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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year ago

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Tea Party

UUUUUH Gen!fic, my nemesis...Have a slice of family drama, hot beverages, and sad memories...

Characters: Elrond & Galadriel

Words: 1 362

Warnings: absolutely nothing (Kidnap fam maybe? Finrod is mentioned?)

Elrond took a sip of the mysterious brew his friend was pouring, paused, and then took another, deeper, gulp.

His eyes closed for a moment, and his mind was transported back.

“Is it to your liking?” Galadriel asked with a soft smile. “I have tried to emulate the recipe as closely as possible with the ingredients at my disposition in these woefully ravaged lands.”

“It tastes—” Elrond waved a vague hand through the fragrant air in search of the right words—even though he was old now, he felt as if all the years of his life were slowly melting in the aromatic steam rising from his dainty cup.

He was almost surprised—upon dropping his gaze—that the hands holding the demitasse were indeed his own as he now knew them rather than the clumsy, cold fingers of a half-even child, huddled against the stiff warmth of his captor’s body.

“They stole it anyway,” Galadriel laughed. “Did you know that? My mother brought home the first version of this tea from one of her seafaring voyages—or did my grandfather give it to her? Either way, it was always ours, but—as you well know—some people have no consideration for the property, intellectual or otherwise, of others.”

Tutting out of habit rather than conviction, Elrond gave her an exasperated look; his own feelings towards the dangerous murderers and kinslayers who had kidnapped, sheltered, raised, and loved him were much too complicated and contradictory to defend them before the Lady of Lórien.

How would he even dare? She—who had grown up with Maedhros and Maglor and whose kin had perished at the end of their ruthless blades—had welcomed him in her heart and her family despite his questionable allegiances, and he did not seek to dismay her.

It was too late to change the narrative that had fossilised into history, and all the longing, regret, and resentment they might stir up between them would only be dancing ashes of a fire long dead.

“You never speak of them,” Galadriel remarked softly, “and it worries me. Do you spare my feelings because they are my kin?”

“No,” Elrond contradicted slowly. “Nevertheless, I would ask of you to extend me the very courtesy I have so cruelly denied you.”

She cocked her head in curiosity and pity.

“I hate them not, you know? Long have I poisoned my heart with bitterness, but no more—would you tell me about the tea, just that, nought more? It seems obvious to me that you recognise the flavour—when did you first taste it?”

Looking up at one so glorious and timeless, Elrond once more felt like a mere child before her.

“It was winter, and so very cold. Even though it is exceedingly rare, it is possible for Peredhil to be taken ill.” He stopped to rub his brow, lost in the memory of the torturous, delirious fever that had assailed him.

He had been sure then that he was doomed to die, in an unfamiliar camp, utterly alone except for his shivering brother, to be thrown aside by the murderers of his kin and friends.

Galadriel made a soft, cooing noise—it was the instinctive sound of maternal soothing that seemed to be the same across all peoples and lands. The very thought warmed Elrond, and he smiled wistfully.

“They kept their packs close and only opened them very rarely, but—on that night when the sickness was burning through my blood and bone—I saw them upend the worn knapsacks almost frantically.”

Frowning to pierce the haze of centuries, Elrond looked into his cup as if the mere sight of the sloshing liquid would bring back memories he had long repressed.

“There was a box—tiny, evidently invaluable, and beautifully decorated—that they emptied into the cauldron they had stolen from a young mother in Sirion. This was the first and last time I’ve ever drunk this tea, but it strengthened and heartened me, and I was soon on the mend.”

Elrond took another careful sip, and Galadriel leaned forward to replenish his cup generously which earned her another wavering, grateful smile.

“They’ve never spoken of the brew again, and I believe that Elros took away the little container as a memento. It must lie on the bottom of the sea now—what a shame!”

Holding up her hand in the universal gesture of asking for patience, his mother-in-law swept out of the room and returned promptly, her fist closed loosely and carefully around a small, rectangular object.

“Was it like this one?” she asked and revealed a box quite similar in make and decoration to the one Elrond remembered so clearly.

It was confusing and alarming to him how the mere sight of an inanimate object could flood his mind and soul with whisps of recollection—beautiful as much as terrible—and how eagerly he now leaned into that maelstrom of stale emotions even though he knew that his aching heart would pay a terrible price for letting those ghosts back in.

When he nodded slowly, she uttered a long, shivering, undeniably pained sigh.

“I take back my cruel words then,” she whispered. “They did not steal the tea. These have been crafted by my brother—Findaráto, Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond, Prince of Hearts—and he must have given it to them as a token of goodwill.”

Her eyes closed as she sank into the swirling, treacherous pool of her own memories. “It must have been old and exceedingly valuable to them. These leaves had been brought over from the Blessed Realm, and even though I trust that my dear brother has managed to grow something similar, both Valinor and Nargothrond are lost to us now.”

“Not forever,” Elrond opined gently but resolutely. “Surely, our efforts will be rewarded.”

Her answering chuckle was as bright and cold as the stars overhead, and a sudden weariness slipped over her beautiful features. “Yes,” she finally hummed, “yes, I must have hope. Drink your tea, Elrond, and think lovingly of those who are no longer with us.”

“Shall you join me?” he asked quietly, afraid of reopening wounds that had festered for ages and might only have closed reluctantly under the strain of her imperious, unbreakably headstrong will.

“I have not—I did not believe anything good could come from dwelling on the past,” she admitted. “All our nightmares were reality—plain and beloved—to me once and going back means recognising the glaring errors in judgement that I—amongst others, of course—am guilty of.”

“Not so,” he protested again and lifted his cup gingerly. “This tea shall be proof that all that has been perverted and twisted into evil cannot stay lost forevermore—maybe, one day, all these things and people will be cherished dreams and comfortable reality again.”

“You would see them again and call them father?” Galadriel asked, astonished and humbled by the understated fortitude of character and soul of the mysterious creature who had become a beloved son-in-law, a valued friend, and a trusted ally.

Shrugging lopsidedly, Elrond drained his cup and smiled at her indulgently.

“Pray be so good as to show me how you’ve recreated this restorative brew. I have amassed lore about many plants over the years, and I’d be honoured to add this ancient, hallowed family secret to the Great Library of Imladris—for generations to come.”

“Take this,” she whispered and placed the little box in his warm palm. “I shall give you a seedling later. If you manage to make it flourish—as I have no doubt you will—I’d ask you to plant and tend to it in honour of my valiant, desperately loved, and sorely missed brother.”

Nodding gravely, Elrond thought of the jealously guarded remnants of those they had lost—gemstones, vials, and unextinguishable lamps—and smiled wistfully.

The sands of time might have buried their names and faces, extinguished the fire of their crimes, and sublimated the stories of their bitter calvary, but—or so he hoped—the essence of their valour, loyalty, and care were still alive and would be passed on for all eternity.

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Elrond & Galadriel #Elrond #Galadriel #Tea Party #Kidnap fam #finrod mentioned

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bi-outta-cordonia · 4 years ago

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In Another World, Part II

The continuation of the Colt x MC piece I was hoping to finally put out for @rodappreciationweek. The week itself is over, so this is just me slamming chapters up hoping to finally do a thing I’ve been thinking about for a minute!

Part I --> here!

Ride or Die: A Bad Boy Romance. Colt Kaneko x f!MC(Deidre Wheeler). PG-13, with warnings going out to Brandon’s rancid vibes. ~4k words.

