Capitalization is bad for days like this. When the sky is grey, who needs grammar? Grammar is rules and rules are a box, a great glass box with no seams—seamless, faultless, perfect, unbreakable—like rules are supposed to be. Rules are what kill you. The words are like light; they bounce away from the glass and are lost.
But if you are content without the words then rules are what save you, because too far from that box and you are not safe anymore; you will be shot at, you are a target, and you will never run fast enough to hide from sound like bullets. The box is a cage and a shield. Both at once, like halves of a circle—impossible, unfathomable, like truth always is.
Sound travels at three hundred and forty-three meters per second, faster than you can throw something even as small as a memory.
To think that I can speak, one word, and before it has left my tongue behind it is already a lifetime away, too far to reach, too far to take back and c
"Peter, I'm reading."
"Tell me something I don't know. I'm serious. Open the door. We're going out. As in outside. As in into the real world."
"I can't. I'm just getting"
"To the good part. I know. And I don't really care right now. For the last time, open the door."
"No, Peter! I'm sick of you telling me what to do."
"You're being unfair, and we both know it. There's only one thing I ever tell you to do and you ignore me anyways, so it's irrelevant."
"I reserve the right to make my own judgments. I'm an adult."
"No, you're not. You're like some starry-eyed kindergartener. Stuck inin a fairytale world!"
"Then my fairytale world suits me just fine."
"Mira. Please. The rest of the world is moving on without you. Grow up."
"You know what's unfair, Peter Killinger? You telling me to 'grow up' all the time when you only treat me like a little kid!"
"Don't slam things around. What are
"I-I didn't mean to hit your mole; I'm sorry... Aus, what are you doing?"
The Austrian started to cry. "It's not fair, Vash."
"What isn't fair, Roderich?" said Vash as he lifted the Austrian's head so that he could look straight into his serene violet eyes.
"I have my mole and Mariazell, but you have nothing," said Austria.
Now Vash kneeled down with the Austrian. " My Österreich, what would you do if I did have a curl...?"
"I don't know..."
"Well, I do."
"Yes, Austria, I have a curl...Why do you think I wear the beret all the time?"
"M-may I?" Austria removed Switzerland's beret and pulled at a curl that stuck up at the back of Vash's head. Vash moaned and put his hand on the Austrian's
“No problem, love.” The Englishman replied, “Just enjoy the party and have a happy holiday.”
You chuckled. “Thanks, I will.”
The thick-browed Brit gave you a charming smile before heading towards the snack table, no doubt off to tell a certain American to quit stuffing his face.
You took another sip of your drink as you watched the merry-making going on around you. Lounging out on the couch were the Italian twins, Feliciano nearly crying as Lovino ranted at him all the reasons he should leave his big, burly German hubby. Behind the brothers lurked Antonio, Francis, and Gilbert, commonly known as the Bad Touch Trio. The Frenchman was making a face that could only be described as 'planning' while Antonio was laughing at Gilbert pretending to be hurt by Lovino's depiction of his little brother. On the other side of the massive living space we
"Because I do," she goes on, before you can admit that you have no answer. Small objects fall from the crate and cascade to the floor with a clatter. "I do."
Her words hang heavy between you, alone and uncomfortable in the summer air, and your tongue stumbles in the strangeness of the moment and spits out, "Why?"
She bundles the long strands of her hair into a fist and straightens, her hands otherwise empty. "Humans are so frail," she says, leaving your question unanswered, drifting with her I do. "They're made of all this muscle and bone and stubbornness, and still you can cut them to the heart with something as little as words." Her eyes fix on yours.
"What do you mean," you say, struggling to keep up with her. "Why words."
She smiles and the force of it is
Robin, straining with her shoulder to the massive wooden door, managed finally to shove it closed and wedge the rusted latch into place before turning to see what had prompted Matthew's exasperated outburst.
"They only gave us one bed," he explained with a helpless gesture. "Again."
Robin shut her eyes briefly and tried to breathe slowly. "Why," she said, "do they always assume we're together?"
Matthew scowled and kicked a bedpost. "Given how often we try to kill each other, you'd think they'd get the hint. Alright, fine, I'll sleep on the floor."
