Dwoality2123 - Dwoality

Little sketch here to try out Sketchbook and get the hang of it

I know Sabo was a retcon and Ace's tattoo was originally just a misspelling of his name but retroactively turning it into a memorial tattoo for his brother actually hits so much harder specifically because it looks like an incorrect version of Ace's own name.

Ace's name, Ace's identity, the very essence of who Ace is, and he not only chose to physically insert Sabo's initial into that name in the first place -- thus representing just how much he viewed Sabo as a fundamental part of himself -- he then chose to cross that initial out, creating the illusion that Ace's own name was spelled wrong. It re-frames Sabo's death as a sort of amputation; that the removal of Sabo from Ace permanently mangled what was left behind into a clumsy and misshapen facsimile of itself.

There's also the fact that the crossed-out S looks like Sabo's Jolly Roger; an S with crossbones. The flag Sabo died trying to sail under. With that context, it almost turns the tattoo into a sort of skin graft; Ace marking himself with Sabo's dream, implanting it deep under his skin where he can carry it with him and keep it safe.

I tried ( Ŏ艸Ŏ)

My entry for raiden fanart contest is on twitter

check twitter for art process

When I lay on my soft mattress,

The crickets the only sounds

In the still night,

My mind journeys;

Regrets wash over me,

My heart aches.

The moon shines beyond my ceiling,

And I curl up in despair.

Six feet below the ground,

Someone rests for eternity.

Then I begin to wonder,

What of their last moments?

I wonder,

Was it loneliness they had to bear?

Paralyzed on the bed

Yearning to join the chorus of laughter outside?

Did they lie on the bed,

Hearing joyous melodies

And having no ability to join?

Was it unbearable?

Did they watch everyone walk pass

Not giving them a single glance?

Those moments that would be the last,

Was it filled with all-consuming hurt?

Had we been kinder,

Better,

Nicer,

Could it have been alleviated?

It's midnight,

I lie awake,

Thinking,

Hating myself.

I lie awake in wonder,

Did they loathe me?

That in their death bed,

I had abandoned them.

In their final minutes,

Did they cry silently?

Fully awake,

Yet unable to move an inch?

In the quiet night,

Everyone peacefully sleeping,

Did they weep

And give up?

Thinking that they will not be missed?

Thinking of their own regrets?

Thinking of what-ifs?

Thinking if they were good enough?

Were their last moments filled

With the same pain I share only a quarter of?

Or was it a peaceful goodbye

With silent wishes of a happy life?

A tear slips down my cheek,

Apologies resting on my tongue,

For only spirits to hear.

I cry regrets.

I should have done more.

Should have been better.

Selfish and cruel I am, so,

Perhaps it should have been me.

I think,

As I see pieces of you in strangers,

And fragments of happiness in my memories,

Yes, perhaps it should have been me.

I lay on my bed,

Thoughts chasing sleep away,

I dig my fingers on my scalp,

My eyes shut tight.

I writhe

To shoo the thoughts away.

Maybe it's your spirit,

Wishing vengeance upon me.

But I desperately hope,

You wear white,

And watch over me

With the same gentle embrace as I grew up in.

I love you,

That much is true.

I'm sorry,

I couldn't show it enough.

I love you,

You might doubt it.

I'm sorry,

It wasn't enough for me.

"What kind of unforseen yet completely predictable stupidity have your ruined my day with this time?"

— Squidward

Wait for Me?

A presence appears on his vulnerable side. He doesn't turn to look nor does he tense nor let his breath get caught in his throat. “Hi,” he whispers into the tranquil quiet.

“Hi,” he hears barely.

He hums. “Would you mind if you transfer to my other side? It's hard to hear you when your words are this gentle and quiet....and, I want to see you.”

It was quiet but he felt his companion move to his right side. Still, he does not turn to look at the tuft of brown hair better, or the ever-so-slightly blemished warm skin. He merely looks on, admiring the astonishing view that the high vantage point gives him. 

He sees hands fiddling, a rare sign of vulnerability that Zuko finds out of character—to give Zuko with trust he does not know he deserves. A long beat and Jet finally talks 

“Did it ever mean anything?”

“It always did, for me. My heart has always been printed on my sleeve and I am not dishonest enough to be able to fake such authenticity.”

Silence.

“I did lie to you. I have lied about my name, and my character. I have lied about my scar, and about a lot else. But my feelings were as true as the sky is blue. Please, do not doubt that aspect of me.”

Yet another meaningful silence, a moment for his words to settle in Jet's mind.

“It hurt.”

“I know.” And he did. To find that your lover is part of a nation that you so passionately hate. To find that your lover's people were the cause of your misery, the slaughterers of your family and of your friends and of your village. That is a pain pill hard to swallow. “And I'm sorry.”

But, at the same time, Zuko was a child younger than Jet when it happened. And Zuko's only part in that act of sin was his ignorance and complacency. He does not say these things, for he knows he cannot handle Jet's wrath right now. His bellowing voice and his words. 

“I hurt you too,” Jet mumbles almost too quietly for Zuko to pick up on, but he did. Mumbled with a cracking voice.

“You did.”

“I've hurt so many people.”

“You have.”

Jet bends over, forehead touching his hands from where they rest, clasped together, on the half wall before him. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his jaw. And then he straightens himself, moves his hands to grip the wall tightly instead, neck craned upwards and eyes blinking quickly. “What do I do?”

He turns to look at him—looks at the way his tanned skin glows warmly under the golden rays of the sun setting in the horizon, his straw-like hair that tells of a hardened life billowing with the gentle winds, and his brown eyes glinting with amber and hazel...yet dim and haunted. 