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

Seventeen, eighteen—her keyboard clacks in steady strokes, each letter spelling out a larger plan that should take no more than three years and some change to complete if she works hard enough. Every orientation event is over. Every “meet and greet” has long since burned the flames of excitement out her bones. Extracurriculars, plus honors programs, plus a few personal hobbies will fill her free time in between classes. But the main question again…

Seventeen credits or eighteen credits?

Deidre’s hands hover over the keyboard and she chews her lip.

“I know it’s not my business…” Deidre tosses a look back at Ingrid, her pouty lips pursed and her brow drawn. Ingrid glances pointedly at the open document on the computer screen. “We’re definitely still doing the competition thing, right? Pushing each other or whatever?” Deidre nods slowly. “Which is cool! But like…I don’t want you to burn out before we really get into it!”

Deidre frowns. “You’re taking seventeen credits.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m doing my lab first!” Ingrid waltzes up and clicks to the next screen, displaying the course load Deidre painstakingly puts together months before the first day of classes. “Do your lab first, duh. You already have a bunch of high school credits for the 100 levels.”

“But I’d still have to drop a class,” Deidre says.

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “God, I respect you so much but you can really be irritating.”

Deidre balks. “Alright—”

“Here, take a bullshit class and you can keep your seventeen.” Ingrid clicks a few buttons and lands on a page describing a philosophy class. She squints at the screen. “Blah blah blah, classical and modern conceptions of love, blah blah. You just need to get an A and you’ll be solid, yeah?”

Deidre shakes her head and turns her attention back to the screen.

“A look at the ways in which classical and modern conceptions of love and romance have changed over the natural course of time. What the course aims to do is interrogate how love has been defined and shaped by society and cultures. Bring an open mind and an equally open heart to a two day a week lecture!”

Seems simple enough.

Day one doesn’t fully prepare her for the sheer amount of bodies filling every concrete path between her and the rest of Langston. The way she works out her schedule, serious classes take place Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. “Bullshit electives” (Ingrid’s words) occupy her Tuesdays and Thursdays for the time being. One class that focuses on life skills and the other is apparently a philosophy class about love.

A comfortable pair of jeans and even more comfortable sneakers gets her through the throngs of people jockeying for space on the sidewalks. Some souls are brave (or foolish?) enough to bike through the madness but she remembers her favorite self-defense trick from her father—throw them bows.

Deidre shoves her way to Terrence Hall and wanders around the building twice before she finds the lecture room. “Room” because it’s small like a classroom and filled from front to back with desks. The age of the building shows in some of the dusty corners and faded paint on the walls. A good number of her peers sit scattered throughout the room, some leaning on desks and carrying on with casual conversations. A few of them eye her as she walks in. Their gazes immediately catch her old shoes and even older jeans. It’s almost funny how the braids and brown skin are the last things they see—at Mar Vista, it was the first but she at least had four years to show them all the money their parents had still couldn’t afford them a brain like hers.

She takes a seat in the front and rummages through her bag when she sets it down. Notebook, lead pencil, laptop open and ready—a long ten minutes pass and the professor walks in holding a cup of coffee.

He’s a small man and most certainly older.

“Thirty of you this year! Much less than I usually get for the fall semester,” he exclaims. His eyes scan over the class and the collective mood drops in an instant. Most of the students are sophomores. A lot of them are just trying to bang out electives first and this was one of the easiest classes the university offers. “Well, anyway—introductions, yes? As many of you should know by now, I am Professor Pines.” Some of the students giggle. “Yes, yes, terrible name, isn’t it? Regardless, I’d rather not spend too much time reflecting on my family’s awful choices in naming conventions.”

He hands a stack of papers to a girl in the front who passes the papers back. A steady stream of motion fills the room as students pass around what she assumes is the syllabus. When she receives her copy, she purses her lips:

20% for quizzes—

15% participation—

15% mid semester report—

25% group project—

25% final exam—

She almost groans along with the rest of the class when they all see it—group project. Professor Pines seems a bit too gleeful despite knowing he’s just cast them all to their doom.

“The basics of the course first,” he starts. “As this is a philosophy class, most of the materials we’ll be working with are going to come from a variety of readings we’ll be doing, examining facets of love and romance across multiple sources to answer that big question that hangs over us all—what exactly is love? What does it entail and how do we define it?” The professor clasps his hands behind his back and looks out over each student. “There are about a thousand ways to describe love but I want to have you all truly engage the topic. How we see it, experience it, and demonstrate it varies wildly and I’m eager to see what the lot of you come up with. Now, if you could all—”

The door opens and the professor stops for a brief moment. He continues with his next topic but it’s hard not to notice him digging through the papers on the table near him as he searches for a spare syllabus for his newest student.

Deidre sits up and thinks the weird boy from the frat party might recognize her as he scans the room for a seat. His eyes find her for all of a second before he struts down the path and takes a seat at the back of the room. She sucks her teeth and turns her attention back to the professor.

He goes on for a long while covering the basics and answering questions as he goes. Most of the students are just using the class to fill up electives—her included. Engagement seems like it’ll be interesting compared to her other classes but at the very least, she’s going to put some effort in. She took top spot back home and she’s going to have to work hard for even the smallest chance at achieving that out here.

“Before I let you all go, I just want to ask…” Professor Pines steeples his fingers, eyes intently watching the class. “What is love?”

His gaze rakes across the length of the room, each student slinking down in their seat and holding a careful breath as they gauge whether he’s the sort that will call on people or let them speak on their own. The silence lasts for a few more minutes until Deidre raises her hand.

The professor beams and the classroom lets out a collective sigh.

“Love can defined in a number of ways but the most basic would point to it being a psychological effect between individuals with well-defined social bonds,” she answers. “It can be a series of emotions, complex affections, and highly specific in terms of behavioral patterns defined by the parameters of a person’s relationship with the object of said love.”

Professor Pines nods approvingly and looks up. “Yes? In the back?”

“It’s a collective of impulses disguised as particular receptors in the brain that dictate meanings behind specific actions.” Deidre turns around in her seat and catches the boy from the party bringing his coffee to his lips for a sip. “Doesn’t always have to be deeper than that—sometimes the brain just does weird shit and we run around trying to add meaning where there doesn’t need to be.”

The class buzzes and Professor Pines seems even more giddy.

“Ah, a realist!” he says and the boy shrugs. “I always get one! Perspective is going to be key here, both in your understandings of the material and of what you take away from this class.”

Deidre raises her hand. “But the whims themselves would become receptors based on the emotional bond between the individuals in question, wouldn’t they? People can act out of a sense of impulse but love requires those impulses be tailored to prior experience with an individual.”

The boy snorts. “Not necessarily. People can say or do something under the guise of love but that doesn’t necessarily make it so. It’s the brain assigning meaning to whims.”

She bristles. “The presence of whims would require a prior interaction that shapes it.”

“Does it? I mean, I don’t believe in that ‘love at first sight’ crap but the existence of such narratives makes a pretty strong case for love being just the brain trying to find ways to assign meanings—”

“Which still can be explained through a prior interaction because ‘love at first sight’ still requires some form of meaningful—”

“And there’s the idealist,” the professor says, nodding thoughtfully. Professor Pines continues, “I don’t really want to keep any of you any longer, so please make sure to read over the syllabus.” He pauses for a moment, glancing between the front and the back of the room. “I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting semester.”

Deidre glances around and sinks a little in her seat at the other students tossing looks between her and the boy from the party. When she looks back at him, he lifts a brow and takes a languid sip of his coffee.

