Don’t Throw It Away

by TheIrenicUniverse

Summary:

Brassius received negative feedback from his closest friend, so he banished that traitor from his household and wanted never to see his face again! Now that same friend is outside his door ensuring he doesn’t do anything… dangerous to himself.

Chapter 1

Notes:

This was for a challenge to write a piece for Brassius/Hassel in one hour at the designated time using the prompts “don’t throw it away”, “coincidence”, or “sunflower”. I chose “don’t throw it away” and came up with this. Please enjoy!

This takes place back when these two were much younger. They’re definitely friends, which is why his criticism hurt so much.

Rating for general suicidal ideation and foul language. I try not to but it came about naturally here, so I let it slide.

Brassius ran as far away from him as possible and locked up every door in his house. He broke everything art-related in his house. Purge it all! 

He tossed canvases out windows, hopefully someone stole them all! 

The paint brushes straight to the garbage! Curse them all! 

Paints down the sink—fuck his plumbing!  

He threw sketchbook upon sketchbook into the fireplace until he accidentally smothered the fire. 

So he dumped oil into the fireplace and threw in a match to watch it burn. 

He screamed and tore the pictures off the walls, things that weren’t even his and tossed the frames to the floor, breaking the glass everywhere. 

And that idiot, that absolute pest of a musician, came to his window and started singing like an angel for him to come back to him. He switched languages and even dared to sing in his native Paldean tongue—the fool!

Brassius debated yelling at him, but silence would hurt him more. He’d wait him out until he gave up, everyone gave up eventually. People were so impatient and so selfish; Brassius could watch paint dry longer than anybody would even bother to look at his work. 

He covered his ears and tried to drone him out, but he projected so much he could hear him in his thoughts!

The night dragged on and the singing died down. 

But the man didn’t. 

“Brassius! I’m still out here! I’m not leaving! When you’re ready to open the door, I’ll be here!”

 

--

Morning.

Brassius debated setting his entire house on fire to get that moron away from his doorstep.

Hassel waited until he heard Brassius accidentally walk too close to the door to start up again with a different song. His aggressively persistent singing made him want to kill all the birds in the world just to feel silence again.

Everything looked blurry around his house, he stepped on glass and cursed—he forgot that was there. 

He sat on the ground and started crying hysterically, and cursed at that man singing and singing and singing and reminding him that he was still alive and bitter. 

Couldn’t he just leave him alone?

“BRASSIE!” He yelled. “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! TALK TO ME!”

Go away, go away, go away!

“Brassie, there’s more beautiful things out there that I want to see with you! Don’t throw it all away! Let me hear your voice!”

He sat in his living room crying and stifling the sound so the other man didn’t hear it. 

He quit. He wasn’t an artist anymore. But if he wasn’t an artist, he was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

“Brassius! I know you’re there! I can feel your presence!”

His chest hurt so much. If only he could stop that pain. Everything hurt. Being alive hurt.

Hassel hit the highest note he could just to be that guy. He clearly wanted him to go and yell at him, but… but…

“Brassius! You have to talk to me eventually, Brassie! Brassie!?”

How long would it take until he left? Years? Decades? Minutes? When he left, what would Brassius do? End it all? What good would that do? He had nothing and his legacy would be the idiot artist who killed himself instead of trying to get better. Pathetic!

“Brassius, talk to me!”

He might throw up if he saw another one of his works again.

“Where is my friend who never fails to tell me how naive I am!?”

And what about the dummy outside his house? Would they blame him, or would no one care? 

No one would care. And the guy would move on, he had great potential, he wouldn’t be able to waste away like this too. 

Hassel started serenading him with a love song, and the register he chose hit every brain cell in Brassius’s mind. Curse his velvet voice. No matter how annoying he got, the man could sing.

Brassius listened to the words this time and smiled a little whenever Hassel vocalized a little too much, a bit showy, but Brassius made the mistake of telling him how much he liked that. 

He listened more than anyone, didn’t he? Hassel might never leave, not on his own. Empathy plagued that man, not an evil bone in his body.

So, then why was he shutting him out?

Brassius pulled himself to his feet, struggling to stay up; he could collapse into a mess of emotions right now. As he slowly moved to the door, Hassel kept at it as if he knew it was working. 

His voice sounded sweeter and sweeter, and suddenly Brassius wanted it. He stopped at the door and imagined how to go about this. Just tell him he won? Was he still quitting art—well, yes he was. 

What if… instead of quitting: an ultimatum. A way to see if he’s completely worthless or redeemable. One last piece. 

Fine, one last piece, then he could continue this nonsense and die. Brassius opened the door. 

 

… 

 

No one was on the other end. 

 

No Hassel. 

 

Why… How did…?

 

Brassius stumbled onward, looking for a taxi. The urge to talk to Hassel lingered—no, it burned in him brightly. 

“I need to get to Mesagoza.”

“Of course, hop in,” the driver replied to him. He got out and helped Brassius, apparently he looked crippled enough to receive such random generosity. 

As soon as they landed, he paid the man off and ran to Hassel’s place. He tugged at the door—locked, curses—and knocked on it when he couldn’t get in himself. 

He heard footsteps stop near the door so he called out to him, “Hass…” his voice hurt his throat, “it’s Brassius…”

Hassel opened the door. “Why? I thought you were done with—”

Brassius hugged him hard and started crying. “I need a friend right now and you’re all I can think of. Please…” He melted to his knees and looked up at him. “Please, I’m sorry I—”

“Brassie, it’s okay.” Hassel kneeled in front of him and pulled him into a hug. “You don’t have to beg; you’re my friend. Even if we’re fighting, you can stay here with me. Come in, please. You’ll be okay.”

