The table of organized chaos (Mini's stuff)

[Deleted]

I'm gonna dump all my artsy stuff here. It'll start resembling my desk eventually.

Leave me prompts if you like. I won't mind~

[Asunara Wisdom]

Writing Challenge:

A Drabble
"Apologize" by OneRepublic
Pocket Watch
Arthur

[Deleted]

Oh look it's finally done. I hope you guys like it. u vu (PS this is an AU type situation because I felt like writing it)

SPOILER: Click to show

{Even In Death (Au Revoir) || Kirklands}

It was a well-known fact that Life killed you in the end. It was also a fact that most people were unwilling to accept because the concept of Death frightened them so much they found the need to do the impossible to keep themselves alive. Irony, Death's good friend, as it happened, had a bad habit of foiling all attempts to avoid Death and sending people to the grave much earlier than originally planned, usually with the help of Fate. Irony then gave Fate a pat on the back for a job well done and went on its merry way.

Fate, Arthur found, was rather like that one person in a group of friends that no one liked and everyone wished would go away. Arthur had never been afraid of Death, always accepted the inevitable outcome of living. Everyone died. That was the simple truth. But Fate had a twisted sense of humor too, it seemed, one that Arthur would be able to appreciate if he were not bleeding out on the ground thanks to three shots to the chest. He didn't know why he was still alive. By all rights, he should have died before he hit the ground; two bullets got his lung and one broke a rib.

Breathing became a chore, but the wounds themselves didn't really hurt. It was more like a numbing sensation; it was pain that didn't register in his brain because it had happened so fast. One moment he'd been up, speaking to the citizens he'd sworn to serve, and the next he was flat on his back, staring up at the sky and the faces that entered and left his vision before he could even recognize them.

Is that what life had had in store for him then? To let him build himself up only to be knocked down before he'd even truly begun?

If Arthur had still retained the capacity to scoff, he would have. Instead, it came out as a painful cough and blood trickled down his corners of his mouth. It didn’t concern him as much as it would have done had it been someone else in his place. He wondered when he became so nonchalant about being murdered. Still, he supposed he’d always expected it, in the back of his mind.

He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking that he'd make it. He knew his time was up.

(It was up before it had even begun.)

He wondered what his family would think of this. He wouldn’t be surprised if they mostly thought nothing of it at all. Ever since he left home, he hadn’t been very close to his direct siblings. He couldn't even say much about them anymore. In all truth, he barely knew them. They were a nuisance on the sidelines, so much smaller than the bigger picture he'd painted for himself out of his ambitions, his goals.

(But they were never smaller, not really.)

His vision became a whirl of colors, blurring in and out, back and forth, too fast and it made him dizzy. He saw a splash of red and thought at first that it was his own blood—but it was soon gone and he was reminded of Iain and his burning red hair.

Iain, he hoped, would miss him to a degree. They’d never been the best of friends or brothers—in fact, Arthur loathed the fact that Iain was present in his life more than he would have preferred; always showing up with that stupid smile and that drawling voice that made Arthur feel like punching the grin off his face. He did not—could not—deny that he cared for his eldest brother, though. He worried about his health; worried about the fact that he worked with the MI6 and could get killed at any moment, despite being in the lab; worried that he would get injured while working on some ridiculous project. Despite all the teasing and all the tormenting he put Arthur through, Arthur loved Iain. He looked for his brother’s approval of his accomplishments, looked for a proud smile and a pat on the back. Sometimes he received, more than often he did not.

And he couldn’t decide whether or not Iain hated him, even though that wasn’t for him to decide. If he hated Arthur, then surely he wouldn’t show up as often as he did—but, those visits were never for him in the first place. Iain never had much time for Arthur. Then again, Arthur never had much time for Iain either.

Still, Iain had always been a better sibling than Donny or Aoife. Arthur thought—no, he knew—that the twins hated him. The most passion he’d ever seen out of either of them towards him was when they were scowling at him, sending him harsh glares, seeming forever resentful of the fact that Arthur was even born.

Arthur almost didn’t blame them.