“Don’t ask me about that,” Deidre snaps. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“That bad?” Riya snorts.

“He’s a douchebag! He actually tried to pull some bullshit devil’s advocate crap day one of the entire semester and he wouldn’t even tell me his fucking name at the party!” Deidre dodges a couple rushing out the dorm and ignores Riya’s cackling.

“I mean, he sounds pretty hot…”

“Riya!” Deidre yanks her phone away from her ear and glares daggers at it. Her teeth grind as Riya’s raucous laugh rings through the tinny speakers and she lets out a roar that has heads turning her way. “You’re being a bad friend!”

“You have a crush on him! Look—Deidre—”

“I’m hanging up on you. Hand to God, I will absolutely end this call right now—“

“Oh my god, stop being dramatic.”

“And of course he shows up ten minutes late to class with Starbucks in hand—didn’t even give a fuck about everyone staring at him or the fact that he chose to further disrupt everything by walking his—” She fumbles her keys at first but eventually jams the metal into the door, “—stupid—dumb!”

Ingrid sits up but Deidre only gives a small wave as she quite literally throws herself on her own bed. She puts Riya on speaker and tosses the phone on her nightstand.

“Dee?”

“Hey Riya!” Ingrid says. Her eyes dart between Deidre and the phone. “Everything okay?”

“Deidre’s got a crush.”

“Shut up.” Deidre rolls over and faces the wall. “There’s a douchebag in my class.”

Ingrid pauses for a long moment. “Like frat boy rich douchebag or just regular smegular rich douchebag?”

“She’s got budding sexual tension with a boy that’s probably as smart as she is.”

“Riya—” Deidre pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, mood.” Ingrid readjusts her glasses. “If he’s as hot as the dude you saw at the frat party, I’ll be the first to say you should go for it.”

Deidre braces.

“Speaking of which—”

“Riya.”

“You wouldn’t believe it but it just so happens—”

“I’MHANGINGUPTHEPHONEGOODBYE.”

A profound silence hangs in the room like the most uncomfortable and bloated thing in the world. Ingrid keeps penning away on her notebook and occasionally peeks at the textbook lying open next to her. Deidre lets the silence fester as she gets up and digs through her bag, pulling out notebooks and textbooks to get started on her own work.

An hour passes before Ingrid speaks up. “Ohhhhh…it was the hot guy from the frat party, wasn’t it?”

Deidre pointedly ignores her.

Three hours and seventeen minutes. She times herself only because it’s necessary. Darius used to joke and say she was going “beast mode” when she got so into her work that time just stops existing as a concept.

Even if time stops existing, hunger doesn’t so it comes as no surprise that her tummy growls when she finally shuts her last textbook. Day one and she’s already diving deep—perfect. She stretches as she gets up and grabs her keychain.

The dining hall is something else entirely. A bevy of appetizing foods fill the buffet and even more is served by the dedicated cooking staff, of which are all chefs of significant renown if she remembers correctly from the online facilities tour.

Stepping through the doors almost feels like stepping into another dimension. Extensive wood finish fills in every panel of the floor, mahogany furniture with fine leather seats make up a sitting area, and ornate paintings hang on all the walls. Her stomach gurgles again when the smell of baked chicken wafts in her nose. Deidre makes a beeline towards wherever that smell leads her.

Rotisserie chicken, beans and rice, steamed vegetables perfectly seasoned, freshly prepared mango and passionfruit juice—

It isn’t even the most delectable thing from the kitchens: lobster bisque, the freshest produce, the most tender cuts of steak, oysters, and even more. Savory and sweet collide in a mesh of flavorful smells that sets her appetite from moderate to desperate. She swipes her card for her meal and carefully dodges students shuffling about the dining area.

“Oh, right…” she mumbles.

Seems like every person decided now was a fantastic time to get dinner. The dining hall is packed from top to bottom with students. Some sit in groups with textbooks and laptops out on the tables. Others sit off on their lonesome reading from books while absently shoveling spoonfuls in their mouths. There’s a group of extremely attractive girls that waltz past flanked by some fit boys all wearing identical shorts and boat shoes.

Deidre takes a few tentative steps forward and scans the room carefully.

There’s a butt in every seat. Some eyes dart towards her as she walks past but they don’t seem to mind her presence. Or maybe they just don’t care.

She finds an empty seat and moves to set her tray down when a girl clears her throat. The smile that spreads across the girl’s face is sickly sweet—she’s clearly not happy seeing a face trying to squeeze into such a big space and her eyes noting the simple style of Deidre’s fashion makes the smile spread a little wider.

“I’m waiting on some friends. Sorry,” the girl says, clearly not apologetic.

Deidre stares at her for a moment before shaking her head and turning back towards the packed dining hall. She starts her hunt anew when a hand touches her on the square of her back.

“Hey, Deidre, right?” She turns around and finds Brandon’s face. His gaze roams uncomfortably, where he looks she isn’t sure but she’s just as equally sure she doesn’t want him to do that. “Where’s Ingrid?”

“Uh, studying,” she says. “How’ve you been?”

He shrugs. “Day one, so nothing really exciting yet. How about you? First day of college going well?”

“Yeah, just—” She nods towards the full room, “—looking for a place to sit. I didn’t think so many people would be here.”

Brandon’s hand slides a little further up her back and there’s a pressure there that feels like he’s trying to guide her. Her feet lock in place even though her body sways and when she locks eyes with him, he’s staring at her like he’s trying to gauge his next move.

“You should come sit with me and my friends,” he suggests. He points out a table full of students with laptops sitting out. “We’re all STEM—engineering mostly. Ingrid said you were mechanical engineering, right?”

The whole reason she goes to that frat party is to try out new things as a young adult. Life here doesn’t have to be all about hitting the books, it’s about exploring and Ingrid attempts to give her that on the first night. Going back inside was for Ingrid’s sake then and for the remainder of the party, Brandon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes to himself. He wants to get to know her and she should try getting to know him but there’s just something so strange about this.

Her eyes dart around the room and a piercing gaze connects with hers.

The weird boy—the douchebag in the leather jacket.

He’s holding a book but he’s got it hovering over the table like he’s about to set it down. His gaze flits to Brandon behind her and he makes a subtle nod at the empty chair in front of him. He’s got his feet in it.

“Uh, actually…” Deidre steps away from Brandon and tries not to sigh in relief as his hand falls away from her back. She musters the best sheepish smile she can handle. “I just saw a friend! I’ll see you later!”

She wants to kick herself—she doesn’t want to see him again if she can’t help it. But it doesn’t matter now, getting away is all that’s important.

The weird boy moves his feet quickly and sits up in his chair. His gaze lingers on Brandon while she sits down and lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in.

“Is he gone?” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer her for a while. Eventually, he leans back again and opens up his book.

“You’re good.”

Silence fills the void between them as he occasionally flips through his book. Her confused stare morphs into an annoyed glare and she digs into her food once it becomes clear he’s done his one good deed of the day. Savory food fills her belly bite after bite and she swears to try the fried plantains next time. It won’t be anything like how her mom used to make, she’s sure, but the thought fills her with a sense of nostalgia.

She wonders what her dad’s doing right now.

He’ll be getting ready for work soon. The three hour time difference is still something she hasn’t gotten used to just yet but he doesn’t seem to mind getting “good morning” texts at six o’clock.

She sighs—he’ll have to find something to occupy his time now that she’s gone. He’s truly alone this time around.

