**SQUEES!**
Jul. 20th, 2010 08:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladybug_archiveThe AMV ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nuitsongeur was making for me is done! Eeee, I love it! **hugs it.** ^O^ A budding friendship set to one of my most favorite songs. *___* So awesome!
There's a detailed plot to this, and though I think the basic idea should be able to be followed by anyone, reading the summary is a very good thing. Click the video to do so. ^^
Also, the fridge thing? I think it may manifest as a walk-in freezer and be part of a fic where Autor and Ahiru are taken prisoner and have to escape. Autor is forced to write a Story in music for the kidnappers while Ahiru is locked in the freezer. He writes, but tricks them, and enables Ahiru to escape. Then he is overpowered and thrown in the freezer when his deception is discovered. Ahiru realizes he's not with her and calls Fakir for help, then goes back inside through the ventilation system. The criminals have left Autor in the freezer and Ahiru has to get it open and get him out.
And here, have another blurb. A bit longer this time, and a scene that will eventually appear attached to a fic for the prompt Hold On at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
10_prompts. This time it's Autor and Fakir friendship. I love the banter in the latter part.
Autor coughed and sputtered as he half-stumbled, half-swam onto the shore, dragging Fakir’s limp form with him. The full force of the weight slamming into him on dry land caused his knees to buckle. He collapsed onto the grassy bank on his stomach, Fakir falling next to him. But as he breathed heavily, strained from the desperate fight for survival, a realization struck him that made his blood run cold.
His arm was still around Fakir’s lower back, supporting him. But it was not rising and falling in the least. If Fakir was breathing, it could barely be noticed.
“Fakir!” he cried in horror. He turned onto his left side, shaking Fakir’s shoulder with his right hand. “Wake up!”
There was no response. Water dripped from Fakir’s hair into the blades of green without him so much as grunting in annoyance at his drenched state—or from being shaken.
Autor rocked back. This could not be; there had to be a mistake somewhere.
Ignoring his own exhaustion, he forced himself to his knees and reached over, carefully pushing Fakir onto his back. A bit of water trickled from Fakir’s slightly parted lips, but aside from that he was still.
Autor bent over him, checking for first breath, then a heartbeat. He could find neither.
“This is unacceptable!” he burst out as he straightened up. He was reeling from the discovery. This was not supposed to happen. Fakir was supposed to be alive. Autor had not told him to hold onto him on the lake so he could bring a corpse back to shore!
His hands shaking, he leaned over again. He had to revive Fakir if it was at all possible. But he could not begin to do anything until he extracted the water that Fakir had most likely swallowed. He pressed down hard on Fakir’s chest and stomach.
At first nothing happened. Then Fakir’s body jerked and his mouth flew open as the swallowed water reappeared. It spilled onto the grass around him, though he gave no indication of acknowledgment. Autor bent down further. Still nothing—no breath, no heartbeat.
“Fakir, you can’t do this!” he cried. “You’re a direct descendent of Drosselmeyer. How can you let yourself be conquered by something as insignificant as a violent lake?!”
He trembled in his shock. He gave off an air of being cool and collected, but when something like this happened he had to admit at least to himself that it was an act. He was not really confident and obnoxious; he was a frightened boy kneeling in the grass with the body of his dead friend.
But no, he would not accept that Fakir was dead yet. There was still something he could try, and he would, even though the thought of it made him cringe.
Kneeling at Fakir’s side, he bent down and pulled Fakir’s mouth open. Nothing seemed to be blocking his airway, thank goodness. At least Autor would hopefully not have to put his finger in Fakir’s mouth. Instead he went right to covering Fakir’s mouth with his own. With deep breaths he forced the air into the other boy’s lungs, then leaned back to see if Fakir would breathe on his own. But once the borrowed oxygen was spent, Fakir was still again. Disheartened but not disconsolate, Autor tried a second time and a third.
Sometimes it took a long while until this helped, he told himself as he worked. People often had to breathe for someone for ages before at last they were rewarded with results.
