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potter-imagines · 4 years ago

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Library Confessions (George Weasley)

Summary: george fluff?? maybe like some sort of best friends to lovers kinda deal?

Notes: I've been wanting to write George for a while so I was excited to make this !! hope you enjoy x

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Warnings: None, just fluff

Word Count: 5.3k

It was a flurry and cold winter day, the kind of day when every breath stings the lungs and every exhale chills the lips. The frigid air, the slippery ground and the sheet of white covering the once green grass. All signs winter was here and cold times were ahead. Even in the highlands of Scotland, the winters were ferosus and unforgiving. Seeing as it was your seventh, and final, year at Hogwarts, most would assume you’d have adapted to the cold by now, but that wasn’t the case. Although as much as you despised the freezing temperature, the pulsating tick of your headache preferred the cold over the thunderous noise back inside.

The Gryffindor common room was too rambunctious- wild, uncontrolled for your desires tonight. It was Friday and tomorrow was the highly anticipated day trip to Hogsmeade. Students were understandable thrilled and you would have loved to join in, but the throbbing pain and stress of school on your shoulders masked your fun. The migraines were brought on by school, but also the idea that you would not get to join your friends tomorrow.

Your feet carried you further from the common room, the rowdy noise fading with every step. If the weight of homework wasn’t so heavy on your shoulders, the party would’ve been in your plans. You tried to stay as long as you could but after about twenty minutes, and three Weasley fireworks being set off, you decided a breath of fresh air sounded delightful.

Your best friends, Fred and George Weasley, were the cause of this chaos. They were fully sober yet drunk off the energy of the room. When you had left, Fred and Lee were orchestrating a tournament of pumpkin juice pong, and George was sitting on the scarlet couch talking to Harry, Ron and Hermione. His eyes darted to you every few seconds. Sometimes he would hold the gaze, or send you a wink, but most of the times he snapped his head back to the golden trio, pretending his attention was elsewhere.

It made your heart thump against the bones of your chest. You were sure if he had been sitting beside you he’d surely hear it, loud and clear. A deep pink blush spread across your cheeks at the thought of George. You had been close friends with the twins since you stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express and sat in the same cabinet as them. Through the years, the bond grew stronger yet developed differently with each twin. Fred was like an annoying, overbearing, proactive big brother and George, well, the affection you felt for George was not in a brotherly way.

Since your third year, you started noticing subtle things about him. Like how he arched his eyebrows when he spoke, or when he’d bite his lip when taking notes. He also had a tendency to eat his dessert first, if you got him laughing enough he’d accidentally let out a tiny snort and he always stood to your left when you walked to class together. When winter came, George was always shedding his clothes in order to keep you warm. Fred would complain that you knew it was snowing, therefore it’s your fault for being cold, but never George. Not to say that Fred is cruel, he can be a gentleman when he chooses but your relationship was more sibling bickering and competition. But George had always been a bit, sweeter than Fred.

Most wrote the twins off as one person but the differences between the twins was written out in neon signs, in your eyes. Maybe it was because you were closer to the twins than most, besides Lee. They were both your best friends, but they treated you in polar opposite ways. If Fred ever tried to cuddle you in his bed, you were sure you’d ‘Stupefy’ him into oblivion. When George did it, you could hardly croak a breath with all the rockets exploding in your heart.

The fragrance of frosted pine and butterscotch wafted through the nipping air as you approached the north entrance of the castle. Winter was finally here. The beauty of Hogwarts shined most bright during this time of the year. Snow crunched under the weight of your foot while you trudged through the courtyard taking advantage of the short cut. With the overwhelming school work piling by the second, slipping into the library didn’t seem like such a bad idea. You had two papers, a research project for Magical Creatures, and an exam in Potions. Not to mention you were expected to memorize and perfect a list of disarming and protection spells before Defense Against the Dark Arts by Tuesday.

Lost in your own stress, you hardly noticed your feet carrying you into the large doors of the library. The lighting was low and the attendance was even dimmer. A few Hufflepuffs and a handful of Ravenclaws were scattered around the room. Madam Pince nodded her head at your arrival then returned to her work behind the main desk.

Sliding into an empty table, you started to situate yourself. A stack of parchment was already waiting next to a clean quill and glass container of ink. It wasn’t hard to find the necessary textbooks and you returned back to your seat rather quickly.

A good twenty minutes had passed before your ears perked up at the sound of Madam Pince scolding a student. You didn’t have a clean view of her desk but you assumed a group had gotten too loud for her liking. Turning back to your book you faced away from the main entrance of the library. Eyes scanning the textbook, a new presence creeping up behind you went unnoticed. As you flipped to the next page in the advanced potions book, a grasp clamped down on either shoulder and a pair of lips hovered dangerously close to your ear. The unexpected warmth created a jolt on energy through your body. You practically flung out of your chair in surprise, whipping around to face your attacker. The initial glare and scowl soon washed away as your eyes met a familiar pair of warm, chocolate orbs.

George Weasley had a devilish grin, proudly basking in your shock. Not giving you a second to refuse his arrival, George pulled the wooden chair besides you out and sat in it. Throwing his arm across your shoulder, he smiled innocently at you.

“And what might you be doing in here on this eventful Friday evening, hm?”

Still reeling in shock, you placed your hand over your heart in hopes to calm down from the scare. Wildly glaring up at George, you yelled in a hush tone,

“George! You nearly gave me a heart attack- what’re you doing here?” You smacked his chest with a thud, though George remained unphased. His eyes squinted down at you while he shot back,

“Pretty sure I asked you first, love.” He said smugly. A large maroon and gold sweater adorned his frame, paired with dark washed jeans. You could smell the signature scent of pine and cinnamon that wafted wherever he followed. Folding your book on the table top, you glared playfully at the ginger.

“What else is there to do in a library besides studying?” The smart reply caused a twinkle in George’s eyes. You could practically see the gears turning as his witty side took control. His fingers tightened around the blades of your shoulder, dragging you a tad closer to him.

“Plenty of things-” An instant smack came as you knocked his side once more. George chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused by the flusterness taking over your features. Motioning towards the stack of parchment and mountain high pile of lengthy textbooks, you shook your head.

“I’ve got a lot of work due this coming week, so figured I’d get a head start.”

“Ah, you weren’t enjoying the party.” He declared knowingly. George typically never left your side during house parties. The anxiousness and suffocation of the noise that crept into your veins was always capped by the feeling of his arm around your shoulder protectively. Although tonight, George ran to the Golden Trio the moment the function began, leaving you alone in the corner with Dean and Seamus. You were friends with the boys but George was the only one who could make you feel relaxed and him being busy, escaping the party seemed like the best option.

Leaning into your chair, a heavy sigh fell from your parted lips at the recollection of tonight. “Not really I suppose. I don’t know… not in the partying mood tonight.” You admitted softly. George’s face furrowed immediately, concerned painting his features boldly. The dim lighting of the library all but hid the gleam of worry in his eyes.

“What’s got you stressed, darling?”

Scoffing at the question you picked up your book and started flipping through the pages again. For starters, you couldn’t decide where was the best place to start when it came to all your worries. There was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who returned last school year, the fact that the twins were planning on leaving early to open their shop (which they asked you to help run once you finished with school), home stress, school work, your feelings for George, trying to figure out your plans for after Hogwarts, and so much more. The weight of the world was crashing down on you and for the first time, you felt like allowing it to crumble you.

“You mean besides the school work I’m drowning in and the ever looming fear of being murdered by the Dark Lord himself? Eh, not much.” The sarcastic reply was all too familiar to George. Having spent the last seven years glued to your side, he started to pick up on your antics. Like your constant need to use sarcasm to hide your genuine fears. He studied you for a moment, searching for any hint on what really had you worked up.

Reaching his hand out, George plucked the potions book from your hands and started surveying it. He tilted the book upside down, pretending to read the text. Scrunching his brows, the fiery twin feigned comprehension of the material, a small ‘oohh’ and ‘hm’ falling from his lips as he did so. His silly antics caused you to giggle as he threw the book back to the table.

“Why’re you doing homework on a Friday night, anyhow? You’ve got all tomorrow morning and all day Sunday for that!”

“Technically have all day tomorrow as well-” George stopped you short as he cut into the conversation stubbornly.

“No, we’re all going to Hogsmeade and I already claimed your spot next to me at The Three Broomsticks!” He resembled a pouty child as he huffed besides you. Flipping the page of your textbook, your mouth bunched in the corner, guilt entering your bloodstream.

“I’m really sorry, Georgie. If my grades slip any further- my mum’ll have my head on a stick! Besides, I didn’t figure it would be that big of a deal, everyone else is going so I’m sure my absence will not be noticed.” Your laugh was meant to cover the tang of honest hurt, although you hoped it would slip past him. Of course, George noticed everything when it came to you and seeing you down was definitely not something he felt okay with ignoring.

“But I’ll notice- just like I did tonight.” He added with a point of the finger. It was true, George always seemed to notice when you were missing. He also always seemed to know where you were when you did sneak away.

“Thanks…” Trailing off, you glanced over to George. The honey like orbs were already examining your features. You assumed he must’ve picked up on the sadness dripping through your pores because the next thing you knew, George was offering up his entire Saturday.

“You want me to stay back with you?” Your head snapped in his direction immediately. With a bugged stare, you shook your head feverishly.

“What- no! You and Fred practically countdown the days until we get to go to Hogsmeade. I know how bad you wanna go, don’t skip out ‘cause of me.”

“We do have another trip next month so I can just wait to go until then. I’m sure Hogsmeade will still be flourishing by then. C’mon, you know you want me to stay back. You’ll bore yourself to death without me around!”

“You’d just be staying back because you feel bad-” George interrupted you, face reading bewilderment at your accusation.

“No, I’d be staying back because I want to. Y/n, when have I ever hung out with someone I don't want to be around- besides Percy seeing as I’m obligated to share a home with him. I want to spend time with you, that’s why I look forward to Hogsmeade trips. Get to spend time with you outside of the castle. So if you’re not there, I’m just gonna be miserable, love. Which means, I better just stay back with you.” A mischievous smirk rose to his lips as he finished his spiel, crossing his arms across his chest. The material of his sweater bunched around his fold and you admired Molly’s handiwork. Pressing your finger into his chest, you gave George a playful shove. He reached out for the table top to sturdy himself as he chuckled. Batting your lashes you teasingly cooed,

“Sounds like someone can’t get enough of me.” Not missing a beat, George rested his elbow on the tabletop. His chin was planted in his palm as he leered dreamily.

“Thought we already established that.” He winked over to you. Lifting up your heavy book, you sheltered your blushing cheeks behind the pages. Your forehead pressed deeply into the pages as you folded the covers around your heated face.

“You joke too much.” Mumbling into the book, you were taken aback when a hand abruptly snatched the book from your fingertips. You watched as the book went above your head, then settled in George’s hand. He snapped the cover shut between his hands, an echoing ‘snap’ invading the library. The peppermint lingering on his breath smacked against your lips. George ran his finger over the title page, then tossed it to the side. As the book slammed on the counter, he turned his head back to you.

“Never about my feelings towards you, though.” He stated seriously. Your brows pulled together in a stern line.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your furrowed gaze rested heavily upon him.

“I just… really like spending time with you. Like just the two of us.” As he finished speaking, you watched cautiously as George’s hand sneaked over to land on top of yours. His palm was warm on top of yours. After a few seconds, he flipped your hand over so it was set inside his. That comfort feeling bursted in your chest under the weight of his eyes. It was funny how the simplest of actions from him could cause a firework extravaganza in your chest. The tension in your throat was increasing.

“I do, too, Georgie. You’re very sweet.” You smiled awkwardly, the bashfulness overcoming every cell in your body. When Fred complimented you or was too kind, it made you suspicious. Usually he buttered you up before a prank, so you never fully trusted his words but George? George was too gentle to ever set you up or put you in harms way.

“Y/n… there was actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you- well something I was gonna ask you tomorrow but seeing as you’re not going, might as well as you now.” The mumble was a notch above audible. You watched on as he fumbled with his hands, twiddling his thumbs nervously. His anxiousness was contagious as you soon felt uneasy as well. Your mind raced in worry as you wondered what was clouding his mind. As if it was second nature, your hand moved out in reaction to his worrisome state to snake his hand into your own. Softening your piercing stare, you squeezed his hand tightly.

“What’s wrong, George?”

His attention was shifted to your locked hands. It wasn’t the first time you held his hand, although it was the first time you were knocked off balance by the wave of electricity streaming down your spine from the touch. Based on his reaction, you figured George felt it too.

“Uh, would you ever want to, like, go on a date? I um, I’ve really liked you for quite some time now and I keep trying to ask you but I get nervous cause… I just needed to tell you myself before Fred does it for me.”

“Tell me now if this is a prank, George Weasley.” The sternness in your voice was something George only heard on occasion. He knew not to joke when it came to your heart so he was taken aback by your words, though understood why. You saw the confusion stirring in his brain before he settled your worries.

“It’s not a prank, love, I swear on my life. I would never lie about my feelings, that I can promise.”

“Tomorrow?” You looked up, eyes peeking over to your side. George had hardly moved and stared blankly at you. It was if his brain had hit a wall and was lagging in processing. The candle on the table flickered, orange and red shadows flashing across his face. Even in the shadows the razor sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones popped.

“Huh?” He croaked.

Catching a Weasley twin off guard was not a common thing and George appeared baffled. Hands folded in your lap, you could feel the small shake to his grasp. In an odd way, you felt a surge of confidence knowing you had the power to make George blush. Tightening your hand around his own, you roamed the pad of your thumb across his knuckles.

“Could we go on a date tomorrow? After I finished at least two of my papers- could we go on a date then?” It was hard to shake the electric shock tingling through your bones. Never before had you basked in eyes as beautiful as his. His eyes reminded you of a pool of whiskey and shades of chestnut. When the light flashed, a honey, caramel tint soaked his orbs. Simply calling them ‘brown’ eyes did no justice.

Your voice brought a large smile to George’s lips like he won the lottery. The glistening gleam brighten the dim corner of the library. You could feel your breathing become inconsistent once again at the sight. Nodding his head, you watched with a smile as his sandy, ginger hair danced in tune.

“Yeah, yeah of course. Does uh, does that mean you like me too?”

Leaning back in your seat, you started to think back on all your years at Hogwarts. There wasn’t an exact moment you fell for him- it didn’t happen all at once. It was born as a crush, your heart leaping at the sight of the handsome boy your first year. When you started hanging out with the twins, you immediately grew close with them by the third week. Since then, you only got closer with the twins although it was undeniable that there was always a more intense gravitational pull you felt towards George. Not that Fred hadn’t pointed out the obvious connection between his twin and you numerous times. He enjoyed harassing George and yourself a bit too much.

Shrugging your shoulder in uncertainty, you admitted,

“Honestly it’s been so long I can’t remember when I first started liking you. I mean I’ve had a crush on you since first year and… I’ve always found you to be the funniest, most handsome guy I’ve ever met.” You paused your word vomit to take in George’s expression for a sign. Glancing up, you noticed he was far closer to you than he was before. The tip of his nose faintly brushing against your own. Your eyes enlarged in seconds at the lack of space between you two. “What’re you doing?”

A gulp echoed through George. His teeth dug into the skin of his bottom lip, tugging at the skin in an attempt to calm his nerves. You viewed in curiosity as his eyes darted from your lips, to your eyes, then to the floor, then back to your lips again. Your suspicions were confirmed as George locked his peer into your own. His face read seriousness as he asked you gravely,

“Are you going to slap me if I kiss you? I’ve seen you knock the daylights out of Fred for trying to. Mum says you need to take a girl out before you kiss ‘em for real so I wanna do it somewhat right. Y’know, be a gentleman and such.”

Your cheeks flared red instantly, eyes planted to the floor. George had always been sweet but you never expected him to be this sweet. There was nothing more in the world that you desired than finally getting to kiss George Weasley, but it was an incredible kind of him to take your own feelings into thought before acting. You pressed your lips together tightly, exceeding all your effort into suppressing the bashful smile threatening to breakthrough. It took everything inside to contain your excitement and nerves at his proposal.

George broke your messy train of thought as the sensation of his hand against your skin registered. His slim fingers brushed a strand of hair back behind your ear, then wrapped around the side of your cheek. Like two magnets matching up, you melted into his touch. Finally drawing your gaze back up, you placed the palm of your hand against George’s chest, grasping a light fist of his sweater for stability. The height difference wasn’t immense, but enough that you needed some sort of control to keep on your feet.

“How proper of you, Mr. Weasley. Yes, I would really like that.”

Leaning into his hand, you met George’s gaze as you slowly moved towards each other. Meeting in the middle, you were nearly knocked off your feet by the force of his embrace. Your lips connected like a perfectly mapped constellation. His kiss was warm and fulfilling, yet constantly left you wanting more. It was undeniable he had practice before, his lips moved far too calm for this to be his first.

You practically melted in his arms, kissing him softly. Your lips danced for a moment until you steadied your hand on his cheek, holding his face. You needed that sense of control, wanted to feel the hold you had under George. Taking the first leap, you dragged your wet tongue along the smoothness of his bottom lip. A tiny, almost inaudible groan fell from his mouth. You deepended the embrace momentarily, then pulled away to press one lasting kiss to his puckered lips. George giggled in reaction, a cherry red blush painting his cheeks.

“You’re adorable.” George ‘booped’ the tip of your nose when he finished speaking. You laughed at his action then extending your finger, you placed a similar tap to his nose and teased him,

“Stop talking about yourself, George.” Although before you could fully retreat your hand, George’s own wrapped around your fingers. In one swift motion he lifted your hand to his face, then pressed his lips to the back of your hand. As he raised his head, his arm was quick to wrap around your shoulder, jerking your chair towards George as a result. His fingers clutched your upper arm loving.

That smug smile was plastered across his face again, pleasantly pleased with the peach glow tinting your cheeks. Feeling the heat rising you dove to cover your cheeks in the sleeves of his sweater. George accepted your full embrace, arms moving to circle your body entirely. Suddenly a light bulb popped in his mind as he released his grip slightly to glance down at you.

“Maybe if I help you with some of your paper tonight, we’ll have more time for our date tomorrow!” The excitement in his voice was by far the sweetest sound you’d heard. You smiled back at him and nodded in agreement.

“Sure but I do the writing- I don’t trust you enough for that. Your handwriting resembles that of a child.” You laughed at your own jab while George gave you a deadpan look, clearly unable to form a comeback. He’d say so himself that his print was what the Muggles would call ‘chicken scratch’, a phrase you taught George. When George first learned to write with a quill and ink, he had a tendency to smear the ink a smudge as he scribbled away faster than the speed of light. Molly would scold George as the side of his hand would be stained a deep black shade and his paper was hardly legible.

“Rude but, understandable.” George commented. It was sweet of him, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he truly wanted to spend his Friday night stuck in the library. Raising your eyebrow to the boy, you gave him a questionable look.

“Wait, don’t you have a party you should be getting back to?” Arm still enclosed around your frame, George gave you a squeeze. A mischievous smirk now covered his lips as he confessed the truth.

“What do you mean? I only threw that party with Fred so I could spend the night around you- maybe impress you with my wicked dance moves.”

Giving him a pointed look, your chest erupted with a fit of giggles. A memory popped into your mind of the first time you got the chance to view a drunk George Weasley putting on a ‘show’ for you. Sober George was a decent dancer but drunk George was on a different level of skill. The liquid courage had left George regretting a lot of nights and quite a bit of scenarios that came as a result.

Although dancing drunk with you was never a regret of his. Especially when the two of you went to the Yule Ball together as ‘friends’. Mummers followed your every move as you waltzed with George, students gossiping about George and yourself. Not that you paid attention to anyone but George- there wasn’t a chance given to! You didn’t spend a single second resting on your feet as George had you dancing until the band was packing up. He spun, twisted, lifted, and twirling you all night long. When a slow song finally came on, the prankster king put his gentleman side on full display. It was by far one of the best nights of your life, one you still had yet to stop daydreaming over. Poking his side, you smirked teasingly at the boy.