Deidre looks up and the weird boy is staring straight at her. She hates his look almost as much as Brandon’s.

“What?” she says around a mouthful of food.

“You keep making weird noises and I’m debating on whether or not I want to ask what’s up with you,” he responds.

“You just—” She swallows her food. “I’m fine. Thank you for letting me sit down.”

He keeps looking at her and she tries her best to pointedly ignore him. Every so often her eyes dart to the book in his hand—Mount Washington by James Ashton.

“What’s really up with you?” Deidre looks up at him. He shuts the book and sets it next to his already empty tray. He crosses his arms and leans on the table, subtly glancing over her shoulder. “You were way too chipper for an eight o’ clock in the morning elective so I’m assuming you’re either new to campus or...”

His lips quirk when she narrows her eyes.

“Or?” she asks, already aware of the answer. “I’m a ‘nerd?’ God forbid someone takes their education seriously around here…”

He shrugs. “You still haven’t said what’s wrong with you.”

She chews on a bit of chicken slowly before swallowing, eyes finally connecting with his again. His are black as the night and striking. There’s nothing wrong with admitting he’s handsome in a boyish way. He tilts his head and her face grows a little warm.

“I was thinking about my dad,” she finally says. “It’s been the two of us for a while and I’m wondering what he’s going to do now that I’m not home.”

A small silence hangs between them.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“LA.”

The boy snorts. “Bullshit.” She fixes him with a questioning look and he shakes his head. “I’m from LA. I knew Mar Vista sounded familiar—you went to that prep school. State of the art or some shit.”

“It wasn’t all that, I promise you. Where’d you go?”

“Just a little further north—H.H. Huntington. Public school though, so nowhere near as fancy as what you got.” His face softens a bit though not nearly by much. “I left my mom back home but she’s had a year to figure out the benefits of having a house to herself by now. Your old man will get there soon.”

There’s a part of her that can’t help but think it’s a little sweet that his hard gaze softens further at the mention of his mother. Babies all grown up and flying out the nest is how their parents will see them. She wonders if her dad will even recognize her when she comes back—wonders if the boy’s mother has already accepted the young man that now walks through the doors when he comes home.

“You seemed pissed about earlier today.” His voice brings her back and she stabs at a piece of broccoli.

“In class, you mean,” she clarifies.

“Studious types—you can’t stand being wrong.”

“I wasn’t wrong—”

“And neither was I,” he interrupts. His eyes dart over her shoulder once more and she turns a bit just to follow his gaze. Brandon sits over with his friends and turns the minute her body starts shifting. The boy drums his fingers on his arm. “You done yet?”

“You were valedictorian, weren’t you?”

Her brows draw. “Why?”

“Chipper for an eight o’clock and you’re scared about the semester already…” He glances back over his shoulder. “And I told you Langston doesn’t take average kids.”

The boy is so weird. Not weird like Brandon is, which is the kind of weird that makes a person want to double bolt their doors. He’s weird in the sense that there’s a constant game of hot and cold that seems to fuel his every word. He’s perceptive—he remembers her mentioning Mar Vista despite only speaking to her for a total of two minutes. The last time she speaks with him (prior to dinner), he prods at her like an asshole kid poking at a hornet’s nest. His ability to pick things apart is apparent and—

Her brain literally stops.

Langston is filled with money. Langston is money. Average students means average in status only and it’s an extremely competitive school to get into.

Deidre’s eyes rake over the boy—his face, the leather jacket, the backpack slung over his back, and the white motorcycle helmet he holds in the other hand…

“You were…” It’s like the wheels are turning and his gaze immediately meets hers.

“Go on,” he quietly urges.

“You were the valedictorian of your school,” she manages.

He cracks a smile that she can only describe as vicious—she’s not sure why. “Yeah, this semester is about to be hilarious.”

She bristles. “You’re a dick.”

He smirks like he’s proud of it. “I’m walking you home, aren’t I?”

Deidre scoffs and turns away. Day one and she’s regretting some of her decisions already.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says.

“I don’t know yours either.”

“I tried to ask you at the frat party and you just blew me off,” she counters.

The boy shrugs. “My roommate wrapped up her date and I didn’t want to waste any more time. I guess I could tell you now but it’s way funnier thinking your name is...” A wicked smirk spreads across his face.

She looks at him. “Is what?”

“Stacy,” he says and laughs at the indignation on her face.

“It’s Deidre.”

“Or Becky,” he keeps prodding. “But ‘Deidre’ is nice. I bet people say it right.”

She sighs. “The first time, sure. But then they see the face that goes with the name and it’s impossible to get them to do it again.”

He goes quiet for a second. “Colt. And, no, it’s not short for anything. My last name’s the one that gets butchered though, but I’m not telling you that.”

Colt. His name is “Colt.”

“I prefer thinking of you as ‘the weirdo’,” she teases.

“Most girls save that kind of talk until after the first date.”

Deidre sucks her teeth.

“You think you can get away with things because you’re a smartass,” she bites.

“No, I get away with it because I’m cute. But if you want to go head to head over this, I won’t stop you.” Colt stops—they’ve reached the halfway point across campus. She looks up at him and feels one side of her brain wrestling with the other in the form of an oncoming headache. They stand there awkwardly (mostly on her part) until he nods down the path leading to her dorm. “Be careful, alright?”

So strange—one minute he’s a smartass and the next he’s being a white knight. Deidre wraps her arms around herself and nods.

“See you on Thursday…” She says, turning down the path. A quick glance over her shoulder and he stays rooted there until she gets a safe enough distance across the quad.

#playchoices #choices #colt kaneko #colt x mc #rod choices #choices rod #ride or die #ride or die: a bad boy romance

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ahgaseda · 6 years ago

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the hot tea || chapter 01

⇥ synopsis : your best friend, Jackson, never fails to argue against your apathy toward love and romance, but his plan to confess his true feelings toward you is rudely interrupted when you start a blog chronicling your past relationships...

⇥ warnings : this story in its entirety includes but is not limited to strong language and dialogue, recurring alcohol or drug use, and explicit sexual content, and is intended for an adult audience only!

Home was a beautiful sight after such a long day. You trudged inside the shop and the dainty ring of a lonely silver bell was music to your ears. The sound signaled to the owner in the back, who stepped out with a towel as he dried off his freshly-washed hands.

“Hey,” Jackson greeted with a broad smile. After a quick glance, he changed his tone and asked, “Rough day?”

“The roughest,” you huffed, sidling up to the bar and plopping down on a stool. The place had cleared out, closing a few minutes earlier. The silence and emptiness were welcome and you tiredly slipped out of your shoes, letting your feet dangle.

Jackson offered, though he already knew the answer, “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” you sighed in relief.

Though his specialty was smoothies (and educating people on the importance of organic ingredients to promote healthy living), Jackson never failed to serve you a warm cup of tea at the end of a long day. He had different varieties too, and always seemed to know exactly which one you needed to soothe your morale.

As he pushed the small cup your way a few minutes later, you took a sip, dropped your head onto your hand, and asked, “Do you think some of us are just destined to be alone?”

Jackson released a long exhale - one that could easily have been perceived as exasperation, but you knew to be pity - and leaned against the counter across from you. Then, he replied, “You know I don’t.”

You rolled your eyes. Jackson agreed with you on many things, but this wasn’t one of them.