Of course, other times it did not help at all. There were no guarantees. He was only working with a quite possibly slim hope, one that was growing thinner the more he tried to resuscitate Fakir.
And Fakir was still not responding. At last Autor leaned back, staring at him in a daze. There was no way around it; he was gone. To insist otherwise was to be a fool.
His hands trembling again, Autor removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He had tried his best, but it had not been good enough. Fakir had always berated himself when he had not been able to protect someone. This time it was Autor who had failed.
He frowned as he replaced the glasses on his face. Logically, there was no point in trying any longer. But in spite of himself, he felt the urge to attempt it again anyway. Just one more time could not hurt anything, could it? He could not feel any worse about this than he already did. And at least he would know he had tried absolutely everything.
Once more he leaned over Fakir and passed the life-giving oxygen to him.
It was while he still had his mouth over Fakir’s that the writer’s eyes snapped open, staring at him in disbelief.
Autor immediately rocked back in just as much shock, if not more. “Fakir?!” he gasped. “You’re alive?!”
For a moment it was Fakir who coughed and sputtered, from disbelief as well as a desperate attempt to get used to breathing once again. “What were you doing?!” he demanded at last, his voice rasping and barely discernible.
“I . . .” Autor gave him a look. “What do you think I was doing?”
Fakir grunted. “Should I answer that?”
Autor crossed his arms. “You should be thanking me,” he said haughtily, masking his joyous relief as quickly as it appeared. “I saved your life.”
Fakir blinked once or twice, clearly stunned. “Autor, you . . . ?”
“Surely you don’t think I was invading your personal space for the fun of it,” Autor said. “It really wasn’t fun at all. But you were clinically dead. I didn’t have many options.”
Understanding flickered in Fakir’s eyes. Both uncomfortable and touched, he said, “I’m sorry for making you go through the trouble.”
“Yes, well, just don’t let it happen again,” Autor said. He looked away, adjusting his glasses to conceal the discomfort in his own eyes.
It was less because of having performed the artificial respiration as it was due to how vulnerable he had felt while Fakir had lain helpless. He was not supposed to be vulnerable or show weakness.
For that matter, he was not supposed to care this deeply about another person. He had felt horrified and in denial when he had thought Fakir was dead, and not just because he did not want someone to die. It had mainly been because he had believed he had lost his friend.
Friend. . . . That was a concept he was still trying to get used to. Ahiru had worn down his resistance and made him realize that he considered her a friend. That was one thing. But in the long hours and weeks since then, he had begun to get just the slightest inkling that he felt the same about Fakir.
Of course, he had not thought there was any way Fakir would ever feel such things for him. Autor really had not understood why he himself would have such a ridiculous idea.
If he ever spoke of it to Fakir, he had thought in the past, he would be rejected, just as Rue had rejected him when he had confessed his love for her.
And yet he had learned just the opposite through their adventures. Even though Fakir had not acknowledged Autor as a friend until the fateful night when he had given Autor a ride home, unaware that Autor was a ghost, Autor had realized it was true long before that. They had not needed the actual words in order to communicate their feelings; it had been a silent awareness they had each possessed but had never talked about.
“Autor?” A cough. “What’s the deal?”
Autor glanced to Fakir out of the corner of his eye. Fakir had raised himself up on one elbow and was frowning at Autor in confusion. Apparently Autor had lost himself in his thoughts for far too long.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Are you able to stand? We should get back to town.”
Fakir began to push himself upright. “Let’s go then,” he grunted. He swayed violently, nearly tumbling backwards into the lake.
Autor was standing and at his side before he could fall. He pulled Fakir away, then again awkwardly placed an arm around Fakir’s lower back.
Fakir stiffened. “I can make it on my own,” he grunted.
“No, you actually can’t,” Autor returned. “So we may as well just get on with it.”
He would behave just the same if he were in Fakir’s position, of course. And actually, he was ignoring his own injuries in order to help Fakir. He was only exhausted. He could push himself further, for Fakir’s sake.