“Georgie, darling, I’ve seen them before. You’d have a better chance sending yourself to the infirmary than impressing me with your ‘moves’. I haven’t forgotten the Yule Ball last year. My head was spinning for a month!” You laughed together at the reminiscence. George was just as mesmerized by the night as you, maybe a tad more so. For those few hours of pure bliss, George had never felt more complete. Seeing you all dressed up and glowing from head to toe- the image was captured in his mind forever. He never understood the term ‘speechless’ until he saw you walking down the stairs in search of him. He replayed that moment over and over again for a year now. Rubbing your shoulders lovingly, George leaned his head on top of yours.

“Aw, c’mon! You loved it! Twirling around like a beautiful ballerina in your dress. You looked breathtaking- everyone was staring at you. Can’t blame them, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you either.” His words made your insides feel fuzzy, kinda like the sleeve of his sweater. That of which your fingers were absentmindedly petting. George smiled down at the quirk, he loved every antic of yours.

Shaking your head, you pulled the book back that George had discarded. After all, you still had a stack of unwritten essays to get working on. You popped open the top of the ink container. George unraveled his arm from your shoulder to wrap lightly around your waist.

“Stop making me blush.” Crimson flooded your s/c cheeks, far too flustered to meet George’s eyes. That confidence from early had flown away just as sudden as it came. A sprout of warmth came as George’s finger pressed against the side of your jaw, turning your face. Sweetly, and silently, he requested your gaze to which you obliged.

“But you look so beautiful when you do, darling. Now stop distracting me- we have a paper to write, in case you’ve forgotten, love.” His lips darted forward and soon enough, his enticing lips kissed your reddening cheeks. George smirked teasingly, reaching the feathered quill out to brush against your nose. You lightly smacked it away, giggling at him as you did.

“You’re the one distracting me-” The squeal was silenced by George as he pretended to ignore your words as he continued to tease you. Pressing his finger against your lips, George purred,

“Hush, we’ve got work to do so I can take you out tomorrow, love.”

“Fine but don’t forget Georgie, I’m doing the writing.” Narrowing your playful glare, you spoke sternly. It was a sort of game you played- going back and forth with one another. Although finally that teasing crossed the line of flirting to something real. In a way, it almost felt fake. Like all those years of waiting hadn’t really paid off, you were just asleep in your dorm room, dreaming this all up.

The touch of George’s arm leaving your waist cold was enough to question; however the radiating sensation of his hand slipping into yours was confirmation it was real. The chaste kiss he left on the back on your hand still buzzed. Despite the lack of lighting, every handsome feature was distinct from his blazing locks to the scatter of freckles dotting his face. Giving you a sly wink George flirted,

“Ah, I love a woman who takes control.”

For the next hour and a half, far in the corner, behind rows of bookshelves and torches to light to way, George and yourself attempted to write your essay. The first hour consisted of stolen kisses, stolen looks, and George constantly stealing your book from your hands. He made it nearly impossible to the point you threatened to cancel your study date, which shaped him up immediately.

The last half and hour George read to you different pages from your stack of books until you got a good jump on the paper. You were feeling hopeful until Madam Pince had announced the library would be closing for the night. In a matter of seconds, George’s hand was clamped around your wrist, attempting to drag you out. You managed to scoop your school supplies together and tuck them away in your bag before allowing him to escort you back to the common room. You just hoped your study date tomorrow would consist of some actual study. If not, it’s a good thing you have all of Sunday.

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timextoxhajima · 4 years ago

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HOSTIS, Chapter IV: Vetiti Fructus In, The Forbidden Fruit

Previous Chapter (III: Aemulatio)

Member: Lee Hyunjae (tbz)

Genre (by chapter): angst, drama, comedy

Category: Short Novel/Long Series

“why am i always one step behind you?”

the black rim of the file glistens under the light hanging above the table on your left. translucent curtains were drawn behind and next the the oversized L-shaped couch you were laying on, legs stretched out and laptop sitting on a cushion on your lap.

the white table was strewn about with freshly printed sheets of data and research you managed to collect in the last week.

it was day seven of your ten days being mentored by doctor choi. the welcome-party was to be held at the end of the month, not the coming weekend.

something about the team that was responsible for handling newcomers not being able to host it because everybody was busy... something along those lines.

you didn’t bother noting the reason for a delayed party when the more pressing issue was getting that research file out to doctor kim before lee hyunjae did, and with better content.

throwing your head back against the pillows, your eyes naturally travel along the ceiling to the glass doors beyond the sofa, lining parallel to your position. the faint dots in the sky above takes you back to the first time you went stargazing with your father.

you remember your mother didn’t go because she was too busy.

the brain-juicing brightness off the laptop screen starts to yank on your attention, and you sigh at the sight of the word ‘oncology’. you already did the research online and whatever doctor kim had provided you, and it wasn’t too difficult a task to imagine that lucifer probably had the same type of content written down for that last section as well.

the frustration empties itself from your chest in the form of a loud groan while your fingers travel to your forehead.

the only thing left to do was this stupid oncology section, but how were you going to outdo lee hyunjae? sure, the rest of the research report would already be different; every pocket of free time you found in between your rounds with doctor choi, you were working on it. lee hyunjae was nowhere to be found either during those free periods, so what else would he be doing besides filling up the research report?

there was no more room for your own research and understanding of oncology to beat him. you were a neurologist after all, not an oncologist.

why did doctor kim even include the oncology section when he knew it was going to be difficult for me to get the information?

“arghhhhhhh--” your vision flashes white for a split second at the sudden sitting up, and you place your laptop down off the cushion. the rug covering the living room floor brings comfort to your toes as you stood up and ran your fingers through your hair.

the painful, but satisfying memory of what happened pre-med school starts to roll in your head like an old VHS tape. the look in lucifer’s eyes when you had him against the locker, the only thing stopping you from driving a test tube down his throat were the long arms of law.

otherwise, it was sweet, almost diabetic, to watch him crumble and lose to you despite him being the fire starter.

but then again, you lost the first boy you ever loved because of lee hyunjae.

you couldn’t even convince yourself that you won.

the VHS tape in your head starts to burn and disintegrate into ashes while the nostalgic fire lights up in your chest, and the thought of losing to him four years ago made you want to get that oncology section done.

your inner ares picks up the file and flips to the last page where the word ‘oncology’ was printed in big, block letters at the top, followed by a bunch of details and information with hypothetical questions listed down.

the left brow on your face twitches and the muscle movement felt so eerily detached from you, a surge of unstoppable desire erupting inside you like mount vesuvius in 79 AD.

if you could possess a single power right now, it’ll be pyrokinesis.

the light shining into your office was so bright and warm, it would’ve been a crime not to talk a walk outside.

you would’ve, but not today.

lucifer’s office door opens and closes and you notice him heading off in the direction of the washroom, and your peripheral vision captures the oncology page of the hospital website on the computer screen.

after waiting it out for a safe period of time, you adjust the white coat to hide the color of your breast pocket (where the color differentiated which department you were in) and shoved the staff ID card down the back pocket of your jeans. you grab your file, phone in hand and the gears in your head start to churn out some smart excuse in case anybody were to question why you, a newcomer, looked like you were about to go for a meeting.

you head for the lift, fingers dancing around while you searched for the floor that connected the east wing over to the north.

you were already beginning to recite that excuse you built in your head in case doctor kim runs into you while you were walking through the north wing.

but zeus must’ve decided that one half of his sons deserved some love today, for you run into zero staff who didn’t pay attention to the absence of your staff ID around your neck.

your eyes follow the signs to the west wing, and that was where you started to notice people you really haven’t seen before.

the atmosphere changed once you got to the office level where all the oncology doctors would be, and most of the staff looked like they had been working without a wink of sleep.

your vision and attention start to dart around the hallways and doors, trying to look for a name tag on a door that said ‘shin ga hyun’ or something along the lines of oncology research archi--

there we go.

the words ‘research facility’ printed in block letters on the door of the room looked like the word ‘victory’ in another language, and you could only thank zeus for being so kind to you today.

the lab coat on you and the file case you were holding was enough to prove that you were a staff here, so even if shin ga hyun were to find out you were in her wing, there was nothing she could do about it besides get mad at you for “losing your way while searching for research content”.

the staff ID card slides out from your jeans so you could give yourself access to the dark room, and you notice the only view in was through the little window on the door itself.

once the door was open, your first step was to get it closed, regardless of whether your eyes could adjust to the orientation of the room.

relief floods through you, and you quickly wonder why you were so scared of something that wasn’t even illegal.

a small snort runs through your nose at the thought that you were scared, because frankly, there wasn’t much that could scare you anymore. maybe sometimes, just sometimes, the only thing that could scare you was yourself.

the scent of old paper and files fill your nostrils with every drawer and cabinet you opened, and you start searching for documents with information to grant you access to the oncology database, but not one single sheet of paper satiates your thirst to win.

your heart was already zipping back and forth in your chest, and the emptiness of the room only reminds you that anybody could come in anytime. your eyes look around the dimly lit room and you note the gap between the lockers behind the desk and the wall where you could run and hide in case someone came in--

“...yes, ga hyun, everything regarding the department’s database have been shifted to your office.”

the pupils on your eyeballs shrink in a second and something similar to a heart attack tears through your chest at the name. the footsteps halt right outside the door and you close the drawer with such calculated strength to prevent yourself from slamming it shut. your heels turn towards the corner and it takes you three incredibly large steps to get you there.

but everything happened so fast that you didn’t even register the fact that you got pulled into that little corner.

you would’ve rammed your knee so high up this man’s groin if he wasn’t going to scream like a fucking baby if you did.

“what the fuck are you doing here?!” he mouths angrily at you, ears red and cheeks flushed with fear when the door of the room clicks open.

“are you sure everything related to the database has been cleared out this room?” shin ga hyun sounded like she’d slit your throat and show no signs of remorse.

“what do you think?!” this silent conversation was going to warrant you a reason to punch him in the face later.

“yes, doctor shin,” the second voice sounded so dead and unbothered, you imagine it had to be someone of a more senior position than shin ga hyun for her to talk to the department head like that. “there may be a few stray sheets here and there but if they weren’t filed properly in the first place, then it’s highly likely they weren’t too important.”

“don’t fucking touch me!” his arm brushes against your shoulder and if you could scream, it would’ve deafened him.

“if you hadn’t come in, we wouldn’t be stuck in this shitty little gap!”

your eyes widen at his sudden stoppage of mouthing, and you could hear the little breaths coming out after every consonant.

“will you shut the fuck up?!”

“so you mean to tell me that there is a slight possibility that an important sheet of paper regarding our database is sitting around somewhere inside this room?”

“how can i shut up when i’m stuck in this godforsaken space with you?! i don’t even want to fucking breathe the same air as you!”

oh my fucking god, will he fucking shut his trap-- we are going to get caught--

“oh, my god,” an exasperated sigh fills the room. “ga hyun, you really need to take a chill pill.”

“don’t tell me to ‘take a chill pill’--”

“if you didn’t walk in here like you owned the fucking place, i wouldn’t have touched you!”

your index finger flies up to your lips and you beg him to shut up with your eyes.

but this piece of dumbshit-doctor doesn’t fucking get it--

you had a victory to claim, and you were not going to let him take that away from you.

the ares inside you wraps your fingers around his face and shoves your lips between his, but your eyes were still wide open, looking out at the glass on the cabinet on the other side of the room to see a taller female trying to drag a shorter female out of the office.

“you need to take a chill pill. the entire hospital is scared of you, honey. don’t you want to amend that?”

the scanner beeps, and the door clicks open.

“if nobody’s done anything wrong then there’s no reason for them to be scared of me.”

“fair, but you need to start wearing a smile on your face more often!” the door hisses shut, and the footsteps start to move away. “i’ll get someone to check the database stuff for you then...”

ares leaves your body and your soul gets sucked back into its rightful place, and you don’t think you’ve shoved anyone, or anything for that matter, faster than you shoved lucifer off your face.

wincing in disgust, the back of your hand wipes the corner of your lips as a frown hardens on your forehead, and lucifer was busy sticking out his tongue like he had just eaten something spicy.

“son of a bitch,” the hiss seethes through your teeth as you walk out from the gap, deliberately running your shoulder against his left arm. “don’t you ever assume that i would let the thinnest strand of hair on my body touch you.”

the wrath and rage drips off your tongue like saliva while you walked, turning your head and looking over your shoulder to glare at lee hyunjae.

“and don’t you ever fucking kiss me again!”

your staff card was barely inches away from the scanner when the words start to eat at your ego.

“for your fucking information, i did not want my lips to be on yours,” you take two big steps to him who was walking towards you in a fit. “someone just didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

his breath was hitting your cheek rapidly, and you jab your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to claw your way through his self-proclaimed glare that he probably thinks scares you off.

your suck your lips between your teeth and scrunch up your nose with effort, your right hand instinctively deciding that it was a good idea to shove him backwards before you left the room.

throwing yourself into your own leather seat in your office and the beads of sweat on your forehead coming off onto a tissue, your eyes plaster themselves to the ceiling.

mission failed.

not only that,

i had to kiss this motherfucking son of a bitch to shut his fucking ass up.

the tissue gets crumpled in your grasp at the thought of underestimating him, and you hurl the lightweight ball barely a metre away from you.

doctor choi brings you on his final round for the day, and happiness was as simple as finding out that lucifer had been called to handle some boring admin work by the hospital administration because he screwed up somewhere in the system.

the round was longer than expected, with one of doctor choi’s alzheimer’s patients talking to you about his childhood. doctor choi tries to steer you clear of the patient, worried that you were uncomfortable. but the stories he was telling you brought you back to a time when your parents were still pretty prominent in your life. doctor choi just leaves you with him until the nurses bring around his medicine as a distraction, providing you with a chance to leave before the patient keeps you for the night.

the evening sun paints the floor a tangerine shade, through the glass doors of the offices. and in your hand was the black file with such reluctance and bitterness that you wish you didn’t agree to this whole research department thing in the first place.

most of the research department officers and doctors had evening duties to tend to before they left, so it was pretty quiet and desolate once you reached doctor kim’s desk with the idea of submitting the research report.

yet the sight of the blue file strikes up a flame of confusion and suspicion. laying down your black file, your fingerpads brush over the cover of the blue one, and ares returns to whisper seductive motivations in your ear.

you run through the pages, not surprised that most of the data was different from yours, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the five-thousand-word-long report behind the oncology cover sheet.

motherfucker.

he must’ve found one of those ‘stray sheets’ for the database while he was snooping in the room.

red bursts of revenge and hatred start to rush through your veins, and you pull apart the rings of the file to remove the ridiculously long report.

the papers were messily stuffed into your work case and you return the file back to its original position, in time for doctor kim to return to his cubicle.

“ah, i was waiting to see if you were going to submit it today!” he gleams at you, and his warm, elderly aura comforts you, peeling you away from the horrible deed you just carried out.

“well, yeah... but i have to confess, i didn’t do much for the oncology report at the back.”

“i was already expecting that after i warned you about doctor shin! but nevermind that, i look forward to reading your report.”

“oh but, uh...” you rub the back of your neck. “have you looked through doctor lee’s? it looks pretty thick.”

doctor kim’s palm finds the two files and he shakes his head. “oh, nope. he just gave me this wide smile and told me to read his file like i was reading a book. his confidence is really something else.”

oh, thank god.

“i see,” the sugary taste of satisfaction rubs itself into your taste buds. “i hope we didn’t let you down, doctor kim. we really worked hard on it.”

the smile doesn’t leave his face, and he only gives you a small pat on the shoulder. “i will look forward to reading both reports.” he nods, and you take your cue to bow and bid goodbye.

your living room was barely lit up with the only source of light being the one from the kitchen, and the gentle chirps of crickets outside were muffled through the sliding doors of your living room.

the wine in your glass was practically frolicking about with your little dance of triumph of the day. though part of the reason why you were drinking wine was to force yourself to forget that you kissed lucifer -- ew --, you were also drinking to celebrate.

“well,” you pout at the little cactus that sat in the middle of the table in your living room. “he should thank me for removing it. doctor kim could figure out that he only got the information from snooping into the oncology department and he could get trouble for it.”

talking to yourself wasn’t a daily routine, but you just couldn’t resist the temptation of convincing yourself that you did nothing wrong.

which in fact, you did not.

but the competitiveness seeps through your bones and makes your stomach churn with regret and displeasure again, when the realisation sinks into your head.

why am i always one step behind you?

with a contorted look of discontentment staring back at you in the reflection of the wine glass, you lift the rim to your lips and down the rest of it like they were shots.

“i should’ve known he was going to do it,” the wine bottle calls out to you like a siren, and your fingers wrap around the cool, glass surface. “if i did it sooner, i might’ve gotten the fucking database information--”

knock knock

you berate zeus for sending a visitor at such a shitty time, throwing your head backwards and squeezing your eyes shut.

knock knock knock knock knock knock

“ugh, mom! i told you not to visit me on a weekday!” the release of the wine bottle only fills your stomach with disappointment as you trudged towards the door.

with enough frustration to fuel your grip around the handle, you yank the heavy door open.

“mom, what are you-- oh.”

shit.

flares of aching poison start to pierce their way into your eyes upon the eye contact, and your knuckles whiten with the tightening grip on the handle of your door.

“you’re gonna wish it was your mom, alright.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter V: Monitum

#lee hyunjae #hyunjae fanfic #hyunjae #the boyz fanfic #the boyz hyunjae #smUT ALeRT

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sunarintoes · 4 years ago

Text

Dear Whoever: [Oikawa]

Synopsis: two broken strangers hold a mutual understanding of each other as they silently complete jigsaw puzzles together every Wednesday afternoon.

WC: 4K

TW: mental health issues, reader sucks at math, swearing, angst (but a lot of fluff) please do not read if you feel uncomfortable by these themes. Also: this fic has nothing to do with volleyball and is set in a clinic for mental health

Note: this is in no way meant to romanticise mental health issues, it is simply a story of a person (reader) who is struggling with their mental health and eventually gets better through the silent support of a friend she makes (Oikawa)

18/6/2020

Dear diary?

Is that how I'm supposed to start these entries off? I'm not sure. Well, uh...today I went to see a psychologist for the first time. Her name is Mary and she gave me this book, told me to try it out and write in it as much as possible. I feel awkward though. I don't think I'll use this.

Until next time,

30/6/2020

So uh… hi?

My therapist told me to write here even if I'm not sad? So if something memorable happens. I don't know honestly. This is way too awkward. Maybe I'll get used to this. Maybe not?

Cya,

18/7/2020

I stayed true to my words, I really haven't written here that much. I'm doing good and I don't think there's anything wrong with me! I'm not sure why I'm being forced to go to therapy. I feel how I feel and it doesn't matter! I know there are people worse off than me and I don’t have the right to feel sad - I have a good family, good friends, go to a nice school and I have money (or well, my parents do). So why should I feel sad? And I just have a resting bitch face. It's not called being ‘depressed’ or whatever.

Asides from all that, the only reason I haven't kicked up a huge fuss about being forced to be interrogated is the fact that every Wednesday - the day I visit my psychologist, there's always the same cute boy sitting in the same seat opposite me, not to mention the same somber expression he wears.

I'm not sure why, but I feel oddly connected to him. As if our minds are connected and in tune. I feel like I know him and he knows me. I've been reading too many books. Lol! There's no way we have that connection. Besides, I've only seen him about 4 times. Yeah, I'm definitely making this up in my sad, lonesome head.

