i need a compass
Have some two-AM fics:
038. flame.
It’s funny, Kyle was always afraid of heights, but Stan isn’t surprised to find him on the roof.
“You can’t come up here alone, you know.”
“I know.” Kyle looks up, his feet dangling precariously off the edge. “I wanted to watch.”
“Watch what?” Stan squats to see from Kyle’s level. In the distance, a light is burning.
“The fire.”
They didn’t get brushfires much in South Park, but here they’re not so uncommon. Most of the hills have been charred already, and every now and then another blaze starts up in the grass. Luckily, the Institute is located in the center of the town, far from the danger posed by flickering flame, so Stan feels safe.
“You know what it reminds me of?” Kyle asks, swinging his feet against the outside wall of the building. Stan’s hand shoots out automatically and lingers above the redhead’s arm. “Candles.”
“Mmm,” Stan agrees.
“Hanukkah candles,” Kyle murmurs. “All in a row.” He’s lifted his hand from the ledge now and is tracing something in the air, an intricate pattern that only he can see. “Baruch ata Adonai…” he whispers, then puts his hand back down. “Laz’man ha-zeh.”
Stan’s hand wraps itself gently around Kyle’s wrist. In the distance, another flame has shot up. Kyle laughs.
“One little, two little, three little candles. God is lighting his menorah.” That look is back in his eyes, the signal for Stan to tighten his grip. Kyle frowns but does not resist the hold.
“Do you think the firefighters will put it out?” he asks.
“I hope so,” says Stan.
“You’re supposed to let Hanukkah candles burn all night.”
“Maybe they will, then.” He is afraid of staying out much longer. The gleam in Kyle’s eyes is brighter, wilder, and Stan isn’t sure he can handle this on the edge of a rooftop in the middle of the night. “Let’s go inside, Kyle.”
“I want to watch the fire.”
“I’ll light you a candle when we get inside.” It’s a lie - open flame isn’t allowed in the Institute - but Stan is growing more nervous by the second, more apprehensive with every moment that flame inches closer and closer.
“I don’t want a candle.” Kyle tries to tug his wrist from Stan’s grip. “Please, Stan, let me watch the fire.”
“Kyle-” He’s been taught to always act on the patient’s best interest, never to let his common sense slip, but he has never been able to resist the sound of his best friend pleading. “Okay.”
“Thank you, Stan.” His eyes are flat again. Stan breathes a sigh of relief as Kyle turns his attention back to the growing fire but refastens his hold anyway. Kyle’s safety should be the only thing on his mind right now, but Stan can’t help staring at the flame and wondering how things can be so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time.
Tomorrow, he decides, he will buy Kyle a menorah.
075. wrong.
The elevator doors slide open with a near-silent whoosh. Shikamaru is waiting on the other side, alone, his feet tapping a slow rhythm on the clean white floor. He stands up; the small display of respect is unusual for him, as are the clenched fists and dark-rimmed eyes, but Ino decides to ignore these. She knows he’s been hit hard, so much harder than any of them can begin to imagine.
“Are those for Chouji?” Shikamaru points to the box of barbecue-chip bags in Ino’s hands as the elevator doors close softly behind her.
“Of course!” She laughs. “Who else would they be for? Me?”
“Are you sure…” He pauses, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. It’s a normal Shikamaru stance, but right now it looks tense and awkward. “Are you sure those are the right things to bring?”
Ino blinks. “They’re his favorites,” she says slowly, knowing that Shikamaru knows that this is an established fact. “He’ll be grateful to finally have some decent food in here.”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Why not?”
“Chouji… he… he’s different, okay?”
Ino rolls her eyes. “He’s always been different.”
“Different than he used to be, I mean-” Shikamaru tries to explain, but Ino just shakes her head and pushes past him, flinging open the door to Chouji’s room.
“Chouji! Guess what-” She stops short.
The boy on the bed is Chouji, but he’s all wrong. His cheeks, usually pink and full, are pale and sunken, the swirls faded, and his collarbone juts out, pulling against his dull skin. His neck, normally so wide and sturdy, looks as if it will snap if he so much as tilts his head, and Ino has to resist the urge to place her hands around it to hold it up.