Poor Ahiru. It was no wonder she was worried and cranky, dealing with two stubborn boys all the time.
“You asked what my ‘deal’ was,” he said finally as they began to walk. “I was upset; I’d thought you were dead because of my foolishness. And I . . .” He hesitated, then drew a deep breath and took the plunge even as he flamed red. “I didn’t want to lose my friend.”
Fakir blinked in surprise. “You’re admitting you did something stupid?” he grunted. “Just how much of the lake did you swallow?”
“Don’t expect it to last,” Autor sneered.
“I don’t.”
Fakir fell silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff.
“You know, I didn’t just come out here to try to keep some idiot I know from getting in over his head and dying.” He looked to Autor, his green eyes firm and clear. “I didn’t want to lose my friend either.”
Autor stared at him, equally as surprised as Fakir had been moments earlier. But then he smirked, attempting to hide his reaction.
“You’re admitting we’re friends?” he said. “This is a day of miracles.”
Fakir snorted. “Let’s just go home,” he said. “Ahiru should be back by now; you know she’ll be worried sick.”
That was definitely true. Autor nodded in consent.
His heart was lighter as he moved forward with Fakir again.
nuitsongeur was making for me is done! Eeee, I love it! **hugs it.** ^O^ A budding friendship set to one of my most favorite songs. *___* So awesome!There's a detailed plot to this, and though I think the basic idea should be able to be followed by anyone, reading the summary is a very good thing. Click the video to do so. ^^
Also, the fridge thing? I think it may manifest as a walk-in freezer and be part of a fic where Autor and Ahiru are taken prisoner and have to escape. Autor is forced to write a Story in music for the kidnappers while Ahiru is locked in the freezer. He writes, but tricks them, and enables Ahiru to escape. Then he is overpowered and thrown in the freezer when his deception is discovered. Ahiru realizes he's not with her and calls Fakir for help, then goes back inside through the ventilation system. The criminals have left Autor in the freezer and Ahiru has to get it open and get him out.
And here, have another blurb. A bit longer this time, and a scene that will eventually appear attached to a fic for the prompt Hold On at
10_prompts. This time it's Autor and Fakir friendship. I love the banter in the latter part.Autor coughed and sputtered as he half-stumbled, half-swam onto the shore, dragging Fakir’s limp form with him. The full force of the weight slamming into him on dry land caused his knees to buckle. He collapsed onto the grassy bank on his stomach, Fakir falling next to him. But as he breathed heavily, strained from the desperate fight for survival, a realization struck him that made his blood run cold.
His arm was still around Fakir’s lower back, supporting him. But it was not rising and falling in the least. If Fakir was breathing, it could barely be noticed.
“Fakir!” he cried in horror. He turned onto his left side, shaking Fakir’s shoulder with his right hand. “Wake up!”
There was no response. Water dripped from Fakir’s hair into the blades of green without him so much as grunting in annoyance at his drenched state—or from being shaken.
Autor rocked back. This could not be; there had to be a mistake somewhere.
Ignoring his own exhaustion, he forced himself to his knees and reached over, carefully pushing Fakir onto his back. A bit of water trickled from Fakir’s slightly parted lips, but aside from that he was still.
Autor bent over him, checking for first breath, then a heartbeat. He could find neither.
“This is unacceptable!” he burst out as he straightened up. He was reeling from the discovery. This was not supposed to happen. Fakir was supposed to be alive. Autor had not told him to hold onto him on the lake so he could bring a corpse back to shore!
His hands shaking, he leaned over again. He had to revive Fakir if it was at all possible. But he could not begin to do anything until he extracted the water that Fakir had most likely swallowed. He pressed down hard on Fakir’s chest and stomach.
At first nothing happened. Then Fakir’s body jerked and his mouth flew open as the swallowed water reappeared. It spilled onto the grass around him, though he gave no indication of acknowledgment. Autor bent down further. Still nothing—no breath, no heartbeat.
