#(i was put into my school orchestra because i turned in my classes form late and they just shoved me in. and i was too shy to ask to leave)

[spikrock]

do you guys ever get like. genuinely emotional when you think about alternate realities where you dont like your favorite things

[devildomdoofus]

Lemon Dreams: Part 1

[NSFW]

Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan

a bit of spicey lil dreams the brothers have of MC. If requested, I’ll add the undateables (minus Luke) into a Part 3.

Gender-Neutral as always.

MINORS:

DO NOT INTERACT

DO NOT PROCEED

Be smart, have common sense.

I’m not responsible for your irresponsibility.

You see the warnings. I put them out plainly. Adhere.

‼️WARNINGS‼️

NSFW, mature theme, mature content, implied intercourse, nudity, swearing, light bondage, BDSM, tidbit of pet play, wet dreams,

IF I MISSED ANY, PLEASE INFORM ME

Author’s Note (Sorry, I’ll try to be brief):

Trying my hand at some “light” N S F W content to see how I do and see how it goes.

Thank you all, once again, for the love and support and positive responses!! You’re enjoyment is the reason I keep doing what I love to do✨ Please: stay healthy, stay safe, stay you, and stay ruling them all, MCs 💕

- DevildomDoofus

💙Lucifer:

Regrettably, it has been nearly a millennia since he’s had any amount of a decent shuteye due to his brothers’ antics, his oversight of R.A.D., and obligations to Diavolo so you can only imagine the amount of fatigue that he felt in his mind, body, and soul. But because of his image and his own personal desire to be nothing short of perfect, he couldn’t simply rest whenever or wherever he pleased. It was outlandish to even consider the idea. Unfortunately, the side effects of denying himself any form of rest were starting to show. It was causing him to make mistakes he wouldn’t normally make and Diavolo had to personally intervene, using his authority on behalf of his dear friend’s health or lack thereof and demanded that he take a day off. He was the only one in all of the realms that could try and convince this workaholic to put on the breaks. You, yourself, have tried before but Lucifer was as stubborn as the days of summer were long and you felt like you were talking to a brick wall. But because Lucifer could not deny his prince’s demands, he reluctantly obliged... but not without absolute confirmation that nothing would go wrong while he was absent and as soon as he felt rested enough, he would return immediately.

Locking himself away in his room while putting a soundproof spell on the outside of it, he finally sits down at his desk and leans back in his chair as he sluggishly closes his eyes. The silence was both mildly relaxing and extremely uncomfortable as it was so rare for the world around him to be so... quiet. so undisturbed. So peaceful.

It was a bit unnerving.

He sighs deeply. This whole resting thing was going to be a lot more difficult than he originally thought. He stands up to go grab a vinyl record, places it on the antique gramophone and turns the device on. The orchestra makes their way through the metal funnel and the melody of the instruments echo beautifully throughout his room. “Much better,” he hums to himself. He tosses his coat aside, unbuttons his vest and drops it to the floor, removes his button-up shirt, kicks off his shoes, and does away with his belt while his pants follow suit. He dons his nighttime robe and finally slides into his bed. As soon as he hits the mattress, his eyes shut and his mind turns off, allowing him to drift swiftly into a deep slumber.

The dream started out like any other dream he’s had in his life; it’s mundane and not much is going on. It’s practically the same as ‘bringing work home with him’ but in his dreams. He’s at his desk, crossing his t’s, dotting his i’s, finalizing some paperwork, and the like, while the stress from his waking hours begins to find its way back to him like a boomerang.

Then, as if by magic, all of his stress melted away as soon as he heard a knock on his door along with your voice calling for him softly on the other side. He smirks. “You may enter.” He kept his head low as you stepped in due to the fact that he was finishing signing a particular paper. “Just a moment,” he instructs, as the last cursive letter finds its place on the paper. He begins to lift his eyes to meet yours. “Now, what can I do for yo-...” He freezes.

There you were, standing before him, in nothing but one of his ties hanging loosely around your neck. His jaw clenches and his fist tighten into a ball so firmly that his knuckles turn white under his gloves.

‘Like a lamb to it’s slaughter,’ he quotes, internally.

Needless to say, the dream takes a more DRASTIC turn and he’s got you bent over the desk, hands tied up with his tie that you so graciously considered to bring with you, and his name pouring out of your lips like a faucet. He’s taking you all for himself, piece by divine piece, with every snap of his hips, bite of your skin, and claw of your flesh. What a sight you were beneath him.

The moment he wakes, his body is covered in a ‘morning’s dew’ of sweat and the sheets of his bed have become painfully heavy on his lower half. His heart is still thumping wildly in his chest and his eyes are darting everywhere in his room, ensuring that he’s alone and no one can see him in such a disheveled state. He uses part of his robe to dab away the sweat from his brow and then rubs his eyes as he collects himself.

Spends the next many few hours calming himself down and hoping that he is blessed by some unholy miracle where NOBODY walks in...

especially you...

with nothing but his tie hanging loosely around your neck and-...

Ah shit.

The following morning at breakfast, he is eyeing you rather heavily from across the table and his brothers take notice but never dare to say a word. They just assume that you’ve done something to piss him off again and want no part of it.

They are not entirely wrong, though. You had unknowingly irked him quite a bit.

You entered his dreams without permission, made such a delectable spectacle of yourself in front of him, and caused him to feel things that no other demon, angel, human, nor any other soul for that matter, has been able to make him feel. And now he has to deal with these explicit thoughts and feelings, especially when you’re around or in his vicinity, along with many other things that demand his attention and it’s all just so irritating. Delightfully irritating. The kind of irritating he secretly enjoys.

The next few days, you never really get the sense that anything is off with Lucifer for how well he carries himself, no matter his circumstances, and yet... he seems to be less physical with you. Normally, he would give you the occasional hand on the shoulder or upper back when you needed guidance, allow you to lean on his shoulder when your days had been particularly rough and you needed to rest, or pinch your cheek when he teased you but lately... he wouldn’t even keep eye contact with you for very long without turning away and- was that a hint of pink in his cheeks? No, surely you are imagining things. Lucifer, blushing? Has the devildom froze over?

💛Mammon:

This poor, sweet and a little bit sleazy man was just SO exhausted from having to get up early that morning when he’d normally sleep in, to go to a school he doesn’t ever really pay attention to, as well as constantly keep lower demons from getting anywhere near his precious MC, bribe Levi to do his homework in exchange for an exclusive Ruri-Chan figurine (which he went into further debt to obtain), keep his overbearing fanbase from his modeling jobs happy on social media... it all was simply too much for The Great Mammon to be doing when he could alternatively be doing something better. Like being lazy sleeping off this R.A.D lag.

He had skipped his last few remaining classes and told you he was headed to your room to crash before school let out and you two could hang out later. He plopped onto your bed, nuzzled his face into one of your pillows, and fell asleep shortly after to your sweet aroma surrounding him.

His dream began as they typically do, with him gambling his Grimm for higher payouts or watching the Devildom stock market fluctuate in his favor... or more often times than he’ll ever admit, it’s just the two of you spending some quality time together alone for a change.

Only this time, his dream didn’t end up the way it typically did.

In his dream, he was sitting next to you on the sofa with his arm resting behind your head wanting to wrap it around you so fucking badly and watching whatever you had put on when it was interrupted by the winning lottery ticket read out. He leapt from couch with a big yell and the winning ticket in hand, and rushed to hug the tv and to kiss the demon inside of it, thanking him, Lady Luck, and anyone else involved in his incredible fortune today. As he turned around to come squeeze you tight with excitement and have you share in his celebration, his whole body tensed and he stopped in his tracks. He had become a deer in the headlights.

You were now lewdly postured on the couch, bare and exposed, excluding how you were practically dripping in gold jewelry/accessories whilst surrounded by enormous piles of Grimm. With one finger, you beckoned him over.

To say that this is one of his all time favorite fantasies would be THE understatement of the millennia.

He was in front then over you in a matter of milliseconds, his demon form taking over his body and stealing noises from you that the entire House of Lamentation- no- the entire Devildom could hear and FUCK he loved that thought almost as much as he adored you he cared about you; the thought that the entire Devildom could hear that you were his and his alone, that no other soul could make you feel like this.

And just as it was about to get really good, he wakes up.

Red faced, breathing heavily, and a thick coat of sweat all over his body. Not to mention the newfound, painful tightness in his pants.

He’s jerking his head around the room to confirm hoping to deny that is was all simply a dream, and to be certain that you hadn’t come back from school early or something and found him like this.

“Unholy shit.” He wipes the sweat from his face and then takes his phone in his hand to check the time. “UNHOLY SHIT!!” You had texted that you were on your way back home 10 minutes ago! He had to be quick.

He replaced the sweaty sheets and pillow cases with new ones, adjusting them so that it looked as it had before he slept on them, tied his school uniform coat around his waist to disguise the ‘friendly neighborhood bachelor,’ and darted like a bat out of devildom to his room, avoiding major hallways and doors to ensure that no one could stop him or chase him down and see him in his predicament.

You can be sure that for the next few weeks, he’s avoiding you like the plague. He sends texts that he is “paying off a debt and can’t make it,” or “Sorry MC, I’m a little tied up at the moment. This Grimm won’t make itself.” and to you it was a little odd, but nothing he hasn’t exactly done before, so you go about your days as normal. Poor Mammon has once spent an entirety of four months working a few jobs to pay off one big loan.

If only you knew how often he was reliving that dream in his head, over and over and over again. For such a thing to become reality? Well... he feels he’d have better luck winning the lottery. But just as he gambled, he wouldn’t give up so easily.

🧡Leviathan:

It is not uncommon for Leviathan to have certain dreams about certain individuals he enjoys, be it anime characters, video game characters, idols that he fawns over, etc. It’s normal. Quite often, in fact, but he would rather LITERALLY DIE before he ever admits to such a thing, much less have anyone think he has a crush. With his brothers as they are known to be, he’d never live it down. Which is one of the reasons why he keeps himself locked away in his room and goes on binges of whatever it is he’s invested in at the time. He’s left alone to do and be as much of himself as he pleases without judgment. It is one particular episode of an anime he had been bingeing for several hours that has him with his head resting upon his keyboard and ever so slightly snoring away as the characters converse in the background. It wasn’t boring in the least, it’s just that his eyes refused to stay open any longer and his body decided for him that it was about time for a proper nap.

His dream began as normal, with him on a quest to save the renowned, royal heir from the ten-headed beast that guarded the tower in which they were kept. The journey to the tower was extensive and not without its obstacles, the battle was epic, in every sense of the word, and the reward for it’s heads would match the gratification of the victory that ensued it.

Little did he know that in that tower, it wasn’t just any royal heir lying in wait for their prince to come, as they had always been. It was you.

You, in all of your glory, draped across the bed and adorned with the finest of cloths that were barely covering your most intimate of skins.

As he entered your bedroom chambers, expecting to find a fictional character he adored in his waking hours, he stops dead in his tracks and his entire body turns red hot in matter of seconds. You could easily hear the thumping of his heart throwing heavy blows at his ribcage, and, if you looked close enough, you could see the steam trickling out of his ears. You could also hear the clinking of his amor, the metal plates shaking against one another as he trembles before you.

Leviathan.exe has stopped working.

Yes, he’s had plenty of dreams like this before but.. fuck.. they were never of you. Much less like this. Believe him, he’s tried on many occasions to at least see your face or hear your voice, ANYTHING. But inevitably, his anxiety and shyness won in the end and you never came passing through his dreams... until now.

You leant against one arm, your lips curling into a smile, and then beckoned him silently with one crook of a finger.

Anxiety and shyness who?

He quickly does away with the heavy armor, tossing them aside, and crawls across the bed to you, to your face, to those precious lips.

He takes a hold of them in his own and seemingly devours you as he strips you of what little cloth covered you and then pushes you back down against the bed. The dream continues with your bodies intertwining in every way that earned him the lewdest of noises from you.

Until he jerks awake with his face a deep shade of crimson, body covered from head to toe in a mist of sweat, and a heartbeat that could put a drum solo to shame. He quickly scans his surroundings as he’s coming back to reality, making sure he’s the only one within a mile’s radius. If anyone thought he was a hermit now, you can only imagine what it would be like if he was caught looking the way that he did. The anime that he had fallen asleep to was now on a screen that was asking for confirmation if he was still watching. He presses the power button on his computer and wipes away the sweat on his brow before leaning back in his chair, eyes glued to the ceiling as he’s recollecting the dream. He sees the faces you were making in pleasure pass through his mind once more and it makes his face turn 30 shades redder and increases the painful tightness in his snug sweatpants. He shakes his head, no longer wanting to continue digging this grave of overwhelming lust, and plants his head back onto the keyboard. Lord Diavolo, please, just kill him now.

The following months, Leviathan stays locked away in his room and avoids you as if you were the final boss of a game he never wants to stop playing. He knew that if he saw you, got near you, or even heard your name being mentioned, there would be no way of stopping his thoughts, his body’s reactions to those thoughts, nor his brother’s comments about how he’s “acting awfully strangely.”

As much as he wishes that he never had the dream in the first place because of all of the trouble it’s causing, he can’t help but relive it over and over again, putting it on repeat in his mind. But to admit to you these powerful feelings and attempt to bring it to reality? Only normies do such a thing... right?

💚Satan:

Line after line, chapter after chapter, book after book, he simply could not put the new series he had discovered down. He was so invested, he’d finish one book and immediately pick up the next. His mind was reeling far too fast for him to stop now and nothing in all of the three realms could do so. That is until his own body waved it’s white flag and begged for him to shut his eyes, even if for just moment. Satan bargained, internally, that he’d allow himself roughly thirty minutes of rest before he’d pick back up where he left off. He sets the book on a nearby desk, settles down onto his loveseat and closes his eyes.

As a man of many talents and faces, his dreams were known to be as heavily diverse as he was, and often times reflected whatever book he had been reading, philosophy he had been pondering, or stress he had been managing. No one particular type of dream frequented more than another.

That being said, in the past few weeks, you had been a bit more physical with him. Whether it was a simple brush of the hands as you two reached for the same novel, late night study sessions ending up in late night study and cuddling sessions, or the occasional linking of arms as the pair of you walked the length of a museum and studied its inhabitants. It goes without saying that you were making an impression on him and his mind, leaving little to no room for any other thoughts than the ones involving you. Naturally, you had found your way into his dreamworld and you were the one constant in the ever changing slumber visions.

The dreams that you were involved in, which were now a majority of them, were mostly sweet; the most intimate being the one time you had placed a chaste kiss upon his cheek. If you were to ask him about these dreams that had him chipper than usual, he would smile and tell you that “they were simply pleasant hallucinations but nothing more.” And he’d be lying through his teeth, desperately trying to keep his cheeks from reddening in front of you. If you were lucky enough that his gaze lingered, you’d catch the tint of pink making its way across his face. The poor inner romantic in him couldn’t help himself. He’s mastered the art of poker face in its entirety, but when it came to you, his willpower and calm demeanor waned into nothingness and he was like putty in your hands. Just don’t push it or there will be Devildom to pay.

This particular time around, though, his dream would take a more unforeseen turn.

In his dream, he had invited you to join him on an outing over to the Royal Library and you two were now making your way to your favorite lone table in the farthest back corner, hidden behind the many shelves of books. After claiming your usual spot, he went to gather the books he wanted to go through and planted himself in the chair to finally open them up and get started. Meanwhile, you had wandered off, presumably, to find and create your very own mountain of novels to conquer.

An hour or so passed and he had made his way through five of his books when he felt a tap against the cover of the one he was currently reading. “Forgive me, MC, but I’m almost done with this paragraph and I need just one more moment to do so.” Another tap against the cover. “May it wait, MC? I’m nearly finished.” This time, you gingerly grabbed the tip of his book and tilted it away from him (a pet peeve of his). Just as he was about to give you his trademark glare of warning, his eyes widen and his jaw clenches, with his fingers letting go of the book and tightening into a fist taut enough to turn his knuckles white.

There you stood before him in little to no clothing, fluffy little cat ears and a tail to match, with a leash and collar adorning your precious neck. You took his stiffened hand, ever so slowly opened it up, and delicately placed the end of the lead into his palm, flashing him your cheekiest grin.

Now you’ve gone and done it. He snaps.

He jerks the end of the lead so that you’re aggressively pulled forward, bending over the table and sending the piles of books to the floor with audible thuds, and your lips crash into his. He uses his free hand to trap cradle the other side of your face as he devours your lips, devours your taste. Impatient and hungry, he soon lets you go with a low growl before standing up and dragging you behind him, forcefully, by the lead, coming to the front of a shelf that leant against a wall and grabbed your waist, lifting you up to push you against it, having more books tumble to the floor with a sound thud, while once again, taking your lips with his. Something about the way you looked, the way you sounded because of his actions, drove him completely mad.

Before it could go any further, he jerks wakes to the sound of someone knocking on his door. He quickly scans his surroundings and when he finds it empty, he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. The knocks continue and from beyond the door, a familiar voice requests his audience. “Satan? It’s Solomon. My apologies, but I just wanted to return a borrowed book.”

He reaches for a nearby cloth and dabs away the sweat that covered his face. He steadies his breathing and in the stablest voice he could muster, he answers back, “Alright. One moment please.”

“Take your time,” the sorcerer replies.

He gathers himself quickly, as the master of his own emotions does, hoisted up from the loveseat, straightens himself out and starts to head for the door but with a quick glance downwards, he pauses. There’s no way he could greet Solomon with such a visible... display...

He takes his coat from the coatrack, wraps it around his waist and finally opens the door with a welcoming smile.

“Thank you kindly for the recommendation. It was a pleasant read,” Solomon tittered in recollection then immediately shifted into a frown of concern. “Satan... are you alright? Forgive my intrusion, but you seem a bit disheveled.” The disheveled man in question nods, chuckling in hopes of deterring Solomon from pressing any further by lightening his aura. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. I simply had a bit of a nightmare.” Solomon raised a brow and Satan continued in his tall tale. “It had been so long since I’ve had one, so I’m sure you can imagine how unnerving it’s effects had on me.” Moments passed like molasses as Solomon pondered what Satan had said and the uncomfortable silence was wearing down on Satan’s last minute, makeshift composure. “Thank you for returning the book,” Satan’s voice firmly interjecting the fellow wise man’s thoughts as he received the book from his hands, “and I’m delighted that you enjoyed yourself.” He holds the book in front of where the coat covered his waist. “If you wish for more recommendations, I’ll be happy to share them with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some tea to drink and a book to read to calm my nerves. Good day, Solomon.” Before Solomon could get a final word in, Satan slips back into his room and shuts the door. For good measure, he locks it and turns the deadbolt. He shuffles back over to the loveseat where it all began and dropped down, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a heavy sigh. The blush that wanted so desperately to creep it’s way into his complexion the moment he’d awoken was now set free and his entire face turned red. He knew how to keep a tight grip on every other emotion he’s ever had... but love? Lust? This was going to be a challenge.

Outside of the door, not having moved an inch, Solomon stood with his chin snug between the crook of his forefinger and thumb. “Can demons have nightmares...?” He audibly contemplated as he waited a moment, following his train of thought before asking himself aloud again, “If so... then why did Satan have an erection?”

A pair of delicate hands found their way to Solomon’s shoulders and he glanced over them to see Asmodeus leaning in close to his ear. “It’s called a kink, darling.” Solomon politely shoos away the embodiment of lust with a gentle wave of his hand before starting down the hall from which he came, with the demon practically skipping in tow. “Kinks, we both know, I’m aware of. I had just assumed that his.. situation.. would be more relative to Belphegor.”

“Well,” Asmodeus chirped, “that’s what you get for assuming.”

[frankiekatt]

1-800-Miss-Ur-Guts

Characters: Dabi / Touya Todoroki

Notes: Loosely based off the song ‘1-800-miss-ur-guts’ by the Tramp Stamps! This is the first fic I’ve ever shared and I’m so excited to share it with you guys! Dabi is one of the loves of my life so I hope you all enjoy <3

Warnings: Mentions of drug use and emotional manipulation. Umm I think that’s it but if I missed anything please let me know!

Words: 10k

Synopsis: She was not you, and here he was, in her apartment, in her bed, kissing her, pleasing her, fucking her. He felt like he was betraying you the first few times he did it. He had to keep reminding himself that you were gone, you weren’t his girlfriend anymore. He could have sex with whoever he wanted. After the first couple girls, the guilt and disgust melted away and morphed into delirium. If he was in bed with some girl he met at a bar, he could forget your face. If he kissed her lips in a sloppy, rushed manner, he could forget the way he felt to be touched by you. If he listened to her maddening moans as he fucked into her, he could forget the way your voice sounded, just for a moment. And that was enough for him to survive each day without you.

The air was stale and warm when Dabi first opened his eyes. It was dark, the room unfamiliar and the bed was uncomfortably hot and cramped due to the naked body that was sprawled out beside him.

Never like how mornings were with you.

With a deep groan, Dabi sat up and glanced at the bedside clock. 1:36pm.

He had slept way too fucking late.

Rising slowly from the bed so as not to wake the sleeping blonde beside him, Dabi began to slip his jeans and tattered t-shirt back onto his body despite the pain in his head flashing hard and hot. Once dressed, he quickly walked to the bathroom and softly closed the door behind him. Cobalt eyes stared back at him in the mirror, tired and spent. His black hair was messy, sticking out in all directions, and the skin underneath his eyes were stained purple and black from stress and from the alcohol he consumed the night before. There was a large, dark bruise on the side of his neck from where – Misa? Mila? – had sucked on the night before. Dabi Todoroki looked like a fucking disaster.

Looking away from his disheveled appearance, Dabi turned on the cold tap water and splashed his face in an attempt to soothe his gnarly headache. It works in just the slightest, as the cool water felt revivifying on his inked skin. Grabbing a small hand towel from underneath the hotel’s sink, Dabi wiped his face gingerly until all the water droplets were gone.

He needed to leave soon. To get ready. To see you.

“Hey, you alright in there?” a high-pitched voice asked from the other side of the bathroom door.

Shit. Dabi really did not feel like conversing with last night’s drunken hook-up. He could barely remember what she said to catch his attention in the small, dingy bar he frequented almost each night, or how they ended up in the equally small and dingy hotel where they had sloppy, unsatisfying sex. Dabi couldn’t even remember her name, and he didn’t exactly care.

Clearing his throat, Dabi grunted out a loud, “Yeah. M’fine.” Smoothing his hair back and glancing at himself in the mirror one last time, he reached for the door knob and pulled open the door.

He was greeted by the blonde women who wore a lopsided smile. She had thrown on her black cotton panties that seemed to be a size too small and the light pink tank top he vaguely remembered her wearing last night, minus a bra. Her short, blonde hair was stuck to the sides of her neck with sweat, reminding him just how utterly different she was from you. Your hair was longer, always brushed and either elegantly falling down your back or neatly put up.

“Mornin’, handsome,” she purred.

“Morning.”

“I was thinkin’ maybe you and I could go down the street, grab a coffee together, maybe beat this hangover,” she crooned, reaching out to run her fingers down Dabi’s chest.

Stepping to the side to avoid her touch, Dabi grabbed his black hoodie jacket off the floor and slipped it on.

“Nah, can’t. I have a thing today.”

The blonde’s face fell slightly before she covered it up with a sneer. “Thing? What kind of thing?”

With his back still turned to her as he slipped on his black sneakers, Dabi rolled his eyes. He had neither the time nor patience for this. “Uh,” he started, “a concert thing.”

The blonde girl hummed in excitement. “That’s cool! Maybe I could go with you and we could-”

“No,” Dabi snapped, “it’s not that kind of concert. Listen, I really need to get home, so, uh, see you around,” and with that, Dabi walked out of the room, leaving the nameless blonde women alone.

 *                                                                      *                                                                               *

 It was just after 2 o’clock by the time Dabi arrived at his apartment. He hurriedly walked up the steps to the second floor, dug his keys out of his pocket, and walked into his small living room. Everything was the same as he had left it the night before; empty takeout containers littered the coffee table, a couple articles of clothing strewn across the room, and all of the thick curtains closed over the large glass windows that looked out over the city. It was dark. And lonely.

Just like it had been since you left this apartment. Left him.

You and Dabi had officially met in your last year of high school. It was by accident really, but Dabi has always thanked the God that he didn’t believe in for putting you both in the same place at the same time.

  There was a spot behind the stage in the school’s auditorium where Dabi liked to go during lunch period to smoke. ‘The Spot’ was a small corner in the postscenium behind stage, which was usually hidden behind old props and costume racks. It was cozy and secluded, and was Dabi’s favorite place to be at school. His secret spot.

That was until you found it.

 It was a Thursday when you had stumbled upon Dabi hiding behind some of the props that were going to be used in this year’s production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ When you caught him, he had the hood of his jacket pulled over the top of his head and a joint between his lips.

The sight of him had startled you a bit, because you thought you were alone. The auditorium was usually vacant during lunch period, which you thought would be the perfect time to practice the several short ballads you would be performing on your violin with the rest of the school’s orchestra on the opening night of the play.

“Oh my god,” you shrieked and stumbled backwards. Dabi’s head snapped up to survey your face, cobalt eyes wide, pupils expanded. “You scared the shit out of me,” you breathed softly, pressing two dainty hands over your racing heart.

Dabi blinked up at you with a blank expression before lowering the joint to his side and clearing his throat. “Sorry. No one usually comes back here this time of day.”

You recognized this boy. You both had English 6th period, but have never spoken to each other. He always sat at the very back and never raised his hand. Never participated in group projects. Never did anything, really.

“Yeah, um, I just came to practice a few pieces for the play. I needed to get a music rack,” you nodded toward the black iron stand perched to Dabi’s left, right behind a small, emerald green swan fainting sofa used for the production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ two years ago.

“Ah. You in the orchestra?”

“Um, yeah, actually! First violin.”

Dabi didn’t know what “first violin” meant, but he kind of liked the way your face lit up when you said it. He hurriedly pushed himself off the floor and grabbed the music stand which was surprisingly light. “Here,” he offered.

 You went to grab it, careful to avoid touching his hand, and let out a soft ‘thank you’ before walking out from backstage to the orchestra pit. Dabi watched your retreating form and silently hoped you wouldn’t tell anyone what he was doing in there. He was already in enough trouble for skipping class so often, and didn’t need any more drawn-out lectures from his parents or more days added to his weekend detentions. Settling back down on the floor, he set the joint back in between his lips and dug his phone and earbuds out of his pocket. He had about 12 minutes left before he would be forced to go back to class. The moment he decided on a song to listen to, however, he was interrupted by the sound of a violin.  

He wasn’t sure if he liked the sound at first. It was shrill and loud and unexpected. Then, the sound began to melt into a beautiful melody and the shrillness soon became a rich and elegant sound that danced in Dabi’s ears.

Now intrigued, Dabi screwed the end of his joint into the floor and tossed it into a nearby trash bin before he pushed himself off the floor and walked out from behind the stage, where he was was met by the sight of you, softly moving your bow up and down the strings of your violin. You were standing despite the fact that there was a chair planted behind you, and your head was moving slightly from side to side in tune to the soft melody. Dabi thought the sight of you was beautiful and alluring. He had seen you in class before and walked past you in the hallways, but he had never actually known you, never actually saw you quite this way.

Sweet. Elegant. Pretty. He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember your name though.

The song you were playing was coming to an end, as was lunch period and Dabi wished he had just a little more time to listen to you play. To watch you play. But then the bell rang, and it was time for you both to head to class.

You lowered your violin from your neck to begin putting the instrument and sheet music away, when the boy with the ripped jeans and messy black hair caught your eye from up on the stage. He met your eyes, but said nothing, and neither did you. You weren’t sure what you should say or if you should even say anything. You had never spoken to this boy before, and now he had just listened to you play music and was currently staring at you.

“I liked that,” Dabi blurted, shattering the silence.

“Um thanks. It’s for the play tomorrow night.” You shifted from one foot to the other under Dabi’s fierce gaze and hoped that the darkness of the theater was hiding the faint blush that was scattered across your cheeks. Dabi Todoroki had just complimented you. And it felt nice.

You stared at each other for a bit longer before you finally broke your gaze and picked up your violin case. “I should probably head to class. Ms. Hatsu hates tardiness,” you said shyly.

Dabi cracked a small smile, which you found quite lovely. “Sure. I’ll see you in 6th period then.”

 And he did see you in 6th period. Dabi had never paid much attention to his classmates before, but today was different. Today he wanted to see you sitting in the third seat in the second row. Four desks away from him. ‘Four desks too many,’ he thought. But as if the gods were listening to Dabi’s thoughts, Dabi’s literature teacher announced that today the class would be doing partner work. And without a second thought to consider his actions, Dabi rose from his seat and made his way over to you.

 You were never fond of partner work. You preferred to keep to yourself, work alone, and avoid conversing with most people. You were shy in nature, so every announcement of partner work in any class was slightly stressful to you. Finding a partner was usually more work than it was worth. Today, however, there was no need to go search for a partner to work with. Someone had already chosen you, and was pulling up a chair to your desk.

“So,” Dabi drawled smoothly as he plopped down in his seat. “Where do you wanna start.”

“S-start?” This boy who you had only met 20 minutes ago, only exchanged a few words with, wanted to be your partner?

“Yeah. You wanna start with The Iliad or The Odyssey?” He pulled out a few slightly crumpled pages of notes from his school bag before meeting your eyes and raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

“Oh, um...let’s start with The Iliad.”

The rest of the hour was spent conversing with Dabi on how each ‘hero’ of the Trojan War was really just a villain, and through this conversation, you realized several things about Dabi. Firstly, he was funny. He cracked a few jokes here and there, which made you genuinely laugh with ease. It was a nice feeling for the both of you, how easily he could make you laugh. Secondly, he was smart. He was articulate and insightful, though you sensed he was just a lazy person when it came to school work. And lastly, you were pretty sure you were now crushing hard on Dabi Todoroki. His aloof personality you and the rest of the school had always been privy to seemed to be totally foreign as he dazzled with humor and charm in front of you.

And Dabi had finally learned your name. Y/N. He thought it was pretty.

The bell rang signaling the end of class, and Dabi slid away from your desk. “One more class of the day,” he sighed as he grabbed his bag off the floor. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smiled at him. You really hoped you would.

  Dabi stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself. It was 3:47pm. He had just over an hour until your recital began.

