#-love with scenes and parallels THEY WROTE

[rowanisawriter]

rowanisawriter i come to you demanding writing advice! how do you you put all the words together 🥺👉👈

aw thank you for asking babe!! i don’t really have a process, i just hallucinate in the middle of the night and some of the night visions make it onto the page lol but mostly i focus on two things:

1. feelings: and this is my feeling, characters feelings, emotions but also senses, feeling loved and scared and the sun on their faces and hands and the smell of things like grass and dirt and horses and cigarette smoke. i love playing with the senses and tying it to emotion, it makes the writing feel alive and dynamic

2. symmetry: this one’s kinda hard to explain but what i mean is parallels but not jsut in theme, in the actual writing like the decisions around writing and structure. i like when a story is actually about two things and these two things are running parallel to each other like railings and all the emotion and stuff is in between these two things. i think i do this constantly and it helps keep the story on rails

an example of all this in practice is this fic i wrote recently called bruise, this guy’s first real friend leaves a literal mark on him. throughout the story, i used bruises/marks to show their friendship evolving, and their awareness of each other intensifying as they left more and more marks on each other. my style is to write little scenes instead of one full uninterrupted story usually, so having a sense or a feeling or a thing to keep coming back to makes the writing feel very connected through the scenes. in this case it was the bruises/marks/impact on each other that kept the story going until the end, when they both acknowledge the changes that each inflicts upon the other and accept it lol

anyway both of these pieces make up my stories, sometimes the symmetry is in feelings, and sometimes the feelings create a symmetry that’s pleasing to read because the end becomes very close to the beginning like in words and action and that satisfying type of parallel is nice in very short stories like what i usually write.

[tryandbehappy]

MIRRORS, THE EYE, AND THE BEAST. LET’S GO.

!!!!!!!!!!

We’ve recently talked with you guys a lot about the Beauty and the Beast parallels and mirrors in Nick and June’s arc, but today I fully lost it. I swear, I haven’t been this wrecked in a while. Here’s a whole theory and I’m warning you: it’s gonna break you too.

1. The mirror as a symbol of truth and self-awareness

In literature and cinema, a mirror often represents what we see in ourselves and what we fear to see.

Nick is the one person who never lies to June. He doesn’t play into her illusions. He simply says:

“You love me? Then who are you?”

And she can’t handle it.

Because he’s showing her a truth she’s not ready to face that she loves a “commander.”!!! No a hero that she imagined in her head.

He shows her what she’s afraid of that her feelings contradict her moral compass, that she’s not as “good” as she tries to be. He mirrors her. She can’t take it so she runs.

2. They are mirrors for each other !!!

• He reflects her inner conflict. June wants to be “good,” “moral,” but she loves a man from Gilead. Nick reflects her ambivalence.

• She reflects his humanity. He sees himself as a monster but she saw goodness, courage, and kindness in him. As she once said:

“You’d be good. And brave. And kind.”

That’s his mirror. She shows him who he is

3. Visual mirror metaphors

• In the car scene, they look at each other through the rearview mirror. That’s not even a metaphor anymore, it’s a literal visualization of this idea.

• He sits with his back turned to Rita, in the shadows. He doesn’t want to show his face like the Beast. And when he finally does turn toward her, it’s in a moment of unbearable pain, when he can no longer hide the truth.

4. The mirror as a portal between worlds !!

In Beauty and the Beast, the Beast has a magical mirror, a portal that lets him see Belle from afar.

Nick has one too. He’s an Eye!!! He always knows where June is, even when they’re apart. He watches over her to protect her. Sometimes it seems he became a commander to be able to do these things so that June would be ok and alive.

Also he’s always seen her even when no one else did. And loved her for who she is, completely. That’s the same metaphor.

5. The mirror song and who it’s for !!!!!

The ultimate wreckage? The song June sings to Nichole. It goes:

“I’ll be your mirror. Reflect what you are, in case you don’t know.”

It’s literally what Nick does for June. He constantly reflects back to her who she is even when she can’t see it. And visa versa !!!!

And now she’s singing it to their daughter, promising to love and accept her fully. Maybe… she’s singing it to Nick too (when she accepts him and herself and their love fully)

Thank you guys for adding ideas to this theory, I just gathered them altogether. (Sorry I can’t find who brought me these ideas to credit you 🥹 too many notifications)

So… who’s still breathing?????

I swear, if they didn’t mean to do this, they accidentally wrote something genius.

[coddda]

Hiiiiiii. Episode 25/26 lawlight analysis rant thingy here. I don't know how to write an intro for this so let's just get to it LOL

I think one of the reasons that the rain/foot scenes stick out so much (the. Sheer insanity of a Foot Massage Scene in an anime revolving around two guys trying to kill each other aside 💀) is the fact that the anime specifically suffers a bit in terms of adapting a few of the "emotional" moments in death note.

And I don't mean "emotionally impactful" exactly. For example I think the adaptations of scenes like Raye and Naomi's deaths were very impactful and the atmospheres of their final scenes were great, but I mean more from a characterization standpoint (if that makes sense). Being more focused on mind and logic games, Death Note as a whole isn't as invested in individual characters' deeper feelings as it is in its action (which isn't necessarily a criticism per say, it's simply part of the nature of a mystery thriller series). But just because they're fewer and farther between doesn't mean there are none at all. In the manga we do get to see, for example, how much Light actually cared for his family and especially Sayu, and how he actually felt more conflicted and suffered lack of sleep/appetite when he first used the Death Note.

The anime specifically as an adaptation is pretty good at adapting the main mind fuckery and action of Death Note, but its lacking in properly adapting scenes like the ones I mentioned above is a criticism I see somewhat often, and it's pretty fair imo. Compared to all the other adaptations, it certainly seems to fall short on an emotional level: the musical has entire songs going in depth about the characters feelings and relationships, the 2015 jdrama is. Insane and has its emotional moments in spades (because it's a TV drama, which are more focused on portraying emotional conflict and the like), even the 2006 movies has its emotional beats and L Change the WorLd is. Well. Oh Man.

Anime Light to a lot of people is like. Light but he's "already evil" (which I have my own thoughts on but I digress). Light but after using the Death Note for like 2 minutes he's already like "fuck yeah time to kill criminals". Basically the anime doesn't take as much time to delve into his less cynical sides or really delve into his already vague and harder to decipher feelings in general, he is noticeably colder from the get-go here, etc.

But that's part of why I think episode 25 manages to stand out so much tonally (apart from it being, y'know, the episode L literally Dies). I love the episode so much and could probably rant for hours about how much I love the artistic choices made in it but what I'm trying to get at here is that it's one of the very few moments where the show tries to go deeper into specific character's emotions, and one of the very few moments where the show Attempts (emphasis on "attempts" because, well, you'll see in a bit) to get more in-depth into Light's feelings apart from his cynicism/apathy/justice. ness.

L in these two scenes in episode 25 is, well, pretty damn open about how he feels. It's usually interpreted as him knowing that he's going to die, and you can see it. He visibly looks/sounds lost, somber, etc. He never really had much to hide around Light to begin with (since he doesn't really care about hiding himself the same way Light does) but especially not now and it Shows, and I personally thought it was pretty cool to delve into his thoughts/show how he feels this way. The somberness can be felt throughout the entire scene, even people who don't already know the plot of Death Note from the manga could probably tell that he's about to die.

In the manga, once L starts suspecting Misa again and Rem realizes what Light is trying to do, it goes straight to Watari and L's deaths, but the anime instead gives a distinct and unexpected pause in the middle of this where L contemplates his own death. It's fucking great, and the shift from straight action to slower emotional weight makes these scenes stand out a lot, since, like I said, the show usually focuses more on the former. But it's kind of ironic, too.

Not only does the anime open up L's feelings more in these scenes, but it also tries to dig deeper into Light's feelings as well through L. And it's really funny honestly because while, yes, these are the more "emotionally open" scenes of the anime Light still manages to be Incredibly avoidant and contribute almost nothing to the entire ordeal.

L is visibly upset -> "Yeah Ryuzaki, you're not making any sense at all" (Not addressing the obvious conflict from L)

"Tell me, Light. From the moment you were born, has there ever been a point where you've actually told the truth?" -> "[The most stale, over-explained, avoidant answer to a "yes/no" question that you could ever hear + blatant attempts to reframe the question]"

(L's half-smile here kills me) "I had a feeling you'd say something like that" -> [Nothing]

"I'm sorry" -> [Nothing]

"It'll be lonely won't it? You and I will be parting ways soon" -> [Nothing]

^ From this point Light continues to say literally Nothing for the rest of the scene. I'm not even joking, from then on the rest of Light's voicelines are reduced to nothing but vague noises of confusion.

Everytime L calls Light out as a person ("Has there ever been a point where you've actually told the truth?" / "I had a feeling you'd say something like that." / "Won't it be lonely?") he doesn't actually acknowledge anything. Out of those three lines, he only answers verbally to if he's ever told the truth, and even then it's the most blatantly people-pleasing answer ever, as it usually is with Light. And I don't think it's because Light just. Doesn't care about any of what L's saying at all, or that he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about (questioning Light's authenticity as a person, saying it would be lonely when they part), instead he's choosing not to acknowledge any of what this means about himself or him and L at all. He's like a fucking wall.

And like, for the truth question in particular, the show makes sure that you know it's not something that Light just. Doesn't care enough about to answer. The hard cuts to silence are a very rare but extremely effective way that the show conveys an extremely important moment (see: Light regaining his memories, Matsuda noticing Light opening the warehouse door before he escapes (not as much of a "direct" cut to silence but still)), and cuts to multiple angles/framings/zooms of the exact same shot are also used for the same purpose (see: Light hugging Misa when she was crying, Matsuda aiming his gun to shoot Light, Light regaining his memories Again). Just like the scene where Light gets his memories back, the moment L's question finishes the show utilizes both. That question cut Deep. There's is a solid Almost 5 seconds of silence before the sound of the rain gradually starts fading back in, and honestly that should be telling enough as is (but of course Light doesn't actually admit that. Or anything at all really, so). Oh also another fun detail! We do not see Light's face At All (except for the shot where you can see his mouth moving but not his eyes), for the Entire time that he's going on his spiel to L. We Will Be Revisiting This Later, by the way. This is not, in fact, the first time you're going to see this detail from Light.

The only sort of reciprocation that we see from Light during Any of these two scenes is when Light dries L's hair while L dries his feet. Biblical meanings/references aside it's interesting because it's the only time he directly does anything "for" L in these scenes, but even then he doesn't try to pass it off as anything meaningful really the same way L does ("You're still soaked", a purely neutral and factual statement. It doesn't Add Anything compared to L's. Sin atonement loneliness grieving stuff. While Light is showing his own reciprocation to this more personal moment he also tries to keep it impersonal enough that it doesn't actually have to mean anything deep). And when L says "I'm sorry" after he once again gets no response from Light. It's also after this that L gets that pained look on his face, like he knows that at this point he's not actually going to get anything meaningful from Light (again, very significant and rare from L in the show. We've seen him in distress (see: when Ukita died, hell, when Watari dies), but even then he mostly manages to keep his usually neutral expression), we never see him "look sad" like he does here):

I just think it's interesting that this is one of the few scenes in this particular adaptation of Death Note where they try to open up the character's thoughts/feeling (especially considering the fact that they. lowkey blunder in adaptations of original scenes from the manga), and L himself is being rather open (not that he ever really tries to hide what he thinks nearly as much as Light), and yet all Light contributes to it in return is like. Actually nothing. Bro fumbled it. There is no resolution to any of this, to any of what L asks at all, to any of the many opportunities for a meaningful conversation, and the only thing even relatively close to an answer that you can get from Light is what you can infer from how he acts in the episode after L dies, where he's just going through the motions, but hardly acting as if he's actually living at all.

(Honestly I think the transition from this scene with the taskforce to the subsequent scene with Misa says enough on its own. Light's expressions and tone says everything:)

(Oh sidenote but. This shit again:

"Light, this is our first date in forever. can't you enjoy yourself a little more?" ('Why don't you seem happy? We can finally be together since L is dead') -> No response, Light instead changing the topic to him wanting to move in with Misa without changing his mannerisms at all

Also there's that one detail again. You pretty much don't see Light's expression when he speaks here at all, except for one shot of his eyes, which is quite literally the exact same shot they used when he "saw" L, just altered for the new setting. You have No idea what he looks like when he's responding to Misa, although it's probably fair to assume that it's the same empty stare he has for the whole Two Shots where you can clearly see his whole expression in the entire scene.

Something something Light Yagami bad at feelings I think you get the point though)

I guess Light's Kind of showing what he's feeling now? He'll admit to himself that it's boring without L, but no more than that. Light never actually admits to anything "significant", and L's dead already anyway, so what would that even do?

And then we get, uh. Basically nothing from Light. For the next 5 Years. Except that he joined the NPA, so, uh, yay? Good job, Light you totally nailed it! Thank you for allowing us as an audience to delve deeper into your inner thoughts and feelings as a character so we can find out more about you as a person! Very helpful! Thank you for not sabotaging one of your few dedicated opportunities to look into yourself as a person and reflect on your relationships with others and being 100% honest with yourself! We stay winning guys.

Anyway, this got way too long for a scene that's over a decade old, and I've probably just said everything that everyone else has already said in this fandom before. But unfortunately this has been living in my head for way too long and I must scream. I just think this episode's neat is all :)

tl;dr Part of the reason why the rain/foot scene (tbh episode 25 in General) stands out so much is because the Death Note anime specifically was a bit robbed in terms of its more emotional character moments compared to the other medias, which makes more somber/introspective scenes like the ones in episode 25 stand out a Lot in comparison. But it's also incredibly ironic because it's one of the few moments where the show (or specifically L) tries to look deeper into Light's character, but because he is so avoidant for the entire duration of these two scenes he adds basically nothing at all. It's almost funny. Mostly sad. It's also very gay. Aand post

Okay actually nevermind one more thing I talked about how the jdrama is supposed to be more emotionally in-depth because it is a TV Drama and just for the record, same thing happens there! I could probably do an entire analysis of the Blue Scene in this context like I did with episode 25 but I'd literally be here forever, so uh, just take this iconic line as my main example:

Same Thing. L's statement "I wish we could have met some other way" is personal. It's his own wish, his own regret that he is expressing to Light. While Light's reply obviously has that same regret implied it's also phrased in a specifically impersonal way. It's closed off. "This is the only way we could have met" it closes off the topic and simply renders L's wish as ultimately futile. Light does not say that he Also wishes he could have met L a different way even if it was likely impossible, instead it's a cold statement of cynical fact.

Idk just. Something something L being able and Willing to be more openly sentimental/emotionally open towards Light/about Light vs. Light's inability to be honest with anyone including himself and his own nature preventing any form of meaningful reciprocation. Something something self-sabotage, y'know the drill. God don't even get me Started on how sincere L's tone is when he says "It'll be lonely won't it?"(at least in the eng dub) in the anime I could talk about his tone in that scene for ages. Also yes all of this relates to L Change the WorLd too by the way. Don't ask how it just does okay.

I do think that scenes like these (rain/foot scene, The Blue Scene. Uh. L Change the WorLd The Novel Adaptation) show, at least in those adaptations, that L does genuinely care for Light, and show that he values him as a friend not just in the mindgame-equal sense but also just like, a more sincere sense you know. Idk if that made any sense and that's a whole other topic for another day but you guys just have to believe me on this one alright please please believe me buries head in hands. Okay post over finally thanks for coming to my tedtalk hope you enjoyed my very-unnecessarily long analysis of the week

[cosmic-walkers]

You know, I do believe there were times during the interrogation where Stephen imagined the relationship he ‘could have had’ with Thomas. Perhaps, there were even points where he “forgot” that this was an interrogation that would ultimately end in Thomas’s death, and let his mind wander to old times.

Like times when they worked with Wolsey. This is probably not the first time he’s seen Thomas hold his own in a hot seat; there had to be times when they were younger, working under Wolsey, when he sat and enjoyed seeing Thomas use his lawyer jargon, and run circles and circles around young men who think they could best him. And I mean even after Wolsey died the books, until Stephen is sent to France, they have a decent on-and-off relationship where they work together and occasionally, would spend time together.

But, I just took notice of the way he was looking at Thomas during the interrogation, the way they caught each other’s eye once or twice and held their gaze for just…a moment, as if Stephen was going to see how Thomas could wiggle his way out of this hole. He was amused because he knew Thomas more than anyone in there, longer than anyone in there. There was a time they were friends, a time where an event like this - Thomas using his wit to outsmart people - was just a common thing between them, and Stephen was impressed. But of course, when Norfolk started talking, reality came crashing down and Stephen had to accept that, this fire he enjoyed so much from Thomas, would be put out in less than what? Forty-eight hours? His friend, his enemy, the man he had hated but respected, the man he had in a way been manipulated into hating, who annoyed him so much but also brought him some forms of amusement and excitement would be dead. And he’d never see him again. Thomas was the only one imo who could both handle Stephen and bring out a more complex side of Stephen.

[averlym]

pleaaase may i have 28 and 29 aramour angst ✨ i crave it

28: “Move out of my way before I make you.” // 29: “You deserve better.” (prompt list here)

click for better quality!

[truethes]

i have a ton of verses in my 'jupiters head for future reference' but i need everyone to know one of my biggest sv ones is a role au between ku.ro and tsub.aki where instead of killing the count, kur.o realises the true extent behind whats happening if he does this (aka the manipulation from c.3, lil.y and jej.e) and instead maims him and actually runs away, leaving tsub.aki to have to deal the killing blue so the count can continue with his plan and therefore fall victim of the curse and have to take the original role of being found by mah.iru.

[protectcosette]

rick riordan you better watch your back

[oatmealaddiction]

Okay but the weirdest thing about the whole "Brotherhood is better you should skip 03" discourse that's become commonplace now, it sort of forgets the world Brotherhood came out in and why you should watch the original Fullmetal Alchemist. When Brotherhood came out, the original Fullmetal Alchemist was one of the most beloved and most watched animes of all time. Brotherhood assumes you the audience have already seen it because of course you have, everyone has seen it, so it skips important information and speeds the story up because it doesn't want to bore you with things you already know. Have you ever wondered "hey why does the first episode of Brotherhood kind of suck, and why am I being introduced to like 50 new characters, and why are they acting like I know what the hell an alchemist is?" It's because Brotherhood thinks you've seen 03.

The first 7 or so episodes of Brotherhood constitute dozens of chapters in the manga, and the first 25 or so episodes of the original Fullmetal Alchemist. The Nina Tucker episode in Brotherhood, in FMA 03 takes up nearly three episodes. Yoki gets a backstory in 03 and it's genuinely one of the best episodes and taken directly from the manga and Brotherhood glosses over it because: duh, you've already seen it. And so if you skip the original you miss out on dozens of really great character building episodes like Ed and Al meeting Hughes for the first time and getting to spend a whole episode helping him free a train from terrorists, or Ed and Roy having a duel that expands on the relationship they have, or episodes where the brothers just help out random people in towns before the major story gets going.