Reluctance outlines his hands as his pale fingers glows almost white in contrast to the gaunt cheek to caresses. A miniscule twitch in Jet's hands doesn't go unnoticed, the clench of his fists and the frightful and hesitant gulp of saliva. Yet, despite it all—the fears and the doubts and the distrust, he leans his cheek into Zuko's awaiting palm.

Zuko looks at him with soft and fond eyes, the gold of his eyes glowing brighter than ever with the concentration of the sun in them. Jet looks at him from under his dark lashes for a miniscule moment before looking to the colorful sky. 

Tentatively, Jet's calloused hands—and thin, thinner that it was before, thinner than it should have been, malnourishment highlighting the jutted bones of his knuckles—wraps itself around Zuko's, guiding it gently towards his chapped lips to press a kiss against his reddish knuckles that sends a message of a thousand unspoken words. 

Jet lets his lips rest on the back of Zuko's hand, and in his humble ethereal glow, Zuko sees all the reasons his heart started fluttering for the man in front of him. Jet's eyes are closed and his hand squeezes his a bit tighter, as if he was daydreaming of a universe beyond their knowledge or maybe he was reminiscing of memories that feel out of reach—too good to be true but no less real. 

And Zuko can only watch and ingrain the image into his brain for his mind to see and remember for all the days to come, to dream about in the star-filled nights, to feel when his memories slowly leave him in his old age—if he survives long enough to reach that.

But nothing can stay in the beautiful stasis for long, no matter how much he wishes it to, for time is never on their side and time will continue to take if he lets it. So he turns his hand in Jet's grip and watches him sadly open his eyes with a knowing and resigned glint. He holds Jet's chin and lifts it upward, commanding Jet to look at him. 

Then he goes back to caressing Jet's cheek, letting the pads of his finger ink all of his wishes and desires on Jet's skin, hoping he is open enough for Jet to understand—and he does, if the shaky exhale was anything to go by. Zuko smiles affectionately.

“Let them learn, Jet, let them learn to forgive. And if they cannot, then you learn to let go, to move on and move forward, to heal.” He gently brushes away the fallen lash on Jet's cheek. “Heal, Jet. If not for yourself, then for anyone else. And if not for anyone else, then for yourself.”

Jet's eyes gained a teary sheen and he opened his mouth a bit then closed it with an exhale, pressing himself deeper into the soft touch of Zuko's. And he opens his mouth again to whisper, “I don't know how.”

He gazes into Jet's eyes, thoughts swirling behind the amber hue of his eyes. To say: you will figure it out, that is a promise and that is inevitable. Try and you will succeed. Open your mind and see yourself and see the world, see, Jet. Look and you're going to find what you seek. But for you to be able to move forward, you need to let go, Jet. 

To tell him: you are not alone, not as much as you seem to think. And you will never be alone because I will always be there, at your beck and call. No matter what, I'll figure out a way to get to you.

Instead he says only, “you need to stop focusing on every bad thing and you need to start accepting the good things, or else you'll forever be miserable.”

“I don't deserve to…” Jet trails off.

And Zuko understands what was left unsaid. Because he's felt it so passionately, and believed in it for so long. And he knows it's not true.

“You don't need to deserve happiness, you just need to be. You've done awful things, yes, so make amends. You can't take it all back, but you can't swallow in despair forever.”

Jet looks at him, trying so hard to keep the tears at bay. He understands, just as he understood all of the messages sent in Longshot's language, all the words spelled out in Jet's eyes. 

He presses a passionate kiss to Jet's other cheek and answers, “I will wait. For however long it will take you. For however long it takes you to find yourself and then find me.”

“And if I don't show up?”

He was silent, tasting words and sentences in his tongue, turning them on all sides to formulate something of an answer. “I’ll still love you.” 

Jet hiccups and his breath hitch and tears fall down and he sniffles.

“But I’ll learn to move on, even though I’ll never stop loving you or learn how to. I’ll move on. And maybe we both would find someone else, but you will still be someone I have loved and I will love.”

“Even if I'm like this?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

He presses a kiss to Jet's cheeks.

“I know, and I have never held it against you, but I have long since forgiven you.”

He presses their foreheads together.

“Say it and I will, Jet.”

Jet remains quiet but soon—”Wait for me, please....Zuko?”

He smiles as he feels Jet's breath against his lips. 

“Okay.”

Also, reading HP fanfics made me find out that....damn. Fanfics from, like, 2004 or something are so fucking awesome. Like, like, I love them. And reading fics from that far back makes you see the progression of fanfiction in AO3, but, main point is, they were going hard back then.

"He cupped my face so gently, so caring. His touch one of a loving father.

He other hand came to atop my head, like he was patting me for a assurance.

Then it came.

The searing hot pain.

It burned and burned, a white hot burn. It was so intense, like the sun came down to Earth and visited me, touched me with it's flaming hand and painful touch.

Then...

Nothing.

Everything was black, and for a millisecond, I was scared, frightened. Begging for my mother's comfort.

Next thing I know, I woke up, numb with anesthesia.

I was confused, moment of pain that occured before momentarily forgotten. My hand came up to my head and brushed against cloth. The bandage, hiding and obscuring the burn that was surely there from view. Memories flashed before my eyes and tears welled up in my eyes.

Hours later, I was told the news regarding my banishment and the fool's errand that my father sent me on.

That was three years ago, I'm sixteen now.

I still don't know who was in the wrong."