He swiped a hand over the foggy mirror and peered at himself once more. The skin beneath his eyes were still dark, but he looked a little more alive now that he had showered. He was nervous. There was a sharp pain in his lower stomach and Dabi didn’t know if it was from the anxiety, he felt knowing he would see your face tonight, or if it was from his hangover. Maybe it was both. Or maybe it was just because he was scared. Scared to see you. Scared to talk to you. Scared that as soon as you spotted him in the crowd, you would dedicate the night to avoiding him and he wouldn't get to speak to you at all.

He really hoped he would get to talk to you. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long. It had been just over half a year since you two had gotten in that tense argument that had ultimately ended your relationship. In reality, your relationship had been over weeks before the fight, but neither of you were brave enough to admit it. Dabi, because he loved you and couldn't imagine living a life without you. You, because life with Dabi had become so natural that the thought of leaving terrified you. What if you regretted it? What if your life becomes directionless without him? You had spent nearly a year and a half of your life with him. He was your first love. First kiss. First everything since the opening night of your senior year high school play.

 A Midsummer Night’s Dream was your favorite play. Shakespeare, in your opinion, was quite wordy, but you greatly admired the several love stories and humor weaved throughout the play, and tonight you would be a part of the orchestra playing for this production. You were beyond ecstatic to perform.

The first half of the play went smoothly, and you were filled with adrenaline. Something about playing your violin for a crowd of people filled you with your body with a euphoric feeling. Your chest was full, blood was rushing through your veins and your heart was pounding with pure excitement. This feeling was only magnified once you spotted a certain raven-haired boy sitting in the audience in the front row. The 30-minute intermission had just begun and Dabi Todoroki was making his way over to you as you gingerly tucked your instrument back into its case.

“Hey. You sound pretty awesome out there,” he praised.

“T-thanks,” you blushed. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight”

Dabi scratched the back of his head and looked away from you. “Yeah, well, I heard there was bestiality in this thing and I wanted to check it out.” That forced a small giggle out of you. Dabi liked that sound a lot. “Anyway, I, uh, wanted to ask you if you were thirsty. There’s a concession stand out in the hallway. Figured you and I could get a drink, maybe sit outside until the next part of the play starts?”

Your heartbeat began to quicken. Was he flirting with you? Surely not. Surely, he was just being friendly to you. Right?

“Yeah, sure! I’d love that actually.”

Dabi grinned at you. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

The air was frigid and you had, unfortunately, worn a short sleeved black dress to opening night in an attempt to blend in with the darkness of the auditorium. When the chattering of your teeth became audible and your shivering was too severe to ignore, Dabi quickly slipped his jacket onto your shoulders. It smelled like nicotine and pine wood. Just like him.

“Thank you,” you lilted, and Dabi just hummed in response. “So, why did you really come tonight?” Dabi eyed you from his spot beside you as you both sat on the large brick steps in front of the school building. “You didn’t seem too interested in Homer the other day in class, so why would you want to see a Shakespearian play?”

Dabi clicked his tongue and averted his gaze. Why did he come tonight? “I dunno,” he started. “I guess I just wanted to see you again. Outside of school. And... I like the way you play your violin. It's… relaxing.”

Your face was burning at 100 degrees. You were sure of it. “Y-you wanted to see me? Why”

“Look, I just think you’re pretty, alright. And I like talking to you and shit.”

He thought you were what? He liked doing what? “I like talking to you too,” you breathed softly. You hadn’t meant to say it. You were embarrassed enough as it was, and the slip of your tongue only made the already high temperature of your cheeks rise.

Dabi turned to look at you then. He thought you looked ethereal in that moment. Wide eyes staring back at him, expectantly. Legs dressed in tight black pantyhose crossed and angled toward him. A bright pink blush dusting your cheeks. God, he wanted to fucking kiss you.

So, he did.

He jerked forward and caught your lips by surprise, which forced you to emit a small noise from your throat. His lips were cold and smooth and unfamiliar and he tasted like smoke and mint flavored gum. His lips moved fervently, as if they were on a mission to prove something, until you moved your finger into his inky hair and pressed his face closer to yours. His lips slowed at that moment, and his movements became gentler. He wanted to tell you he liked you. He wanted to ask you out on a date. He wanted to take you to the movies or to dinner or to just drive you around in his car and talk to you. He wanted to touch you everywhere. Your face. Your chest. Your legs, your ass, your cunt. He wanted to memorize every inch of your body with his fingertips.

It was you who broke the kiss. The combination of Dabi’s lips against yours and the freezing air was making it difficult for you to breathe. You rested your forehead against Dabi’s and chuckled.

“Something funny?” he grunted and pulled away from you.

“No, no, not at all. I just never imagined that Dabi Todoroki would be kissing while we freeze our asses off.”

Dabi scoffed at that. “Yeah, well, it happened.” He leaned forward until his face was inches from yours. “And we should do it again. Tomorrow sound good?”

“Y-yeah! Tomorrow is perfect.”

Dabi’s cobalt blue eyes looked like they were glowing. You wanted to look at them longer. You wanted to watch as his eyes got closer and closer until they closed and exchanged themselves for his lips against yours. But your thirty minutes were almost up. The orchestra pit was waiting for you.

“I should get back inside. The second act is starting in a couple minutes.” You stood up then, wrapping Dabi’s jacket tightly around yourself

Dabi got to his feet alongside you and held out his hand, which you took. He led you back inside, back into the warmth, and into the auditorium where the crowd was ushering back to their seats. Dabi whispered a little ‘good luck,’ in your ear before taking his seat in the front row.

Although the orchestra pit was extremely warm due to the building’s heater, stage lights, and the amount of people that were crammed into the little space side by side, you couldn’t bring yourself to shed Dabi’s jacket until late that night when you were getting ready for bed. And even then, you used the soft red fabric as a pillow so you could keep his smell close to your heart.

 Dabi was wearing a black suit. He hadn’t dressed up in months, so the stiff material felt completely alien on his skin. His jet-black vest was slightly wrinkled due to being stuffed in the back of his closet for months on end and his ‘dress shoes’ were really just his cleanest pair of black boots. Dabi had no doubt that he would look ratty and out of place among the well-dressed attendees at your orchestra’s recital this evening, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He was used to looking like a second-rate citizen next to you anyway. You had always cared about your appearance to the next level; every article of clothing you owned was always ironed, every shoe polished, every piece of jewelry was sparkling - a complete contrast to Dabi. That was one of the things Dabi loved most about you - you had your shit together and it was always physically obvious. You were organized, driven, ambitious, clean. Everything that Dabi was not.

It was 4:23pm. Dabi had 37 minutes until the recital started, and he still needed a tie to wear. Dabi had only ever owned one tie in his entire life, and it was a tie made of deep red silk. You had told Dabi a couple days after he asked you to go with him to your senior prom that red was your favorite color on him, so he had decided to buy a red tie for your special night out.

The tie was placed in the very back of his sock drawer and was the only piece of cloth that was folded neatly. Dabi was hesitant to pull it out of the drawer. He had only ever worn it that one night. That one night where the only thing in his eyes, his nose, his head, was you. That one night where he dressed in a black fitting suit, dawning the red, silky tie you had picked out for him the week before. That one night where he felt like someone had punched him in the fucking stomach because breathing became an immense effort after you shyly walked out of your front door, dressed in a long, red satin dress, your mom following close behind with a big, flashy camera. That one night when you told him you loved him after your first dance in the decked-out school gymnasium. That one night where he convinced you to leave the school after half an hour so he could fuck you in his car. That one night where he convinced you to swallow those little blue pills he was always shoving down his throat. That one night where he whispered a barely audible ‘I love you’ into your hair as you dozed off in the passenger seat of his car, high out of your mind. Looking back, Dabi could see that, for you, prom night was the beginning of the end. Drugs and rough sex were things you just weren’t quite ready for. Prom night for him, however, was just the beginning of your relationship. He couldn't understand that the things he would do often, oxy, car sex, ditching school events, weren’t for you. In his own mind, Dabi was convinced he was showing you how to have fun. The 20 minutes he spent fucking you into the back seat of his black Camaro were heaven. You were warm and wet and your arms clinged to him as if he was the only thing keeping you afloat and he loved it. And for the next few months following that night, you thought you did too.

It was a 20-minute walk from Dabi’s downtown small apartment to The Bleu Theater. It would’ve been a measly 5-minute drive, if Dabi still had his Camaro. Dabi thinks maybe you would still be by his side if he had his Camaro.

  Dabi was royally fucked. He had promised you right when he dropped you off at Micaretta College for your first orchestra rehearsal that he would only be out for a few hours with his brother, Natsuo. He promised he wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t smoke, wouldn’t do any type of narcotic today while he was driving himself around. He was lying, of course, but he thought he would be able to handle himself. He thought he was ‘perfectly fine, Natsuo, let it the hell go,’ after downing a shot of tequila or five. He thought his high was nothing serious, despite the fact that he swallowed 3 oxys when he and Natsuo parted ways outside of the bar.

But he was wrong. So incredibly wrong.

The silence on the other end of the phone as he made his one phone call to you, mumbling that he was in a holding cell for crashing his Camaro into a government postal box because he was drunk and high and he needed to pick you up, made him nervous. He knew you would be upset - maybe sad, worried, angry - but your silence was conveying another emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on.

“Okay,” you said blankly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You showed up to the Tokyo police station ten minutes after your phone call just like you said you would - dressed in the same black and grey mini dress you were wearing this morning when he dropped you off. He had watched you dress yourself in the bedroom you two shared in your small but cozy apartment this morning from the queen-sized bed. Watching you with tired, lazy eyes, Dabi thought you looked so fucking cute. Your hair was still pulled up in a half-hearted pony-tail from when you washed your face minutes before, and your small, dainty hands were fiddling with the metal zipper on the back of your dress. He had cheekily told you ‘you're wasting your time zipping that up, princess. I’m just gonna rip it open when you get home tonight.’

Your cheeks had been coated with a light blush at that, and you let out a small giggle, glancing at him from the mirror with a shy smile on your face.

You had looked so happy this morning. Your smile was dazzling, eyes bright and lively.

You looked like the complete opposite now. A mere twelve hours later Dabi had managed to wipe that smile from your face, replacing it with a straight, thin line. The sparkle had been washed from your doe eyes, where only a blank, empty look now held its place.

He had really fucked up.

Signatures, paperwork, and a large down payment for the fine Dabi now had to pay took almost half an hour to complete before Dabi was allowed to walk free and was given a form that he was told to keep for his court date in 14 days. And then it was time to go home.

The 20-minute walk it took to get from the police department to your home was quiet and tense. You hadn’t spoken a word and Dabi hadn’t either. He was afraid of what you would say if he tried to speak to you. Would you yell at him? Would you cry? Tell him he was a failure, a fuck-up, that he wasn’t just ruining his own life, but yours too?

He already knew all of these things. His father reminded him every chance he got. He had barely managed to graduate high school, he never enrolled in college like you had, he was unemployed, paying his half of the rent with a monthly allowance he received along with the rest of his siblings from his grandmother. Each day was spent drinking, downing pills, inhaling blow, infiltrating his skin with needles, waiting for you to get home from school so he could kiss you, touch you, love you, and pretend he had a normal life - a normal, healthy relationship.

Just like you were.

“Guess we’re gonna have to use Uber from now on,” Dabi grunted, trying to slice through the tension that was strongly swimming in the air around the two of you.

“Guess so,” you said faintly.

Dabi’s eyes flash at your flat tone. “Look,” he said, teeth clenched. “I’m sorry, okay? I know I screwed up. You don’t need to make it worse.”

In an instant, your face morphed from blank and expressionless to white hot anger. “Me? You think I’m making things worse? I’m not the one who got shit faced in the middle of the day! I’m not the one who wrecked the fucking car into government property because you couldn’t see five feet in front of you!”

“I know that for Christ’s sake! Jesus fuck, I just spent two hours in jail for it! I. Fucked. Up! Get the fuck over it!”

You held his gaze for a few more moments before looking away. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many things you knew he needed to hear. But you were exhausted. You were so damn tired of fighting, of yelling, of constantly wondering if your life would always consist of picking up the pieces after Dabi shatters everything in his wake. You were tired of him.

“Okay,” you sighed dejectedly. “Let’s just go home. I have orchestra again tomorrow. We both need some sleep.”

Dabi didn’t say anything in response. What could he say? He could see the drained look in your eyes clear as day. He had pulled you out of your evening class to come bail him out of jail after totaling his car. He had promised you he wouldn’t drink while he was out. That he wouldn’t pop any pills while he was out. But he did.

  The line to get into the theater wasn’t too long once he arrived at the front entrance of the large stone building. There were only about fifteen people waiting to hand in their tickets to get inside, and the process seemed like it was going fairly quickly. Dabi pulled the crumpled, grey admission ticket from his coat pocket and handed it to the usher. Watching the man dressed in a baby blue suit scan the barcode on his ticket felt like watching paint dry. He needed to get inside and sit down. His head was pounding from his hangover and his heart was racing from anxiety. He hadn't seen you in six months. Not in person, anyway. He spent plenty of time stalking your social media accounts, looking to see if you had started dating again, if school was going okay for you, if you were happy without him in your life. He didn’t find much over the past few months, much to Dabi’s dismay. The only relevant thing he was able to find out about you was that your college orchestra group was conducting a recital tonight at The Bleu Theater, and that you would have a violin solo. Dabi bought his $250 dollar ticket three months in advance the second he read the flyer you had posted on your Instagram account.

The inside of the theater was as Dabi had expected it to be. Lined with red carpet and donning two grand marble staircases The halls of the theater were littered with high society aristocrats dressed in suits and evening gowns. Although he had dressed in an evening suit, Dabi knew he looked like lower class beside these people. In that moment though, Dabi couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed. The only thing lingering on his mind was you. What you might be wearing. What he might do if he snagged a chance to speak to you. What he would say if you decided to hear him out.

He didn’t have time to think about it though. The recital was starting, and Dabi needed to find his seat, which he knew was in the second row from the stage. All the seats in the very front had already been bought out by the time Dabi had purchased his ticket, so seat J in row B was the second-best option.

Hurrying down the aisle, Dabi found his seat in between two women dressed in both green and silver evening gowns. They were older women with hot pink lipstick coating their wrinkled lips who raised their brows at Dabi as he sat in between them. The MC began his little speech, thanking everyone for attending tonight and asking them to please silence their cellphones. He announced the first player of the night, a cellist who was dressed in a long, black, lacy dress. He hadn’t remembered to grab a program from the man handing them out beside the entrance of the auditorium, but the women in green to his right had one and was currently reading through it. He glanced to her side, hoping to catch a glimpse of your name so he could prepare himself to see you for the first time since your break-up.

And there it was. Act number two. Y/N L/N, violin solo.

You were next and Dabi felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. He was sure everyone in the room could hear the thump thump thump of the organ in his chest despite the rich boom the cello filled the room with. The cellist was reaching the climax of the Cadenza piece. You would be walking out of stage soon. In just seconds, Dabi would have the chance to lock eyes with you. He hoped he would be able to convey the love he felt for you, his anguish at the fact that you left him all alone in a world he felt had never accepted him, his guilt at making your life a living hell because he was too selfish to let you go the second things began to deteriorate. Deep down, Dabi had known your relationship was doomed.

Deep down, Dabi had known your relationship was doomed. That anxious, petrifying feeling of knowing the only heaven he was convinced he would ever know would one day leave him shortly after you had started your first year of college. You had gotten into your dream college, while Dabi hadn’t bothered to apply anywhere. You were working three days a week at a music store, teaching children how to play the violin. Dabi was living off an allowance, popping pills all day. You had aspirations. You were working toward a future you desperately wanted - you wanted to become a violinist for The Halle, you wanted to move to the city - you wanted to be with Dabi. But Dabi didn’t have dreams like you did. His father had instilled in him since he could form coherent sentences that he was a failure. He was a disgrace. He wasn’t even his real son. He was a product of his mother’s extramarital indiscretion - a stain on the Todoroki name. A mistake.

Dabi believed all his life that all he would ever be was a let-down. The only good thing in his life was you. Dabi Todoroki had managed to fall in love with a quiet girl who was ambitious and smart and beautiful - and just like everything else he did in his life - he screwed it up.

 “I need you to come home”

He shouldn’t be asking you that. Tonight was an important night for you - scouts for the Chordis Orchestra were in the audience tonight. Your school was putting on a production of Phantom of the Opera - your favorite musical - and you were lucky enough to be the first sophomore to play in the orchestra pit on opening night.

“What? Dabi - what’s going on?”

He felt like he was going crazy. Why were you asking so many questions? Why couldn’t you just come home? He needed you!

“Look,” he gulped as his knuckles turned white from gripping the phone. “I-my dad was here earlier and-”

“Your dad?” Dabi’s father, Enji, had never visited your home before. Dabi would never invite him and Enji would never lay out an offer. Dabi had told you a little about the issues he had with his father during late night talks where you and Dabi would lay naked in the back seat of his car, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“We got into a fight and I don’t even know what happened, I just opened my eyes and our window was busted and my knuckles were bleeding and dad was gone. I was so fucking pissed and I don’t even remember uncapping the fucking needle...but I think I took too much.”

Your blood ran cold. You hated when Dabi would use heroin. You had tried it once when the two of you first moved into your apartment together, and you never wanted that substance in your body again. You knew how Dabi could get when he took too much of one thing. He would get angry, paranoid, anxious and clingy. You were terrified one of these days you would come home and find him dead on the bathroom floor with a needle sticking out of his arm or pills lodged in his throat.

“Dabi what do you mean you took too much? D-do I need to call an ambulance!?”

“No! No, don’t call the fucking police. I’ll get charged with substance abuse. Fuck! Just come home!”

“Okay, okay, Dabi. I’m coming home, alright? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You quickly packed up your instrument, sheet music, and informed the director you would not be able to perform tonight. It was a tense conversation, as Ms. Hatsuki had given you a big opportunity to play tonight. But Dabi wanted you home. And he was more important, right?

The bursting open of the wooden door startled Dabi. He had been staring blankly at the wall, scratching at the needle scars that were riddled along his left forearm. It felt like he had been waiting hours for you to get home to him, when only a mere 20 minutes had passed before you burst into the living room.

“Dabi,” you breathed, “are you okay? You look so pale.” You rushed over to the brown sofa where he was seated and took his hand in yours. His hand was coated in brown, dry blood and there was a small gash across his knuckles. It wasn’t too bad, but he would probably need a couple stitches.

“M’fine. I think...I’m just coming down really hard. My hand hurts, too.”

Coming down too hard? How many times have you been through this? There had been several occasions where Dabi had called you while you were in the middle of class, or in rehearsal, or out with friends or family, frantically begging you to come home. Each time he made one of those calls, he worried you sick. He never sounded like the Dabi you knew like the back of your hand. He was sacred and sounded like he was close to death every time. And every time you came running, he would lay his head in your lap, tell you he’s sorry, that he wants to do better for you, and then do it all over again the next week.

You weren’t sure how much more you could take. At first, it was small, tolerable things. Things you could look past because you loved him so much. In the beginning, when Dabi went past his limit, he would grow overly irritable, snapping at you out of nowhere. Then, that gradually turned into full blown meltdowns with Dabi shedding a few tears as he paced around the apartment, not sure if he was angry or scared, not knowing what he could possibly be angry at or scared of.

Then, that morphed into complete paranoia. Dabi always thought he would die when he would go past his limit, but he would never do anything to help his fears. He was always afraid you would leave him all by himself in this tiny apartment that only felt like home when you were there. He was afraid his father would finally cut him out of the family because he’s a bad influence on his little brother - because he’s a good-for-nothing junkie with no direction in life.

He was afraid of problems that only he was able to cause. Problems he couldn’t stop causing.

Your mouth set into a thin line, a sight Dabi wished he wasn’t so familiar with. “Dabi,” you started evenly. “I thought you were fucking dying. You made me leave the most important performance of my life - for what?”

Dabi’s puppy eyes quickly morphed into piercing cobalt as he scowled. “For what? Princess, I need you here. I felt like I was fucking dying, I need a little support here!”

“WHAT ABOUT ME!?” you screamed. It startled the both of you. The scream seemed to rip itself from your throat without permission. The shocked look on your boyfriend’s face almost made you back down. But you wouldn’t – couldn’t back down this time.

“What about supporting me, huh, Dabi? Week after week, I drop everything, my whole life, to come running back to you. To make sure you’re okay. You make promise after promise to stop this shit, to get clean, to get your life together so I CAN GET MINE TOGETHER! Fuck, it’s like I’m your mother instead of your girlfriend.”

Dabi watched you silently from his spot on the couch. He had never seen you so angry before, especially at him. The smack running through his veins urged him to yell back at you. To scream that you were selfish. That you can’t talk to him like that.

But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re right.

Deep down, he knows he’s ruining your life. He knows he’s continually taking opportunity after opportunity from you - because he doesn’t want to be alone. He knows his drug induced moods are wearing on you. He knows he’s tearing your heart apart by worrying you, yelling at you, destroying you. He knows he does not deserve you. But even so, he hopes to God you won’t leave. He’s too selfish to let you go on his own - he would rather watch you crumble because of him than watch you flourish without him.

“Tonight was so important, Dabi. You know that.” Your eyes were filling with tears. Your heart felt like it was shattering within your chest. You didn’t want to. Or did you? You weren’t so sure what you wanted anymore. But you did know what you needed. “I-I can’t Dabi. I cannot do this with you anymore.”

“W-what? The fuck are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t stay in this relationship with you, Dabi! It's tearing me completely apart. It's tearing me apart because you’re tearing yourself apart. I’ve tried and tried, but I just can’t do it. I hit my limit months ago. This - us - it needs to end now.”

Neither of you said anything after that. It was strange, in a way. You expected your boyfriend - your ex-boyfriend, would beg you not to leave. Like he always did when he was paranoid and high.

Dabi, on the other hand, had always imagined, in his hazy, drunken paranoia, that he would rage if you ever tried to leave him like this. What was he supposed to do without you? He had nothing in life but you. Every day was about you; waiting for you to get home from school, cooking for you, fucking you, talking to you, living life through you. But he wasn’t angry. All he felt in those next few minutes as the two of you sat side by side on the couch for the very last time, was sorrow.

His father was right, as he always was. He destroyed everything he touched. One tiny brush of his fingertips set anything in his wake ablaze.

When you stood from the couch to go pack a bag, Dabi couldn't bring himself to look at you. He couldn’t force out a single syllable. All he could do was sit. Sit and listen as the girl he loved gathered every piece of herself and walked out of his life.

The next few weeks following the break up were the worst. You were ignoring Dabi’s texts and calls, and he didn’t even know where you were. He assumed you were staying with a friend or had moved back in with your mother - but he wished you would answer one of his texts so he could know for sure.

Dabi didn’t leave his apartment until a month after the two of you broke up. He honestly didn’t see a reason to. After he graduated high school and moved in with you, he only left the house to go grocery shopping, or buy you little gifts, or go on dates with you. Now that you were gone, what reason did he have to venture outside of his safe space?

Alcohol. Sex.

Two enticing reasons.

The first time Dabi had sex with another person after your break up, he felt like throwing up. Her voice was higher than yours, her nose was bigger than yours, the way she looked when she came on his cock was nowhere near as beautiful as yours was.

She was not you.

She was not you, and here he was, in her apartment, in her bed, kissing her, pleasing her, fucking her. He felt like he was betraying you the first few times he did it. He had to keep reminding himself that you were gone, you weren’t his girlfriend anymore. He could have sex with whoever he wanted.

After the first couple girls, the guilt and disgust melted away and morphed into delirium. If he was in bed with some girl he met at a bar, he could forget your face. If he kissed her lips in a sloppy, rushed manner, he could forget the way he felt to be touched by you. If he listened to her maddening moans as he fucked into her, he could forget the way your voice sounded, just for a moment. And that was enough for him to survive each day without you.

 It was scary seeing you for the first time in so long. You looked the same as you always had; beautiful, elegant, and perfect.

You were wearing a white, spaghetti sleeved dress that reached to the middle of your leg and your hair was curled delicately and was falling freely past your shoulders. Dabi had spent half a year without seeing you or hearing from you at all, and still, the first sight of you made him feel like he couldn’t fucking breath. Every little detail was special to him.

He could see the nervousness written all over your face. You were used to playing in an orchestra pit, away from everyone’s line of sight. You felt most comfortable hidden in the darkness, playing music that was meant to add character to a play, not right in the spotlight, playing raw music for everyone to judge you with. But Dabi also knew that this is what you always truly wanted. You wanted people to see you and hear you, no matter how terrifying it was.

You started off slow, moving your bow gently and fluidly across the strings of your violin. It was soft and melodic, and only Dabi knew that this was your signature build up - it was how you always liked to play music. Just as you were doing now, you had always preferred to start everything off slow and delicate - gradually and powerfully zipping your bow across the metal strings to create an earth-shattering sound that was somehow richer than the cello. Dabi had noticed this the very first time he ever heard you play in that empty auditorium in high school, and still now you were able to knock him out with your beautiful talent.

You were avoiding looking out into the crowd to evade stage fright. You knew that if you looked out into the human sea, you would face the possibility of choking. This was an incredibly important night. Your mom had joked before you left her house this morning that tonight would mark the beginning of your musical career. You could not afford to mess anything up.

But then you looked up. You tore your gaze from the floor and glanced out into the abyss and fount cobalt blue eyes staring intently back at you. His gaze was enough to almost make your left hand fingers falter over the notes, but you regained your composure almost as fast as you had lost it. Looking away from him seemed impossible right then. Here he was, Dabi, your ex-boyfriend, your first love, sitting in the audience, listening to you play your heart out. Why was he here? How did he even know you would be playing tonight?

A million and one questions swam through your mind. You were playing on autopilot now. You couldn’t focus on anything but him. His inky black hair was combed neatly, just as it was on prom night. He was wearing a suit and he looked completely dressed for the occasion. Your song was coming to an end and you needed to snap out of it. The ending deserved your attention. You owed it to yourself to forget Dabi, just for this second, to focus on what you had in front of you.

The floor wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as Dabi was, but it was where you had to force yourself to look for the remainder of the song. It came to a finish 20 seconds later, and the applause was almost too loud for your ears. A proud grin spread across your face as you grabbed the neck of your instrument and bowed before walking back into the wings.

You weren’t sure why Dabi would come tonight. He had stopped trying to contact you three months ago after you ignored each and every one of his attempts. It was painful to even think about him after your break up. There were many times you felt as if you had made a mistake in leaving. Every memory of Dabi holding you to his chest when you would cry to try and comfort you, every memory of Dabi whispering out that he loved you late at night, every memory of Dabi kissing you goodbye as you left for class each morning, was almost enough to break you. But the fact was that you didn’t just leave for yourself. Dabi was too dependent on you. If you had continued to enable his drug habit, allowing him to think that he could be as destructive as he wanted and nothing would happen to him, he would end up killing himself. So, you stood your ground, and distanced yourself as far away from him as you could.

But he was here now. Dressed nicely, watching you on the most important night of your life. Did he want to talk? Or was he here for something else? There was only one way to find out.

Dabi had gotten up from his seat as soon as you exited the stage. He wasn’t too eager to listen to some guy play the piano for 2 minutes straight. He had only come here to see you. The air was warm and inviting outside as Dabi sat on the building’s steps and pulled out his e-cigarette. He wanted to go back in and find you, just as he planned when he first got here. Seeing you on stage tonight, however, made him think twice. You looked beautiful and vibrant. Despite the look of nervousness you wore tonight, he knew you were confident in what you could do. You smiled tonight. It didn’t look fake or forced, like it had months ago. It looked completely genuine and Dabi didn’t want to take that away from you.

You were happy without him. You were thriving without him. He needed to stay away from you.

“You’re missing the rest of the recital, you know.”

Your voice brought Dabi out of his head. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, it almost sounded alien to him.

You stood two steps above him, still wearing your white dress. Still just as beautiful as you were on stage.

Dabi was searching for the right words to say, but he was coming up perpetually blank. He wanted to say the right thing, but he never knew what the right thing to say was.

“I, uh, only came to see one act.” You smiled softly at that, and Dabi felt like someone had shot him. He missed you. He missed you so much and your smile only reminded him of what he inevitably pushed away 6 months ago.

“Well, mister Beethoven,” you joked, “how did I do?”

You were walking closer to him and Dabi wasn’t sure if he should move away or not. He was afraid that if you got too close, he might burn you. “God, it was awful. It sounded like a tortured cat.”

A laugh tore itself from your throat as you sat beside him on the steps. “Yeah, well. That was your fault. I didn’t expect to see you out there. Caught me off guard.”

“You were great.” Dabi wanted to smile back at you, but he couldn’t. “Felt like I was watching an actual angel perform.”

It was quiet for a moment after that. Neither of you knew what to say. Why were you out here with him? Why did he come to see you tonight?

“Why’d you come tonight, Dabi?”

“I dunno, really. I just - I knew you were playing tonight. I felt like I needed to see you. I wanted to talk to you, I guess.”

The e-cigarette in your ex-boyfriend’s hand caught your attention. “Since when do you smoke water vapor? What happened to weed?”

Dabi looked down at his hands before replying. “I quit that shit a couple months ago,” he mumbled. “I didn’t like the way it made me feel anymore.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “You stopped smoking pot? That’s great Dabi!”

“Thanks. I stopped with the pills and smack too.”

He what? “Wait, are you saying you got clean?”

He shrugged, not returning your gaze. “I guess. I stopped using four months ago. Fuyumi and my mom have gotten me into counseling. My therapist is helping me come up with ways to cope without drugs. The booze has been more difficult to quit though. I still drink pretty often. I’m...I’m working on being different. Like I always promised you I would. Except this time, I’m serious.”

The world halted for a moment for you. Dabi...was getting clean. He had promised you countless times in your relationship that he would try to stop. That he would be a better man for you. That he would stop using, get a job, go back to school. Each of those promises were empty, unfulfilled wishes.

But not anymore.

You threw your arms around Dabi, almost knocking him off the step. He stilled, not sure what to do. Should he hug you back? Push you off of him? He didn’t know, so he allowed you to continue to take the lead.

