VA Collection

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A HODGEPODGE OF RANDOM IDEAS I HAVE, PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT I'M NO PROFESSIONAL AUTHOR AND MOST OF THESE WILL BE MADE ON A WHIM WHILE IM IN SCHOOL

I. Reaching Out
II. No Fear (WIP)
III. Mama's Boy (WIP)

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The body does not, in fact, act in service of the conscious, Malachor reflects. It’s a common misconception - certainly, as Emperor, he believed he was largely the one in control - but having experienced time and time again proof otherwise, he knows better now. The body provides him with ambiguous signals to communicate what it wants, and his one job is to interpret them accurately and complain about it vocally so that he can acquire what it demands. Life became much more tolerable once he accepted the true nature of this arrangement.

He accepts, for example, that sometimes he just moves without thinking.


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Mal sits on the edge of the tub in the bathroom. He'd been crying again, but luckily for him, nobody was awake to witness it. He has no idea what time it is. Not that that sort of thing used to matter to him when he was Powerful and In Control, but these are the things the body remembers - that there was a rhythm to the day and that like everyone else in the ship, days are supposed to end in sleep. His body remembers the need for sleep, yet every time it forces him into unconsciousness, it terrorizes him back up in a harrowing matter of minutes with some new vision.

"Make up your damn mind," he tells himself, staring bleary-eyed at the mirror hanging above the sink. He focuses on the light reflecting off the corners because every time his mind wanders too deep into the shadowed center, he sees tired red eyes and pitch-black skin corrupted by dark magic. Worse than that, in the dark, that's when he's the most aware he's alone. These are the things his body remembers: so many years ago, when he used to reach out a hand under the blankets in the middle of the night, there used to be someone else's waiting for him. Mal holds his hand out in front of him, gaze absent, and his fingers grace the empty air.

A surge of emotion wells up, clenching his throat, and for a moment, he's terrified it won't let him breathe. He drops his head into his hands, pulling on his hair until it stings. It's his only line of defense against the very overwhelming and unmistakably loud feelings pressing in around him.

Mal feels insane, sitting there delirious in the middle of the night with sobs rattling through him. Emotions are supposed to be in the mind, aren't they? And that part of him feels the same, but it seems as though his body has a mind of its own these days, and it's terrifying. What if he does go insane? He's on the right track for it, with his body doing whatever the hell it wants, triggered by who knows what, dragging him along for the ride like it's a poltergeist and he's the hapless vessel.

It’s been so long; he thought the ugly years were behind him. Things were good being Emperor. (Were they?) He was untouchable, powerful, and starting to think that maybe everything had been for the best after all. Sure, he had changed so much, but maybe it was just shedding his old pathetic form and good riddance. Thanks for the memories, Sarah, but now he's better than ever. Except now, it's all come crashing down. Again. How fragile fate can be.

Mal is light-headed again by the time he finishes crying, and his whole body aches from the continuous tension. His eyes hurt, but he's still afraid of what he'll see if he dares to close them. He scrubs his face with the heels of his hands, hoping that might get rid of the tear residue that still clings to his face. He must have been crying for a couple hours. Impossible to tell. His body is clamoring for sleep, and there will be hell to pay if he doesn't get it soon, so he brings himself to his feet, fully intending on leaving the bathroom.

Something flashes in his peripheral vision, and he whips around to face it with his fists raised in a defensive position, lowering them when it is just his face in the mirror. You think he'd loosen up - no danger, just his reflection. But no, the sight makes his muscles tense again. Even when his self-esteem was at its all-time high he hadn't cared to see his face, and the sentiment more than doubles now. He finds himself approaching the sink, clutching the edge.

Mal stands there for a moment, just... staring at himself. The washed-out sterile light makes the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent than they already are, and as he traces all the other features of his face, ending with his eyes, he begins to shake. This isn't him. This isn't the all-powerful Emperor Malachor, the man who once struck fear in all who gazed upon him. He wasn't the Emperor Malachor who ruled over a menacing and oppressive empire of pure darkness. He has changed so much since then, and it's only been two weeks. He is being babysat by teenagers he'd tried to kill, humiliated more times than he can count, and now the question nagging his mind is Who will he be by the end of this?