They never spent time together as kids. Aoife had scorned him. Arthur hardly remembered Donny from that time. Nothing he did remember was especially positive. If he tried hard enough, he could still feel their glares on his back (not that much had changed about that since then). But now, Donny mooched off of him like no big deal, like Arthur had all the money in the world, as if he’d been invited to do so, and Aoife avoided Arthur with every living breath in her body, as though he was the plague.

But as much as they hated him, he couldn’t bring himself to hate them in return, because no matter how cruel either of them could get, or how much they ignored him, they were still family and he loved them nevertheless. In the end, family was all one had, after all. Arthur had hoped that one day they would smile at him like they smiled at each other and the rest of the family. He guessed after today he’d never get the chance see one directed towards him. And for some reason, that hurt.

(A lot.)

Arthur choked. He jolted and felt pain searing through his chest, tearing at his lungs. Blood rushed up his throat. It took a lot of energy, but he turned his head so he wouldn’t drown in it. He didn’t want to die that way. It gushed out his mouth and down the side of his face. He felt the warmth of his blood seep into his hair, around his face. He gagged on the scent of iron and more of his own fluids came out of his mouth, as red as Iain’s hair.

And what a morbid thought that was.

His thoughts were going to dark places and he didn’t want to end his life that way. So he turned his memories around and focused on the positives in his family, those bright candles that never flickered no matter how hard someone tried to blow them out.

Cerys. Focus on Cerys, he told himself. His sister, the most precious sibling he’d ever had. Always there for him, always steering him along some path that he knew in his heart was correct but didn’t know why. Always next to him when he was sick in bed, telling him stories and keeping him company when his mother wasn’t there to do so, and no one else could be bothered. She had been his confider, the one who kept all his secrets and sorrows that he couldn’t tell anyone else. He felt bad for heaving all his troubles onto her shoulders to hold as well. She had never done the same to him—she was quiet, bearing everything because she was the motherly one, the one they had all gone to.

Arthur knew that he was her favorite, for it had been all too obvious. She’d doted on him, coddled him, and was the one Arthur always went to first; Arthur was the first one Cerys always sought out. Arthur loved her dearly and he didn’t dare think of what she would feel about this all.

He couldn’t imagine it would be good, but at least she’d have the others. She never did need another brother—she’d had her hands full with the rest already.

(It still hurt so much to imagine her crying, though.)

At least… At least they would have Peter—oh god, Peter. What would Peter do? Arthur would be gone and all that would be left for his cousin would be an empty house too big for a little boy. Arthur cherished Peter even if he didn’t always show it. Arthur wasn’t a demonstrative person, never really had been. He spent as much time with Peter as he could. Even in those weeks when he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open he tried his hardest to make time for Peter so that the boy could feel a type of love Arthur barely had.

Brotherly love. It was the kind of love Arthur had gone through his whole life without. It was the kind of love Arthur had wanted Peter to feel, because he knew the feeling of loneliness and he couldn’t imagine Peter not smiling, not laughing. He never wanted to see that. The boy was already without parents being around and neither seemed too inclined to make a single phone call.

Arthur wanted Peter to feel loved. Maybe Iain would take Peter in. That would work. Peter had always seemed to like his more outgoing siblings than him. Peter would be happier there. He’d move on.

They all would.

Arthur blinked and he was back in reality. Instead of the sky, he saw white. Hovering over him were familiar faces that he couldn’t place names to. One with red hair, the other, bright orange that made Arthur squint.

“…thur, just hang on. You cannae die on me. You’re not allowed to die first.”

…Iain? It couldn’t be Iain. And the other, that was Donny, wasn’t it? But Donny… Donny hated Arthur. Neither of them liked him. Why were they there?

“Stay with us, Golden Boy. Stay awake. The world needs you. We need you.”

He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said to any of his siblings now. He could only remember that it hadn’t been good. He wondered if he could take it all back now, fix things—but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even if he tried.

He couldn’t fight his exhaustion anymore. He was so tired. He wasn’t afraid of death. He would go without complaint, and they would move on, continue with their lives, happy and content. They would finally be free of him.