Farewell for now,

21/7/2020

Dear diary,

I saw him again. I still don't know his name. But today he looked up at me and smiled a bit, I tried to smile back but I probably just looked angry. Not that I have a problem smiling or that I'm angry or upset. I'm just stuck on default - stuck with a heavy frown on my face.

Sincerely

29/7/2020

It's a shame, really; I've spent so long trying so hard to get better. And I do want to get better, but it’s not easy. If I'm being honest, I thought I was getting better but when the quarantine hit I began to bottle things up again. Not seeing my feelings, having them buried deep beneath - locked away in the deepest pits of my heart… well, it was soothing in a sense. That way they did not exist, they were forgotten. I didn't have to deal with them. But I forgot the most important thing of all, ‘with good comes bad’ they say, I wish I had listened - to myself and to those around me, that bottling up feelings is really the worst thing to do. Because the longer you ignore them, the stronger they grow and the darker they get. I'm an idiot; really. I was a coward, too scared of my untamed, ugly feelings to face them head on, too scared to ask for support to help me face them. So here I am now, wallowing in the depths of my despair with an increasingly depressing inner monologue, typing this out in tune with it. I'm really bashing myself up, bottling up is the most harmful way to inflict violence upon one’s self, and I'm really feeling it. My brain hurts from narrating my problems and inner thoughts - it’s working overtime as a sort of coping mechanism. But what hurts the most - what burns the most, is my ever dry throat and teary eyes. Having to swallow the ever present lump that happens to make itself comfortable right at the back of my throat seems to really suck the moisture out of my mouth, hence my dry throat. My eyes really sting, the tears come and go, and boy, let me tell you - it takes so much strength to fight them. To stop them from rolling down as they would wish to. Feeling the tears well up and then forced to go away really burns. I'm not sure why; I do know that despite not having cried even once, my eyes burn as if I havent stopped crying since last week.

As dramatic as this is, this is how I feel. Quite underwhelming considering I've been harboring such strong, hating and dangerous feelings to myself since march. Though, this is my first time letting these frustrations out. I'm glad I've finally realised the burdens I carry. There's not much I can do.

See you next time,

2/8/2020

Hi,

Didn't expect to write that much in here but shit has been going down this week. Today my math teacher kept me in to tell me that I failed my math test, she told me that it was irresponsible of me to get as low as I got. The whole time she scolded me, I felt uncomfortable and like I could cry - I was close too, the tears were forming in my eyes. She asked me if I was planning on dropping maths, she basically suggested for me to drop maths. Oh! She also told me that I had to stop drawing in my book and that it was preventing me from learning because apparently ��if you draw that just proves to me that you have no idea what's going on and you don't want to ask questions.’ and I'll give her that, I don’t - to both things.

The seats are so close it makes me anxious, I don't want everyone around me to know that I don't understand math! And besides, I seriously do not understand it so she'd have to sit with me the entire lesson to explain everything… I think there's something wrong with me.

Until next time,

3/8/2020

Hey, me again.

It’s still slightly weird to vent into a little diary but I'm getting there I guess. I'm so frustrated! Today has been the worst fucking day that I've ever experienced. For starters, I did double math for periods one and two, and then we got our tests back and I failed :) yep 23%!

I'm just soooo happy. If I'm being honest I don't care anymore. Maths is hard and no matter how much I study I fail at it. There's no point in me even trying now. I give up. What's worse is we had a substitute teacher and when she handed out the papers she gave my paper to some other girl in the class - who then of course, proceeded to have a fit about how bad the test is and that the tests were definitely mixed up. Well, they were but did she really have to explain to the whole class about how bad the score is? It was embarrassing to have to put my hand up and get the paper - my test, handed to me. It felt like everyone’s eyes were burning holes into my body. Right then and there I had a panic attack - I had already felt on edge since yesterday but the test conforming results plus the fact that everyone knew how badly I scored tipped me over the edge. I felt the tears well up but I pushed them back - refusing to show everyone how weak and pathetic I am.

I excused myself to the bathroom and cried a little before texting my friends and telling them that I was about to have a meltdown. Unfortunately they weren't online and didn't respond, I had to go back to class anyway.

When the break came, I left to go back to the bathroom - my tears were still clouding my vision and I couldn't get rid of them. I think I may be superstitious but while I was walking I was stuck behind the girls who saw my test - they were talking about their tests. I didn't really care but then one of them said ‘how much do you need to pass?’ and the others just laughed, so she continued and said ‘seriously! Is 24 percent a pass?’ this made the other girls laugh even harder, it felt like a slap to the face. Like they were indirectly mocking me. The same girl then said ‘surely 25 percent’ which again, was met with laughter.

It really hurt. Even if I was just overreacting. Surely not. They had to be talking about me. Why else would they talk about low test grades when they are literally on to top of the class.

I just want to disappear.

Sincerely,

8/8/2020

I dropped my Ipad today - twice if I may add. I cried when it hit the floor, the protective screen shattering into small, sharp pieces. The ‘up’ volume button is stuck and can no longer be used, neither can the ‘on/off’ button. Guess I can only use the home button to turn it on and wait for it to go to sleep if I don't want to use it. I'm kinda fed up with life. I want to be taken away. I don't care how far I go. I just want to leave.

Not soKindly,

14/8/2020

Dear Diary,

Today has been alright, I made mini cookies which helped put a smile on my face. Ever since the first time I exploded in this diary, I've felt a humongous weight lift off of my shoulders. Picture this, a single person holding up 50 tonnes of bricks and then telling themself and everyone around them ‘I’m fine! I can do this! I don't need help!’ but then one day, the person feels even more bricks pile up which becomes overloaded and they can't keep it up anymore. So they begin to crumble under all the pressure and the weight until they just explode! After their explosion a new person appears out of nowhere and helps them hold the stack of bricks. It is not that lighter, but it's the extra support - the extra pair of hands helping keep the first person stand straight, that really means something. I'm not sure if that makes sense but it’s how I can describe how I feel. Still feels heavy in my chest, but this time it just feels a bit lighter - like the world isn't entirely against me.

From,

30/8/2020

Dear Diary

When I went to the clinic earlier this week, something unexpected happened. The cute boy - who i like to call my ‘Therapy Buddy’ pointed over to the small table where a bunch of unfinished puzzles lay. I was confused at first but still walked over there. We sat down opposite each other and offered small smiles to one another. And without saying anything we finished off the jigsaw puzzles until we had to part ways.

For the first time in a while, I felt calm - as if my nerves were soothed. Maybe I should upgrade his name to ‘Miracle Buddy’ because I am 100% sure the reason I felt at peace was his doing - his presence.

Until next time,

7/9/2020

Dear Diary,

Therapy Buddy and I completed the jigsaw puzzles again today; no words were exchanged. I think he’s cute. I don't have a crush on him. I literally don't know him. I just like being in his presence. And besides, we've only done this twice. Who's to say we'll do it next week?

Cya,

15/9/2020

Whats up bitch Diary

Haha. Therapy Buddy is definitely smart. He was so quick to complete a 200 piece puzzle! I barely helped… he's cute when he concentrates as well. Oh yeah, we did end up doing them today. I noticed he also carries a diary with him. Maybe he writes in it like I do? Who knows. I hope he's written about me… I mean he probably hasn't but who knows, am I right?

Sincerely

21/9/2020

Hey Diary,

I'm really struggling going to school, I find it hard to concentrate in math class. Actually yeah, I like going to school but it's when I step into the math class, when I go in I feel my chest tighten and my throat dry. I have spoken with my parents a lot. They said I can drop maths if I want to. I'm still not sure what I want to do in the future but I have a faint idea: a psychologist or an artist. I need maths for psychology I think. I'm not sure. I think I'll just stick with it and hope next year goes better.

From,

29/9/2020

I look forward to going to the clinic. It no longer feels like an interrogation now that I walk in with an open mind. I'm still not getting much better with maths so I asked to be dropped down a level and now that i'm in a new classroom, a new environment, i feel less nervous. Maybe i’ll be able to get at least something done.

Kindly,

12/10/2020

This is a disaster, the other week when Therapy Buddy and I were sitting together - in comfortable silence might I add, we mixed our diaries! I can't believe this. I didn't realise until I got home! I had no ways of contacting him either. I hope he didn't read through it. If he did, I'm in trouble, I'm not doing good. I feel sick in my stomach and my throat is constricting. Ok I'm going to go, I'm having a panic attack just remembering.

Until next time

13/10/2020

Hey Diary!

In the midst of panic yesterday, I missed an important detail. Therapy Buddy left his name and phone number in my book. He must have opened up to write in it only to realise it wasn't his book. I hope. I'm a bit scared to text him. He has a pretty name - Oikawa Toru.

If I'm going to be honest, I read a little of his diary! I couldn't help it, I just wanted to write my feelings but I opened up on his latest entry, I read it and I shouldn't have. I feel a bit guilty but now, more than ever, I feel closer to him. He's feeling a similar way to me.

Yeah, I think I'll go for it. I think I'll text him.

Sincerely,

20/10/2020

What's up Diary!?

I'm glad I texted Toru! Since then we've been texting non stop but we've made a promise - to not speak to each other in person until we’re both doing better. That's fine with me. I just know my voice would betray me if I decided to chat him up in person. I've found a sense of comfort with Toru, he's no longer just my Therapy Buddy (although that's his contact name), he's now my friend who I can seek comfort in, and he seeks comfort in me too. I hate to say it, but I think I may have a small crush on him. This is a pain in the ass, I really hope I don't. He's just my friend. He's just my friend. He's just my friend. He's just my friend. But he’s really cute

Kind regards,

25/10/2020

Hey diary,

I'm feeling a lot mentally better, I wish I had realised sooner that going to therapy was helpful. Having someone who just listens to you and doesn't give their input unless you want it is soothing. I'm not as anxious to go to math class, of course I'm still trying but I've adopted the mindset: what's done is done, all I can do is look forward.

I have good news about Toru. Today he said to me ‘when I’m ready I want to love you and for you to love me.’ I know I don’t love him but I’m not an idiot, I know I have some more-than-friends feelings towards him.

From,

27/11/2020

Dear Diary,

Things have been really looking up for me. Im feeling a lot happier and the weight in my chest is a lot lighter. I almost feel free. I've been thinking of career paths a lot lately. I think I want to be a psychologist. If it weren't for Mary, who knows where I would be now. Thanks to her I've been able to feel better and do better. I want to be like her. I want to be able to help people through their problems - whether it be a minor inconvenience or a major one, because I know how it feels. I understand what it feels like to have the whole world against you - as if every force and person in the universe were working unanimously together to bring me down, ‘but I survived and so can you.’ That's what I will tell them. And also ‘We can get through this together,’ and let's not forget ‘this will be challenging so we both have to put in 100 percent to getting better!’

Sincerely

12/12/2020

Hey diary,

I am full of joy.

Today Toru texted me and asked me if i wanted to spend New Years Eve with him! I said yes and were going to go to the park to have a picnic and watch the fireworks! I'm so excited. I hope he is too! I just cannot wait.

Oh yeah! I can't believe i haven't written it in until now! I've just been so happy and excited and wow but the two of us went out to a cafe and he bought me a drink - we still haven't exchanged words and spent the whole time sitting next together while texting.

In that moment I felt so happy, I knew that this is the guy I want to be with. I have a crush on him and wow... I it feels good to get that off my chest and out into the open,,, I wonder if he’s ready? It doesn’t matter, I’ll wait as long as I have to because Toru is special and I don’t want to lose him.

It is New Years Eve and I have made plans to catch up with Toru, he's going to pick me up at my house and together we’ll walk to the nature park where we’ll spend the night having a picnic and being in each other’s presence. In my small bag I have snacks and drinks packed, along with some board games - why not? After all, I'm planning on confessing to him tonight and I thought doing it while engaging in one of the things that brought us together was the way to go.

There is a timid knock on the door and I quickly run to answer it.

As soon as I open the door I’m met with a cardboard poster with the words ‘Happy New Years Eve, Yn!!’ written in big, large letters. I smile as I look at it, Toru definitely was not an artistic person but the thought was sweet and made my heart swell. I pull out my phone and text him a thank you before receiving one back from him; ‘you look extra beautiful… Yn.’

I read the text a few times before my brain finally gets the message, a large smile creeps up onto my face and I hear him try to stifle a laugh.

I turn away from Toru and yell out ‘bye bye! I'll see you tonight!!’

When I turn back I see Toru reaching out his hand; as if he were asking me to hold it.

Toru’s hand is pretty, our fingers are linked together and they rest comfortably. Nothing feels forced, it all feels natural. I look up at him and wonder if he feels the same, as if he knew what I was thinking when he squeezes my hand. Yeah, we definitely have some strange connection.

We spend the whole journey to the park texting, and as much as I love texting him and hearing him quietly chuckle during conversations it no longer feels like enough. I want more. As greedy and selfish as that sounds. I know I said I would wait for him - as long as it would take, but I'm getting impatient. Tonight i'm going to speak to him… I hope he does as well.

The park is beautiful, the flowers are trees surrounding the border and trap out the outside world. It almost feels like I'm in a magical fairy realm - or something like that.

We found a spot near a garden bed and I noticed the arrangement of flowers fairly quickly. I find it funny, the flowers almost represent everything i feel for Toru - maybe our meeting was indeed, fate and maybe this was fate telling me to confess.

I pull out a 5000 piece jigsaw and text ‘wanna play?’ which Toru of course agrees.

I have had fun, all night we’ve spent playing various games and eating snacks. We still haven't spoken and that's getting me down. I can't help the intrusive thoughts - ‘does he not like me?’ ‘he's not ready’ ‘you're just a friend.’ I try to push them out of my head but before I crumble I find a new thought: ‘maybe he's just too shy to make the first move.’

That is, it was up to me and it was the perfect time to confess - ten minutes until the new year. I quickly got up and made an impromptu bouquet of the flowers that resided next to us.

Shaking, I turned towards him. “Hey… i’m Ln Yn and this is for you…” I handed him the bouquet and tried my best to ignore the look on his face - I couldn't tell if it was shock out of happiness or anger, “you asked to know the meanings right?” I move closer to him and point out a flower, “well, see that flower? It's a light purple lilac that resembles young love… and this one here, it's called a belledonne which means silence, this one’s a begonia - representing dark thoughts, oh and this one! It's a pink camellia which symbolises longing - particularly longing for a romantic relationship with the receiver, and this daisy right here means innocence and hope. And lastly, the hibiscus represents delicate beauty.’ I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked up at him, I didn't realise how close I got to him - our lips were mere centimeters away.

‘Hey… I'm Oikawa Toru and I like you too. Why don't we give a relationship a try?’

I smile. I smile so large I feel my cheeks hurt. This, this is the happiest i've ever been. ‘I’d like that.’ Toru smiles with me, he’s beautiful, even with the dak thoughts plaguing his mind.

‘I like your voice’ we say to each other before laughing.

‘Wow.. we really said that at the same time huh?’ he laughs. Instead of responding I grab a hold of his hand once more and squeeze it. ‘It’s kinda annoying, I wanted to confess first…’

‘Not my fault. Bet it wouldn't have been as romantic as what I did.’

‘So telling me the meanings of flowers is romantic?’

I gasp as he doubles over in laughter and without realising we fell into an easy conversation - much like one we would have over text. Everything with Toru felt natural.

The fireworks go off signalling the beginning of the new year, Toru leans in closer and his eyes don't leave mine.

‘Hey,’ he says softly, ‘can I kiss you?’ I gulp and nod, within seconds his lips were delicately pressed against mine, they were soft and smooth - even if they were slightly chapped. They felt natural against my lips. The kiss was short and sweet. Deciding that it wasn't enough to satisfy me, I went back in after we pulled apart and we both smiled into the kiss - our lips passionately moving together, like two jigsaw pieces that were made for each other.

When we pull back, Toru drags me into his chest and says, ‘I'm ready to love you.’

Taglist: @ladyrenart

Hushudhidwhuwihahuaf ïm im sorry this is horrible and I definitely don’t plan on using this style of writing anytime soon! I promise the rest of the series will be written nicely !

#haikyuu #haikyu #haikyuu x reader #fluff #x reader #angst #oikawa #oikawa toru #oikawa x reader #oikawa fluff #oikawa angst

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shookethbrooketh · 6 years ago

Text

Mistakes

Summary: Dan and Phil grew up in a society where their love lives were all planned out for them; at the age of five, they were given a diary to write to their soulmate in every day, and it would only show them the gender and skin shade of their future partner. Everything else about their soulmate would remain hidden, regulated by a secretive government agency. At the age of 25, Dan finally attends the national convention to search for his soulmate, and he meets someone he’s sure is his soulmate; every detail matches up. But the writing in their diaries are different. Dan’s sure he and Phil are soulmates, but the system begs to differ. The system guarantees it doesn’t make mistakes, but somewhere deep within him Dan has no doubt. He and Phil are soulmates, no matter what some records say. Mistakes have already been made, but he’s about to make a lot more.

Rating: T

Genre: Soulmate AU, Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Implied Sex, Swearing

Word Count: 12.6k

Challenge: Trope Challenge

A/N: Another fic I wrote for the @phanfichallenge :)

Read it on Ao3! Read it on Wattpad!

It’s crazy, isn’t it? How your entire life can be in complete shambles, shattered like a flimsy piece of glass, and you feel like the ground is crumbling underneath your feet and nothing could possibly stop it, and then something appears out of nowhere to change your life. How suddenly one unexpected aspect of your life, your day, your being is able to save you from yourself and everything around you threatening to attack. How we as humans put all our eggs in one basket whose wicker lining is sure to break someday. It really is purely insane how everything finally feels alright, but deep down there’s still pain because you know, and you knew from the very beginning, that the one thing keeping you alive and happy is temporary, and soon everything will be shattered once again.

Dan woke up at noon, as he did often on days he didn’t have to work. He was exhausted from the late night he’d had sitting up and doing casework; he’d rather leave his job at the law firm and spend his evenings on his laptop scrolling like he did when he was younger, but he was so overwhelmingly consumed by work that there was no way out.

He stretched his long arms and legs, dragging his lanky body out of bed and over to his desk. It was cluttered with files from the previous night, but he brushed them all aside and pulled out his pale white diary, rainbow on the front glistening as he opened it up to the day’s page.

Before reading the already filled out left hand side, he paused to think. This is a marvel he experienced every few months, and especially around that time of year.

Sometimes he just paused and thought about their world. He stared down at the little diary and thought about how utterly crazy it was that the tiny book controlled their entire lives. That they were in control of what they wrote in it, yet they really had no control at all. That there was such a good chance that he’d never know whose handwriting sat elegantly in the left hand side of his diary.

Still, twenty years after after he began writing in it, the entire concept of the diary blew his mind. He still remembered on his fifth birthday when the entire family gathered around the cleanly wrapped box that nobody got him, the one that simply appeared like all diaries did. He remembered tearing through the paper and opening the box, lifting the book out of it. He was young, yes, but all children, even at that age, understood the severity of the diaries and what each little factor of it meant. He took a moment to admire the vampire-white cover, symbolizing the almost albino skin tone his soulmate held. Quickly, though, his eyes settled on the rainbow lying square in the middle of the cover; he knew of it, but he’d never seen it before. It told him that his soulmate was a boy, not a girl. That wasn’t a weird factor, but it seemed different to him simply because both his mom and his dad had a simple straight, black line across their diaries. It wasn’t bad even in the slightest; it was just different. Dan didn’t mind.

He tore himself back out of his own mind, focusing on the same diary sat on his desk. It was open to the date’s page: July 1, 2016. That’s why Dan was flashing back; it was July 1. Everyone knew the date July 1. That was Description Day.

Once a year, on July 1, everyone would take up their daily diary page to write a description of themselves; they’d write about their physical appearance, job, and general life, but leave out any details about where they live or even their name. Those were the two unspoken traits; there was a government censor on the diaries so that if anyone attempted to write them, they would immediately be erased. It couldn’t be that easy.

