บท 79: Fanfic #79 A Heart of Ice and Coffee by shadenight123(rwby)
This is a complete RWBY fanfic with an si oc as a part of the Schnee family. I really like this fanfic because it really just follows the mc's story with the mc having real change in the world. I also like the Schnee family drama in the beginning.
Synopsis: ???
Rated: M
words: 240k
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-heart-of-ice-and-coffee-rwby-si.54448/reader/
Here's the first chapter:
They say nothing is colder than ice.
I have, unfortunately, discovered that it isn't true. A lot of things are colder than ice.
Atlas in the middle of winter, for example, could be colder than the ice that covered it. My father's office was another; and he didn't even need to open his window to let it be like that. He just emitted the cold by himself, perhaps from the shriveled husk of an organ he once called a heart.
"He has my hair. Hopefully, he'll have my spirit too," were the only words of kindness I vaguely remembered for most of my childhood. Well, if it could be called childhood. My memories were a haze, a foggy wall from which I could barely scrunch up some vague sense of foreboding. I couldn't place it, but I knew it was coming.
The step from merely living to actually having a sense of self was hazy, but I do know that in the end, it all began in the usual way.
"My little singing Wren," my mother said with a kind smile as I had randomly gone looking for her. I was a mommy's boy, and kind of proud of it too. There was no reason I wouldn't be. I mean, the other parental figure was akin to a fridge in the middle of a northern tundra, so one had to pick his battles.
Again, I wondered why I needed to know how to pick my battles. Certainly, there was no need to pick some battles? After a couple of minutes just basking in the presence that was my mother, and a few more glancing at the newly born baby in his crib, I decided that enough was enough and I needed to satisfy my curiosity next. Thus, I went to the next best person who could answer any and all problems I may have with ruthless precision and militaristic approach.
My older sister was wiser on those aspects than me.
"It means to choose one's battles," she answered as if that explained it all. I scrunched my brows, and she understood I wasn't satisfied at all with the answer. I remembered her a bit more capable. Perhaps a bit older too. Perhaps I was just making mistakes, believing books to be real and reality to be false. That kind of stuff had happened more than once, to the clear displeasure of my father.
I might have had a reputation as an airhead, all things considered.
"You pick the really important battle and fight that one," she continued, fiddling with a lock of hair and trying her hardest to come up with a simpler explanation yet.
She had white hair, just like our mother. Honestly, everyone had white hair in the family except father and I; even my little sister Weiss and the youngest born, Whitley, had white hair. I was really my father's boy, black hair and dark eyes. Though his eyes -and those of the rest of the family- were blue, so on that I was pretty much special and unique.
"But what does battle mean?" I asked. That was what I couldn't understand. I couldn't even understand how it had come into my mind, but it had.
"A battle? It's when two sides, led by many people, fight," Winter answered. "Were you reading the books in the library again?"
I gave a sheepish smile and a small nod. It was better than admit that my knowledge had just come from thin air, from osmosis with the books in the library, from-what did osmosis even mean, and how did I know that? "I'm bored."
"Strange," Winter said, turning thoughtful, "I'd think you'd have lessons to attend to."
I coughed, and awkwardly looked away. "Boring lessons make me bored."
Winter quietly looked at her own homework, left on her desk, and then back at me. She glanced outside, at the sunny day and the thick amount of snow that rested on the gardens' grounds. She bit her lower lip, pondering the thought a bit.
A few minutes later and she was throwing meticulously round snowballs in my direction, and I was suffering under an onslaught that seemed to have no end. I did manage to erect an impromptu wall and throw back a couple of poorly formed snow-projectiles, but they all broke in the air.
With her victory utterly assured, and the cold creeping into my bones to the point where I was of the same temperature as the ice on the treacherous garden grounds, we ended up going back inside just in time for Klein the multicolored-eyes butler to offer us both something deliciously warm.
I extended my hands to grab my mug and as I glanced at the liquid within, my face scrunched up in confusion. The liquid within was brown.
It wasn't supposed to be brown. It was supposed to be black.
It was supposed to be coffee.
But coffee was for grown-ups; it was for bitter grown-ups. It was for evil grown-ups like my father, or sad adults like my mother, and so why would I even want coffee to live, and prosper, and function properly? It wasn't like coffee was something I had ever seen, or drank, but I knew it tasted bitter at first, but then mellowed out into a warmth within that was tied to so many things of my life that I couldn't remember a single moment spent without its taste in the back of my throat.
And everything clicked as I let the chocolate mug fall on the ground, my eyes wide and my face probably paling visibly as I looked around in utter fear, shock and denial.
I had no mouth, and yet I had to scream.
No, actually, I did have a mouth, and a pretty set of lungs too.
Yet screaming would be counter-productive. So what came out was a half-strangled cry that soon turned into a sheepish wheezing, and then a high-pitched whining.
"Wren? Is everything all right?" Winter asked, worried and clearly fussing over me, the younger brother.
Why was she my elder sister? Why was I a younger brother? Where was my own younger brother? This wasn't funny. Sure, we were both adults, but I knew that if I lost sight of my younger brother, he'd start stuff and then I'd have to pull his ass off the fire.
No, wait, that was in the past. The present was different. The present that wasn't this present-
"The mug was hot," I said as if that explained all, "I wasn't prepared for that. I am sorry." I blinked, and then mechanically walked my way up the stairs, through a hallway, and straight into my room.
Then I double locked it, grabbed the pricey pillow that would work well enough as a sound muffler, and proceeded to scream harshly and roughly into it.
My perfect poker face emerged from the pillow half an hour later, my eyes staring at my reflection in the mirror and my thoughts on the matter clear.
This was bad.
This was extremely bad.
I was stuck as a child of the Schnee family.
Things couldn't really get any worse...
...but they did, because of course they did.
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