“I’m so happy for you Dabi. That is so amazing. I can’t believe it, I’m so proud.” There was a familiar warmth growing in your chest. The entire two years of your relationship, all you had wanted was for Dabi to get clean. The drugs, the directionlessness, it weighed on him. And, in turn, it began to weigh on you as well. “Have you thought about enrolling anywhere?”

You had pulled away from Dabi by now, but you were still sitting quite close to him, which made Dabi feel uneasy. He had wanted to be close to you like this for months, but now that it was happening, he felt anxious. What if after tonight, the two of you would go back to being strangers?

“I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve worked on a few applications already, but I haven’t sent anything in just yet.”

Hearing that Dabi was finally getting his shit together filled your heart with joy and hope. Dabi was trying to get sober. Dabi had come to see you tonight. And you still loved him after all this time. After everything, Dabi still owned your heart.

“I need to tell you I’m sorry.” He turned to look at you. He had been looking at everything but you this entire conversation, but he needed to look you in the eye as he said this. “I need to tell you I’m sorry for everything I put you through. I fucked up so many things for you because I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry for making you leave.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Dabi looked so different now. He looked the same as he always did, yet completely unfamiliar all at once. You had spent so many months seeing Dabi kill himself every day. His eyes were sunken in, dark circles painted onto his sickly pale skin. His lips were always chapped and split open, scratching your own lips whenever he grabbed your face to kiss you. Now, underneath the bright June moonlight, Dabi looked alive. His lips were no longer dehydrated and split. His eyes were still tired, but more alert, and his skin looked healthy.

“I left for a reason, Dabi. Not just because it was too much for me, but because I thought you needed to figure everything out on your own.”

He nodded slowly while keeping your gaze. “Is it possible to try again?”

Yes, you wanted to say, absolutely. You wanted to tell him you could pick up right where the two of you left off, but you couldn’t. Not after everything he put you through. Taking a deep breath and taking his hand in yours, you said, “how about you and I go for coffee tomorrow? We can talk things out more then.”

Dabi grinned and squeezed your hand. I have a shot. Being this close to you, knowing he would see you again tomorrow, really made him want to kiss you. Six months ago, he could grab your face whenever he wanted and capture your lips with his. But he couldn’t now. He needed to take his time with you, let you decide if he was what you wanted. He had put you through hell for so long, so he needed to let you take the lead this time.

“I’d really like that.”

To his surprise. you leaned forward and pressed your lips gently to his cheek, and then stood. “I need to get back inside, but...I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Dabi nodded furiously. “Yeah. Yeah, tomorrow morning.”

You smiled softly once more, and then turned to head back into the building. Watching you leave the night the two of you broke up made him feel like everything around him was bleak and broken. This time, as he watched you slip through the doors of the theater, he felt light things were finally a little bit brighter.

[requiem626k]

Hello my dear Req, I'm here again to ask for some classical music you could recommend me🤭 Usually I would ask for piano music, but I've been in the mood for one with a harp in it lately! And I know you're busy with school and all that so please take your time hehe. And take care🥰

Hello there, my dearest Kat ❤️! I’d be so delighted to recommend you more pieces, it makes my little heart so happy that you’re interested in them 🥺💕

I hope you’ll like my selection! I tried to include variety in terms of vibes, nationalities and eras this time (Austrian-Classical, Russian-Romantic and French-19th century), instead of sticking to a single man 🤭 I’ll try to keep it short and simple (no that’s a lie, I won’t be able to 😶)

And thank you so much for your consideration, things have been pretty busy for me indeed so I’m sorry for the extremely late post 😖 And I know that uni is soon starting for you, so likewise, please take your time to listen to the pieces <3

That being said, let’s start~

Mozart - Als Luise die Briefe ihres ungetreuen Liebhabers verbrannte

Of course, it wouldn’t be Req’s post if it didn’t start off with Mozart. This is a short lied like Das Veilchen (the one that I previously shared), the title is long haha and it means “As Luise Was Burning the Letters of Her Unfaithful Lover”. As you can guess from its name, this is really, REALLY dramatic. It’s in c minor, a tonality that Mozart doesn’t use so often (but when he does, oh boy, see his Great Mass in c minor 🤤) but which is perfect for its fierce mood. Also it’s fairly special for me because we used to sing this in our music theory classes haha, I would play the piano accompaniment while practicing with the classmates before every oral exam.

I truly adore this lied. The lyrics are once again taken from a poem, a poem of Gabriele von Baumberg, she apparently wrote it at a very young age (18 or so).

My heart melts at 00.34 omg, that soft “melancholie” and the silence that comes after 🥺… It’s truly one of those silences that make you agree with Mozart’s quote:

The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.

Then, it takes a cheerful turn (he just can’t refrain from putting happy sprinkles 🤭) until the strong chord at 00.49.

I think the section that starts at 01.00 is so worthy of being noted, I love love LOVE the suspense and tension that the piano accompaniment creates and that finishes with a strong build-up.

And the chord at 01.32… I leave my heart there. It just has me so soft. It’s so bittersweet, Mozart for some reason repeats the phrase “May smoulder long yet in my heart.” twice at the end and it’s just- 🥺

As always, he knows so well what word must be cited with what emotion, and chooses carefully his chords and functions. I just love it, and wanted to share since you had liked the previous lied 🤭

Rachmaninoff - Piano Concerto No. 2

*inhale* This one’s gonna be long, I can feel it.

I have literally SO MANY things to say about this one.

Rachmaninoff is a famous Russian composer that you might have heard of. He’s part of the Romantic Era which is, to simplify, about pouring your emotions and the turmoils in your life into your art and depicting feelings instead of trying to stick to certain rules and ‘holy’ virtues, of which we had already talked about a bit hehe.

And this piece… Oh my. You’ll see how different this concerto is compared to the Mozart ones we listened to previously. His second piano concerto corresponds to a depressive episode of his, due to his works not having a big success and being criticised so harshly. This beautiful piece is his comeback work, and you can just feel the inner conflicts, the emotional tornado he had at that period. With Mozart’s concertos, your soul is purified, they softly caress your insides and comfort you. But here, Rachmaninoff takes your emotions, and he proceeds to crush it. He plays with it, throws it, abuses it, you sob and sob and sob. At least I do 😭.

First movement

One can perfectly sense the dark pessimism in the first, silent, dangerous chord. As the 8 chords come one after another, every single one stronger than the previous, you’re on your toes and the tension increases until finally hearing the main theme through violins at 00.43. Listen to that theme very well. It’s so beautiful, so so moving, the piano section creates a fierce, dangerous background and I always get goosebumps when the violins come in.

Then, at 02.30, the second main theme is heard through the piano, pay attention to that! You will encounter it under various forms through the movement 🤭 It’s much softer compared to the first, ominous theme, it creates a beautiful contrast.

I want to note down the beautiful oboe-piano duet in 04.14 🥺. I adore oboes, it has a really beautiful and soft vibe, and here its melody is just so bittersweet when combined with the piano’s accompaniment. Then at 04.35, the piano starts playing a really soft phrase, the soft touch at that high note at 04.46, oh my God my heart. I have a feeling that you’ll adore that part 🥺 I want to note down literally every second omg

At 05.22, it turns once again really quiet and ominous, foreshadowing a big outburst through a build-up. The flutes play a big role in that aura through their short but dangerous phrases.

I especially adore the part at 06.17 in this pre-outburst section, it’s reminds me of a wave of emotions that keep hitting you and stepping back, only to strike even harder afterwards. The flutes in the background reinforce this vibe. The tension gets higher and higher at 06.36 (omg I’ll faint I love this part, I’m trembling while listening to it and trying to write this at the same time, I can’t keep up with my thoughts aaa) through the constant mutual escalation of both the piano and the orchestra. THE BEAUTY OF THE BUILD-UP PLEASE I WILL LOSE MY MIND.

And all this preparation was for the beautifully passionate part at 07.02. Rachmaninoff notes down “Alla Marcia”, meaning it should be played like a march, and its rhythmic features most certainly have that vibe. It’s just so majestic, so pompous, so raw, I love love LOVE it. It’s almost like you’re swooning in euphoria after having an emotional build-up and breakdown, it’s just- it’s something else that I can’t even describe. I just don’t have the right words for it.

I know that the piano’s melody is so alluring and enchanting there, but maybe in a second listen, I’ll want you to pay attention to the violin part during the march section 👀 Can you hear the very first theme that was introduced at the very beginning of the movement? Rachmaninoff was a total genius to put it in the background and make it fit so well. I always hesitate between paying attention to violins or piano, I end up rewinding it every single time 😖 It’s soo good.

After the euphoric section, the second theme comes again. A thing that’s worth noting down is the flute’s beautiful addition at 07.53, it’s in the background but it just makes my heart melt. I also always get goosebumps at the few ominous, sinister seconds that starts at 09.17 😳

Then it goes pretty quietly until the ending hehe, like a calmness after storm 😌 This piece is a total emotional rollercoaster, I swear. At 11.01, I love the playfulness of the piano section, it’s just so mischievous like a little naughty kitten. Then it picks up the pace, and ends with three strong beats.

Ugh. 🦋🦋🦋

Second movement

(meme credit goes to @/pianoomemes on Instagram)

This meme says it all. I don’t even need to add anything else. As you know by now, the second movements are meant to create a sharp contrast with the first one’s mood, and 🥺😭.

The main melody… It has my heart. The movement starts with a soft piano-flute introduction, and the ethereal main theme is heard at 12.56 through an oboe.

I don’t really any other commentary to do on this heavenly movement. Just let yourself in its embrace without any technical/guiding worries <3

(Though I feel obliged to add that the part that truly has me in this movement is 22.17 🥺. It’s just so moving and sweet ahh, it just takes you away, it almost has a sentiment of longing I feel, I always have a drop of tear forming in my eyes at that part.)

Third movement

The third movement is a usual, playful, jokester movement hehe. It’s a general pattern for final movements as you might have noticed, even though this one’s not written under a Rondo form. It’s rare that I say this, but I feel like this final movement is as charming as the second one for me 🤭 (No movement surpasses the first movement though, personally of course~)

The theme that starts at 25.51 through violins is so so charismatic, it almost always flusters me 😳✨.

Then he naughtily plays around with themes, modulations and instruments haha, I’ll leave the commentary at that and leave you once again alone with the movement itself 😌

(The majestic comeback of the charismatic theme at 34.09 though 😳! I’m *this* close to thirsting over a theme omg it’s MESMERISING I want to cry.)

Fauré - Cantique de Jean Racine, Op. 11

And finally, to fulfil your wish 💕, here’s a piece from Fauré where you can hear one of the most beautiful usages of harp in a work, in my opinion.

Even though it’s a religious work, its lyrics are in French. Fauré is a French composer from late 19th century, and even though he’s not that well-known among the media he’s a really unique composer that we can’t even classify in a certain movement. He’s from the same era as the French Impressionists such as Debussy or Ravel, but his style is much more different than theirs. He even has his own unique chord chain etc. that we use the term “fauréen” in harmony classes. But anyways, onto the piece 🤭

I really have no proper words to describe how heavenly, ethereal, poetic, incredible, awe-inspiring and soft this piece is. Like oh my God. I feel my heart melting into a puddle and tear up every time I listen to it. I just can’t bring myself to believe that he was only 19 when he composed this for a competition, if my memory doesn’t deceive me.

The beginning with the orchestra and harp is making a truly beautiful beginning, and the first moment that I want to talk about is 01.09, it always gives me goosebumps when the sopranos come in on the background that the basses and tenors had created.

At 02.00, there’s a soft oboe that comes in for a few seconds and only plays four notes, do you hear it? Those four notes can have my heart 🥺. It’s so beautiful omg. It’s crazy how the littlest touch could make such big of a difference. He could’ve easily not put it there, but he did and that’s what makes a good composer.

The “que tout l’enfer” at 02.24 is so fierce, so mad, “enfer” means “hell” and Fauré really accentuated its meaning, I love it.

And when the piece comes to the ending, at 04.14, a soft flute plays the beginning of the main theme for the first time I believe, which is a really enchanting change for the ear.

And the ending is just so, so soft like the whole piece, I truly can’t. The main melody is just so beautiful, and he truly did an impeccable job with mixing all the voices, the orchestra and the beautiful harp together. I just turn into a soft, soft bubble made out of cotton every time I listen to this.

~

Ahh this was a long ride, I truly hope you enjoyed the pieces, my beloved! I wasn’t sure which style or composers you would like the most, I guess we’ll try and see 😳❤️

Just for the sake of archiving them, I’ll also add the links of the beautiful pieces we discussed on Discord.

Fauré - Barcarolle no. 1 (Fauré brainrot is strong with me nowadays haha)

Mendelssohn - Etude no. 1 op. 104b (I feel like you’d love his A Midsummer Night’s Dream overture ngl, because Shakespeare 😳 I didn’t add it here though since it doesn’t contain piano or harp)

[abbas-ragamuffin]

AU 17, trope 4, prompt 27 for Lokane.

Thank you so much for the request! I’ve never done a band!au before, or a messy meet, so thank you for the challenge, @iamartemisday I hope I did it right and that you enjoy it anyway! :)))

17-band!au, 4-meet messy, 27-“that was a very bad idea. 0/10 would not recommend.”

 Jane was running late, like nearly an hour late, and the show was only ninety minutes long. Her car of course, a Picasso more than a car really, made up of different parts of different colored cars decided to break down tonight of all nights. It wasn’t a beautiful car by any means, but up until recently it had always gotten her from point A to point B. She didn’t come from money, and she worked her tail off in high school to pay for it. Now two years into college, she was planning on trading it in with the money she’d earn from an internship to an astrophysicist. But that wasn’t until the summer and they still had several months worth of classes. This was the worst time to lose her car.

But right now she couldn’t think if that, or the fact she’d left it abandoned on the side of the road. She couldn’t run in her heels, knowing on this uneven pavement she’d probably break her ankle. So she hobbled along on unsteady legs, carrying her violin case and cursing her course choices. Band wasn’t something she needed, or even wanted to take. Her father had played, and left her his violin before he died. Jane was about to begin her freshmen year, the loss still brutally fresh and she chose music as an elective in remembrance of him. Music was her father’s passion, astrophysics was hers.  

Still, she let out a sigh of relief as she entered the parking lot and the entrance to the Music Hall came into view. Just a short way now, she just needed to make it inside without falling and she might be just in time for her solo. It was Bach, the name of the composition still escapes her, all she memorized was the section she’d be performing. She paused as she neared the door, pulling down the skirt of her black, halter top dress and doing her best to straighten her hair. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, she walked the final few steps to the door and reached out.

The door, however, flew open towards her – so hard it appeared it would fly off the hinges. The hinges held, however, that didn’t stop the door from hitting her in the face and knocking her backward until she fall in the garden along the front of the building. She sat up immediately despite the spots in her vision, checking her nose for blood and luckily finding none. But she noticed her bare foot, and the broken shoe that rested beside it. She faintly heard cursing in a smooth British accent coming closer.

At least it wasn’t raining. She didn’t fall in a puddle of mud and nothing was broken. Except her shoe, realizing the four and half inch heel had lost a solid 3 inches. Maybe she could get away with it. As long as she stood stock still while she played, she likely wouldn’t faceplant into the orchestra. A tall, intimidating man in a three-piece suit knelt before her, stretching out his hand to help her up.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

He looked genuinely concerned and she’d never before seen a man with jet black hair that had such bright, vivid eyes. The tears burned in her own eyes, her ankle wasn’t twisted, but this day had been horrible enough and this was only making things worse. She didn’t even wanna do the stupid solo! But Mr. Selvig insisted, even called her his favorite student to butter her up.

“Oh don’t cry, Darling, very bad idea,” he said, waving his program across her face as if to dry her tears, “Your make-up will run. 0/10 would not recommend–”

“10/10 would recommend you not hit me in the face with a door and break my shoe!” she cried, swatting at his outstretched hand as she hauled herself off the ground. Before she could bend to pick it up, the stranger was already handing her the violin case, “I have a solo and I’m already running late…”

She yanked the case from his hand and took hold of the door, pushing passed him as she hobbled on uneven shoes. The nerve!

She felt him rush up behind her.

“I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but your shoe isn’t the only thing ruined…” her steps faltered at his words.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, merely pointed to her left hip. A tear in the dress that went from her hip to just below her armpit. Her whole side was exposed – she’d never be able to hold the violin up and play without everyone getting an eyeful. 

“Oh my god! Are you kidding me?!” she glared at him, mouth agape and a true loss for what to do now. She obviously couldn’t run home and change.

“Before you murder me, just follow me. I have an idea.” he said with hands in the air, walking backwards away from her.

“Follow you? To where?”

“The drama department…” he called as he ran from her view..

She rolled her eyes, removing her other shoe to run after him. As she passed the backstage door of the auditorium, she could hear they were nearing the end of the song before the movement. Luckily, her solo was about five minutes into the piece, which meant she had just under 8 minutes to get new clothes, new shoes, and get back and in place to play. By the time she caught up to him, he was bent in front of the door, she assumed he was picking the lock.

“Do this a lot, do you?” she asked, stopping at his side.

“Not since I was a child.”

The lock clicked and despite herself, Jane was relieved to see the doors open. He switched on the light, seeming to know his way around. He rifled through the rack of costumes, some of the most ugly and ostentatious dresses she’d ever seen.

“Are you in the drama department?”

“Yes, as well as the band.”

She scoffed, “You’re not in the band, I’ve never seen you in our rehearsals.”

“I’m usually late due to one of my courses. I try not to draw attention, so I sit toward the back and I’m always first to leave.”

Jane didn’t respond. It wasn’t impossible, she just couldn’t believe this man had sat a few rows behind her for the last few months and she never noticed.

“What do you play?”

“The chello…Ah!” he pulled a black gown from the rack and held it up to her. It was a long, A-line slip of a dress, black with a plunging v-neck and lace trimming. He held it out to her and motioned to a small fitting room to the right. She sighed and took the hanger. What choice did she have?

“I’ll sort out some shoes for you in the meantime…” he said as she closed the door behind her.

“Thank you…” she called, studying her face and still in shock that it wasn’t bruised or bleeding. That door hurt, and she was certain her nose had been broken. 

There wasn’t time to waste and so she pulled the dress up and zipped the side the closed. It didn’t quite fit. She’d worn the halter top because it was form fitting and left her arms free to play. This dress was way too long, and the plunge of the v-neck nearly reached her belly button. 

“It doesn’t fit…”

“I expected as much. Step outside, I have a remedy.” his voice was much closer and she bit her lip as she debated just staying in this dressing room all night, or at least until everyone from the concert had left.

Jane did as he asked though, reluctantly opening the door and holding the dress closed across her chest. His eyes did a swift once over, not in lust or anything inappropriate, but appraising and calculated. In his hands he held a pair of black heeled boots; the heel was not only shorter but wider as well.

“Put these on first…” she took them with one hand, unwilling to release her grip of the front of the gown.

“So why did you leave in the middle of the performance?” she asked, trying to distract herself as she slipped on the shoes. A near perfect fit. 

“I just needed some air,” he replied, already kneeling before her in an obviously expensive suit, several pins stuck out the corner of his mouth. She held her breath, watching his deft fingers work along the hemline, pinning the fabric where it reached her ankles. A man of many talents…odd talents, but full of surprises.  

Staring was rude, but Jane just help couldn’t help herself. She’ll be needing some air if she doesn’t get herself together. All she could think about was how those long fingers would feel brushing along her jaw, or moving through the short length of her hair. The man could be a model with those angles to his face, but Jane could swear she’d never seen a more gorgeous man than him.  

His long black hair, the paleness of his complexion, those mischievous, vibrant green eyes. If Snow White had been a man, Jane was sure this man was him. And his eyes never wavered as he stood, pulling her wrist away and gathering the fabric in the valley between her breasts. She could hardly breath and he seemed entirely unaffected as he bunched the fabric, inserting two more pins to keep it together.

He stepped back abruptly and turned her around to face the mirror. He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders as he, too, studied her reflection in the mirror. He’d created a rather nice looking knot where he’d gathered the fabric, it almost looked like it belonged there. The v-neck was still lower than she’d normally wear, but he’d done a remarkable job covering her up. A cellist and seamstress...

“You look perfect. Even your make-up held up.”

“Thank you…for all your help – for everything.” she turned to face him, extending her hand, “I’m Jane.”

“A pleasure to meet you Jane. I’m Loki.” instead of shaking her hand, he knelt down to kiss the back of it. She couldn’t control her giggle.

She smiled, “That explains it then…”

“What?” he asked, gently releasing his hold.

“Loki…God of Mischief.” It was his turn to smile, and even look a little surprised. 

“Ah, very good. Most people around here don’t know my namesake.”

“I’m not most people…” she said, and his smile only widened. It made him even more attractive if that was even possible. The blush tainted her cheeks and Jane ducked her head, retrieving her violin and making her way back to the auditorium.

**

“No Miss Foster, you are definitely not most people.”

Loki watched her leave, allowing her to get back and enter the auditorium alone. He didn’t need any gossip getting started. But he couldn’t stop smiling after meeting such a captivating and beautiful woman. Perfect complexion. Heart-shaped face. And her wide blue eyes, looking up at him with – ok, scorn – but also curiosity. And maybe even a touch of awe. But now was not the time to dwell on that.

He’d had his eye on her for some time, but he knew her from his astrophysics class. Her understanding and grasp of the subject awed him, and he’d spent several months just working up the nerve to talk to her. Instead he slams her in the face with a door. Hardly his best moment, but what’s done is done. The hard part is over, they’ve met, he knows her name and she knows his.

Turning out the light, he closed the door behind him, unable to lock it. The sound of her violin filled the halls and he picked up his pace, sneaking in the back stage door. He watched from the shadows, strangely proud of her for her determination to be here and not just give up. He was also proud of his own quick thinking - the dress really did look made for her. He’d have to remember to thank his mother later, despite always complaining when she taught him such feminine things.

After the show, he would offer her a ride home. Come Monday, he intended to start getting to know her and courting her properly. 

[hazzabeeforlou]

On the eve of HS2, I felt I needed to reflect and write a diary entry of sorts, an ode to where I was and where I am now, a musing on how HS1 ushered in a whole new world for me. This is long and more personal than anything I’ve previously shared, but in honor of vulnerability and maybe helping someone else who’s struggling... here it is. 

The most exposure 2015 me had to pop music was occasionally listening to ‘hits’ radio. My old art teacher in high school had blasted the classics of the 60s and 70s daily, so I knew those, albeit not the names, but the music, the style, the melodic tropes and such. 2015 me didn’t have much time for pop music. I was getting a fancy degree in classical music from one of the best conservatories in the world, and I’d made it there after four years with a highly abusive teacher in undergrad who gave me horrible anxiety; by the end, whenever she would walk into a room, I would get chills and start shaking. She delighted in lying to me, in calling me out in front of my peers. Worse, I was arguably her highest-achieving student. The day I got into Juilliard she took me for “tea” to celebrate, where she proceeded to spend the whole time telling me how she had made this happen, how her connections got me to NY, how I should be grateful. 

Entering the world of NYC and Juilliard I was an awestruck, anxious mess. Everything moved too fast, the school was overwhelming, my studio mates were famous already, some of them having won world-famous competitions and been on the cover of magazines. I was in the elite place, a place my working class roots had never prepared me for. My dad was a millwright. He went to work every day in steel-toed boots and overalls and often returned so filthy mom wouldn’t let him wash his clothes in the household washing machine. But I was nothing if not adaptable, and grateful, and charming, and I did my best. I worked hard. But my health kept deteriorating. 

All through undergrad I’d been feeling progressively worse. I had horrible acne that I presumed was caused by stress, as I’d never suffered with it in high school. I was already an introvert, but body insecurity led me to hardly ever socialize. I would spent hours getting ready for things, never willing to show my bare face. But that wasn’t the worst; I’d developed what I now understand was an eating disorder, because no matter how much I exercised or dieted, I kept gaining weight, or rather, I lost all my baby fat but remained the same scale number. I kept telling my mother I was fat. I didn’t tell her that I hated the wind, that I hated running, because it made my stomach protrude and the whole world could see the extra pounds I carried. I never made an appointment with an OBGYN because I didn’t date much less have sex, and my mother had told me, well you don’t ever need to be seen until you do. I came to NYC well versed in wearing baggy sweaters and scarfs that hid my form. And for two years, as my breathing got worse and worse, as my energy levels dropped, as my skin hurt and itched, I pushed forwards. I remember practicing one day and my eyes going black. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe. 

It was getting into an international competition that saved me. I got the news in early May of 2016; I jumped around my room and I started coughing, and the next day a hernia appeared above my belly button. I was only slightly worried, but I went to see the Juilliard doctor. She asked if I’d gained weight, she said even a couple pounds could do it. I was, as always, ashamed, red faced, embarrassed as she prodded around on my torso. 

She said I’d need surgery. So I scheduled it in NYC for two days after my graduation. I played my recital, but with a binder around my abdomen. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t remember my memorized music. I nearly passed out. I stumbled on the sidewalk afterwards. 

When I woke from the surgery I was in blinding pain, teeth chattering uncontrollably, in shock. I couldn't open my eyes, and every breath felt like knives slicing into my chest. I heard the nurses say, “We’ve given you three IVs of Percocet, do you want us to give you a forth?” I said no, thinking, ‘what if I die from an overdose?’ After two hours my mother came in search of me. It was supposed to be a day surgery. She demanded morphine. They sent me home on it, but two days later I’d thrown up twice and was back in the ER. A CT showed I had an ovarian cyst. The doctor said to me, “It’s 28 inches. It’s the size of a dinner plate.” I didn’t understand. They rushed me back for another surgery, and asked me to sign a paper saying I wouldn’t hold them responsible if I ended up paralyzed. I signed it. I joked with the nurses before they put me under. I was shaking with pain. I thought, if this is the end, I’ve had a good life. I’ll be with my doggy, my baby puppy. I’ve graduated from my dream school. I’ve gotten into an elite international competition. I’ll go out at the top of my game. It’s okay. 

But then I woke up. Over the next year, I would wish countless times that I hadn’t. I could barely walk. I couldn’t lift things like a fork, or my computer. I couldn’t shower or cough or even shit. I couldn’t practice or sit upright for more than fifteen minutes. Pain became a constant. I started to wake up with night sweats, my forehead creased in subconscious pain. I would jump at every loud noise, my heart lurching like a ruined engine, and I couldn’t remember names of flowers. I fell into a massive depression over the next few months, made worse by the 2016 election; because of my infirmity I had moved back home with my Trump-voting parents. The bravest thing I did that fall was ‘come out’ as a liberal on Facebook. My parents pretended not to notice when I stayed up late that cold November night, huddled with a blanket on the couch, crying my eyes out.

The Christmas 2016 season is a blur. I know I half lived in memories, half in grief, but all in self-pitying misery. I remember reading a passing article about Jay, not knowing who it was, and I remember adding a lost mother to the list of things I cried about. How could the world be so cruel, so unfair? My days were filled with PT and sleep, immobility and exhaustion, and questions, questions like if I can’t do what I love, what I’ve spent years training for, what’s the point? What does it mean to be an artist when you can’t do your art? What is left of me that matters? Is the future only more pain? It would have been better to have died. It would have been better to have died. 

Up until this point I had been unlucky in love. I could never find men attractive, though many friends pressured me to try, which of course had led to not good things. I’d been confronted a couple times about maybe being gay, but I’d shot this down immediately, my face bright red, my heart pounding. No, that’s not it, I’m just picky. Two girls in grad school had flirted with me; I’d accidentally gone on a date with one. I’d felt deeply, gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable about her. But how could I ever unpack all of that when just coming out as a liberal had given me anxiety for days...  

The new year came and I had nothing to look forward to. I could see no happy future. I wasn’t really in my right mind. I would escape as best I could, perhaps in masochistic ways; I’d watch SNL for humorous liberal comfort, and Colbert to feel some spark of angry solidarity. And that’s how I stumbled on Harry. He got me with his puns, because I love those. For the first time in months, I was giggling about something, this charming boy with curls and dimples who had replaced the scream-speech of James Cordon. For once I didn’t turn the tv off after Colbert. 

I began listening to Harry’s songs. As I had no reference for contemporary pop music, his old school rock album was familiar to me in a comforting way. I knew these sounds, these tropes, and yet they didn’t feel stale to me, they spoke to something I was feeling in the present. Because the album, in essence, was about pain, wasn’t it? Pain and escaping it. The lies we tell to survive, the dreams we cling to for hope, the drugs we use to forget. I’d never bought a pop album before, Harry was my first, and I listened to it for hours every day. 

HS1 seeped into my blood, but I’d been on a hopeless, aimless track for so long that the railway tie hadn’t yet switched. One warm, sunny spring day I wrote a note, filled a bag with rocks, and walked to the old bike trail, out past the freeway, into the marshes and pools of abandoned swampy wasteland. FTDT played in my head on a loop as I walked, as my brain hummed with the equation of worth. Was it worth it to stay alive?

Yes. I threw the rocks. I threw them as far as my fragile arms would allow, and they splashed into the murky water. And I turned around and called my mom to come get me. Harry had made something that was beautiful, that was touching, that was real. And if he could... then maybe I could too. Maybe I didn’t have to be just what I’d been before. Maybe I could try creating other things; maybe I could make art that, like Harry’s music, made other people feel less alone. 

There was something magical about that album. Not freedom, per se, but the promise of it, a glimpse of truth that kept me hanging on. 

I began writing poems again, songs. I got into an orchestra program, I healed month by month, I started carrying crystals, I found this crazy fandom and, little by little, grew to understand that my yearning upon looking at baby larry videos was really a cry of sameness that I had never before understood. After the Pulse shooting, during my horrible homebound year, I’d watched Lin-Manuel Miranda give his love is love is love speech, and I’d burst into tears. And I’d not known why. Now I began to realize. I remember the first tentative anon I sent to Phoenix @alienfuckeronmain asking if maybe I was... bi? I remember anxiously awaiting her answer, as if I needed an invitation to join the community, to be valid, to have this not just be a crazy swelling of hope in my chest. She replied while I was wandering through a corn maze in the frigidness of October. The next day I walked into rehearsal and I felt free, free of the way boys looked at me, free of being FOR them, and I’d never felt so... alive. Coincidentally I met my ex girlfriend that day too. 