Shikamaru steps into the room, silently closing the door behind them. There’s an unspoken “I told you so” hanging in the air and they both know it. Ino wants to punch him. Why, why can’t he ever be wrong? Just once?
“He’s not in critical condition anymore,” Shikamaru says quietly, “but…” His voice trails off. “I don’t think he’s in the mood for chips right now.” It’s not funny, not funny at all. Ino thrusts the box into his arms, hard, and walks over to Chouji’s bed.
“Chou?” Her fingers brush his arm and she nearly throws up. His elbow - where there should be a soft fold of fat, all she feels is sharp bone. She should be able to pinch his skin between two fingers - there is nothing there. Nothing. Ino traces the contours of his forearm down to his wrist and cups her long fingers around his impossibly delicate ones and curses herself for every nasty remark she’s ever made about his weight. If this is what being a ninja is all about - watching your friends sacrifice themselves and waste away on a lonely hospital bed - she doesn’t want to do this anymore.
Behind her, Shikamaru shifts his feet. She knows he blames himself, and to be honest, she blames him too, but now is not the time for confrontations. Now is not the time for arguments, or for barbecue-flavored chips, or for brushing her hair in case Sasuke happens to be strolling the halls of Konoha General Hospital. All that matters right now is the weak but constant beat of Chouji’s faint pulse through his skin and the slight rise and fall of his tiny, frail chest. It occurs to her that he’d be mad if he could see her now, huddled by his bedside. Ino, I don’t deserve all this attention, he’d say. Please, go have fun. I’m not worth wasting your day. I’ll be fine. And she tries to believe that, she really does, but there’s something about the way his wrist bone digs into her palm that makes her doubt that Chouji will ever be himself again. If Chouji’s not Chouji, then the whole team will feel broken and empty and wrong and nothing can be the same.
It’s funny how she spends half her time waiting for change and the other half wishing everything was as constant as Chouji is supposed to be.
038. flame.
It’s funny, Kyle was always afraid of heights, but Stan isn’t surprised to find him on the roof.
“You can’t come up here alone, you know.”
“I know.” Kyle looks up, his feet dangling precariously off the edge. “I wanted to watch.”
“Watch what?” Stan squats to see from Kyle’s level. In the distance, a light is burning.
“The fire.”
They didn’t get brushfires much in South Park, but here they’re not so uncommon. Most of the hills have been charred already, and every now and then another blaze starts up in the grass. Luckily, the Institute is located in the center of the town, far from the danger posed by flickering flame, so Stan feels safe.
“You know what it reminds me of?” Kyle asks, swinging his feet against the outside wall of the building. Stan’s hand shoots out automatically and lingers above the redhead’s arm. “Candles.”
“Mmm,” Stan agrees.
“Hanukkah candles,” Kyle murmurs. “All in a row.” He’s lifted his hand from the ledge now and is tracing something in the air, an intricate pattern that only he can see. “Baruch ata Adonai…” he whispers, then puts his hand back down. “Laz’man ha-zeh.”
Stan’s hand wraps itself gently around Kyle’s wrist. In the distance, another flame has shot up. Kyle laughs.
“One little, two little, three little candles. God is lighting his menorah.” That look is back in his eyes, the signal for Stan to tighten his grip. Kyle frowns but does not resist the hold.
“Do you think the firefighters will put it out?” he asks.
“I hope so,” says Stan.
“You’re supposed to let Hanukkah candles burn all night.”
“Maybe they will, then.” He is afraid of staying out much longer. The gleam in Kyle’s eyes is brighter, wilder, and Stan isn’t sure he can handle this on the edge of a rooftop in the middle of the night. “Let’s go inside, Kyle.”
“I want to watch the fire.”
“I’ll light you a candle when we get inside.” It’s a lie - open flame isn’t allowed in the Institute - but Stan is growing more nervous by the second, more apprehensive with every moment that flame inches closer and closer.