The original also paces itself quite a bit better than Brotherhood and is more in line with the mangas storytelling. In the manga we don't find out about The Gate until nearly two dozen chapters in, and the same goes for the original anime. Like, that's a twist reveal in those stories, and it's weird that the most watched series is the one where they tell you all about The Gate in the first two episodes because they assume you've already seen the original show.

What's more, people don't know that Hiromu Arakawa helped write for the anime while she was still in the middle of writing the manga, and as a result was inspired to write scenes in Brotherhood that the anime did first. That scene of Edward getting impaled by a falling beam? Directly inspired by a similar scene in the original anime. There's a lot of little instances of that and they're great when you can recognize parallels and things in Brotherhood that are direct references to the original anime, but people don't notice any of that anymore. Because the original anime is just an automatic skip these days, and it's a bummer because people don't realize what a giant it was back before Brotherhood was released. They treat it as *bad,* not realizing it was one of the most beloved anime of its time and the problems people take issue with have a lot more to do with personal taste than any kind of actual flaw in the writing. Brotherhood was never meant to dethrone it, and the original anime was always supposed to be part of the viewing experience which is why those first few episodes of Brotherhood are so fast paced. So like, please stop telling people Fullmetal Alchemist 2003 is a skip, or it's bad, or you don't need it because Brotherhood is better. Regardless if you think Brotherhood is better or not, the original wrote Brotherhood's check. It was huge, it was beloved, and Brotherhood is *banking* on the knowledge you've seen all of it and loved it. And trust me when I say there is so much to love about the original series. It's still my favorite branch of the FMA franchise, and it's worth your time, I promise you.

[nezierf]

arcane spoilers (s2ep09) incoming

so ive seen people talk about this scene, particularly about how jayce accepts viktors touch even when he knows its coming and could potentially dodge it/counter it with the hammer

from what ive read mostly people talk about how much affection (ha) and trust jayce puts in viktor, and personally i also think its because he saw the future and knows its the only way to reach him

if he wants to save him, save piltover he must strip away all the walls viktor has built around himself and his emotions, and thus jayce needs to be let into the hive mind where he can talk to actual viktor and not herald (also parallels to that scene when he shoots him, someone said he didnt let viktor utter a word because he knew he would convince him THEY ARE SO WEAK FOR EACH OTHER MY GOD)

but thats not what i wanted to talk about!! going back to the beginning of that scene on the rooftop

doesnt this seem awfully similar to the medieval coronation ceremony?

jayce is kneeling surrounded by followers/past inhabitants of zaun/piltover, during medieval coronation ceremonies it was a priest who would bestow the crown upon the future king. moreover, coronation was often considered a religious rite because of how rulers and deities were closely tied (different cultures would believe in different versions of this, that their ruler was chosen by gods or perhaps their descendant/vessel).

we already joke how viktor became god/jesus/deity/eldritch cosmic being etc, we also know despite everything he still holds strong feelings towards jayce (damn hypocrite) and views him differently than the others

so it would make sense he would wish to personally "introduce" jayce to his hive mind cult

notice how when jayce got to the roof NONE of the marionettes/machines tried to get to him asap unlike they do with others

no, this is a ceremony performed by their god who is choosing the one closest to him, demonstrating to the world how he wishes jayce to be the ruler of his glorious evolution

viktor places his fingers on him gently and carefully, while when they were fighting in the councils room he was ready to force his touch when jayce initially rejected his proposal (always trying to make jayce understand his perspective)

and jayce accepts it with so much serenity and solemnity that in that moment reminded me strongly of aragorn in lotr

a true king in the eyes of the one coronating them

also his unique fingerprints make me think of a crown/circlet every single time i see them and thats why i wrote all of this

i love all things related to medieval knighthood/royalty so this whole interaction has been boiling in my head until it spilled over, you are welcome

[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Blurred Lines

jenna ortega x female reader

summary: You and Jenna, best friends and actresses, are cast as lovers for the first time, tasked with bringing a romantic chemistry to the screen. But as scenes unfold, the lines between acting and reality begin to blur.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: This was actually the first Jenna story I wrote!

————

What are you thinking so hard about? Jenna asks plopping down in the director's chair next to you.

After being best friends for years, you and Jenna have finally gotten the opportunity to work alongside each other on your latest film Lovestruck, a romance film where you two are playing the lead couple.

You. You wanted to say, but you were 8 years too deep in the friendzone to truly say what was on your mind. "Just the next scene," you smile at her tiredly.

Her eyes light up, "I've been looking forward to this scene for so long!  God just look at that view Y/n!  I'm so jealous of Lalya," she sighs, referencing the character she's playing in the film. "Just who wouldn't love to be confessed to here," your co-star finishes looking over at you with sparkles in her eyes.

When your manager gave you the script for this project, you could only laugh at how much the story paralleled your situation with Jenna.  You were playing Quinn, a girl who has been in love with her friend for years, but couldn't do anything about it.  Eventually the mixed signals and watching the one she loves be with others got too much, and Quinn angrily confesses by the lakefront during a sunset; the view Jenna was fawning over just a minute ago.

You could only wish that the aftermath of any potential confession of yours could resemble the one in this film. Layla ends up reciprocating Quinn's feelings and it's a happy ending.

Unfortunately the universe isn't as perfect as an angsty teen romance, and is rather a sick minded individual who gets a kick out of meddling with people's lives. For years you and Jenna have auditioned for the same projects to play friends, enemies, even sister's but why is it that the one project both of you manage to land is this one?

"Y/n/n!"

Startled, you look over at the girl who's been trying to get your attention for all this time while you zoned out. "Y-yeah sorry. You're right. It would be a dream to be confessed to here."

She hums and stands up before placing a hand on your shoulder looking intently into your eyes, "I'll see you on set after the break, hope you bring your A game Y/l/n," she winks with a smile before walking off.

Jenna walks over to Andrew another actor working the film and immediately starts laughing and touching his arm in conversation.  You couldn't help but roll your eyes, but you also couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene that always happened to unfold in front of you.

It hurts you beyond belief watching your best friend interact flirtatiously with other people. Having to hear about rumoured boyfriends and especially having her not deny them. The mixed signals you got from the girl wasn't any help either, like what was that hand on the shoulder just now? The wink?!

You walk away trying your very best to calm yourself down before your big scene. Jenna frowned as she watched you walk away and towards your personal trailer.

————

The director calls everyone to set and has prepared to shoot the big confession scene. The crew helps you and Jenna find your places and fixes up any imperfections in your clothing. As you stand before your co-star you're hit with a strong wave of emotions. The 20 minutes you spent in the trailer wasn't much help, and now as you watch Jenna who is looking at you curiously, you make a realization.

You may never confess to Jenna. How could you? This friendship was the greatest you've ever had and you were aware of the fact that friendships like this one, don't come easy. It would be insanely stupid of you to confess your love and single-handedly lose a gem like Jenna completely. The more you thought about it, the interactions between Andrew, the rumours with Percy, and countless other boys, the more helpless you felt. There was no way she could feel the same.

"You okay?" the gentle voice you've come to love speaks.

You're silent.  She looks at you with her big doe eyes that you've come to love, but at this very moment you hate so much.  The concern in her eyes is pushing you off the edge.  You hated it.  You hated how her caring nature has only gotten you falling tenfolds harder. Why does she have to be good to me, why does she torture me like this you ask yourself.

"Y/n/n."

You look away, refusing to look into her eyes, scared of the emotions you'll find in them, scared of finding out how much more you could fall in love with her in this moment, so you settle on the view of the sunset.

The director begins a 10 second countdown to cue in the start of the scene and you're still looking at the sunset pondering. This may be the only time that you'll ever speak the words of a confession to Jenna. Yes, to her it'll be you performing the script, Quinn speaking these words, but she doesn't have to know that you will mean all the words you speak with every fibre of your being.

A light smile plays on your lips as you think about the performance you're about to give and how it should get you nominated for all the acting awards in existence. The lines of Quinn and Y/n have blurred, and you are playing no character other then yourself.

You won't be acting.

"Action!"

The scene begins and you start marching away from Jenna like the script told you to.

"Wait- Stop!" Jenna says frantically grabbing on to your arm.You roll your eyes, shrugging her off and continue walking.

"Why do you insist on hurting me?" She shouts, following the script.  You stop walking and pause.One beat. Two beat. Just like the script instructed. You turn around, glaring at her with more intensity than the script demands, "Me? Hurt you? That's rich coming from you."

Jenna hesitates, caught off guard by the seriousness in your voice, but quickly recovers, staying in character.

"Yes you asshole! I invite you to the lake house, and all you do is ignore me!"  Groaning into your hands, you speak your next line.  "Layla. You're joking right?"

"No Q, I'm not.  Do you even care about me?  It's my fucking birthday, and you're acting like I'm not even here, sulking in one of your moods and embarrassing me in front of my friends!"

"Then what am I?"

"What?"

You laugh, running your hands through your hair, struggling to keep your emotions in check.

"If those are your little fucking friends, then what am I to you?"

Jenna acted taken aback like she was supposed to, "My friend? My best friend? I don't know that's not the point! Wh-"

You cut her off, "But it is the point!"

You break the script.

You blink hard, letting the tears that were building up before the scene fall down your face.

Jenna had a look in her eyes that you've never seen before it was confusion and something else you couldn't pinpoint. Being the amazing actress that she is, she improvs her next line, so the scene can get back on track.

"Here you go again not wanting to address the real issue," she rolls her eyes.

You decide to stick to the script with tears streaming down your face. "I can't keep doing this anymore Layla," the words carrying the weight of years of hidden feelings. "Watching you with them, pretending I'm fine when I'm not. I can't just be your friend anymore."

Jenna's eyes widen, her character momentarily forgotten as she registers the raw emotion in your voice. "Quinn... what are you saying?"

You take a deep breath, letting it all out, the pain, the frustration, the love. You're about to do it and you hope that just for a second your performance will blur the lines for Jenna. "I'm saying that I'm in love with you, and I have been for a long time. And it kills me every time I see you with someone else, knowing I can't be the one to make you smile like that."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, waiting for her response, both in character and out of it. The director's voice seems far away as he doesn't call cut, letting the scene play out naturally. For a moment you start to think that Jenna has forgotten her line, she's supposed to say, "For how long?"

But she goes off script.

She takes a step forward so she's only a foot away from you and takes your trembling hands (that you didn't even realize were shaking) in her own, an attempt to calm you down.

Jenna, as Layla, steps closer, her own tears glistening in the fading light. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Quinn? Why did you let me go on thinking we were just friends?"

Your voice cracks as you respond, "Because I was scared. Scared of losing you, scared of ruining what we have. But I can't keep pretending anymore."

Jenna reaches up, gently cupping your face with her hands, her touch warm and soft. "You idiot," she whispers, her voice trembling. "How could you not know? How could you think for even a second that I didn't feel the same way?"

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks, and for a moment you forget that you're on set, that this is all supposed to be a performance. It feels too real, too raw.

"T-then what about everything I see? All those guys?" You say staying true to the script, but you couldn't hold your tongue and add, "The rumours? The interactions I always see?"

Jenna clearly seems taken aback by your addition to the script, and opens her mouth and closes it, at a loss for words.

You can't help yourself and continue, "Do you have any idea what it's like to watch you with other guys? To see you flirt with everyone else and feel like I'm just...invisible?"

Jenna's heart races as she realizes the depth of your feelings, the lines between the script and reality blurring completely.

Jenna continues, the rest of the scene now being pure improv. With tears in her eyes, "I wasn't trying to hurt you...Q. I wanted you to notice me. To see me the way I see you.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. Jenna's voice is trembling, her gaze locked on yours, and for the first time you realize she's not just playing a role. She's confessing, right here, in front of everyone.

"I've been in love with you for so long," you get out through tears, "But all I've ever seen is you with them... like I don't even exist."

The shorter girl steps closer, dropping the last remnants of her character. Her hands reach up to cup your face, her touch gentle and filled with unspoken emotion.

"I didn't know how to tell you, Quinn. I was scared, so I tried to make you jealous, provoke you into action, hoping you'd finally do something. I-I was hoping you'd see how much I care. How much I...love you.

Your breath catches, your heart pounds in your ears, and you break character completely not caring anymore, in a trembling voice you ask, "You really feel the same way?"

Jenna nods, tears spilling over as she smiles, a mixture of relief and vulnerability in her expression.

"Yes, Q. I've always felt this way. I was just too scared to admit it... but not anymore."

You blink, struggling to process what's happening. This wasn't in the script—none of this was. But it's real, and it's happening now.

You smile through the tears, "Then let's stop pretending, Jenna. No more games... I'm yours if you'll have me.

Jenna lets out a small, tearful laugh, pulling you into a tight embrace. The cameras are still rolling despite your name drop, but none of that matters anymore. She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes shining with a love that's no longer hidden.

"I've always been yours. Always."

In that moment, you lean in, pressing your lips to hers in a kiss that's filled with all the years of longing and love you've both kept hidden. When you finally pull away, you're both breathless, tears of happiness mingling with the raw emotion of the scene.

The director calls "Cut," but neither of you moves, still lost in each other's eyes. For a moment, the set is silent, the crew unsure if they've just witnessed the best acting of your careers or something far more real. But you both know the truth—and it's better than any script that could have been written.

[kitts-mechanix]

I just had a huge realisation yesterday and I wanted to share this after going through some pretty horrible stuff over the weekend: Something I've always asked myself ever since getting into G1 Transformers was "why do you like Starscream so much even though he's a narcissistic bully? Why are you, someone who is a victim of narcissistic abuse, taking comfort in a narcissistic character?" Well, I think I finally figured it out. Because Starscream is also a victim of that very same abuse. I mean, he's beaten, called names, bullied, unappreciated, abused, and put through the wringer…and he internalised all that abuse because he knew no other way. He had no one to turn to, and the few bots who did support him, he treated like dirt. Once he had that freedom and power, he abused it and became the very thing that abused him. I have no doubt he was always self-centred, selfish, had a huge ego, etc. before all that but honestly? I think Megatron's abuse caused him to turn out the way he did. I could have turned out that way and it's a little scary, some of the parallels I'm drawing with him.

@ichbinmeltdown wrote a great analysis on Starscream that I want to share here:

"Megatron was abusive as hell to Starscream. He treated him horribly, and I legitimately almost cried a few times watching it. There's an episode called Starscream's Brigade that introduces the Combaticons, and I think that perfectly demonstrates the cycle of abuse. The entire world is against Starscream at pretty much every turn throughout the series, but none more so than Megatron. Every word out of his speech synthesizer to Starscream is to berate him, and he's constantly throwing him around, beating him, even ripping out his speech synthesizer in a scene from a previous episode (Hoist Goes Hollywood, IIRC). His own teammates don't like him, and even his brothers- Skywarp and Thundercracker, going off of the idea they're brothers- just... allow Megatron to abuse him. (Not to get into headcanons here, but I personally believe that Megatron's abuse fractured the Elite Trine's family dynamic. They are still brothers and love each other, but they're all too afraid of Megatron to really... stand up for each other as they did in the past.) And Starscream seemed to just snap in this episode. He treated the Combaticons poorly, and even when teaming up with Shockwave, he subjected him to a lot of the same ridicule and torment that Megatron put him through. He failed to realize Shockwave was the one of the only bots who would give him a chance- and unfortunately lashed out at him, which ruined his chances of Shockwave ever being a true friend and ally to him. Once Starscream had finally gotten a taste of power and not being under another bot's boot, he too became the very thing that he lived in fear of. And that really is how the cycle goes- when you're finally free from abuse, it can be tempting to overcompensate and take back all the power you were robbed of, at any cost whatsoever. Starscream, like D16 in Transformers One, snapped up this opportunity."

And the sad thing is, I've seen this in real life and I've internalised some of the abuse I've dealt with too. I'm not proud of it. Like the Seeker Trine, my own family dynamic has been fractured by similar abuse. I know there's traces of narcissism in my behaviour too, and I'm NOT proud of it. Maybe this is why I can forgive Starscream for being a narc, because I can see a little bit of my own personality/attitude/behaviour in him. Maybe it's because I know where it came from, I get why he acts that way and it's not just random and out of the blue. Maybe it's because--and I know this is a bold statement--I don't think he would do some of the stuff my own family did to me (blah blah blah he's a fictional character).

I didn't mean for this to turn into a long rant, so

TLDR: I finally figured out that part of the reason I love and relate to Starscream so much despite him internalising some of the abuse I went through, is because he was the victim of that same abuse.

[astraystayyh]

this is me reading btw if u wanted to know I LOVE UUUUUUUUUU I LOVE USER FELIXSBAKINGBUD I LOVE THEM 💓💘💗💘💗💘💗💘💗💗💘💗💘

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33. 

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear. 

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory. 

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse. 

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance. 

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you. 

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade. 

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores. 

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands. 

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from. 

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you. 

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.” 

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head. 

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again. 

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you. 

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you. 

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement. 

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.  

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.  

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask. 

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently. 

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?” 

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment. 

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé. 

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out. 

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms. 

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope. 

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto. 

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating. 

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in. 

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back. 

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night. 

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you. 

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?” 

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure. 

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles. 

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door. 

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place. 

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up? 

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you. 

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-” 

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you. 

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach. 

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls. 

Day 22. 

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart. 

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.” 

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.” 

“I can try.” 

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.  

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles. 

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him. 

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle. 

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago. 

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear. 

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers. 

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm. 

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road. 

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart. 

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light. 

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit. 

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words. 

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.  

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face. 

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression. 

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running. 

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again. 

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content. 

“You did.” 

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands. 

“Of course.” 

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.” 

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to. 

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.” 

Day 26. 

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads. 

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more. 

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin. 

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest. 

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought. 

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.” 

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within. 

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals. 

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door. 

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for. 

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you. 

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.” 

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more? 

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were. 

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.                          

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks. 

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart. 

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words. 

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle. 

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words. 

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side. 

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder. 

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second. 

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing. 

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips. 

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly. 

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends. 

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?” 

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.” 

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out. 

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle. 

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs. 

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks. 

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you. 

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you? 

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out. 

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.  

And he loves you. 

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for? 

How many more days do you have to love him back? 

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face. 

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. 

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented. 

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow. 

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on. 

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers. 

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering. 

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you. 

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?” 

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet. 

“Anything.” 

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly. 

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to. 

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm. 

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you. 

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean? 

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh. 

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 

“Hey, yn!” 

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?” 

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?” 