So why… why do they sound so scared?

(‘I hate you,’ he spat. ‘Go away. I hate you.’)

His eyes slid shut. His breathing slowed.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not now. He wanted more time. He needed more time. He had to talk to them one last time, to fix everything, take back what he’d said before—

I wish I’d… told them… I wish I’d… said…





(He never finished that last thought.)

[Deleted]

casually procrastinates on Asu's prompt to write this instead

SPOILER: Click to show

{Uphill Battle}Arthur started wearing long sleeved shirts when he was thirteen.

There was nothing particularly strange about it—after all, it had been approaching winter when he began wearing them, and Iain saw nothing out of the ordinary. They were nice looking collared shirts, solid colors and sleeve cuffs. They were too fancy for a thirteen-year-old to be wearing, but Arthur had said, “I’m in school with older people, so I should start dressing more maturely.” It made sense for Arthur to want to fit in, he reasoned, and shrugged off the nagging sensation in the back of his mind.

So Iain noted with disinterest that more t-shirts ended up in the trash and Arthur’s wardrobe filled with every long sleeved garment. He blinked in surprise when he found a Beatles shirt among the others—Arthur loved that shirt and he hadn’t even had it for three months. Iain kept the shirt with his own things, thinking that maybe Arthur had thrown it out by mistake and that he would come looking for it later—then Iain would be heroic in returning the almost-lost article to his little brother, and they’d laugh about Arthur’s almost-mistake.

He was surprised when Arthur never came looking for it. He kept it anyway, though, thinking that perhaps his brother had just not noticed.

When he turned fourteen, Arthur started locking his door when changing. Iain guessed that, as Arthur was going through puberty, he’d developed some ridiculous sense of shame (they were family; there was nothing to be ashamed about). So Iain started making jokes about it.

“Artie’s embarrassed about something, fellas. Is it ‘cause you’ve got no muscle under there? Embarrassed that you won’t compare to your big brothers, eh?” Arthur had laughed along with the rest of them, but even Iain noticed that the laughter was more guarded and the smile didn’t reach his brother’s eyes.

On the news the next night, there was a story of a young girl’s suicide. She was Arthur’s age, though two grades below, and had been picked on endlessly for reasons that the bullies had not managed to state outright, fumbling for their words and being ashamed of themselves (as they should be, Iain thought). One of the girl’s friends was interviewed and she mentioned how the girl had cut; wrists, thighs, forearms, sometimes even her stomach, wherever she could hide the scars.

Silence had descended over all the family members. Arthur broke it.

“You can’t imagine how much someone must hate themselves to be able to put a knife to their own skin,” Arthur said, his voice so quiet that Iain almost missed it. He got up and fled the room before anyone else could speak.

Iain frowned. Of course he could imagine it. He’d never done it himself, or felt that low, but he could imagine what it must feel like.

(Later, he would realize that he couldn’t imagine it, could never have hoped to imagine that amount of self-hatred.)

He glanced at Cerys, who watched Arthur’s back as he retreated from the living room.

“There’s something off about him,” she said, voicing Iain’s exact thoughts.

“Yeah. Yeah, there is. That one was deep, even for him.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him if you’re so concerned?” Donny asked, leaning back against the cushions. Aoife sat deep in contemplation, staring vacantly at the space above the television.

“And you’re not concerned?” Aoife said, turning to face her twin.

“Of course I am,” Donny said, frowning. “I think he’s just being a moody teen. He’s fourteen. It’s probably just a phase.”

“You’d know so much about that,” Iain muttered. Donny glared at him. He stood up. “I’m going to talk to him. He’s our brother. We’re supposed to know when something’s wrong.”

Iain found Arthur sitting in his room, nose buried in a book. Arthur glanced up but quickly looked down again so that his hair shielded his face from Iain. Iain scowled and stood in front of the bed. “Look at me, Arthur,” he ordered, voice low and stern, giving no room for Arthur to disobey. His brother lifted his head.

