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More....au shit...except not as good 0.o


Characters: Yuffie, Matt, implied others.

“If I be good this time can I get off the bed?”

Long hair is tangled around her arms and down her back, like vines, black stark and harsh against the off white of her shirt and whatever the loose fabric is she’s wrapped around her arms like bandages but not. She hasn’t harmed herself in a , not since he got mad at her and said he would never never ever forgive her if she went away.

She doesn’t remember who is saying the words she remembers, she hears snippets and parts and a tone of the voice she isn’t used to and far too afraid….(goddammit Yuffie don’t do that please! STOP THAT!) She doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to remember who she made feel that, sound that way. She’s sure she didn’t mean to.

She never means to.

Instead of continuing to focus on upsetting thoughts that make the glowing thoughts stop and make her claw at the wraps around her arms (went away they went away too always going and going and gone.) she watches Matt instead, all the words on papers that line all of the walls and strings and things connecting the papers and words and thoughts from one to another and twisting into something he’s tried to explain, but she’s never really understood even with as many times as he’s told her.

(Explanations don’t work, they’ve tried to tell her they’ve tried, can’t explain why people do the things they do, why people go away away away and leave her again and again and again.)

He waves a hand somewhere in her direction, and she thinks the smoke trailing from the cigarette in his hand writes more words in the air. Matt is made of words lately, but…not many of them spoken. His words are all on papers and tacked to the walls or to himself.

People get mad when she speaks to herself. But she doesn’t mind too badly when Matt does it, it may be lonely, but it’s a hum that doesn’t make her head hurt or buzz white and make things hard to see clear.

She thinks he has to see clearer then anyone else right now, because otherwise why would he do what he does with the words and papers and thoughts and strings that make up this room.

Yuffie gets up to watch over his shoulder, he didn’t say no, and not saying no means yes. Or she thinks. Matt tends to remember to say the word ‘no’ if he means it. She gets up behind him, close enough to see that one of the papers has her name on it. It’s one of the ones he let her write on because there is his writing, then her letters that belong to only her beside it, writing her name in words no one else remembers they know. The characters are pretty beside the letters and she wonders why people don’t write in both more often.

He doesn’t seem to notice her, though he’s probably very aware of her in his personal space. Matt’s aware of a lot more then people think he is. It makes it easier to focus when she knows that she isn’t wasting the time to work through the haze on someone who isn’t going to understand what that takes.

She sidesteps so she is beside him instead, and reaches out with her fingertips to brush across letters without characters, but that she does remember teaching to be written in them. She remembers figuring out how to translate a few of these words into characters, names like hers, and other characters and letters side by side-

The next thing she knows Matt is waving his hand in front of her face and trying to pull one of the papers out of her hand where her fingers have clutched it tight like she’s afraid to let go. (Wants to keep them wants to keep the words like she can’t keep the people they mean can’t they’ve gone too far away and leave her every time)He’s talking to her, though she can’t really hear the words right now, they’re stuck in the fog like the past few moments and he’s watching her through orange tinted eyes…those goggles have a crack in them. Just on one side. It made her sad because there’s a tiny part of the world that’s the color things really are when you wear them now. So she doesn’t take them any more.

She can hear her name now, and she lets the paper fall from her fingers the foot to the floor. She didn’t notice she was sitting until she sees how far there was to fall. He picks up the paper and he starts to stand and almost looks confused for a second before putting it away, tacked with the others, before coming back to her. It’s okay, because she can hear again, the buzz in her ears isn’t strong enough to block out words and sounds, she can hear him ask if she’s alright and she pulls her knees to her chest.

“I-I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.”

She starts picking at the strips of cloth on her arm, it’s her fault he’s not connecting thoughts and words and strings anymore, she broke it, broke it and didn’t mean to even when she said she wouldn’t. He’s stopped and is now telling her to get up off the floor and she only listens because maybe he wont lose track of the things he’s been arraigning if she does. She feels like she’s tangled up something important that she’s supposed to figure out how to untangle and fix but she doesn’t know how. He doesn’t look mad, it takes a lot to make him look mad. She doesn’t remember the last time.

(Does does does doesn’t want to remember though cause it made her want to tell him to go back to fixing strings go back to untangling cause Matt isn’t suited to being mad or scared he’s not not not doesn’t like to see him that way doesn’t doesn’t don’t be sad don’t cry people leave but they’re still there they are always people can’t disappear)

He’s watching her more closely now, she’s standing, the floor is far away and she’s lightheaded like she could float to the ceiling. The floor’s been far away for long minutes and he’s asking her if she’s okay again (why do they always ask she’s just fine fine fine FINE FUCKING FINE ALWAYS FINE) she nods and smiles and her boots scuff along the floor as she spins away like a top, like some kind of dancer. She wanted to be a dancer once, not the pretty kind like in the plays the upper plates used to watch but the kinds who used to sit calmly beside the people in her father’s chamber before showing what they really could do. Butterflies, every one of them, and she’d wanted to fly with them. Away like she had wings, fans were wings.

He’s distracted now, and she thinks she might have broken it for a few hours. He’s not returning to the strings. So she asks if he’d like to listen to the fairytales instead, he listens when he isn’t connecting words together.

She thinks it’s more connecting words and worlds, but as long as someone is willing to hear the stories that bubble up in her and make her wish to scream because she can remember what it was like to stand on the thumb of a god and watch the sky filled by blood red rocks that colored the world. The end of the world is glittering green glass and no one else remembers.

Here it goes out in a flicker of nothingness.

But he looks back to the papers, the strings, then back to her. Shaking his head but sitting down instead of going back to the wall. She laughs and even though there are tear tracks down her face from short little moments before, she can still think about winking green and smile.

Even if he’s only going to wrap the green up in strings near her name and others that mean those with silver hair and blood on her clothes (or ruffling short hair and princess she misses when it meant sweetness and not a reason to hide or golden claws and monsters inside or golden spikes and eyes like the sky) he’s still letting them escape her and go to him instead, let him take some of it so it doesn’t fill her up enough to break.

Fairytales are only good if other people listen.


The great ninja Yuffie

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