“I don’t want a candle.” Kyle tries to tug his wrist from Stan’s grip. “Please, Stan, let me watch the fire.”
“Kyle-” He’s been taught to always act on the patient’s best interest, never to let his common sense slip, but he has never been able to resist the sound of his best friend pleading. “Okay.”
“Thank you, Stan.” His eyes are flat again. Stan breathes a sigh of relief as Kyle turns his attention back to the growing fire but refastens his hold anyway. Kyle’s safety should be the only thing on his mind right now, but Stan can’t help staring at the flame and wondering how things can be so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time.
Tomorrow, he decides, he will buy Kyle a menorah.
075. wrong.
The elevator doors slide open with a near-silent whoosh. Shikamaru is waiting on the other side, alone, his feet tapping a slow rhythm on the clean white floor. He stands up; the small display of respect is unusual for him, as are the clenched fists and dark-rimmed eyes, but Ino decides to ignore these. She knows he’s been hit hard, so much harder than any of them can begin to imagine.
“Are those for Chouji?” Shikamaru points to the box of barbecue-chip bags in Ino’s hands as the elevator doors close softly behind her.
“Of course!” She laughs. “Who else would they be for? Me?”
“Are you sure…” He pauses, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. It’s a normal Shikamaru stance, but right now it looks tense and awkward. “Are you sure those are the right things to bring?”
Ino blinks. “They’re his favorites,” she says slowly, knowing that Shikamaru knows that this is an established fact. “He’ll be grateful to finally have some decent food in here.”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Why not?”
“Chouji… he… he’s different, okay?”
Ino rolls her eyes. “He’s always been different.”
“Different than he used to be, I mean-” Shikamaru tries to explain, but Ino just shakes her head and pushes past him, flinging open the door to Chouji’s room.
“Chouji! Guess what-” She stops short.
The boy on the bed is Chouji, but he’s all wrong. His cheeks, usually pink and full, are pale and sunken, the swirls faded, and his collarbone juts out, pulling against his dull skin. His neck, normally so wide and sturdy, looks as if it will snap if he so much as tilts his head, and Ino has to resist the urge to place her hands around it to hold it up.
Shikamaru steps into the room, silently closing the door behind them. There’s an unspoken “I told you so” hanging in the air and they both know it. Ino wants to punch him. Why, why can’t he ever be wrong? Just once?
“He’s not in critical condition anymore,” Shikamaru says quietly, “but…” His voice trails off. “I don’t think he’s in the mood for chips right now.” It’s not funny, not funny at all. Ino thrusts the box into his arms, hard, and walks over to Chouji’s bed.
“Chou?” Her fingers brush his arm and she nearly throws up. His elbow - where there should be a soft fold of fat, all she feels is sharp bone. She should be able to pinch his skin between two fingers - there is nothing there. Nothing. Ino traces the contours of his forearm down to his wrist and cups her long fingers around his impossibly delicate ones and curses herself for every nasty remark she’s ever made about his weight. If this is what being a ninja is all about - watching your friends sacrifice themselves and waste away on a lonely hospital bed - she doesn’t want to do this anymore.
Behind her, Shikamaru shifts his feet. She knows he blames himself, and to be honest, she blames him too, but now is not the time for confrontations. Now is not the time for arguments, or for barbecue-flavored chips, or for brushing her hair in case Sasuke happens to be strolling the halls of Konoha General Hospital. All that matters right now is the weak but constant beat of Chouji’s faint pulse through his skin and the slight rise and fall of his tiny, frail chest. It occurs to her that he’d be mad if he could see her now, huddled by his bedside. Ino, I don’t deserve all this attention, he’d say. Please, go have fun. I’m not worth wasting your day. I’ll be fine. And she tries to believe that, she really does, but there’s something about the way his wrist bone digs into her palm that makes her doubt that Chouji will ever be himself again. If Chouji’s not Chouji, then the whole team will feel broken and empty and wrong and nothing can be the same.
It’s funny how she spends half her time waiting for change and the other half wishing everything was as constant as Chouji is supposed to be.