Through Harry I found this fandom, and Louis. Louis, who has spoken to me on levels I cannot even express, whose class and political and emotional intelligence have challenged me to stand up for things I never thought I could. For me these last few years have felt like a journey WITH Harry. As he started waving them, I started wearing rainbows, just subtly. A knit scarf, a postcard, a bag. I started writing fic, the most healing thing I’ve ever done. I learned to create art away from the singular thing I’d been trained to dump my all into, and I learned that I have so much more to offer, even if chronic pain will follow me in some way or another for the rest of my life. 

I’m so thankful to Harry for taking me on this adventure with him; I don’t know if I’d have ever taken that first step by myself. It was like he held my hand through it all, like this fandom held my hand through it all. Like by being himself, Harry helped me be brave enough to evolve too. 

Through the catalyst of Harry’s art I’ve experienced more happiness than I’d have ever imagined. I cannot wait to go on this next journey, a second album, and reflect on just how far we’ve both come. 

[kageshoud]

Sounds. | Kagehina

Chapter 1

The story is also on my wattpad @kageshoud in case you want to check it out there

Talent was a gift and Tobio Kageyama knew that. His gift is to play the piano but that doesn't mean that he likes what hes gifted with. Often he thinks to himself 'why cant I have another talent? Something fun like beeing good at soccer or volleyball'.

He just lived his life. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His parent's were very strict with him and gave him piano lessons, without even asking whether he liked it. Kageyama never declined an order from his parents. In Middle school he quickly became the pianist for the orchestra but he never really enjoyed it. But still, he just wasn't ready to decide about his own life since his parents always ruled over his life. His own future.

"Aaand Tobio, do you know which class you want to join? Are you going to the orchestra class like in middleschool?"

Kageyama's best friend Nishinoya was lying on a bench with his head dangling off the end.

Nishinoya and Kageyama have known each other since middle school. They didn't had the same interests, but they get along well anyway.

"I... don't know for sure..." Kageyama replied hesitantly. Nishinoya immediately sat up. " You don't know yet? Haven't your parents forced you to join the orchestra class yet?" "Well..." Kageyama began. "They said that since I am now 18, I know the right answer myself..." Kageyama looked up. Nishinoya looked at him beaming with joy. "That means you can join the gym class i'm in, right?"

'Of course I could do that,' Kageyama thought. He always wanted to be an athlete, but you couldn't make money with that, at least that's what his parents kept telling him.

"I have to think about it," Kageyama stood up with these words. He didn't want to tell Nishinoya what he thought. "Besides, I have to do something in my room for English." 'Plausible excuse' Kageyama thought. "Sure you want to go back to your room? You know whos gonna be there." Nishinoya raised one eyebrow. 'Shit he's right,' Kageyama thought.

His roommate.

Tsukishima.

"Of course I know that" with these words Kageyama packed his things and made his way to the residential buildings on campus.

Kageyama's old music teacher always said he could make it big, become successful with his talent. Kageyama never thought about what would had happened if he never started playing the piano in the first place. 'Probably nothing' he thought.

While he was walking, Kageyama just looked at the ground but stopped when he saw a shadow on the ground in front of him.

He looked up.

A boy stood before him, not much taller than 5,4". His short orange hair was waving in the wind. "Ah- I'm sorry" Kageyama apologized. Somehow he thought the boy would apologize too, but nothing happened.

A little irritated Kageyama went on, but something pulled at his sleeve.

The boy looked at him somewhat uncertainly and formed the word 'sorry' with his lips, whereupon he ran away.

Strange but okay.

When Kageyama arrived in his room, his roommate laid on his bed, and his glasses were on the desk.

"Do you ever show your face," Tsukishima said teasingly.

"As if you mind me beeing away." Kageyama slammed his backpack on the desk chair and threw himself on his bed.

Beeing able to join the gym class was a dream come true for Kageyama, right ?

_______________________

You really couldn't say that Shoyo Hinata had been lucky in his life or was happy. Of course he had fun sometimes, for example when he built a snowman with his little sister Natsu last winter or when he didn't get an F in an English test for the first time. But these things weren't exactly the things Hinata always wanted to do. His parents have never forbidden him anything. They wanted Hinata to be happy - as much as that is possible in his situation - and he loved his parents for that, but they weren't to blame for Hinata not being able to live his dream.

Once, when he was little, there was a concert in his primary school. At that time he didn't know exactly what it was - and he didn't know afterwards either, but the everyone looked so touched and yet so happy when they saw a group of children making music. At that time Hinata wondered why. Why did the people look like that, there was nothing there - and yet he could sense something in the air, something beautiful. In middle school, he used to go to a lot of concerts. He just liked the good mood everyone was in.

That was all a few years ago.

Hinata finally gathered his courage and decided to move into the dorms at his new high school.

In his head it all sounded a bit easier.

He didn't want to worry his parents, so he decided to move, but right on the first day an accident happened.

"You are Hinata, aren't you?" A slightly shy looking boy opened the door for Hinata. He had dyed his hair blond. His brown roots gave it away. Hinata quickly entered the room and put his suitcase on his bed from which he pulled an orange notebook and wrote something in it.

If you want to tell me something, you can write it in here.

I can't hear.

The blond boy began to write.

The principal told me about you.

I am Kenma, nice to meet you.

Hinata smiled. Maybe he was lucky after all. At least he had a nice roommate.

Kenma wrote something again.

The principal told me that you should go to him for registration stuff.

Hinata just nodded and quickly put on a thin jacket before leaving the room.

Hinata rushed across the campus as he didn't want to be back in his room too late. But suddenly he stopped abruptly. A tall boy with raven black hair and deep blue eyes stood in front of him.

He seemed to be saying something, but Hinata couldn't hear him.

The boy seemed to be waiting for something but then turned and left. Hinata was unsure what to do, so at least he tried to apologize. He grabbed the young man's sleeve and tried to say 'sorry' but he formed the word only with his lips.

Hinata didn't want to have to explain himself, so he ran away. Either way, he had to see the principal quickly.

After Hinata filled out the forms with the director, he went back to his room. Kenma was lying on his bed playing video games, but he looked up as Hinata entered the room.

Kenma pulled out the notebook.

Do you like video games?

he wrote.

Hinata just nodded with a smile. Kenma gave him a joy-con from his switch and so the two spent the evening playing Smash Bros.

At night Hinata still lying awake in his bed. The first day of school here. 'I wonder what it will be like.' He thought.

'Hopefully not as embarrassing as the meeting with raven-boy.'

@artsamber @salty-blocker @fullmetalfangirl21 @tiger1719 @izzyphantomgamer @sunshines-and-tatertots

[johannesviii]

Top 10 Personal Favorite Hit Songs from 2004

15 to 16 years old. A chaotic year for sure, but with a high quality soundtrack. So here’s a top ten list in which, as usual for that decade, several painful cuts had to be made.

Disclaimers:

Keep in mind I’m using both the year-end top 100 lists from the US and from France while making these top 10 things. There’s songs in English that charted in my country way higher than they did in their home countries, or even earlier or later, so that might get surprising at times.

Of course there will be stuff in French. We suck. I know. It’s my list. Deal with it.

My musical tastes have always been terrible and I’m not a critic, just a listener and an idiot.

I have sound to color synesthesia which justifies nothing but might explain why I have trouble describing some songs in other terms than visual ones.

To provide the usual personal context, that year, being that-weirdo-in-the-back-of-the-class suddenly became great when OTHER people were also considered weirdos-in-the-back-of-the-class, and together, with a guy who kept falling asleep in class because he had insomnia, another guy who had elocution problems, and a girl who arrived directly from Cameroun in the middle of winter and was kinda depressed, we formed some sort of losers club and suddenly things weren’t so bad anymore. Unfortunately I completely lost contact with these people after highschool and that’s one of the biggest regrets of my life.

And then in September I once again ended in a completely different class in Terminale (equivalent of Senior Year in the US unless I’m mistaken) and made another great friend. So while life at home was still pretty bad, at least it was much better at school.

At this point my parents also stopped checking what kind of singles I was buying, which means that instead of this madness from 2003 where I had to hide some purchases with other ones...

...I only bought this in 2004 and the rest were actual albums.

Also, I found some old tapes and oh my goodness look at the label on this one. Late 2002/early 2003 at its finest right there. Kyo written with a typo, next to Eminem, next to Mylène Farmer. Love it.

With all of that out of the way, here’s a list of honorable mentions first. A very, very long list.

Yeah (Usher feat Lil Jon & Ludacris) - Thank goodness I thought this song was pretty cool, otherwise I’d have been miserable while listening to the radio in 2004.

Milkshake (Kelis) - Ooooooh daaaaangerously close to the So Bad It’s Good category.

Let’s Get It Started (Black Eyed Peas) - Don’t have anything to say, it’s a lot of fun.

Dragosta Din Tei (O-Zone) - This took like four more years to chart in the US but we heard it all summer here. And it wasn’t unpleasant at all to be honest?

Heaven (remix) (DJ Sammy) - Hang on, wasn’t this on the 2002 honorable mentions? Yeah but it took two years to chart here so it was elligible for 2004 as well.

Turn Me On (Kevin Lyttle) - A quality earworm that somehow isn’t annoying? Sign me up.

Call On Me (Eric Prydz) - Hey, look, another repetitive dance track in my collection of repetitive dance tracks!

What You Waiting For? (Gwen Stefani) - I think this is the only Gwen Stefani song that never made me turn the radio off after a minute. Pretty good.

It’s My Life (No Doubt) - Love the original. This version, not so much.

Parce Qu’on Vient de Loin (Corneille) - Favorite artist of my best friend that year. That song was so moving and well-written. Never got tired of it but never actively listened to it either. If I had better taste it would probably make the list.

The Reason (Hoobastank) - I thought this was ok and pretty nice if a bit bland, and didn’t deserve the success nor the hatred it got. However, thanks to the rock journal I was buying at the time which was like “hey, please listen to the album itself, it’s great!”, I followed that advice, listened to the album at the cd store and bought it instantly. If you dislike this song, please listen to the rest of the album, I swear you’ll enjoy it. Here’s the first track, Same Direction, to get a general idea!

Don’t Tell Me (Avril Lavigne) - Her second album was very good, wasn’t it? What happened to her in recent years?

Je Saigne Encore (Kyo) - This was the last cut (HA, get it? cut?? ok sorry that was terrible) from the list. While I loved it back in the day and while I’m willing to ignore how cringy some stuff I loved as a teenager can be now, I'm not willing to ignore how this is basically a song about a white boy being dumped for the first time and hurting himself because he can’t deal with the mere concept of jealousy. And I’m like “holy shit calm down dude and please drop that knife”.

And now, the actual list.

10 - Hey Ya! (Outkast)

US: #8 / FR: #41

Who’s surprised. Come on. Everyone loved it. I even bought the single! And to think I almost considered leaving it out of the top 10 to put friggin Kyo on it, of all things. The indignity. But yeah, I genuinely loved this. The only thing I can say against it is that it’s a bit too exhausting to be listened to on a loop.

9 - 100 Years (Five For Fighting)

US: #77 / FR: Not on the list

I only heard this a couple of times that year and never paid much attention.

Then I heard it again in 2018 right in the middle of a very, very bad year, after losing my grandfather, and it absolutely destroyed me.

It’s very, very good.

8 - Face à la Mer (Passy & Calogero)

US: Not on the list / FR: #11

Very overplayed that year. A delight every single time it was on the radio, though. Don’t have anything else to say about it.

7 - Modern Times (J-Five)

US: Not on the list / FR: #26

A hiphop song sampling a scene from Modern Times with Charlie Chaplin. It peaked at number 1 here! Not kidding! I bought the single after hearing it exactly once. It’s fantastic and I’m really sad time buried it like it did. If you’ve forgotten about it or simply never heard it before, please give it a listen, it needs more love.

6 - Hit My Heart (Benassi Bros)

US: Not on the list / FR: #74

Remember last time when I said I was a major sucker for Benassi Bros? Well this isn’t an exception. That is a killer drop right there. It looks great and dark and glittery all at once and, by the way, the sunny and summer-y music video completely contradicted how the song looked like in my ears, haha.

5 - My Happy Ending (Avril Lavigne)

US: #54 / FR: Not on the list

I’m not entirely sure what went wrong and when in Avril Lavigne’s career the shift happened, but a couple of years after that song her music got a lot less interesting. I may have enjoyed her first album Let Go a lot, but this song might just be her best one ever.

The sudden shift from “YOU WERE everything” to “HE WAS everything” near the end, in particular, is great writing. Love that.

4 - Left Outside Alone (Anastacia)

US: Not on the list / FR: #76

Usually, voices, good or bad, have zero impact on me except when they border on unlistenable, or when they are physically painful to hear/look at. The guy from Muse for example has a voice that looks like the equivalent of a flashlight in the dark and it hurts, and I’m like dude. Can you please tune that down a little bit. Please.

This lady’s voice right there is fascinating though. Her voice is green and dark and it’s such a strange, rare voice I’m charmed whenever I hear it, and in this song in particular. This was on SO MANY of my tapes it’s not even funny. And the chorus is fantastic and a joy to sing along with even if you don’t have a good voice yourself.

3 - Orchestra (The Servant)

US: Not on the list / FR: #97

So we were on vacation, and they were giving away free cds at one stop. And I put the one I got in my portable cd player, and wasn’t that excited by the first tracks.

And then the fifth one started. And I was instantly captivated.

You already know I absolutely adored Placebo at the time (sadly, Protect Me isn’t elligible here either), and that guy from The Servant had a similar voice and the song was roughly in the same ballpark, and the lyrics were so, so weird.

There's an orchestra in me, Playing endlessly I even hear it now They play in the devil's key, An endless symphony I even hear it now And I listen to the music, Beautiful music Yes I listen to the music, Beautiful music

And, again, I’m terrible at describing sounds but the colors are so disquieting and there’s an unpleasant vibe except the song itself isn’t unpleasant? It’s so damn weird. And that band never struck gold again after that.

I still don’t know what happened or how all of this works. It’s a mystery. A very beautiful and curious mystery. This would have had a good shot at winning the #1 spot if it hadn’t been for [shakes fist] these other guys.

2 - Breaking the Habit (Linkin Park)

US: #79 / FR: #89

Only #2? Does... does that mean Linkin Park isn’t going to top my lists three years in a row? Holy shit, dodged a bullet there.

Should I really repeat my whole speech about Meteora. Should I really. Come on. It starts with the sound of a closing door, then broken glass, and then guitars explode in your face. The first line of the album is “sometimes I need to remember just to breathe”! Somewhere I Belong is one of my favorite songs from the band! I was trying to match the flow of Faint even if my English was still extremely shaky and my accent terrible!

And then there’s Breaking the Habit, which sounds almost pleasant compared to the levels of aggression displayed by the other songs. But it’s weirdly tense and stressful for that exact reason, because this relative calm sounds like a menace.

It works even better out of the context of the album, where it sounded a tad more aggressive than the average pop song, but still tense and stressful. And the music video is fantastic. I had it on a giant poster. I know I’ve kept it folded somewhere. If I only knew where it was, I’d show it to you. Covering up the (bright pink) walls in my room back then was a lot of work.

Edit: Nevermind. Found it:

Gotta say one thing though. At least they aren’t #1 for the third year in a row. What’s left of my dignity has been saved.

1 - Enjoy the Silence 2004 (Depeche Mode, Mike Shinoda remix)

US: Not on the list / FR: #89

Waiiiit a second. This was remixed by Mike Shinoda, wasn’t it. Mike Shinoda. From Linkin Park.

I guess Linkin Park IS topping my lists three years in a row in the end sdfghjhgfdfghjkjhg end me

But yeah. So. Enjoy the Silence tops a second list of mine, then. 14 years after the first one. I’m not gonna repeat what I’ve already said about that song. It simply got a brand new coat of paint, but still, even if it’s basically street art painted over a framed painting, what a masterpiece. Was genuinely gawking the first time I heard it on the radio.

And then Depeche Mode released one of their best albums ever the very next year, and it was the album of the year for me, and I became a big fan. So yeah, thanks for introducing me to their music, Mike Shinoda.

Bonus: I noticed my trusty old radio/cd player was in the background of a pic my brother took around that time! I miss that radio. It was pearl-colored and I had added stickers of birds and insects on it. So everytime I say “on the radio” in these posts, just picture this round little thing which was at the center of my universe back then.

Next up: Not the best song of the decade but pretty close

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Two {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One}

Chapter Three → in which the Baudelaires make new friends 

“Class sucks.” said Nick. “I am not going again.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” said Lilac, as she held one of Solitude’s hands as they walked down the hall.

Their first night with the shack had been awful, mainly because after they had spent time trying to find a hay bale that was not infested with angry and territorial crabs, they realized there was, indeed, not room for all six of them to lay down in the shack, so they took Solitude’s suggestion and slept outside, shivering in the cold and wishing they still had blankets. When they awoke to the schoolbells clanging in the morning, they groaned and sat up and managed to find the bathrooms to wash up as best they could before heading off to their separate destinations.

Nick had not liked that he had to separate from Klaus and Solitude, and Violet basically had to drag him away while Soli called out that they were going to be fine and he needed to stop worrying, and Lilac took Klaus’s hand as they walked down the hall and dragged him to Room Two. Solitude took Sunny’s hand and helped her walk to the administration building, still working on helping her walk on her own.

In Room One, Violet and Nick were seated in the back of the class while the other students either ignored them or glared at them, with the exception of a boy who gave Violet a friendly smile and Nick a curious look, and Carmelita Spats, who was unfortunately seated right behind Violet and kept tossing erasers at her. Both Violet and Nick had been quietly horrified to discover that their teacher, Mr Remora, spent the entire class time talking about random stories that had happened to him, and then quizzing them on that. Nick looked completely and utterly bored out of his mind, as if he’d rather be back in the home of Count Olaf than here at the moment.

In Room Two, Lilac and Klaus also sat in the back of the class, with only one girl giving them a smile before Ms Bass entered and started placing items in front of them, telling them to measure them, write down how long they were, and then quizzing them on what they’d just measured. Lilac kept playing with her braids, or braiding the unbraided part of her hair, and Klaus struggled to pay attention, unable to comprehend how on Earth this was supposed to be helpful to their education.

Solitude and Sunny made their way to the administrative building and Soli sat at a typewriter and typed up whatever Nero dictated to her, which was usually letters to prestigious orchestras and other schools begging for attention. Sunny sat beside her, putting the letters in envelopes or stapling them together. Sometimes they’d switch up if Solitude saw a bug flying around and went to fetch it to feed to Babbitt, or if Sunny started getting bored and decided to bang on the keys for a bit. Once someone called, but after Sunny babbled her form of “Hello,” they hung up instantly. Soli suggested that it may have been a prank call, as Nero continued practicing his horrible violin playing.

“It was awful.” Nick said. “We heard nothing but pointless stories.”

“That’s just language arts.” Lilac shrugged.

“We spent the morning writing meaningless measurements.” Klaus sighed.

“That’s just math.” Violet said. “How was work, Sunny?”

“Yuck,” said Sunny, who was carefully walking between Violet and Lilac, each holding one hand. “Tedious.”

“Well, maybe lunch will be better.” Lilac said.

“All my old friends who went to public school said the food sucked.” Violet said. “Ben said he threw up once.”

“Well, this is private school, maybe it’ll be different.” Lilac said.

They turned a bend, and Nick put a hand on a locker on the wall as they passed. It almost instantly toppled over.

“I somehow doubt that.” Nick said.

They walked into the lunchroom, to see a huge lasagna, bigger than anything they’d ever seen; it seemed to be longer than all of them, if they stood on each others’ shoulders. Some lunch ladies were scooping parts out of a pan and slamming them onto plates for students. The Baudelaires got in line and tried to ignore the strange smell coming from the food, and Sunny put her hands over her ears to block out the noise of the other students running around and yelling towards each other, and Soli leaned against Nick and put a hand on Babbitt, who was hiding in her pocket.

At the end of the lasagna line was a basket of fruit, but they all looked very strange, so even Lilac didn’t insist they take any. They each put a glass of milk on their tray, and started to wander the cafeteria, looking for an empty table.

“Hey, orphans!” Carmelita Spats passed them by, flanked by two miserable-looking students. “There’s room at my table! Oh, but not for cakesniffing orphans like you!”

“Still don’t know what that means.” Nick muttered, giving her a death glare and stepping a bit closer to Klaus.

Carmelita gave him a glare, and then slammed her tray onto her table, and very loudly, she started chanting, “Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphans Shack! Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphans Shack!”

Violet pressed herself against Lilac as Carmelita’s friends took up the chant, and so did several other students. Sunny, only barely gripping onto her tray of lunch, let out a huff of annoyance, and Soli stepped a bit closer to Carmelita, looking prepared to throw Babbitt at her; Nick responded by moving a leg in front of the toddler and pushing her back slightly.

“Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphans Shack! Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphans Shack!”

At that moment, a boy stepped out in front of them, yelling, “Oh, piss off, Carmelita! You’re the cakesniffer, and nobody in their right minds would associate with you!”

Carmelita huffed, and the other students quietly glanced away. “Cakesniffing orphans stick together, looks like.” she said.

“At least we have someone to stick with.” said a girl who looked frighteningly similar to the boy, moving to stand beside him. She glanced towards the Baudelaires, and Lilac and Klaus recognized her from their class. “Come on. We have a table in the corner.” she said.

She grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him off with her and, a little confused, the Baudelaires quickly followed. The boy and girl sat next to each other at a table, and after a moment, Klaus and Violet sat across from them, and Nick beside his siblings, picking up Solitude so she could sit by him. Lilac sat beside the new children, picking up Sunny and helping her with her meal.

“You’ll have to ignore Carmelita.” the boy said. “She’s so horrible that Ms Bass is considering a life of crime. Isadora wrote a poem about her!”

The girl smiled and pulled a small black notebook from her sweater pocket, flipping it open and reading aloud, “I would rather eat a bowl of vampire bats / Than spend an hour with Carmelita Spats.”

“That’s a couplet.” said Klaus excitedly. “Ogden Nash uses them.”

The girl brightened. “I know! I’ve read all of his work!”

“My name is Duncan Quagmire,” said the boy, “And this is my sister, Isadora.”

“Well, I’m Lilac Baudelaire,” said Lilac, and then she started pointing around the table. “And these are my siblings Violet, Klaus, Nick, Solitude and Sunny.”

“Timi!” shouted Sunny. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Whoa.” Duncan smiled slightly. “There sure are a lot of you.”

“We get that a lot.” Violet nodded.

“We should warn you,” Isadora said, “The apples taste like horseradish.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Nick said. “You heard that, Soli?”

“Roger!” Soli squeaked.

Sunny narrowed her eyes. “Armoracia,” she muttered, which meant something like, “That doesn’t sound right. Apples and Horseradish taste very differently.”

“You’re in our class.” Nick said, looking towards Duncan.

Duncan nodded. “Mr Remora’s stories are awful, aren’t they? Why would we need to know all of that?”

“It must be better than Ms Bass’s class.” Klaus said. “Why are we just measuring random things instead of learning calculations?”

“I know!” Isadora nodded. “I usually just measure everything as fast as I can and then get to writing in my commonplace book.”

“That’s a good idea. Wish we had notebooks.” Lilac said. “How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks.” Duncan said quietly. “We got transferred here as soon as…”

He glanced towards his sister, and she said, “We lost our parents in a terrible fire.”

The Baudelaires fell silent. “We’re sorry to hear that.” Violet said softly.

“We lost our parents in a fire as well.” Nick said.

“It’s not fair.” Klaus said, glaring down at his lasagna. “One minute you’re… safe and happy, and the next-”

“You’re in a shack full of crabs.” Isadora nodded.

“Speaking of which, how did you deal with the crabs?” Violet asked.

“It won’t matter, Vi, we can’t all fit in the shack.” Nick said.

“We might be able to if we get all the crabs out.” Klaus said.

“We couldn’t get them out,” Isadora said, “But we glued bits of metal to our shoes to make a tapping noise that scared them away.”

“It was a bit exhausting, though,” Duncan said, “Keeping our feet tapping.”

“Maybe we could build a noisemaker.” Violet said, starting to tie back her hair. “What about the fungus?”

“I think there’s some stuff about it in the library, but it’s only accessible through the dorms.” Duncan said. “We could sneak some books out- oh! Or we could sneak you in! Once the librarian goes home, nobody goes in, we can climb through a window!”

Klaus’s eyes lit up. “You’d help us sneak into a library?”

“We sneak into rooms all the time.” Isadora shrugged. “The science room is creepy, though, there’s a bunch of statues that’re still there. The art room is pretty fun, though.”

“Maybe we could sleep in the library.” Nick suggested.

“It would take a bit longer to get to class,” Duncan said, “And you don’t want to be late, it’ll get hard to eat.”

“I’ll just skip meals.” Nick said, leaning back. “This looks bad anyway. I’ll eat dirt.”

“You absolutely will not.” Lilac said.

“There’s probably some plants around here that aren’t dead.”

“Nick, no-”

“We’ll need a plan to get into the library.” Violet said. “Do you know how to unlock windows?”

“A little.” Isadora shrugged.

“I can get the windows,” Lilac said, “Should be an ordinary-enough pin-tumbler lock.”

“Yeah, there’s no locks.” Duncan said. “Bonnie said that they fell off a few years ago and never got replaced.”

“That’ll be way easier.” Lilac said. “Solitude, Sunny, you’ll have to be held by one of us, or helped in.”

“It really shouldn’t be too hard.” Isadora shrugged. “Nobody ever goes in there, except us.”

“You won’t have to do much work.” Duncan said.

“Thank you so much.” Violet said. “We don’t know what we’d do if we hadn’t run into you two twins.”

Duncan and Isadora fell silent.

“Did I say something wrong?” Violet asked, knowing that she and Nick tended to do that a lot.

“Twins.” Duncan said.

“Is there something wrong with that?” Nick asked. “Klaus and I are twins. I’m older, by the way.”

“Please shut up.” Klaus said.

“We’re not twins.” Duncan said.

“We’re triplets.” Isadora said.

“Oh.” Violet said. “Wait, aren’t triplets three children born at once?”

“Yeah.” Duncan nodded. “We are.”

“Our…” Isadora stared hard at the table. “Our brother, Quigley, died in the fire with our parents.”

“Oh.” said Klaus.

“Oh.” said Nick and Sunny.

“We’re very sorry to hear that.” Violet said.

“You didn’t know.” Isadora shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Klaus reached over the table, putting one hand over Isadora’s hand and one over Duncan’s. “I know I’d feel awful if Nick wasn’t here and people stopped calling me a twin.”

“I wouldn’t.” Nick said, though he clearly didn’t mean it.

Lilac glanced at the triplets, noticing their sullen faces. Shit, we need to lighten up this mood somehow. Unfortunately, Lilac was not very good at social situations, so before she could stop herself, she said, very awkwardly, “I mean. If you want, you could take one of my siblings.”

They all fell completely silent. After a moment, Lilac laughed a little, trying to clear the air. “Uh… please take one of them?”

“Forgive her,” Violet said quietly, “She doesn’t know how to people.”

Slowly, Isadora smiled. “It’s alright. Quigley probably would’ve said the same thing.”

“He’s such an idiot.” Duncan smiled a little, staring at his food. His face fell, then, and he said, “But, um… anyway, we- while you’re here-” He glanced up at the boys. “I just… did I see you two? In the bathroom yesterday?”

He looked over at the twins, and Klaus blushed a little as Isadora’s eyes widened. “Yeah, Klaus couldn’t tie his tie.” Nick said. “I remember.”

“God, Duncan, you finally found your soulmate.” Isadora said, as she started digging into her pocket. “Maybe if you learned how to do it-”

“Okay, so it is you?” Duncan raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, why?” Klaus bit his lip. “Did we do something wrong-?”

“Do you still have that spyglass?”

The Baudelaires all froze. “What?” Violet asked.

“You saw that?” Nick asked.

“How’d you know it was a spyglass?” Klaus asked.

“Because,” Isadora said, and as they watched, she pulled half a spyglass out of her pocket, a familiar Eye emblazoning the cover, “We have one, too.”

The Quagmires and Baudelaires stared at each other for a good while. Then, slowly, Klaus pulled the half-spyglass from his pocket. He flipped it and held it out, and Isadora put hers against it.

Click.

They fit together, into a full spyglass.

There was more silence, and then Lilac said, “Where did you get that?”

“From the ruins of our parents’ home.” Isadora said quietly.

“Same with us.” Violet whispered.

Klaus shut his eyes, and then said, “We need to talk somewhere nobody can listen in. Is the Orphans Shack safe?”

“We can’t fit.” Lilac reminded him.

“We can’t fit laying down.” Klaus said. “We could probably squeeze in if we’re sitting or standing.”

“Nobody ever goes there.” Isadora nodded. “Let’s head out. Just toss your food, it sucks anyway.”

“Can we eat dirt instead?” Nick asked.

“I’m gonna kill you.” Lilac hissed, her face still a bit red from embarrassment.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Nick shouted, and like that, he took off running.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Isadora cheered, and she ran after him, whooping.

Duncan sighed, and then looked to the remaining Baudelaires. “Is Nick just as wild as-”

“Yes.” Violet said.

“Oh, we’re in trouble.” Duncan said. “We just unleashed chaos.”

“Trust me,” Klaus said, “We’re used to it.”

[kumeko]

band practice

Prompt: new kid au

Character/Pairing: jiro, Yaoyorozu

A/N: Written for the Bnha BB. : ) A little late in posting because I was sick but here it is now. The pacing in this is a mess since I rewrote it so many times.

Summary: Yaoyorozu did say she wanted to make more friends in her new school. She just didn’t mean via tutoring Jiro.

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“I’m copying your homework,” a confident, imposing voice ordered.

 Jiro looked up from her sheet music, unsurprised to find it was Kaminari. There was that dopey look on his face again, the sign that someone had been spending a little too much time sniffing highlighters. She raised an eyebrow, not bothering to pause her playlist. This wasn’t even worth removing her earbuds. “No.”

 His bravado vanished immediately and he slumped forward. Hands clasped, he bowed his head and begged. “Please?” When she remained silent, he pleaded, “I’ll do anything.”

 A tempting offer. Highly tempting. She took in his teary eyes, his nervous smile, and shook her head disapprovingly. “No.”

 “Come on!” Switching tactics, he crouched next to her desk and gripped the edge.  “You do this too!”