But this year, everything changed for Dan. At the age of 25, July 1 also became Convention Day. Everyone over the age of 25 who hadn’t yet found their soulmate was expected to attend a national convention every year to attempt to find them. They were often so large there was no chance of finding anyone, but the success rate was high enough to where they went on. Dan had turned 25 only two weeks earlier, and it was time for his first one. In an hour.

He leaped from his seat, suddenly realizing he had only an hour to get to the convention. Luckily, he lived right in the heart of London, where the convention would be held, but eating and getting ready would take him a while. Within five minutes he had downed a bowl of cereal and found himself in the shower, rushing to make himself look presentable for the convention. Everyone always dressed to impress at these things. Half an hour later he rushed out wearing his nicest suit and clutching his diary in his arms, a pen hidden away in his pants pocket. It took him five overly frustrating minutes to hail a cab, and when he finally settled into the back of the taxi with 20 minutes to spare, he let out an exhale he didn’t know possible.

“Convention?” The driver asked. Dan probably wasn’t the first one she’d driven there.

“Yeah,” Dan said, out of breath.

“Mind if I park and come in with you? You should be my last run.”

“Sure, why not?” Dan said. “Description?” That was a one word question almost anyone who met on the street would ask each other. It was almost expected as a conversation starter.

“Woman, medium-white,” she said.

“Nice. Man, pale as hell.”

She chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

“And to you.” Dan pulled the pen out of his pocket and opened his diary, not yet taking time to read the other page.

“You haven’t written yet?”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Overslept.” The woman nodded and left Dan to jot down his description. He wrote about his freakish height, curly brown locks, chocolate eyes, and tendency to wear nothing but black. He told his soulmate all about his shitty law job, his lack of sleep, and his long list of extremely odd habits. After running out of space, Dan decided his description was probably good enough and turned to read his soulmate’s. Hey, it’s me. You probably already know all this, but i’ve got a jet-black quiff, sea blue eyes with flecks of color, and extreme height. I should probably be a basketball player, but I’m just a simple zookeeper. You could probably guess I love animals, which is why I spend 90% of my free time wearing quirky animal shirts and mismatched socks. I’m so glad you’re finally old enough to come to the convention; I’ve skipped the last four years because there’s not much of a point if you won’t be there, but I’m glad we can finally both have our first time going. Hope to meet you there today :)

Dan smiled at the diary, rereading the entry and visualizing the same man he’d spent years perfecting in his head. He just seemed so adorable and lovable to Dan; how did he get lucky enough to have such a wonderful soulmate?

He felt a bit bad for him though, with their four year age difference. The man wrote to nobody for four years, even fearing that there was a mistake and he didn’t have a soulmate. The day Dan finally wrote back was the best of his life. Or at least that’s what he wrote. Dan knew the man best from his scraggly yet beautiful handwriting that curled across his pages every morning. He felt he knew everything about him, how he’d get up early and drink way too much coffee to get through each day, how he’d stick his tongue in between his teeth when he laughed, how he’d take time out of his day to spend with each and every one of the animals at his zoo. Somehow, he knew all these things, all there was to know about him, yet they’d never even met.

The diaries were almost like email in Dan’s mind. They would write back and forth to each other, like pen pals. Except instead of writing happy letters to each other, they’d each describe their lives until one fell in love with the other, and it was beautiful.

By the time Dan finished writing and reading, they were pulling into the convention center parking lot. Having lived in London for years, he’d seen the scene before, but it was the first time he’d be venturing into it. The driver parked and they climbed out of the car, Dan stretching his freakishly long legs and taking a deep breath of the warm, summer air. There were two entrances; one with a rainbow over the doors, and one with a straight, black line. Dan and his driver both entered the rainbow door then parted ways upon finding a split between women and men. That was as much as they could split people up; they’d end up intermingling anyway if they divided any further. After that, it was simply up to the people to find their soulmates.

For once, Dan’s height played to his advantage. He managed to peer over the heads of the rest of the crowd, searching for a black quiff at his own eye level. Although he could see over most heads, he was still overwhelmed by the sea of people he was forced to attempt to wade through. They were packed in the room like a can of sardines, left to roam, if they could even move. Dan would have thought the convention would have a bit more order.

He kept looking around, but he couldn’t see anyone near him that seemed to meet his soulmate’s description. Every now and then he’d come across a couple of men smiling and chatting, their diaries seeming to match. Dan wished he could have that. He clutched his diary in his arms, holding it close as he wandered the room of people with almost identical books. Of course, in all the chaos and focus on the book, he forgot to protect the pen he had sticking out of the top of it.

Dan slid through groups of people searching for someone, anyone that might be their soulmate, and found people jostling the diary secure in his hands. He managed to maintain control of the book, but the pen fell to the floor, and Dan instinctively bent down to pick it up. That proved to be a horrible decision, as the masses seemed to close in over him as if he wasn’t even there. Finally he grasped the pen and looked around, trying to find a hole to pop back up. All he saw were legs, legs, and more legs. One pair caught his eye; he noticed two mismatched socks peeking out of the pant legs of one man standing above him and remembered the sock description in his diary that morning. He pushed himself up through the crowd and came out face to face with the man, mere inches from their noses touching.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dan said, his social anxiety kicking in. “I dropped my pen and the crowd is so thick that I could barely stand back up.”

It was then that he finally started to get a good look at the man; he was just as tall as Dan, had the darkest black quiff that must have been dyed, and his eyes, oh, his eyes. They were a marvel to look at; they were a beautiful shade of turquoise, but looking close enough Dan could see little flecks of gold, almost as if they were scattered in just to make them worth so much more.

“You look like-”

“And you look like-”

“Do you want to get away from this crowd for a while?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Dan.”

Phil took Dan’s hand unexpectedly, sending sparks through his body. They searched the crowd for any open space or even an unoccupied corner, but the place was packed, and people were still continuing to flow in. “I don’t usually think people do this before checking each other’s diaries, but do you just want to get out of here?” Phil yelled over the chatter of the crowd with the high ceiling’s echo. “We can come back if things don’t work out. Besides, I have a good feeling about you.” Phil smiled at him, and he couldn’t resist, nor could he seem to speak. All he did was nod, and then they were gone.

Fresh air entered Dan’s lungs as they escaped from the convention center, hand in hand on the sidewalk outside. “There’s a Starbucks down the street,” Phil said. “You wanna go there?”

Dan shrugged, just wanting to keep his hand in Phil’s. “Sure.”

They walked to the fork in the sidewalk, and Phil began to turn left while Dan went right. Their hands were nearly torn from each other, but Dan held on, pulling them back together. “Phil, isn’t the Starbucks that way?” Phil thought for a moment before pulling out his phone and pulling up what Dan assumed was Maps.

“Oh, you’re right,” Phil said, blushing as they walked in the correct direction. “I assume you’re from around here?”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “Just a few minutes down the road. And you?”

“Just outside the city. That explains why you know the area better than I do.”

Dan couldn’t help but notice that they were still holding hands. It seemed odd to him with the fact that they technically didn’t even know they were soulmates, but it seemed so right; it wasn’t even awkward, and Dan was the king of awkward. They were soulmates. They had to be.

“Anyway, Phil, what do you do?”

“Uh-” Phil stuttered, seeming nervous. “I’m a zookeeper.”

Dan smiled, knowing that was what his diary told him. “Great. I’m a lawyer.”

Phil smiled too, and Dan assumed his diary told him the same. “Awesome.”

“I can’t believe I found you,” Dan blurted, the awe finally setting in on him. He went to his first convention and found his soulmate in the cheesiest way possible. It was a movie he’d pay to see in theatres.

“Me either. First convention too!”

Dan chuckled at the fact that it almost seemed that Phil read his mind. “I know right? I’m sorry I’m so much younger than you; I can’t even imagine what it would be like to fearfully write to nobody for four years.” Dan stared at his feet as he walked, feeling the weight of the guilt he’d had about that for years.

“It was rough, but my parents assured me it happens all the time. The day you finally wrote back was the happiest day of my life,” he said, looking to Dan. “Well, aside from today, obviously.” Dan couldn’t help but smile at that, still in utter disbelief that any of it was even happening.

There were a few seconds of silence before they came up on the Starbucks, and Phil held the door open for Dan as they walked in. Dan’s heart beat out of his chest, every little action of Phil’s pulling him in deeper. They ordered their coffees, each of them taking careful note of the other’s order for future reference, and sat down at a booth.

“This is unbelievable,” Dan said for what he was sure was the second or third time. “I never thought I’d find you so easily.”

Phil smiled, cradling his coffee cup in between his hands and taking a ginger sip. “Me either. Do you think we should?” he said, nodding his head to their diaries they set on the table. Phil’s was the slightest shade darker than Dan’s, making the difference between the two distinct enough to tell which was which. They slid the diaries across the table and opened each other’s diaries to the day’s page. Dan looked to the page he wrote on earlier, expecting to reread what he wrote Phil this morning, except it wasn’t there. The writing on the page was in completely different handwriting, and said something completely different. Phil’s writing was different than the one Dan read from his soulmate that morning as well.

“We’re-” Dan stuttered.

“I guess we’re not-”

“Yeah, here’s your-”

“And here’s your-”

“Yeah.” They awkwardly exchanged books, neither of the pair able to complete a sentence. Dan couldn’t go on like that. “You seem really nice though... Do you want to hang out sometime? As-uh-as friends?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, disappointment clear in his tone. “That would be nice.”

Dan took a napkin from the holder on the table, pulled the pen he somehow still possessed from his diary, and jotted down his number on it, sliding it across the table to Phil. “Here,” he said. “Text me later.”

Dan stood up, swiping his diary and coffee cup off the table, tossing the latter in a bin on the way out. The warm, summer air hit his face as he stepped out of the air conditioning and hailed a cab, not having the energy to walk home.

After a short, silent taxi ride, Dan dragged himself up the stairs to his flat and threw himself on his bed, sighing. He could have gone back to the convention, he knew, but after that experience he just couldn’t. He let his diary drop to the floor, barely even caring about it at that moment, and left himself to just lie motionless there on top of his bedsheets.

Dan awoke a few hours later, the sunset visible outside his window. It had to be around 8 or 9; after his nap he wouldn’t stand a chance at sleeping a wink that night. He’d have to do something else beside sleep. He glanced to the pile of work on his desk, but he couldn’t think of anything but Phil. Thoughts of the man had occupied his mind since his eyes opened a mere few seconds earlier, and they weren’t leaving any time soon. He reviewed the afternoon with Phil, how strongly he felt about him, and, over and over again, when he found out that they weren’t soulmates.

Dan threw his head back on his pillow, frustrated. How could Phil not be his soulmate? He connected better with Phil than with anyone he’d ever met. Dan sighed, leaning over to pick up his laptop from the bookshelf beside him and rant about his experiences on Tumblr, but something caught his eye. Glimmering against the floor was the diary he’d thrown there earlier, left open to a page that was only half filled out. Dan picked it up, glaring at the page. He’d never seen it before.

It was only then that Dan realized he’d never read any of Phil’s-his soulmate who wasn’t Phil’s-entries from before he got his diary. They were written there his entire life, but as a five-year-old, he never thought it important to read them, and as he grew up he simply never had the time. Now of all times he thought he’d settle in and take a look. The first entry was written in huge, messy handwriting and poor spelling and grammar.

Hi there!!! My name is-oh wait. I cant say that can I? Im sorry. Im new at this. I just got my diaree for my birthday and Im super exited too write to u. Daddy says that sense Im writeing first that u mite not ansir four a wile, but hopefuly its soon becuz Im reely exited too meet u. its reely wild that we all have this thing they call soulmates isnt it? that each of us has one speshal person were suposed too spend our entire lifes with? i guess im thinking about it to hard. i just hope that sum day ill be abel too actually meet u and we can get maryed, witch daddy says hapens four most peeple. i reely hope im one of them. well, im starting to run out of room, so im going too stop writeing four today. ill talk too u again tommorow XD

Dan laughed at the message. It was so obvious that a five year old wrote it, but it was adorable. He imagined a tiny Phil sat at his desk in his childhood home, his legs swinging back and forth under the seat because his feet couldn’t yet touch the floor. He could only imagine the excitement on his face as he finally started writing to Dan-except it wasn’t Phil. It never was. Dan hit himself in the head, trying to remind himself that Phil wasn’t on the other end of that diary, but something told him it wasn’t working.

Still, Dan pressed on, turning the page and continuing to read. Hours and hours past as he read his soulmate’s writing. He would occasionally cringe or laugh at the events of the boy’s life; after all, he was no older than nine years old by the time Dan finished. Every page of the diary made him fall more and more in love with the man on the other end. The only issue was that the only one he could imagine as the man was Phil, and even though they weren’t his, nor did they have anything to do with him, he still attributed every single word he read to Phil in his mind, and he was still ten times more in love with Phil than with the man who was really on the other side of the diary.

....i can’t believe u finally answered! i can’t wait 2 get 2 know u. maybe someday i’ll even get 2 meet u... that would b so cool... i’ll talk 2 u tmrw :)

Dan read the first entry he ever received as a kid from the nine year old soulmate-who-definitely-wasn’t-Phil, smiling at it and slowly shutting the book. He looked over at his bedside clock and saw a glaring, red 3:29 on it. He really had been reading for hours. Technically, though, it was the next day, which meant he could write his own day’s entry. He looked to the floor and found the pen strewn there from when he threw the diary down earlier, picking it up and clicking it to prepare to write.

He flipped the diary to the day’s page and smiled at the thought of -not- Phil’s face when he would see that Dan wrote before him for once. Almost every day the other man wrote first. He set the pen to his respective side and began to write.

Today, I met a man. Not romantically, of course; that’s not how the system works. But we were at the convention and I met him, and he was a lot like you, to the point where we really thought we were soulmates, and then we looked in each other’s diaries and learned that we weren’t. It was devastating, but I think we’re going to be good friends in the future, and I can’t wait to meet you someday too. I know it’s odd to see me up this early, but I’ve been up all night reading your old entries from before I got my diary. They’re absolutely adorable; they just make me want to meet you even more. Someday, maybe. Have a good day :)

Dan signed his entry off the same way he normally does; he tends to either wish his soulmate a good day, or tell him he hoped he already had one, depending on how busy he was and if he managed to write before work or had to wait until after. Dan yawned, setting his diary aside and picking up his phone. He didn’t bother looking at it, as a sense of exhaustion had suddenly come over him, and he wanted to get some sleep before the morning. It was a Saturday, so he’d have all day to relax, but his sleep schedule could only get so fucked up before it started affecting his daily life, so he might as well at least make an attempt to fix it. He simply put his phone on its charger and rolled over, clutching his diary in his arms as he drifted off to sleep.

Dan woke up to sunlight streaming through his window, illuminating his face. He groaned and rolled over to face his clock, which read 10:38. At least he’d almost slept adequately. He forced his phone off its charger and saw a singular notification on the screen: a text from an unknown number.

Hey.... It’s Phil.

Dan almost spasmed himself awake upon reading the text, memories of the previous day flooding back in. Dan took deep breaths, trying to keep his cool; Phil couldn’t see him, only his text.

hey phil! i had a lot of fun with you yesterday :)

Dan sighed, setting his phone done and leaning to pick up his laptop. As he settled back under his covers, he saw his phone light up, and there it was: another text.

Me too! You wanna hang out sometime?

Dan’s eyes popped open, surprised at his immediate response.

yeah, totally! tonight sound good? we can go to the bar down the street.

Down WHAT street?

i’ll send you an address lmao. tonight good? 8ish?

Sounds great!

Dan threw his head back against his pillow, sighing and letting his phone fall next to him. What was he doing? What were they doing? It was all moving so fast, except it wasn’t moving at all. Nothing was moving; they weren’t soulmates. They were just going to hang out. As friends. Except Dan still thought of him as more than friends. He would give anything to spend time with Phil, but he knew it would only be digging him deeper into a hole that could cause him a lot of trouble, or worse.

But then again, he missed Phil more than he could possibly have imagined, and it had only been a day. If he didn’t see him again, he could very well go insane. Besides, pining over Phil in the diary he wrote to his actual soulmate probably wouldn’t go the best. He had to let out his pent up feelings somehow.

He took deep breaths, telling himself over and over again what was going to happen until he managed to accept it. “I’m meeting Phil at 8. I’m meeting Phil at 8. I’m meeting Phil at 8.” He repeated the phrase until it sunk in to the point where he was almost comfortable with it. Almost. By then it was 11; he had 9 hours. He might as well get some work done.

He sent Phil the bar address before putting his phone on its charger and sitting down with the pile of cases on his desk and letting time pass. That was his least favorite part about this law gig; there was so much boring, arduous casework that it nearly put him back to sleep. How was it even possible for a 25 year old who hadn’t even worked at the firm for a year to have so much work? He managed to work through a few cases before he started getting so overly hungry that he couldn’t focus anymore. He managed to scrape together a meal, and by the time he had finished that and a few YouTube videos, it was 6:00. He didn’t want to get up, and quite frankly he didn’t need to, but he decided he might as well pull himself out of bed and start getting ready early.

Dan let himself stand in the shower twice as long as he needed to and absorb the warmth of the soft water droplets. He knew the evening could bring more stress than he could handle, so he set himself on making sure he was as calm as possible before going. He then spent twice his usual time in front of the mirror fixing his hair and therefore destroying any sense of calm he may have had. By the time he felt ready to walk out the door, it was 7:30. He thought he may as well head out early; it was a beautiful night, and that would give him enough time to walk and take in the city instead of taking a cab.

The walk down the stairs seemed longer than ever today; the enclosed space was terribly humid from the summer air, and all Dan wanted was to get outside into the open and out to Phil. Eventually he reached the bottom, and he pushed the door open, taking a deep breath and stepping into the evening light.

It was beautiful, really, the walk to the bar. The sun was due to set in about an hour, so the light was already beginning to dim as it disappeared behind the cityscape. He began the walk in that glorious hour when he felt the need to photograph everything around him; the glare on each tiny detail made the entire city a work of art. By the time he reached the quaint bar, the light had dissipated, leaving a light blue sky to soon turn to many shades of oranges and pinks. It was calming; the situation made Dan’s heart beat at a mile a minute, but the walk was the relaxation he so desperately needed.

Dan checked his phone outside the bar; the time was 7:55, making him five minutes early. Phil could arrive at any moment. Dan decided his best option was to head on in; Phil would find him.

He took a seat at the grubby bar, taking a look around him. It wasn’t a gross bar, not the type where he felt like he’d be surrounded by drunks by the time Phil showed up. It was more of a neat little place; it wasn’t the cleanest, but it was nice and welcoming, a place where you’d meet someone once a week for a beer.

“What’ll ya have?” The bartender said, sliding his way over to Dan, isolated at the end of the bar.

“Just a beer, please.”

“What kind?”

“Pick your favorite.”

As the bartender turned to pour from his tap of choice, Dan heard the chime of the bell over the door signal that someone had entered the bar. His barstool swiveled at the speed of lighting and there was Phil, jet-black hair messy from the humidity.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” he said, sitting down beside Dan as the bartender slid him his beer. A few seconds later, Phil got a drink of his own, and the night officially began.

“Is it weird that I only met you a day ago and I already missed the hell out of you?” Dan wasn’t even one beer deep and he already sounded drunk. Maybe that was just him as a person. Drunk while sober.

“Is it weird that I feel the same way? Almost like...” he trailed off, sipping his beer.

“Almost like what?”

“Nothing.”

Dan gave him a bit of a side eye before finishing the phrase himself. “Almost like a long lost friend; it’s almost like we knew each other in a past life, and now that we’re back together there’s some sort of vibrant force drawing us back towards each other.” He looked to Phil, who had his eyebrows raised. “Bit of a weird analogy, but it was the first thing that came to mind.”