Hassel helped him inside his apartment, going slowly and keeping a steady hand on his back like he might break. 

“What happened since I left?” Hassel sat him down and fetched some coffee from his kitchenette. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, I’m just upset. I can’t even put it into words right now.”

Hassel passed him a warm mug and sat next to him. “I see. But you’re okay? You stay here for a couple days anyway. Even if you think you’re over it… stay a while.”

Brassius moved to lean his head on Hassel and sipped the coffee every now and then. 

“Did someone hurt you?”

Brassius set the cup down to cover his face. No, no one did—yes, they did. He felt Hassel wrap his arm around his shoulders. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he quickly replied back. 

Brassius craved his friend’s attention like nothing else before, and Hassel was doing almost nothing really. His arms held him in so naturally, his voice hit that soothing, caring tone, and Hassel welcomed him no question. 

“Do you want a blanket? You feel a bit chilly.”

“Could you just stay here with me for a bit?” His pleading sounded pathetic, but it’s what he really wanted. 

Hassel pulled Brassius’s head to his lap and stroked his hair, the other hand resting on his shoulder. 

“Whatever happened, I still like you, even if we’re fighting and being dumb. I know I was quite critical of your latest works, but really, there’s value in every piece of art you make. You know that, right?” Except his latest works were actually terrible. He wasn’t creating art, he was selling art. 

“Please don’t speak anymore. My mind’s already racing. I just need peace.”

 “Is it okay if I sing?” 

“Yes, please.” He closed his eyes and listened to Hassel murmuring a beautiful song near his ear. He swore the singer’s voice could heal any ailment, any negativity in the world. 

Why did he ever shut him out?

Notes:

The prompts this week for this chapter were amazing, but I go wherever my head tells me. All of them would make a good story. So, after you read this and give it a kudos, go see what other artists did by looking up #856_draw or #856_one on Twitter (X).

Chapter 2

Summary:

Brassius learns to ignore that distant thunder in his mind when he can’t quite get a project together the way he’d like to. And it’s thanks to Hassel that he’s come this far.

Notes:

This story was for an hour-long challenge to write or draw a piece for the Hassel and Brassius pairing using the prompt “distant thunder”.

TW: Self Harm

Brassius hurt himself. 

The day grew dreary. He forced himself to finish a project, and when unsatisfied with his work, broke a ceramic mug and cut himself cleaning it up. This along with all his recent failures infuriated him. He punched into the pieces with a closed fist, hurting himself more in the process. He screamed and repeated the action several times, stopping even when he noticed his blood everywhere. 

The old him would’ve done more damage and drowned in misery for days. 

But Hass… his dear Hass… his benevolent, empathetic dragon would be beside himself if he knew what Brassius was doing. He couldn’t disappoint him. 

He was right too, he was always right. What would he say if he were here? Brassius, don’t be so hard on yourself. This is no way to treat oneself. To treat his dear friend. 

He looked around and saw pieces of a failed project in front of him along with his blood and a second breath later, some tears. 

Let’s clean this up. 

Brassius listened to Hassel’s phantom voice in his head. He picked himself up and went to the bathroom. His arm bled from the pieces cutting into his skin, so he pulled them out and cleaned his arm. His eyes watered, so he had to continually wipe his eyes to see. He whimpered as he wrapped the arm and dared to glance in the mirror. 

Hassel constantly pressed the idea into him that he should talk to himself nicely. His inner voice should say nicer things to him. Right now he mentally cursed at his image, scolded himself for being so hotheaded and impulsive. But Hassel wouldn’t have any of that. Say something nice. Don’t be mean to yourself. 

He didn’t know what to say to himself; he was just miserable. 

“I’m sorry,” it just came out, he blurted it out of nowhere to his reflection. “I’m so sorry…” He touched the mirror and blinked at his reflection. “I don’t hate you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Those positive thoughts Hassel mentioned just came to him. He loved his hair. He always considered his face handsome. His eyes—his eyes… Hassel made him love his eyes. Before Hassel, they were gray. Now he really looked at them, he leaned closer and saw how he called them silver, moon-colored eyes. So bright… 

It started feeling silly to talk to himself, so he started walking to the kitchen to make a warm drink. Hassel stressed so much how warm drinks cured the loneliness in the soul, a popular pick-me-up apparently. How did he know so much about loneliness?

His mind kept talking to himself, slowly, sounding nicer. He added chocolate to his coffee and took a sip. It tasted good. He let out a long breath and smiled. 

I love you. 

He went to his workroom and sat on the floor. 

I love you. I want you to be happy. 

He looked around without the tension in his mind. The pieces looked bad, but he could fix it. He could make better things. Practice, experience, some experimenting, and a lot of patience, and he could make anything. 

I won’t do this to you again. 

He thought that last thought when his eyes drifted to his bandaged arm. He cleaned and wrapped it in bandages to make sure this didn’t scar him. It would heal. This would pass. 

He drank a little more and decided he was done creating for the day. Tomorrow he might consider trying again, or starting a different project, but for now, he was done. There was no rush. He had time. 

He also wanted to hug Hassel suddenly. 

Notes:

Thanks for reading! This one was super short, but I really like it actually. I hope you did too!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 21 of 856_draw