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 

“Minho?” 

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?” 

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 

[bigtedbear]

" 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 "

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: 𝐥𝐮𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

content warnings: gay relationship, descriptions of grevious bodily injury, implied self-mutilation/self-harm, male reader, monster x human relationship, hurt/comfort writing, hey this starts out really dark please take care of your mental health, arguments, misunderstood feelings, mermaid courtship, alternate universe where luocha is a traveling doctor who's studying biology and anatomy across the universe blah blah blah, luocha is pretty genuine in this even though i know he is in fact a snake let me idealize for a moment okay, luocha puts a ring on it without realizing he is literally putting a ring on it

full admittance you'll probably find parallels with @/havanilla's merventurine au at the start of this cause it was one of the last things I read on my old tumblr account before it died on me and i fear i DO have brainrot

to add to my earlier warning about this chapter beginning out dark, there will be a marker for the cuter, mermaid courtship section of the fic!! look for a marker like the one below VV

" welcome back caller 🪷! connecting your line as we speak! "

" new contact noted! caller luocha has been added to your phonebook - love, 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑡-19 “

A pained scream ripped through the air.  

It was a shame it couldn’t be distinguished from the sound of other yells and shouting from all over the deck.  In fact, it seemed the anguish was completely drowned out by the noise of an older man beginning to bark orders from the side of the fishing boat.  Gravelly with age and experience, sets and more sets of hands seemed to jump to action, rushing over to that specific side of the deck.  

In the crew’s haste, they didn’t seem to notice they had also woken up the residential cabin.  Things were more than hectic; the experienced crew themselves were in a frenzy.  There was something that demanded urgent attention and it seemed none of the regular passengers were privy to what exactly it was. 

Still, in the curious sea of civilian passengers renting their rooms in the bowels of the ship, a tall blonde head of hair peered over the crowd straight to the source of the fuss.  Over the sea of yellow rain jackets adorning the working fishermen, he caught sight of some kind of reflective surface… what many wrote off as an oversized fish, Luocha continued to strain his eyes at.

Should he have been anyone else, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed.  But Luocha was a doctor, he was more than familiar with noises of distress; with the scent of blood.  Something in the very core of his body shook with each of the pained and weak motions of an equally pained, weak patient.  The vibrations crept up his spine from the wooden boards of the ship, whispering into his ears. 

Something was wrong. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

Despite the protests of one of the tour guides, urging him to go back to sleep, he rushed towards the scene.  The same pained screams; the sounds of the body on the deck; the reflection of the “oversized fish”, they became clearer and clearer the closer he closed in.

Before he could make it into the crowd of men at work, he was caught by one of their coworkers.  Clad in a yellow raincoat, shadow cast across his face in the rain, the obviously displeased grimace all over his face only further sent Luocha into a state of panic.  A tense grip on his elbow, the man spoke in a language he didn’t understand.  Even if he didn’t understand the words themselves, Luocha was more than smart enough to understand the message the worker was trying to convey.  Before he could be pulled away, he made one last attempt to see what exactly was going on. 

When he did manage to catch a glimpse, he froze. 

Perfect, round tears running down flushed, red cheeks. 

The skin was pulled taut in another scream.  Based on the shaking motion of the face, he could only really come to the conclusion the body was being jerked in every direction possible. 

“Stop… STOP!”  He yanked his elbow out of the man’s grasp, crashing directly into the back of another worker.  In his haste, he shoved the man out of the way only to find his path blocked by even more yellow raincoats.  “You’re only going to worsen the injuries! I’m a doctor!” 

Despite not considering himself to be very physically fit, something about the situation discarded that reality entirely.  An unknown strength washed over him as he forced his way through the clusterfuck of workers trying to wrestle the screamer into place. 

He didn’t understand, Luocha didn’t understand. 

There was an injured crew member on the deck, screaming–what kind of idiot would continue to pull and stress the skin around the wound? Was that why the team leader seemed to screaming with such vigor?  Was he equally concerned about one of his staff suddenly being sent into debilitating agony? 

But no, not even in the slightest.  

Through the crowd, a wet mop of hair thrashing against the backdrop of a barbed fishing net came into view.  The urgency only further sent Luocha wrestling through the crowd of men, all but screaming himself as he watched the injured man on the ground contort his facial muscles in abject horror.  

“Stop it, you’re hurting him!” 

 He could hear his own vocal chords start to tear as he shrieked for the poor victim.  With each passing moment, fear and anxiety seized the doctor in his entirety before he finally managed to part the crowd like the red sea. 

In the end,

he wasn’t faced with a crew member. 

...

A merman. 

Something he’d only heard of in the planet’s folklore. 

It seemed well-known the small surviving population hardly ever ventured out of protected waters for fear of predators. 

What was this one doing so far out…?

With the opportunity making itself known, the unknown merman continued to thrash but harder, lips curling upwards as another shrill cry of agony streaked the night air.  From up close, the doctor could only watch the formerly smooth, unmarred skin become tainted with red.  Washed with your own blood, you looked more similar to some kind of horror movie monster than a person. 

But even in the face of monstrosity, his inner doctor only saw the blown out pupils, the senseless aggression, the fear written all over his patient’s face in their own claret stain.

“You’ll end up killing him, stop, STOP!” 

He completely ignored his own pain as the barbs in the net ripped into the fabric of his pajamas, cutting open his knees when he threw his body on top of yours.  His hands flew around carelessly in an attempt to unlatch the hands that seemed determined to pull at you from every direction.  

At the loss of the hands all over your body, your screams died down into pitiful hyperventilation, curling in on yourself in an attempt to cover the wounds weeping crimson all over the formerly white net.  

Instead of relief, instead of some kind of graditude, it seemed he was only met with friction.

“Oy, blondie, paws off, do you understand how much money you’ve got your hands on right now?” 

The thick accent confused him at first, then the words themselves didn’t seem to compute. 

“Excuse me?” 

You yelped again when one of the men pulled at the net.   The cold metal tore sore flesh in chunks.

“Mermaid scales are priceless.  So are the pearls they cry, we caught the bastard fair and square so. Step. Off.” 

His mind scrambled to understand the sentence, thoughts muddling together in a blender of pain and panic.  “I- I-” 

“You?”  Another crew member chimed in, crossing his arms, “You’ll what, doctor?  You can either get off of him and wrap up your cuts yourself or we’ll drag you off and the barbs can teach you to keep your nose out of other people’s business.” 

“I-”  his breathing picked up drastically, suddenly confronted with such a terrible moral dilemma. 

When prying hands began to make grabby motions for the edges of the ropes, he choked out his final answer.

“I'll pay for him!"

“...”

“...”

“...”

He swept his rain-soaked bangs out of his face, his voice shaking, “You were planning on selling him, right?”  He fumbled with his sleeves, “I make good money, I swear, I-,” he swallowed, “I can afford it.  Just take as much as you want out of the account I used to pay for my cabin.”

“...” 

“...”

Things were a little bit awkward, to say the least. 

Despite an attempt being made to cooperate while you were awake, it seemed the pressure and the mounting stress of nearly dying made it unable for you to accept the fact that Luocha was not, in fact, going to hurt you. 

The attempt to deal with the various injuries littered all over formerly smooth, silky skin was unproductive at best.  In fact, it only created more problems.  Trying to operate while you were largely unreceptive to anything he was saying was by far the worst decision he could’ve made given the circumstances. 

Point blank, he needed to get the barbed hooks out of your skin.  If he didn’t, the wounds would be at increased risk of infection.  After all, based on the cruel treatment he’d seen on deck, he knew the metal was most likely unsanitized.  Doing this while you were awake was easily the worst decision he could've made.

Promising not to hurt you while continually yanking pieces of metal out of your tender flesh was not a good way to build trust. 

"..."

"..."

You poked at the “strange” bowl that’d been set in front of you.  It was some kind of clam-fish hybrid soup. I mean, Luocha was trying to be considerate of your regular diet.  Surely, since you were living out in open waters, you were pretty used to eating fish right?

He, however, failed to realize you weren’t exactly in a spot to ever enjoy the luxuries of cooked food… or soup.  He’d laid out some utensils for you to use on top of that; it was a shame you didn’t know how to use them. 

"..."

"..."

You realized pretty early on that he’d saved you from becoming a victim to death by blood loss.  After all, when you were dropped in a holding tank until the ship arrived at the port, the water went cloudy from the dirt, debris, and blood all over your body.  In your little waist-high tank, he’d done his best to make sure you’d actually survive through the night.

Despite your reservations about him, you did your best not to scream while you were confined to a glorified holding cell.  Nails digging into the glass, biting down hard enough on the towel to tear, you tried your best to stay still while he fished countless little hooks from your back, arms, and chest.  

Removing the large hook in your shoulder was the most painful part of the process for the both of you.  You, for obvious reasons.  The hook made a clean cut through the muscle--scraping up against the bone--by the time you were awake enough to realize you were wrapped up in a barbed net.  Luocha, on the other hand, was the one that had to deal with the struggle while trying to complete a very tricky operation.  

Eventually, the problem dealt with itself when you passed out.  Really, he should’ve sedated you to start with, and he cursed at himself for not thinking of it sooner.  After you went out, he did his best to stitch everything up–hell, he wrapped you up in enough bandages to look like a mummy. 

But, since the two of you actually arrived on the island, there wasn’t so much as a word shared from either party. 

You woke up in a little bathtub, in a little bathroom, feeling like your arms were falling off and you couldn’t breathe because of how tight all of the bandages were wrapped around you. Eventually the giant bandages changed to smaller ones attached with some medical tape.  The only bulky one left was the one wrapped around your shoulder. 

"..."

"..."

With some trepidation, you grabbed at one of the fishtails sticking out of the mystery liquid, digging a finger in between the meat and the ribs to peel it off the bone.  Carefully, you used one of your freshly trimmed nails to remove the thick, scaly skin, then biting off a chunk to chew and swallow.  

The longer you stared at the bowl, the more confused you became. 

Yes, you knew how to eat a fish. 

Yes, you knew how to eat a mussel. 

No, you didn’t know what to do with whatever else was in the bowl.  

You paused eating when the man sitting across from the bathtub cleared his throat.  He made a vague gesture towards your lap, “Would you…?”

‘...mind if I showed you how to eat a bowl of soup?’ 

Without much hesitation, you offered up your meal again, much more interested in the chunk of fish in your hand.  Biting off another piece, you drank in the pleasant familiarity in just having some tilapia for once.  

He picked up the spoon. Deciding not to embarrass you further, he decided to taste test the food himself instead of trying to feed you. He let the silver spoon clatter back into the bowl, passing it over to you again. Despite the clear demonstration he’d given you, you opted to pick at one of the mussels hiding underneath the broth. 

“...”

“...”

He cleared his throat again, seemingly averting eye contact as he stared at the tiled walls. 

You diverted your attention from your bowl back to the blonde doctor. 

“I don’t mean to be rude or pry in any way,” he swallowed, “but what exactly were you doing so far from protected waters?"

You didn’t seem surprised in the slightest by his question, grabbing at the other fish tail in the bowl, “Smuggling and poaching.”  

He tilted his head curiously.

“Protective waters have attendants to track general pod health, they have the authority to temporarily remove merfolk from the water to do routine health checks."  You finally wrapped your hand around the spoon awkwardly, bringing some broth up to your lips. "Smugglers get jobs as attendants cause only tagged mermaids are considered protected.” You wiggled one of your finned ears, your left ear. Notably, there was a small tear in one of the fins. “It only takes a couple minutes for an attendant to catch a mermaid, sedate them, get them into a vehicle, remove their tag and throw them out into the right spots for a couple grand.” 

“I see.” 

You hummed, finally bringing the soup up to your lips, “Speaking of, how much did you end up having to pay for me?”

"..."

"..."

“Excuse me?” Luocha’s hands rested in his lap. 

“How much did you end up paying for me?”  You picked up another mussel, “I’m pretty good about keeping up with the price of scales and pearls.  I know you bought me as some kind of pity project, but I'm pretty eager to go back out to open waters.  Just name your price and I can start trying to pay off the debt.” 

The doctor blinked a couple times. “Oh… oh my god, absolutely not!”  He shook his head, bringing his hands up in front of his chest defensively, “There is no need to pay me back in the slightest.  Please, just rest well and remain healthy.  That would be the best payment.”

“What’s this?” 

He rolled the small iridescent pearl between his gloved fingers. 

“It’s a pearl.” 

He cracked a smile at that. It was gone as quick as it arrived as he brought the little treasure to his face to take a closer look.  “Well yes, but where did you get this? Did you have it stashed on you somewhere?”

You twirled your finger in a circle on the surface of the water. “No,” absentmindedly you observed the little whirlpool it made, “I made it.” 

He blinked a couple of times, hand dropping back to his side. “Pardon?” 

You finally looked up from the surface of the water, “I made it.” 

He cocked his head to the side, “You… made a pearl?” 

You looked at him, bored, “Well, yeah, did you not know mermaids make pearls?”

He looked from you, to the pearl, and then back at you.  “No… I’m afraid I didn’t know.”  His palm closed into a fist around the pearl, “How?” 

“...hm?”

He gestured towards his closed hand, “How did you make it?” 

You gave a huff, “Well, you’ve seen me make them before.”  

He frowned, “I… have?”

‘-and I didn’t notice?’

You nodded, shifting around in the bathtub to try and stretch your long tail out a little bit.  "The night I got caught on the boat-" Your jaw tensed, a sudden pang of soreness shooting up from your extremities. "-they were all over the deck, there were a bunch in the little tank they had me in.” 

His frown only deepened as he did his best to recall, “I don’t think I remember seeing them…? Does your blood crystalize into them or something of the sort?” 

You rested your head on the porcelain of the tub, bringing your arms up to cushion your cranium.  “Tears,” you murmured, “Merfolk tears turn into pearls.” 

‘Ah… so that’s why you mentioned there being so many on the ship.’

But then it hit him. 

“Why were you crying?” 

You shrugged, “Most mermaids in protected waters can cry on command.  We get a lot of tourists that give us gifts, sometimes if we’re interested we’ll give them a pearl in return.” 

He nodded like he understood, but suddenly the beautiful gem felt heavy in his fist.  He opened his hand and offered it back, “As beautiful as it is, I don’t wish to see you shedding any tears while you’re under my care.” 

You pushed his outstretched hand away, “Well, I already made it.  There’s no use trying to return it.” 

“Still, I feel terrible receiving a gift with such painful origins,” he sat down on the stool that’d become his usual spot.  “I’m a doctor. My goal is to make sure you’re in the least amount of pain possible.” 

“You should feel honored, you’re really the first person I’ve ever given a pearl to,” you raised your head from its spot on your arms, “I usually only gave them to little kids that didn’t bring me gifts so I’d give them something.”  You sank further into the water in the shallow tub.

“My concern is why you believe you should be giving me gifts in the first place,” he crossed his left leg over his right, scooting in closer, “I’ve already told you that taking care of you has always been of my own volition.  It is quite literally my job.  If you’re giving this to me as a gift and not repayment, I might be more inclined to accept it.” 

You huffed,  “Well, I guess you caught me.” 

His brows furrowed, “So I was right, you’re trying to pay back a debt again.” 

“...”

“...”

“...”

This time, he sighed.  “I’ve already told you, your health and wellbeing are both priceless.  I would never ask a patient I forced into care to pay me any sum of money-”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” The water rippled when you sat up suddenly, “Why don’t you want to accept any kind of payment? I’m tired of talking to you as property and owner.  You bought ownership, legally I’m your property. I don’t want to be your property.” 

“You aren’t my property-” He quipped, expression growing displeased.

“But I am,” you cut him off.  “You signed paperwork, you exchanged a certain sum of money.  Even if you thought I couldn’t hear you doesn’t mean I didn’t.” You crossed your arms across your chest, “I still heard the captain of the ship talking about sale prices with you.  I know I was considered a higher quality product, I know I was expensive.”

The doctor opened his mouth; and closed it and opened it again.  He struggled to find the correct words to use. “I didn’t consider that an exchange for ownership of you, I considered that to be the price of your wellbeing.  I’ve never considered you to be anything but an equal to me.” 

You drew your lips into a tight line, “Well, if I was an equal, you’d let me contribute to the cost somehow.  You wouldn’t treat me like some helpless baby.”  You gestured to his closed palm, “The pearl in your hand is priceless, sealing a handful of them would recuperate the money you wasted-”

Luocha held up his hand, “Stop-”

But you insisted, “Hell, if I ripped a couple of scales out you could more than pay for me.  You’d have enough money to buy another sorry sack of shit to take care of-”

“Don’t EVER-” he cut you off aggressively, “EVER, suggest such ludacris things to me again.  I refuse to even think about it.” 

“..."

Luocha shook his head, getting his gloves wet when he reached into the water to hold your hands in his own, “I would never ask you to do something like that to yourself.  I would never ask you to hurt yourself to please me and I would never ask you to hurt yourself because you needed my help.”  He gave your palms a gentle squeeze, “You did not ask to be put in the position you’re in now,  I am the one that chose to do this and I will be the one to set the price on my help; that price-” he paused, making sure you were looking him in the eyes, “-will always be no price at all.”   He pushed the pearl back into your hands.  “Give this pearl to one of the children that visit the waters after you’ve healed up in my stead, yes?” 

“It’s not exactly how I remember it.” 

You squirmed against the sensation of the water, arms still looped around Luocha’s neck.  

“Any discomfort?” The doctor asked, “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” You shuffled around to try and make yourself comfortable.  You did your best to find the familiar rhythm of the waves, but your tail felt as useless as it had the entire time you’d been confined to the bathtub.  “It’s… cold.” 

Luocha nodded... even though he couldn't quite understand.  “If you aren’t straining any of your injuries, you can hang on for as long as you need to.”

You mumbled, trying to draw your elbows closer to your chest, “I’m not.” 

“...”

“...”

It’d only been a week since the last time you’d tried to repay your imaginary debt to Luocha.  Things got… less tense between the two of you. 

You didn’t put up a fuss when he put some ointment on the scars that formed all over your skin.  You didn’t squirm when he unwrapped your shoulder bandage.  You’d usually bide your time silently in the bathtub.  Mostly, you’d nap.  But that got old quickly, especially since a bathtub isn’t the most convenient spot for sleeping. 

Luocha could tell you were bored out of your mind all on your lonesome. To satiate this, he’d usually sit with you in the bathroom and try to teach you things like how to play cards.  You were a little apprehensive with him, like you always were, but it seemed you opened up to him a lot more towards the end of your stay in his temporary residence.

You’d become a pretty competent blackjack player all things considered.

You opened up more and more about your life down below.  Usually, you’d be afraid to tell anyone about that information.  Smugglers often targeted specific pods if one of the products happened to be particularly pricy.  But Luocha wasn't at any risk, was he? 