His eyes were red and shiny with unshed tears. Arthur wiped his nose with his sleeve, choked out a sound, then scrubbed at his eyes, as though ashamed to be caught crying.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Iain asked, almost afraid. He rarely saw Arthur cry and certainly not over something like this. (He didn’t think he’d seen Arthur cry since he was seven.) Tentatively, he inched closer to Arthur and sat next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, Artie, I’m your brother. You can tell me.”

He was hesitant, but eventually Arthur spoke. “I knew her,” he sniffled and rubbed at his eyes. “We talked a lot. I didn’t know anything was wrong. I could’ve done something.”

Iain sighed. “How could you have known, Arthur?” he said, rubbing his brother’s shoulders in a pacifying gesture. “You couldn’t have known. People don’t just tell you things. Sometimes they take a while, and sometimes they never do. Sometimes, you just have to guess, and you can’t be expected to guess everything.”

He felt Arthur’s shoulders tense up, but he pretended not to notice. "What if you just can't tell anyone?" he asked.

“C’mon, Artie, don't be like that,” Iain said with earnest. “You can tell me anything.”

“No I can’t. You’ll just laugh and call me ridiculous.”

Iain rolled his eyes. “No I won’t. That’s only sometimes.”

Arthur laughed and Iain never thought he’d be so happy to hear his brother laughing. He smiled and ruffled the other’s hair. For once, Arthur did not protest. “Thanks, Iain,” he said.

Iain grinned. “Not a problem. Just let me know when you need me. Life’s an uphill battle and you can’t always fight alone. I promise I’ll be there for you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

SPOILER: Click to show

{and bonus ending that doesn't actually happened but I wrote it anyway}
(It wasn’t until the next year that Iain realized he’d broken his promise, when he found Arthur dangling from the ceiling fan in a noose made out of the Union Jack flag that had been on his wall. On his desk was a notebook with a sticky note on it, ‘For Iain’ written in elegant handwriting. Iain read every word, from front to back; each page was filled with Arthur’s thoughts, stories and poems he’d jotted down, feelings conveyed onto the page through both the language and the ferocity of the handwriting. As he neared the end, the entries got shorter and shorter until some pages contained only one or two sentences in a messy scrawl. Four pages from the end held a confession. Arthur wrote that he had that much self-hatred, and that he was sorry. Iain knew exactly what he was referring to.

The third page from the end had one word on it in printing: No.

The second last page said: I can’t do this anymore. Tear marks dotted the page.

The last page had never been touched.)

[Deleted]

Once again I procrastinate on every other thing and write a flash fiction instead
Thanks to Ju for beta-ing <33

SPOILER: Click to show

{It Was In The Tea}

They said it was in the tea.

Everybody who was anybody knew that the Prime Minister of Britain loved his tea. He was never seen in a meeting without a cup. Every restaurant he went to, he got tea. He’d even stated himself that he always had tea before he left the house every morning, brewed for three to four minutes, milk or cream, no sugar.

The fact of the matter was that Arthur William Kirkland always had tea.

When Arthur Kirkland collapsed one day, mere minutes after eating lunch with one Michael Collins, they rushed him to the hospital and found he’d been poisoned.

So of course it had to have been in the tea.

Michael Collins, having been there at the scene of the alleged crime, was put down as the primary suspect. Had Arthur had any semblance of consciousness, he would have been able to put down those claims as ridiculous, since he knew Michael well enough that he was confident his friend would never poison his tea.

As it happened, Arthur was in danger of dying and unable to rebuke any claims, so Michael was left to flounder in accusations and negative news reports that sorely damaged his reputation.

If Arthur had been awake, Michael surely would have yelled at him for it, despite knowing that Arthur wasn’t to blame for being poisoned, nor was it his fault that Michael happened to be there right when the poison had finally made its effects known.

No one had any proof that Michael had anything to do with the poison. Regardless, they needed someone to blame. So they blamed Michael.

They had no proof that it had been in the tea, but they said it had been anyway since the newspapers wanted a good story to put out.

And besides, it made sense, for what else could it have been in if not the tea?