Living as neighbors in the apartments above the shop you currently sat in, Jackson was the last person you expected to bond with when you moved out on your own. And he had not been very keen when it came to taking on a tennant either, but he also hadn’t been prepared to buy the entire building when picking a spot for his new business.

Still, the arrangement worked wonders for you both. You needed a relatively cheap but safe place to live and he needed help making the hefty mortgage payments every month.

Jackson opened his mouth to ask what had brought out your poorly hidden disdain for relationships, but you beat him to the punch.

“I finally heard from that guy again,” you told him, taking a tentative sip of your hot tea.

Jackson lifted an eyebrow.

“Last night… at three o’clock in the freaking morning.”

Your best friend groaned and shook his head with disappointment, disheveled hair falling across his forehead. “Booty call?”

You slumped forward onto the counter, letting your forehead rest on the cold surface, and whined, “What is it about me that attracts nonsense?”

“Some guys just don’t know what to do with such a hot piece of ass,” Jackson teased, patting your arm.

Lifting your head, you swiftly narrowed your eyes in scolding.

Jackson put a hand over his heart and defended, “This is me providing comic relief.”

He was certainly a professional at that and you couldn’t help but smile in amusement. Pulling out your phone, you started, “Since I am doomed to the life of a spinster and a house full of cats…”

Jackson was quick to interject, “Are you maybe just a little dramatic?”

You shot him a look of mischief. “Only a little.”

He chortled.

“As I was saying,” you began, scrolling to your text messages. “Krystal had an idea.”

“Krystal is an enabler,” Jackson said with a level of monotone and indifference he consistently reserved for your other best friend.

Fighting a laugh, you continued, “She says everyone is blogging nowadays and…”

Jackson interrupted yet again to ask, “Blogging about what - work?”

Growing impatient, you fussed, “Jackson, I bake cookies for a living.”

“Fancy cookies that are delicious and have added at least five extra pounds to my voluptuous ass,” he quipped, reaching back and emphasizing the point with a loud smack to his buttocks.

You met his eyes and glared, blinking slowly with irritation.

Jackson flashed you a wide smile, happy to see he had gotten under your skin, and said, “Please proceed.”

“I wouldn’t blog about work,” you explained, emotionless. “I would blog about sex.”

His eyes widened with surprise and undeniable interest. A devilish smirk on his lips, Jackson replied, “You have my attention.”

“Since Krystal and I unanimously agree that anyone would be hard pressed to find somebody who has had the catastrophic dating history that I’ve had…”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed; more so to let you know he was listening, not that he necessarily agreed.

“And I have a flair for excessive vocabulary and witty narratives.”

“I see where this is going,” Jackson said, sounding rather unimpressed.

Rubbing your hands together, you asked nervously, “What do you think?”

Starting a blog that would catalog your shortcomings when it came to romance and intimacy had never crossed your mind, but a long-winded conversation in the middle of the night with Krystal had given her the idea. Little did Jackson know, if he didn’t condone it, you had already decided you wouldn’t go through with it without his approval.

After all, he would feature quite prominently on the blog.

Jackson tapped his chin and shrugged, noncommittal. “I mean, I’ve heard of people journaling as an alternative to therapy.”

“Which in some cases they desperately need,” you said with a scoff.

“Desperately,” he echoed, shaking his head as a few of his friends and relatives came to mind. “But it’s definitely better than adult coloring books.”

Pointing your middle finger to the ceiling, you grumbled, “Do you have to shit on all of my hobbies?”

Jackson chuckled. “I’m kidding… sort of.”

You snorted.

“If it’s something that will make you happy, then do it. Venting out our frustrations can help us get to a better place mentally and move forward. But always remember the golden rule,” Jackson told you, suddenly stern.

You joked, “Never eat raw cookie dough?”

Jackson grimaced at the thought, but didn’t comment. Instead, he finished, “Don’t ever step on other people to get yourself above them.”

“It would be purely humorous, I promise,” you said, downing the rest of your tea. “Nothing shady or vengeful about it.”

He gave you a single nod. “Good.”

You watched Jackson take your now empty cup and put it in the sink for a short wash, offering him another thank you as he did. Your eyes lingered on his arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and despite how exhausted you were, your mind was having no trouble coming up with ways he could put those rough hands to use.

As Jackson moved to switch off the lights in the back, you returned your focus to the blog and added, “I’ve been pretty lucky in that all of my exes are generally good people and don’t hate my guts.”

“A miracle considering your ability to inspire annoyance,” your best friend smarted, returning to the counter.

You folded your arms and exclaimed, “Hey, I’m the one with the savage repertoire!”

Rolling his eyes, Jackson chided, “Don’t use words I don’t know. English is not my first language.”

You snickered, “Apologies.”

“So, all done here,” Jackson murmured under his breath, grabbing his keys. “After I lock up, wanna come over to my place and fuck?”

“What are best friends with benefits for,” you replied with a grin.

chapter 01 ⇥ chapter 02

Hey there, beautiful! If you enjoyed this, please leave a like or reblog or follow me! Or maybe buy me a coffee so I can keep writing? Or check out my masterlist here for more stories! Thanks for reading :) - Katya

This work is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, but is licensed and protected under a creative commons attribution-noncommercial-noderivatives 4.0 international license. Any instances of plagiarism will be dealt with accordingly. Do not re-post or translate without my permission.

#got7 fanfiction #got7 smut #jackson wang smut #got7 scenarios #jackson wang scenarios #mark tuan smut #jaebum smut #jinyoung smut #youngjae smut #bambam smut #yugyeom smut

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poorquentyn · 7 years ago

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Hey PQ, love your analysis. I agree with you that Victarion is likely to blow Dragonbinder and die a fiery death from within. I think he's seduced by the horn and is power hungry after battle, and believes that somehow Morroqo can save him again. My question, if/when Vic blows the horn and dies, what happens to the Ironborn? They are leaderless, far from home. They lost more than half their fleet on this journey as well, so going back doesn't look like a great option. Do they stay and Reave?

Good question! In the show, the Iron Fleet was Team Dany’s ticket to Westeros. In that case, however, the Fleet was led by the at least semi-sympathetic younger Greyjoys; in the books, Nuncle Vic is at the helm, and not only is the Iron Captain much less likely to play nice with others, he’s (as you note) probably not gonna last much longer.

Moreover, there’s a considerably larger fleet creeping behind Victarion’s…

And I must needs reach the dragon queen before the Volantenes.

In Volantis he had seen the galleys taking on provisions. The whole city had seemed drunk. Sailors and soldiers and tinkers had been observed dancing in the streets with nobles and fat merchants, and in every inn and winesink cups were being raised to the new triarchs. All the talk had been of the gold and gems and slaves that would flood into Volantis once the dragon queen was dead. One day of such reports was all that Victarion Greyjoy could stomach; he paid the gold price for food and water, though it shamed him, and took his ships back out to sea.

The storms would have scattered and delayed the Volantenes, even as they had his own ships. If fortune smiled, many of their warships might have sunk or run aground. But not all. No god was that good, and those green galleys that survived by now could well have sailed around Valyria. They will be sweeping north toward Meereen and Yunkai, great dromonds of war teeming with slave soldiers. If the Storm God spared them, by now they could be in the Gulf of Grief. Three hundred ships, perhaps as many as five hundred.

…and the heart of Tyrion VII ADWD’s deep dive into Volantis was his seismic reading of the fire underneath the city’s triumphant surface, exposed by those kindling it: the one with the flame tattoos…

The river road was thick with traffic, almost all of it flowing south. The knight went with it, a log caught in a current. Tyrion eyed the passing throngs. Nine men of every ten bore slave marks on their cheeks. “So many slaves … where are they all going?”