“...”

“...”

Eventually, as the water started to feel more natural on your skin, you let your grip loosen from around his neck.  As the welcoming embrace of the ocean seemed to envelop more and more of your body, you could feel the former tension in your muscles start to melt away. 

You laid yourself horizontal to the surface of the water, tentatively starting to create your own ripples in the vast expanses of blue.  Maybe it didn’t feel exactly as you remembered, but the gentle pressure of the cool, cool sea against your skin felt like home. 

Your arms splayed out in the waves like an angel, basking in the familiarity of it all.  “You can let go now.” 

Slowly, surely, pale arms lowered you into the arms of the same waters you’d been in a little over two months ago.  You shocked yourself when you chased after his hands. Still, as slick as an eel, you slid away from him into the open ocean, finding a boyish glee in the pure ecstasy of true freedom.  

You took off like a little jet, head first into the deep end. 

Luocha could only really watch with a small smile while you explored the vast array of little treasures hidden beneath the horizon line.  

It felt like only fifteen minutes had passed when you re-emerged from beneath the ocean blue, but to your shock, the sun was starting to set and Luocha was off on dry land, wringing the water out of his hair.  

In all of your fun, it seemed you’d forgotten about that man who’d made all of this possible for you. 

“...”

You pursued him onto the sand, watching him characteristically tilt his head to the side to express his curiosity.  You pushed your own wet mop of hair out of your face with your hand, suddenly feeling a little less confident in your choices.  Despite your trepidation, you felt you at least owed him this much. 

That didn't make it any easier.

“I-” you swallowed, curling in on yourself, “What if I wanted to give you a gift? If it wasn’t some kind of repayment?” 

He smiled, flipping a soaked lock of hair over his shoulder, “As long as you aren’t lying to me about repayment, then I would gladly accept.”

You suddenly felt a new wave of confidence wash over you, your chest puffing up a little bit, “Well, I have a gift for you.” Even though you failed to notice your little finned ears wiggling in excitement, Luocha did not. 

You reached up to your right ear, unhooking the beautiful golden earring that’d you'd been wearing since you’d been thrown out of protective waters.

His eyes widened.   

“It-” You offered the hoop to him, “It was my mom’s.”

Luocha blinked a couple times, staring at the bangle before looking back up at your face instead.  

“Well?  You said you’d accept it if it was a gift.”  You pushed it into his face, feeling a red hot flush wash over your features, “This is a gift; from me to you, no strings attached.” 

He carefully took the thin gold loop in his fingers.  He noticed the signs of oxidation and the water damage. 

It was already far less valuable than the pearl you’d tried to offer him.

Yet its sentimental value was unrivaled. 

“...”

“...”

“Did... your mother like jewelry?”

You shrugged, looking away from him, “Yeah, she had a lot of it from my dad.” 

Luocha nodded.  “Well, did she have a favorite kind of jewelry?” 

At this, you paused.  “I mean… I guess she did.  She wore a lot of rings… why?” 

“Well, since this is a gift I won’t refuse it,- Luocha slid one of the golden bands wrapped around his fingers off,  “-but if you can’t have her earring anymore, then you can at least have a piece of jewelry your mother would’ve liked to wear.”

You felt your face transition from an embarrassed pink to a much deeper red.  “You… you know what you’re offering me, r-right?” 

He didn’t respond in the way you expected.  Instead of his usual confusion, he pushed the ring towards you again with one hand.  The other went to work, looping the clasp of the earring through a piercing that was just a little bit too close to closing.  

It felt like your brain was melting.

‘Is he… flirting with me?’ 

You took the golden ring between your fingers, watching him use his newly freed hand to further force the earring through the piercing hole. You could only feel the heat creep up your neck to your ears; fuck, it felt like you were going to burn alive on the sand. 

When he finally got it in, he flipped a chunk of wet hair over his shoulder.  He framed the golden hoop with his palm.  Playfully, he asked, “How does it look?” 

‘...’

‘He’s definitely flirting.’ 

You immediately ripped your gaze from his face to the ring that suddenly felt like a hundred pounds in your palm. 

‘...What fingers do humans usually put the ring on again?’

Shakily you slid the golden ring onto your left hand, examining the way it glinted in the light of the sunset.  

‘...holy shit, did I just get married?’ 

“[name]?” 

You blinked a couple times, suddenly ripping your gaze away from the shiny metal.  “Sorry, sorry.” 

He chuckled at your expense, enjoying the little fluttering of your ears everytime he seemed to catch your attention again.  “Thank you for the gift, I’ll cherish it dearly.” 

You nodded. 

“...”

“...”

The silence was interrupted with a quiet sniffle. 

“...[name]?”

You aggressively wiped the tear off your face, watching the consequent pearl roll across the grains of sand.  “H-Hey, you can’t just give me this ring and leave-” You took a deep breath, “-That’s not fair, that’s not fair at all.” 

He was a little taken aback at the sudden resurgence of emotion, “Would…” he paused.  He thought it over before tentatively putting a hand on your shoulder, “Would it help if I stayed a little longer?” 

You shook your head, putting your hand over the one on your shoulder to hold it between both of your own hands.  “You have to promise to visit me a lot.  It’s going to take me a long time to find my family, so if you don’t visit I’m going to be lonely.” 

He, once again caught off guard, nodded, “O-Of course!” His own cheeks tinted a pale pink. 

“You promise?” 

He nodded again, this time using his other hand to clasp your hand in both of his.  “I promise I’ll visit.”

a side note for this upcoming section: i did a lot of world-building for this fic behind the scenes, the current planet they're on is largely submerged beneath the waters and they live on a bunch of island nations. To link up with that idea, my idea of the mermaid smuggling industry is to do with the concept of foreigners coming in and destroying local ecosystems. (Colonization)

Long story short, the planet is loosely based on Polynesian Islands so I chose Māori names for our supporting cast but keep in mind I am FAR from an expert and I mean literally no disrespect at all to anyone at all. Only the names are Māori in nature because I feel like no matter how much research I do, I would be unable to capture the essence of the rich culture of New Zealand. I'm a little gay fanfic writer I have not done nearly enough research to claim I know ANYTHING, I just thought it'd be cool and help with world-building in case people want a part-two or something

“What’s got you so worked up?” 

“Shut the fuck up Iarere, this is like the seventh time in the same hour.” 

Your younger brother held his hands up defensively, “Well, things got boring around here without you!”  He let himself fall towards the ground next to the boulder you’d splayed out all the little pieces of gold you’d managed to scrounge up.  “You manage to make it back from outside of protective waters and instead of hating everything and everyone, you’re suddenly getting all buddy buddy with the tourists trying to get some trinkets.  I know you’re old but are you really getting that desperate?” 

You frowned, “I’m not that old.” 

Iarere rested his face on the cool surface of the rock, prodding at one of the particularly flashy necklaces.  “You’re old to me.”  

Your frown deepened. Not just because your brother was calling you old, but because Luocha’s weekly visit was coming up and you hadn’t managed to gather up nearly as much as you would’ve wanted.   For your kind, caring, doctor husband who was already well off, a few necklaces and a handful of rings and earrings wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to woo him.  “I guess I am getting towards the end of the usual age people get married at.” 

The younger man nodded, humming, “Yeah, so do you have anyone in mind?” 

You bit your lip.  

I mean, yes, you were married. 

But it felt inauthentic if you didn’t present your husband with some kind of dowry first. 

Yes, Luocha only presented you with one of his old rings, but he also paid a hefty sum to rescue you from certain doom.  He also nursed you back to good health, refused to take any payment for any of the medical treatments or the food that’d been wasted making sure you’d retain your strength throughout your recovery. 

In your mind, maybe human dowries were just a little bit different. 

Despite opening your mouth to voice your dissent, your little brother jumped up at the opportunity to tease you.  “So you do have someone you’re thinking about!” 

“I-” 

“What are they like?” Iarere gripped your shoulders, tearing your attention away from your inner dilemma.  “What do they look like? Do I know them?”  He gasped, shaking you back and forth and he demanded to know, “Did you meet them while you were outside?!” 

You gripped at his shoulders in return, “I didn’t say I had anyone in mind!” 

“...”

“...”

He pursed his lips, “Yeah, I’m not buying it.” 

You groaned, bringing your hands up to your face.

He only got more excited, leaning in way too close for comfort as he squealed, “So I was right?!” 

“Right about what?” 

Your eyes darted over to the side, watching one of the few friends you’d managed to retain at your grown age.  “Thank the gods, Akahata, get Iarere off me before he gives me whiplash.” 

He hummed, “Well, I’m more interested in what exactly you guys were talking about before.”  You watched as his eyes flitted from you and your brother to all the precious metal and gems you’d laid out.  “Actually don’t tell me, let me guess.”  He pointed at the rock, “You’re setting up a dowry, but you’re upset because you know no amount of jewelry would ever get anyone in the pod to consider settling down with your ugly mug.”

“HAH!” 

Your ears fluttered in irritation.  “That’s a horrible guess.” 

Akahata shrugged, “Well, I mean, your mug’s only ugly cause you frown all the time.  If you actually made an effort to smile more, you’d probably have a lot more people that’d be willing to accept you with no dowry.” 

Your frown tugged at the corners of your lips as you massaged your temples, “For your information, I’m making a dowry cause I already got married.” 

“...”

“...’

“...”

“You WHAT?!” 

Iarere’s fists clenched even tighter around your biceps, “You told me you lost mom’s earring, not that you got married-” 

“It’s a long story-” You started, 

“Not long enough to not tell either of us!” Your best friend screamed in abject horror.  “The moment Ngaio and I started courting each other I told you immediately-”  You grimaced when he pushed your brother out of the way to be the one to shake you back and forth, “-and you get married and you don’t tell me until afterwards?!” 

“It wasn’t planned! I didn’t even realize he was courting me until he gave me his ring-” You countered, face lighting up pink.

“So it’s a him…” Iarere mumbled, putting his hand to his chin.  His expression lit up as the pieces started clicking together in his head.  “Is that where you’re going tomorrow?!” 

“YOU’RE GOING TO MEET HIM TOMORROW?!” 

You were growing more overwhelmed by the minute, averting eye contact.  “Yeah, so what? We’ve been meeting up every week while I was looking for you guys.  Is it weird for husbands to spend time together?” 

Akahata abruptly let go of you, leaving red imprints of his hands on your arms.  “That’s not that problem, that problem-” he paused for dramatic effect, “-is that you’re planning on meeting up with him after returning and you’re not even telling us who he is!” 

Iarere put a hand over his heart, feigning his disappointment as he let himself sink into the sand below.  “I think I’m going to faint.” 

You sighed, “Well-”

Akahata jabbed an accusatory finger in your chest again, “Is he even good looking enough for you? Is he any good at providing? What was his dowry like?  What pod is he even from?!”

“He’s not from a pod-”

Your brother hummed, “So is he a lone wanderer out beyond the boundaries of protected waters saving pretty mermen he wants to marry?” 

Your face twisted into one of disgust, “Keep your fantasies to yourself.” 

Iarere huffed, “Well, what else am I supposed to think when you say he’s not from a pod?  He obviously has so be some kind of lone wolf, PLUS you got married before you made it back.” 

Akahata put a contemplative hand under his chin, “I mean he has a point.” 

You shook your head, “He’s a human.” 

“...” 

“...” 

“...”

“You’re joking.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re joking…” 

You held up your hand, gesturing towards the ring on your finger. 

“Oh my god, you’re not actually joking.” 

Your younger brother squealed, “Oh my god this is like something out of all those movies on the surface! Tell me all about it!” 

You frowned, pushing through both your peers to make it back to your makeshift table top.  “He’s… a doctor, but he was working as a trader on a big ship.   He was there the night I got caught and he ended up buying me off the boat and he patched me up and released me.” 

Your best friend sighed, “Only you can make a story that romantic sound like a business deal.” 

Iarere furrowed his brows, “Wait, wait, wait, when did he propose?” 

“Well-” You fumbled over your words, “I caught feelings and I thought I might as well start the courtship process-” 

“YOU made the first move?!” 

“Shut up!” You pushed your overly eager younger brother’s face away, “I didn’t know if he even knew about mermaid courting so if I was going to start courting him, I had to do it then.”

“...go on.”

You sighed, “I gave him mom’s old earring, but instead of just taking it, he gave me one of the rings he was wearing.” You covered your face, feeling another wave of crimson wash everywhere from your neck to the tips of your ears.  You still couldn’t get the memory of him showing off the earring out of your fucking head. “I mean- I- I even asked if he knew what offering me his ring meant and he just put it in my hand.” 

Your younger brother kicked around on the sand eagerly, waving his hands around excitedly.  “That is actually one of THE most romantic proposals I’ve ever heard of!” 

Akahata crossed his arms, “Damn, I feel like mine was lacking.” 

You huffed, “Well, Ngaio is still your wife.” 

“And whatever his face is still managed to wife you--of all people--up.”

“Touche.”

“Oh wow, you brought more than you usually do.” 

Luocha chuckled behind his hand, his own little bag of purchased trinkets hanging loosely at his side. 

You hummed, thumbing over the beautiful glistening stone of a diamond necklace you’d managed to get off of a rather infamous regular.  “You’re one to talk.” 

He gave a small grunt of exertion as he sat next to you on the sand, letting the bag fall to the side, “You’ve got me there.”  He couldn’t help the pleasant swell of warmth in his face as you gestured for him to turn around. 

I mean, maybe you weren’t the best at communicating what you were feeling or what you wanted from him, but you’d been getting better.  Instead of just grunting a yes or no to the questions he’d ask, you’d actually make time for some conversation with him.  Be it from your annoying younger brother to the changes in the pod since you’d returned, it seemed you shared what little woes you had with Luocha.  

You also seemed to share endless amounts of little golden treasures with him.  From old, worn gold, oxidized iron, anything really that you could find, you provided it to him and put it on him with the most delicate touch your rough, scarred hands could muster.  Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was something.  He couldn’t control the way his heart sped up whenever you leaned in to help him put on a new pair of earrings you’d gifted him.  He surmised gift giving was some kind of love language that was common among merfolk.  Perhaps you’d also enjoy it if he brought you gifts of equal value! 

Still, the pounding in his heart was not helped when you’d started smiling at him. 

Everytime he managed to catch one of the rare glimpses of your smile–even worse when you’d laugh–he almost felt like he was looking at something forbidden.  Something he wasn’t worthy of, right in front of him.  For someone who had been through so much, you really opened up to him remarkably quickly after you’d been released.  Perhaps before release you’d been scared of being sold off? The familiar feeling of the waters must’ve don wonders to make you relax this much. 

Even worse when the physical affection began.  It started as simple as reaching out to the side of his face to brush the hair away from his ear so you could catch sight of the golden hoop he’d taken to wearing.   It transitioned to taking his gloves off so you could look at the rings you ended up gifting him.   Before he could really process how quickly the two of you were moving, you were pressed up against him at every opportunity.  

He knew it was natural for merfolk to not wear clothing, but did you have to have such a muscular chest? 

Even now, as you fumbled with the clasp of the absolutely beautiful diamond necklace, you wrapped an equally muscular aquatic tail around his leg.  He didn’t exactly know if this was normal between merfamily-could he call them that?--, being overly affectionate.   Even if it felt like a little more than just normal bonding, he did his best to still the pounding of his heart when your fingers brushed his hair out of the way so you could make sure the gem was oriented correctly.  

Trying his hardest to quell the tide of warmth surging up to the tips of his ears, he put a hand over his erratic heartbeat.  He prayed to the Aeons above you couldn’t feel it as your chest pressed against his back.  

You wrapped your arms snug around his torso, pulling him further into your stomach.  Resting your chin on top of his blonde hair, you found the gloved hand resting over his heart to hold in your own.   The two of you let the silence hang in the air for a moment. 

“...”

“...”

You gave a quiet huff before you moved your chin from on top of his head to bury itself into the crook of his neck.  As his fingers interlocked with yours, he found himself looking at all the gold rings he’d adorned your fingers with.  Each and every one, he could put a time and day to. 

But then, his eyes landed on your ring finger. 

“Oh, you still wear that old thing?”

“...hm?”

You glanced down at your hand, raising a brow.  His finger was tracing over the ring he’d exchanged when he was releasing you back into the open water.

“You still wear the same earring I gave you,” you murmured, flicking it with your freehand.  “I’ve given you countless pairs of earrings since, yet even when you wear one stud, you’ll always wear the same one every time I see you.” 

His chest rumbled with a bout of laughter, “I suppose you’re right.”  He perked up suddenly, “Oh, that reminds me, speaking of this earring…” He reached towards the rather large bag of gifts he’d brought with him.  He threw a few of the boxes of gold ornaments he’d purchased before finally fishing the box he was looking for out of the bottom.  “I went shopping and when I saw this pair, I simply knew you’d love it.” 

You hummed, looking at the little navy blue box in his hand.

He made quick work of the bow wrapped around the holding case, nimble fingers peeling open the little box before he presented you with his gift on their signature velvet cushion. It looked like… 

…a replica of your mother’s earrings. 

He offered them up to you with a bashful smile, watching in silent amusement when your ears flicked back and forth in some kind of excitement. 

Delicately, gently, you picked up one of the hoops and twirled it around your fingers. 

“...”

“...”

“...Well? Do you like it?”

You didn’t respond, reaching up to your right ear to remove the little stud you’d chosen to wear to this outing.  Fidgeting with the clasp of the loop, you threaded it with a calculated ease through your piercing.   

“I like it.” 

He clasped his hands together, “Good, I’m more than glad.” 

“...”

“...”

“She would’ve loved to meet you.” 

“Hm?”

You paused, “My mother, I mean,” Your thumb fidgeted with the back of the earring.  “She always wanted to see her sons get married, but she passed before she could.” 

Luocha blinked.  

“Pardon?” 

You tilted your head to the side, “My mother; she would’ve loved to meet you.” 

“No, no,” Luocha could feel the deep claret paint his face a messy red as he scooted to face you, “What did you mean by seeing her sons get married?”

“...

…Did you not know?” 

Luocha blinked. 

“We’re married.” 

Another blink. 

“You… Is that why…?” He gestured towards the gifts strewn across the sand.  He looked back towards his own bag of gifts. 

‘Oh for crying out loud-’

“I-” he cleared his throat, “I apologize, I seem to have… entered this marriage under false pretenses.”  He put his hands on his temples, “How- Where- When exactly did this happen?”

You hummed, “When you let me back out into the water.  When I gifted you my mother’s earring, that was the signal I wanted to start courting you.  When you gift something back, that’s an officiation of marriage.” 

He coughed into his hand, trying to think through this situation logically. 

Okay, so he accidentally got married.

What the fuck. 

The train of thought seemed to end there. 

…

He was, however, plagued with another train of thought. 

‘Well, you have been making eyes at him for a few months now.’ 

