It didn’t matter. 

The third person was Midoriya. 

Bakugou should have known. Of fucking course, who else?

It still hurt like a bitch. The betrayal. 

Kirishima had taken his script - his soul - to the only person he wanted to shield it from. 

Fuck. 

“You.” 

“Kacchan…” 

“No. I don’t wanna hear anything.” 

“Actually, I think you two should talk.”

“I don’t.” 

 “Stop running, Bakugou.”

Katsuki didn’t know what to reply, so he kept quiet, wordless, as Kirishima took from his backpack three envelops. 

“This is the first draft. Bakugou’s,” he put it on a desk, ignoring the surprised “oh” from Midoriya’s lip. Right, he didn’t know the base was not Kirishima’s. Eijiro could hear the gears turning in his head, analyzing every sentence and word, their meaning shifting under the different interpretation needed for a different author. 

“This is the second one, Midoriya’s corrections,” Kirishima continued, “And this is the final one, the one Aizawa sensei has just read in the classroom. My editing. I’m gonna leave them there, just in case you wanna kill him over something I wrote,” he eyed Bakugou.   

“Oh, don’t think you can walk out of this!” he snarled. “I’m gonna kill you too!” 

“Yes, but later,” Kirishima laughed. “See if you still wanna do it, after you two sort this mess out.” 

When Kirishima left, Katsuki didn’t turn around. 

He couldn’t face Deku, he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he had changed about his screenplay, he didn’t know if the happy ending was all Kirishima’s idea or if Deku… he didn’t know if he could hope. 

“Katsuki…” Izuku started, his voice wavering, “I’ve loved you my whole life and I love you still.” 

Don’t mock me!, Katsuki wanted to shout. 

“You shouldn’t. That, at least, is right,” he replied instead. 

“Are you that scared?”

“How dare you -”

“I didn’t write it. Not this line, at least. I wasn’t detached enough to understand it as Kirishima did. Is that why you kept your distance, even if we could be friends now?” 

His face contracted in rage or pain or desperation. “After all I did to you, do you really want me to be your friend?” 

“I’ve loved you my whole life and I love you still. That was me.” 

To Katsuki it felt like a blow, it felt like he was being gutted and emptied on the floor, leaving behind just a carcass. 

“I want so much more than your friendship.” 

He looked away. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand his green eye, so open so hopeful, couldn’t stand what was being offered to him. It was too much, too overwhelming. He didn’t deserve it. 

Izuku took his face between in hands and forced him to look at him. 

“Are you that scared?” He challenged him, serious and harsh, and Bakugou felt a sparkle in his chest. 

 “Never.”

“Then kiss me.”

And Katsuki did. 


danzanelfuoco: (Default)
 Fandom: Attack on titan

Rating: Safe

Challenge: COW-T, w4, m2

Prompt: Il Giudizio

Wordcount: 790 parole

 

 

It had been the first time he had touched his brother. 

He wished he could remember if his touch was similar to his dad’s or if the texture of his skin was smooth or rough. It was difficult to tell while they both were in their titan forms. 

It was difficult to tell when they had hold hands just for the second needed by Eren to gather the power of the Founding Titan and go on with the plan. 

Just not Zeke’s plan. 

Eren would have never condemned his friends, his people, his nation to extinction. The problem wasn’t Eldia or Ymir’s offspring or even Paradis. The problem was the rest of the world and their indiscriminate hate and Eren wasn’t gonna bring peace by giving in. The Euthanasia plan was just not an option. 

It had been the first time he had touched his brother. The first and the last.  And he had betrayed him. 

Eren hadn’t even know he had a brother, until four years ago.  

But again, Eren hadn’t know a lot of things four years ago. 

And to think he was happier when he was obsessing about avenging his mother’s death by killing every single titan. It was another life, lived by another Eren, a naive one that didn’t know about Eldians and Marleyans and didn’t care about politics. An Eren that wasn’t acclaimed by the crowd like a savior. Ah, he would have loved the attention once. 

Now there was too much blood on his hands to ever forget. 

“I knew you wouldn’t really go on with Zeke’s plan.”

Eren turned to face Armin. 

With him there was what was left of the Survey Corps. 

Mikasa wouldn’t meet his eyes, gazing at a point over his left shoulder. She wasn’t wearing her scarf. 

It was Connie that took a step and punched him in the face. Eren had expected it would have been Jean. “You didn’t trust us.” 

“I trusted you to save me in Marley.”
“No. You just did what you wanted to. You didn’t trust us. You didn’t tell us your plan.” 

“I needed it done my way. At the end none of you had a say in the matter, none of you could have done anything. I was the one to make that call and I didn’t have time to deal with objections and people who wanted to say their piece. I did what I had to.” 

“You put all of us in danger. People have died.”
“That’s what people do. That’s what we do. We die and we kill so that others can survive."
“Eren -” Armin trailed. 

“What?!” Connie recoiled, while Jean just spitted a “Bullshit!” 

“Is it? Bullshit? The Titans we have killed were human being once - could be humans once more - and we killed them.”

“We didn’t know…”
“Does it make them less dead? Does it make our comrade, dead and maimed and eaten to protect the people inside the Walls, alive again?”
No one answered. 

“Sacrifices are to be made. It’s always been bigger than us, even when it was just surviving. They’re dead and we are not. Not yet, at least.” 