Phil stared off into the distance for a few seconds, seeming deep in thought. When his eyes finally focused back on Dan’s, all he said was, “Actually, that’s really accurate.”

Two beers in and things were getting deep. They weren’t drunk yet; no, they weren’t even close. But they were a bit buzzed, and their third round was already sliding down the bar. It was almost like being up late at night; they were completely alert and mentally sound, yet it seemed as if they had less of a filter than usual. When it gets late enough, you don’t really think; you just do what you want. Late nights usually only end in texts you’ll probably regret sending in the morning; this alcohol buzz, however, caused them each to let things slip that they would normally decide against saying, and those slips ended up being the deepest conversation Dan had ever had with another person.

“I don’t even know why I became a lawyer,” he said, pausing to take a sip of beer. “This isn’t the life I wanted to live; I never planned on growing up and sitting at a desk all day working cases until my hand cramped and ending up still having to take my work home with me. Why the hell did I think this was a good idea, Phil?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Dan. Being a-uh-zookeeper,” he stuttered, eyes widening a bit for the moment, although Dan ignored it. “has its downsides too. It’s generally really cool, getting to interact with the animals and even sometimes with the people, especially with me being such an animal lover, but you definitely don’t want to be an elephant’s pooper scooper every Wednesday afternoon.”

Dan laughed openly and childishly, something it felt like he hadn’t done in a long time. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve pinpointed the worst moments of my existence, and that’s my expression of them to you. Be grateful.”

“You be grateful. Your job is way better than mine. You’ve got one quite literally shitty part of your week, but my entire job is shitty. The only fun part is getting to go to court and get paid to argue with people, but I rarely get to do that. It’s mostly just sitting at a desk day in day out. Boring as hell.”

Phil smirked. “I could commit a crime if you want. Give you something to argue about.”

“Hell no,” he chuckled. “Another case? I’d rather not. Besides, your court date wouldn’t come for a few months, so that wouldn’t do me much good. I’d rather have you here. You’re the happiest I’ve been in quite a while.”

“I feel special.”

“You are.”

After each of their fifth beers, they were each starting to feel the effects. They still weren’t quite drunk; they’d had enough beers in their day to learn how to hold them. But they weren’t quite thinking straight, and they’d be too drunk to drive in a matter of a beer or two. So, of course, they decided the best idea would be some harder liquor.

“Phil, are you sure about this?”

“Of course! It’s a Saturday night; have a little fun, Dan!” he nudged him softly with his elbow, his tongue pointing through his toothy smile.

Dan couldn’t say no to that. “Bartender! Two shots of tequila.” Phil smiled.

The night from then on would best be summed up in a television-style montage. The camera would zoom in on the shots as they clink together, Say Amen (Saturday Night) by Panic! at the Disco beginning to play in the background. You’d see at least five more scenes of shots and beers sliding down the bar, and probably Dan falling off his barstool once or twice as a clock ticks the time past into the morning. You’d see Phil laughing at Dan’s falls and hiccuping, his words slurring as he felt his morals caved in because he loved Dan as much as Dan loved him. You’d see them finally leave by around 3:00, no care left in the world for sleep.

But this isn’t a montage. This isn’t a television show. There was no music, and there was no zoom. There was just the two of them, drinking and drinking and drinking until they could barely stagger out the door. There was nothing glamorous about it; there was nothing montage-worthy to be shown. There was just the air against their faces as they each tried their best to keep the other from stumbling into the highway. Just the same walk Dan took earlier, except he could barely remember his way back anymore. Just the fumbling of keys with a chuckle in the background because oh boy was it funny that Dan couldn’t work a lock. Just the two of them finally getting inside Dan’s flat and stumbling up the stairs, somehow making it to his bed intact. Just the attack of lips, the loss of clothes, and regrets. There was no montage. There were only regrets.

Morning came, and sunlight streamed through the window as Dan came into consciousness. He groaned, covering his face with his pillow to protect himself from the light; he was hung over. Very. Hung over. Although he was practically dead, however, his ears still worked, and he could very clearly hear shuffling at the foot of his bed. This drew him to remove the pillow and very cautiously glance up to the visitor.

There he saw Phil, facing away from him, the blue shirt he was wearing the night before falling over his back as he put it on. Everything came rushing back to him. “Phil?” he called out, his voice raspy. Even the bit of loud sound made each of them cringe.

“Oh, Dan, you’re awake...” Phil whispered, obviously as hung over as Dan yet still rushing to get out.

“Were you just going to leave?”

“Yeah, I was! What did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know, but the answer definitely isn’t leave!”

The scream whisper fight would probably be comical to any outsider, but to the two of them it was full of pure rage. “I’m sorry, but I just need to leave as soon as possible. You and I both know we weren’t supposed to do that. We aren’t soulmates.”

“Do you remember doing anything?”

“Well, no...”

“And neither do I, so who’s to say anything happened.”

“There’s a condom in the trash can, Dan.”

“Huh. Practicing safe sex even when hammered. Who knew?”

“Dan!” Phil yelled, causing them each to almost fall over from the sound. “Sorry,” he whispered. “But we’re not soulmates, and that means I’m going to have to leave. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, Phil, maybe there’s been a mistake!”

“What do you mean a mistake?”

“I know mine’s right, but maybe that accidentally isn’t your diary?”

“It is; I checked.”

“Well, then maybe the system messed up, and we’re really supposed to be soulmates? Like in the movies?”

“We don’t make mistakes,” Phil said, his voice dead serious. The light illuminated his face, making it look ominous as he turned to leave. It was a miracle either of them could take the sunlight without cringing.

“What do you mean we?” Dan said, his brow furrowed as Phil opened the door. “Phil Lester, don’t you dare leave this room.” Dan didn’t know when he learned Phil’s surname, but he somehow knew it, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.

Phil sighed, closing the door in front of him and slowly lowering himself to sit on the foot of Dan’s bed. “I haven’t been exactly truthful with you.”

In the split second, Dan’s mind went insane. There were now so many possible explanations for this mess. Phil was really someone else pretending to be him, and that was why they weren’t soulmates. Or maybe that did make them soulmates. Or maybe he stole someone’s diary. There were so many possibilities, but of course he didn’t even think about the reason the conversation started in the first place.

“I’m not a zookeeper. I guess almost everything else about me is true, as you can tell just from looking at me, but I’m not a zookeeper. I work for the IDMA.”

Dan’s eyes practically popped out of his head. If the world was a cartoon, his jaw would have dropped to the ground. The International Diary Monitoring Agency was the most infamous organization on the planet. Yes, someone had to monitor the diaries to make sure nobody was trying to break any of the many rules in place, but it still felt like an invasion of privacy. It wasn’t a hard job either; they were all taught the rules when they were first given their diaries. It was just a matter of who was willing to take the shit of doing it. It was public knowledge that most people who worked at the IDMA lied about their jobs; however, nobody knew if it was their choice or if they were mandated.

All Dan could manage to say was, “Wow.”

“I know, that’s why I’m so upset! Crazy, an IDMA monitor cheating... How’d I even let myself do this? I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world.” Phil banged his head on the wall, making a loud noise each of them cringed at. Through the intensity of the conversation, they’d almost forgotten about their hangovers. Almost.

“Wait, you’re an actual monitor? Like, you watch people’s diaries?”

“Sure do.”

“How do you not run across your soulmate?”

“There’s someone above all of us that goes through the monitoring lists and makes sure nobody gets their soulmate.”

“Have you... Have you ever seen mine?”

“It’s not on my monitor list, but I may or may not have looked it up this morning, and for fuck’s sake, Dan, be careful what you write. If I didn’t go ahead and check you off the list this morning you would have been put on a watchlist for that last entry.”

“You guys have those?”

“Sure do.”

“Damn. Guess you won’t be a topic in my diary anymore.”

Phil seemed to look a bit sad at that, but he shrugged it off. “Anyway, I guess you know that secret now.”

“Were you allowed to tell me that?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Guess Dan knew a second secret. “So... now what?”

Phil pondered that for a moment, obviously having never been in that situation before. “Either I walk out this door and we never speak to each other again, or we do something crazy and stupid.”

Dan grinned. “I think you already know what I’m going to pick.”

“Crazy and stupid?”

“The stupidest.”

Dan’s room suddenly looked like he was hosting a study session. Once their hangovers wore off, they had snacks and drinks galore piled on the floor, each of them sitting on the bed brainstorming. “How do you think we can do this? You know the place better than I do.”

“Well,” Phil said, staring off into space. “I think the only way to fix the situation is to alter the data to make us soulmates; the only issue is that I’m not sure if it’ll change our soulmates’ diaries through the past, making it obvious that we’ve altered the system. However, we have the biggest fucking handbook on the planet, and enough searching should get us an answer.”

“Can’t we just Google it?”

“No!” Phil shouted immediately, catching Dan off guard. “You can’t. They’re watching the Internet, constantly. You’ll be on a watchlist in minutes.”

“They really like watchlists, don’t they?”

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous. But I’ll head home and grab the handbook; I’ll be back in about half an hour if I can catch a cab.”

“Cya,” Dan said as Phil left the room. Dan watched him somehow immediately manage to hail a cab and climb in, disappearing off into the distance. As soon as he saw the little, yellow speck that was the taxi leave his vision, the anxiety set in. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if he was going to report him? What if something happens? He found himself watching every moment tick by; his eyes darted constantly between the clock and the window, waiting impatiently for Phil to reappear. 29 minutes after he left, Dan saw no sign of him, and his breathing was starting to become heavy. He ended up pacing the room for a few minutes until he heard a rough knock on the door. It must be Phil, he thought, trying to shove away the negative thoughts attempting to push their way into his head. He opened the door, not bothering to look through the peephole. In front of him stood Phil, but this time he brought back two other men, both dressed in suits. “IDMA. We’re gonna need you to come with us,” Phil said, a stern look on his face. Dan was stunned.

“Hell no!” he yelled, rage running through his veins. Before he could even turn to run, Phil had grabbed his hand, and in the split second to spare he found that the touch no longer affected him; he felt nothing towards Phil in his anger.

A needle was plunged into his arm, and all he could hear was a faint “I’m sorry” before all went black.

Dan’s eyes opened to a blurry, white ceiling with a singular fluorescent light on in the center. He took a moment to focus before sitting up and looking around; he found himself in an oddly neat prison cell. He walked over and pressed his head against the bars, looking as far in either direction as he could. He appeared to be in a hall full of cells just like his, although all that he could see were empty. The only place he could possibly be was IDMA.

That was when it all rushed back to him. IDMA, Phil’s betrayal, and most of all, his anger. And damn was he pissed. He couldn’t believe Phil did that to him; maybe they weren’t soulmates after all.

Dan decided to familiarize himself a bit more with his surroundings. He woke up on the bed in one back corner, sheets as white as the rest of the room. In the other corner was a toilet he honestly felt uncomfortable using even though there was nobody else around, and beside the bed was a desk with a diary sitting on it. His diary. Of course IDMA would bring his diary to his prison cell. They’d have an aneurysm if he didn’t write daily, even when he was in their own jail.

He decided he might as well write, although he had no clue what time it was. He was assuming it was still the same day; besides, there wasn’t much else to do. There was a white cup full of freshly sharpened pencils; those and the rainbow on the front of his diary were the only non-white things in the entire room. It was almost creepy. Dan picked up a pencil out of the cup, the sound reverberating through the entire empty hall. He glanced at the pencil for a while, considering how odd it was that his society preferred giving a sharp object to a prisoner to not having them write to their soulmate daily. He shrugged it off and put his pencil to the page, pausing it as soon as it hit the paper. Words were appearing on the other page.

Only once or twice in his life had Dan managed to write at the same time as his soulmate, and it was always a feat to watch the other person’s words roll in. He could physically see each stroke of the pencil, each eraser mark. It was almost magical.

It’s been quite a day, (soul)mate. I’m almost surprised you didn’t write first again. I usually have Sundays off, but I’ve been at the zoo all day dealing with a sick giraffe. He passed away this afternoon, and I’m kinda down now, so I’m not really talkative. Hope your day’s been better than mine.

Dan laughed at the entry; it was really quite sad, but in comparison, his day seemed like nothing. Alas, he had to just suck it up and answer. He couldn’t exactly vent to his soulmate about how he was in jail for cheating on him.

It has! I hung out with my new friend all morning and now I’m just chilling. I saw you write; it was really cool! Sorry about the giraffe; hope you have a good day TOMORROW!

The only real lie there was that it was a good day, he thought, so it was good enough. He tossed his pencil back into the cup and shut the book, letting his eyes linger on the rainbow on the front. It was really the only brightness in his life. That was when he noticed his clothes. They were all white, just like the entire room around him. He furrowed his brow, glancing down and slowly pulling forward the band of his white pants. Even his underwear was pure white. “Are you fucking joking?” Dan let his waistband snap back and flopped on the bed. This was bullshit.

Suddenly, he heard the jingle of keys in the otherwise silent hallway. He immediately assumed someone was unlocking the door at the end of the hall and leaped out of bed to press his head against the bars. In walked Phil, and his first instinct was relief, but then he realized Phil was a massive dick and threw himself away from the bars.

“Damn, can you believe we still have to use keys in this sector? I’ve accidentally put my badge up to a non-electronic lock five times in the last half hour,” he said, settling his gaze on Dan.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Relax, Dan, I’m here to get you out. Here, take these,” he said, tossing his clothes from earlier in the day through the bars. “It’s 11:00; everyone else is already gone. Let’s get this over with.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got you into the facility, Dan. It’s time to go make a few edits.”

Dan’s mind was racing almost as quick as his heart. He didn’t know what to believe anymore; he was still madly in love with Phil, but he didn’t know if he could trust him. There was no reason for him to get him arrested, especially with no warning. That wasn’t something you’d do to someone you loved. But alas, Dan awkwardly threw on his own clothes. There was no privacy in the cell, so he made Phil turn around because they didn’t need any sort of awkwardness between them in that moment.

“And before you come out,” Phil added. “Trash that thing.” He pointed to Dan’s diary on the table. “You won’t be needing it.”

Dan glanced at the book he’d been writing in every day for twenty years. Every day, for twenty years, he wrote a message to a person he’d never met; he wrote to someone he was supposed to be destined to fall in love with, although he’d never even heard their name. He knew everything about the other person, although he really knew nothing. The only person he really knew everything about was Phil, not the mysterious ‘soulmate’ hiding behind the pages of a little, white book. In one swift motion, he slid the diary into the tiny trash can beside his desk, pencils along with it. They were all part of the same sham.

Phil unlocked the door, and it screeched open, causing each of them to cringe a bit out of fear; Dan didn’t know what kind of security there was around there at night, but he definitely knew that the less sound they made, the better. Dan slipped out once the door was wide enough for him to fit through, and he followed Phil down the hall the opposite way from which he entered.

Dan honestly had a lot of things to be confused about; he had no clue where they were going or why, nor did he know how Phil managed to get all the keys he needed to get them there, but all this work was done behind the scenes, and he honestly couldn’t complain about not having to be involved.

“Where are we going?” Dan spoke in a whisper, thinking back to when they were hung over just that morning. Or at least he thought it was that morning. “And how long have I been out?”

“Only a few hours. Sorry you didn’t get anything to eat; we can go out afterwards.”

“Oh, great, now I’m hungry. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Now, back to the topic at hand. We’re going to the Ancient Library.”

“The what?”

“You’ve never heard the legend of the Ancient Library?”

“No?”

Phil took a deep breath and spoke in a mystical voice. “The Ancient Library is rumored to be the place where the records of all the soulmates are held. Legend says that if someone can find and access the Library, they’ll be able to see who everyone’s soulmate is. It’s even said that it’s possible to change the records, although I’m not sure how. This immense power is why it’s said that the library is very well hidden, although it’s rumored to be somewhere in this building.”

“Wait, so you’re telling me we don’t even know this place exists? How is that a good idea? We’re just going to search this entire building head to toe for something we don’t even know is here?”

“Not exactly,” Phil said, grinning. “Us employees have our own rumor that it’s hidden inside the Director’s office, although the security there is so intense that nobody’s ever figured out how to get inside, even with our badges.”

“So how are we going to get in?”

Phil immediately flushed red, biting his lip. “I may have uh... slept with the Director...”

“Man is that ironic.”

“We’re not gonna talk about it.”

They continued down the hall in silence, Phil leading the way to where Dan was sure he’d know where the office was; he was assuming he’d at least been in there once or twice.

It was a decently long walk; Dan honestly had no clue where he even was, nor how big the facility really was, but it seemed huge from the inside. Dan’s legs were exhausted by the time they reached the huge, wooden doors, although that could’ve just been due to the fact that he was extremely out of shape. That was more likely.

Phil walked up to a glowing sensor beside the doors and flashed his badge in front of it; the white light turned green, and he pushed the doors open. Dan was a bit surprised that there was no human security around the facility, but he assumed the government just couldn’t be bothered with spending the money. The security outside was enough, until the threat came from the inside.

Dan wandered into the room behind Phil, looking around the extravagant office; there were animal heads lining the random fireplace that was for some reason in the long room, and there was a corner that just contained a bunch of gold and silver bars in a case. Behind the huge, messy desk of the Director was a certainly three times larger than life picture of who Dan assumed was the man himself. It all reminded him of Mr. Burns’s office from The Simpsons.

“So where are we going from here?”

“I’m pretty sure the entrance is around here somewhere; we just need to find it.”

The two began searching the room from head to toe, feeling around every inch for something suspicious. Dan honestly felt a bit stupid pulling on the horns of dead animals to see if they activate a hidden door, but he was in too deep to care. Finally they had searched the entire room except one spot. The two of them made eye contact before each glancing at the desk. “We’re gonna have to go through that, aren’t we?” Dan asked.

“Very carefully,” Phil answered. “If we don’t leave everything exactly as it was, he’ll notice in the morning.”

Dan nodded, and they began carefully opening drawers. After a couple moments, Dan found a drawer that opened to a control panel. “Phil?” Phil perked his head up from his own drawer and looked over Dan’s shoulder. “What the hell is this?”

There must have been dozens of tiny buttons in all different colors, none of them labelled.

“I have no clue.”

“What kind of powers does this guy have? What happens if we push any of these buttons?”

“Once, again, I have no clue. But my guess would be to push the big red one.” On the left side of the control panel, there was a red button. It was twice as large as most of the others and on its own, but it too had no label. Nevertheless, it was their only hope. Dan pushed the button.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them both collapsed in on itself, sending them straight through the trapdoor and down a chute. Dan was relieved simply to feel a slide beneath him instead of the bottomless void. He felt the curve of the chute increase, and suddenly he was spat out in a dark room.

Dan could see, but very little. There was dim, blue lighting, but he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. “Phil?” he whispered.

“Dan?” came back, and he saw Phil approach him and take his hand.

“Is this good or bad?”

“I don’t know.”

The two edged forward, Dan focused on his feet to make sure he didn’t step on any more trapdoors. Phil’s hand was tightly in his, and he appeared to be searching the room intently.

“This way,” Phil said, suddenly walking briskly towards what Dan finally recognized to be the sources of the only light in the room; there was a small door, light shining through the frame, and another ID sensor.

Phil flashed his badge in front of the sensor and it flashed green, much to Dan’s relief. “Hard to believe the security on something so important is so loose,” Dan said as Phil opened the door and blue, fluorescent light poured into the room.

“That’s because nobody knows how to get here. In all honesty, I can’t even tell you for sure that we’re in the right place.”

“You’re real mysterious, you know that?”

Phil smiled at him, his face glimmering from nervous sweat in the blue light as he climbed through the door. “It’s my best quality.”