 “Never to you,” she snapped, flicking each of his fingers. “You.” Flick. “Never.”  Flick. “Help.” Flick. “Back.”

 “Ouch!” Kaminari recoiled, cradling his hands. He shot her a grump glare. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

 “Everything.” She rolled her eyes. They’d known each other since middle school and she was tired of this old game. “Get someone else.”

 “Boo.” Pouting, he looked furtively at the rest of their gang.

 Jiro almost wished him luck. He’d need it—she followed his train of sight to the rest of her friends. Sero was chatting excitedly with Kirishima about last night’s wrestling match. Despite how fake the whole affair was, they both got really into it. They’d cheer when the face appeared, boo when the heel came out, and it was almost like watching a drama unfold when there was a match. Sero was almost as straight-laced as she was, on that border between rebel and normal. His uniform was on properly, each button properly closed, and if it weren’t for the constant mischievous grin on his face, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was a good student. Kirishima, on the other hand, might have the heart of a model student but you couldn’t tell that by looking at him. His red hair was always in disarray, as were the rest of his clothes. A wild style, but his easy-going grin and friendly nature made him popular with the class despite that.

 Then there was the last of them, Bakugou, moodily sitting at his chair with a perpetual scowl on his face. He only had two modes at school: angry and angrier. After class, there was the rare third mode: when they managed to coax a smile out, an amused snort and a cocky retort.

 To be honest, if there was any reason they ended up with a bad rep, it was him.

 A bell rang and Kaminari sat on her desk. Sero came up to her. “I’ll trade math for English.”

 “Deal.” She smirked broadly as she swapped homework with Sero, ignoring Kaminari’s indignant glare. “See, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

 Sero looked up from the sheet. “What, was he trying to leach off you again?”

 Before Kaminari could respond, the door swung open.

 “Class.” Their teacher, Aizawa, gave them a flat stare as he slouched toward his desk. A sloth would have looked more energetic. Dressed in black dress pants and a striped sweater, it was as though he had tried to wear his uniform and gave up halfway. Still, it was better than the other times it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Hell, he even looked stylish for once. When he’d reached his desk, he gestured to the door. “We have a new student.”

 In walked a princess. Ok, not an actually princess, but Jiro was pretty sure she was close to the real thing. There was something about dignified about her, with her neatly coiffed hair and proud expression that belonged more in a movie than in real life. Even Iida, the class president, who sat as though he had a rod taped to his back, didn’t walk as straight and tall as she did. Reaching the center of the blackboard, with a dainty hand she scrawled a name on the board. Even her letters were neat—who in the world could actually write nicely on a blackboard? Turning around, she bowed to the class. “I’m Yaoyorozu Momo.”

 Her eyes scanned the room and when they landed on hers, Jiro’s hand involuntarily went up to wave. She couldn’t stop herself. Behind her, Sero whistled.

 “She’s cute.” Kaminari muttered.

 “Why are you two not seated yet?” Aizawa’s words came out in a drawl, little power or force behind them, but both Sero and Kaminari flinched and quickly went back to their seats. When everyone was seated, he pointed to a seat on the right, next to Asui. “That spot’s free, it’ll be your desk.”

 “Thank you.” Even her voice was elegant.

  Not that this was the time for that. Aizawa was still paying attention to her group and Jiro had to discretely copy homework and take off her earbuds without getting in trouble. Judging by Aizawa’s stare, it might already be too late.

 -x-

 “I’ll take you around.” Asui—Yaoyorozu was pretty sure her name was Asui—stood in front of her desk, a helpful smile on her face. A short girl with a frog clip in her hair, she stood slightly hunched over.

 Yaoyorozu resisted the urge to correct her posture. She’d found people rarely wanted that kind of advice, at least not on the first day. “Thank you.”

 “I’ll help too!” Another girl skipped to the pair, her short brown hair curling around her head like a mushroom. When she reached Yaoyorozu’s desk, she peered down at her notes in surprise. “Did you write all that?”

 “Yes?” She looked down at her notes herself, wondering if she made a mistake. Their last class was English; perhaps she had made a grammatical or spelling mistake. “Is something wrong?”

 “No, no, definitely not.” The girl’s eyes were wide as she continued to stare at the notebook. “I can’t believe you managed to actually write it all down!”

 An ineloquent “Huh?” escaped Yaoyorozu’s lips before she could stop it. Judging by the impressed expression on both girls faces, this school might be a little different than her old all girl’s school. Around her, her other classmates perked up and started to pay attention. Scratch that, this place was very different.

 “I’m terrible at English.” The girl sighed, drooping. “Like really, really bad.”

 Asui patted her on her back comfortingly. “We can study together.”

 “Yes, I can help if you want.” Yaoyorozu nodded, pushing her fingers together nervously. “I should have my old notes somewhere if you want to look at them.”

 “Really?” Overjoyed, the girl clasped Yaoyorozu’s hands gratefully.  “Thanks!” Then, as though remembering herself, she let go and sheepishly rubbed the back of her head. “I’m Uraraka—probably should’ve done that first.”

 “Uraraka,” Yaoyorozu repeated. “I’m Yaoyorozu—nice to meet you.”

 “Nice to…” Asui cocked her head, tapping her chin as she considered the phrase. “You’re kinda formal when you speak.”

 “Formal?” Perplexed, Yaoyorozu stared at her classmate. “How so?”

 “Like that!” Uraraka nodded her agreement, once more clasping Yaoyorozu’s hands. “We’re friends! It’s ok to relax a little.”

 “Relax.” Yaoyorozu frowned, mulling it over. Certainly, this school was a whole different animal than her old one. Gingerly, she formed her next sentence. “I’ll attempt to?”

 Judging by Uraraka’s face, she’d missed the mark. “Close enough!”

 “Anyways, we need to show her the school before lunch is over.” Asui gently tugged Uraraka’s hands away.

 After Yaoyorozu put away her notebooks, the trio left the classroom. The school was not as grand as Yaoyorozu’s old one, certainly lacking in funding in terms of size and even quality and quantity of goods. The library was not only smaller, but the books had a musty smell and looked older than her parents. There were several classrooms, near identical, on each floor, with a few special rooms for special classes—the art room, geography, music. Eventually, they were nearing the end of the corridor for the final and third floor when Uraraka could faintly hear music escaping from underneath one of the doors. They couldn’t afford proper soundproof rooms then either. “What is that sound?”

 “What?” Uraraka looked around before Yaoyorozu pointed at the door. Following her line of sight, she laughed. “Ohhh, that! They’re the Back Rows.”

 “The back rows?” Yaoyorozu’s brow furrowed. No matter how hard she thought it through, the meaning didn’t get any clearer. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

 “It’s the name of Jiro—right, you haven’t met them.” Asui bit her lip. After a moment’s consideration, she approached the door and gestured for them to follow. “They’re a band.”

 “A band?” Yaoyorozu had heard rumours of bands, playing with guitars and screaming instead of singing. Nothing at all like the magnificent orchestras or even the graceful quartets. Still, this would be a good time to get some firsthand information. Quietly, she peeked through the door’s glass window.

 A blonde boy jumped, strumming a guitar as electric as his grin. A black chord bounced around him like ribbon, miraculously not tangling around his legs. Near him a second guitar rang out, a tone deeper. A toothy boy played the instrument, its shape an oddity compared to the first. His foot tapped to the beat. A beat played out by the giant drum kit behind him. Surrounded by drums and cymbals, the angry boy from their class was furiously banging out a tempo. His hands jumped from place to place, dragging the band along his pace.

 And leading the group, singing her heart out into a microphone, was a short-haired girl, the girl who’d waved at her this morning. They were all from Yaoyorozu’s class, she realized. All of them. The singer was clutching the stand, hunching over it as she shouted something unintelligible into the head. While not entirely soundproof, the room blocked out enough noise that Yaoyorozu couldn’t make out most of the song. Only that it was loud. How much louder did it have to be inside?

 For a moment she forgot to breath. This was no confused mess, no unharmonic discord. It was…it was…

 “Amazing,” Yaoyorozu exhaled.

 “It is, isn’t it!” Urara whispered, excited. “They’re a club, sorta, and they’re gonna perform again at the festival. This is a new song.”

 “Let’s go—Bakugou gets pissed whenever people watch them practice,” Asui whispered, tugging on their sleeves. At Yaoyorozu’s confused look, she added, “He’s the drummer. Kaminari’s on the guitar, Sero’s on the bass, and that’s Jiro singing. Kirishima joins them sometimes, but he’s more like a club manager than a band member. They’re all in our class.”

 Bakugou. Kaminari. Sero. Kirishima. She repeated their names to herself as they walked away, taking one last look at Jiro. Her cheeks red from exertion, she looked like a thing of fire as she danced around. Yaoyorozu had never seen anyone look so alive before. Passionate. She wondered when was the last time she’d looked like that. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, tapping along to the music. It stayed with her, even through their afternoon classes, even after she had cello practice and did her homework and all the other activities her parents had arranged.

 When she closed her eyes, all she could see was that band performing, all she could hear was that beat, as though it were her own heartbeat.

-x-

 There were few things that scared Jiro. Conversely, there were many things that annoyed her: Kaminari, her hippie parents, Iida when he went hardcore, Kaminari, attention, Mineta, and did she mention Kaminari? Even horror movies weren’t any issue generally, good for a few chills and scares before ultimately being forgotten.

 However, the piece of paper in front of her terrified her. Scrawled on the top was a red 60%. An almost failing grade. It was blood curdling to stare at it and she suddenly felt very cold. Her parents would have no issue with this, she knew, as long as her music grades were good. No, the school, on the other hand, would very much have problems with this. The only condition her band had for using the school to practice and even perform was that they all passed their tests.

 And a sixty percent generally ended up going even lower and lower. Shakily, she turned to look at Kaminari. His face was as pale as hers as he looked up from his test. Turning the other direction, she saw that Sero looked only slightly disappointed, though next to him Kirishima’s million-watt smile was down a few degrees. The only person she didn’t have to check was Bakugou —despite his attitude, his grades were nothing to laugh at.

 Well, fuck. They were screwed unless they came up with something fast. The moment class was over, she grabbed Kaminari’s test before he could hide it. It was worse than she’d expected. “Fifty percent? Seriously?”

 “Hey!” Reaching up, he tried to grab the test from her. When she smoothly dodged, he sighed and sat back down. “Yeah, yeah, still a pass.”

 “Barely. I don’t even know if this counts as a pass even—Aizawa definitely won’t like this.” To emphasize her point, she hit the paper with the back of her hand. “And I thought my grades were bad.”

 “What’d you get?” Grumpy, he reached over and tried to grab her test, only for her to yank it away as well. There were a few downsides to sitting next to Kaminari, but his predictability was never one of them.

 “Much better than you.” Concerned, she turned to Kirishima. He’d wandered over, still a little downtrodden. “How bad is it?”

 “54. Sero’s fine at least.” Kirishima sighed before roughly rubbing his head with both hands. After a few minutes, he clapped his cheeks. “Ok! I’ll figure out how to fix this. A man has to clean up after his own mess.”

 “It’s nice I can count on you.” Jiro gave Kaminari a pointed glare. “What’re you gonna do?”

 Disgruntled, he rested his cheeks on the desk. “I’ll figure something out.”

 “Will you? Really?” Jiro stared at him incredulously, wondering if it was more unbelievable that he said it or that he believed it.

 Clenching his jaw, Kirishima crossed his arms. After a few seconds of humming, he suddenly beamed. “We just need help.”

 “Help?” Kaminari glanced at him disinterestedly, still slumped over his desk.

 Energized, Kirishima merely grinned before heading to Bakugou. As they watched, he slammed his hands on his desk, earning an irate glare from Bakugou. “What.”

 It wasn’t even a question. Jiro shivered, a chill running up her spine. Despite the years they’ve known each other, on some level Bakugou would always be scary. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

 “Yep.” Kaminari swallowed, nodding slowly. He clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. “I’ll remember him.”

 “Should I…” Trailing off, she gestured helplessly at the tableau in front of them.

 Grabbing her hand, Kaminari shook his head sadly. “He’s as dead as our band.” He gave a small salute and Jiro whacked him.

 “Our band is not dead,” she snarled, turning back to the scene. Whatever Kirishima had said, she’d missed. Somehow, he was still alive. So far. Judging by Bakugou’s expression, it wasn’t for long.

 “Why.” Again, another not-question. It was almost impressive for an artist that he was able to convey so much anger with so few words. If they ever went into the heavy metal genre, they were set.

 “Come on, we can’t perform otherwise.” The easy smile didn’t slip off Kirishima’s face, his arm wrapped around Bakugou’s shoulder now as he crouched next to his chair. Jiro faintly feared that he’d lose the arm. “It’s just math and English.” When Bakugou glared at him, he laughed awkwardly and scratched his chin with his other hand. “And maybe a few more.”

 “I could beat it into you,” Bakugou growled, looking practically demonic.

 “That works too.” Fearlessly Kirishima gave them thumbs up. “See you Saturday.”

 “Mad man. He’s a mad man.” Kaminari stared blankly at the scene for a moment longer before turning back to her. “I can’t believe Bakugou’s tutoring.”

 Bakugou. Tutoring. All Jiro could picture was a torture chamber. Did Bakugou even know how to teach? There were values like patience or compassion or not yelling that were definitely needed for this task. Shaking her head, she looked at the rest of the class. Choice aside, Kirishima had the right idea. A tutor. She just had to find someone who didn’t look too busy and also looked like a good teacher.

 Well at least it wouldn’t be hard to look for someone smart. Their class was oddly full of them.

 -x-

 How odd. When Yaoyorozu had hoped she’d get closer to her classmates, tutoring hadn’t been her first idea. Or even her second or a remote third. Yet when Uraraka had come forward with an awkward Jiro, she couldn’t refuse. Especially not after hearing about her plight—if she could help, she wanted to.

 And to be honest, she wanted to get closer to Jiro. Just a little. Despite how alive she’d looked in front of the mike, Jiro was practically apathetic in class. Even her humour was more on the dry side. There was little of the singer inside the student and Yaoyorozu couldn’t wrap her head around how one person could have two very different sides.

 “I’m fine with most subjects,” Jiro informed her honestly, pulling out a notebook onto the table. It was Saturday and they were in Yaoyorozu’s house. It was a little more modest than her old place. A traditional house, it was spacious enough to accommodate most of their furnishings, leaving only a few pieces in storage. The grounds not as grand as she was used to, but Jiro had complimented it all the same when she’d arrived. Fortunately, they were not expecting any other guests that day and Yaoyorozu had arranged for them to use the living room for their session.

 “Then what do you need help with?” Yaoyorozu asked, settling herself on the other side of the table.

 A maid knocked and entered, carrying tray of tea. “Where shall I leave it miss?”

 “On the side table is fine.” Yaoyorozu gestured to the table next to the chaise. With a soft clink, the tray was set down and the maid departed with a bow. “Want some tea?”

 “Tea?” Jiro rubbed her wrist, her expression strained. “What kind of tea?”

 “We have several blends—I requested a simple one for today, a green tea.” Yaoyorozu slowly poured some tea into a small cup and offered it to her.

 “Green tea? That sounds…normal.” Jiro nodded, accepting the cup.

 “Gathering the leaves was the hard part, there were so many different regions to choose from.”

 Holding up her hand, Jiro shook her head. “I don’t really want to think about that. Green tea. Let’s leave it at that.”

 “If you’re certain.” Yaoyorozu poured herself a cup, uncertain as to how that knowledge could ruin Jiro’s enjoyment. She inhaled the fragrance, a touch milder than she was used to, before slowly sipping. It warmed her instantly, spreading through her body like a blanket.

 “Not bad.” Jiro sipped her tea slowly, examining the room. Her expression brightened when her gaze landed on the grand piano. “A piano? Can you play?”

 “Hmm?” Following her line of slight, Yaoyorozu stared at the piano for a long moment. “I have taken lessons for years.”

 And yet, oddly enough, she never looked at that instrument the way Jiro had. Nor had she ever played it the way Sero or Kaminari or even Bakugou had played theirs. It existed, an item more for showing off than for enjoyment. A status symbol.

 “Wow.” Jiro looked at her impressed. “What level?”

 “I’m at…I’m not all that great at it.” Yaoyorozu lied, rubbing her shoulder.

 “That’s ok.” Jiro shrugged. “I’m not the best either.”

 Somehow, that easy line made her want to play even less—there was a difference, Yaoyorozu was sure, between them. A difference in how they played, in how they looked when they played. Even a difference on what they thought was good.  “That’s not why we’re here today.” She tapped her notebook. “What subject do you need help in?”

 “Math.” Jiro grimaced, opening her math notebook. “It’s just not clicking. At all. My other grades are decent enough, but I almost always fail that course.”

 “Math.” Yaoyorozu pulled out the textbook, checking exactly what this class had learned in comparison to hers. It was fairly similar—calculus, some trigonometry, and a slow introduction into more complex equations. Her class had been ahead, but that was to be expected of a top class private school versus a public one. Confident she was ready, she looked expectantly at Jiro. “What sections should we go over?”

 “…all of them,” Jiro admitted slowly, her cheeks tinting a faint red. “Just…yeah, all of it.”

 “All of it,” Yaoyorozu repeated, looking down at textbook once more, at the helpful sticker Uraraka had placed to indicate the class’s current spot. A quarter of the book, fortunately. Their next round of tests was a week away, unfortunately. “There’s nothing that you understand?”

 Jiro gave a wry look. “Nothing.”

 Well. This was certainly shaping up to be a longer day than Yaoyorozu had expected. “Very well then, we will start at the beginning.”

-x-

 “So?” Sero leaned forward conspiratorially. “How’s it going?”

 “How’s what going?” Jiro looked up from her sheet music. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she was adjusting their song. Bakugou was late, oddly enough, though she suspected Kirishima had something to do with that. Miraculously, he had survived the weekend of hell and even managed to get Bakugou to help out beyond that.

 If he managed to pass the tests with his body intact, she’d dedicate a song to him.

 “The princess.” Kaminari waggled his brow and someone had been spending too much time with Mineta again. “She’s teaching you, right?”

 “Yaoyorozu?” Jiro tugged her ear. Princess, huh? It was near impossible for Yaoyorozu to hide her rich roots, even if she wanted to—almost every move she made exuded the aura of wealth. Her mannerisms, her speech, even their identical uniforms seemed different somehow. “She’s really good at it.”

 “Maybe she can help me too, then.” Sero sighed.

 “Science?” Jiro asked, knowing all too well his weakness. She stood up, brushing herself off.

 “Chemistry,” he corrected. He was better at engineering and practical work than the theoretical sections. Unfortunately, they were only tested on theory.

 “And you?” Jiro didn’t really need to ask, Kaminari’s flinch said everything. “Iida’s helping you, right?”

 The second she asked, she instantly regretted it. As though given permission to break down, Kaminari grabbed her shoulders and looked at her with watery eyes. “It’s a boot camp for devils. It’s torture. It’d actually be better with Bakugou.”

 Sero covered his mouth, trying to stop his laughter. It didn’t work; she could still hear his snorts even as he tried to speak. “Bakugou? Really?”

 Kaminari shot him a glare. “Yes really.”

 Brushing his hands off her, Jiro rolled her eyes. “It can’t possibly be that bad.”

 “Worse. It’s even worse,” Kaminari grumbled, crouching to the ground. His hand drew circles on the floor as he mumbled, “Not all of us are lucky enough to get a princess.”

 “She’s…” The word strict died on her tongue—Yaoyorozu wasn’t all that bad, actually. She was smart and stern when it came to her lessons, but she was also fair about it. If anything, it was more fun than she’d expected.

 Not that she’d ever admit it.

 “See.” Kaminari narrowed his eyes and squinted up at her and really, he had been spending way too much time with Mineta.

 “You’re gonna pass though, right?” Resisting the urge to argue with him, she sat down and went back to their sheet music. Before Kaminari could answer, she added, “Otherwise I don’t think he’ll leave you alone.”

 Kaminari went white. “Oh god, you’re right.”

 -x-

 “So, this is my house.”

 Yaoyorozu stared at the main hallway, amazed at the compactness of it all. The house was small, almost as big as one of her family’s sheds. Or maybe garage. Either way, it was amazing a person could live in it, let alone an entire family. There was something cute about it all, like living in a doll house. “It’s a nice place.”

 Jiro stared at her for a long moment. Her tone was a bit dry as she replied, “Right.”

 “No, really, it’s quaint,” Yaoyorozu complimented as she pulled off her shoes.

 “We could just do this at your house again,” Jiro suggested, tugging her ear nervously.

 “No, no, this is good.” Yaoyorozu quickly shook her hands in front of her. When was the next time she’d get to see how the other half lived? Ever since she moved, she got to try coffee shops and movie theatres and honestly, it was a lot better than she’d expected. Following Jiro to her room, she tried not to stare too much as they walked but everything was so new and interesting.

 Even Jiro’s room was an oddity, covered from wall to wall with posters of singers and bands Yaoyorozu couldn’t recognize. All she knew was that they were all rock bands, that there was something about a heavy beat and an electric guitar that made her heart sing where classical music could not.

 In a corner, several guitars hung on a stand and Yaoyorozu almost floated toward them. “Are these all yours?”

 “Huh?” Surprised, Jiro could only nod. “Yeah.”

 “Wow!” Yaoyorozu leaned forward to examine them all. Their shapes were all so different and she reached out to touch them. “Could I try?”

 “You know how to play?” Jiro stood next to her now and she was surprised before, she was incredulous now.

 “Oh, no, not at all.” Yaoyorozu rubbed her shoulder, withdrawing from the instruments. “They just…they look…” It all sounded stupid now that she was trying to say it aloud.

 “Cool, right?” Jiro gave a half-smile, the most she’d ever given to Yaoyorozu. Her fingers grazed the varnish on one of them.

 No, you’re the cool one, she’d almost blurted out but if her words for the guitars sounded silly, this was downright idiotic.  

 “After we’re done studying.” Jiro tugged her ear, looking away now. “If you want, I could teach you a little then.”

 “Teach me?” Yaoyorozu stared at her and then back at the guitar. That was so much more than she’d expected, so much more than she’d hoped for. She felt so light she could float, a well of happiness overflowing within her.  Almost hugging Jiro, she pulled back last second and nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!”

 “You don’t have to be so formal.” Jiro shook her head, going back to their bags. “It’s nothing.”

 “No, not it’s not.” Yaoyorozu looked back at the guitars one last time before getting ready to teach. The faster they went through the material, the faster they could get to it.

 -x-

 “Wow.” Yaoyorozu stood stock still in the entrance to the McDonald’s, gazing in wonder at the whole establishment. By expression alone, it was like they were standing at a rock concert or in front of the Mona Lisa.

 Jiro had to resist the urge to rub her eyes, to confirm that this was actually a McDonald’s and they hadn’t accidentally entered some fancy restaurant. Cheap wobbly chairs, check. Dirty tables, check. The smell of greasy, fried food, check. “What is this, your first McDonald’s?”

 It was a joke but Yaoyorozu nodded, still clearly enamoured by the restaurant. “I always wanted to go to one of these fast-food establishments, but I never could find the excuse or time.” She took a step in, her hand lightly brushing a table, and Jiro wondered if she should warn her about the germs. “It’s exactly how I pictured it.”

 This is what you pictured? Jiro almost asked, because who imagined what a McDonald’s looked like and why even imagine this? A strained smile on her face, she led the way to the counter. “Come on, let’s order something.”

 Yaoyorozu slowly followed after, craning her head as she tried to look at all the pictures hanging on the walls. When they reached the counter, her jaw slacked as she stared at all the menu items. “This is an impressive selection! Far more items than I expected!”

 “It’s a normal amount,” Jiro scoffed, not sure how she should be reacting to all this. Laughter? Ignore it? Taking it seriously? “And most of them are almost identical.”

 “That’s true.” Her eyes widened as she scanned the different burgers. “That one’s just adding a patty and that one cheese—what should I get?” Jiro stepped back when Yaoyorozu turned her, excitement rolling off her in waves. Then, as though remembering herself, she straightened her posture and her smile dropped a notch. “I mean, is there anything you could recommend?”

 The good rich girl act was back. It was funny to see how different she was when she was relaxed and when she was in public. Jiro wasn’t sure if Yaoyorozu even noticed the difference herself. “Umm…I guess one of their desserts?”

 “Desserts…” She bit her lip, eyeing the burgers once more. “I suppose I can try one.”

 “…or you could just take their burger combos.”

 Yaoyorozu’s smile came back, and she nodded. “That is the best course to take.” Sitting at a table, she waved at the cashier. “Hi! Could I have one of your…” She looked up at the menu board again, and her lips formed a small ‘O’. “They can come with toys? I will try one of those. And a dessert.”

 The cashier stared at her. “Huh?”

 “One second!” Jiro quickly dragged her off, her ears red with embarrassment. When they were in a corner, she hissed, “That’s not how you order here.”

 “Really?” Yaoyorozu’s face flushed a dark red and she covered her face with her hands. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”

 “Very bad.” Jiro ran a hand through her hair. “Look, I can order for you.”

 She peeked through the cracks between her fingers. “Really?” When Jiro nodded, she smiled, revealing her face. “Could I have one of those toys then?”

 “Those are…” Jiro cut herself off, not really wanting to destroy her smile again with the news that those were for little kids. “Sure, why not?”

 -x-

 “So, I think you almost understand the formulas,” Yaoyorozu whispered, scanning the practice questions Jiro had finished. For once, the number of rights overtook the number of wrongs, and maybe their lessons were finally having their intended effect. She flipped the page and almost gasped at the sight, a full row of checkmarks. “Wow, you did so well here!”

 Jiro didn’t respond, instead settling her head on Yaoyorozu’s shoulder. At the unexpected weight, she stiffened. They were in a library! The school library! This was improper! Furtively, she scanned the room. After school, there were only a few students here, most of them heavily engrossed in a book or chatting in low voices with one another. None of them were looking in their direction and she sighed with relief. Quietly, she hissed, “What are you doing?”

 No response again. After checking the room once more, Yaoyorozu looked down at her pupil only to find her asleep. Asleep. Irritation rose up within—were her lessons really that boring?

 No, that couldn’t be the case. She glanced at the sheet again, at the row of right answers. Jiro had been paying attention, had been working hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to let her rest a little. Peering down again, she watched the slight rise and fall of Jiro’s chest, her mouth slightly open as she softly snored. Asleep, she looked more delicate than usual and Yaoyorozu looked away, not sure why her cheeks felt so hot.

 Just a little, she’d let her sleep just a little and then they’d get back to studying. They only had a few more days, after all.

 -x-

 “Pass the papers down to the person behind you,” Aizawa ordered, giving them all a grumpy look. “Though by now you should know the drill.”

 The test. Jiro stared at the paper in front of her, at the hand waving them so she’d take them. It was judgement time. Next to her, she could hear Kaminari freaking out and her pulse shot up. The idiot was going to make her panic and she almost chucked her eraser at him.

 Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in. This was no time to freak out. Slowly, she reached out and grabbed the papers. She had this, she had this—oh who was she kidding? She definitely—

 Ahead of her, Yaoyorozu flashed her a thumbs up and Jiro quietly released her breath, picking up her pencil.

 She had this.

 -x-

  “I passed!” Jiro almost collapsed on her desk when they got their most recent test results back, the red pen at the top marking a 75%. Maybe not as high as Yaoyorozu would have wanted, but it was amazing for Jiro. Especially for math.

 The band was safe. The concert was safe. And it was all thanks to Yaoyorozu.  Turning to her right, she asked Kaminari, “Did you pass?”

 “65%.” Kaminari swallowed, a little ashen. “Do you think he’ll leave me alone with this?”

 Oh. Right. Iida. Jiro glanced at their class president, very proudly explaining answer to Uraraka and their other classmates. There was nothing about him that indicated he was the type to accept a passing mark. “Not a chance.”

 “Thought so.” Kaminari sighed.

 “But you passed, which is good enough.” Besides, Iida’s dogged determination had some uses—Kaminari would need the help for the next test. And any other test. Maybe it was a good thing he’d never be rid of him—Kaminari would never fail again.

 A test was shoved in front of them, a bright red 70%. Behind it, with a wide grin, was Kirishima. “Got it!”

 Kaminari grabbed it, staring back and forth from the test to Kirishima. “Wait, what?” He glanced at Bakugou, still in his default glower. “He actually taught you stuff?”

 “Beat it into me.” Kirishima puffed his chest with pride and Jiro wanted so badly to point out there was nothing to be proud of. If anything, it was a worrying concept. But a pass was a pass and if Kirishima was fine with it, she’d keep her mouth shut.

 “Seriously?” Kaminari bit his lip, peeking at Bakugou once more. “Think maybe I—”

 “No.” Jiro immediately cut off, shaking her head. Kirishima might have survived, but he had always been a special case. Bakugou would either murder Kaminari for asking or just murder him while tutoring him. Hell, even she wanted to do it sometimes.  

 Kaminari looked like he was about to argue but thought better of it. “Nah, you’re right. Got the music ready?”

 Jiro grinned, pulling out the sheet music from her bag. “All adjusted, finally.”

 “Ohhhh.” Kirishima gazed at it curiously. He couldn’t read the notes, barely understanding anything about music, but his enthusiasm wasn’t dampened at all. “Neat!”

 “More than neat!” Kaminari whistled as he flipped through the pages. “Amazing! How’d you find time to do it?”

 “Well, Yaoyorozu’s really good at explaining, so our lessons didn’t last too long.” Jiro shrugged.

 Looking up from the sheets, he squinted at her. “How good at explaining?”

 “…I don’t think she’ll teach you.” Jiro paused, then corrected herself. “You want a tag team of her and Ida?”

 He frowned, mulling it over. “Princess and Ida, or just Ida…hmm…”

 “Why is passing not even an option?” Jiro sighed. It wasn’t a realistic option, sure, but he didn’t even consider it.

 “You’re the only one left with a tutor, huh?” Kirishima teased, a wide grin plastered on his face. Humming, he carefully folded his test. “Bakugou’ll be fine with this.”

 Oh, she should show hers to Yaoyorozu too. Looking across the classroom, her eyes met with Yaoyorozu’s and she quickly gave her a thumbs up. Yaoyorozu looked surprised and shot back two thumbs up. They could meet after class, as usual, and Jiro could already picture the smile on her face as she read the mark.

