St. Sebastian (c. 1620), Nicolas Rgnier / Hail St. Sebastian, The Mountain Goats

St. Sebastian (c. 1620), Nicolas Régnier / Hail St. Sebastian, The Mountain Goats

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❁ ethan n jamie bc u know i had to

Send me a ❁ for the type of flower my muse would give to yours // Accepting!

Sometimes, with Jamie, Ethan feels like a teenager again; with all the sappy little quirks those splashes of thought invoke. usually, usually he doesn't act on them; a tinge of embarrassment to years he should very-well have put long behind him now ━ he's a father now, after all ━ where all the puppy-loving little things float in his head and often, out the other. ( all valentines chocolate and sharing sweaters and buying flowers )

But for as much as Ethan struggles with expressing these little tender things, a little too much hurt in him to make it as easy as he'd wish it were, as embarrassed as he is for the classic, cheesy things that Mae very well might mock him for in the way children will mock anything and the way one day rose will learn from Mae just how to do it : sometimes, his heart is a little bigger than his pins-and-needles passivity, and while he doesn't usually have the nerve to stay to see the reaction ━ the concept a little too striking and a little too discomforting, the anticipation easier to stomach ━ sometimes, just sometimes, he follows through. This time, that following through manifests as a bouquet on Jamie's bedside table. Some of the leaves are a little crushed, his hands a little clumsy, but still beautiful despite the bruising ( or maybe, in a way, because of it. )

and like much else Ethan does, messages hide themselves in the upturned petals, the undersides of leaves. ━ It's okay if he doesn't see it. He doesn't expect him to.

Peony, bluebell, red carnation, camellia, jonquil, rose in full bloom, red tulip. ━ shame, happy marriage; humility; my heart aches for you; admiration, perfection, good luck; affection returned, love me, desire, sympathy; i love you, i still love you; believe me, declaration of love ( 'I love you even when I cannot say it, I love you even when I'm ashamed of the person I am, I hope you still love me despite it, I hope you continue to believe me when I tell you.' )

The lack of hesitation; the lack of doubt in his reassurances somehow agitates the wound worse, one in which he doesn't like to acknowledge is bleeding at all, infected & corrosive and a limb doomed to fail — it isn't. it's not there anymore, but it ripples throughout the rest of him ; pond water, the cruelty of breaking through the scum like a second skin, skipping rocks ; and leaves its effects regardless.

it might've been easier to believe you if you hesitated, if you had to think about it for a moment ( an agonizing moment of the judgement of what he's worth, pendulum swinging, swinging, swinging ), to concede that yes, he's strong. a reminder that he's human, maybe, in that. a reminder that 'strong' isn't all he is. a reminder that while these fears permeate and seep through his skin like water in paper, they are not as consuming as they must be now ━━━ turning his plight into an understandable one, an understood one, but still one they couldn't support.

━ he hates asking things of Yusuke, of the rest, of those he loves, so he doesn't ask. sitting with him like granite in his collarbone, lace & lined, just for him.

that stone gets heavier as the guilt sets in, sat on the floor next to Yusuke's chair, listening to the rustle of packaging & porcelain ━ he's right, Ryuji just takes it the wrong ways, too afraid of if he sweetens the deal too much that he poisons the pot he's eating from ; what would happen if he went too far, if he pushed and they were left without him? abandoning them in his selfish desperation? ryuji knew well that they were strong, unimaginably ( more than him ), but he also knew that it could be the deciding factor in a fight: who was there, who did what, and when.

the granite cracks loose from his collarbone, weighing him down with a slouch worsening as if being pushed down by the shoulders, and falls instead into the pit of his stomach. ( already full up on fears & the consequences of them, sorry, he's not hungry )

” you… “ Ryuji's heart takes a moment to shift its footing in his throat, out of the way: let him speak, please, let him speak ━ he scratches at the back of his neck, clammy with sweat ” .. yeah, you're right. I just wanted to get better, you know? help out a little more when we need it. I'm… not the most versatile guy. “

he accepts the towel & water with a note of surprise & a 'thank you', which bleeds into fondness. the granite lessens, these little acts of kindness, these little efforts to make it easier, eroding some of it in him. an appetite for that kind of love, he just keeps filling up on guilt instead.

Ryuji scrubs at his face with the towel as if to scrape off the feeling that drove him here in the first place ( too stubborn to leave, but a touch better now. a sweeter marble of care in the deposits of something other that drove him insane ), face emerging pinker than it was before, splashes some of the water on his face before taking a drink from the bottle.

his curious eyes give way on their internal battle for just a moment to glance at the noodles cooking in the bowl ( okay, maybe he was hungry )

” ... also, uh.. why'd you just have that on you? ” he wasn't complaining—!

Yusuke, too, knows he is correct, and he needn't verbally reiterate it; Ryuji, evidently, was doing it FOR him in the way his body was fully RETALIATING against his stubbornness. The athlete's resolve was admirable, COMMENDABLE--- truly, the extent to which they ALL pushed themselves to meet their goals, to achieve their dreams, was deserving of the highest praise imaginable, but what GOOD would it do ANY of them if it landed them a spot in the hospital ?

It's precisely why Yusuke has endeavored to improve his OWN habits, and why he's being a tad PUSHY when it comes to looking after his FRIENDS ( friends ? Not something he thought he'd ever have. It makes it all the more critical that he does this . . . that he takes CARE of them. ) Instead of sitting in the background, observing, too afraid to speak up with how USED to being drowned out and overshadowed, he was, now . . . now ? He's taking the mic HIMSELF.

" You are strong, Ryuji, " Yusuke reassures near immediately, fixing his attention on tearing the lid off the bowl of noodles instead of making Ryuji UNCOMFORTABLE with his gaze ( but Yusuke can tell, even without examining Ryuji like he's some painting with open interpretation hanging in a museum, that he is not in the best condition. Thank goodness Ryuji hadn't been ALONE. )

" In fact, from my recollections of our battles, you are one of the strongest on our team. So, what would you expect us to do WITHOUT you, should you find yourself incapacitated by your own overexertion ? We would be tragically at a disadvantage. " His voice is so gentle, that it seems to wage war for dominance over the rustling of the ramen seasonings, as Yusuke begins to pour, first, the dehydrated vegetables, and then the powdered broth. Sure, it was no AUTHENTIC ramen, but when one was on a budget ( or, a budget spent too heavily on art supplies and statement pieces ), this may as well be the equivalent of a gourmet meal.

He pulls himself up from his seat, long legs carrying him over to the kettle to pour the steaming hot water into the cup. With the noodles now set to gradually soften and cook, it gave Yusuke a chance to somewhat cautiously tend to Ryuji's condition, but . . . with a slow, considerate approach. A damp towel, to start, with cold water that he hoped may aid the rising temperature of his body, and of course, a bottle of water for hydration. It would do him no good to receive a bowl of hot, somewhat SPICY noodles without moderating his temperature first.

" Here. Drink, and rest. Breathe. Your noodles will be ready soon enough. "

“Hark,” a voice boomed in his ears.

The voice was not one, but many, coming from every direction and ringing in his skull to where he thought it might crack open. The deepest voice made his chest shutter, bass shaking his core; the most shrill rang even when it had stopped. With gritted teeth and clenched eyes, he clapped his hands over his ears as the voice continued:

“Thy hand is sullied. Return the Sacred Blade whence it rested.”