He followed Phil into the room and took in his surroundings; the room was massive, to the point where he could barely see the end of the hall, where something he couldn’t identify sat, and there were rows of filing cabinets as far as he could see. On the top of each was a cloudy screen with blue letters on them distinguishing alphabetical order, some with solely last names.

“Wow. This is really it,” Phil said, eyes full of wonder.

Dan hesitated, simply looking confused. “What kinda Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix shit is this?”

“Where do you think we got the idea for the blue?” Phil grinned.

“Nerds.”

“Your tax money.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “So every person in the UK is in here?”

“Yup. Buckle in for the ride; it’ll take a while to get to our names. This one room is underground the entire facility; it’s nearly a mile wide.”

“You didn’t tell me there would be walking involved!”

It was Phil’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, we don’t have all night.”

The two took off down the hall, and after about five minutes of agonizing walking they came to a shelf with “Howell” at the top.

“Popular name, eh?”

“Shut it, Lester.”

On the third shelf from the top Phil found the Daniels, and it took him a few tries to find the right one. They may print diaries with skin color and gender on them, but they were way too lazy to print files with clarification. They were lucky Phil was tall; if he was any shorter they’d have to find a ladder.

“Let’s roll,” Phil said, heading back to the main walkway.

“The hell do you mean ‘let’s roll’? What are you doing with that?” Dan asked. Being in the presence of his file made him want nothing more than to look at it.

“We need to go find mine!”

“Can I at least see my file?”

Phil straightened his shirt and puffed up his chest. “Classified information,” he said, turning on his heel and walking deeper into the labyrinth.

“Classified information,” he said mockingly, “my ass. It’s MY file! Besides, we’ve broken enough laws today.”

“Fair enough,” Phil said, holding the file out behind him as he walked. Dan grabbed it and immediately began violently flipping through it. It had all the normal records, like date of birth, full name, address, and medical records, but behind that were the soulmate records. Dan felt as if he had hit the holy grail of records. Phillip Lester. That was his soulmate. He looked up at Phil. “Phil?”

“Yeah?” he said, not turning back.

“Isn’t this you?”

Phil stopped, furrowing his brow, and took the file. “No, it isn’t. There’s only one L in my name. That’s weird.”

“Sure as hell is,” Dan said, thoughts racing as they made their way to the Ls. Finally they reached the two cabinets full of Lesters, and Dan stuck his tongue out at Phil to show that he was superior.

Phil rolled his eyes and found his record, opening it himself. “That’s classified information!” Dan mocked.

“Hypocrite,” he said, turning to the soulmate page. “It says my soulmate is a David Howell.” Phil looked up at him, eyes wide with awe and adventure. “This is so bizarre. Do you really think there’s two other guys on this planet that look exactly like us, have almost the same names as us, were born on the same days as us, and have practically the same lives?”

“Maybe if you were really a zookeeper.” Dan grinned. Phil strode purposefully back over to the filing cabinet and pulled out the file of a Phillip Lester, flipping through it.

He looked up, mouth seeming stuck open. “He’s just like me. Just like your diary says.” Phil’s eyes suddenly changed, as if he was filled with determination he didn’t have before. “Run back. And I mean run. And get David Howell’s file. Make sure it’s the right one. Then run to the end of the hall. I’ll meet you there.”

“Why do I have to run?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing at the end of the hall.”

"Do you?”

“Not really, but I have an idea.” A few seconds passed. “Go! We don’t have much time.”

“Ominous.” Dan turned and ran off, watching each letter pass until he finally reached the H’s. He panted over to the files and found a David Howell that matched every description of him. He dragged himself back to the walkway and doubled over, realizing the worst of the two runs would be the one back. He sighed and took off running, focusing on the wind on his hair until he finally caught up with Phil.

“Happy.... now?” he panted, heart beating faster than he was sure a human heart should. He really needed to get into shape.

“Very much so,” Phil said, taking the file and checking to make sure everything was in order. Dan glared around to find that they were in the S’s, and the object at the end of the hall was growing nearer. As they inched closer, Dan realized the mysterious object was actually a triple-monitor computer, just like he’d imagine the IDMA spying system would be. Finally, Dan’s heart rate slowed to almost normal, and they reached the end of the hall.

Phil sat down and woke up the computer, and all three monitors popped open at once. Dan couldn’t help but notice the pieces of tape over all of the cameras. Ironic. Phil put his ID up to a sensor again, and Dan couldn’t help but wonder how much power that little piece of plastic could give a person. It was kinda creepy, to be honest.

“What are we doing here?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure-”

“You’re telling me we’ve done all this and there’s only a chance that you know what to do?”

“Uh-” Phil stuttered, turning to face Dan. “Maybe.”

Dan groaned. “Just try your thing.”

“Well, I have one idea...” he said, opening his own file and pulling out his basic information paper. “There’s a barcode here, you see?” Dan nodded. “Maybe it’ll register with the scanner.” Phil put it up to the scanner, and nothing happened. Fear began to settle into Dan’s heart. “Damnit,” Phil said. “Work, you dumb thing!”

“I don’t think it’s working,” Dan said, after he tried to scan it about ten more times.

“Damnit, Dan,” he said, his head hitting the computer desk. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Phil,” Dan said. “You tried your best.” He glanced at the time on the computer monitor, reading 4:36 AM. “It’s almost five. Janitors and security will start getting here soon, right?”

Phil sat up and nodded. “They come at five.”

“Then let’s get out of here and go home.”

Phil sighed and stood up, beginning to walk alongside Dan. “Well, about that...”

Dan’s head snapped towards Phil. “What?”

“You have to go back to prison.”

Dan looked down at his all white clothes. “Oh, yeah. That. You can’t get me out of that?”

“Nope, sorry.”

Dan groaned. All the power of that damned badge and he couldn’t even get a man out of prison. He could get into the Ancient Library, he could get into the computer, he could-

“Wait, Phil!”

“What is it?” Phil asked, excitement evident on his face.

“You said you slept with the Director, didn’t you?”

Phil rolled his eyes away and went back to a normal expression. “Didn’t I say I didn’t wanna talk about it?”

“No! Doesn’t that mean you could talk to him about there maybe being a mistake?”

Phil gritted his teeth and sucked in air. “I don’t know; that’s a bit risky. You know, we never make mistakes.”

“Phil, this was obviously a mistake! What do you think this is?”

“Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe we’re not soulmates.”

Dan stopped walking. “What?”

Phil paused beside him, seeming a bit annoyed at the holdup. “Dan, our real soulmates are almost exactly like us. If we’re in love with each other, we’d probably be in love with them too. Maybe it was right, and we’re wrong.”

“Or maybe we’re right, and it’s wrong! You said it yourself, we’re in love with each other. Maybe my ‘soulmate’,” he said, throwing in air quotes, “is similar to you, but he’s not you. You’re the only you out there, and damnit, Phil, I’m in love with you.”

Phil sighed, starting to walk again. “I’m in love with you, too; I just... I don’t know.”

Dan took his hand, pulling him back and putting both his hands in his. “Phil, aren’t we here to do something crazy and stupid?”

“I mean-”

“What are we here to do?”

Phil sighed again. “The stupidest...”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s just go back to your cell. I’ll think about it.”

‘I’ll think about it.’ Try thinking about it when you’re stuck in a jail cell with nothing to do all day. Dan was bored out of his mind, with nothing else to think about. He pulled his diary out of the trash and wrote some positive bullshit to his soulmate. He was pretty sure lying in his diary was illegal too, but what were they gonna do? Lock him up? Dan flopped on his bed, sighing. Phil better pull through with the director.

It was late at night again when Phil came. As soon as he appeared at the bars, Dan was up against them, eyes wide. “Did you do it?”

“I bullshitted so hard for you, Howell.”

“Oh, thank fuck. What did you tell him?”

“I told him how we met and thought we were soulmates, and that we thought we loved each other, but you came on to me-”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, it’s what I already had to tell them to get you arrested.”

“Thanks.”

“But you came on to me so I turned you in, but I still felt in love with you and I just wanted him to check to see if there was a mistake. He didn’t take it too well, assuring me that no mistakes have ever been made in the IDMA, but I know how to get what I want from him.”

“Thanks. Now I have to think about that until I get out of here. So he checked?”

“He’s having someone look into it right now. The results should be back by the end of the day tomorrow.”

“That’s so long!”

“Better than nothing.”

The next day was undoubtedly the longest of Dan’s life. He much enjoyed bullshitting yet another diary entry to Phillip. This time, he really did. It was more fun when he was lighthearted enough to be creative with it, even more fun when he knew who the person on the other side was, and a hell of a lot more fun when he hoped it would be the last one he’d ever have to write.

The time passed slowly; if his life was a cheesy television show, that episode would show frames of him lying on the prison bed in different positions to symbolize time passing. Dan was perfecting the beautiful dragon he’d drawn on his desk after dinner when he finally heard the door open. He threw down his pencil and leaped from his seat, rushing over to the bars, where he was met with two men in official-looking suits, with an older man standing behind them. He jumped back from the bars, moving up against the back wall.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Director James Osborne of the IDMA,” he said, showing a badge that looked similar to Phil’s. Dan inched forward to read it; it seemed legitimate. “These are my bodyguards. We’d like you to come with us, Mr. Howell.”

“What’s happening?” he asked, suspicious. As hopeful as he was that this was good news, he couldn’t trust the IDMA, and he knew that.

“I can ensure your safety; we’re just going to my office.” Dan nodded, and he unlocked the cell. The four of them walked, the bodyguards making sure Dan stayed ahead of the group at all times. They gave him directions, but he already knew most of the way; it was the exact place he’d gone to the night before, but they didn’t, and couldn’t, know that. Dan took a moment to recall everything Phil had told him to make sure he made his story line up with Phil’s if necessary.

When they reached the office, the bodyguards ushered Dan from the door as the Director put his badge up to the sensor and opened the door. When they entered, an ebony head turned from a seat across from the Director’s desk and Phil was staring at him. “Phil!”

“Dan,” he said with a smile. It didn’t seem like a good smile. It seemed like a tired and hopeless smile. Suddenly Dan was filled with fear. He felt a bit safer with Phil’s presence, but he was still terrified of whatever news was about to be shared with him.

“Take a seat, Mr. Howell,” the Director said, sitting in his overpriced office chair. Dan took a seat in the guest chair beside Phil, and the bodyguards took their place on either side of the Director.

“So,” the Director said, placing his hands on the table and leaning in towards them. “It has been brought to my attention that something very bizarre has happened with both of your soulmate assignments. I have to tell you, this is something that has never happened before.” He paused for a moment, and Dan and Phil made brief eye contact with each other before looking back at him expectantly. “There was a Phillip Lester and a Philip Lester born on January 30, 1987,” he said, looking at Phil. He turned to Dan. “There was a Daniel Howell and a David Howell born on June 11, 1991.” He cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. “The two people born on each day grew to be very similar; they have strikingly similar appearances and lives. Phil, this Phillip man grew to have the career you use as your alibi. Dan, this David man has chosen a law path similar to yours. London is a big city, and the United Kingdom is a big country. This is something that is so unlikely to happen that it is the first time in human history that it has occurred.”

“What is it?” Phil asked, finally speaking up for the agony they were both experiencing.

“With all the similarities, our system misperceived whose soulmate was who.”

“There was a mistake?” Dan asked in awe.

“There was a mistake,” the Director said.

“We’re soulmates?” Phil asked, too nervous to react without complete confirmation.

“You are soulmates.” At that, Phil leaped into Dan’s arms, and their lips finally connected without the feeling that they were doing something wrong. They weren’t doing anything wrong; they were two men kissing their soulmate, and they were finally allowed to be happy.

Phil finally tore back, disappointing Dan, but he realized how awkward the situation must have been given the affair Phil had with the Director. “What happens now?”

“Well,” the Director said. “Firstly, both of you are prohibited from speaking of this incident, or else you will be incarcerated. And, of course, Daniel, you will be released.” Despite the anger that he didn’t get to finish drawing his dragon, Dan couldn’t help but smile at that. “The other two people in question will be brought in independently and informed of the error as well as the consequences for sharing it and given new diaries. You, of course, no longer need yours.”

“Director?” Phil spoke up.

“Yes, Mr. Lester?”

“I’d like to resign from my position here.”

The Director was taken aback. “Why?”

“Through this experience, I’ve seen how corrupt a system that plans your life for you can be. I’m not here to change it, I just don’t think I can be a part of it anymore.”

The Director sighed deeply, his age visible in his appearance. “I’ve seen a lot of corruption in my time here. The system has its issues, just like every other. Some of it is just plain unnatural, but it’s how this world functions. Disassembling it would never work. I can respect your decision.”

“Thank you, sir,” Phil said.

“You two may go.”

The two scrambled from their seats, eager to get out of the facility and into their new lives together. As soon as the door closed behind them, they fell into each other’s arms in a deep embrace. “I love you,” Dan murmured into Phil’s chest.

“I love you too.”

The two locked fingers and began the walk to claim Dan’s belongings from the prison wing. “Can we stop by my cell and grab my diary?”

Phil turned to him, shocked. “Why would you want that thing? We both know it’s full of corruption; if I could leave mine in this hell, I would.”

“Yeah, the system is corrupt, but that book isn’t the system. That book is a story of my life, chronicled with every day since I was five years old. It’s not a piece of the system; it’s a piece of me.”

“Huh,” Phil said. “I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

“Sometimes I’m insightful,” Dan said.

After grabbing Dan’s diary and taking a five minute break to make the finishing touches on Dan’s dragon (with Phil’s help), Dan was changed back into his normal clothes. “This is definitely nice,” he said as they made their way to the facility’s exit.

As the setting sun shined in Dan’s face for the first time in days, he turned to Phil and smiled. “You don’t make mistakes, huh?”

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phan au #phan soulmate au #phan angst #phan fluff #angst #fluff #au #soulmate au #phic stuff #dong and ping #tw #tw swearing #tw implied sex

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elanorjane · 6 years ago

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California Soulmates Chapter 2

Summary: Pop princess Belle wants to write her own music. Single father Gold wants to put his failed music career behind him. When inspiration hits, there's only one problem...the songs they're writing are each other's. "Telepathic soulmates" RCIJ for @beastlycheese

AO3

What was this complete and utter pish?

Rumford Gold sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the living room. Well, in a bedsit technically the whole thing was a living room. But it was the sliver of space he and Bae had cordoned off as shared. The window was open and a minuscule breeze, along with a lot of traffic noise, filtered in. With fifteen years of practice, he blocked out the horn and engine noises easily. The windows were old with wooden frames that had warped over the years and been painted over dozens of times, so having it shut made no difference.

He plucked at the strings of the acoustic guitar in his lap, the chain and cord bracelets wrapped around his right wrist shifting with the movement. He scowled at the illegible scribbles on the paper in front of him. He had some song about a drunken night at a club sung in a girl's voice in his head. It sounded like something out of a 16-year-old girl’s diary. He shook his hair out of his eyes and tried to concentrate on the radio jingle he was supposed to be writing for a local car dealership. He should be focused. He was lucky to get the gig. But lyrics about summer and beaches and sex kept ending up on the page instead. He must have picked it up from somewhere, but he swore he hadn’t heard it before. He didn’t even turn on the radio anymore because there was nothing on it worth listening to. The radio dial in his beat to hell Dodge Charger didn’t even work anymore after he’d mashed it a few too many times out of frustration for the drivel it was playing. Bae was always on about Sirius XM, but he could add that to the list of things Bae wanted and Gold couldn't afford.

Gold turned back to the song scratched in pencil on music sheets scattered around him on the floor. He couldn’t have penned it himself. For starters, it sounded way more pop than anything he’d ever written. More tellingly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He doubted that he could aptly describe it anymore. He glanced over the page of lyrics, all of them inappropriate to sell cars. He’d probably inadvertently picked it up from something Bae was listening to. Despite Gold’s extensive schooling, Bae’s tastes still ran tragically pop. He sighed. Too bad this rubbish wasn’t his. The damn thing would probably be a hit. Gold balled the sheet up in his hand, crumbled it into a tight ball, and lobbed it across the room where it bounced off Bae’s bedroom door.

It wasn’t a bedroom door so much as a curtain Bae had rigged up around his bed in the corner. By the light filtering through the one window Gold could see the outline of his son sprawled out on his bed. He could hear the din of Top 50 seeping out of his headphones. Gold’s own bare mattress was pushed against the opposite wall. It was the best they could do to give each other some sense of privacy. Gold studied his son’s form then lamented the now blank page in front of him. A fourteen year old boy should have his own room. He should have grown up with a yard to play in. Gold blamed himself for not giving Bae everything he should have and keeping them in L.A. long after they should have moved back to Scotland. Or any other place besides this godforsaken city.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Gold was the founding member and brainchild behind what was an up and coming English rock band. Formed in London in the early 80’s, they were on their way to hitting it big. They were going to make real, industry shattering, mind blowing music and get rich doing it. Until it had all fallen apart.

Gold had written music his entire life. He’d picked up a slew of instruments along the way. First guitar, then piano. He spend his formative years learning every part to his favorite songs. He loved early Rolling Stones and Small Faces. In his teens he’d started a band, like every young kid in Glasgow was doing in those days. But while his friends had eventually grown out of it and moved on to football and girls as their main pursuits, he never lost his obsessive focus on music.

In his early twenties he’d moved to London and worked on finding other serious musicians and together they formed a band, focusing on heavy-sounding rhythm and blues. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife, Milah. She’d auditioned for keyboardist. They were young and she seemed just as invested in the music as he was and it wasn’t long before they were spending all of their time together. In the intervening years, the band crashed on a series of friends’ couches. Gold spent all day writing music and as many evenings as possible in whatever disreputable bar would let them play, fronting his band, playing guitar and singing lead. They were struggling musicians barely scraping by in the city and they had been the best years of his life, full of love and music.

Then, Killian Jones came in to audition after they’d lost their bassist. Gold remembered the moment vividly. They sat in a dingy basement bar of a restaurant that rented the space out to them for rehearsal during the day. Gold, Milah, and the rest of the band sat in creaky old wood chairs and on sticky tables while Jones, under the dusty overhead light, played a Led Zepplin song. That should have been Gold’s first clue. He was always a bigger fan of The Who. After Jones played his last note, Gold peppered him with questions about his abilities, experience, and musical tastes. The same litmus test he’d give anyone who wanted to join his band.

Milah and the rest of the musicians were immediately sold on Jones and his leather jacket joining the band, but Gold was the lone holdout. Reminding him that they couldn’t play their already scheduled performances if they didn’t have a bassist, Gold agreed to let Jones play on a trial basis only.

It was after one of these tryout gigs, while they were packing up the gear, when Jones sheepishly admitted to the rest of the band that he was really was a frontman at heart.

“We don’t need a singer,” Gold immediately responded. He wrote the songs, he performed the songs, it worked. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.

But Milah wasn’t so dismissive.

“Give the boy a chance, love,” she told him, gesturing at Killian. The boy had a look, Gold guessed, though it seemed to hover somewhere closer to Boy George than Rod Stewart. He found everything about the new guy cloying. Jones’ eyeliner rimmed baby blues peered up at Gold in what he imagined was supposed to be a charming, unassuming grin.

“You don’t even like being up front anyway,” Milah told Gold. While he’d taken the lead singer position out of necessity, Gold had learned to enjoy it and thought he’d grown into it. But the whole band looked at him expectantly.

“Alright, fine,” he’d caved. The kid could try it out and when he didn’t remember any of the lyrics and bombed, they’d go back to their original lineup.

So at the next gig, Gold stood stage right, playing bass and singing backup. He watched dumbly as his words came out of Killian's mouth and everyone fell over themselves. And the performance after that. And the one after that.

Crowds, for some reason, gravitated towards Jones. Droves of women, who Gold knew weren’t there for the music, began attending and standing up front. Gold wanted the music to speak for itself. But Killian was a born entertainer. He chatted to the girls in the crowd, making them titter. Gold glanced across the stage at Milah, who was laughing and shaking her head at his antics, completely won over. He’d remember that look in her eyes and the way her face lit up for the rest of his life.