…

Those thoughts were not helping.  

“...”

“...”

“If you want to end the marriage, it’s as simple as saying so,” you added, “I thought you knew what my intentions were-”

“NO!”

Luocha covered the bottom half of his mouth.  “I’m fine with the arrangement as is, but it appears human marriage and merfolk marriage are officiated in very different ways.” 

Your brows furrowed. 

“...”

“...”

“...Are you saying you want to officiate the marriage as humans would?”

The tips of Luocha’s ears burned with embarrassment.  “I-” 

You held one of his hands in yours, eyes seemingly boring holes into his face,  “Whatever it is, as long as you want to do it, I will do it to the best of my ability.” 

Any complaints were silenced when he was confronted with such sincerity.  “Well…”

You waited patiently, folding your hands in your lap.  

Finally, it seemed your “husband” made up his mind.  

“Close your eyes.” 

You paused, seemingly surprised, but nonetheless your eyes fluttered shut moments after. 

Luocha urged himself to breathe, flexing and unflexing his hands.  

He leaned forward, closing his eyes as he…

…planted an innocent peck on your lips.

there's a note on the side of the phone booth, read it?

" idk how to describe it but now being on the other side of this, i'm feeling something similar to post nut clarity "

first post since losing literally everything on my first account yay !!

yes guys, luocha and his mermaid husband were openly cuddling on the beach for months and he's wondering "is he into me or am i bro-zoned"

that being said, losing my tumblr has now forced me to realize how many people genuinely like my writing hey guys I went scrolling through user kamisatoelogy's blog to look for their modern ayato fic and i found out someone dedicated time and effort into archiving my works???? and you guys went looks for me????

i fr feel like getting on my hands and knees and thanking everyone for all their support and love over this process and apologizing for scaring you guys so bad

you guys are so sweet and so many of you have been so helpful in getting my blog back up and running again :((

i started drafting my fics in google docs to make sure it isn't all GONE if i get shit on again so this chapter is brought to you by font: unica one, it was 27 pages total (i am insane)

shout out to Chappell Roan cause she really put me in my tunnel vision work zone while i was writing this

if u guys r looking for a writing hack, i trained myself like a sleeper agent to start writing when i play songs on hour loop it puts me in a work rut

- love, operator t-19

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Furiosa thoughts

About 48 hours after watching, I think my take on Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is coalescing into: I enjoyed it as a Mad Max movie but found it disappointing as a Fury Road prequel.

Any Mad Max movie made after Fury Road was always going to suffer the fate of being compared to Fury Road, which is the best action movie ever made. So like, compared to any other action movie you can think of, Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (we'll call it FMMS going forward) is very very good! It just isn't Fury Road.

The rest is under the cut for spoilers:

The action sequences were compelling. (I was aware I was hunched forward in my seat in tension/anticipation almost the entire time.) Some of them were even brilliant. That long sequence where the Octoboss and the Mortiflyers (yes those are their names) are attacking the War Rig with all kinds of airborne contraptions? Phenomenal. I was like yes okay now we are in a Mad Max movie! Other than that one sequence, though, in which we see Furiosa and Praetorian Jack begin to trust each other, I thought they rarely achieved the kind of wordless advancement of character relationships through action beats that is the lifeblood of Fury Road. So the action was good, but it was just normal-good, not Fury Road transcendent.

I did miss John Seale's cinematography. While I thought the action choreography was great, the shot selection was just not as dynamic and interesting as in Fury Road. I also really did not vibe with so much of the musical themes being recycled from Fury Road. The Fury Road score is SO memorable and the music is such an integral part of the momentum and feeling of every scene in the movie; I can play that score and see every beat of the action unfolding in my brain now. I wanted new score that felt like it was a part of this new action that we were seeing.

I loved all the new worldbuilding details and finally getting to see inside Gastown and the Bullet Farm. Those locations and their unique features were utilized really well for the action that took place in them. Loved the new details we got about the Citadel. The grappling hooks just dipping down to yoink people's vehicles during battle? Fantastic. The hidden Citadel ledge with the little pool of water?? That was such a fanfic-ready location. Pretty sure I already wrote at least one fic set there back in like 2016.

The Green Place! Very different from what I imagined but so much worldbuilding in just a few shots.

In general I thought the new cast rose to the challenge. Alyla Browne who played little kid Furiosa I thought was phenomenal actually. That's a tough role, both emotionally and physically, for a child actor and she slayed it. Casting Indigenous model and actress Charlee Fraser to play Furiosa's mother certainly made the Stolen Generation parallels more obvious. I'll have a lot more to say about Dementus down below, but Chris Hemsworth brought a great combo of bonkers and menacing.

I never doubted that Anya Taylor-Joy could bring the emotional intensity needed to the role--she can do crazy eyes like nobody's business, and with the growl she put in her voice she really did sound like Charlize Theron a bit. I found her physicality convincing for a young Furiosa. But she is not Charlize, through no fault of her own. Charlize is tall and she has broad shoulders and she just takes up so much space when moving and fighting as Furiosa and I think it was always going to be hard to replicate that. As long as they didn't try too hard to bridge the gap between the characters I was fine with it. But that one scene at the end where she's bringing the Wives to the Rig I was very viscerally like that is NOT our Furiosa. (I almost wish they would've used Charlize's stunt double for that scene the way they popped Jacob Tomuri into Max's place.) They could have simply left a time gap--based on the "15 years" she says to Dementus and the 7,000+ days we hear about in Fury Road there should be at least a 4-year gap between the film timelines, although in terms of bridging the look of the two actors it feels like it should be more like 10 years.

If FMMS had been a self-contained movie about a character named Furiosa in the Mad Max universe, I think I would have found it very satisfying. But as a prequel to Fury Road there were a bunch of ways I thought it was lacking on a story level.

I think it's pretty clear that this is not the backstory, or at least not the complete backstory, that Charlize Theron was imagining while playing Furiosa. Which...there's nothing objectively wrong with that; word of God and what actors think about their characters doesn't supersede what's on film for determining what is canon. However, Fury Road positions Joe as Furiosa's main antagonist, and while we don't get the full story behind the incandescent rage she directs at him, we know that rage is there and is a big part of her motivation. In interviews at the time, Charlize talked about the idea that Furiosa had been stolen to be a Wife but then was discovered to be infertile and discarded, how she survived by hiding in the Citadel and eventually rose to a position of power, how she saw her actions not as saving the Wives but as stealing them, and that her motivation at least starts out as more about hurting Joe than helping these women.

We get only the tiniest suggestion of Furiosa's backstory in Fury Road ("I was taken as a child, stolen") and the rest we piece together by implication. She is a healthy full-life woman working for a man who keeps healthy full-life women as sex slaves, hoping one of them will produce a viable male heir for him. She is effectively a general in his army, projecting his power on the wasteland, a position no other woman seems to occupy. She tells Max she is seeking "redemption." Redemption for what? She doesn't say. But "whatever she has done to win a position of power within this misogynist death cult" seems like a pretty obvious answer.

And that's interesting! That's an interesting backstory that engages with some of the core themes and moral questions of the Mad Max universe. These movies deal a lot with the tension between self-preservation and human connection. Do you screw someone else over to protect yourself? Even if it means putting them in the terrible position that you yourself have clawed your way out of? Even if it means enforcing your own oppressor's power over them? Or do you take the risk of helping people and caring enough to connect with them, even though this carries an emotional and physical risk?

FMMS doesn't really engage with Furiosa's relationship to Joe like, at all. It's not like Joe comes off looking like a good guy. He's just hardly in the movie. I don't know if this would have been different if Hugh Keays-Byrne were still alive. I don't know if there was pressure from the studio to cast an A-list male lead actor alongside Anya Taylor-Joy (who's a hot commodity now but wasn't what I would call an A-lister when she was originally cast). I don't know if, once Chris Hemsworth was cast, that affected how central his character's role became, since he is certainly the biggest name attached to the film. I would have actually been fine with Chris Hemsworth or another actor of his ilk playing a younger Joe, and us getting to see some of the charisma that attracted followers to him.

But the end result is that we have Dementus, who is a perfectly fine Mad Max villain, and quite entertaining at times! But not the most compelling antagonist you could give Furiosa.

The four Mad Max movies that feature Max go through an interesting evolution. In the first two movies, the villains are people "outside" society--criminals and roving gangs--and the people Max is defending are "civilization." So we have Mad Max where Max is a very fucked-up cop, and Road Warrior where Max is the prototypical western gunslinger, riding in to town to protect the settlement from an outside threat, but ultimately unable to accept any of the comforts of civilization for himself.

Then in Thunderdome and Fury Road, the dynamic switches. Now the antagonists are warlords and dictators. They are civilization. And the people Max ends up helping are trying to escape them.

To me, Dementus feels much more like the earlier kind of Mad Max villain. If there's another Mad Max movie I can most compare FMMS to, it's the first one. Dementus is Furiosa's Toecutter. (Kills her family, gives her her signature disabling injury, movie ends with her seeking revenge on him but it doesn't feel heroic or triumphant.) The whole end of FMMS when Furiosa is implacably hunting down Dementus? Extremely Mad Max 1.

But violent revenge holds a different symbolic place in Furiosa's story than it does in Max's. The end of Mad Max is a tragedy because Max tells us it is. He explicitly states, early in the movie, that he needs to stop being a cop or he'll become no different than the violent criminals he's pursuing. So he leaves his job and goes on an extended weird vacation with his wife and child, trying to get away from the violence of a collapsing society. But that violence finds him anyway, and by the end of the movie, Max has become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be. It's a tragedy not because the people Max kills in revenge for killing his family don't deserve it, but because seeking violent sadistic revenge is damaging to Max. That is not what he needs in order to heal from the loss of his wife and child. What he needs is to take the risk of human connection again. This is what he starts groping toward in the following two movies and fully realizes in Fury Road.

But Furiosa doesn't have the same arc. Her story in Fury Road is about how a few people struggling against their oppressor can be the catalyst that brings down a whole regime. Furiosa getting to rip Joe's face off is fucking satisfying, and it's supposed to be! So it's a bit weird, then, to spend an entire movie giving her a backstory that not only is not about Joe at all, but implies that seeking and getting revenge against Dementus for killing her mother and Jack is what made her into the person we see in Fury Road.

Aside from questions of revenge, what I thought Furiosa's goal was going to be is set up in the beginning of the movie. "No matter what happens, find your way home." Very clear objective there. And then we see her try to get home like, 1.5 times. I thought we were well set up to follow the tried and true film story format of "simple goal, big obstacles, high stakes." I wanted to see her trying over and over again to get home, and being thwarted in different ways every time. I wanted to see grief and guilt over her mother's death turn her mother's last command into a mission for which she would sacrifice anything (and anyone) else. I wanted to see her justify working for Joe and accumulating power in the violent world of the Citadel as what she has to do in order to get home. I wanted to see "Have you done this before?" "Many times." But we didn't really get that either.

Ultimately, I think the least frustrating way to think about the film--which the film itself encourages--is as one of many possible Wasteland legends about a character called Furiosa. Maybe it happened this way. Maybe it didn't. Maybe this is the Furiosa we see in Fury Road. Maybe it isn't. It all depends on how much you believe of the History Man's tales.

[manipulatedstars]

I love this so so so much!! I absolutely love how well you portrayed his curiosity and confusion about human things and behavior. And how he says things that we would know not to say for whatever reason, obviously he's not used to human customs, and that makes him so charming.

I also like how you added some more story beyond just the two of them, like the phonecall actually taking place instead of just being mentioned, and the little detail of the broken neon lights? That really gives a story character beyond just the main plot line. And the way he was so proud of the ship his cousins sank!! How delightful. He's such a cheeky little demon (utterly affectionate) and I would kill for him tbh.

The epilogue was also great!! Because we can kind of imagine how things go down ourselves instead of having it all laid out for us. I'm so in love with this piece of writing.

what lies beneath | k.hj

pairing: kim hongjoong x g/n reader

genre: siren au, artist!reader

includes: angst, some fluff

rating: T/13+

warnings: language, slight horror themes, mentions/descriptions of food, Family Issues as a plot point (💀)

word count: 13.5k

summary: there’s a pair of eyes blinking up at you from below the pier. you think you know who (or what, really) they belong to—but you might be too afraid to admit it.

You had been sure of several things before you spent the summer at the beach with your cousins.

One, that you were not an "outside" person. You couldn't stand fishing, you hated lying underneath the sun to tan—you could swim well enough, you supposed, to keep yourself afloat—but that was it.

Two, that there was nothing more embarrassing than being a tourist in a town you'd practically grown up in.

And three, that sea monsters of any kind were absolutely, completely, 100% fictional.

It was fun to pretend as a child, sure—you remember plenty of summers playing in the ocean with your friends, or listening to your uncle tell scary stories to you and your siblings about the creatures he'd seen in his time in the navy or deep-sea fishing—but that was it. Pretending. You knew that just as well as the rest of them did.

Which is why it's now somewhat embarrassing to be back here—spending yet another summer with your extended family, and now seeing your younger cousins now running up and down the side of your uncle's small pontoon boat. "Fish-man!" one of them cries out, pointing towards the water. "I saw it! I swear!"

The other one nods. "He was huge!"

Your uncle laughs from the wheel behind you. "I bet he was! I always heard they like to catch the sides of the waves the boats make for speed—can't get too close, though, or they'll get chomped by the propellers!" He makes a chomping gesture by opening and closing his fist, and your cousins giggle.

"You heard?" you ask, turning around from the seat near the bow. "I thought you always said you'd seen those fish-men with your own two eyes back in the day, Uncle."

He smirks at you. "Those were the deep-sea days. I've never seen any creatures this close to shore, but who knows?" he shrugs, winning at you. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

Right. You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you turn back around, the spray of the saltwater coming up on either side refreshing enough to distract you from the stories your cousins are now hurriedly making up behind you.

The rest of the day is decidedly less painful; your uncle is considerate enough to let you stay on the boat when he anchors it on a nearby island, so you're able to at least attempt relaxing while your cousins run amuck on the shore. By the time you're finally pulling back in to the dock behind your uncle's house on the bay, you can already see the hues of pink and orange growing in the sky as the sun begins its descent beneath the horizon.

Your cousins make a mad dash for the house once they're within leaping distance of the dock, and you let out an exasperated sigh when you realize it's just you and your uncle left on the boat. You know exactly what that means—all the work's been left to you.

He grins at you. "You remember how to tie her to the dock, don't you?" As if this hasn't been your job on-and-off for the last ten years.

You offer a faint smile in response, but you keep yourself from saying anything negative while you pull out the ropes from beneath the seats, tying them into the knots you know from memory around the poles on the dock. You don't want to complain in front of your uncle—he's never been anything less than kind to you, especially letting you stay at his house this summer out of nowhere when you told him you needed a place to stay for a while, even when it's been over five years since your last summer here. No questions asked, although you're sure he's curious.

You might tell him the truth. Eventually.

His voice suddenly interrupts the stream of thoughts in your mind. "If you've got it covered, I'm gonna head inside and start on dinner."

You nod absentmindedly, tucking the last rope into the beginning of its knot. "What are we eating?"

He smiles at you. "Guess you'd better hurry up and find out."

You roll your eyes at him, but in your sudden rush to finish the knot, you don't complete it nearly as tightly as you should—and you can already feel the boat drifting to one side from the loose knot.

You sigh at your own impatience, but you start the knot over again anyway, pulling on the other ropes to line the boat up with the side of the dock again before you start, checking the angle into the water to make sure it'll be as close to perfect as possible so you can hurry up and go inside, and it's then that you see it.

There's a face in the water—and it isn't yours.

No. You're seeing things. After a long day in the sun, you know it's not unheard of for your eyes to play tricks on you looking into the water. You draw your focus back to completing the knot, shaking the unusual thoughts out of your head of what you know you couldn't have possibly seen.

When the knot's finally complete, you cast your gaze into the water beside the boat one final time—and you realize, in stunned horror, that you'd been right before. There is a face, a face you can just barely see in the water as you peer over the edge of the dock—and it isn't your reflection. No, the angles of the jawline, the cheekbones, the chin are all far too sharp and precise to be yours. To be human.

He blinks up at you, far too innocently for someone—something that has been holding its breath underwater for at least the past five minutes.

You don't know how long the two of you stare at each other. It could be minutes, hours—you really aren't sure. You're finding yourself practically lost in the eyes of the being before you, dark and abysmal and inviting all at the same time—this, you imagine, must be what drowning feels like. Completely helpless.

It's then that you realize your ankles are touching the water. That's strange—you'd been sitting atop the dock just a moment ago. When did you get in the water?

You feel as if you've just awoken from a dream. You don't know how you've gotten here so suddenly, but you've definitely moved—you've turned around to face the dock, and your arms are the only thing keeping you above the water, your legs submerged up to your knees.

You quickly scramble back out of the water and heave your body back onto the dock, making sure all your limbs are still attached before staring back into the bay beneath you, looking for that face beneath the water again—but it's gone. Whatever it was has completely vanished, leaving nothing but the soft lapping of the waves against the shore in its wake.

Your mind races to find an explanation. You've been in the sun for hours. You must not have had much sleep last night. Your cousins are driving you insane and they've finally pushed you past the brink. One of those, surely, has to be the answer for whatever the hell you've just seen.

It's all you can think about during dinner—you hardly touch the clam chowder your uncle had prepared. He notices the small helping you've poured for yourself when you sit down at the table, and you see him frown out of the corner of your eye. "Feeling alright, Y/N?"

You nod quickly. Too quickly. "I'm fine. Think I might've been out in the sun for too long today—I'll probably just get some water after dinner and head to bed."

He nods, visibly relaxing at your words. "Ah. That certainly can happen—I saw far too many colleagues faint back in the day after a long shift. It's brutal, that sun. That reminds me of one particular instance, actually—couldn't have been less than twenty years ago, I'll bet, when..."

He launches into another fishing anecdote, much to the delight of your cousins, while you continue to mentally spiral for the duration of dinner, locked in your own thoughts and what you know you couldn't have possibly seen. Your behavior, however, means your uncle doesn't mind at all when you go up to your room early—and when night finally falls and everyone else has gone to bed, no one notices you creeping back downstairs, either.

You have to know. You'll never be able to go to sleep tonight if you can't confirm whatever the hell you saw in the water earlier.

Your stomach interrupts your thoughts, piercing the quiet living room with an unfortunate grumble.

"Shit," you swear softly to yourself. You're hungry—it's no wonder. You barely ate dinner, and you only picked at a few snacks on the boat earlier. It certainly won't assuage your fears if you scare away whatever that thing was if your stomach growls the minute you step outside.

You quickly grab the first thing your eyes land on out of the first shelf in the refrigator—an apple, before finally striding over to the door and making your way back outside as quietly and nimbly as you can.