“Fakir, you can’t do this!” he cried. “You’re a direct descendent of Drosselmeyer. How can you let yourself be conquered by something as insignificant as a violent lake?!”
He trembled in his shock. He gave off an air of being cool and collected, but when something like this happened he had to admit at least to himself that it was an act. He was not really confident and obnoxious; he was a frightened boy kneeling in the grass with the body of his dead friend.
But no, he would not accept that Fakir was dead yet. There was still something he could try, and he would, even though the thought of it made him cringe.
Kneeling at Fakir’s side, he bent down and pulled Fakir’s mouth open. Nothing seemed to be blocking his airway, thank goodness. At least Autor would hopefully not have to put his finger in Fakir’s mouth. Instead he went right to covering Fakir’s mouth with his own. With deep breaths he forced the air into the other boy’s lungs, then leaned back to see if Fakir would breathe on his own. But once the borrowed oxygen was spent, Fakir was still again. Disheartened but not disconsolate, Autor tried a second time and a third.
Sometimes it took a long while until this helped, he told himself as he worked. People often had to breathe for someone for ages before at last they were rewarded with results.
Of course, other times it did not help at all. There were no guarantees. He was only working with a quite possibly slim hope, one that was growing thinner the more he tried to resuscitate Fakir.
And Fakir was still not responding. At last Autor leaned back, staring at him in a daze. There was no way around it; he was gone. To insist otherwise was to be a fool.
His hands trembling again, Autor removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He had tried his best, but it had not been good enough. Fakir had always berated himself when he had not been able to protect someone. This time it was Autor who had failed.
He frowned as he replaced the glasses on his face. Logically, there was no point in trying any longer. But in spite of himself, he felt the urge to attempt it again anyway. Just one more time could not hurt anything, could it? He could not feel any worse about this than he already did. And at least he would know he had tried absolutely everything.
Once more he leaned over Fakir and passed the life-giving oxygen to him.
It was while he still had his mouth over Fakir’s that the writer’s eyes snapped open, staring at him in disbelief.
Autor immediately rocked back in just as much shock, if not more. “Fakir?!” he gasped. “You’re alive?!”
For a moment it was Fakir who coughed and sputtered, from disbelief as well as a desperate attempt to get used to breathing once again. “What were you doing?!” he demanded at last, his voice rasping and barely discernible.
“I . . .” Autor gave him a look. “What do you think I was doing?”
Fakir grunted. “Should I answer that?”
Autor crossed his arms. “You should be thanking me,” he said haughtily, masking his joyous relief as quickly as it appeared. “I saved your life.”
Fakir blinked once or twice, clearly stunned. “Autor, you . . . ?”
“Surely you don’t think I was invading your personal space for the fun of it,” Autor said. “It really wasn’t fun at all. But you were clinically dead. I didn’t have many options.”
Understanding flickered in Fakir’s eyes. Both uncomfortable and touched, he said, “I’m sorry for making you go through the trouble.”
“Yes, well, just don’t let it happen again,” Autor said. He looked away, adjusting his glasses to conceal the discomfort in his own eyes.
It was less because of having performed the artificial respiration as it was due to how vulnerable he had felt while Fakir had lain helpless. He was not supposed to be vulnerable or show weakness.
For that matter, he was not supposed to care this deeply about another person. He had felt horrified and in denial when he had thought Fakir was dead, and not just because he did not want someone to die. It had mainly been because he had believed he had lost his friend.
Friend. . . . That was a concept he was still trying to get used to. Ahiru had worn down his resistance and made him realize that he considered her a friend. That was one thing. But in the long hours and weeks since then, he had begun to get just the slightest inkling that he felt the same about Fakir.
Of course, he had not thought there was any way Fakir would ever feel such things for him. Autor really had not understood why he himself would have such a ridiculous idea.
If he ever spoke of it to Fakir, he had thought in the past, he would be rejected, just as Rue had rejected him when he had confessed his love for her.
