i can barely breathe when you're here loving me

[kestreldawn]

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: Jyn/Cassian's Cabin
WHEN: March 2
OPEN TO: Cassian Andor
WARNINGS: Mention of self-harm, mention of depression
STATUS: CLOSED

---

Jyn's not used to gifts, in any shape or form. There's something about them that makes her feel uneasy (if she were to examine more closely, it'd be linked to a deep feeling of "undeserving," but she's yet to make that connection). Galen used to bring her presents, when she was small - he'd come home with a new toy for her almost every week, slip it under her tiny arm while she slept so that it would be there with her when she woke. A poor substitute for Papa, but better than nothing, she always thought.

But that was different.

That was the least that he could do, even though his presence would've been the best sort of gift for young Jyn.

This - waking up to find boxes on the table with her name scrawled across in unrecognizable penmanship - feels intrusive, violating. She stares at them for a long while before she even reaches out a hand, letting her fingers skim the outside of it as though searching for a trap - searching for the wire that will electrocute her if she tries to pry it open, or the sharp end of a needle covered in poison.

Once she deems them to be innocuous, she opens the smaller one first.

Inside, she finds a small toothbrush and toothpaste - not enough to last more than a couple of months, if she's particularly careful of how much she squeezes at a time - and a black multi-tool. The former items get laid on the table while she spends a few minutes examining the latter, pulling and swiveling and discovering all of its parts, before slipping it into her pocket.

She lifts the lid off of the second to discover an assortment of useful items, pulling each item out one after the other, setting them aside on the table. When she reaches the bottom, it's then that she sees it - the necklace. Her fingers instinctively reach up to her throat, where the one her mother had given her had hung for so many years. It hadn't survived the fountain (or was it that it hadn't survived Scarif?), and she'd ached for the weight of it against her throat, the affirmation of it - even if she didn't necessarily believe in its power.

Jyn can see upon visual inspection that it isn't exactly the same - the crystal is a different shape, a different size - but it's hauntingly similar. Her eyes dart around, half expecting to see a mysterious figure pop out from behind a door, the giver of the boxes, wanting to capture her reaction. Of course, there's no such person - but it doesn't stop the tremor in her fingers, the percussion of her heartbeat inside of her skull, against her chest - as she reaches out, lets her fingertips skate the clear, hard surface of the thing. She removes it from its now-empty cradle, lets it rest against the flesh of her palm.

Trust the Force, she can hear her mother say - or at least she think it's her mother. She's forgotten the sound of Lyra's voice, and had long ago. She can see her face, see the pain and ferocity behind her eyes, see the silent agonizing goodbye in them. Her fingers curl around the pendant - eyes closing, breathing labored - knowing there's only one thing to do with a gift like this.

003. Look who makes their own bed

[putorius]

WHO: Draco Malfoy
WHERE: Around the village, the river, house #49
WHEN: Hazy, up to and including the afternoon of March 2nd
OPEN TO: Anyone who desires it (jump in anywhere, it's a wandery thing)
WARNINGS: Draco's attitude, possible talk of torture and murder, will update as necessary
STATUS: Open

---

I. Lies right down within it
It's been nearly a month. At least, he thinks it has. With no strict schedule like classes to adhere to, he'd started to find it difficult to track the days. At first it was easy, but somewhere around the two week mark, he was too exhausted to keep track anymore. Had it been one day or three? Did he remember to count the day before? This would be so much easier if he would only just accept his position. If he would stay at the inn, properly. If he would give in and stop trying to get home.

His efforts were growing weaker, especially in the last week. His conviction had run out some time ago, but he wasn't sure when. Maybe it was around that party thing. It was no longer that he believed he could get home, he could feel that it was pointless. But dread and fear have a strange sort of motivation in and of themselves, especially when that fear comes out of knowing one's failure will result not only in his own torture and death, but that of his family as well. It became a frantic, desperate sort of search for a way out, pushing himself despite utter exhaustion. He wandered through the woods, more aimless than ever before. He wasn't venturing as deep as he had before, too tired to risk the perils he'd already found.

Most nights he could be found sitting outside the inn, or on the porch of an empty house. On the nights when the streaks of the auroras were still visible, he could frequently be seen staring up at them with great unease. They were just brilliant ribbons of color, but they way they shifted sometimes, he feared they might suddenly contort into a shape to match the tattoo on his arm. At least he was too tired to be sick with fear anymore.
( Keep reading to see the ferret getting soggy again )