You practically run back to the edge of the dock, peering into the inky blackness of the water illuminated simply by the moonlight, only to find your own reflection staring back at you. There's nothing.

And you want to be reassured by that fact. You had to have been seeing things earlier, then—a result of the afternoon spent under the blistering sun, doing things to your eyes and your mind, and yet—

You have to check. You'll just dip a toe in, maybe—you're already barefoot, anyway. Nothing bites at your toe when you do, sitting down at the edge of the dock and letting the waves lap at your skin.

Well. You suppose to be really sure, you'll have to get in the water. It feels much better now than it did earlier today, you think as you lower yourself in up to your waist, still holding onto the dock with one hand, apple in the other. You don't remember the water ever feeling this good—this inviting. You wonder what it would feel like to go all the way up to your neck. Maybe even to go all the way underwater, to feel it enveloping every inch.

That last thought particularly entices you, so you let go of the dock, holding your hand (and the apple) above the water while you submerge the rest of your body beneath the waves. You wonder how long you can hold your breath underwater. Does it even matter, though? It wouldn't be so bad to stay here like this forever—

"...What is this?"

You're broken out of your thoughts by a muffled voice above you, piercing the silence and suddenly reminding you how long you've been underwater. Panic sets in almost immediately as you kick toward the surface, gasping for breath when your head breaches the waves again, breathing in sweet, fresh air as your arms attempt to tread water.

Well—arm. Singular. Someone else is holding on to your other arm, you realize far too late—the arm that's currently clutching that poor, stupid apple. A hand is wrapped around your wrist, and you feel dread sinking through your chest when your eyes follow the hand back to its owner. Perhaps that dread is why you aren't at all surprised when you once again lock eyes with the creature from earlier, this time his head and chest above water.

He looks at your sputtering form, unsurprised, before turning back to stare at the apple in your hand, head tilting to the side. "What is this?" you hear him repeat. His voice is incredibly raspy—as if he hasn't used it in years.

His lack of recognition towards you is almost irritating—as if he's disappointed that you exist. "...What?" you finally ask.

He brings another hand out of the water to tap at the apple. "This," he says. "I don't know what this is. Tell me."

You're still struggling for breath. "I...I'll tell you what it is if you let me back onto the dock."

He turns back to face you—quickly, head shifting far too quickly for something human. "No," he says, grip on your wrist unrelenting. "Tell me what it is."

Shit. "It's an apple," you say, frustration suddenly blooming in your chest. You're going to die because of an apple. Because you couldn't be bothered to eat your uncle's clam chowder for dinner. What the hell is wrong with you? If you ever get out of this, you swear on every god listening that you'll eat second helpings of every meal that man makes for the rest of your life. "You eat it."

Apparently you eat it to this creature means you can eat it—because he's lunging forward suddenly, bringing his teeth that look much more like that of a shark's than like the teeth in your own mouth onto the apple in your palm, tearing away a bite and swallowing it whole. God, you hope you aren't about to meet the same fate.

He makes a face, turning to look at you. "It's weird."

You heave a sigh. This is insane, you think. Maybe you really did lose your mind earlier on the boat—it's all your cousins' fault. Has to be. Hearing that constant, nonstop chatter about the overseas vacation they just went on (their third this year alone), and the toys the twins got for their birthdays, and the teacher at school they really don't like, has finally made you snap. "I don't know what to tell you," you say. "You said you'd never had it before. And you're stealing—I was going to eat that."

He lets go of your wrist from his damp grasp. "Hmm. You can have the rest of it, I guess."

He has let go of you. Every logical nerve in your body is screaming at you to start swimming, to pedal back up to the dock as fast as you can and scream for your uncle—but you don't. He let go of you. He had just wanted the apple.

You stare at him. You'd been right before—every feature of his is far too sharp to be human. The edge of his nose, the line of his jaw, the angles of his cheekbones—everything except his eyes. They're dark, as dark as the night sky behind you, but they're soft. They hold none of the sharpness of what you can see of the rest of his body.

You think back to the beginning of the day—to the stories of the fish-men your uncle had tried to spook your cousins with as you drove around the inlet. Damn him to hell—he was right.

You aren't sure who you're angrier at—him, for being correct about something so utterly insane, or you, for not being smart enough to realize he was telling the truth.

The creature in the water notices you staring at him. He blinks at you, tilting his head to the side. His gaze hasn't left you for a single instant, but there's something else spreading across his face now, tugging up the side of his lips in a faint smile.

"You aren't afraid," he says now, the rasp in his voice gradually beginning to ebb away.

You notice him watching your arms treading water now, apple bobbing beside you, but you don't say anything about it. You also don't say anything about how he isn't treading water but is still staying perfectly afloat—something else is propelling him to stay upright. And you think you may have an idea of what it is. "I...I don't know. I don't think so," is the only thing you can offer in response. "I don't know what you are."

He thinks for a moment. "A...a siren was what your people called us the last time we went to the surface."

A siren. You'll admit you didn't always pay constant attention in school, especially reading the Odyssey nearly three years ago, but you have a clear enough recollection of what these creatures were. Their entire purpose was to lure sailors to their deaths with their charms, wrecking their ships with a few words of a song.

"We couldn't come up to the surface very often then," he adds thoughtfully, remembering. "Too much of that black smoke in the air. That's what my father said, anyway."

Black smoke? You're confused for a moment before it dawns on you—you distinctly remember your uncle telling you that the railroad used to lie almost perfectly adjacent to the bay his house now resides on, back in the day before they'd decided to reroute the tracks to make room for the neighborhoods they were building. And if the trains the siren in front of you remembers were still billowing out black smoke...

Christ, how old is he, anyway?

"I'm supposed to drown you," he says plainly.

You furrow your brow at him. "You can try, I guess. I used to be pretty good at swimming."

He laughs at that too. The sound of his laugh is unbearably musical—light and gentle and not at all comparable to the rasp his voice had been at first, nor is it fitting for a creature who had just said he was here to kill you. "I almost did. That's how you ended up in the water—don't you see?"

Oh. Fuck. He must have been in your head, practically—convincing you to get in the water. It's what'd he done earlier in the day too, you realize—when you'd gotten in all the way up to your ankles without realizing. "How...how'd you do that?"

He shrugs. "I just hum. Some of my brothers are good at singing, but I think humming does the same thing at a much quieter rate. Harder to get caught that way." 

"Does that happen to you often?" you ask. "Getting caught?"

He seems to ponder that for a moment. "No. I...I didn't have any plans on telling you this, but I've never actually drowned anyone before. You've been my first attempt."

You scoff at that. "I guess you're not a very good siren, then."

He stares at you, and you wonder for a split second if you've just made a fatal mistake by running your mouth, like you always do—but the edges of his lips quirk up in a strange smile. "That's not all we do, you know. We were the record-keepers of the ocean, back in the days before that fool Homer decided to only focus on our...occasional people-drowning habits. Once you become known for something, no one really cares what you used to do."

You blink at him. "Sorry, I...are you trying to make me feel bad for you? After you tried to drown me?"

His smile widens. "But I didn't drown you! I decided not to. Because I wanted to know what that was in your hand." He looks down at the apple bobbing in the water between the two of you. "Do you have anything else like this?"

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Why? Do you want to go through all the fruit in our fridge and take a single bite out of each one?"

He cocks his head slightly at you. "Why would I do that?"

Because it's what you just did, you want to yell at him—but you don't. Some semblance of common sense must be returning to you, now that you know you aren't in mortal danger.

He continues anyway. "I want to go back to our record-keeping ways. I like learning things. I've never spoken to a human before now—I've already learned so much. I know what an apple is. I know how easy it is to tell you to drown yourself."

You try to ignore the way your blood freezes cold for an instant at that last comment—and the way he gives you a knowing look after it leaves his lips. You think you may have a better understanding of what your situation is, now. "So you decided not to drown me because you wanted to know about the apple. You...you're only going to keep me alive if I keep bringing you things that you find interesting?"

But he shakes his head no. "You can go back up to the land now. I won't stop you. I was just suggesting that you'd think about doing me a favor, since I did one for you."

Deciding not to drown me isn't much of a favor—but you keep that to yourself. "You really wouldn't stop me if I went back up the dock? If I never set foot in the water again? Won't you...I don't know, get in trouble with the siren police or whoever you answer to?"

A bemused expression flashes across his face. "No, I don't answer to anyone. We used to travel in packs—and I think some still do, especially in the southern sects of the Pacific, but most of us are solitary, now. I do whatever I want."

“Must be nice," you reply before you can think to stop yourself.

He frowns a little at that. "What do you mean? You're the masters of the world as we know it, aren't you?" There may be a little edge of mocking at the end of that sentence, but neither of you comment on it.

Instead, you take one arm out of the water briefly to try to wave your words away, accidentally flicking a few drops of water on his face—but he doesn't even flinch. "Look—I shouldn't have said that,” you say.

"Who could possibly be telling you what to do?" he asks again. "I'm serious."

Now you do let a small laugh pass your lips. "You'd be surprised."

He just blinks. "Surprise me, then."

He did say he liked to learn. "Listen, I can't—" You cut off your own sentence when you see a light on the second story window flick on out of your peripheral vision. Shit. "I've got to go."

He casts his gaze upwards to the soft light emanating from the house. "I see," you hear him say as you plant your elbows on the edge of the dock, hauling your body back up to the wooden surface. Once you're out of the water, a sudden thought occurs to you—you never even asked the siren for his name.

Who cares? a voice in your head cries out. Your conscience, most likely—whatever scraps of common sense you have left. That thing was going to drown you. You don't need his name; you're never going to see him again.

Well—that you aren't entirely sure of, even if you may not be completely prepared to admit it. As much as you had apparently intrigued him, he had certainly kept your interest too. For crying out loud—he's a goddamn siren. How often did you get to have a sit-down conversation with a sea creature you had been perfectly convinced wasn't real an hour ago?

Even more intriguing, you think, was that air of freedom about him. I do whatever I want, he'd said. You can't imagine the last time anything like that left your mouth—or if anything like it ever had. You're drawn to that feeling of freedom—either out of jealousy or a desire to live vicariously through it, you aren't sure. But you do want to experience it again.

So you turn back around, the question of his name on the tip of your tongue—but it never gets any further. By the time you're looking back into the water below you, he's gone. Had you imagined the entire thing all along, you wonder for a brief instant?

But that thought shatters when you hear a splash to your right, at the very edge of the canal before it opens back up into the ocean, and you see the edge of a long, blue tail flicker in the moonlight before it disappears below the surface.

You let out a short laugh of disbelief at the sight. And the small smile that lingers on your lips—even as you hurry back towards the house, open the back door as quietly as possible, hurry back upstairs, throw your wet clothes in the bathroom, and jump back in your bed in a fresh pair of pajamas—doesn't fade away for quite some time.

Three days pass before you see him again.

You'd run out to the dock three nights in a row after everyone in the house had fallen asleep, peering into the water only to be met with the ripples of your own reflection staring back up at you. Disappointed, you had trudged back to the back porch and snuck back up to your room, lingering confusions about that damn siren swirling around in your head. You won't go check again tomorrow night. That entire meeting with him was apparently a one-time thing. It was a miracle that he'd let you live, anyway—a miracle that you aren't ever supposed to see again.

You still find yourself padding down to the dock on the fourth night—and this time, you aren't alone.

There's an apple sitting on the very last wooden plank on the end of the dock, water dripping off the edge and forming a small puddle around it. You almost let out a laugh at the sight, but it's swallowed by the yelp you accidentally let out when the siren's head emerges suddenly from beneath the surface. He stares at you, unblinking as he hauls his forearms onto the edge of the dock, propelling himself forward to look up at you.

"You're surprised," he says.

You take a breath to calm yourself before speaking. "You're observant."

He blinks once. Twice. "That's for you," he says, gesturing towards the singular fruit on the last plank of wood. "Since I ate the other one."

You look down at the apple, deciding you're safer not asking where he got this one—and then you look lower, peering down off the edge. The siren has pulled himself up to rest against the dock, which means he's only about halfway submerged into the water now. You see his arms, crossed on top of each other to support him resting on top of the dock. You see his chest, his abdomen, droplets of water still rolling down the toned muscles. And you swallow the gasp that threatens to escape you when you finally lock eyes on the dark blue tail that begins past his waist, swishing back and forth as it glistens with every beam of moonlight it reflects.

If he knows the cause of your sudden amazement, he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he speaks again. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back."

You manage to pull your eyes back up towards his. "I, um...I realized I never got your name the other night. I figured you didn't just go by 'siren.'"

He smirks. "No, I don't. But I've never had to say it out loud before, like this." He thinks about it for a moment. "Hongjoong."

Hongjoong. "Hongjoong," you repeat. 

You aren't sure if it's the moonlight playing tricks on you, or if his cheeks really do twinge a shade pink at the repetition from your lips. "What's yours?"

Now it's your turn to smirk a little. "You won't, like...gain some kind of terrible power over me once you know my name, right?" You think you remember reading about the fae having that kind of ability in school, but that was ages ago. And at the time, you didn't think you'd ever need to remember information about creatures you were certain didn't exist.

The siren—Hongjoong—shakes his head. "Not that I know of. I can look into it in our historical records though, if you'd like."

You shake your head quickly. Probably better off not knowing.

But you do tell him your name, and he smiles too. "Pretty," he says, and you think you understand how someone like him could talk someone like you into walking off a boat—but the thought doesn't scare you the way it might have the other night. He's so beautiful, you're realizing—almost impossibly so. To hear him say he thinks you're pretty, or at least your name is, almost makes you want to laugh.

Hongjoong pulls you out of your thoughts when he taps the space on the dock next to the apple with one hand. "Well? Are you going to take it?"

Oh. "Oh!" you say, bending over to pick up the fruit. "Sure. Thank you for bringing this to me—" and then, before you can stop yourself from the most sudden and peculiar act of boldness in your entire life so far— "do you...I don't know, want anything in return for it?"

He seems taken aback by your proposition at first, but only a moment passes before that soft, self-assured grin appears across his features again. "What would you want to give me?"

Christ. Why did you say that? "Well—um..." You glance down at your shoes with wet sand still caked to the sides, the green charm on the end of one shoelace, the fraying ends of the jacket you'd hastily pulled over your shoulders before walking outside tonight, before you see—

You quickly work it off of your wrist and hand it over to him. "Here," you say, sitting down at the dock's edge and handing Hongjoong the bracelet you've been wearing since you came to your uncle's house this summer. "You can keep it."

Hongjoong takes the bracelet delicately from your outstretched hand. He peers at it in the moonlight. "What is it?"

"It's a bracelet," you explain. "You can just wear it on your wrist for decoration—it doesn't have to mean anything. This one, um...it was actually from my parents, but believe me—it doesn't mean anything," you finish, trying (and failing) not to let that all-too-familiar drip of malicious venom back into your voice at the mention of the people who raised you. Who bought you this bracelet—a week-late birthday gift from your mother who had missed it while she was on a 'girls trip' in Italy. And yet, you still turned out like this—

Hongjoong continues studying the bracelet, poring over each individual charm. If he notices your attitude about your parents, he doesn't say anything—but after that first conversation you'd had with him, you think he may understand what you mean anyway.

The silence is starting to make you drowsy, so you move to stand back up. "Look, Hongjoong, I'd better head back. It's late. Will I, um—" Why does he make you so nervous now? "Will I see—"

"What are you bringing next time?" Hongjoong interrupts.

You blink. "What?"

He taps the bracelet with one finger. "I'll bring something else the next time I see you, if you bring something too."

He had said he liked to learn. "Okay," you say. There's a sudden warmth in your chest at the thought of seeing him again, even despite the cool breeze suddenly drifting off from the sea. "When will you be back?"

Hongjoong tilts his head to one side, thinking. "The next half moon. It should be in a few nights. I'll need time to find something good for you," he says, grinning.

You can't fight the grin that tugs at your own lips. "I'll be here, then."

You think about how the first two weeks of your summer had dragged by. Every day had felt like an unending loop of babysitting your cousins while your uncle went to work, of making an effort to laugh at said uncle's intentionally not-funny jokes, of picking up groceries and running errands and getting lost in the monotony of the mundane—but the second half of your summer is the complete opposite.

Going out and meeting Hongjoong by the end of the dock goes from a once a week occurrence to a nightly routine. And it doesn't stop at just bringing each other different little trinkets and knick-knacks and snacks that you find—you and Hongjoong both discover that you're better conversationalists than you'd previously thought. The two of you find yourself talking for hours about anything you can think of; you learn that Hongjoong's family is several times larger than yours, and that sirens swim further south when the water gets cold in the winter ("the same as everything else in the sea with any sense," he points out). And you tell Hongjoong about you, about all the summers you spent here with your older siblings when you were all still children, about the nights you snuck out with them and went to the gas station for ice cream—both of you hanging on each other's every word.

You find yourself looking forward to seeing him all day. You're in far better spirits than you were at the beginning of the summer, your uncle teases on several occasions, but you can't find it in yourself to be bothered.

You probably could try to make it slightly less obvious, though. After nearly a month of spending almost all your nights with Hongjoong, you find yourself one midsummer day back on the pontoon boat with your cousins and uncle, looking for an island to go for a picnic on—just like you had been that day you'd first seen him. You still keep to yourself on the bow of the boat the same way you did at the beginning of the summer, but your thoughts are full of nothing but the siren, now. You'd found an unfinished scrapbook of you and your siblings from years ago in your uncle's garage last night, and you're practically beaming at the thought of showing it to Hongjoong tonight. You wonder if he'll be able to pick out which one is you in the photos if you don't tell him. Maybe you'll—

"There's something in the water!" one of your cousins cries out, pointing towards the right side of the boat.

You practically shoot out of your seat. "Where?" you ask, rushing over to her side of the boat.

She blinks up at you, caught off-guard by your sudden enthusiasm. "Um...right next to the boat." She points again with a shrug. "There was a face, but it's gone now. I swear I'm telling the truth."

You nod, giving her a knowing grin. "I believe you."

Her eyes widen, a smile growing across her own features. "You do?"

Your uncle laughs from the wheel of the boat behind you. "You mean your reflection, bub?"

Your cousin shakes her head quickly. "No, it wasn't. It was something else, I know it."

Your uncle looks back and forth between the two of you, landing his gaze firmly on you. "Well—if you see anything else, you just let me know. It's almost the end of the summer, you know," he points out. "I've kept you all under my watch this long—I don't want anything to happen to either of you."

The little girl next to you nods before going back to her seat with the rest of your cousins, but you stay planted at the side of the boat for a while with them.

It's almost the end of the summer, you know.

What's been wrong with you for the last several weeks? Befriending a siren, of all things—where did you think that was going to go? Did you think you'd get to pack him up in your suitcase with everything else and take him home? Stupid, you think—you've been completely, utterly stupid. It's the only explanation for it.