And yet he had learned just the opposite through their adventures. Even though Fakir had not acknowledged Autor as a friend until the fateful night when he had given Autor a ride home, unaware that Autor was a ghost, Autor had realized it was true long before that. They had not needed the actual words in order to communicate their feelings; it had been a silent awareness they had each possessed but had never talked about.
“Autor?” A cough. “What’s the deal?”
Autor glanced to Fakir out of the corner of his eye. Fakir had raised himself up on one elbow and was frowning at Autor in confusion. Apparently Autor had lost himself in his thoughts for far too long.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Are you able to stand? We should get back to town.”
Fakir began to push himself upright. “Let’s go then,” he grunted. He swayed violently, nearly tumbling backwards into the lake.
Autor was standing and at his side before he could fall. He pulled Fakir away, then again awkwardly placed an arm around Fakir’s lower back.
Fakir stiffened. “I can make it on my own,” he grunted.
“No, you actually can’t,” Autor returned. “So we may as well just get on with it.”
He would behave just the same if he were in Fakir’s position, of course. And actually, he was ignoring his own injuries in order to help Fakir. He was only exhausted. He could push himself further, for Fakir’s sake.
Poor Ahiru. It was no wonder she was worried and cranky, dealing with two stubborn boys all the time.
“You asked what my ‘deal’ was,” he said finally as they began to walk. “I was upset; I’d thought you were dead because of my foolishness. And I . . .” He hesitated, then drew a deep breath and took the plunge even as he flamed red. “I didn’t want to lose my friend.”
Fakir blinked in surprise. “You’re admitting you did something stupid?” he grunted. “Just how much of the lake did you swallow?”
“Don’t expect it to last,” Autor sneered.
“I don’t.”
Fakir fell silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff.
“You know, I didn’t just come out here to try to keep some idiot I know from getting in over his head and dying.” He looked to Autor, his green eyes firm and clear. “I didn’t want to lose my friend either.”
Autor stared at him, equally as surprised as Fakir had been moments earlier. But then he smirked, attempting to hide his reaction.
“You’re admitting we’re friends?” he said. “This is a day of miracles.”
Fakir snorted. “Let’s just go home,” he said. “Ahiru should be back by now; you know she’ll be worried sick.”
That was definitely true. Autor nodded in consent.
His heart was lighter as he moved forward with Fakir again.
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no subject
Date: 2010-07-20 11:40 pm (UTC)But ooh, blurb...
Oh, dear... I see Autor's administering of the kiss of life was considerably more awkward than Newkirk's was... XD
And, of course, the friendship squee was sweet. X3
no subject
Date: 2010-07-21 05:24 am (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 04:32 am (UTC)...Never expected to see (read?) Autor like that. Wow, if Fakir reacting to Autor's death was bad, Autor reacting to Fakir's is worse!
Ah, poor Fakir, and his understandable reaction to waking up in such an awkward fashion. LOL. And he and Autor going back and forth about it for a while.
Besides being kinda jaded, Autor-- and Fakir-- are a little proud to be openly admitting they care about each other as friends. So if they care that much that they're talking about it, then that's a good thing.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 05:09 am (UTC);__; It doesn't help that Autor feels responsible. And I'm working on a fic where Ahiru is shot badly by a thief and Autor sees her blood all over his hands and he screams. o.o By the time they're at the hospital and Fakir comes, Autor has composed himself, or is trying to. But his hands are still shaking. Fakir is so upset that I don't think at first he really realizes how devastated Autor actually is; I was tinkering with having him get furious and Raetsel being there and pulling him away. On the other hand, I could have it go that he does recognize Autor's anguish if he notices Autor's trembling hands. It all depends on what will feel right when I get there, I suppose.
... Totally unrelated tangent there. But yeah, I kind of think for Autor, he would be so unprepared for someone he cares about being seriously injured while he's right there that his facade could completely shatter.
I absolutely loved poking fun at the pairing. LOL.
Yep, they both definitely are proud. I worry wondering whether it's IC for them at all, but this is pretty far into my timeline and they've grown a lot over the course of it.
Thanks!