“The red priests light their nightfires at sunset. The High Priest will be speaking. I would avoid it if I could, but to reach the Long Bridge we must pass the red temple.”

Three blocks later the street opened up before them onto a huge torchlit plaza, and there it stood. Seven save me, that’s got to be three times the size of the Great Sept of Baelor. An enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers flowing into one another as if they had all been chiseled from one colossal rock, the Temple of the Lord of Light loomed like Aegon’s High Hill. A hundred hues of red, yellow, gold, and orange met and melded in the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset. Its slender towers twisted ever upward, frozen flames dancing as they reached for the sky. Fire turned to stone. Huge nightfires burned beside the temple steps, and between them the High Priest had begun to speak.

Benerro. The priest stood atop a red stone pillar, joined by a slender stone bridge to a lofty terrace where the lesser priests and acolytes stood. The acolytes were clad in robes of pale yellow and bright orange, priests and priestesses in red.

The great plaza before them was packed almost solid. Many and more of the worshipers were wearing some scrap of red cloth pinned to their sleeves or tied around their brows. Every eye was on the high priest, save theirs. “Make way,” the knight growled as his horse pushed through the throng. “Clear a path.” The Volantenes gave way resentfully, with mutters and angry looks.

Benerro’s high voice carried well. Tall and thin, he had a drawn face and skin white as milk. Flames had been tattooed across his cheeks and chin and shaven head to make a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth. “Is that a slave tattoo?” asked Tyrion.

The knight nodded. “The red temple buys them as children and makes them priests or temple prostitutes or warriors. Look there.” He pointed at the steps, where a line of men in ornate armor and orange cloaks stood before the temple’s doors, clasping spears with points like writhing flames. “The Fiery Hand. The Lord of Light’s sacred soldiers, defenders of the temple.”

Fire knights. “And how many fingers does this hand have, pray?”

“One thousand. Never more, and never less. A new flame is kindled for every one that gutters out.”

Benerro jabbed a finger at the moon, made a fist, spread his hands wide. When his voice rose in a crescendo, flames leapt from his fingers with a sudden whoosh and made the crowd gasp. The priest could trace fiery letters in the air as well. Valyrian glyphs. Tyrion recognized perhaps two in ten; one was Doom, the other Darkness.

Shouts erupted from the crowd. Women were weeping and men were shaking their fists. I have a bad feeling about this. The dwarf was reminded of the day Myrcella sailed for Dorne and the riot that boiled up as they made their way back to the Red Keep.

…and the one who cut her tattoos away.

The widow sipped daintily at her wine. “Some of the first elephants were women,” she said, “the ones who brought the tigers down and ended the old wars. Trianna was returned four times. That was three hundred years ago, alas. Volantis has had no female triarch since, though some women have the vote. Women of good birth who dwell in ancient palaces behind the Black Walls, not creatures such as me. The Old Blood will have their dogs and children voting before any freedman. No, it will be Belicho, or perhaps Alios, but either way it will be war. Or so they think.”

“And what do you think?” Ser Jorah asked.

Good, thought Tyrion. The right question.

“Oh, I think it will be war as well, but not the war they want.” The old woman leaned forward, her black eyes gleaming. “I think that red R’hllor has more worshipers in this city than all the other gods together. Have you heard Benerro preach?”

“Last night.”

“Benerro can see the morrow in his flames,” the widow said. “Triarch Malaquo tried to hire the Golden Company, did you know? He meant to clean out the red temple and put Benerro to the sword. He dare not use tiger cloaks. Half of them worship the Lord of Light as well. Oh, these are dire days in Old Volantis, even for wrinkled old widows.”

Tyrion grinned. “If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you’d have my vote for triarch, my lady.”

“I am no lady,” the widow replied, “just Vogarro’s whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis.”

She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”

So the slave soldiers and sailors on the Volantene fleet seem likely to revolt sooner rather than later, especially after it becomes clear that the slaver coalition their masters came to support has been wiped out by Barry and Vic, hammer-and-anvil style. As such, Team Dany might not need the Iron Fleet, and the latter’s narrative function was more to do with Dragonbinder and Moqorro…which if so, means the reavers will likely face the same fate as their leader.

#the iron fleet #volantis #benerro #the widow of the waterfront #asoiaf meta #victarion greyjoy

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storyunrelated · 8 years ago

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Colder Harder Hugs #1_Ever Onwards

The continuing misadventures of my nameless, featureless protagonist and his oblivious stumblings through events he has neither the capacity nor interest to fully understand.

While the previous wodge of nonsense was fully meandering, this has more of a thrust behind it. Or I like to think so. It isn't finished yet, and ideas swirl in my mind for the bit that'll come after this second part. The final part! Coldest, Hardest Hugs!

Not a joke.

Why is that, like, my longest contiguous story is one that started from a dumb thing I wrote for my own edification about a guy hugging a robot? And isn't really about ANYTHING?

What does that say about ME?

Relentless positivity. That’s what I’m going with these days. The world is a beautiful place even if you often have to work a little hard to see it that way. That’s why you have to be positive. Relentlessly positive. You might start to feel the creeping fingers of despair tip-toeing (can fingers tip-toe? Tip-finger?) up your spine but you just stamp on those fingers and you smile and you laugh and you laugh because the world is great and you just have to remember that.

Or something along those lines. It’s not especially refined yet. It needs time. Not a lot of time has passed yet, so it’s still a bit rough. I’ll sit down and think it out sometime. Have a proper big think about it. Maybe compose some kind of epoch-defining philosophical treatise. Hell, I have more free time now, why not? Time to spare.

Oh yeah, why this new attitude at all. That would be an idea.

All of that other stuff? The stuff with the punching and the hugging and the cake and the holidays to America? Months ago. Two months, if I want to be specific. And rather naturally a fair few things have changed in such a long, long period of time. The first, my embrace of relentless positive (obviously). The second? Uh, I am single again. For whatever difference that makes in practical terms. More spare time, I guess. I did mention that.

Tillie did not have a dalliance with Johnny while stateside. This I know because this she told me and I trust her unquestionably. Rather, she merely came to agree with her dear friend Skaffen’s attitude and position that our whole relationship was one doomed to eventual, spectacular failure and that nixing it sooner rather than later would be better for all involved. If that was her opinion I respected it, even if I didn’t fully understand it. Or like it. Or enjoy hearing about it. Or feel good thinking about it. Or remembering that it was a thing and that I was single again because of it. But whatever. Relentless positivity.

I had spent most of that week she’d been away - ostensibly reading week - not reading, but staring at my phone instead. I stared at it waiting for Tillie to contact me (she didn’t) or waiting to decide whether contacting Michelle would be a good thing to do (I didn’t). So by the time the week was over the phone had not actually been used. Just stared at lots. In retrospect this was probably the worst thing I could have done, short of ringing up and insulting them both.

Could a point be made for my inaction being insulting in and of itself? Possibly, but I’m not clever enough to go into that sort of thing. I just know I had a poor week and probably would have done things differently if given the chance again. What things? Ah, now that’s the tricky bit.

All moot now though, all moot. I cannot time-travel. Yet.