No—that isn't entirely true, either. You may have been foolish, thinking you could keep a friendship with a siren, but that wasn't the only place those feelings were coming from. You've been distracting yourself, you realize now. You're trying to run, still—from the very same thing that led you to stay with your uncle this summer for the first time in years.

Maybe you've had your fill of running. It may be time to try facing the thing you've been avoiding all summer before it's too late—which is how you find yourself alone in the kitchen later that night, holding on to your uncle's home phone with one hand while you read her number to yourself off of your own phone (you're fairly certain she won't answer if she recognizes your number on her caller ID).

You almost hesitate before punching in the last number to dial and sealing your fate, but your uncle's words float back to you again. It's almost the end of the summer. What do you have to lose now, anyway?

You finish dialing the number.

She picks up on the fourth ring. "Hello?" She sounds slightly out of breath, as if she'd ran to catch the phone before it stopped ringing. The thought gives you a momentary sense of hope—maybe she won't hang up on you immediately once she realizes who's calling.

You take a deep breath before answering. "Hi, Mom," you say, slowly. "It's me."

She's silent for a long, long time—but she doesn't hang up. "...Oh," is the first thing your mother says. "I thought this was your uncle calling." You hear her take a breath, hesitating on saying what you know she's about to say. "I guess that's why you called from his phone, huh?"

You know there's no point answering that. "Mom, I...I wanted to talk to you, since the summer's almost over. I thought we could possibly talk about, um...about me staying at home for a little bit before school starts—or maybe coming home during winter break."

There's another long period of silence—and like the fool you are, you allow yourself to hope, for a brief moment, that she won't say exactly what you've known she was going to say the minute you dialed her number. "Hmm...no, Y/N, I don't really think that's a good idea." Your heart sinks, but she continues to push the dagger (that you practically handed her by making this call) further into your chest. "You know what—it's not really a good time right now, anyway. I'll talk to you some other time, alright?"

"Listen, Mom, I'm—"

Click.

She's hung up.

You told yourself earlier you wouldn't cry if she did this (you knew she was going to). And yet—you still can't fight those tears brimming at the edge of your eyelids, threatening to spill over. As you try to blink them away, your gaze is drawn towards the back window—towards the head of blue hair you can just barely see at the end of the dock, waiting expectantly for you already.

God. You cannot talk to Hongjoong right now—but you can't just blow him off entirely, either. You'll make something up, tell him you've gotten sick and can't see him for a few days, and hope he'll just forget about you and find some other human to trade apples for bracelets with.

You pad as quickly as you can down the end of the beach to the dock, peering over the edge to see Hongjoong's dark eyes looking up at you. "I can't talk tonight," you say sharply. "I'm sorry."

Hongjoong frowns. "What's wrong? Did you forget to bring something? It's okay, you know. I don't mind just talking to you. If you want."

Of course that's what he's concerned about. "No," you say, somewhat shakily. "I just can't, alright?"

You move to turn around, but the siren is a step ahead of you like always. He lunges forward onto the dock, grabbing ahold of your ankle with a strength you hadn't known he'd had. You think, for a moment, that if he had really wanted to drown you that day—he could have. "That's not good enough," he replies firmly, but his gaze softens the minute he sees your face closer. "I want to know what's wrong. Please."

It doesn't take much pleading from him for you to succumb to his wishes, so you relent, turning back around and sitting down on the edge of the dock. Hongjoong props himself up with his forearms before pushing the rest of his body up onto the dock, sitting upright and facing the sea beside you, just like you—something he's never done before. Only the last few scales on the edge of his tail just barely brush the water. "Tell me," he asks again, gentler this time.

So you do.

"It's my mother," you tell him, slowly. "Both my parents, really—they planned out me and my brothers' lives from the moment we were born. We were all supposed to be doctors, or lawyers, or scientists—something to make a ridiculous amount of money for them, just like they did for their parents. It was the only way to make them proud. They sent us to private schools and paid for expensive tutoring for years to ensure it, and they only spoke to us when we did well. They didn't want children—they wanted trophies. Things they could show off to their friends who were just as selfish and conceited as them. And they got them with my brothers—they did exactly what they were supposed to. Graduated law school or got their doctorates or PhDs, and now do nothing except work and get filthy rich. I'm the last one to fulfill what my parents had planned out for us. But I guess things don't always work out the way you planned," you add, somewhat bitterly.

Hongjoong keeps his gaze fixed on you. "No," he says, as gently as the water lapping at your ankles. "They don't. And...you don't want to do what they want you to."

You nod. "That's right. I don't. I think I should get a choice in what I make of my life, not slaving away forever at something someone else picked out for me. To do something of my own volition. And I told them so—and they told me I'd be on my own, forever, because of it."

"What do you want, then?" he asks.

You feel tears brushing against the edges of your eyelashes again. "It doesn't matter," you say, trying to keep your voice as steady as you can. "I'm screwed as it is. I have enough money saved for this semester of college, but they've cut me off entirely. I tried to call and make an attempt to patch things up tonight, but she wouldn't even listen to me. I'll be coming here every other semester to work, save up for the next semester, and stay with my uncle. I'm extremely grateful to at least have him on my side, to have someone who will allow me to stay with them—but I don't know if I'll ever get to see my parents or my brothers again. And I knew that would happen," you admit, voice definitely shaking now.

"I knew that was the choice I was making when I told them I didn't want to just be a stupid trophy for them to display, that I wanted to make something worthwhile, that I deemed worthwhile with my life. I knew it wouldn't be easy and that I was taking the harder route, but I thought I'd be able to just cut ties with them. Go no contact, and all that, but it...it's hard, Hongjoong," you tell him, tears rolling down your cheeks. "So fucking hard. And it's so stupid. Even after all this, after she's told me she doesn't want anything to do with me, now that I've chosen to 'waste my life away' and she 'doesn't know who I am anymore—' I still care what she thinks of me, for some stupid reason. She's still my mother—God, what am I supposed to do?"

Hongjoong turns to you almost instantly, cupping your face in both hands, and the sudden touch alone almost makes your tears stop falling. "Nothing stops the flow of the sea," he says, quietly. You want to move your gaze, to move your head away so your eyes aren't locked onto Hongjoong's so intensely, but he keeps you there anyway. "You just have to keep moving through it. With it. I think it's the same with your mother. It won't immediately be better tomorrow, just like how the sea isn't immediately perfectly calm after a typhoon—but it will be better, eventually. A little bit every day, as the waves return back to their normal rolling patterns."

"You don't think it's stupid?" you ask, quietly. "That I'm still so desperate to hold on to my mother, even if she's practically already thrown me away?"

Hongjoong shrugs. "Nonsensical, maybe. But not stupid. I don't think there's anything stupid about reaching out for someone who's taken care of you. My family has always been spread across the oceans—no matter where I go, it seems, I can find someone. I think it would be a much harder life if I was told none of them wanted to see me ever again. I'd feel stranded. And I haven't lived the same life as you, so I don't know what the exact circumstances are like, but I don't think it's a stupid aspiration. Just slightly nonsensical—but I think I'm realizing that a lot of things you do—that humans do," he corrects, "are that way."

That makes you laugh, even as his words settle into your ears and you begin to feel a kind of lightness in your chest. His world is so different from yours, you think. You're almost jealous of it, in a way.

And still, when he says things will be easier, eventually—you believe him.

"What is it that you want with your life?" he asks.

You laugh a little again. "It's cliché."

Hongjoong doesn't hesitate. "How would I know what your clichés are?" His hands are still firmly cupped against your cheeks.

Now the smile that ghosts across your face is real. Genuine. "Art," you say, quietly—as if you're afraid of admitting the truth even to him. "I love drawing—always have. It's all I've ever wanted to do. It used to be my escape when I came here in the summers with my family; I'd sneak away from everyone and paint on the beach for hours until my uncle would call for dinner. I begged for paint sets as a kid for birthday presents—even stole a set of charcoal pencils from the art room in middle school once. The teacher let me keep them even after finding out," you add, laughing a little. You bare your soul to Hongjoong, the parts of you that you've tried to squash for years but have failed to completely erase—like charcoal marks on a piece of paper that just won't quite go away.

He seems to ponder this for a moment. "Could you draw me?"

You laugh, feeling like a dam of relief is beginning to break within within you. He knows what has practically been your deepest, darkest secret for your entire life, and he doesn't want to shun you forever for it. "You know, I've always heard that's the one thing you aren't supposed to ask an artist."

Hongjoong blinks. "I didn't know that." There's only a single beat of silence before he asks, "Can you draw me anyway?"

"It won't be very good," you say with a shrug, smirk still tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I've never been very good at portraits. Landscapes and still life are easier for me."

He moves one hand to wrap around your wrist. "Try anyway."

The tenderness of the action coupled with his words—blunt as always, but reassuring in a way you've never known from him, never known from anyone—is enough to cause tears to prickle at the corners of your eyes again.

This time, Hongjoong notices, moving his free hand up your cheek to gently brush them away before they ever have a chance to cascade past your lashes. You see him sniff once, then look back up at you—realization dawning on his face.

"Salt," Hongjoong whispers in awe. "There's a piece of the sea in you, too."

That dam inside you breaks.

You meet his eyes, dark as the bottom of the ocean—feel the cool grip of his hand wrapped around your wrist and his fingers resting gently on your cheek, and you feel the pull towards him like the magnetism of the Earth's core.

When your lips land on his, it doesn't surprise either of you. It's a chaste, careful kiss at first. Hongjoong takes only a moment to breathe, forehead touching yours so lightly you almost wouldn't know he was there, before pulling you back to him and pressing his lips against yours again.

You've never experienced anything like it before—the tenderness of his hands on your skin, the softness of his lips on yours, his warm breath skating across your jaw. It's like he's everywhere, taking over every sensation—but not at all like that first time he had met you and influenced your thoughts. You feel fully in control right now. You're the one who's let him in.

If this is what drowning feels like, you think, you'd never complain.

You taste salt on your lips when you wake in the morning, and the sensation immediately sends a flurry of butterflies through your chest. A smile tugs at your mouth before you can even think to hide it from yourself.

Had last night even been real? Hongjoong reassuring you, kissing you so gently that you thought you might melt right into the water below the two of you—God, how could it not have been real? You could never have dreamed something like it.

If your uncle and cousins notice your uncharacteristically chipper mood at breakfast, a stark contrast to your melancholy behavior at dinner the night before, they don't say anything—but your uncle does look surprised when you offer to help load the cooler and towels onto the boat for the day.

"I've enjoyed having you here for the summer," your uncle tells you later that afternoon, when you've dropped anchor on a nearby island and your cousins are eating their lunches peacefully—the only time of the day you find that they're quiet. "Reminded me of the old days, with your brothers. It's been good to have you here."

You smile at him. "I've enjoyed being here," you admit, even if he doesn't know all the reasons why. "Thank you for letting me stay the summer. I really, um...really appreciate knowing there's someone who has my back."

His eyes crinkle in a soft smile. "Listen, Y/N. I know it's hasn't been easy after what happened with your mother—I don't know the whole story, but I'm not old and senile enough yet to not know something's up. But you'll always have a place to stay here. I want you to know that."

Your heart jumps. "Thank you, Uncle," you say. "You've always gone out of your way to make this feel like home for me, and you did the same when my brothers were here too. I can never thank you enough for that. And I—"

He just waves your words away. "That's what family does, you know? I've always felt like a bit of a black sheep living out here—compared to my sister, anyway. She always had big plans for all of you. But I've wanted this to feel like a good place for you, and your brothers, and now your cousins too—no matter what. Even when you all would sneak out for late-night gas station runs back in the day...or whatever it is you're doing now," your uncle adds, pointedly.

Your stomach twists. "I've...been taking moonlit strolls. It's helped me relax, with everything going on."

He doesn't seem convinced, however. "Honey...you know, you can always—"

But he's interrupted by one of your cousins shouting. "Jay won't give me the binoculars back!"

Your uncle frowns. "Jay, let your sister have a turn. Only fair, you know."

Jay crosses his arms, tucking the binoculars under one elbow. "No way! Every time Bianca uses these, she keeps telling me she sees somebody staring at her in the water."

Bianca scowls, lunging for him. "And I did! Just because you didn't see him doesn't mean I didn't."

Him.

After what your uncle had just said about your moonlit strolls, you restrain yourself from running over to the edge of the boat immediately like the other day—but your eyes still scan over the water ahead of you hurriedly.

You can see your uncle's gaze flicker back to you out of the corner of your eye, hesitating for a moment too long, before turning his attention back to the twins. "You guys have seen more stuff on the horizon in the past month than I saw in twenty years on the sea," he quips, forcing a tight laugh. "Might need to get you kids back to living in the city soon if you're seeing this many things in the water—not everyone's made for the sea life," he adds.

The knot of worry tightens itself a little tighter in your gut, and not for the last time this summer.

You still smuggle your sketchbook down to the pier once night falls, slipping out the back door with it tucked securely under your arm.

Hongjoong, of course, is waiting expectantly for you, peering up at you from the edge of the dock. "Is that for drawing?" he asks, and you can hear the twinge of excitement in his voice.

Your heart does a little backflip in your chest. "Yes," you admit, a little more sheepishly than you'd meant to. "Do you know how you want to pose for it?"

He thinks for a moment. "Can I sit up here with you? I want to be close to you for it."

Oh—now there are serious acrobatics going on within your chest. "Sure," you say, grinning as you sit on the far edge and watch him scoot up to sit beside you, leaning on the support beam at the very edge of the dock.

You gaze at him for a moment after flipping open your sketchbook and finding an empty page. His tail practically shines in the darkness around the two of you, moonlight reflecting off of each dark blue scale. His torso looks practically sculpted by the gods—arms and chest full of just as much unearthly beauty as his face, jawline sharper than the tip of the pencil you're sketching him with.

Not for the first time, you think to yourself how beautiful he is.

Hongjoong's cheeks turn the fairest shade of pink as you continue to stare at him, but he doesn't say a word as you begin your initial sketch. You find it slightly difficult to get the right shape of the tail flicking against the edge of the water beneath you. "Can I ask you a question?" you say instead, putting down your pencil for a moment.

Hongjoong blinks. "You've asked me questions for weeks, now."

You laugh. "This is a different one. I...I think one of my cousins saw something in the water today. When we were on my uncle's pontoon boat. Any chance you might know something about that?"

His cheeks turn pinker than before, but he doesn't flinch. "I suppose I might."

You can't bite back a grin. "Are you...following me, Hongjoong?"

Hongjoong frowns a little. "I wouldn't call it that. I've...just been in the area. Keeping an eye on things. Not just you."

"Just at the same time as me."

"Right," he says, clearly relieved. "Exactly."

Your grin widens.

Hongjoong points at your sketchpad. "Are you finished with the drawing?"

You laugh a little, picking your pencil back up from beside you on the dock. "No, not even close. I've never drawn anything like you before—but I love a good challenge."

He seems somewhat pleased with this admission. "Will you show it to me once it's done?"

“Of course," you tell him, and he beams. That smile—God. You only hope you can put even a fraction of the way it makes you feel back onto the paper in your palms.

Your uncle corners you in the kitchen after breakfast the next morning. You feel yourself panicking inwardly at first, thinking he's going to continue pressing you on your "moonlit strolls" conversation from yesterday—but he just informs you that he's planning on a big seafood broil for dinner tomorrow night, as a send-off for the summer. And more importantly, he wants you to pick up a few pounds of shrimp from the seafood store in town today.

It's been a while since you ventured that far back into town—God, probably since the very first week of summer. And now your uncle is preparing a feast for the end of the season. You've never known time could pass you by this quickly.

That thought lingers as you ride your uncle's bike down the boardwalk and across the bridge, gradually making your way onto the mainland. You've put off thinking about what will happen once the summer comes to a close since that night you called your mother—but it's an inevitable fact that you'll have to leave, obviously sooner than you think. How can you even begin to bring that up to Hongjoong? Does he know, already, somehow? Will he be disappointed that he can't obtain any more knowledge from you and dip back into the sea, never to be seen again?

Your racing mind quiets somewhat when you realize you've made it to the seafood store—or shack, as it's always been affectionately known. You gaze for a moment at the neon sign outside, realizing that "THE CRAB SHACK" only has a few lights that actually work. "T E CR B S H  C K" is what the sign displays now. 

You remember that the lights didn't work when you were here years ago, either. The whole bottom row of neon was always out, meaning that the sign only read "T E CRB." You wonder if there's a meaning in that—that the sign was broken then and broken now, just showing it in different ways.

Or maybe it's just a neon sign for a seafood shack, and your suddenly gloomy mind is searching for meaning where there is none.

You roll your eyes at your own thoughts, park your bike, and make your way inside. The smell of seafood is nearly overpowering the minute you step through the door and doesn't fade for an instant, even after you've collected your pounds of shrimp in bags and make your way to the register in the very back. You wonder if the employee behind the counter even smells the seafood anymore, or if he's completely accustomed to it now.

He clears his throat awkwardly. Oh, God—how long have you been standing here? "Are you ready to check out?"

"Yes! Yes," you say hurriedly, laughing at yourself. "Sorry. In my own head this morning."

The cashier laughs good-naturedly in reply. "It happens." He looks down at the bags of shrimp after weighing and typing them in. "You visiting a friend here or something? That's quite a few pounds of shrimp—and I don't think I've seen you in here before."

You nod. "I'm staying with some family on the other side of the bridge. We're doing an end-of-summer broil tomorrow night."

He grins at you. "Can I come by if I only charge you for one of these?"

"If there's any leftovers," you reply coolly. "My cousins are pretty ravenous."

The cashier just laughs again, handing you the bags. "Fair enough. You have a good day, now."

"Same to you," you tell him absentmindedly—because you've noticed something in the open door behind the cashier. It's probably not meant to always be open, as it leads to a boardwalk out to the sea. Another Crab Shack employee is lining up a few crates of stock not yet loaded into the store. A couple canisters of fruit, three or four crates of sodas—and at the very end of the boardwalk, you think you might just see a head of blue hair peeking out of the water.

Shit.

You wonder as you quickly make your way out of the store, as you duck under the Sea You Later! sign at the exit, as you pedal the whole ride back over the bridge and back onto your uncle's property—a trick of the light, maybe? (When has that ever been the case this summer?) Will Hongjoong even say anything about it tonight, if it was him?

He does, of course. When evening falls and you make your way down to the dock, you haven't even taken your pencils out of your drawing bag before Hongjoong is pulling himself up beside you, gazing at you intently.

"What was so funny?" he asks, in a tone so innocent you almost think he's being genuine. "I want to know."

You make an exasperated face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hongjoong."

"The man in the store today," he answers plainly. "In the apron. You laughed at something he said."