 And then—and then what? Tutoring was over. They didn’t have to meet anymore. Jiro would go back to band practice, to hours after class locked up in a class room, singing her heart out. There would be no more afterschool lessons, no more practice tests.

  For some reason, she didn’t feel as happy about that as she thought she’d be.

 -x-

 It was a little strange. Yaoyorozu listened to Uraraka and Asui as they walked to the courtyard, nodding and laughing where needed. There was nothing unusual about this, she had been doing this for the past month or so. They’d have their lunch together, trading stories about procrastination and dates gone wrong and unbelievable strokes of luck.

 There was nothing unusual about this and yet it felt strange all the same. Two stories above them, Yaoyorozu could hear a guitar, the clash of cymbals, and a faint voice screaming through the instruments.

 Not too long ago, that voice had been worrying about math homework, looking at Yaoyorozu for reassurance.

 Not too long ago, it had been too easy to meet Jiro and now it seemed too hard. There was no reason not to, no reason to do so, and Yaoyorozu balanced on the rope, swaying between going and not going. Longing, this was longing, she realized, remembering the word from her trashy, five-dollar romance novels. She missed Jiro.

 She missed Jiro. Now that she admitted it, the word felt right, and everything made sense. Yaoyorozu missed Jiro. It was irrational, they saw each other in class every day, but the feeling lingered still.

 “I’m sorry, but I have to do something.” Yaoyorozu stood up, shooting an apologetic smile at her two friends. “I’ll see you in class.”

 “Huh?” Uraraka stared at her before nodding slowly. “Ok.”

 “See you,” Asui croaked out, a knowing smile on her lips, and she tried hard not to read into that.

 Waving goodbye, she quickly headed to the music room, to the music that had always been out of reach. Her fingers remembered her few guitar lessons, the feel of a chord between her fingers, the heat of Jiro’s hand on top of hers, gently correcting her movements. It had been over a week since they’d last had one. The class bell rang as she reached the room but for once, Yaoyorozu disregarded it. This was more important. Far more important.

 Just as she was about to turn the handle, it opened on the other side. Jiro stared at the girl in front of her, surprised. “Yaoyorozu?”

 Exactly who she wanted to see. “Can I talk to you?”

 “Uh, sure?” Jiro tugged her ear, a nervous habit she had noticed long ago. “After class, I guess.”

 Yaoyorozu shook her head. “Now.”

 “But the bell rang?” Jiro brow furrowed, concerned. “Are you feeling ok?”

 Around her, her friends streamed out of the door, leaving only the two of them there. Yaoyorozu stepped into the classroom herself, taking a seat. “Now,” she repeated insistently, firmly.  If she didn’t do it know, she was afraid she’d lose her courage.

 “But…” Jiro sighed, rubbing her head furiously.  “Alright, fine.” She plopped down on the chair next to her. “Yes?”

 Now that she was here, Yaoyorozu wasn’t sure what to say. Jiro was staring at her and her words, her hastily thought up speech, all of it flew away. Tongue-tied, she searched the room for something to say and landed on the guitar cases propped up against the wall. “Guitar lessons.”

 “Huh?” Jiro blinked, surprised. “What?”

 Yaoyorozu could just hit her head against the wall, it was such a stupid way to start. Still, it was something and she latched onto it. “We haven’t had a guitar lesson in a while.”

 “Oh that.” Jiro tugged her ear again. “I thought you were just doing that to get me to learn.”

 “Never.” Yaoyorozu shook her head vehemently, clutching Jiro’s hands. “Please teach me again.”

 “S-sure.” Jiro stared at their joined hands, flustered by the desperate appeal. “If you really want.” After a moment, she adjusted her hand, gripping Yaoyorozu’s hand back. “I didn’t think you liked that much.”

 “I loved it.” Yaoyorozu took a deep breath, gathering her courage once more. “No, I…that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 “Okay.” Jiro looked even more confused, if possible. After waiting a moment, she prompted Yaoyorozu. “So what did you want?”

 “I…” She focused on their hands, on the calluses on Jiro’s fingers. Her own were there as well, fresh and newly formed. “Could we meet again? ‘Hang’ out as you called it?”

 “Slang, coming from your mouth.” Jiro looked amused. She nodded eagerly. “And definitely, I…” She tugged her ear with her free hand, awkward and uncertain. “I kinda missed it.”

 “Me too.” Elated, Yaoyorozu squeezed Jiro’s hands. “I really missed it.”

 “Cool.” Jiro smiled, a brief thing, and Yaoyorozu wondered if she could make it happen again. Make it happen longer. Suddenly, she looked up at the time and stood up with a shout. “Shit, we’re really, really late.”

 Yaoyorozu looked at the classroom clock and almost fell out of her chair. She had never been late for anything before and this late? “We have to go.”

 “Yeah.” Jiro looked terrified, already at the door. “Aizawa is going to kill us.”

 “He wouldn’t—”

 Jiro looked her dead in the eye, shaking her head furiously. “It will be a fate worse than death.”

 She swallowed. “Oh dear.”

 With a sinking feeling, Yaoyorozu knew that it would be a while before they had another guitar lesson.

[theseadagiodays]

May 11, 2020

Sanctuaries

My favorite refuge: The view from the summit of my backyard park

I’ve been thinking a lot about sanctuaries lately.  Defined as “a place of refuge or safety; a nature reserve; or a holy place,” the meaning of the word is entirely interpretable by each individual.  

Recently, the term has proliferated in reference to US cities who claim they will protect migrants from a certain unnameable leader’s xenophobic policies.  Unthinkably, this same buffoon has even threathened to withhold coronavirus relief funding to such cities if they continue to harbor “unwanted” residents.

It seems, for every sanctuary, there exist forces who want to threaten them.  This is as true of religious persecution around the world, as it is with safe houses for women escaping violence.

In our Lullaby Project, Instruments of Change works quite intimately with this population.  Through this time, we’ve been fortunate to continue supporting single mothers to write original songs about their hopes and dreams for their children.  What we’ve learned from them is that, ironically, while many of us have struggled to self-isolate at home, these women have never felt safer, with the prospect of being found, or of unwelcomed visits from their abusers temporarily lifted.  

In Women Rock, another program that we’ve shifted to digital engagement through Google Classroom, our participants have written a secular choral hymn identifying nature as the sanctuary that has provided them the most solace during this time.   A verse from their song, Hidden Symphonies is below.

Listen to the silence

Morning bird calls at play

Soul refreshing music

Through isolation days

It is interesting that more and more evidence suggests people rarely catch the virus while outdoors (https://globalnews.ca/news/6906508/coronavirus-outdoors-parks-closed/).  Intuitively, this resonates with me, as someone who has always found sanctuary staying active outdoors. So, while experts stress that social distancing in public parks is still necessary, simply sharing these wild places six feet away from strangers has been a blessing.

Art has always been another refuge for many.   And it’s no wonder some artists have been turning to nature as their canvas.  The Swiss artist, Saype’s work is perhaps the most ambitious example.  His stunning ephemeral piece, Beyond Crisis, made with biodegradable spray paint, is designed to fade naturally as the grass grows, in much the same way we all hope this virus will eventually disappear once nature takes its course (with ample cooperation from humans).

https://twistedsifter.com/2020/05/giant-biodegradable-artwork-of-hope-appears-atop-swiss-hillside/

And finally, another creative community, in Sag Harbour, NY, has found an inventive way to share their work while galleries are closed.  Barns, front yards, and back gardens have become museum walls for dozens of installations that locals are welcome to view, as safely distant drive-bys.  https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/11/arts/design/drive-by-art-long-island.html?action=click&module=Well&pgtype=Homepage&section=Art%20%20Design

Paintings by Darius Yektai; Diane Blell’s “Table for Two Separate tables”; Erik Fischl’s “Young Dancers Dancing”

May 12, 2020

Daily Delights

I have also been trying to hone my lens for finding a different kind of art in nature.  With time to slow down and stay close to home, I have paid much closer attention to the little wonders that surround me.  I began the practice of doing this shortly before self-isolation, when I learned about Ross Gay’s poetic essays collected in his book Daily Delights. https://www.amazon.ca/Book-Delights-Essays-Ross-Gay/dp/1616207922

As if prophetically, NPR featured him on my favorite podcast This American Life, in late January.  https://www.thisamericanlife.org/692/the-show-of-delights

And this reminder, to savor life’s small pleasures was exactly the armor I needed for this period.  Since February, I’ve kept my own daily delights journal.  And here are just a few snapshots that have made the cut since quarantine began.

Baby ducks, Hula hoops, Elderly couple park bench massage, Backyard swing

May 13, 2020

Radio Days

While so much has changed about my daily rhythms, of late, there are a few pillars that I’ve kept in place to give my life some necessary scaffolding, in order to maintain a sense of familiarity and grounding.  

One of these is the ritual that my partner and I have had for years, of listening to This American Life every weekend.  Ira Glass’s strangely pleasing-though-nasally drone has accompanied hundreds of our road trips to mountains, lakes and forests, as we’ve sought weekend adventure. But for now, living room listenting has had to suffice.

On May 4th, the show just happened to be honored with the first ever Pulitzer Prize for audio journalism.  So, that’s a well-earned feather in a podcast’s cap.  But, awards or not, their carefully curated slices of life never fail to amuse and inspire.  

Interestingly, I think more and more people are turning to podcasts, perhaps as an antidote to screen fatigue, and also because it seems to align with the nostalgia for days past that is so alive right now.  So, I wanted to suggest a few podcasts that might particularly resonate at the moment.

If it’s a longing for “other” that’s calling you, there is an incredible website called Radio Garden that lets you travel anywhere in the world, to sonically “drop-in” to whatever environment intrigues you (http://radio.garden/listen/alpha-boys-school-radio/ijKUlByg). For a real time sense of what moves people across the globe, you can experience the music, stories, and language of cultures from Antanarivo to Zagreb, with just a spin of their online globe and a simple click.  Here, you can access literally thousands of radio stations.  However, in my experience, their interface works best on a Chrome rather than Safari browser.

Early in quarantine, when I was in sorest need of a good laugh, This American Life put together an episode on fiascos that really helped bring levity at a time when we all began to feel our world fall apart.  https://www.thisamericanlife.org/699/fiasco

And speaking of when things fall apart, Buddhist nun Pema Chodron’s book of the same name has served as a sort of bible for many westerners, as they’ve turned to the ancient Tibetan tradition in which she was ordained.  Another podcast favorite of mine is Krista Tippet’s On Being.  And her most recent May 7thepisode featured herself and musician/meditator Devandra Banhart alternatively reading passages from this sage book, while reflecting on its relevance for the times.

https://onbeing.org/programs/devendra-banhart-when-things-fall-apart/

May 14. 2020

Finding Bliss

Ai Weiwei’s 2010 “Grapes”, with a coincidental resemblance to the coronavirus

Interviewed about how he’s responding to the virus, Ai Weiwei replied, “I never create anything.  I just try to cope with the situation at hand.” We all need coping tools and strategies for those times when things fall apart.  Ai Weiwei’s plainspoken answer sounds almost religious, the way he describes art as his salve.  And this makes sense to me.  But for many years, faith in an actual religion never did.  Raised as a half-Catholic, half-Jewish Unitarian, I only attended services until I was about 11, when Sunday youth orchestra rehearsals took their place.  So, I never fully understood the role of weekly church service until we travelled to India, for 10-days of Dalai Lama teachings.  This annual offering, which he made for 30 years, was an even greater gift than we expected, given that these Kalichakra teachings ceased just after our 2007 trip, unbeknowst to us.   Every day, for 5 hours, 1,000s of seekers flocked to the grounds of his Dharamsala temple, and listened by radio simulcast, in 1 of 17 native tongues, to his special blend of humor and clarity.  Each day, we all left bubbling to the rim with reaffirmed intention to be our best selves.  The coffeeshops, all over town, were a twitter with armchair philosophy between strangers trying to understand and integrate his words.   Uncanny kindnesses abounded.  And you could feel our resolve get ever more reinforced with each return to his daily talks. However, it’s only once we left Dharmasala, with equally grand intentions to “remember”,  that I recognized the role of these daily infusions. Because with each passing day, best behaviors, careful speech, and pure thoughts deterioritated, if only a little at a time.  

Note the curly-haired, golden-sweatered sore thumb in this sea of burgundy-robed monks...

So, while that did not instill in me a renewed church-going tradition, I have found my own ways to be “reminded.”  They’ve just come in different forms.  

For Geoff, it’s long runs and bike rides that serve as his spiritual medicine.  And for me, it’s a panoply of things.  Sometimes its communion with nature.  Other times yoga.  Writing. Handstand therapy.  Or even what my favorite yoga teacher likes to call “Hammock Enlightenment.”  

Eoin Finn is an artist of the highest order.   Good living is his canvas.  The body is his brush.  And bliss is his paint.  He calls his teaching Blissology, and spreads his backbends, heart-openers, and ocean loving vibes from Indonesia to Byron Bay.  

He and his family have been quarantining in Bali, since they were leading teacher trainings there, just before global travel nearly shut down. And fortunately, he continues to extend his generous spirit through free weekly livestream Stay Om yoga classes, on Facebook.  If you happen to miss his 5 pm Sunday classes, the videos remain online to follow any time. So, I hope some of you take the opportunity to worship the DUDE (Delight in Universal Divine Energy) with him some time. I promise there will be plenty more acronymns and puns where that one came from.  Plus, a good dose of deep stretches for your limbs and soul.

https://www.facebook.com/blissarmy/?__tn__=%2Cd%2CP-R&eid=ARD502BDBWegIvZPmn6ec9pFCtdEPtRnELt_iabxb0_c5Mmnzq3UPiAddV8fEanrbJLeSOhgYWdeQOlu

May 15. 2020

Birthday Bash

Those who know me are aware of the special challenges birthdays pose for my creativity.  I relish the quest for the perfect homemade card, surprise gift, Bitmoji or GIF for a friend or family member.  And I love throwing a good bash.   I am also aware of the undue pressure this has caused my partner, over the years, to come up with a reciprocal gesture or party idea.  But given the added constraints of a quarantine, Geoff went over and above the call of duty this year to produce!

While the novelty of Zoom parties had already worn off, he still managed to find a brilliant way for my loved ones to send serial video messages throughout the day, with the bonus of a clever twist.  I’m not quite sure how he found the time, in his manic 70-hour work weeks, to put this together.  But, 43 clues later, I was delivered a personalized crossword puzzle, with each hint related to the messenger.  He really outdid himself this time, and I could not feel more grateful.

Meanwhile, unsure if he had anything up his sleeve, I got up to my own fun messying my hands to make this Covid Pinata.  I confess, I borrowed the idea from an article I saw online, but just couldn’t resist.  

And last night, of course with proper social distancing, we took great delight in beating the crap out of this brutal virus with a couple of friends.

[scintillating-galaxias]

Light

A Grimmons marriage proposal thing I decided to upload to tumblr because I need validation for everything I do. :^)

(Read it here on Ao3)

Summary:

If he were to actually put in the effort into getting up, he’d see dewy grass that glimmers in the sunlight like diamonds. He could breathe in the clean air and let it sit as a chill in his lungs, then start coughing because they’d still be too sensitive from years of bad habits. He could sit for hours and watch the wisps of dawn slowly melt away into a clear blue sky, then carry on with the rest of his day.

He could.

But the comforters were so heavy and warm, he didn't really have any pulling need to go and see what the world had to offer. Besides. He thinks the sight next to him is better than any view the entire universe could give him.

Grif slowly blinks awake to light filtering red through his eyelids. With a groan, he yanks the covers over his head and rolls over. But no matter which way he turns his head, the light always finds a way to shine on his face. So with a scowl, he yawns a jaw-creaking yawn and pushes himself upright, only to shrink back when the cold air grazes his bare skin. He goes for settling against the pillows and just blinking blearily about the room.

His eyes wander and eventually fixate the golden light filtering through the frosted window panes. It catches every bit of dust caught in its beams. Grif spends a few moments watching the particles drift silently around the room before disappearing into unlit spots. He gets bored of that quickly and glances over to the right wall. There stands the cherrywood bookshelf, pristine and organized as always. Several books of all sorts take up a majority of the shelves. The rest is claimed by countless tidbits and photos collected from day-to-day life.

Grif looks outside the window. A cloudless morning sky greets him, dyed with pale pinks and purples like watercolors. Black bare branches of oak trees cut dark stripes into the scene. A crow flies by, cawing loudly. A car slowly passes, gravel crackling loudly under the tires. From somewhere down the street, he hears a baby wail, but it's quieted blessedly quick.

If he were to actually put in the effort into getting up, he’d see dewy grass that glimmers in the sunlight like diamonds. He could breathe in the clean air and let it sit as a chill in his lungs, then start coughing because they’d still be too sensitive from years of bad habits. He could sit for hours and watch the wisps of dawn slowly melt away into a clear blue sky, then carry on with the rest of his day.

He could.

But the comforters were so heavy and warm, he didn't really have any pulling need to go and see what the world had to offer. Besides. He thinks the sight next to him is better than any view the entire universe could give him.

The sight is Simmons, still peacefully sleeping. His brows are furrowed and his lips are turned into a tiny pout like he was solving a complicated equation in his sleep. It was incredibly infuriating; the guy was a ridiculously light sleeper. So if Grif were to kiss those pouty lips or try to use his thumb to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows, he’d wake up, and then get mad at him. So he resists. For now.

Well, an evil little part of him reasons, he wakes up around this time anyway. What's a half hour to lose?

But then Simmons rolls over to face Grif, and Grif swears he can physically feel the little devil floating over his shoulder disappear in a tiny black cloud.

The sunlight pouring in through the window gets caught in Simmons’ mussed up curls. The red highlights turn into a blinding white, forming a little half halo around his head. The light throws the rest of his hair and face into contrast, and for one brief moment, Grif thinks he just like something out of a Renaissance painting. An angel, maybe.

"Goddammit," Grif whispers as quietly as he can. “Look what you did. Makin’ me all sappy 'n shit. Fuck you, man.”

Simmons does not respond.

An angel. Grif snorts derisively. If angels were nerdy, brown-nosed, and capable of out-bitching anyone on the planet, then sure, Simmons was an angel. Or maybe one of those baby Cupid things. Simmons certainly whined as much as a baby and was equally, if not more, annoying.

Well. A baby wouldn't know the script to every Star Wars movie by heart, or the know exact hex code for Grif’s favorite color, nor did they spend hours trying to learn how to make one Hawaiian dish after a passing nostalgic comment, or call him to remind him to take his medications in the afternoon at work.

What a fucking dork.

Simmons mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep. Whatever it was caused his hand to emerge from deep within the soft covers and start patting softly in Grif’s general direction. Grif smiles softly— God, it’s so soft and domestic, he’s almost glad Simmons is still asleep— and puts his own hand in front of Simmons’ wandering fingers. They find it and wrap themselves nimbly around his palm. The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly and the crease in his brow fades.

I’m gonna marry this man.

Grif takes a deep breath, eyes flickering over to the sock drawer. Deep in its messy depths sits a golden band with a strip of ruby darting through the middle. It’s been a year since he’d bought it. The gold is slightly duller in some spots with how many times he sat each day thumbing it and contemplating whether he should put it to use.

But he never could.

Sixteen years ago, he met Richard Simmons as a fifteen-year-old freshman in a high school science class. He had accidentally set his eyebrows on fire in their first lab. They hadn't even been partners at the time, but a spark had just so happened to fly through the air and land in that spot. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Time passed, rolling on in its ruthless waves and loops.

They caught each other under the night sky with a billion twinkling stars and a huge silver moon in the middle of no-where with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a guitar in the other. It was then that Grif admitted to himself that he not only loved Simmons, but he was in love with Simmons. He wasn't sure what the difference was. He just knew there was a difference.

Then they moved out of college together and found an apartment for a while. Then, when they could afford it, they bought a little house on the edge of a woods. It was perfect; the place itself was a close drive into town, and the only common sounds were the birds chirping and car tires crunching down gravel roads. It wasn't close to any body of water, and it certainly wasn't the beaches in Hawaii, but he was okay with that. For the most part.

Four years ago, Grif realized he really, really wanted to stay forever.

Time stopped.

He wanted to stay with this mess of a man who once banned Grif from using the washing machine after dying his underwear pink one too many times, but still stayed up late when he had work talking to Grif in soft tones, no specific subject being discussed, who couldn't tell directions for shit but still made the effort into trying to get them to a beach every once in a while to swim in the freezing Northwestern ocean, who cried if a dog died in a movie, but still snapped at anyone who dared to snicker at Grif in public.

They argued a lot. They argued and snapped and did petty things to each other, far, far more than the average couple. Sure. It was weird. They both knew that. But it worked for them both, and Grif couldn't imagine a world where his best friend and the love of his life was named someone other than Richard Simmons.

Time resumed.

He trusts Simmons. He’s given him every vulnerability he has and he trusts him to not suddenly drop it like a vase slipping through fingers, splintering into millions of pieces and bits of dust, unable to ever be fully restored again. So he trusts him to not say no.

So what was he waiting for?

What if he does say no? whispers the doubt in his heart. What difference would it make anyway? All it would be is one bit of metal and some words. It’s easier to shut up and let things run its course.

"It’s a different different," Grif murmurs.

"Wha’s differen’?"

Grif stiffens and looks down as Simmons’ eyes flutter open. They focus blearily on Grif for a second before they fall shut again.

"Uh. S’nothin’," Grif says quickly. Nothing my fat ass.

"Mm." Simmons finally notices the light grip he has on Grif’s hand. He considers it for a brief moment before he navigates Grif’s palm to cup his cheek. "So why’re you al—al—" He fails to stifle a huge yawn. Grif smiles. Why was sleepy Simmons so sappy and sweet? This was unfair. "Why’re you already up?"

Shit. "Those, um." A crow caws loudly, setting off a cacophonous orchestra of its friends for a few seconds before they stop. "That. Those— Those dumbass birds. They, uh, wouldn't shut up this morning. Yeah."

Simmons hums, brows furrowing faintly. "You sleep like a fuckin’ log. Since when did birds ever bother you?"

"Um, well, it’s almost spring, right?" He’s grasping at straws at this point. "I bet every single one of ‘em trying to get laid. Gotta be all loud and shit to get some. Early bird gets the worm and all."

"Ugh, stop," Simmons groans, but he doesn't press it. He tries to sit up, but he ends up making this disgusted noise and shrinking back into the covers.

“What the hell was that?" Grif laughs.

"‘S cold,” Simmons says defensively.

"How can you wake up, not even leave the bed, and still get cold?"

"Shut up."

Grif rolls his eyes and lifts up his arm. Simmons smiles gratefully and he scoots himself closer, tucking himself easily up against Grif’s side. "Almost twenty years," he murmurs into Grif’s chest. "And I still don't know how you manage to never be cold."

"Having a hot bod has its perks. I guess you wouldn't know."

He feels Simmons scowl. "I’ve already told you why it happens."

"Please don't start."

"You aren't hotter than me—"

"Even though I totally am."

"Shut up, thanks. Ugh. Where was I?"

"You were talking about how I was hotter than you."

"Oh my god!" Simmons struggles to push himself up so he's leaning against the headboard. "It's because you have..." Within a few seconds, Grif tunes the rest out, more interested in the way Simmons' lips move rather than the words that fly from them at breakneck speeds. The way his hands gesture wildly, up and down, side to side, as if he could create his thoughts into something tangible. The way the little glint in his green eyes gets brighter as he gets into the more science-y bits, shining like a gold coin in an emerald meadow. The way he pauses in his tangent just long enough to let Grif get in his sarcastic quips, how he's grown to let that be a normal thing in their conversations.

God, I love this guy.

Simmons suddenly laughs, breaking him out of his thoughts. "What's with your face?"

"What's what with my face?"

"You're like... Being all smiley," Simmons muses, poking Grif in the ribs. Grif swats at him.

"What, so I can't have a good morning without it being suspicious?"

Simmons ignores him. "Seriously. You're up early, which is a sign of the apocalypse, and you’re acting really weird. What's going on?"

"Nnnope, dunno what you're talking about, I’m gonna go start breakfast, are you in a coffee mood?"

"Uh—"

"Sounds good!" Grif practically falls out of the bed in an attempt to pick up his sweatshirt while also kicking back the covers. Simmons watches with a bemused expression, but he doesn't say anything.

"One more week," he mutters to himself as he speed-walks away to the kitchen, face aflame. "One more week," he says again while slamming a few pieces of bread into the toaster. It was supposed to be their anniversary by then. That was romantic, right? Proposing on their anniversary? Wait, did people have dating anniversaries? Of course they did, how did he forget that? Okay, was it even romantic to do that? To propose on their anniversary? Oh, God, he doesn't even actually have a plan besides getting down on one knee and saying his thing! He didn't even have a backup plan!He could just wing it, it's worked for everything in the past. There was no reason for it to fail now.

"Calm down," he mutters. He could just wing it, it's worked for everything in the past. There was no reason for it to fail now. Except for like, every reason ever.

The eggs hiss as he cracks them open into the frying pan. "One week," he repeats one last time. "Gonna romance the shit out of him. I'm gonna do it."

…But one week was an awfully long ways away.

Grif shakes his head and throws open the fridge, glancing around with his lips pursed. "Simmons!" he yells into the fridge. "Whaddya want to eat?"

Silence. Then Simmons calls back in a distracted tone, "What?"

"What. Do. You. Want. To. Eat!"

"What?"

"God fucking dammit." Grif throws his head back and makes a frustrated noise. He closes the door, turns off the toaster and the stove, then marches back to their room.

"Wait!" Simmons yelps as Grif slams the door open. Simmons yelps and shoves his hand into the covers. Grif raises his brow.

"What was that?" he asks, suspicious.

"Nothing!" he squeaks. He reaches up to adjust his crooked glasses and pulls the covers a little closer around his hand. Grif smirks. Simmons seems to read his mind because huffs and says, "I wasn't doing that." Grif gives him a look. “I wasn’t!”

"That sounds exactly like what someone who was totally jerking it would say."

Simmons throws his hands up. "Oh, my God, I wasn’t fucking doing that! Why…"

What should happen next was that Simmons would work himself up, get all red and the face and be "angry", but Grif would laugh and bypass all of his reasoning, derail the conversation, then start another argument about something else that’s completely unrelated to the original topic.

Instead, his eyes lock onto the small, velvety box Simmons has clenched tightly in his hand.

He feels his heart speed up and every other sound drown under the roar of his blood rushing to his head. Everything seems to zoom out to a tiny speck, Simmons as the center point. Simmons finally sees where he’s looking and slowly trails off. He glances at his hand. Then at Grif. Then back again. "Fuck."

"Simmons," Grif says back, but it’s all he can say, because holy shit. Silence was supposed to mean a lack of any noise whatsoever, wasn't it? So why did it sound like the roar of the ocean, the crackling of a thousand fireworks, bright moments of laughter playing like a slideshow?

"Grif," Simmons says carefully. He bites his lip, slowly letting his hand drop. "Um."

Reality snaps from being a tiny speck to suddenly being in high definition. Every freckle on Simmons’ face stood out, every color was brighter, every little thing seemed to move so slowly and smoothly. Grif’s hands go to his mouth, then to the side of his head. He has a million things he to say, a thousand variations of, Thank you, Oh my God, holy fucking shit, is this real, is this happening?

Instead of voicing a single word of any of that, or even just outright saying, "Yes," he spits out, "Fuck you!"

Why? screams the chorus in his head.

Simmons blinks, visibly taken aback.

Was it because of his nature to just say, and not think?

His mouth parts in surprise before his expression crumples and it snaps shut, lips pressed together in a determined line.

Or was it because that's how was supposed to respond? He was Grif, Simmons was Simmons. They were supposed to disagree.

"I’m sorry," Simmons says lowly. His voice is trembling.

Or was it because he was back to being the petty fifteen-year-old he was when they met, acting without a care for the consequences? Guilt gnaws at Grif, clenching him in chilled claws of dread.

"I thought—I thought—Oh, God," Simmons moans, pressing his hands into his face. "What the hell am I doing?"

"What—Oh, Jesus, no, no! Simmons, no, that's not—!" Grif crosses the room in quick strides, reaching to hold Simmons’ face in his hands. But he shrinks away, and that action right there hits Grif harder than anything else.

"I’m sorry," Simmons repeats, furiously swiping at his eyes. "I wasn't thinking. I should’ve waited. I should’ve—"

Something clicks in Grif’s brain, which, for being so light and floaty a few seconds ago, now feels like it was spinning wildly out of his control, crashing, and promptly bursting into flames. He presses a hand to his temple. "Simmons, shut up and gimme a second to fucking think. ‘Kay?"

"I think you’ve made it pretty clear what you think," Simmons spits. Grif swallows back the lump in his throat.

"No," he says as firmly as he can. "You’re just jumping the gun as-per-fuckin’-usual." He squeezes Simmons’ thigh reassuringly, then darts for the dresser. He nearly pulls the whole drawer out as he yanks it open, tossing pair after pair of socks onto the floor.

"Um. Grif." Grif doesn't look up.

"Dex." Be strong, Grif.

"Dexter." Fuck. He looks up to Simmons’ expression, wishing immediately he hadn’t. He's stopped crying at least, but his cheeks are splotchy and a few stray tears still cling stubbornly to his eyelashes. Grif had done that. He and his stupid brain that couldn't say the stuff he needed to say it had done that. He's made him cry before, and he's felt bad about it, but not like this. Never like this. "Why—?"

"In a sec." Grif lets out a growl of frustration as he forcefully throws the socks he's holding against the wall. "Goddammit, where is it!"

"Where’s what?"

"Simmons, shut—" He hear's a clatter and the telltale sound of something rattling along on the floor. Grif curses and pounces onto the ground, sweeping his arm under the dresser. Simmons watches on with bewildered eyes.

"Okay." He hiccups a weak, wet laugh. "Okay, seriously, what the hell are you doing?"

"Looking," Grif grunts as he stretches an arm under the bed, "for—this!" He pinches his fingers around the ring and slides himself out from under the bed with only a small hassle. He sits up on his knees and holds up the ring.

Whatever Simmons had been planning on saying next fades away as he stares at the glittering bit of metal. The silence that fills the room is so heavy, so still that even the dust in the sunlight slows to a stop. The birds stop their morning songs and the only thing that exists is that ring, him, and Simmons.