“He’s sexy,” Milah had told him in bed one night, when he was still on the fence about Jones officially joining the band and taking over lead.

Gold had asked Milah to marry him the next day. He could see now, in retrospect, that he’d sensed her slipping away from him. He had loved her, he truly had. But marrying her had been his way to try and hold onto her, to keep her from leaving him. Not that it had done any good in the end. I didn’t matter, he would have married her anyway because, unbeknownst to them at the time, she was already pregnant with Bae.

With Killian Jones on the mic, the band started to gain more attention. It was so gradual at first, Gold almost didn’t notice. The rooms they played began to fill a little more. The venues got a little bigger. Until one day, at a party after a show, he looked around and realized he in the same room as Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood, breathing the same air. All because of their mutual love of making music.

It was only a matter of time before America began calling. The lure of recording contracts and bigger audiences was too great. The band boarded a plane from London for L.A. Upon arriving, they found a place downtown to squat in and seamlessly fell into the music scene. They spent their days recording demos on borrowed studio time. Gold remembered seeing a proper mixing board for the first time and spending hours pouring over it with a single minded intensity. When Bae was born, he joined their caravan of bohemians, riding along in vans to various gigs. Sometimes even living in a van. But it didn’t matter because Bae was a happy baby and they traveled as a band, a family.

One that wasn’t destined to last.

They signed their first record deal with a major label within six months of arriving in L.A. Moe French, a record producer so famous Gold recognized him on sight, happened to be in the audience when they played one of their best shows. He cornered them when they exited the stage. Riding high on one of their best performances ever, they signed without even reading the contract he thrust at them in his glass fronted office the next day. Within the next week they had studio time of their own and twelve of their best tracks laid down. They got so far as to even have an official photo shoot for the album cover, with Killian in the middle and the rest of them fanned out around him.

It looked like Gold had been wrong. Killian Jones had been their ticket to success in the L.A. music scene.

But he had also been their downfall.

Within a year of landing at LAX, Jones and Milah had fell for the drinking and the drugs and each other. The two ran off together and the rest of the band members, burned out by the polarizing drama, vanished, getting gigs in established bands or as session players.

He should have put himself and an infant Bae on a plane the day their family, and the band, broke up. Instead, his pride got the better of him and Gold, with Bae, had stayed in L.A. He'd stick around to show them all. While Jones had been part of their meteoric rise, he was nothing but a pretty face. Gold wasn’t going to let him ruin everything he had spent decades building.

He was in Moe French’s office the next morning.

“I’ll get another band together,” he’d promised Moe.

“No, you won’t.” Moe answered confidently. At Gold’s perplexed look, he continued. “We own your songs now, boy.”

A horrible pit formed in Gold’s stomach. “I don’t understand.”

“The contract you signed,” Moe informed him casually. “Those songs now belong to the record label.”

“But I wrote them!” Gold defended. “We already recorded them!”

“In a studio the label paid for,” Moe countered. “You wasted my time and my money. That album will never see the light of day.” He remembered the bloated face of Moe French baring down on him. “Now get out of my office before I sue you for breech on contract,” he growled.

He’d once ran into Eric Clapton on a regular basis. Now he was in a bedsit in east L.A. His best friend was a 14-year-old who would rather closet himself in his ‘room.’ He wrote jingles and whatever else anyone need him for, just to stay involved in music somehow, using the same Gibson that he used to write the songs that were supposed to make him and his band famous. The piano had been sold long ago to pay for this place.

He looked around the room. He used to live out of a van. In comparison to that, this was nothing. It was all Bae had ever known. Scraps of paper with song lyrics scribbled all over them were tacked all over the apartment walls. After seeing A Beautiful Mind at a friend’s house, Bae had come home and asked Gold if he was schizophrenic.

All Gold had left of his blossoming music career was an unreleased album and a trail of broken dreams. And Bae. He had Bae. If he had to do it all again, knowing the outcome, if it got him his boy, he’d do it.

Gold shook his head. He hadn’t thought of his bitterness about the music industry in a long time. He’d focus on Bae and doing what he could to keep the apartment under them and cereal in the cupboards.

He unconsciously played the first few notes of a song he’d written for Bae when he was little. It was meant to comfort his son when he had nightmares, but in truth it gave Gold just as much solace. Now that he was older, Bae didn’t need it anymore. But obviously Gold still did. He’d give in to his despondency and play it through, just the once. Then, he’d get back to work.

#rcij #rumbelle christmas in july #rumbelle fanfic #rumbelle fic #fic: california soulmates

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adventures-in-drabbling · 7 years ago

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Lacewoodshipping Week Day 7: Hello/Goodbye

I DID THE ENTIRE WEEK

the achievement is real omfg. I’ve never managed to keep to one of these before, baha.

This, as per the usual, became both wildly out of control, deviates totally from the prompt, the end is SUPER ABRUPT, and it was written between midnight-3:20am because what is a sleeping pattern.

If anyone wants to actually read something that does kind of stick to the prompt, I did actually do a series of alphabet oneshots, and G and H actually happened to be Goodbye, Hello, and bonus prequel Fight (to be read in the order Fight , Goodbye, Hello). I haven’t read any of these back because I’m far too tired to deal with my old (awful) writing skills, but if you fancy dealing with my old (awful) writing, go nuts!

I’d like to thank @monsycamour AGAIN for organising this lacewoodshipping week! It’s been amazing to throw myself back into writing for this ship, and in a week I hand in my final project thesis of my masters degree, and I’m free from uni! (at least until I get the PhD position I’m aiming for lmao lmao). Until I figure out what I’m doing with my life, I’m gonna have a load more free time (hopefully), and I 100% intend to finish rewriting my old fics! So, the Sinnoh series rewrite will be completed, Written Words is going to be re-edited, probably rewritten and completed, and I might even finish the alphabet drabbles (because I’m fairly certain I only made it up to like, H or I or something and I have like, half finished oneshots for the rest of the alphabet just hanging out in my hard drive). I also might expand on a couple of these shipping week oneshots!

HYPE.

Also, for fic clarification, I headcanon Serena as beginning her Pokémon journey around 19/20 (I know there was a little conflict with the ages of the player character ingame and such, but w/e, that was my age when I was playing so there we go lmao), with the main campaign lasting around a year or so, and her eventually becoming Champion around 20/21ish.

enjoy!!

---

The first time they meet, Serena is a strange mix of nervous and excited. It had taken some time, but she had finally made it to Lumiose City – and it was amazing. Even as she entered the city from Route 4, the atmosphere totally overwhelmed her – so many people moving confidently through the streets, the shops and cafes and attractions all begging for her attention. Still she resisted the urge, following Sina through the South Boulevard to the Sycamore Pokémon Lab.

“The professor can’t wait to meet you. You can find him on the third floor, so hop in the elevator!” the research aide grinned at Serena, clapping her hands together in excitement. Serena tried to smile back at her in return, though she’s fairly sure she only managed a slightly sickly looking grimace, before moving to the aforementioned elevator, eyeing the slightly rickety looking mechanics before gingerly stepping inside and pressing the button for the third floor.

She wiped her slightly sweaty hands on her skirt, straightening her clothes as the elevator rose to her destination. Heart jumping in her chest, Serena slid her way through the door before it had fully opened, gazing around the surprisingly bare room. Two desks sat before her, alongside a couple of bookcases overflowing into stacks of books on the ground, and what appeared to be a semi-temporary screen wall partitioning off a portion of the room into a more private area.

Before she could move more than a few steps, however, a figure in a lab coat rounded the partition wall – Professor Sycamore.

“So,” the professor grinned down at her, stopping a small distance ahead of where she stood and propping a hand on one hip. “We finally meet!”

Serena let out a faint laugh, tension ebbing out of her at the relaxed aura that surrounded the man. “It’s about time,” she agreed, remembering her manners and sticking a hand out in front of her. “Hello, Professor Sycamore. I’m Serena.”

“Oui, oui, fantastic!” He closed the space between them to grab her hand, shaking it up and down so enthusiastically, Serena was jostled by the force. “Come this way, won’t you?” He let go of her hand (turning away before he witnessed her shaking it in relief) and motioned toward the wall partition, leading the way around to where a slightly more grandiose desk (absolutely littered with papers) lay.

What followed definitely constituted as one of the more bizarre experiences of Serena’s lifetime. Being told she had a… what did he say? Je ne sais quois? Followed by a battle, being gifted a new Pokémon and some sort of strange stone, the rest of the ‘gang’ showing up, being asked to help with Mega Evolution… By the time Calem and the others had begun to head out, leaving Serena behind with the professor, Serena was more than a little overwhelmed.

“Everything alright, Serena?” the professor asked once he realised she had yet to leave. Serena nodded quickly, rearranging her bag on her shoulder and laughing a little.

“Yes, of course! Sorry professor,” she grinned, raising a hand in a small wave. “Goodbye!” He raised a hand in reply, but just nodded at the new pokeball in her hand.

“Take good care of Squirtle, OK?” A smile spread across his face. “Not that I have any doubt you will do a fine job,” he added. Serena nodded eagerly, before making her escape around the partition to chase after her friends, and maybe convince them to tour the city full of shops and cafes with her.

---

Since their first meeting, Serena and the professor had met a few more times throughout her journey – Courmarine City, Lysandre Café, their slightly heartwrenching conversation in Couriway Town after everything with Lysandre… Sycamore had been visibly shaken during that particular encounter. Even so, he departed with a cheery promise of a surprise (though Serena was convinced his cheer was mostly a façade ), and a hint of a treasure of his to be found in the town.

When she finally located the inscription at the train station, she squinted as she read it out. "To the person reading this,” she began, tracing her fingers over each word. “What are you like now? Did you become who you wanted to be? For starters, what was the person you wanted to become even like? I don't know, but it would be wonderful if you can boast that you're living each day to the fullest. To future Sycamore. From the Sycamore dreaming of the future.”

With a morose sigh, she let herself drop to slump on the bench next to the ‘treasure’, hand still pressed against the inscription as she thought of the conflicting emotions on Sycamore’s face during their last conversation. She was fairly certain the past Sycamore who carved a message into a train station bench certainly couldn’t have predicted the alarming events of the last few days.

“Am I becoming who I wanted to be?” Serena whispered to the ceiling, tipping her head back to stare up at the roof and pressing her fingertips against the words beside her.

She didn’t sleep well that night, plagued by dreams of what had happened within the Team Flare Secret HQ, ending with the image of a younger Sycamore – without the lab coat – staring back at her as the HQ crumbled around him.

---

Despite the questionable quality of Serena’s sleep now that images of the crumbling HQ plagued her at night, she somehow managed to beat Diantha, taking the mantle of Kalos Champion as her own. The parade at Lumiose was beyond unexpected – she might have bothered to actually wear something nice had she known she was going to be thrust into a spotlight the second she arrived in Lumiose as requested by the professor – but she enjoyed it nonetheless, allowing herself to relax at the afterparty at the lab with their closest friends and family.

As the night began to draw to a close, Serena held her drink close to her chest as she peered around the room for the one person she really wanted to talk to. The professor had presented her with the Honour of Kalos during the public ceremony, dark circles under his eyes that he had clearly at least tried to hide with some concealer. At Serena’s concerned look, he squeezed her hand lightly as he handed the award over with a quiet promise of “We’ll talk later.” However, though he had made another speech at the beginning of the party, Serena hadn’t seen him since.

Slipping away from the main body of the party, she summoned the elevator and stepped in – it still looked rickety, but she was more willing to trust it now she’d been in the lab as many times as she had. She didn’t even have to step out at the second floor, a quick glance around the room after the door opened told her that there was no one there.

Stepping out on the third floor, however, the temperature instantly dropped. Making her way around the partition to Sycamore’s desk, she found the doors behind it flung wide open onto the balcony beyond, the silhouette of Professor Sycamore leaning on the railing illuminated by the bright lights of the city. His lab coat lay abandoned on the desk, and he suddenly seemed smaller without it, less an imposing figure of authority and direction, and instead more… human.

“Professor?” Serena tentatively broke the silence, skirting around the desk and stepping onto the balcony into the brisk air of Lumiose City.

As if broken from a trance, Sycamore jumped at her voice, spinning around to face her.

“Ah, Serena, désolé,” he apologised, the bubbling liquid in the champagne flute clutched in his hand sloshing wildly with his movement. “I just needed some air, I can come back-“

Serena cut him off with a wave of her hand, moving to his side and leaning on the railing to mirror his previous position.

“Don’t worry, Professor. I could use some air too, I just wondered where you were,” she reassured him, letting her own (empty) champagne flute dangle by the rim over the edge of the balcony.

Sycamore reassumed his position, twirling the stem of his glass in his hand with a sigh and let the silence stretch between them.

“Professor…” Serena broke after a few minutes, shifting her gaze to the man beside her as the quiet tension finally became too much. “Are you… alright?”

Sycamore shifted uncomfortably, refusing to turn his gaze to her as he hung his head. “I…” he began, but trailed off, the silence pressing down heavily on the pair.

“I still have nightmares,” Serena blurted, and that made him look up at her. “Lysandre is there. So is the legendary Pokémon, and then… then everything is crumbling, and I’m running but I can still hear him behind me.”

“Serena…”

“You’re there too, sometimes,” she added, and his eyes widened in surprise at that. “You as you are now, or sometimes you when you were my age – or at least,” she glanced to the side, an embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks as she thinks maybe she’s said too much. “How I imagine you probably looked, anyway.” She met his gaze once more. “But I have them. Every. Night.” She hesitated for a moment, then balanced her glass on the railing and moved her hand to lay it on his forearm. “We’re allowed to grieve,” she reminded him softly. “And we’re allowed to hurt.”

Sycamore breathed in deeply, breaking their gaze to tilt his head back and stare at the sky above them, his eyes shiny. “You are wise beyond your years, Serena,” he chuckled, though his voice was tight, threatening to catch in his throat. Another moment of silence before he continued. “I keep replaying our conversations in my head, Lysandre and I,” he admits, his voice soft and quiet, an uncharacteristic change from his usual confident and strong air. “Trying to see if I should have noticed earlier, if I could have saved him from… his own delusions, I suppose.”

Serena tightened her grip on his arm, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. “No,” she replied firmly. “There wasn’t anything- if someone had any idea- this isn’t on you, professor.”

“Augustine,” he replied quickly, moving his wet gaze back to her face. “Unless you want me to start calling you Champion, I believe we are past the point of formalities. Especially talking about this.” Serena searched his face for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Okay. Augustine.” The name felt thick and foreign on her tongue, but a thrill of excitement ran through her, her fingers twitching slightly in their grip on his arm. “We can’t keep wondering what might have happened had we acted differently,” she added, her voice hushed.

Augustine sighed again, pressing his hand over hers on his arm. “Oui,” he conceded. “I know. Yet I still can’t help it.”

Serena twisted her hand to press their palms together, twining their fingers. The slight intimacy of the gesture felt strange, but the comfort it offered won over her hesitation.

“We need to support each other,” Serena squeezed his hand. “You, me, the others who were there. We don’t have to suffer alone.” She watched curiously as Sycamore balanced his still full glass beside her empty one, before pulling her into a tight hug, hunching over slightly to rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” his voice was close, right beside her ear and she couldn’t help a slight shiver at the proximity even as she wound her arms around his back. “You’re the first… to really say anything. Diantha tried, but it was… too soon.” Serena squeezed him.

“You looked like you needed to talk,” she replied softly.

They both fell quiet, drawing what comfort they could, but neither moved from their position. At least not until a wolf whistle pierced the air from the boulevard below, followed by a chorus of laughs and jeers. Serena whipped back, scowling down at the group of guys stumbling along below them – clearly on their way back from some bar - and jabbing her middle finger up at them. A few more laughs, but they continued on their way without consequence.

“I apologise about that,” Augustine said nervously, his glass back in his hand and a respectable distance put between them once Serena turned back to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Serena waved it off, jamming her freezing hands into the pockets of her skirt as the chill in the air finally began to register. Augustine still looked slightly uncomfortable, his gaze following the group of lads up the street. “It’s fine, Augustine,” Serena reaffirmed, moving to bump his shoulder with her own. “Though I really should head back to my hotel. It is late, if the bars are turning out, and today has been… exhausting.”

“Of course,” Sycamore grabbed her glass from the railing and motioned inside, moving together to shut and lock the balcony doors behind them as they moved back into the building.

“Thank you for everything, Augustine,” Serena bowed slightly as they waited for the elevator to arrive to take her back downstairs.

“Ah, do not thank me,” Sycamore laid a hand on her shoulder. “I am truly so proud of you.” He chuckled as her cheeks became pink at his praise.

“It’s all because of you!” She argued as the elevator door slid open. She stepped inside, slipping from his grasp and turning to face him, raising a hand to wave farewell. “Goodbye, Augustine!”

“No,” he cut in quickly, half-entering the elevator to grab her hand mid-wave and squeeze it lightly. “Not goodbye. That always seems so… final. And I think we’ve had enough finalities for a while, at least.” Serena grinned, but nodded in agreement.

“You make a fair point,” she conceded. “Not goodbye, then. See you later?” Sycamore smiled and winked, bringing her hand up to press a light kiss to her knuckles.

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” he asked as he released her hand to step back, out of the small elevator. “Allow me to buy you dinner in thanks for… everything. And as a celebration of your achievements, Champion.”

Serena grinned, her cheeks reddening further. “That sounds wonderful,” she agreed. “I’ll message you in the morning?”

“Sounds like a plan, ma chérie,” Sycamore nodded. “I look forward to it.”

“Same here!” Serena laughed, finger hovering above the button for the ground floor. “See you later, Augustine!” At his wave, she pressed the button, waiting for the door to close before clumping against the wall and pressing a hand to her pounding heart.

#lacewoodshipping #lacewoodweek #long post #i'm gonna go sleep now bc it's 3:30am

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jeremiahdowney · 5 years ago

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I found a lost little girl at a Halloween attraction

God, I wish we hadn’t changed our Halloween routine last year.

For three years, ever since they have been old enough, we have done the same thing, go trick or treating in the village with some of my daughter’s school friends. Last year we decided to mix it up a little and try a local Halloween attraction. The girls are bit older now, so we thought we could up the scare factor.

We live in Yorkshire, England, and a manor house near us puts on an event each year. There is a spooky forest walk, a haunted maze, pumpkin carving the works. The highlight is the ghost tour, the house has a long and bloody history. Murders, assassinations, and suicides have all taken place there. Actors take you around the house and grounds to bring the macabre events to life. Tickets are expensive and limited, so we were really looking forward to it.

It is pitch black by five-pm at that time of year. It was a bleak, miserable day with driving rain and a biting wind. A small road takes you to the forlorn and uninviting gatehouse, with its carved stone gargoyles and high spiked wrought-iron fence.

A track then leads to the house through a dark and foreboding stretch of woodland, before opening up to provide the first vista of the manor house. A dark sentinel alone on its hill. A grey stone monolith, master of all it surveys from its lonely isolation. It has a haunting beauty, the type that drives men to murder and worse.

Scarecrows had been set up along the side of the track, each pointing the Halloween revelers to their fate, every head a carved and lit lantern of increasingly gruesome intricacy. I will say this now, we have grown blasé to the sight of a Jack-o-lantern, a symbol of candy and fun now. But here, on a bleak Yorkshire hillside, they instilled a primal fear. Their leering faces shifting and alive in their flickering candlelight.

In the short drive through the covering of the woods, the weather had changed dramatically. An eerie stillness had replaced the buffeting winds and, as is so often the case at this time of year, the ground had given up its moisture to form a thick mist that blanketed the earth reaching out with wispy tendrils and beginning to climb the trees and outbuildings.