"Nothing," you say. "I was being polite—I promise. He was the one trying to make jokes about inviting himself over. Not nearly as funny as he thought he was."

He isn't quite satisfied with that. "Did you know him before?"

"No," you tell him. "I was just in there getting shrimp for my uncle to cook tomorrow."

Hongjoong frowns. "I could've gotten you shrimp. There's plenty around that cove near the bridge."

You laugh. "I appreciate the offer—but where would I have told my uncle several pounds of live shrimp came from?"

He frowns, thinking for a moment. "The apron man wasn't too bright, I think," Hongjoong says. "I saw him come out onto the boardwalk not too long after you left—almost fell over trying to help the other apron man pick up those boxes."

His words hang in the air for a beat. Then two. "What would you have done if he had?" you ask, partially teasing and partially serious. "Drown him?"

Hongjoong ponders that. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

"For what? Talking to me?" you ask, somewhat incredulously. "What were you doing watching me in the middle of the day, anyway? Just 'in the area' again?"

He crosses his arms indignantly. "I didn't plan to. I heard your laugh when I came up for air, so I wanted to know what was funny." He seems to pause on that for a moment. "You're almost a siren yourself, in that way."

Now that makes your heart stop—maybe more than he had intended it to. You have to hide the smile that threatens to creep up the edges of your mouth. "So you really aren't going to drown that poor cashier? Or me, for talking to him?" you ask,  still only partially teasingly.

Hongjoong's face softens slightly at that. "I don't think I ever really intended to. Not from the moment I saw you."

You wonder, for a split second, if he can hear your heart thundering in your chest—if he has any idea what kind of effect he has on you, siren abilities or not.

He seems to have an idea of your thoughts, either way—because he reaches for your hand, intertwining it with his. "I want to show you something."

You stare at him for an instant too long. "Where?" you ask, nervous laughter accidentally escaping you. "In the water?"

He nods, as if that should have been obvious. "Of course."

You give him a look. "Hongjoong—I don't know how far this is, but you know I'm not nearly as good at holding my breath as you are."

Hongjoong laughs a little at that—that bright, airy, musical laugh that almost instantly sets you at ease, reminding whatever sane parts of you are left that he's still a siren. "Don't worry," he says plainly. "I'll make sure you can breathe."

Just as always, there's no malice in his tone, no hint of a hidden plot behind his eyes, although you wonder if you would even know if there was, skillful siren that he is. Regardless, you squeeze his hand in yours and let him lead you off the dock and beneath the waves, taking one last gasping breath before your head slips underneath.

Hongjoong keeps your hand in his, tail swishing as he leads the two of you further beneath the surface—the scales across it continue to reflect moonlight as brightly as if you were still above the water, giving you just as much visibility in the dark water as if you had a flashlight with you.

What's a flashlight?

You nearly let out a yelp before you remember the two of you are underwater. That was Hongjoong's voice, no doubt about it—and it was in your head.

You can talk to me this way too, you know.

It's like he's invaded your head—his thoughts are suddenly yours. Can you always hear my thoughts? you wonder. If that's been the case all along—

But you can just barely see Hongjoong shake his head in front of you through the darkness. No, you hear him say. Only when we're here, like this. Do you need air?

God, you definitely, definitely do—the shock of Hongjoong's voice in your mind had completely distracted you for a brief moment from the lack of air in your lungs. It's nothing at all, though, compared to the shock you feel when Hongjoong cups your cheeks between his hands and presses his mouth to yours.

He's kissing you.

No—he's not, you realize suddenly. He's breathing into you, pushing air down your lungs and filling them up until you feel like you can breathe again, despite being completely submerged beneath the water.

Hongjoong pulls away after a moment. Good? he asks.

You nod—you're slightly embarrassed now, especially now that you know he could hear your confusion in your head.

And especially considering the smirk you can see on his lips right before he turns back around to push the two of you further through the water. He's well aware of the confusion he's caused.

Hongjoong only has to give you air two more times before you finally arrive at what he had wanted to show you—and it nearly takes your breath away once more.

It's a shipwreck. A massive one, sitting completely undisturbed at the bottom of the bay. The ship has three broken masts, some of the sails slightly submerged in the sand with several of the cannon openings peeking out at you, which you know can mean only one thing.

This ship is hundreds of years old. One that had clearly gone down in a fight.

Hongjoong beams at you taking in the scene. My cousins did this, you hear him say, and you nearly laugh at the clear pride in that declaration.

You think about your own cousins, playing pirates on the beach while they throw buckets of water at each other, stomping over sandcastles and leaving childlike destruction in their wake. Yeah? you finally ask. Sounds like something my cousins would do.

Hongjoong stares at you thoughtfully for a long time after that—you wonder, for a brief moment, if you shouldn't have compared your family to his in this way. You're just about to formulate a thought to apologize when you feel his lips on yours again, one hand on the back of your head while the other cups your cheek gently.

You stare at him, confused once more when he pulls back. I didn't need air, you tell him, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

He stares right back. I know.

Hongjoong waits to see the realization on your face before he touches you again, clasping your chin between two fingers gingerly. He's giving you a chance to push him away, if that's what you want.

It isn't.

You hold his face in your hands when you press your lips to his this time, and you can practically feel the relief emanating from him in your own mind. He wraps one arm around your waist and the other around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as he can. Everything else—all your fearful thoughts about the end of the summer from today, your suspicions about your uncle, your constant stress about your mother—all fades away past the point of existence, and in that moment, there is nothing but you and Hongjoong at the bottom of the ocean.

"Sure you don't want to go out on the boat today?" your uncle asks the next morning. "It's your last chance for this summer."

But you shake your head again. "I got pretty sunburned across my back yesterday," you fib. "I'll watch the house here until you all get back. Do you need me to run any errands for you while you're gone?"

He doesn't quite stop himself from narrowing his eyes at you. You've been out in the sun enough times this summer that the half hour you spent in the backyard watching your cousins' impromptu performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream yesterday shouldn't have burned you at all. And you know he's fully aware of this. "...Don't know how many times I've told you kids to wear sunscreen," he says after a moment. "And reapply."

"I know," you wince. "I'm sorry. I'll put some lotion on it after breakfast."

"There's some in the closet upstairs with aloe," he informs you. "That usually speeds up the healing process for me."

"Good to know," you tell him. In truth, the only thing you plan to do while everyone is out of the house is work on your drawing of Hongjoong. You've solidified the outline, gone over it with an ink pen, but you're still trying to decide how to place the shading. You want to show the finished product to Hongjoong tonight—your last night of summer. You've put off that dreaded conversation with him until the very last minute—but you know you two will have to talk about what happens two nights from now when you're across the country, moving into your dorm room for your first night at college.

At least—you think you will be. There's a mad fantasy, of course, of staying here, of sneaking out to see Hongjoong every night for as long as you can, of running away with him somehow to some island where no one will ever bother the two of you—but it's just that, a fantasy, and you know it. Even if the entire summer has felt like a fantasy in its own way.

You don't know how that conversation will go tonight. But you want to at least be able to give this piece to him, regardless of what happens.

You're hunched over your sketchpad for hours, messing with the combination of paints for your watercolors until they're just right (or at least as satisfactory as you can get them). The scales on his tail are the hardest—you want so badly to show how ethereal they look with the moonlight reflecting off them, making him look like he's glowing from the waist down. You lay down a base color first and paint over it with different shades of blue and green, creating several different layers until you're pleased with the color's result.

Your work on the contours of his face and torso comes much easier, and the full painting is almost completely dry by the time you're heading back outside, moon high in the sky to greet you as you step onto the dock.

Hongjoong is waiting for you too, forearms resting at the edge of the pier. You roll the painting into a cylinder shape as you walk down to meet him, but you know he knows exactly what it is.

He grins. "I've been thinking about this all day," he admits, immediately, and you feel an entire enclosure of butterflies fluttering through your chest at the statement.

But you steel yourself. Take a breath. "Before I show it to you," you say, "I want to talk."

Hongjoong nods. "The end of the summer. Right?"

You raise one eyebrow at him. "How'd you know?"

"I heard you talking about it. With your uncle, that first time that your cousin spotted me from the boat." He grins a little at the recollection. "I heard him say there wasn't long until the end of summer, when you'd be leaving, so—I imagined this conversation would happen soon."

You exhale, slightly relieved. At least you wouldn't have to break the news of your sudden departure to him. "And how did you imagine this conversation?"

He takes a breath now. "I know I can't ask you to stay here. That's not fair to what you want—to the choices you've made with your own family for being able to make your own life. But I was thinking—"

"Y/N!" You hear a voice cry out from behind you.

You'd recognize the sound of your uncle anywhere—and you feel your blood practically freeze over in your veins. "Get back here. Now!"

You turn around quickly, trying to block the view of Hongjoong from your uncle—but it's too late. And as you turn to face him, you see that he's come prepared for this exact situation—a shotgun raised to his shoulder now, eyes peering down the barrel pointed at you, and a long fishing spear beside him on the dock.

"Uncle," you say, as calmly as you can. "Put that down. Please."

"Get back here, Y/N," he says, voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Get away from that thing right this minute and get out of my way."

You take a shaky breath. "Uncle, please let me explain. He's—"

"I know exactly what that is!" your uncle spits, pulling back the safety on the shotgun with a loud click. "A goddamn monster. You have no idea what those things do," he says, voice cracking. "I've seen men—good men, my friends taken from me, by its kind. Yanked right off our ship's railing and into their waiting mouths. It's nothing but a bloodthirsty animal that—"

"Stop!" you interrupt him with a shout, surprising yourself with the tenacity in your voice. You feel Hongjoong's hand wrap around your ankle, probably trying to tell you to stop—but you can't. You won't. "He's not a single thing like that. His name is Hongjoong. He's never even drowned anyone, let anyone killed and eaten anyone, Uncle. You have—"

"It's got you under it's spell," your uncle says, horrified. "Oh, my poor Y/N. I'll kill this nasty beast and free you from this trap."

You practically scream the next time you open your mouth. "No! You can't!" There's tears streaming down your face now, and the intensity of your emotions must be a surprise to your uncle, if the look of shock on his face is anything to go by. "Uncle—I'm begging you," you plead, sobbing. "I'll do anything. Please, please don't hurt him. He's my friend."

Something strange flickers over your uncle's features. He drops the barrel ever so slightly from being pointed at you. "Your friend, huh?"

You nod as you choke back another sob. "I love him." It's the first time you've admitted it—to yourself, let alone out loud—but you know it's the truth. Has been for longer than you've been aware, most likely.

That admission causes your uncle to drop the barrel entirely, holding the shotgun down in one hand and letting his other arm rest at his side. "My Y/N," he says, after a moment with a sigh.

"I've always wanted the best for you. I lived with your mother for eighteen years growing up, up until she met your father and had you and your brothers. I know how...how demanding she can be," he says with a laugh, one you don't reciprocate. "I know her tendencies all too well. She's my sister, and she'll always be my sister—but that doesn't mean I think she's a good person. I've tried to show you that there's a different path in life. That you don't have to do things her way. This...isn't what I thought you'd do," he says, laughing emptily again. "But I would never want to do anything that would hurt you on any level close to what I know she's caused you."

Your uncle swallows. Takes a breath. "I swore an oath," he says, steadier now. "In the navy. When I see anything like this, when any of us do—I'm honor-bound to report it. The local unit will be over here in under half an hour. Maybe even sooner."

You feel yourself holding your breath.

"So," he says, sighing as he meets your gaze down the dock. "You two...had just better not be here by the time they show up."

Before you can say anything in response—or perhaps before he can change his mind, your uncle turns on his heel and walks back towards the house.

You turn back around to face Hongjoong, sinking to your knees—and the minute you do, you feel tears streaming back down your face again.

He immediately pushes himself up onto the dock, grabbing hold of your face and brushing away the tears the instant they fall. "Y/N," he whispers. "You didn't have to do that. I...I love you. I would've gladly taken a bullet from your uncle if it meant you'd be safe."

Your eyes well with tears again, a shaky laugh leaving you. "Shit," you whisper back. "I don't—I don't know what to do, I just...just wanted to show you this stupid drawing," you say, laughing shakily. "And now I've ruined both of our lives. I'll never see you again."

"No. You haven't," Hongjoong says firmly, squeezing your cheeks in his hands.

You grab hold of his wrists. "Hongjoong—you have to get out of here. You...you said you have family everywhere, right? Go anywhere else. Please."

"No," Hongjoong says suddenly, straightening up the instant your hands wrap around his wrists.  "Where did you say that school you were going to for your art was?"

You tell him. "It's on the coast, but it's not nearly as close to the sea as we are here, I—"

He interrupts you again. "I'll find you."

You let out an unbelieving laugh. "Hongjoong, there's no way—"

"I'll find you," he repeats, hands still cupping your face firmly. "On the name of the full moon that night you found me—on that stupid apple that led me to you. I'll find you. And then, you can let me see that drawing."

He leans forward, his lips pressing against yours in a messy kiss—all teeth and salty tears and hands squeezing too tight, or maybe not tight enough—before he lets go of you, pushing himself off the dock and into the water. You see one flick of his tail before he descends deep beneath the surface, and it's not long at all as you sit there, chest heaving and cheeks stained, before the waves are gone and the sea stills, and it's like Hongjoong was never there at all.

Fall semester has left you busier than you could have ever dreamed. You've never done this many sketches in a week, never tried this many different techniques at once, never spent this many all-nighters on a single project—but you'd be lying if you said you weren't still enjoying every second of it.

Your job keeps you plenty busy, too—your roommate had been kind enough to put in a good word at the campus library and gotten you a job in the coffee shop on the first floor. You're taking as many shifts as you can, but the pay isn't bad, all things considered. You may not have to take a semester off after all.

But the diving club keeps you almost busier than both your work and assignments combined. You've already logged more hours than any of the other freshman, and some of the upperclassmen, too. If the club captain has noticed how you're always late packing up after a dive, she hasn't reprimanded you. Maybe she's noticed the unique shells you seem to always come back with, or the skip in your step as you pack up your diving gear, rolling a shiny bracelet over your wrist—or maybe she's noticed something else, entirely.

After all—last summer, you had been so sure that there was nothing like Hongjoong living below the water's surface. Of course, that didn't mean other people didn't already believe otherwise.

a/n: happy holidays !! i hope everyone is staying warm and healthy and having a lovely week so far <3

and finally…this title escapes my wip list 😭 y’all. i have been working on this on and off since late 2021—sometimes you can have an idea, have absolutely no inspo to write past halfway through, and then write 5k in one night. 💀 no such thing as a perfect project ofc but i do hope you enjoyed this oneshot! feedback is always welcome through reblogs, comments, and messages 🫶🫶 thank you sm for reading!

taglist: @petrichor-han @kangroo-chan @ot7lonelylover @lilacdreams-00 @mainexiii @awkwardnesshabitat @lotus-dly @elizabeth11moreno @nerdysl-t @seung-scrittore @fireheaurt

©️ noramoons 2021-2023. do not translate or reupload my writing.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

I have gone down this rabbit hole now and I'm afraid I'm never getting out. I hope I give justice to this. And sorry if this is long.

I've seen a lot of the Colin and Marina vs. Colin and Penelope analyses in here and I want to raise this parallel as to how the Butterfly ball was such a powerful move for both Penelope and Colin. We all have our issues with how they handled Pen and Colin finding their way back to each other but let me add this perspective and hope it helps us understand how real they handled the issue of LW and pushed the character development for them both.

The scene on the left is from S01e06 (Swish) and the right is S03e08 (Into the Light)

S1 scene - Violet is still in her dressing gown, obviously distraught having just read something from LW. She hears someone come down and finds Colin.

S3 scene - Violet is dressed for the morning and her face looks a combination of surprise and confusion after reading a letter. She turns around when she hears someone coming down the stairs.

In both scenes, we see Colin coming down the stairs.

S1 - we only see Colin's back. We're in suspense on what emotional state he is in but we do know that he's on his way to elope with Marina.

In S3 - we see Colin's face immediately looking determined and ready. We see Violet calling his name quite urgently.

S1 - Colin sees his mother's face looking like a combination of disappointment and anger. He asks what's happening. She doesn't say anything but just looks at Colin with a sadness that only a mother can give.

S3 - Violet pointedly says that she received a letter from Colin's wife (I love this line so much) that sounds awfully like "I need you to explain what's happening right now."

S1 - Violet hands Colin LW without saying anything and just looks so so so sad. Colin is shocked to his core because we learn that LW (Pen) exposes Marina's pregnancy and that she has been pregnant from the beginning of the season.

S3 - Colin determinedly faces his mother telling her that they had better sit. And I'm guessing that Colin tells her everything.

Where am I going with this? (Gosh, doing an analysis is hard 😂)

The first time Colin fell in love (thought he fell in love), he was blindsided. But I believe the pain he felt at that time was made deeper because his family had to save him from the situation (Anthony explaining that his actions in the scandal will affect his sisters' prospects as well). To think that it was his mother who first learned of the situation added salt to the wound because we all know that he is a mama's boy and that the one person he dislikes letting down is his mother.

The second (and last time) Colin falls in love, he once again feels betrayed. But he's fallen in love so deeply that he can't imagine his life without Pen. The struggle he goes through in understanding his emotions was very hard to watch and it's because the issue goes beyond his and Pen's relationship. It extends to his family.

Colin's hero complex goes beyond feeling worthy of Pen's love but also worthy of the Bridgerton name. We see it several times in S3 when he mentions it in his confrontation with Portia (" I advise you not to sully our Bridgerton name...") and when Pen tells him that Cressida discovered her secret ("It will besmirch our Bridgerton name. The entire family").

The whole sequence in the study is now more significant because of what Pen addresses in their conversation-- Colin's family ("Your family... the one you so kindly shared with me, they are too good").

Pen's "sacrifice" ("But I can no longer conceal the biggest piece of information I have. My identity."), I believe, was to save the Bridgerton family (once again) and she asks Colin to stand by her as she formulates and executes this plan.

It was very important that Pen wrote a letter to Violet directly and that Colin was there right after she's read it to explain everything. From this point on, they were a team. From this point on, Colin moves in parallel with Pen instead of against it. Colin finally sees that version of Pen that she's always been even while she was LW-- the person who was always determined to save his family just as much as he does.

From this point on, their goals were aligned.

10 rewatches after, I finally see how Colin found his way back to Pen. It wasn't very obvious to me how he got over the feelings of betrayal after he discovered Pen was LW. Of course, him reading the letters help but the events leading up to the Butterfly ball, helped him see her as both Pen and Lady Whistledown and the overflowing pride we see on his face was heart-melting to watch.

From this point on, they finally see each other eye to eye. From this point on, they finally accept this version of each other.

If you got to the end, thanks for reading my humble musings.

*Editing to add this: The Butterfly Ball deep dive series