He blinks once. Then twice. Grif swallows nervously and watches him like a hawk as he slowly lifts up his hands and takes off his glasses, taking his time to clean them. He slides them back on and the look he gives him feels like his very soul is being stared into.

"You," Simmons finally says, voice trembling, shoulders shaking, "are the biggest fucking asshole."

Relief floods Grif is like a drug, washing out the tension in his stomach and making his shoulder slump. "I wanted—" His voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "I wanted to be the first one to ask. I was waiting for-fucking-ever to be first." He chuckles and drags his other hand down his face. "That's why I—Agh. You know. So you going to try and steal it from me? Fuck you, man."

Simmons’ mouth flaps open and closed. Then, to Grif’s horror, fat tears start rolling down his cheeks all over again. "You ass," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry. I was the one that wasn't thinking."

Simmons huffs. Grif picks himself up off the floor and cautiously sits down on the edge of the bed. Simmons instantly wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, and buries his face into the crook of Grif’s shoulder, still mumbling and curses. After a few moments of Grif rubbing his back, Simmons pulls away and punches him in the arm, scowling.

"Don’t," he starts. "Don't ev—ever scare me like that again, oh my God!"

"Sorry," Grif says automatically. Simmons takes off his glasses again— they kept getting fogged up anyways— and kisses him. It's light, a bit uncoordinated. It's like their first kiss all over again, noses getting squashed on each other's cheeks and teeth clacking lightly, only the uncertainty is replaced with something like a question as if Simmons was asking, was he really sorry, was this really going to be okay?

"How long?" Simmons whispers against his mouth. He still has his awful morning breath, and Grif could absolutely not care any less.

"What?"

Simmons pulls away just far away enough that he can still lean his forehead against Grif’s. "You said you were waiting for 'forever.' How long were you thinking about...?"

Dating for seven years, Grif thinks, and we still suck ass at direct communication. No, he realizes, ‘dating’ isn't right anymore. Engaged and they still suck ass at direct communication. Or, wait. No, they weren't engaged yet. Neither of them had actually popped the question.

He was going to be engaged. Soon. As in, now soon. Oh, holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

"Grif?"

"Oh, uh." Grif coughs and clears his throat in embarrassment. "Four years? I bought this thing"—he gestures to the ring—"like, a year ago, though.”

"What?! We could have—Could have—" Simmons turns red. "Gotten engaged like, four years ago, and you didn't say anything!?"

"Hey man, I wasn't sure! I didn't want to push!"

"Pushing my buttons is your ‘thing’ though, you said so!"

"Oh, and you did so much better? How long were you waiting?"

Simmons falls silent at that. Grif snorts, smug. "See why I didn't—"

"Five years."

Grif chokes. "What?"

Simmons takes a deep breath. The tone in the room shifts to something a little more serious. "So—So you know when we met. Freshman year. We started hanging out a lot. And when you came over the first time, my dad, um. He..."

"He hated me."

"Yeah." Simmons' expression turns guilty. "I... I felt awful about this, and I still do, but I tried to, too."

"Tried to what?"

Simmons bites his lip hesitantly. "Hate you," he says quickly. Grif's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline as Simmons rushes on. "Because it was messing everything somewhat-decent up between my dad and me." Grif stares at him. "Seriously! Literally, the only thing I wanted back then was to get on good terms with my dad. It seemed logical to me. So I keep trying to find reasons to convince myself to do it." 

"Gee, thanks," Grif says dryly. Simmons cringes and glances away. "Was that why you stopped talking to me for like, two months? I here I was thinking it was because I stole the last carton of almond milk that week."

"I—How the hell do you remember that? Of course you would, what am I saying?" Grif doesn't know what he means by that, but he doesn't comment. "Okay, anyway, here's the thing; it fucking sucked."

Grif frowns. "So why'd you do it?"

"Because I really thought it would help." Simmons swallows. "I thought if I, if I stuck to myself, did everything on my own to prove I could be independent, lived my life to prove a point to my dad, I would get something out of it. But I didn't. And I honestly couldn't get why." Simmons snorts. "I thought it was your fault, at first. It just had to be in some way or another, because I was convinced that was how it was supposed to be. Turned out I had a case of something called missing my friend. Wow. Crazy." He sighs. "My dad definitely didn't make things easier. On one hand, he seemed happy I stopped talking to you. But he made it seem like it wasn't enough."

It takes a lot of effort to not just say, "Yeah, and?" because Grif knows all of this. He remembers the times Simmons would show up to school with bags under reddened eyes. He remembers when he would argue and snap much more when something had happened back home. He remembers when Simmons would show up at his house late at night with a scowl and a single duffel bag. He remembers the arguments he had with Simmons' father about their lives. He remembers it all. "No offense Simmons, but I know that? I don't—I don't know what's new here about your dad being a total dickwad."

Simmons scrunches his brow, lips twisting thoughtfully. "When we started hanging out again, I was like, twenty times worse about everything. Some of the stuff I said was awful, even by our standards. I'm really sorry about that, by the way."

"Only took you sixteen years."

Simmons sighs and leans closer into Grif. "It took me way too long to realize why I had so many issues with… Everything. About you. Even when we were around each other, I would sit there wondering why I was being so persnickety—"

"'Persnickety?' Why do you have to be such an old man? Only Sarge says shit like that."

"Shut up, I’m being serious!"

"Richard Simmons? Being serious? No."

Simmons gives him a look. Grif coughs and waves him on. "At first, I thought— I thought—" He puffs out his cheeks and blows out. “When we got closer,” he starts again, slowly, “I realized how different we were. And that difference was just... Crazy to me. I didn't see how someone could live the way you did and… Not have any consequences for it?"

It's called having shitty parents who weren't around enough to actually berate you about a bad grade or some shit. Not much better of a life, Simmons. But he doesn't say that. He knows it'll derail the conversation into this mess of apologies and reassurances, It's fine, No, really, it's fine, Oh my god, I said it was fine, can we move on?

"Right. Anyways. I started chastising you for doing the things I wasn't allowed to do, and you hated it, but I think— I think, back then, I thought I was helping?" Grif stays silent. Simmons makes this disgusted noise. "'Helping.' All I did was make you try to not do stuff even more."

"Damn right."

"But even after all of that, it took a year after we started going out in college to realize that not everyone had that life. My life. They shouldn't have that life. I thought it was normal."

"It was fucked up," Grif reiterates. Okay. He knew this was supposed to mean something. But he had no idea what the hell it was supposed to be.

"It was fucked up," Simmons echoes. "But I didn't realize that at the time. You did, though."

Grif blinks. "Huh? What'd I do?"

To his surprise, Simmons doesn't roll his eyes or start smugly explaining in the same way one would explain to a child. Instead, his shoulders relax and his smile grows. "You gave me the push I needed to get myself to realize what was wrong. You gave me the chance to try again."

"Oh." Grif ducks his head away, embarrassed. He hadn't done any of those things on purpose. His entire goal of his high school career was only to try to get Simmons to relax for once in his life, which, in hindsight, was a little weird. Whatever it was, it shouldn't have been some emotional revelation. There wasn't supposed to be some hidden meaning. But if Simmons saw something and was waxing poetic about it, well, he wasn't about to stop him.

"Basically, you told me, "Hey, shut the fuck up for a second and relax." I got the message, but I didn't know how to do that. I had spent so much of my time and energy trying to do stuff for other people that I never stepped back to do what I wanted. So when it came to it, I was lost. But you... It was all you. You taught how to do it!" Simmons laughs again. He takes Grif’s hands eagerly in his own, peering at him with shining eyes. "Grif, you showed me that I could live for me. Not my dad. Not my mom. It was for whoever the hell I wanted to."

Oh. Oh. Something in Grif’s heart swells until he swears it’s going to burst out of him in this mess of affection. "Oh," he says intelligently, because what else was there to say?

Simmons is still talking. "I didn't really think back on that until we got back from a party from five years ago, and we got home at like two in the morning, and we were drunk as fuck, and I was so fucking happy!"

"Because you were drunk?"

"No, goddammit, it was because I was wondering earlier, ‘Where would I be without you? What life would I be living? What if you hadn't?’"—he snorts in disbelief— "Remember our first lab together?"

Grif tilts his head. "The one where I set your eyebrows on fire?"

"Yeah. I was wondering, what if you hadn't even done that? It was so fucking long ago, why would it matter? But then I kept thinking, and what if you hadn't kept messing with me after that? What if I hadn't spent two weeks trying to get you back for that? What if we had just gotten over it and forgot about each other? And holy shit Grif, it was the scariest fucking thing. I knew right then and there I didn't want that. I didn't want to be somewhere else. But it was okay. It was okay because I didn't need to worry about it. This is where I am now. I'm not in a different world where a guy named Dexter Grif didn't exist in my life. I'm in the world that does." And here, Simmons’ expression goes deadly serious. But within his eyes is a small flare of hopefulness and... Something else, burning with intensity. "I don't even want to think about it being any different, Dexter. I’m hoping you don't either."

Grif closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath through his nose, trying his damn hardest not to cry, but he's failing epically. He knows Simmons is still watching him intently, so he has to take a minute to compose himself and get his next words out. He opens his eyes again. “I don't,” he says in a croaky voice, "I mean, I don't want it to be different. ‘Cept for one thing."

"And what would that be?"

"I got a question for you, Richard."

"Mm?" He's smiling again.

The words come out after a deep breath in, then out.

“Wanna get married?”

Simmons’ smile melts into something so gentle and sweet that Grif nearly misses his next words. "I don't think that's how it goes," he says softly, but he's taking Grif’s face into his hands anyway. For once, they're warm.

"Shut up and answer the question, dumbass."

"Yeah." He’s crying again, that fucker, but Grif is too, so he can't really say anything. "Yes. Yes, I do, God, yes—"

Grif kisses him, not because that's what (he thinks) he's supposed to do, but because he doesn't know how words can convey the emotions that are rushing out of every part of his being. Joy, first of all, overwhelming, burning joy, affection, fondness, jubilation. Any worry and concern he had is buried and forgotten as their breath and tears mix, soon followed by their giddy laughter, the notes floating up in the room and hanging like stars.

The rings do look rather nice in the sunlight.

[wumbleberry-fc]

Chai, Flowering Tea, Blueberry-muffin Tea, Kombucha

Chai: Where do you want to travel next?

I would like to visit Canada, since I’m going to live within 60 miles of the border real soon, and I would also like to visit more states in the US, as I have been in 20 states now (not including only being in an airport).

Flowering Tea: What is a movie you can always watch?

I am always down to see the movie Airplane! It’s hilarious I recommend it with high regards.

Blueberry-muffin Tea: Tell me a memory that makes you smile.

This is the story of June 2nd. (WARNING: VERY LONG)

So, the last assembly of the school year is dedicated to the senior class, and it’s known as the Senior Assembly. It features speeches by a couple students, final performances by senior drillers and senior cheerleaders, a performance by ‘Man Drill’ (where some male juniors dress up and perform in a hilarious parody of what regular drill might do, meme style), performances by any senior soloists or groups of senior students who wish to play something for the class (2016 featured a lovely original jazzy performance by all the senior brass, and then some students sang ‘Fix You,’ among other things), announcements of the staff who will be leaving with the seniors, department honors,  and then there is a moving up thing where each class transitions to the next class, and the seniors go into the middle of the gym and watch a slideshow of whatever pictures the students sent in, and then the band plays the alma mater for the last time for them (also, they play at the entrance procession as well).

This year, it was combined with Gordy Games, which is a day where pretty much classes are super short, and then it’s a fun, casual day, with food trucks on campus, bouncy houses, a dodgeball tournament, video games, a movie, and yearbook distribution, where anybody can go wherever they want and nobody cares what you do, so long as it’s legal. It’s the one day where no administrator even semi-actively tries to enforce the no underclassman off-campus policy, and it’s just a super easy day to not worry about the end-of-year stress and just be kids for a day.

Well, this year, I was one of the three seniors who gave a speech. Back in late April, word was sent that they were looking for seniors interested in speaking at graduation. One student would speak at graduation, a couple would speak at the Senior Assembly, and one would speak at the Last Lesson.

Only a total of 7 of us even bothered to draft a potential speech. A week after writing the draft and presenting it to a panel of teachers (on May 1st), I found out that I was one of those chosen for the Senior Assembly (which was the one I wanted).

Flash forward a bit: Three days before the assembly, I was pulled from my last period and told to report to the principal. When I got there, she told me that a meeting should’ve happened way earlier but she was swamped. She then told me that there was no flow in my speech at all, there seemed to be no clear point, and it needed to be completely rewritten, and so I promised that I’d have a brand new speech written with a point and a flow by lunch the next day (Yep! 21 hours to rewrite from scratch a 5-minute speech).

The next day, which just so happens to be my birthday, I had my new speech printed out and ready, and I was a ball of nerves as I walked into her office at 11:30. She had me read the new speech, and she said “This is a million times better, thank you. I approve of this speech,” and I was so relieved oh my goodness.

Now onto the day of the event and the happy memories!

It was a late start Friday (8:50 instead of 7:20), but we had to be there by 6:30, which was fine. We did the run-through of things, and when us three speakers finished, we were able to go, and I joined the philharmonic orchestra in a zero period rehearsal to practice our combined pieces for the concert the week after, and then we had 12 minute classes.

The entrance was long but I loved walking in to the sounds of everyone cheering for our class with the band playing some pep tunes and it was great! There was a greeting, the drill performance, the first speaker (who was alright, not very emotionally stirring or anything. It was... speechy.), the cheerleaders, the Man Drill, and then it was my turn.

I went up to the podium, and gave this speech:

Hello. I am Alex Walter, and I have one thing to say:

I love Hazen.

Well, I have more to say than just that. I stand here before you today representing the senior class. I am not a Representative of the class, I am not the four-year three-sport varsity athlete, I am not the most popular guy in the class—I am a regular, run-of-the-mill senior student. Except for one thing.

I love Oliver M. Hazen Senior High School. After 4 years, not many of the 388 of us can say the same. While I don’t hold the belief that ‘Hazen is whack,’ I do understand where it comes from.

It began four years ago, when 368 of us sat in these bleachers for the first time as a Hazen student. At our orientation, we were oriented to Hazen, told the rules and guidelines, and given our first warning about our culminating project. Immediately after, we forgot our way around, nobody remembered to not clump around in major hallways and stairwells, and were told not to put off our culminating project. Four years later, and we still don’t know the bell schedule, where everything is in the school, how to keep walking in the hallways, and what the culminating project is.

Furthermore, thanks to No Child Left Behind, we were privileged to have the opportunity to take all these BRAND NEW Standardized Tests. Wasn’t that Smarter Balanced Assessment Consortium fun!? And how about that new version of the SAT WITH Essay?!

Miscommunication, though, is one of the biggest reasons Hazen isn’t always kept in the highest regard. I miss the days where the food services accounts emailed about a low balance $5.00 before overdrafting, instead of $5.00 after. I’m waiting for the day when the system finally marks excused absences as excused. Especially when I was in the Lecture Hall all day. And speaking of the Lecture Hall, as I pointed out there during the Constitutional Convention, it took three and a half years to find out how to check how many detention hours I had. Luckily, despite not being the best student, I didn’t have any.

Beyond all of this, though, we must keep in mind that, just like life, Hazen is more than a few things. Hazen has many layers, just like onions, ogres, and all of us. We are more than our grades and test scores. We have our special interests, hobbies, priorities, and lifestyles. Our beloved Assistant Principal Mr. ____ is more than a strict disciplinarian. He is a loving father, a fantastic dancer, and the best reader of Green Eggs and Ham that I have ever met! And Hazen is more than kids who don’t listen, government-mandated and -implemented educational standards, and faulty electronic systems.

Hazen provides amazing acceptance and diversity in both opportunities and activities. Seriously, last year we formed a club where we would literally sit around and play Super Smash Bros. Brawl for an hour and a half each week. And that is on top of D&D club and Gamer’s Guild club.

We have a Gay Straight Alliance, a Black Student Union, an Asian Student Coalition, and a Latino Student Union. We have the Yearbook, the Kilt, and Lit Mag, which all feature superb writing and artwork! We have a drama department that puts on an astounding two shows a year, or in the case of this year, eight! We have top-class, state championship-winning FBLA, Drill, Cheer, Choir, Orchestra, and Band programs! WE HAVE A MARCHING BAND!!!!! We have a school store operated by DECA that introduced me to the wonderful world of bagels. We even have athletics!, who, while they might not win all their games, they win spots in our hearts.

I personally don’t participate in all of these activities and groups, as, well, it’s hard to be an active member in seven groups who all meet at 2:15 on Thursday. But the ability to have so many choices to pick and choose from is brilliant.

It’s these choices that define our Hazen experience. For me, I chose to join the band. I joined a group that not only gets to make music, but gets to support our school and our community. I got to scream, or cheer, to my heart’s content and dance like nobody was watching at games. I got to play stand tunes and pop songs for you all. I got to grow as an individual in both musical maturity and emotional maturity. I gained an accepting environment filled with friendly people. And by marching this year, I even got the athletic component in and did some physical exercise. I got the full Hazen experience, all in one.

It’s our choices that characterize and embody Hazen as a whole, and, I have to say that I don’t want to leave. You make me proud to be a Highlander. You make Hazen a place I want to be at. You make Hazen a place I love.

I’ll miss you.

(I know at least two people who recorded my speech, but I still haven’t seen either of them so I can’t provide that for you guys, but it was beautiful!)

After that, it was a Orchestral Quartet, the final senior speaker (who’s speech was sad and deep), the senior dances, the farewells to the departing teachers, the moving up, the slideshow, and then we left for Gordy Games.

At Gordy Games, I kept receiving compliments on my speech, and I hung out with my three greatest friends. We ended up bailing the school, and went an got Thai food at a place about a mile from campus, and then walked over to a park another mile away and had a picnic and it was my first ever picnic type thing and we just sat there for over 2 hours eating and talking and hanging out and it was like the best ever, and then we walked another 2 miles back to one of our houses, and departed from there at around 5, after 4.5 hours together.

And every time I think about that day, my face just brightens up completely, because it was the four of us, together, completely happy on a stress-free afternoon being best friends and I love them all and that is one of the happiest days of my life!

TL;DR: A speech that I had to rewrite last-minute for a school-wide assembly went brilliantly well and afterwards I hung out with my 3 favorite people (that I’ve met physically) and had an even better time, for one of the best days in my life.

Kombucha: What do you order on pizza?

Either an all meat pizza, an all meat stuffed pizza, a cheese pizza, a sausage and green pepper pizza, or what I just found to be good, a chicken bacon ranch pizza.

-----

Thanks for the asks!!!

[mounicalucia-blog]

HI,

I’m Shannon C.

A DJ, Entrepreneur, Radio Personality, and Business Owner dedicated to inspiring happiness and healing through music.

A Born and Raised Florida Girl with a Passion, a Laptop and a dream, I am honored to work in an industry where I can help people to experience joy, nostalgia, and escape through music. Through digital DJ services, customized performances, thoughtful song selection, and community education, I help people like you experience the joy of music when attending a DJ Shannon C event.

A Question that I’m Frequently Asked is

“How Did You Get Started as a Dj?”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been completely in love with music. My grandmother started me on the piano at 5, and by 7 I could sit down and play songs I would hear on the radio. My musical ear was always very strong. I always gravitated to musical instruments, so it was no surprise that by age 12, I was the lead flutist in my middle school orchestra, and by 16, a lead trombonist in our high school symphony and jazz ensembles. I’ve always gravitated to drums and percussive instruments, experimenting with side rock and ska projects in high school. I also wrote musical arrangements for our 100 piece high school marching band.

Like I said, I was IN LOVE with Music.

I was also passionate about a multitude of seemingly unconnected things: teaching, psychology, entrepreneurship, creativity, dance, spirituality, fitness and philanthropy, just to name a few. I came to Tampa in 2002 to attend University of South Florida for Performing Arts and Dance. (I took a long break from music in my early 20’s as I was cultivating other interests and pursuing a corporate career.)

After USF, I hopped around between jobs, aggressively climbing the corporate ladder in a Training and Project Management capacity. I’ve trained for major companies including Medicare, Capital One, and JP Morgan Chase. And while I was very good at my job, a large part of me was very unfulfilled.

Then in 2013, everything changed…

I had been hosting Bar Trivia as a side job to allow me a sense of creativity. I was back in school studying Adult Education, and I was heavily pursuing a corporate career. Everything changed because I sustained several injuries to my body and my brain. Everything changed because I could no longer work a corporate job as I had to be in physical therapy 5 days a week. Everything changed because I was in a position where I had to completely rebuild my life.

On March 1st I was rear ended by a Semi Truck while stopped at a stoplight. And everything changed.

Which brings me to Djing…

The brain injury that I sustained impacted my motor functions. One day I sat down at my piano, which had also been an emotional outlet for me, and I couldn’t play. My fingers wouldn’t move to the keys liked they’d been trained for years before. This through me into a deep depression. In an attempt to help me feel better, my then boyfriend showed me some basics of Djing and put a mixtrack pro with virtual DJ in front of me. My DJ journey begins here.

I spent the next several months of my physical recovery learning about Djing, beat matching, using different software, different hardware, mixing different genres of music, etc. I dove in to the deepend, and it really helped me to progress through my injuries and depression.

In July 2013, a friend booked me to play for her sister’s wedding, and shortly after, a neighbor who often heard me practicing, booked me to play weekly at his venue at International Plaza. I also began networking and working under different mentor djs as I progressed into my DJ career. In late 2014 I produced and hosted my first Art and Music showcase to benefit The Tampa Crisis Center, and , I aligned with Scratch Events, an agency in New York City, who began booking me for corporate and fashion brands.

In 2015 I began working in nightlife, serving the LGBT community in both Ybor City, and St Petersburg, FL. I also did my first guest set with Jose Da Magician at Art After Dark in South Tampa, and I aligned myself with Trinity Cafe to play music for the homeless on the Holidays.

In 2016, I took on my first Out of State gig at the Georgia World Congress Center for the SalesForce connections tour. I began doing guest spots with other local djs including DJ Qeys and DJ Knox at Crowbar for Takeover Tuesdays, and DJ D2 at Top Golf. I did fashion work for Millenia Fashion with With Mall at Millenia and Rapid 3D Print for their 3D Print Fashion Show. I also began teaching DJ lessons to local teens.

In 2017, I was invited into my first DJ crew, affectionately gaining the title of the First Woman of the Sinister Syndicate. I also began working for 99 Jamz FM, the Berg with a Weekly Segment called Ladies Take Over Thursdays on the Big Show.

In 2018, I’m excited to launch my second company, Digital DJ Youth Academy, which offers one to many classes for youth at the elementary, middle, and high school levels. The classes allow students exposure to DJ culture and music while integrating core skills for each age group including leadership, team building, creativity, individual expression, tolerance and celebration of differences, as well as reinforcing familiarity with numbers and language. My goal is to get kids turned on to music early and show them a path for creating a hobby or even a profitable career in music. I want to use music to help my youth reach their fullest potential both in Djing and in life.

CLIENT Portfolio

Which Brings Me To You

Late in 2013 I conceptualized and launched InterCross Entertainment. I was annoyed with the lack of professionalism that I’d experienced on the business side of the entertainment industry. InterCross was born as a way to merge top quality talent with old school service based business practices.

I’m here to serve. My company is built on a bedrock of love, compassion, passion for what’s possible, and commitment to providing a top quality experience to everyone we reach. My mission in both my own brand, and in InterCross Entertainment is to help you achieve your best musical experience , be it in the form of an event, collaboration, or education. I’m here to serve you.

The best way to stay connected is to become an insider! You’ll get tips for booking djs, updates on new mixes and shows, and behind the decks look at my life as I strive to encourage and inspire the masses through music.

Click to become an Insider

Plus you’ll get a fantastic, FREE Entertainment Planning Workbook to help you manage the entertainment for your next event from Booking to Planning the Event, It’s got everything you need to set your next event up to be a huge success!

Thank you so much for taking the time to visit! I’m so happy to connect with you, and look forward to our journey ahead!

Shannon C

Visit- Digital DJ services - DJ Shannon C

[irarelypostanything]

7th Grade

Mr. Xu had not spoken in 30 minutes, so we knew he was pissed off at someone.  At first he sarcastically told us to go on and keep talking, the way any teacher might—but then it went dead and he still kept it up.  I knew it had been exactly 30 minutes because we were counting each one.

“I’m really sorry,” announced Nate, breaking the silence.  Mr. Xu just shrugged.  Was Nate the one talking?  Probably not, because that didn’t work.  I looked around the room.  Everyone looked uneasy.

Mr. Xu was what many would describe as a strict teacher, but it wasn’t textbook strict.  You weren’t allowed to yawn, but maybe Mr. Xu thought that yawning was genuinely disrespectful.  You were told to get up and teach the class if you talked too much, but maybe Mr. Xu genuinely wanted to put people in his position.  My own table was talking once, and he told us to teach.  We didn’t know what to do, so he repeatedly complained that he would tell his parents about what lousy teachers we were.  

A whole ten minutes passed.

I don’t remember how the conversation...or...lack of conversation managed to shift, but he did finally start talking again.  After saying a few sentences about the importance of paying attention, he asked me and James if we were sorry.  A little too automatically, we said that we were.

The bell rang.  We walked out of earshot.  

“What did you guys do?” Terry shouted at us, though he may have just been raising his voice over the hallway crowd.  

“I don’t know!” I shouted back.  James later explained to our angry class that he had only said the name Evan after it went quiet, and Mr. Xu had assumed we were talking.

Nope.  No one bought it.

In 7th grade, our classes were divided up by our electives.  We had a core group of about 30 people, and we saw them almost every class period.  I, along with six others, was in advanced orchestra.  Somewhere between 10 and 20 of us were in advanced band.  Then there was drama, and art, and a subset of intermediate music...I don’t remember how it added up to 30.  The way they formed our class was arbitrary, only it wasn’t.

A lot of our class took seventh grade really seriously because they wanted to get into Lowell, which was the academic magnet high school of San Francisco.  I don’t remember if I wanted to go there, but it sure doesn’t seem like it.  My “Seventh grades” more or less put Lowell out of the question.

That was way more sevens than I had intended to use.

7 years later

Agnes, Tammy, Carlos and I were assigned to the same group in BIS2A, or introductory biology.  We had met one time before at the UC Davis 24-hour room, which sucked because it didn’t have air-conditioning at the time.  Thankfully we had met in the night, which was the only time in summer session I ever felt like doing anything.

Nighttime was still hot, the way a frying pan is still hot even after you turn off the heat.

This time it was a Saturday.  I woke up at 11:30 AM in a daze, and even after two tylenol my head was still spinning.  I biked to Tako and met up with Agnes.  The other two came later.  Agnes and I had biked; Carlos and Tammy came on foot.  We walked our bikes with them and headed toward the dorms.

“You can feel yourself get more stressed as you walk toward campus,” said Tammy.  She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t read her expression.  

“Yes,” agreed Agnes, I think.  I don’t remember every detail of that day.  I remember that it was almost 100 degrees, and I know that you had to walk about five blocks to get from downtown to campus.  I remember that there weren’t many people around, not because they were at home but because they weren’t at Davis.

We walked to Alder, which Carlos had access to.  Alder was air-conditioned, and this is one detail I remember extremely well.  Coming into the refreshing coolness was like entering a different world.

When we met our TA for the first discussion, the first thing she said was that she saw some familiar faces.  Why?  Because they had failed the class last time.  Her best advice was to be afraid of the class, because many students regretted not being more afraid.

But we had a whiteboard.  We had markers.  We had CrashCourse, and Khan Academy, and some other resources that it would have been nice to have had in Mr. Xu’s class.  We were going to take on BIS2A, and it was going to be an epic story that we would one day tell our grandchildren about.

We spent ten hours at Alder.  Agnes and I biked home together, at midnight, and Agnes said we should talk the whole way because she might fall asleep otherwise.  We exited Segundo, with its endless rows of bike racks, and we traversed three bike circles with no one else on the road to collide with.  We left campus, and we bypassed the arboretum, and we talked about the class, food, and what it was like to live in South Davis.

We realized our houses were next to each other.

*

Mr. Xu was a thin, middle-aged Asian man who had freckles and wore glasses.  He never raised his voice, regardless of what emotion he sought to convey.  He held a 4.5/5 on RateMyTeachers, alongside a considerably lower score for easiness.

In high school, too late, some of the things he told us about biology came rushing back.

I remember feeling like there was an impassable wall that I could only try to overcome.  It stuck because Mr. Xu himself used the metaphor, but some people really had managed to overcome it.

7th grade was a time of stress, and teen angst, and students who tested each other’s limits by saying the rudest things possible.  It was also a time when people said what they meant, held nothing back, and started to come to grips with what they were bad at.

*

We took our first midterm and we got our scores back.  At first they accidentally gave us random numbers for the free response, and some random numbers were really good and some of them were randomly bad.  Mine just so happened to be about the same, random and corrected.

I felt good, like I somehow had a stamp of approval for my efforts.  I could write as a disclaimer that it wasn’t phenomenal, but it’s been a while.  We continued to meet up, and we met someone named Shirley.  Shirley was the highest scorer for the first midterm.

I walked with Shirley to the library (air-conditioned) and we talked about English classes.  She had wanted to be an English major, but decided to study animal science instead.  For reasons I am not sure of, Shirley took a year off of college but did so abruptly, the way someone might restart a project after getting the first few steps wrong.  That’s why Shirley was my age, while Agnes and Tammy were a year younger.

Agnes and Tammy were both pre-pharm, and this (among other things) allowed them to get close extremely fast.  Carlos still met with us on occasion, but he didn’t share our enthusiasm (or our stress) for the class.

We knocked out a worksheet, talked about studying, then got dinner at the Old Teahouse.  This was a nice goto place because it was open ridiculously late, and we enjoyed studying around that general time.

“I think we might break up,” said Tammy, regarding her boyfriend.  Agnes offered her helpful advice, but I didn’t personally have much experience in this “relationship” thing.  I had taken a class called HDE12, though, which included lectures on proper communication with a romantic proper.  The next morning, I sent Tammy a .ppt file.  One of my favorite tips in this lecture was to never, under any circumstances, insult someone’s character.

