ficlets100 - number seven.

[rawri]

001.	Guilt	002.	New	003.	Solitude	004.	Content	005.	Tale
006.	Distort	007.	Luxury	008.	Listen	009.	Party	010.	Scent
011.	Storm	012.	Lessons	013.	Apology	014.	Relief	015.	Breeze
016.	Fading	017.	Passion	018.	Stay	019.	Rain	020.	Within
021.	Dread	022.	Revenge	023.	Time	024.	Perfect	025.	Eyes
026.	Bloom	027.	Beginning	028.	Bath	029.	Object	030.	Lost
031.	Pride	032.	Death	033.	Dance	034.	Remember	035.	Savage
036.	Late	037.	Crossroads	038.	Change	039.	Hope	040.	Dawn
041.	Hero	042.	Annoy	043.	Trouble	044.	Imagine	045.	Believe
046.	Words	047.	Home	048.	Understand	049.	Cage	050.	Animal
051.	Woods	052.	Fun	053.	Dare	054.	Spell	055.	Pray
056.	Warmth	057.	Mess	058.	Leap	059.	Attention	060.	Shopping
061.	Dessert	062.	Paper-cut	063.	Compromise	064.	Mouth	065.	Gone
066.	Intuition	067.	Fairies	068.	Gift	069.	Priceless	070.	Jewel
071.	Grin	072.	Quake	073.	Blush	074.	System	075.	Pressure
076.	Crash	077.	Closer	078.	Break	079.	Habit	080.	Safe
081.	Confusion	082.	Someday	083.	Instigate	084.	Goodnight	085.	Paint
086.	Always	087.	Guide	088.	Embrace	089.	Fall	090.	Help
091.	Different	092.	Anticipation	093.	Real	094.	Enough	095.	Again
096.	Glorify.	097.	Lack thereof.	098.	Fix.	099.	Smile.	100.	A little.

Comments

axis powers hetalia -> ⌈29.⌋ Object.

[rawri.livejournal.com]

Related to this. (http://rawri.livejournal.com/44876.html?thread=582988#t582988) part II.
It’d come out of nowhere. He hadn’t even thought on it.

But now there were broken pieces of a white dish at the base of a wall, and he was backed into a corner, for-once steady hands holding out a shining kitchen knife – he couldn’t see anything but red, couldn’t think, only heard the ring of silence – narrowed blue eyes were stalking toward him, and someone was yelling, screaming, demanding to be let go, let it go, I’ll cut the ties, I’ll cut them, and hands appeared out of nowhere and Matt turned the knife on them.

There was a flash of red (red eyes? no), and he couldn’t move again; in this pause, though, someone else made an action. The corner was no longer something he’d backed himself into – he was shoved against it, an arm barred across his throat, and the knife clattered as noisily to the ground as the plate had shattered. His larynx was crushed on top of feeling hoarse, and for a good fifteen seconds (enough to suffocate if he was hyperventilating and he was hyperventilating) Matt couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, could see.

He saw Cusa stand up from the kitchen table and back out with a wary look – since when was Cuba ever wary? – and he saw blue. Sound filtered back in, whispers in his ear, I don’t want to hurt you, Matt, I never hurt you, you know that, so why did you say those things, those things would have hurt, you could have hurt us, and just like with the plate, the numbness fell to despair.

The arm around his throat lightened, two arms around his neck pulling him closer, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he could feel his hair becoming slicked with something too thick to be water. His brother held him (trapped him) like a prized toy that had been lost for a week, a sought-after reward that was finally gained.

What were you thinking? was whispering into his ear, breathed into his hair, collapsing onto the floor to be cradled instead of simply held, a little girl and her breakable doll.

Nothing, he answered, limp, truthful. There was a pause, a suspicious – paranoid – pause, but his brother had always loved the truth, always loved him, so instead of a reply they sat there, rocked back and forth. His brother loved the truth, but he also liked to be told what he wanted to hear. I didn’t mean to. It- it came from—something, I don’t know. I-i-it’s gone now, I think, I hope--

It’s alright, was the reply. It had been exactly what he wanted to hear. You don’t have to say anything else. I know you mean that.

Three days later, he’d find his bed moved into Alfred’s room (his – former - boss was moved to Nunavut), and while a part of his hair would stay stiff and red for a good month, all he could think on was that he hoped his brother wouldn’t get tired of his toys as fast as he had when they had been younger (a time that, for all of the other’s improved memory, he couldn’t seem to remember). Because aside from that, there wasn’t much to object to.

axis powers hetalia -> ⌈84.⌋ Goodnight.

[rawri.livejournal.com]

See this. (http://rawri.livejournal.com/44876.html?thread=583500#t583500)
Nights were the worst. Elie Wiesel came to mind, but Matt wasn't sure who Elie was, an artist or an author or a film producer or a horror maker, and so he thought how nights were the worst and thought only on that. They were the worst because they were the best, because they varied so much, because they meant so much. Everything would happen in the rising or dead of night.

There were the days the lights would go out, when each of them would crawl into their respective beds. These were the nights that the shadows would crawl, too, the nights were the full moon was its brightest and the silence was content. Where eyes could stare for ages and grow too tired to fall asleep, where time could pass unheeded.

There were the days when the lights would stay on, when Matt would be in his twin-sized bed and face the wall, because the floor was being paced upon. Shadows had no place then, because mumblings filled the air, tightened and restricted movement. The moon was waning away, outside, and Canada wouldn't move when America sat on the edge of his small mattress, would sit and look at him and frown at him. Or at himself. Matt didn't look. Matt wouldn't know.

There were the days when the lights would again go out, when the moon was waxing and Alfred would be up late, doing paperwork or reading paper or overseeing work, Matthew did not know. He did know that his brother would always come in late, would walk by his bed and ruffle his hair, mumble something sleepily and retreat. These nights, Matt could be the one found crawling into Alfred's larger bed, hunching down in the thick comforters, be tense awake but completely relaxed when asleep. He'd been afraid, when he'd first fallen asleep in America's nice, nice bed, but he would wake up with an arm draped over him, a tired face in front of his, drooling on a pillow or mumbling something about food, and Matt could smile.

There were the nights when the lights would stay off. These were the true nights, when there was no moon, when Alfred would retire early and demand everyone else did the same, when America would crawl into Canada's bed, crowd in with fear or desperation or rage, and hold the French Nation tight enough to break something. Sometimes, he did break things-- Matt would always be limping, the day after these nights, would keep his eyes down and try not to make a noise.

After these nights, at breakfast, Alfred would always, always stop him before he left- would grab his arm, keep him still even as he trembled, look him in the face and ask what happened?

And that night, the moon would again wax.