The children sat in uncharacteristic silence and I wondered if this was a little much for Seven- and five-year-olds, a little much for me even. Still, once we made it to the parking area the mood changed. People were walking about in costume and the area glowed warmly with the light of hundreds of pumpkin lanterns.

We got out and blended straight in. I’m a traditionalist, so it’s a zombie costume every year for me. I say costume, but truly, all I do is cut up whatever clothes my expanding waistline have made too cozy and liberally douse them with fake blood. The girls dressed as a devil / witch, and as Elsa, with dia del muerto-style face paint. My daughters have eclectic tastes and are far too opinionated for their own good; they get it from their mother.

It was worth the steep ticket price. The girls carved pumpkins and the haunted maze was a blast. Everyone loves a hog roast, and there were hot, baked cinnamon apples.

The night was going great and everyone gathered for the ghost walk.

I was skeptical before the event, but I have to say being there, on that foggy Yorkshire night in such a bleak setting, really added to things. The actors were excellent, sometimes these things get hammed up too much, but they really nailed it. The stories were fascinating and gruesome in equal measure; people really can do the most horrific things to each other.

We were out of the house heading towards ‘the hanging cottage’ when my eldest whispered those fateful words that all parents dread on trips out. “Daddy, I need a poo.”

Going back to the house was a non-starter. It was too far, and we would miss the rest of the tour. We quickly headed into a thicket of trees at the side of the track. We could catch up to the group easily enough. We only went in a little way, just enough to get us out of sight of the group.

It was dark and tangled, I used my mobile phone as a torch, its meagre light allowing us to navigate. We finished and cleaned up, wet wipes are a parent’s best friend, and were about to head back to the group when I heard crying.

It was very close, just a little further into the woods. I took my daughter’s hand. “We’d better see what that is, in case someone needs help.”

The noise was easy to follow despite the oppressive overgrowth and we arrived at an arched gateway, part of an old crumbling wall. The gate itself hung crookedly from just one of its three hinges.

It was a small graveyard, presumably for manor house family members back in the day.

The tombstones were ancient, bent crooked as hags at all angles where the earth had moved and subsided over the years. The blanket of fog was so thick it covered our feet as we walked. At the far end, we could see a small figure behind one of the headstones. It was small, plain stone and unmarked, no engraved name to honor its resident corpse.

“Hello, are you okay?” I asked.

The figure turned, it was a little girl, about my daughter’s age. Her costume was excellent, old fashioned clothes, from the 1960s maybe. But it was the makeup that made it. Her skin was marble-white, her eyes ringed in black, and blood-red tear streaks ran down her cheeks. Across her throat an incredibly realistic slash with just the right amount of fake blood trickling from it.

She didn’t reply.

“Are your mummy or daddy here?” I asked again.

Nothing, she just looked down at the floor. I noticed she had on one of the wrist bands we all received on the way in. It had a space for writing a parent’s phone number on for just such an occasion.

“What’s your name little one?”

Still no reply.

“Can I look at your wristband please sweetheart, see if I can call your parents?”

She held up her arm, her skin was icy to touch when I held it to see the number clearly. Poor thing, I took off my jacket and draped it around her whilst I dialed. It was a landline number which worried me. The parents would have to be at home to take the call which would be impossible if they were here for the night.

The phone rang three times then

“Hello” croaked an old-sounding voice, a grandfather perhaps? The line was crackly and poor, reception not great in this remote location.

“Hi, can I just check I’ve dialed the correct number please, is this 01936 416428?” I wanted to make sure I was talking to the right person before giving out details of a lost child.

“Hello, can you speak up?” he asked. He sounded so old, not what I was expecting at all.

I repeated myself slowly and this time he confirmed I had called the right number.

“I’ve found a little girl who is lost. This was the number on her wristband. Are you missing your daughter or granddaughter?” I said.

“I don’t have a daughter, I don’t have any children” he replied.

“She’s about six or seven, all dressed for Halloween. Vintage 60’s clothes, and a slashed neck.”

There was a long pause, I thought he hadn’t heard me, and I was about to repeat myself when he started to speak.

“I didn’t…. It was an acci…. I never meant it to be like that, to happen that way.”

“Sir, is this your child?”

“She looked so perfect, I wanted her to be mine, but then she struggled. How did you know it was me? All those years, how did you find me now?”

I stood in stunned silence, my mind was reeling. I wasn’t sure what was happening, what I was hearing.

Suddenly, from behind us in the clearing the evocative hoot of an Owl and a flapping of wings. I turned, momentarily distracted, when I turned back the girl was gone.

My coat lay draped over the gravestone. Written on the previously unmarked stone in fresh blood was the name Sally Turnbull.

In my shock, it took a moment to register that the phone had gone dead.

I spent a panicked few minutes looking for the little girl, eventually conceding defeat. I took a photo of the gravestone before scooping my daughter onto my shoulders and running back to find the main group. Every time I tried to redial the man’s number the phone gave an engaged tone, as though the phone were off the hook.

The evening was drawing to a close anyway, so it wasn’t long before I was telling my wife about the incident in the car. My wife googled the name Sally Turnbull; she found an article from a few years ago in the local paper talking about the tragic and unsolved case of six-year-old Sally who went missing in 1967.

We agreed we should call the police, hoping that somehow, this was all some elaborate Halloween prank. They didn’t come out until the next morning, Halloween is a busy night for the police. They took a statement and I saw the annoyed look on their face when I pulled up the photo of the gravestone on my phone and it was unmarked stone. There was no name written on there.

They asked my daughter what happened and that didn’t help. She told them that she and daddy had been in the woods, so she could go to the toilet, but that she couldn’t hear the crying that I could. She said she didn’t see a little girl in the private cemetery, just daddy looking at a gravestone before putting his jacket on it.

The police gave me a lecture about wasting police time, but I insisted they took down the number I had dialed and agreed to follow up on it. I thought they were humoring me until three weeks later when I got a call from the office who had visited us. She said that they identified the number I had dialed as belonging to Mr. Brian Carter a retired widower who lived a couple of villages away. The police went to his house as a routine follow up, but after getting no response and based on an overpowering smell coming from the small cottage forced entry.

Brian was found hanging in his lounge. Next to him, still beeping, the phone, its receiver on the floor. He had written two words on a pad “I’m sorry” and police had timed his death as within an hour of the phone call I made to him on that Halloween night.

#halloween #horror #long story #original story #story

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gen0kill · 3 years ago

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@bloodbuttercups continued from (x)

Myos smiled gently as she started to remember what they used to be-- well she DID and still DOES have a crush on Thorn, she placed her hands on her hips as her short hair brushed against her face.

“Well... From what I remember we got close and I would help you throughout the underground when you were blind. I was always kind to you and treated you like you were an actually person. I would leave you gifts and I did save your life one time.”

“You were always so cute when I flustered you and I’m very glad to see you again.”

#bloodbuttercups #〔I’LL BE THE EARTH ╱ IC〕#〔THE CARETAKER OF THE PEOPLE╱ MAIN V. 1〕#thorn tag tba #〔WRITTEN WORDS ON CRUMBLING PAPER╱ STARTER〕

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gutterlaureate · 7 years ago

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A NICKEL IN A PILE OF CHUMP CHANGE Listening is waiting, Audience facing postured folding chairs, arms folded for some , thoughts broken, crumbling and minutes for most are brittle and the worth of so little for those of us, lonesome and mostly jonesing. Discovered amid his wrecked known effects was this, composed on a phone, one stolen but bought back for a sack. Written as a celebratory narrative. The glorious stories of his neighbors and the theaters of the self created hell people excel in for themselves. A swell little eulogy PUNCH felt compelled to title “A NICKEL IN A PILE OF CHUMP CHANGE” .A batch of scattered afterthoughts for THEM who knew him seldom. Day begins, somewhere in this ephemeral universe, BURNING in its eternal purpose, a thundering sun welcomes us with wonders abundant and abohent chores. We segway into the first rays with begging heads and kicking legs. Flinch unfinished wishes and etch a sketch dreams to the ether. Feeling beneath morning addresses mourning, threadbare bedcovers adorning a mess of mattresses scattered in the corner of the foyer floor where loitering royalty and and attending fiends fend for only themselves as they scurry. . Last evening’s circular prayers were heard with all the resounding fury of the sound of spilled mercury. Obscured by murmurs, in reticent torrents of intent, rumours are presented first in whispers. This tangible sorrow stirs, this horrible journey through this transitory portal of well ordered squalor, coursing through discordant corridors going door to door meeting the neighbors up and down the floor. Traipse through its paces, making way down misshapen staircases. There everything smells of misplaced malaise and decorative decay. The waft, unmistakeable of body spray and blood sprayed cotton, oatmeal, rotting proteins and unhappy meals. Count to three, dance this cheated minute, feet kept to the floor, deep seeded steps 1,2.3 then repeat, tangled up feelings of insignificance ever since we began using these substances like a man words ever since speak with unspeakable eloquence; a reek of dis ease seems to eek from every steamy pore, mine and yours, peeks from behind every peephole blind in the doors. Odious odors routed front to back, wafting door to door, pouring forth ,soaring across the unsafe cracks, flowing forward from the attics through the cardboard floorboards. Last night, several scores of our never bored neighbors were settling unsettling scores with the untoward, extolling the virtues of mortality strolling around its shores, window shopping in the stores. This morning, billowing smoke pours forth from scored of boarded up, landlord foreclosed Californian street corners. Bypassers, ignorant to the gravity of the tragedy taking place, quicken their pace, averting gaze as the Coroner's panel van in arriving parks nearly in place, escorting another man in haste to the final ride of a like wasted with bravery and graced without a trace of any sort of historical importance. The POPOs have their go at the show, peppering everyone with questions,stepping on toes, while anyone who supposes to know keeps the info even lower down on the down low. Why, as far as these legit detectives see it. Far as any these suffering suffrage can spit is as far as any of this gets or anywhere goes, after all another boring overdosing junkie won't exactly make it on the morning chat shows. Good morning cyclops cops, propped up at the traffic stops and coffee shops, your Radio Station DJ dropping a song for all you mamas looking to cop, because around here the apocalypse never stops... traffic sitting static in the lopsided freeway lanes reminds us of dynamic neighbor Cloudhopper Eddie’s veins, shit talking traffic at the standstill, NO FLOW, Jeez, his is another searing egregious register, it’s sinister considering his veins collapsing means records are the only things around happening to be found spinning. Seriously, once the needle fell, settling in upon this son, sinking under his skin, not half finishing, THE RUN HAD BEGUN. Beginning endlessly spinning and to no one’s wonder our son,he was spun!!! A predator's perdition still young, his funeral journey six feet under already well begun. The “party” is one of greatest celebration and fun, and yet, one thing fucks with his head, it’s the wishing to die when you’re already dead. Here at the only apt at 23rd and will be leading us downhill as we climb to fall. Enjoy a buoyant window inside the lives of the universe rehearsing down the hall. FIRST, we’d show y’all Nowhere Joey waxing poetic to a close knit and stoic audience of clearly enthralled, stoned copesthetic heretics. Clowns in the clouds,warding off their eventual withdrawals. We’d see Joey easily offering broken off pieces of both his manhandled humanity and doses to the pathetic sociopaths and divine pig swine, folks who usually refuse Joey the elopement to finality that comes with suicide, therefore silencing his entitlement to even a bit of peace and/or quiet. Our Boy Joey’s attitude, might and rightly we’ve surmised, is oftentimes not exactly a plethora of flowering gratitude towards the freeloading toads and and flow of stupid students. Some dudes clueless, some don’t come too astute, their name somehow looks cute on their frame. Amy Relation, making her way in this crazed parade down chastened pavements in a race towards her patient disgrace, she is hastening off the highway to the location of her wasted paycheck and one prays, hopefully a better parking space. Cents Foolish Susan, a newly ruined usually rent paying tenant in this freak show tent, her soon to be, last penny spent on a quarter sack. She’s a crisis actor and a false flag actress feigning distress. She is hagage, leading a gaggle of depressed fags. Dressed up banging, like she’s alive or maybe tripping, hanging draped herself off a road sign wet and still dripping down on 23rd and Hill Dr.. Meanwhile over in Apt 35, gentile gent, Goodwill Willie’s apartment is drowning in landfill excrement,found smoking crack in the closet, windows surrounded by clown car impounds, paved over holy grounds, $ five hundred a month tenement, where this all goes down, all of this and WOW, a few sweet minutes away from downtown. Cracked neighbors, a cast of the twacked,names already redacted, aren't actors awaiting a call back, they are cast offs after a fashion, passionate hacks, bothered sloths, already aimless,unsteady and practicing their aim. Sharing the same offshore posture, sitting lotus position, pistol-ling poison. Karen Knot. an erased angel, grows distraught feeling her rush, clutching her research papers of string theory and shattered dark matter that much tighter. Muscle Mike, bare haired and bare knuckled fighter winded tightly in dirty white wife beater T, resigned to wandering kite high, wondering where he lost his lighter. Their friends are the casualties having survived the after life, a higher class of lowlife these. indecent innocents who incidentally, enter the room CASUALLY PLAYING WITH A SWITCHBLADE KNIFE Even the most fleeting of non-believers believe these frail walls of this fleabag, and frankly tragic abode so holds a black hole of the secrets, secretions, depletions, agreements, bandages, damages and thick sacks weighed upon the digital scales of every hopeful lowlife and dopesick misanthrope ever to tie a rope off, feel the cough before wandering off frail and withdrawing down the trail. Tales, legends and stories seldom to anyone tell, treaties of already dope addled thieves and begrieved Ne'er-do-wells, selling and dwelling within slowly roasted and stoned.The loathsome and loaded. loitering without loyalty, where the chicken is stripped bare from the bone. Where the only curse is loneliness and the only thing worse is the company one keeps when alone. Sometimes depression feels so certain even dreaming of happiness hurts. No answers were heard from Saint Sandy Caning, over the sound of her explaining, her misshapen face only appears as if she's always complaining. After all, her neighbor’s ever fainter manners prove exceptionally entertaining and, while always unkempt, the hallways are always kept windswept and raining. In the middle of it all, Fire Starter Carl was himself no martyr, being of seedy late night character, his eyes widening, dimwitted he,blind to his reflection sectioned off and sequestered of direction, Symphony Sid felt safe in the division,Hellen Keller could see he was in need of protection. Hidden amid these outcasts from dignity,those beyond the grasp of sympathy, these infantile nihilists, faint of smile, those whom shame makes no acquaintance, rinsing thin rigs of maintenance ,picking through skinless arms, those needing a bath, elegant gutter trash, the bashers at the bash, survivors of the aftermath, after the garden, poison pigpens guarded by poised shock-collar swine, truant students shooting up parachutes of tiny little balloons strewn over the avenues,here among the broken and maligned. An address where even in the best of times, one finds laughter only spoken of whilst jokes land silently bereft of punchlines Drunken Junkies concealing sunken little kitten veins,hard bitten, off topic prophets tossing off at a traffic stop, glad handing bystanders armed with junkyard canisters, hidden here in the skids, providing dumpster dives and food drives for their kids, yes the tots. The forgotten afterthoughts of the downtrodden. Histories sadly unvisited sons and daughters. Absentee authorities, seen with degrees in revisionist parenting armed with sock puppets and pockets of keys that once upon a time ago,easily opened a little one's golden locket. Children these, latchkey deities obscenely locked out, and it’s all too evident the shock, listening in, and we can no longer tell the difference between parents or the kids through their talk. Babies teaching themselves to walk, a generation of free range children, should be raised as angels,instead are made to feel since birth in exchange, as worthless as a nickel in a pile of chump change. Meanwhile what became of those grown tall? Became stolic human frames with interchangeable names, vitriolic and alcoholic. The usual frolic of two bit users and the abused silently sitting within bloom of RESUMED afternoons, meticulously abusing their spoons. Dead end pockets, lethargic dollars and forwarded postcards from withdrawal in squalor, the candy apple artifice of the bright red register of an artery. Starts with a whoosh and most charing of harm, fire spreads red and Shipwreck Eric in truth feeble, but he’s assisting today with the needle, starts shaking his head, unbelievable, it's useless, let’s see your other arm instead. Selfish carousel of contemptible unkempt, swept up miscreants together dreaming scantily, scandalous boasts and emotions mostly askance until the closely approaching slant of the early evening has them content with Slamming Sam’s undemanding. grandiose and PATENT PENDING PLANS. Shit stained Satans and dainty saints,paintings revealed by Hollywood Hatfield, his happenstance eyes sadly casting sideways glances for the fiery faces only he sees in the paintings. Spirits appear in semen stained sidewalks with eyes that follow movement he moves past. We see intuitive demons live in the clouds of smoke that we pass, that we pour from a glass. “If spirits did a dance of impending doom in the trash”, Carwash Barbara asks “would you see them?” “Spirit bodies made solid, etched in cracks on sidewalks well heeled” speaks Maybelline Corlina, “stretch of concrete beings, have you seen them” “This is not eternity” Carwash Barbara turns to mention, “are these whispers of furious energy heard?” Least not by Loca Motion, a generous, lotion drenched California informant sitting motionless, entrenched in the corner, silently writing down every name. Ignored also by Victor Eric Noris, a boring choreographer, slowly wasting away beneath the underachiever photographs in four corner frames. Pleas are further unheard by the laughing drug dealer, Unbeliever Eva, living next door, and further ignored by a chuckling bare knuckled fighter Muscle Mike, and one who never laughs, everyone’s best customer insidious outsider , Jimmy Christopher.. clutching his NEW FOUND LIGHTER What of the future for the lovers and dreamers who once kept soundly to each other's schemes? They sit silently for their boasts have no value. Their sentences thin and intended for no one. A melancholic ghost narrates for hours using only verbs with nary a noun… his mouth simply pacing the grounds, tongue pointing down, drowning in the mess of blessings swimming around his crown, seen by most, a man A man of decidedly lesser renown a man of decidedly lesser renown There are stories shared of folks, some broken beyond repair, gone and never to anyone fond, some of whom sweetness is a weakness,not to anyone’s trust,held by no one, holding nowhere, treasure nothing, zero matter and pleasure of none, no sense of wonder or original thoughts, never caught off guard by the beauty of a sunset or anything that wasn't illegally bought. Those without any poetry in their souls, art never wanted or sought. Woe be to those forgotten wanderer's with bargain bin jargon, ill gotten,Ill begotten rotten sods with chins sodden,tucked under THEIR MOUTHs. fuckers without a FUCK. Luckless knuckles to place their bonds upon, without last chance loans keeping them barely clutching to that which they jones. consciousness SLOWLY STONE. Until winds silently QUIET those lonesome chorus of moans,easing the soleum ache held of our bones only crumbling further into the dust. WITH the slightest bit of a gust all that remains of us and our days is sweetly swept away by the rains as they must for the addicts suffering still tonight, a candlelight vigil of hundreds of tiny fires will be held tonight under spoons. Fingernail moons flickering in the memories of heathens leaving too soon, these memorial events take place every evening, situated under bridges, in tents, under intense freeways,entrenched behind garbage bins, hidden in sketchy alleyways and shooting galleries. Within insidious dens,and children’s parks, parked inside gas station stalls and vacant lots, ordered over bordered storefronts and within scattered bathrooms everywhere from here to the shores Shoot on by and pay your respects, we’re expecting you Usual donations are appreciated We ask in lieu of tears, feel not the need to cry, Don’t all wounded animals crawl away TO DIE? no matter how tall or as small in our time Don’t all wounded animals crawl away TO DIE? Punch wrote this on a cell phone someone loaned themselves, which per legend, was retrieved back for him and for a sack it was settled. He was known to often stare at the glow of the phone as the saddest music would begin to bask after reading this poem a question would form that of his friends he’d ask, “SO, WHAT DID YOU THINK?”

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