It occurred to me that Mr. Xu never did that.  He would embarrass people about their presentations, and he would try to make people feel guilty for not knowing things, and on one occasion he read out the names of people who scored badly on a test.  But he never called someone stupid, or hopeless, or unhelpable.  

On a level, I think that everyone craves that brutal honesty.  It’s the simple idea that we’re not performing well enough, that there’s cause for concern, that we’re failing to meet expectations.  It’s the idea that all of that can be okay, though, because we have the capacity to get better and make things right if we only try harder.

Did it work?  For some it did, and for some it didn’t.  One person he called out for his score went on to intentionally fail a placement exam, so that he wouldn’t get Mr. Xu again.

*

Summer session was only six weeks.  We took our second midterm and then we hunkered down.  Tammy’s boyfriend broke up with her.  Agnes’ boyfriend visited us.  Agnes and I bought discount blueberries, and Circle K had a kickback every Thursday, and my housemate played tennis every evening with a girl he had known since high school.  

I liked to swim when I could.  An advantage of growing up in San Francisco is that everything warm felt like vacation.

I went to the Ramen Festival with my first-year roommate and some of our friends.  My high school friends visited me a few nights before the BIS2A final.  I woke up the next morning with a note in my pocket, in my own writing, that said: The best oreo is the one you feel WITH YOUR MIND.  

We took the class and we were done.  We had wanted to celebrate, but after those two hours we weren’t feeling it.  I packed my bags and I left.

Honesty...is that the only thing Mr. Xu gave us?  I still hear his voice sometimes.  He’s sighing when he hands me back my test.

We saw him again once in high school, and he was perfectly cordial.

Honesty...is that what I’m missing right now?  Sometimes everything feels so filtered.  The way we talk to each other.  The way we present ourselves.  Everyone carries all this pain and insecurity inside, and I think we should share all of it...right?  Do I?

A lot of parents complained about Mr. Xu.  Sometimes we could tell he was hurt by it.  At least five of my friends said Mr. Xu was the best teacher they’d ever had, and was simply misunderstood.  James, the other person responsible for holding up the class that one time, disagreed.  He managed to get an A in Mr. Xu’s class.

“I realized Mr. Xu was a terrible teacher,” he told me, years later.  By now he was at UC Berkeley studying bioengineering.  “I had a bio book, so I just stopped listening to him and self-studied.  That’s it.”

I wrote before of the impassable wall.  A better analogy is that I felt some people had the key to understanding, and others didn’t.  If I only had the key, I could decode the incomprehensible things Mr. Xu taught and become one of the smart people.

Just before I graduated college, I took a 2-unit class from someone who gave us motivational speeches.  He talked about a woman who knew how to push a person’s buttons.  He talked about an 80-year-old man.

Out of nowhere, the 80-year-old man screamed at her.  He shouted, “You’re just like my first grade teacher!  She would belittle me, and I hate that!”

That was 74 years.  74 years, and he still carried that pain with him all the way through.

So whose fault was that?

[thecoliverlibrary]

Truth or Dare

Gift Type: Fan Fiction Title: Truth or Dare Author: @ramblesandreblogs Recipient: @tonystarkjpg Rating: Teen Warnings: References to Underage Drinking (is that a warning? it’s late. i’m sorry. all these parenthesis are stupid) Word Count: 5.4k Summary: Certain truths about Connor and Oliver come to light during a New Year’s Eve game of Truth or Dare. Author’s Note: Hi Nive! You requested a high school AU and I tried my best! :) Hope you enjoy it. Happy Holidays and Happy New Year to all!! xoxo

~~~

“I can’t believe you are making me do this.”

Laurel rolled her eyes as she and Oliver made their way down the sidewalk. “Come on, Oliver. Don’t be like that. It’s gonna be fun.”

He glared at her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You and I have very different definitions of fun.”

She smiled beautifully at him and tucked a hand around his arm. “We do,” she agreed. “I think things like New Year’s Eve parties are fun—”

“Torture.”

“And you think things like staying home and ringing in the New Year working on college applications is fun.”

“A productive use of a night off.”

Laurel laughed and the sound echoed in the still night, bouncing off snow covered roofs and sparkling holiday lights. “God. I love you.” She squeezed his arm close and tilted her head on his shoulder. “‘Productive use of a night off.’”

Oliver bristled a that. “What?” What was the matter with that?

What was the matter with spending a night in to get ahead on his applications? His mom was out with her boyfriend (presumably doing things Oliver didn’t want to think about) and his dad was spending the holiday skiing with his new family in Colorado. Instead of feeling bummed about the idea of spending New Year’s Eve alone, Oliver had been a little excited about having the condo to himself for a few hours. Ordering in whatever food he wanted (regardless of Jeremy’s newfound veganism), working on polishing up his application essays, and maybe catching up on Netflix. The whole evening had sounded perfect until Laurel had begun relentlessly messaging him and dragged him out of his warm nest of solitude.

“Those application dates are going be here faster than you know,” he reminded her.

“I know.” Laurel rolled her eyes again but with affection this time. “But they aren’t tomorrow.”

Oliver let her lead him up the driveway and down the walk until they were almost there, Michaela Pratt’s front door.

“She didn’t invite me,” he whispered to Laurel, fast and a touch frantic. They were almost at the front door; his window of bailing was getting smaller and smaller.

“Who? Michaela?” Laurel stopped and turned, blinking at him with wide eyes. “Yes she did.” And she had. Laurel had been standing at Oliver’s side at the time, witness to the whole thing.

Oliver shook his head. “No. She—” He thought back onto that scene just a few days ago.

It had been the last day of school before break and they’d been at their lockers. Laurel was hanging back, waiting for him finish collecting his stuff before she drove them both home, when Michaela approached. The Homecoming Queen had been radiant as she told Laurel that her parents had decided at the last minute to visit an aunt for New Year’s and how she was going to have the house to herself.

“It’s gonna be small,” Michaela had explained to Laurel. “Just a couple of us on New Year’s. Connor and Wes. Maybe Asher. I’m thinking Sarah and Nat but then I’d have to invite Chelsea and I don’t know if I want to get into all that and—Oh!” Michaela had spotted Oliver lingering a few feet away. “You too, of course!” she had said with a smile.

“She did it just to be polite,” Oliver said to Laurel now as they were paused in front of Michaela’s house. “She didn’t really mean it. It was just not to be rude.”

Laurel snorted. “You really don’t know Michaela at all, do you?”

“Laur—”

“Michaela doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to,” she told him. “If she didn’t want you here, she would have ignored you. Believe me. I’ve seen it before.”

That didn’t make Oliver feel any better. He tugged at his sleeves, refusing to touch his hair. He’d actually spent time on it, okay? He didn’t need to walk in with it looking mussed. “It’s just—”

She put a hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there.”

But Laurel was able to move in this circle and Oliver would never be able to fully explain to her that he just couldn’t. She had the uncanny ability to jump social strata, move from clique to clique without a second thought and he just didn’t. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t built for spending New Year’s Eve at the home of the Homecoming Queen and her friends. He’d make a fool out of himself. A total fool. This group starred in the musicals and were on the starting line of the football team and ran the school paper and all already had full rides to the Ivy League. Oliver was a second-tier nerd who ran the tech booth during plays and never set a toe out of line.

He opened his mouth to tell all this to Laurel but she beat him to it.

“You’ll be fine. We’re going in.” Tugging on his arm, she rang the bell. “Just try to loosen up a little,” she said. “Just…Have some fun. What’s the worst that could happen?”

~~~

He was going to kill her.

“You did what?”

Michaela’s smile was a picture of innocence. “I invited Oliver Hampton,” she repeated. “Why? Is that a problem?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed as Michaela kept smiling. He was going to kill her. And he was going to enjoy it.

He’d known confessing his stupid crush had been a mistake. He’d known letting her in on the secret was dangerous. She’d just caught him during a moment of weakness is all.

Connor’d been distracted all those weeks ago as they walked to class. Oliver had been a few feet ahead of them — navigating the crowded halls on his own way to the next class — and Connor just hadn’t been able to look away.

“Connor?”

He’d hummed in answer to Michaela, too caught up in his own ridiculous fantasy to properly acknowledge her.

“God,” she had huffed. “What’s so fascinating?”

“Oliver’s ass,” Connor had answered absently, still not looking away from the beauty before him. Then his mind caught up to his mouth. “Oh fuck!” When he’d turned to look at her, Michaela’s eyes were wide and dancing with glee. “You didn’t—”

“I did!” The hand on his arm had been immediate, the grip fierce. “You have to tell me everything!”

“Mic—”

“Everything!!”

And so Connor had, reluctantly at first but quickly losing the hesitation when he realized how good it felt to actually talk about it with someone. Putting the feelings he’d been harboring for…Christ, for months now into words had been freeing.

But freedom came with price and apparently tonight was the night Connor paid up.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he said to Michaela. Then, turning to Wes. “Can you believe she did this?”

“What? Inviting Oliver?” Wes asked without looking up from his phone. “What’s the big deal? Oliver’s cool. He’s coming with Laurel, right?”

Michaela’s smile was indulgent. She had a soft spot for those two but knew they’d get there eventually. “She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.”

Wes shot Michaela a pointed look. “I’m not worried.” He turned back to his phone. “Besides, thought you’d be happy Oliver’s coming,” he said to Connor.

“I’m not unhappy,” Connor was quick to say. “It’s just—I’m—Why should I be happy?”

That made Wes glance up. “Well, you like the guy, right?”

Connor’s eyes found Michaela’s instantly. She told—She told Wes! Connor’d told her that in confidence. He couldn’t believe— “You told him!”

She held her hands up. “I didn’t. Connor, I swear I didn’t.”

“I can’t believe this, Mic. You—”

“She didn’t tell me,” Wes said.

“Then who did?” Connor demanded.

“No one. I just…” He gave a shrug. “Just figured it out.”

“How?” Connor demanded, louder this time. “How did you figure it out?”

“How’d who figure what out?” a new voice asked from the entryway.

Three heads turned to see Asher enter. He tugged off his hat and tucked it into the sleeve of his jacket as Michaela rounded on him.

“I don’t know about you but guests normally use the bell here.”

Asher’s smile held a secret and it was all for here. “Aww, Michaela. I figured I’d moved beyond guest status.”

Micheala’s only answer was a telling blush and Connor made a note to interrogate her about that later.

“What are we talking about?” Asher asked, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “Who’s figuring what out?”

Connor started to answer, “Nothing,” but Wes was quicker.

“I figured out Connor’s hung up on Oliver.”

Connor’s eyes widened and his heart nearly stopped. What the hell was Wes doing just blurting things out like that? What did—

“Oh. That,” Asher said dismissively. “What else is new?”

“Wha—” Connor couldn’t form words, couldn’t think.

“How did you—I didn’t even know!” Michaela nearly shouted. “How did you two know when I didn’t know?”

“Well, how’d you find out?” Wes asked.

“He told me,” she said, gesturing to Connor. “He told me everything, made me swear to keep it secret, and I didn’t tell a soul.” She said it casually but Connor knew it to be true. Michaela may be one of the school’s biggest gossips but she knew how to keep her mouth shut when it mattered. “I’m the best friend. I’m supposed to know these things first.”

“Well, you didn’t have bio with them,” Asher said. “I didn’t even know you could make heart eyes at someone during an enzyme lab but our boy Walsh here pulled it off.”

The comment made Connor pause. He and Oliver had shared a bio class freshman year, two years ago. He hadn’t liked Oliver then…had he?

“What about you?” Asher asked Wes.

“Orchestra,” he answered with a shudder. “Connor was third chair, Oliver was first, and I was the sucker stuck between them. Longest year of my life.”

Okay. Connor knew that was bullshit because he hadn’t been in orchestra in years. He’d dropped it during junior high because it hadn’t been fun anymore.

“Then, Oliver dropped it and things got worse,” Wes went on. “Had to suffer on for one more semester with this guy’s—” he pointed to Connor, “dark cloud hanging over my head before he dropped out too.”

Connor opened his mouth to explain to Wes that, No, he hadn’t dropped orchestra because Oliver dropped it too. He’d dropped it because he hadn’t enjoyed it anymore. It’d had nothing to do with Oliver…or had it?

“Awww.” Asher slapped Connor on the shoulder. “You miss your boo, Boo?”

“Fuck you.” Connor slapped his hand away.

Fuck all of them actually. This was such crap. Wes and Asher were wrong. They…they were just wrong. He and Oliver had started to hang out a little more over the summer and his stupid little crush thing had just sort of appeared from that. He hadn’t been crushing on Oliver in fucking junior high. He hadn’t had some ridiculous crush on the guy for all these years. That was just ridiculous. No, they were ridiculous.

“You both are so full of shit,” Connor started. Then the doorbell pealed and the words died on his lips. He was here. Oliver was here. “I—”

“No one says anything.” Michaela pointed a finger at Wes and then Asher. Wes nodded immediately but Asher…

“I mean it,” she said, finger still locked on Asher. The words were whispered with such venom that Connor found himself swallowing reflexively even though they were clearly directed at Asher and Asher alone.

“Ash—” she began in warning.

“I got it,” he answered quickly, his voice breaking a little. He coughed to cover it but they all heard. “Not a word. I swear.”

She gave him one more warning glance. “Okay. Good.” Then, Michaela clapped her hands together once and headed for the door. “Let’s get this party started!”

~~~

Have some fun. What’s the worst that could happen?

Laurel’s voice echoed in Oliver’s head as he looked around the room.

The ‘small’ party Michaela had promised didn’t seem all that small to him. Dozens of people littered the couches and chairs of her parent’s living rooms (rooms! plural!) and even more spilled down into the basement.

Somewhere in the midst of them all, Oliver had lost Laurel. He’d turned to ask if she wanted a refill only to find her gone. It had only taken a moment to spot her again, her smile and laugh tended to catch the eye. She was standing next to Wes across the way and, looking at them, watching them smile at each other, Oliver hadn’t had the heart to walk over and burst their bubble.

So he’d set about the party on his own. He wasn’t a child that needed to cling to Laurel’s apron strings. He went to school with all these people; he spent at least a class with nearly all of them. He didn’t need her to make introductions or hold his hand. By some stroke of luck, he, Oliver Hampton, was at what was turning out to be a pretty great New Year’s Eve party and he was going to try and have some fun. 

What was the worst that could happen?

“Oliver!”

He automatically turned at his name and found his host waving him over.

“Come here,” Michaela called. “Come on.”

Dodging the drinks and gesturing hands of others, Oliver cut through the crowd to Michaela’s side. “Hey. Great party. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Of course! I’m so glad you came!” She said it with such enthusiasm that Oliver was pretty sure she was being sincere. Then, “Have you seen Laurel?”

Oliver gestured back at the kitchen where he’d seen her last. “She was with Wes.���

Michaela smiled but she didn’t move. “Figures.” Then, “We’re getting a game together.”

Something about the look in her eyes made the hair on the back of Oliver’s head stand on edge. “What kind of game?”

“A secret game,” she answered with a wink. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” She took his wrist and started tugging him along into the more formal living room.

“I don’t know, Michaela…”

“Don’t even worry about it.” She waved at the couch. “Just take a seat.”

Giving her one final, wary look, Oliver crossed the room to nab the last open seat on the couch, the seat right next to Connor Walsh. Trying not to draw attention to himself, Oliver settled in his seat and focused on breathing.

He hadn’t been fully honesty before, with himself or with Laurel. His reservations about coming tonight had nothing to do with the way Michaela had asked him or a general concern about the people who were going to be here. Oliver hadn’t been nervous about having fun or making conversation with others from school; yes he was a little shy but, under normal circumstances, he wasn’t completely inept. No, all of Oliver’s reasons for not wanting to come tonight were sharing a couch cushion with him.

Connor Walsh.

It wasn’t that Oliver didn’t like Connor, quite the opposite really. Oliver had been holding onto the most ridiculous crush on Connor for…well he wasn’t exactly sure when it had started but it’d been going on for too long now. It was embarrassing really.

Before realizing his feelings, Oliver’d always felt at ease with Connor in a way he didn’t with anyone else. It was like being around Connor somehow made Oliver forget that he was shy and a little nerdy and that he’d been told not to smile so big because it made his teeth look funny. Connor didn’t make Oliver feel as self-conscious as he normally did. Connor made him feel funny and fun and more like himself than he did with other people. That was it. Connor made Oliver feel like the best version of himself. It had been wonderful and freeing.

Then Oliver had gone and ruined it all be realizing he liked Connor.

Just like that it all went away. The easy communication and carefree friendship were gone overnight. All they were left with was awkward exchanges in the hall and stilted conversation the few times Laurel convinced Oliver to join her and the others at lunch.

It was horrible. And no matter how many pep-talks he gave himself or the countless times he played out conversations in his head, Oliver could never seem to find his tongue around Connor anymore.

It was horrible and humiliating and now they were stuck sitting next to each other at a New Year’s Eve party, waiting for Michaela Pratt to begin some mysterious game.

“She give you any hints?”

Connor’s voice in his ear nearly made Oliver jump and he turned. “What?”

The other man nodded at Michaela. “She give you anything?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Why?” He risked a glance at Michaela. “Should we be worried or something?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Connor said ominously. “I—”

“Alright, everyone! Listen up.” Michaela’s voice silenced all chatter in the room. “I know you’re all wondering about tonight’s game, which is…” She said the words slowly, heightening the suspense until Asher broke the silence with, “Just tell us already, Mic!”

“…Truth or Dare.”

~~~

He was going to kill her.

He’d been lying when he thought it before, thinking dramatically and in hyperbole, but Connor wasn’t lying this time.

He was going to kill her and he was really going to enjoy it. Really really enjoy it.

He’d bet every cent in his bank account that she’d arranged this whole little thing to torture him. The party, the game, sitting Oliver down next to him, close enough that Connor kept catching whiffs of the man’s cologne when he turned his head, all of it had been arranged to torture him.

And — damn it all to hell — it was working.

Connor couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe. Every sinew of his body was attuned to Oliver. Oliver’s scent in his nose. The brush of Oliver’s skin when their arms touched. The way Oliver’s laugh shook his whole frame. The ghost of Oliver’s breath whispering over his cheek. Throw in a middle school party game and Connor Walsh was in the middle of his own personal hell.

The game itself was fun; the waiting for Michaela to drop the other shoe was not.

Sure. He’d laughed when Wes was dared to tickle Asher until the man couldn’t breathe. He winced when Katherine had been made to tell her most embarrassing story. He watched in awe and disgust when Laurel’d downed a shot of hot sauce like was water to fulfill her a dare.

Then, without cause or warning, she did it.

The game had swung around and it was her turn to pick a victim. “I pick…” She tapped a manicured finger against his chin and Connor held his breath. “Paxton!”

The way she said his name made Connor’s spine snap to attention. He’d been expecting Mic to pick him or Oliver but both of them were too obvious. Paxton though…

“Dare!” The man said with a wolfish grin.

“Dare, huh?” Michaela pretended to think for a beat then her eyes latched on Connor’s and she shot him an evil grin, a grin Connor was coming to despite. “Do a body shot off Oliver.”

For the briefest of moments, the room fell silent, then exploded into noise. Under all the shouting and hollering, Connor picked up the quietest voice.

“I—I’m not sure if—”

His eyes found Oliver’s and his gaze never wavered. “You don’t have to.” Connor didn’t dare blink or breathe. It was vital Oliver knew this. No one in this room would make him do anything he didn’t want to and, if they tried, Connor would deal with them.

“No. That’s not it,” Oliver said softly. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “It…it’s just—”

Seeing his would-be-partner’s obvious hesitation, Paxton was quick to cut in. “Don’t worry, Ollie.” He crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the couch, between Oliver and Connor. “I’ll be gentle.”

More than one person snorted and Pax threw a glare over his shoulder.

“How?” Connor demanded. He didn’t care if his tone was too harsh, too telling.

Pax’s answering smirk was knowing. Great. Yet another person who’d figured out his stupid crush. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

At that moment, Michaela reentered the room. Connor hadn’t noticed she left but she returned with a salt shaker, shot glasses, and tequila.

“We don’t have any limes,” she said apologetically to Pax as she poured him a shot.

“Pity.” He took the glass and smiled at Oliver. “We’ll just have to do without, won’t we.”

For his part, Oliver looked like he’d lost a bit the nervousness from moments ago. “I guess so,” he murmured quietly and accepted the shot glass from Pax.  

“You just hold that,” Pax said absently as he looked away to grab the salt shaker from Michaela’s outstretched hand. Turning back, he plastered on a smile Connor imagined Pax thought of as gentle before speaking directly to Oliver. “Now, I’m going to lick right along here.” He trailed a light fingertip down the side of Oliver’s neck and Connor was sitting close enough to small goosebumps rise up in wake of the touch. “Is that okay?”

Oliver licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Pax leaned in and Oliver tilted his head to the side, allowing Pax access. Connor’s hands curled into fists as he watched Pax’s tongue lick Oliver’s neck until the damp spot shone in the light. Connor watched Pax’s lips ghost of Oliver’s skin. He watched that tongue press again, lingering and tasting, savoring just a touch. Connor couldn’t bring himself to look away; he watched it all.

“That’s good enough I think,” Pax said as he sat back. He lifted the salt shaker up and raised an eyebrow, silently asking Oliver if it was okay. When Oliver gave a small nod, he sprinkled some salt over the wet patch on Oliver’s neck. “Now, to get all that off you.”

He didn’t ask permission this time but Oliver was quick to tilt his head to the side again, freely offering, and Pax’s answering grin was wicked. As he leaned down, Pax shifted just a touch so he could catch Connor’s eye. The bastard had the audacity to wink at him just before his lips touched Oliver’s skin.

Again, Connor watched as Pax kissed Oliver’s neck. He watched the movement of the man’s tongue and lips. He watched and wanted until he couldn’t look anymore; he couldn’t watch Pax do what he himself wanted to do.

So Connor stopped looking at Pax and looked at Oliver instead, which was so much worse. He glanced up in time to see Oliver’s eyelids flutter once then close. He watched as Oliver’s face went slightly lax with pleasure, his lips falling open just a touch, his breath catching just a bit. Glancing down, Connor saw Oliver’s hands twitch, begin to lift before he caught himself and locked his fingers together, keeping the joined fist firmly in his lap. Oliver had almost reached out. He’d almost lifted his hands so he could tangle fingers in Pax’s hair. What would that feel like? Oliver’s skin under his lips, Oliver’s scent in his nose, and then Oliver’s hands in treading through his hair and holding him close.

The thought made Connor nearly growl. Paxton shouldn’t be the one with his lips on Oliver’s neck; Connor should. Connor should be the one with his lips drinking in Oliver’s skin. And he certainly wouldn’t do it like this, in a room full of people as part of a fucking game. They would be alone, him and Oliver in a room that was quiet and warm. The bed would be soft beneath them. No one would be looking for them. No one would interrupt. He would have time in that room, all the time in the world to kiss Oliver, hold him close, watch as Oliver’s whole being melted with pleasure. He wouldn’t linger so much on Oliver’s neck. It’s a great spot Connor’s sure but there are so many other places to explore. Like Oliver’s hands. Connor’s spent many a class watching Oliver’s hands hold a pencil or type on a keyboard or tap at his phone. He wonders what those hands feel like. Are they soft or rough? Are Oliver’s fingers calloused? What would Oliver’s palm feel like under his lips, against his cheek, palm-to-palm? He’d answer all those questions and come up with dozens more in that room. Then, his curiosity sated for the moment, he would move on and there would be Oliver’s collarbone, the nape of his neck, that spot right there behind his ear, his shoulder, his chest, the run of his back. There were so many hidden places on Oliver that Connor would have time to explore in that room.

So no, Paxton shouldn’t be the one with his lips on Oliver’s. Connor should.

Pax sat back up then. Licking the salt off his lips, he winked at Oliver as he took the shot and downed it. The liquid must have burned as he went down because he winced. “See, this is why you need the lime,” he said. “Well…that and…” He placed a thumb on Oliver’s lower lip, pressing it down just a touch.Connor didn’t manage to hold back his small growl this time.

Knowing smirk firmly in place, Pax turned to Connor. “See? Gentle.”

Unsure what he was planning to do, Connor sat up, his hands curling into fists. “Really? You—”

“Alright! Let’s get back to the game.” Michaela’s voice held a hint of warning. “There isn’t much time till midnight. Let’s keep going. Pax. It’s your pick.”

“Well. I don’t there’s much choice for me.” He put a hand on Oliver’s leg, well above the knee, and squeezed. “Truth or dare, Ollie?”

With a quick glance at Connor, Oliver swallowed and blurted out, “Dare.”

“Dare. Really?” Pax stood and crossed the room, once again taking his seat on the opposite couch. “Dare. Dare. Dare.” The man gave Connor a pointed look and then said to Oliver, “Kiss Connor.”

Once again, the room was silent. This time, however, the silence wasn’t broken by shouts and laughter. It was broken by a single, vicious word.

“No.”

~~~

Oliver couldn’t breathe.

When Michaela had announced they were playing Truth or Dare, Oliver had groaned inwardly. He had one very important secret he wanted to keep from a very important person in this room but he’d still gone along with the game anyway, keeping Laurel’s advice to have fun in the back of his mind.

And, to his own surprise, he was having fun. It was fun to laugh and tease with his classmates, fun to be a part of something that was going to be a story others only heard about.

He’d even gone along with Michaela’s body shot dare. Sure he’d been a bit nervous at first but Pax had been more understanding that Oliver would have expected and Oliver himself hadn’t objected. In truth, he’d kind of enjoyed it a little. Yeah, it hadn’t really been a body shot in the ‘traditional’ sense of the word but it had been enough for him and no one had complained.

Oliver had been a good sport about it all. He’d gone along with it. He had been having fun.

What’s the worst that could happen?

This.

He turned to Connor. “No?”

Connor’s eyes never left Pax’s. “No,” he said again.

Oliver’s mouth twisted into a nervous smile. It was a reflex, trying to smile through embarrassing situations, and he had never hated it more than he did in this moment. “Come on, Connor,” he tried. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I—” Connor turned, blinked, and couldn’t take his eyes off Oliver’s lips. “We aren’t doing that.”

“It’s just a little kiss,” Pax said, his tone taunting. “What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed even though something in Pax’s tone made him pause. Something else was going on here but he couldn’t worry about that now. “It’ll be just a little kiss.”

“It can’t. Not with—”

Connor didn’t finish the thought but he didn’t have too. Not with you.

Connor’s face fell as his mind caught up to his mouth and heard back what he’d said. Then he saw the look on Oliver’s face. “No. Oliver, I—”

But Oliver had heard enough. Not with you. His face hot with mortification, he stood and stormed from the room.

“Oliver! Wait!”

Being unfamiliar with the house, he made a few wrong turns in his escape and somehow ended up in the garage but it was quiet and he was alone so Oliver decided to count the move as a win.

He only had a moment to appreciate the solitude of the garage, however, before the door opened and Connor burst through.

“Listen. I can explain—”

“Why couldn’t you just kiss me?” Oliver demanded. The shock and embarrassment melted away the nerves that were normally present in Connor’s company. When Connor simply stared at him in shock, Oliver demanded again. “Why? It wouldn’t have been a big deal if you had just kissed me. Simple kiss. It would have been over and done in a moment but you couldn’t just do it. Why?”

Connor hesitated. “Be…because—”

“Because why?” He waited a beat for Connor to respond but the other man stayed silent. “Why couldn’t you kiss me? You said you couldn’t have a simple kiss with me and I want to know why. What’s so terrible about me?”

“Jesus.” Connor’s eyes raised to the ceiling. “It wasn’t you—”

“Really? Because you were talking about me. It feels like it was about me to me.“ Oliver pulled a hand through his hair. He couldn’t believe they were doing this, having this conversation, and in Michaela Pratt’s garage of all places. "It would have been simple. It would have been just a simple press—”

“Because it wouldn’t be simple!” Connor nearly yelled. “There can’t be a simple kiss with you, Oliver!”

“Why? Why not?”

“Because…Because you are you, Ollie. You’re you and I—” Connor stopped then, catching his breath. Their eyes met and held.

“You are you,” Connor repeated, quiet and true. “And…and there’s nothing simple about what I feel about you.”

~~~

Connor decided that he was maybe going to let Michaela live.

“You…” Oliver let out a noise that was half laugh and have giggle; Connor wondered what he could say to get Oliver to make it again. “You have feelings for me?”

Connor nodded and Oliver did too. “Okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “That’s…that’s good to know.”

Waiting a moment and then one more, Connor opened his mouth. “Do…” He trailed off though; he didn’t know how to ask this question. He didn’t know if he could take the answer, either answer, any answer.

Answering a question that hadn't’ been asked, Oliver said, “I do. I…I really do.”

The breath caught in his chest at the look on Oliver’s face.

Connor was going to let Michaela live because, through her meddling, she helped put that look on Oliver’s face.

“I didn’t want to kiss you in front of them,” Connor explained as he took a step closer. “I didn’t want to have our first…first—”

“Kiss,” Oliver supplied.

“Yeah.” Connor coughed, distracted by how Oliver’s lips curved as they formed the word ‘kiss.’ “I didn’t want it to be in front of all of them. I didn’t want it to be…to be like your and Pax’s thing.“

“I appreciate the concern but…” Reaching out and twining their fingers together, Oliver confessed, “I don’t think our first kiss is going to be like anything like anything else.”

Connor couldn’t help the confused quirk of his eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

The other man shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a feeling I guess.”

“Well, do you think that maybe we should—”

Connor was interrupted by a shout inside the house. “It’s happening!” “The ball’s dropping!” “It’s almost time.”

Keeping their eyes locked on each other, they listened to those inside the house scream along with the countdown.

10…9…8…

Oliver licked his lips.

7…6…5…

Connor brushed a thumb over the back of Oliver’s hand.

4…3…2…

They squeezed each other’s hands.

1!!

A cry went up from inside, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”, along with confetti poppers and noisemakers and the faint sound of Auld Lang Syne playing over the speakers.

“Happy New Year, Connor,” Oliver whispered.

“Happy New Year, Ollie.”

They leaned in then. Lips brushing, hands reaching, tongues tentatively touching.

And Oliver was right. Their first kiss was nothing like anything that had come before.

Connor was definitely letting Michaela live.