This isn't him, no, not really. This is the man he'd buried long ago. The man he'd worked so hard to surpass, and in one fell swoop, it had all been taken away. It's his fault, and he knows that. But blaming everyone else is just so much simpler. He glares into the eyes of his reflection, the man he is not, the man that should have died long ago, the man that he hates so, so much-

The mirror shatters remarkably easily. Mal's knees give out and he crumples to the ground, clutching the wrist of his stinging hand. When he hazards a glance down he sees that it's bleeding. Glass shards are scattered about the floor around him, and blood streams from his injured hand, pooling in the cracks in the tile floor. He's crying again (this has to be a world record), and he can't tell if it's from the searing pain in his knuckles or the violent wave of emotion that had almost drowned him just now.

He isn't surprised when he hears the door creak open, followed by the tiniest gasp. Mal doesn't look up. He's too ashamed of himself to meet the eyes of whoever had walked into this pitiful scene. There's a beat of silence, broken only by Mal's sobs - because, frustratingly he just can't seem to stop - until whoever is at the door steps forward and carefully crosses the bathroom to squat beside him. Of course, it's Orion. Of all people, it had to be him, every single time. He'd prefer Daniel over this.

"Mal?" Orion whispers like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. "Go away," Mal whispers weakly, screwing his eyes shut. He hopes he didn't wake anybody else up, because then Atlas would get upset, and usually she set Wilbur off, so then he'd get upset, then Daniel would get grumpy (well, more so than usual) and then Leo would get scared and confused, and it would be Orion's job to calm everyone down, and it would just be an all-around fiasco.

"I just want to help," Orion says, and Mal senses the hurt in his voice. He hates it, hates everything about him. Always reaching out. It was like this in the beginning, too, back when Mal was still In Control. Orion had approached for the first time, so cheerfully that it had infuriated him. Then he'd followed him around, talked at him, tried to be his friend, and then that was the last straw.

But always, he was the one reaching out. Why?

There's silence for a bit, then, "Mal, please look at me." He opens his eyes and flinches at the sight of his hand. Somehow seeing the blood pour from it intensifies the already unbearable pain, which also brings back the tears. Mal lifts his head to stare blearily in Orion's direction, but still doesn't meet his gaze directly. Orion hesitates for a beat before reaching over and gently taking Mal's uninjured hand. Mal tenses, and Orion senses it, so he lets go, looking hurt again.

"It's going to be okay," Orion says. He stands up, still staring at Mal's crouched form uncertainly. "Stay there," he murmers, then jogs out of the bathroom. Mal coughs. Yeah, like he's going anywhere. He doesn't know how much time has passed when Orion comes back with a First Aid kit. Mal looks up at him and shakes his head. He doesn't want to feel better, he wants to feel miserable, because that's just what he deserves, he should be dead, he-

Orion squats down again and puts a hand on his shoulder, silencing Mal's spiraling thoughts. Mal blinks, then looks down again at his own hand. He flexes his fingers and immediately regrets it, because pain shoots down through his knuckles. Orion sighs and gently pulls Mal's hand into his lap, and he tries to yank it out of his grasp when the contact makes the stinging even worse. He doesn't want help, he's fine as he is! And he sure as hell doesn't like him moving his hand around, because that hurts, and as he moves it, the bleeding starts up again.

"Mal," Orion says. There's a moment of hesitation, but Mal loosens at the sight of Orion's pleading look.

Orion nods, and begins to work on patching him up. The first thing he does is pick glass out of his wound and disinfect it. Mal has to look away during this part. He decided that this was the most painful part of the process. Then he wraps it tightly in clumsy gauze, helps him up, and takes him back to his dark room. "If you need anything," Orion begins as he makes his way out, "don't be afraid to come talk." Mal sighs. Always reaching out. "In the meantime, maybe don't punch any more mirrors," Orion says, giving him a small smile. Mal's too busy staring at the bloody bandage on his hand to notice.

Orion sobers. "Well, bye, I guess..." he says as he closes the door. Before it shuts entirely, Mal looks up and says as loudly as he dares, "Thanks." He's unsure if Orion hears it, because he doesn't respond; there's only a slight falter in the closing of the door, but Mal doesn't notice. He sits down on the bed, hands on his knees. He's still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster he just hitched a ride on, and he would love nothing more than to sleep, but it's nearly morning now, and still, he's afraid of the nightmares that are sure to follow.

