Today, I bring you drabbles, all Ike/Soren, on varying places on the gen-romance spectrum. (Except one, but it fits well enough with the others and it's my favorite so it's not getting kicked out.) None of them are particularly earth-moving or remarkable, just fluff and angst for those who desperately need their fix.
Ordered vaguely by when they were written. Quick names given for easy reference should anyone want to babble on about them.
Hostage
One scenario Soren had always feared was that either he or Ike would be taken hostage. It would make a difficult situation worse for the army to act without a tactician or commander, and doubtlessly, the one still left in freedom would be filled with irrationality. He studied his bleeding fingernails and decided that, given their methods, they likely had a use for him should negotiations fail. Laughing to himself silently, he resolved that he would sooner die than turn against Ike, if that was their plan. Their attempts at psychological torture were pathetic. He admitted to himself that it may have worked some four years ago, but Ike was wonderful and he had long grown past that. It was rather charming, to hear the words that used to plague his mind spoken into air. It was charming to realize that they now sounded ridiculous to him. They had said these things with the intention of making him cry, but they made him laugh and smile fondly at the strength of their love.
History
A hundred years from now, Ike will be a legend. His figure will be warped and painted by history. There will be generations of children taught of the great things 'General Ike' had done. They will strip him of his human details and tell of deeds he's never done. He will represent the good in the allegedly epic battle between good and evil. He will be an icon rather than a man. He will be a cardboard model. And he will be only that.
The beorc race will be so misled. But the Ike I know, the only Ike who will be Ike to me, sits in front of me at the present. Often, I wonder if my memory will be the only thing that records his humanity – Ike wrinkles his nose at the stack of reports and says, “Tomorrow.” – but then, I know that I would be the one to appreciate this Ike the most.
Steam
Soren turns the shower water as hot as it would go, but even though it burns against his back, it isn't enough to melt him away and down the disposal. He walks out of the bathroom red and wrapped in steam, veins slightly pronounced and fingertips numb, yet throbbing. Ike reaches out with concern, and Soren winces at his touch, but not because his skin is ginger.
Quill
Ike plays with the ink-stained half-gnarled quill left on Soren's desk, arranging its knotted fluff back into uniform lines. It looked to be a rather nice feather, ignoring its condition. They'll never be connected and confident, he knows, but it would look much less pathetic than the state Soren had left it in.
The tactician enters and gives Ike a look, saying, “I would like my quill back.” And carelessly, he takes it back with ink-stained knuckles and strangles it as he dips it in ink.
Unsaid
"Maybe I should've told him." Rocking just slightly.
"Could you?"
Soren shook his head no, he did not. And now knowing that he would never be able to confess to Ike what he's kept from him: deceit and love.
Lost
In winter, the nights are longer than the days, but they need to march swiftly nonetheless. Until the night is pitch-black, they press on through the two-foot snow. Sometimes, Soren worries that while gazing at glaciers, he'll become wrapped in his thoughts until the army is lost to him in the darkness. But that's never happened. Often, Ike gives him a bemused look before Soren realizes that his fingers are clenched around a ragged sleeve.
Inkwell
There are specks of ink on the carpet and on his clothes and in his hair. Like paint, like bloodstains. The glassy inkwell lies in pieces, and Soren realizes faintly, apathetically, that he had been using that one for some five years, give or take. He hadn't really thrown things before. Hadn't felt the need.
The broken inkwell bleeds slowly upon the ground, black pooling over polished stone. Soren, fingers trembling, reaches to pick up the pieces of thick glass, gingerly holding them near the middle, fingertips bathed in ink. That was unnecessary, he chastises himself. They don't have the funds for his anger. It was never in the calculations. As the tactician, Soren tells himself, dropping the fragments into the trash, he doesn't need more unexpected complications. But as a frightened child, he paints ugly pictures with his fingers on the ground, abstract pictures that process only in his mind, and cries.
Ordered vaguely by when they were written. Quick names given for easy reference should anyone want to babble on about them.
Hostage
One scenario Soren had always feared was that either he or Ike would be taken hostage. It would make a difficult situation worse for the army to act without a tactician or commander, and doubtlessly, the one still left in freedom would be filled with irrationality. He studied his bleeding fingernails and decided that, given their methods, they likely had a use for him should negotiations fail. Laughing to himself silently, he resolved that he would sooner die than turn against Ike, if that was their plan. Their attempts at psychological torture were pathetic. He admitted to himself that it may have worked some four years ago, but Ike was wonderful and he had long grown past that. It was rather charming, to hear the words that used to plague his mind spoken into air. It was charming to realize that they now sounded ridiculous to him. They had said these things with the intention of making him cry, but they made him laugh and smile fondly at the strength of their love.
History
A hundred years from now, Ike will be a legend. His figure will be warped and painted by history. There will be generations of children taught of the great things 'General Ike' had done. They will strip him of his human details and tell of deeds he's never done. He will represent the good in the allegedly epic battle between good and evil. He will be an icon rather than a man. He will be a cardboard model. And he will be only that.
The beorc race will be so misled. But the Ike I know, the only Ike who will be Ike to me, sits in front of me at the present. Often, I wonder if my memory will be the only thing that records his humanity – Ike wrinkles his nose at the stack of reports and says, “Tomorrow.” – but then, I know that I would be the one to appreciate this Ike the most.
Steam
Soren turns the shower water as hot as it would go, but even though it burns against his back, it isn't enough to melt him away and down the disposal. He walks out of the bathroom red and wrapped in steam, veins slightly pronounced and fingertips numb, yet throbbing. Ike reaches out with concern, and Soren winces at his touch, but not because his skin is ginger.
Quill
Ike plays with the ink-stained half-gnarled quill left on Soren's desk, arranging its knotted fluff back into uniform lines. It looked to be a rather nice feather, ignoring its condition. They'll never be connected and confident, he knows, but it would look much less pathetic than the state Soren had left it in.
The tactician enters and gives Ike a look, saying, “I would like my quill back.” And carelessly, he takes it back with ink-stained knuckles and strangles it as he dips it in ink.
Unsaid
"Maybe I should've told him." Rocking just slightly.
"Could you?"
Soren shook his head no, he did not. And now knowing that he would never be able to confess to Ike what he's kept from him: deceit and love.
Lost
In winter, the nights are longer than the days, but they need to march swiftly nonetheless. Until the night is pitch-black, they press on through the two-foot snow. Sometimes, Soren worries that while gazing at glaciers, he'll become wrapped in his thoughts until the army is lost to him in the darkness. But that's never happened. Often, Ike gives him a bemused look before Soren realizes that his fingers are clenched around a ragged sleeve.
Inkwell
There are specks of ink on the carpet and on his clothes and in his hair. Like paint, like bloodstains. The glassy inkwell lies in pieces, and Soren realizes faintly, apathetically, that he had been using that one for some five years, give or take. He hadn't really thrown things before. Hadn't felt the need.
The broken inkwell bleeds slowly upon the ground, black pooling over polished stone. Soren, fingers trembling, reaches to pick up the pieces of thick glass, gingerly holding them near the middle, fingertips bathed in ink. That was unnecessary, he chastises himself. They don't have the funds for his anger. It was never in the calculations. As the tactician, Soren tells himself, dropping the fragments into the trash, he doesn't need more unexpected complications. But as a frightened child, he paints ugly pictures with his fingers on the ground, abstract pictures that process only in his mind, and cries.