For her part Michelle had apparently had a lovely time back in her home town! Even met a guy, from what I heard. A guy who went to our very uni at that! Small world and no mistake. They were a thing now. Friend of a friend introducing them back home, hitting it off and all that. Small world, small world. And so fast! Not that I’m surprised, Michelle being the lovely girl she is after all. Good on her, I say. And good on him, whoever he is. I guess?

But that had just been that one week (hence my amazement about the speed of it all!). Why the yawning gulf of two months? Why am I even thinking about it as a yawning gulf? Wasn’t I aware of it the whole time? Hmm, strange.

Then again, to be fair, it was incredibly dull after that week was over. It was basically just regular uni life and work again, only with fewer hugs, more awkward passing of myself and Tillie in the house and, uh, that was about it, really. Like life with the volume turned down. But you know, one must be positive, relentlessly. Beer helped, obviously, though Tillie disapproved of me having any before twelve as I found out. And especially before nine. Probably should have guessed about that one, really. My bad!

She’d found some manner of living-machine social club in town - which you’d think she’d know about already, wouldn’t you? I think it was a recent thing, recently organised - so was out a lot more than she used to be, which was a damn fine thing in my book. It made me happy to know that she was enjoying herself and she said she was so that was good enough for me. Did leave me at even more of a loose end than I had already been at of course but I was a big boy and I could deal with that. Beer helped, obviously. Again.

Friends also helped, not that I had an abundance. Actually, I barely had any. I’d kind of invested most of my friend infrastructure in Tillie. All eggs, one basket. But that’s fine. The ones I had were plenty. I ran into Simon one time and we got coffee, it was pretty neat. I’d have preferred we went into a pub but it was about eleven in the morning and that was apparently ‘not the done thing’. I’m sure I could survive. Until I got the DT’s. Ha. Ha. Ha.

The DT’s aren’t funny.

Given Simon and myself hadn’t seen one another for a little while he was rather demanding in his desire to catch up. Though as I related all that had happened between then and now (‘now’ being another ‘then’ since it has passed - isn’t time odd?) his expression got more and more drawn. He seemed to be taking it all worse than I was. Poor chap.

“So yeah. All that happened,” I said, after summing it up. He just shook his head and sipped his frothy, overly sweetened drink. Simon’s coffee tastes were not mine. Mine tended towards the bitter. Hey-oh! Wait, what? Forget about that, that was silly. I’m not a huge coffee drinker anyway but I’ll be damned if I pay what they’re asking for a cup of tea given that I know what a cup of tea actually involves. Robber barons the lot of them. Once simon finished sipping he set his cup back down and looked set to say something profound.

“Nice guys finish last,” he said, as though this meant something. Profound this was not. Helpful this was not either. He clearly meant it in a supportive way, which I appreciated in principle, but his choice of words rankled.

This was something I’d heard before, and it was something I took some level of issue with.

Firstly and most obviously, what kind of race was this? Was the prize the right to have a relationship with the girl, or the privilege? Or what? Most races I know of don’t have a trophy with agency or self-determination. It just seems a bit weird. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I’m not.

Mostly though, it’s just wrong. I’ve seen nice guys doing fine and dicks also doing fine. The ratio seemed pretty evenly split to me. I just figure that people notice the dicks more because dicks make a point of being noticeable because, well, dicks.

It’s like the same way the news only ever reports horrible things happening - people are not interested in a narrative where no-one is creating conflict, except in passing to just say ‘aww isn’t that sweet’ and then move onto to gawping in horror at what the bastard with the poor, beleaguered partner is doing.

You know?

As an aside, why is the non-dick person - boy, guy, it’s always a boy or a guy - in this situation called the quote-unquote ‘nice guy’? What they tend to do that sets them apart from the dicksh person (also almost always a boy or a guy) is not particularly impressive or remarkable. It’s not very hard at all to not be a dick. Thus they should just be called ‘the guy’. You don’t earn ‘nice’ without doing something a little above and beyond what’s expected of you as a normal, decent human being, you know?

Maybe I do think about this too much.

Fuck! I keep repeating myself! You know? Maybe. Overthinking. Fuck. Fuck! It’s like an echo chamber inside my head, driving me bloody insane. I’d hate to be a passenger in here I tell you what. That’d be pretty awful having to see all of this laid out in black and white.

Ugh. Not nice to think about at all. Ugh.

Not that any of that applies to me anyway, as I’m not nice in the first place. Wouldn’t go so far as saying dick, but not much better. I am in the position of neither coming last nor winning, as I never even entered the race to begin with. Because why would I? I’d only come last and someone would accuse me of being nice, and that just wouldn’t do. It had just happened, sort of, and see how bad it was? Terrible. What a palava.

“I don’t think I agree with that,” I said. I wouldn’t bother going through that whole thing I just thought about. I doubted he’d even ask for an explanation. Most people did not think like I did. I assumed? Maybe they did.

He just shrugged.

“Fair enough,” he said. Called it. A thought then occurred to me.

“Does that mean you’re not a nice guy?” I asked, curious. He furrowed his brow. I continued:

“I mean, you’re still going out with, uh, Daryn, right?”

“Daryl. And yes, I am,” he said, a touch coolly. I grimaced. Great. Good work, me. Names, I tell you - names’ll get you eventually. It’s why I’m not really that concerned with mine. People can call me whatever they like. Most do. One seminar leader up at uni knows my name from the register but calls me the wrong one anytime I raise my hand. It’s why I stopped bothering to say anything. Well, one of the reasons. The others being not having anything worth saying.

“Ugh, well I’m a shitty person. He’s a lovely chap, too, I had to fuck up that one letter. But, uh, point I was making: you guys are still making a go of it so that does mean you two aren’t nice guys? I beg to differ!”

This seemed to stymie Simon, whose mouth opened but produced no words. He stared at his drink. For a moment he appeared to have found an answer there as he rised to meet my gaze again but faltered.

“Well I’d hardly say I was nice…” he grumbled, taking a sip.

“You’re not exactly the bad-boy type though either. So I’d say we’re at an impasse.”

“I was just trying to have your back. It’s a bit shit what they did to you.”

“Ah it’s not so bad. These things happen, life goes on. No-one’s hurt. ” I said. Even I, with my great and repeatedly demonstrated inability to read what a look on someone’s face meant, could tell that Simon did not believe me in the slightest. More fool him, because I was telling the truth. I wasn’t hurt. I was a rock, I was an island. I was a rolling stone and I was gathering no moss. I was relentlessly positive.

“Whatever you say,” he said, sipping again, somewhat more quietly than before.

“At least no-one has told me that they’re hurt,” I said, for clarification. I saw Simon roll his eyes. Mightily roll them, too. No mere sideways tilt for him.

“Yeah well, how else would you be expected to know?” He asked, with what I assumed was dripping sarcasm. “And how about you, anyway?”

“What about me? I’m solid. Solid as a rock,” I said, affronted. I slurped my coffee angrily but it was still far too hot for me (being a pansy) and so the impact of this was lessened. Simon was unaffected anyway, leaning back and looking past me through the window to the world beyond. Apparently I was too easily distracted to be allowed to face the window. Meanie Simon.

“I don’t believe you, but I doubt you’ll tell me otherwise. Still, a lot of guys in your position might, you know, try to fight for the girl,” he said. I frowned. Again with this cliche nonsense.

“Fight indeed. It was an amicably reached, mutual decision. I’m not going to try and grind her into submission because it was a decision I didn’t much like,” I said. Simon grinned in what looked like triumph and sat forward, jabbing a finger at me.