“Not yet,” Mikasa repeated, almost snarled. 

“You want to kill me. It’s fair. And I don’t think it matters anymore if the Coordinate gets lost. So go on. What are you waiting for?” 

Mikasa gripped the hilt of her sword, eyes aflame fixed on him. 

“What are you waiting for?” Eren asked again, feeling the time trickling between his finger, every single heartbeat in his chest a countdown to his last one. 

Saving the Eldians, his people, had costed him time, more time than he had. 

“It’s not worth the effort,” Mikasa unclenched his grip, “I’ve loved you for all my life, but now I realize I had fooled myself in loving the idea of you. Eren, you are already dead.” She turned and left. 

Eren looked at his other companions, faced them, silently asking them if they wanted to kill him. He could see the pain in Armin’s face, the conflict in Connie’s features, in the actual pondering in Jean’s hatred. 

One by one, they left him too.  

Only alone, Eren let himself stagger, let himself lean against a wall, crouching as breathing became more and more painful, as he strength gave way. 

Eren, you are already dead, Mikasa had said. The judgment had been passed. Found guilty of all charges. 

“Yes,” Eren whispered, “yes, I am.”  

He wondered if he would met Petra and Levi and Zeke, if he would see his father again and ask him what right did he have to bring his children into this. 

He wondered if he would just dissolve into the Paths. 

He wondered if…  

 


danzanelfuoco: (Default)

Fandom: La torre nera

Rating: Safe

Challenge: COW-T, w4, m2

Prompt: La Torre

Wordcount: 560 parole



I giorni sono lunghi, a volte troppo lunghi, perché il tempo si sta sfaldando, la Torre sta crollando, i Vettori stanno tremando. 


 

Commala-come-sia

 

Sembra quasi una poesia 


Le notti non sono piacevoli. Le notti sono fredde e buie - quasi che le stelle si stiano spegnendo una ad una, togliendo luci dal cielo - e il fuoco attorno a cui si stringono nel dormire all’addiaccio non scalda le loro membra intorpidite. 


 

Commala-come-sia

 

È vero, non tua fantasia


Il Medio Mondo sta implodendo, no, sta andando avanti. E la Torre sta perdendo solidità, tra le sue pietre scivola via la sabbia del cemento consunto con un fruscio inudibile che fa da rumore di fondo cosmico a tutti gli universi.
Il campo di rose alla sua base muore lentamente, i fiori che si riducono di numero mentre il roseto avvizzisce e appassisce e perde petali come un uomo perde minuti di vita. 

La Torre paziente attende, disfacendosi. 



Roland guarda all’orizzonte, dove sa che la sua strada intersecherà il Vettore. 

Vede le nubi nel cielo seguire quella strada e calcola che al momento si trovano a parecchie ruote di cammino, forse una settimana, sempre che il tempo non decida di allungarsi o accorciarsi ancora. 

I pistoleri alle sue spalle organizzano il campo. Sono pochi e non possono permettersi di perdere altri compagni - potrebbero, sono pistoleri di Eld dopotutto e nel calcolare i numeri a loro sfavore sanno di dover essere larghi di manica, uno a tre è abbastanza equo per loro, ma qui sono uno a dieci per gli uomini di Farson e sì, certo, potrebbero vincere la battaglia con tre uomini in meno, ma a quale prezzo?  

Roland non sta davvero pensando di andarsene a cercare la Torre con Alain e Cuthbert lasciando a sé stessi i suoi compagni. Lasciando a John Farson uno spiraglio. 

No.
Però. 

Sente Cuthbert e Alain avvicinarsi, la sabbia e il ghiaietto che scricchiolano sotto le suole dei loro stivali logori. 

Roland non si volta. 

“Lo sento anche io il richiamo della Torre, Roland.” 

Quella di Cuthbert è una accusa, Roland conosce l’amico abbastanza da percepire ogni variazione nella sua inflessione. 

Anche questa volta, lo ignora, come aveva ignorato i suoi commenti quando si trattava di Susan. 

“Cuthbert,” quella di Alain è quasi un’implorazione, perché Roland sa che l’amico avrebbe voluto essere meno diretto, e quello apre la bocca per ribattere, Roland può quasi vedere la stizza sul suo volto. 

“No,” Roland alza una mano per tacitarli entrambi. “So cosa mi vuole dire e ha ragione. Non intendo andarmene. Combatteremo. È il ka ed è il nostro compito di pistoleri, non ci tireremo indietro. E quando avremo vinto cercheremo il Vettore e raggiungeremo la Torre.”

Cuthbert annuisce. 

“E se dovessimo morire?” Chiede Alain e non ha paura, no, non ha paura nonostante abbia il tocco e percepisca che questa sarà l’ultima battaglia che questo ka-tet affronterà. 

Roland si volta verso l’amico, pronto a rimbrottarlo, ma si rende immediatamente conto che quelle non sono le parole di un codardo.
Alain vuole sentire la risposta di Roland perché è Roland che ha bisogno di dire quelle parole. 

“Allora sarà ciò che il ka ha voluto.” 

Alain annuisce, non compiaciuto, ma soddisfatto. 

“Il ka,” ripete Cuthbert lasciando che la parola gli scivoli sulla lingua. “Già, è sempre il ka.” 



 

Commala-come-sia 

 

Questa è la tua e la tua sola via


 

 

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