The next night, he breaks. Mal paces back and forth across his room, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. With each passing day, his mind frays more and more at the thought that he might be stuck here, like this, plagued by nightmares and memory and worst of all, guilt. It builds like a pressure inside his skull - so much so that he only realizes he's heading to Orion's room by the time he's already halfway there. He's fully on autopilot now, and he is too exhausted to fight it.

When the doors part for him, Mal hears the startled shuffling of blankets as the lights flash on. He must truly look terrible, because he watches Orion's expression shift in real-time from confusion, to excitement, and then dissolve into alarm and concern. Orion immediately leaps out of bed, suddenly wide awake, and Mal is just too tired to untangle what that means. He just collapses onto his knees when he reaches him.

Orion slides into a kneel in front of him. "Mal? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." The words come out slurred, he can barely keep his eyes open. "I can't-this is- I can't." He exhales, dizziness resurging. Orion doesn't say anything, just sidles up to his side and puts one of his arms over his shoulder and hauls him up off the floor. "Sorry…" he mumbles again, because he can't sort out how to say the rest. Sorry for making you carry me again. Sorry for not paying attention. Sorry for not being better. He's not sure Orion hears the words buried in that 'sorry,' because all he says is, "It's okay."

Orion deposits him on the bed before walking round it and hopping on beside him. He throws the blanket over the both of them and pulls Mal close, and usually he would object, but right now he's just not thinking straight, so he accepts the sort of half-hug and lays his head down on Orion's chest. "So tired," he says.

"Yeah." Though not unkind, his tone indicates it was obvious. Orion still has his arm around Mal's shoulder, and he's confused as to why he hasn't pushed him away yet. He's been pushing him away all his life, yet Orion had always stayed determined. Continued to pursue his friendship, even after Mal had treated him so horribly. It doesn't make sense.

"Orion," Mal says uncertainly.

"Yeah?"

"Why... why don't you hate me?"

Orion laughs gently, and Mal shifts to look at him. "I'd tell you, but I dunno if you'd like it," Orion says, obviously hesitant. Mal frowns. "Tell me." Orion sits up, and so does Mal. "Because... well," Orion looks into his eyes, face tinted red, and for once, Mal doesn't look away. "I... love you."

There is silence for a moment while he processes what he's just heard. Something he couldn't have heard. Suddenly there's a lump in his throat, and he can't breath, and then oh Gods, he's crying again. Orion's holding the blanket in a vice grip, staring at Mal nervously. Mal's biting his quivering lip, just barely holding back the tsunami of assorted emotions that is currently ravaging his mind.

I love you, the words play again and again, and suddenly every single moment he and Orion have been together are flashing before his eyes, and he can't believe he didn't realize earlier, and before he can even think, he says hoarsly, "Me too." Orion lets go of the sheets, utterly shocked, eyes wide. It's then that Mal's emotions overwhelm him, and there's nothing he can do but ride it out, but this time is different because now he doesn't have to do it alone. He cries and cries for all the times he'd held it in, the times he'd suppressed it, and Orion pulls him close again, holding him tight as if he could disappear at any moment. Mal presses his face into Orion's shoulder, letting his shirt soak up the tears.

He had woken Orion in the middle of the night, so despite his efforts, it doesn't take him long to fall back asleep, though he witnesses some valiant attempts to stay awake. It's actually a little heartwarming. (It’s immensely heartwarming.)

He doesn’t know what force drew him here in his moment of desperation, but it must have known what he needed before he did. With the sound of Orion's steady breathing beside him, somehow, the darkness doesn't bear down on him the same way, and he finally finds the courage to sleep. When the nightmares come, because they still do, seeing him there still asleep grounds him. If someone else can sleep soundly here, there must not be danger after all. Just a dream.


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And now it is done. The rest of the story, I cannot tell, for this is where the memories end and bright future begins. What happens next, you ask? Why, he lives happily ever after, of course. After all, that is how storybooks end.

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He had been very young when it happened, so he didn't remember much. Even in his nightmares, a lot of it was inconsistent. Of course, there were some things he would never forget: An unfamiliar someone taking him by the arm, dragging him away from his mother. Her sobs echoing through the house as she begged them not to take him. Her screams as she chased after the ship they took him in. The unmistakable feeling of knowing, deep down, he would never return home. The fear is what he remembers.


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might add to this later