“Ah! So you don’t like it!” He said. I wasn’t sure this constituted a ‘gotcha’ moment. Perhaps I’d blinked and missed an important step somewhere. Pretty sure I hadn’t though.

“This much was obvious. I don’t like lots of things, doesn’t mean I can’t accept them,” I said.

Simon stared me hard in the face a moment or two before sighing and slumping back once more. Clearly he had decided further pressing of the point would get him nowhere. This was a reason why I liked Simon. He knew when to quit and had yet somehow still not got sick of me. Or was too polite to say he had.

“I guess your situation isn’t exactly like a lot of peoples…” he said, ruminating on his now-empty cup. I’d barely touched mine. Coffee was always a mistake, when was I going to remember this? It’s why beer is the obvious and superior alternative. Or tea. Why do not simply have tea and small beer piped directly into every home? Oh yes. Prohibitive infrastructure costs. And scalded, inebriated children. Forget I said anything.

Anyway. What had Simon just said. Oh yes. My situation wasn’t like a lot of peoples. Odd thing to say. Mysterious. Ominious!

“Why’s that?” I asked. Then I twigged it, cutting in before Simon could answer for himself:

“Oh, right. Living-machine thing again, right?” I asked. He nodded. I made my best deep-in-the-throat growling sound of complete consternation. I could not fathom how this was such a persistent issue for people. More to the point, why did they care in the first place?

“I don’t want to, you know, keep coming back to that but it is still pretty unusual,” he said. I sunk into my seat, arms folded, face a mask of grumpiness. I hoped. I had very little control over my expression, I found. I probably just looked constipated.

“It’s not that unusual,” I said, mostly into my chest. I saw Simon shrugging from the corner of my eye.

“Well you’re the first and only person I’ve ever heard of doing it.”

Simon was not the be-all-and-end-all of worldly knowledge nor was he a nexus of gossip but he was certainly more informed than I was and if anyone else had entered into an arrangement like myself and Tillie - here or at anywhere with friends of Simon’s in attendance - he would have heard about it. He was just like that. Many fingers, many pies. He seemed to enjoy it. But yes. If such a man as he had heard nothing that did make me pause.

“That can’t be true…”

“Well maybe. I don’t know everything. I just haven’t heard anything about it anywhere, and you’d think people would talk. People do like to talk.”

“That they do. But it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. It happened, it ended, it’s done. Boom.”

“Yeah, but you’re obvious cut up about it and just in denial, so it’s still relevant.”

“What’s denial? A river in Africa?” I asked, making the ‘finger-guns’. Simon looked at me, mouth agape. He was utterly appalled.

“Who am I talking to, my dad? Jesus Christ.”

“Now that’d be something…”

“No, please, don’t say that. Look, just listen for a second,” he said. Clearly (and correctly) anticipating that I was going to say something smart-arsey in response to the command to ‘look’ when I was meant to be ‘listening’ he wagged a finger at me to preemptively shut me up. I knew when I’d been out-maneuvered.

“Listening?” He asked, I nodded. He took a breath. “You’re allowed to be unhappy about this. You should be, actually. You should be unhappy about this because it’d be healthier for you. Assuming you could find something good to put the negativity towards. Uh, you actually have hobbies, right?”

My conversations with Simon were typically lopsided in favour of him, his life and his interests and I had apparently been so good at keeping this up that he’d only just realised he knew next to nothing about what I enjoyed. It was okay. I didn’t know what I enjoyed either. You’d think it would be obvious, wouldn’t you? You would be wrong. It is a mystery.

I think I used to know, but these days the things I liked back when I was younger didn’t seem as fun anymore. Or were they as fun as they always had been but I was doing them wrong? Or had they never been fun? I don’t know. I can’t remember. Hardly matters anyway.

“Drinking,” I said, for the sake of flippancy. My coffee was now cold. It had somehow bypassed any intermediate temperature between searing hot and icy. Maybe I’d blinked. What a waste.

“That’s a terrible answer and you did that on purpose. No, not that. Ugh, pick something, find something. You need to work through this,” Simon said and I could sort of tell he was starting to lose his temper with me a little bit. I was good at this sometimes. Not something to be proud of.

“But I’m fine,” I said.

“You’re obviously not. You’re saying you are and you’re probably sort of believing you are, but you’re not. You shouldn’t be, at least. If you were totally fine then I’d be worried. Then you’d be some kind of...soulless void of a human being devoid of feeling and without a reason to continue,” he said. I blinked. That had come out of left field. He made a good point though.

“Maybe I am,” I said, tapping a finger on my chin and giving it genuine consideration. Why was I alive again, exactly? Mostly because I was fully aware there were some people in the world who would be unhappy if I wasn’t. For whatever reason. Tillie was probably one of these people. I didn’t need Simon to tell me that this was not a good way of looking at my life.

“No, you’re not. You’re just in a bad place right now. But you have me at least, you know? Anytime you need me. Don’t think you don’t, alright?”

“You’re a pal,” I said and meant it.

“I try. And you’re trying.”

“Everyone’s good at something,” I said, raising my cup to him and risking a taste of the coffee. It was rancid. Had it been any better when it hadn’t been cold? Unlikely. A lost cause now. I did not try again.

From there the conversation went more towards university and was therefore fairly tedious and mostly full of grumbling. As is to be expected. Still, very cathartic it was too - I left the coffee place feeling much refreshed and invigorated, waving goodbye to Simon as he meandered off in the opposite direction to myself.

Did I mention I didn’t have many friends? I think I did. Seeing Simon disappearing off into the distance really did bring it back through. I did not have many friends. Or any, really. One, Simon, walking away. The other, Tillie, who I didn’t want to think about too much for reasons I also did not want to think about too much. Did Michelle count as a friend, or as an acquaintance? I hadn’t spoken to her in a while. Is that normal for friends? If you have to ask, the answer is probably no.

I mean, that would also extend for those friends I carried over from school. Well, the few I had anyway. A handful, you might say. Fine fellows all (and exclusively fellows, now that I think about it) but none of whom I had spoken to in, oh, months. Or had they not spoken to me? Probably a bit of both. Either way the result is the same: deafening silence.

So yes. There I am.

Should probably diversify. If I were to aggravate or drive off Simon somehow - by consistently getting his boyfriend’s name wrong, for example - that would leave me completely and utterly alone. Deservedly, to be fair, but no-less alone. And that would be bad. I think? I’m given the impression it’d be bad because society told me so. And I suppose I go a bit funny on my own, too. All in all, I’d prefer not to.

So yes. Try to make new friends maybe. Can’t be that hard, right? It’s not as if -

Hey, hang on a second.

Who’s that guy?

I spied with my little eye what looked an awful lot like a grown-ass man with a grown-ass camera taking my picture. But that would just be madness. I have nothing about me worth taking a picture about. Or for. Or of. You know?

But it’s obviously a man with camera though and it’s obviously pointing in my direction. Clearly then I must be standing in front of something he wanted to get a clear shot of. Mea culpa. With this reasoning did I quickly dart to the side, thinking it was what he would have wanted.

It was not. My lunge sideways seemed to be interpreted by him as some kind of threatening gesture as he - locking eyes with me for but a moment - scarpered. It was really quite surreal. I look behind me and saw only a shop Maybe it was a shop he liked a lot? I hope me being in the frame didn’t ruin the shot too much for him.

Probably nothing to worry about.

#Cold hard Hugs #Colder Harder Hugs #Writing #Amwriting #Writblr #Writeblr #Writer on tumblr

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