Robin let out a most unattractive snort that she tried, belatedly, to pass off as a cough. Matthew, not taken in, thumped her on the back with unnecessary gusto, making her actually cough. "You're just going to wake up in the morning whining about how cold you were and how sore your back is and how you couldn't possibly walk for another whole day after huddling miserably on the floorboards all night," she said, with
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Robin closed the door against the groaning protest of its warped frame and came to stand over the foot of the bed. “I don’t think we can trust them,” she said, crossing her arms tightly.
Clearly, Matthew had never heard that keeping eye contact when speaking was polite, since he ignored her attempt to meet his eye and flopped backward onto the bed. “Judging by how very blond the prince is, I think you’re wrong,” he said, sprawling out over as much of the bed as his four limbs could occupy and kicking her thigh in the process. “I think they’re Good.” The capital letter was evident in his tone.
It’s cold in her house and still she feels herself burning up. It’s in the unnatural skip of her heartbeats, in the restless race of her blood. Everything is on fire.
She wants to run a hundred miles or sleep a hundred years. She wants to kiss someone, kill someone, wants to devour someone whole. In her head, words are twisted up in thoughts are twisted up in stuttering uncertainty. She is humming with confusion; she can hardly speak.
The brightness of the day comes as a shock to her--when she steps out of the coffeeshop she walks into the sun and marvels at the strange flow of time.
It's only much later that she startles awake in her bed and remembers that it's all due to the simple fact of daylight savings, that it is not some magical hiccup that takes this one day and turns one of its hours into gold. But she thinks that Daylight Savings was Sunday, and she went to visit an old friend on Sunday night—ducked into the house a
Before she'd come to a conclusion, the thing hurtled into the clearing behind her and she spun, stumbling back a step in sheer horror. Then she blinked. The thing was an apparently normal young man, covered in leaves and dirt and not quite as large or carnivorous as the crashing had suggested.
Robin's vital functions stopped panicking and, with some difficulty, went about resuming their normal patterns. She exhaled a rattling breath and had only just opened her mouth to ask where she was when he looked up at her and said, suddenly, "Run. If I were you, I'd start running as fast as possible." Then, without even as much as another glance, he proceeded to follow his own
Levering herself from the bed, Robin dragged herself to her closet and pulled on jeans and a shirt, doing up the buttons with clumsy hands. She snagged her school backpack, huffing slightly at the weight, and then plodded down the stairs thinking ponderously about hot oatmeal and fresh coffee.
She was shaking coffee grounds into a filter and stifling a yawn when an almighty jolt shuddered through the floor, causing her to leap a good few inches upward in panic and fling the contents of the filter all over the kitchen. Earthquake, she thought instantly, and managed a single step towards the relative safety of the doorway before a distinctly unpleasant
She can see it, almost taste it, with awful clarity. The way the night air feels on cold skin. The way the glow cubes have faded, casting shifting, obscuring shadows. The way his face looks when he hears their approach in the dark, too close and too fast for any escape.
She has memorized the sound of his voice as he shouts. "Get out," he says, leaping to his feet. "Go!" She sees him set his weapon to his shoulder as if time has slowed. The motion takes years.
She has exactly four seconds to stare at his back--the muscles under the jacket, the thick dark hair that curls just slightly at his neck, the way his knees bend and his arms tense as he braces himself for death.
She can name the moment she cries "No," like a fool, like a sentimental fool who has no place in this game. She can feel the twist o
It was only Commander Rad coming to take her place. His massive sword was buckled over his shoulder, but he was otherwise unarmed and unarmored. "Hello," she said, relieved, and stood up to stretch. "Thanks for waking up on your ownI always feel bad kicking people awake for watch."
Rad's face creased into a smile, and Robin was surprised to find that he was almost handsome when he wasn't being hostile. His features held a boyish charm that had always been buried behind the eagle mask. He came to stand by her and stared out into the dark for a long moment. She waited for him to say something, but nothing seemed forthcoming.
"Is Andais always at war?" she found herself asking. "Do you always have to be the Commander?"
Rad turned slowly to face her. "Yes," he said after considering. "It is. I do. Andais is good. Others are evil. There is always a war be