#ANYWAYS. I’ve been stuck at home because foot injury and I think I’m starting to go crazy

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A series of four portraits made in red pencil on a soft yellow background. From top left to bottom right: Sibir, an Asian person with long hair and a scar on their eyebrow; Lisandro, an indigenous-Latino man with partial heterochromia in his left eye, wearing earrings; Idali, an indigenous-Latino, heavyset woman with curly hair and several beauty marks on her face and neck; Tesias, a person wearing an intricately filigreed mask with the left eye covered in mesh.]

Haven’t tried semi-realism in so long these almost took me out. Will Smith pose. TKP cast!!

[gladerwolfstarkimagines]

Imagine leaving the fire nation with Zuko when he was banished and helping comfort him when he’s having his breakdown.

Your years of banishment had been pretty uneventful at first, just travelling the seas and every corner of the earth looking for the avatar who didn’t exist. Then he suddenly did and your life was turned into an endless chase. You honestly didn’t care that the avatar was the biggest threat to the fire nation but as it was Zuko’s mission to capture him you helped. Then after Zuko’s many failed attempts Ozai sent Azula and you went from being the hunters to the hunted. You, Iroh and Zuko all had to go into hiding and Zuko took it the hardest. He’d been in an awful mood for days but when Iroh offered to teach him lightning bending he perked up and put all his effort into learning the skill.

You however, were more than happy to stand and watch from a distance. You had always been scared of lightning and although you’d done a good job hiding it in the palace (if you showed it you knew Azula would constantly do it so you managed to stifle your flinches) you still didn’t want to get too close. So you stayed by camp preparing food for later when suddenly you heard yelling. You stood up and frowned to see Iroh and Zuko arguing. Zuko was clearly angry at Iroh and pushed past him storming away. You ran over to Iroh and watched as Zuko stalked away from your camp. “What happened, what’s wrong with him?”. Iroh sighed “he wanted me to fire lightning at him but I refused and now he’s heading out into the middle of a storm”. You frowned looking up at the sky, it was drizzling but it didn’t seem like storm weather. "I’ll go after him, see if I can get him to calm down" you suggested and Iroh nodded “thank you y/n”.

As you rushed after Zuko you were hit with the irony that this was what you always seemed to be doing. Following Zuko around, trying to calm him down, but that’s was friends did. When Zuko was banished you weren’t sure if it was the thought of being truly alone in the fire nation or just all the pain and sadness you knew he must be feeling but for some reason you demanded to go with him. The whole point of a banishment was to make people leave not stay and so you managed to talk your way into accompanying Zuko easily. You helped Iroh nurse Zuko back to health from his injury and it was really hard at first. When his burn was fresh it was so angry and painful but Ozai didn’t let you have the royal physician work on him. It was mainly up to you and Iroh and you did everything you could. At first the main worry was if Zuko would lose his eyesight or even his eye but Iroh managed to save both. When Zuko did wake up he was in excruciating pain constantly and it killed you to see him lie so clearly wreathing in pain but refusing to show it. He thought he deserved it and that killed you further. You wanted to shake him and yell that it wasn’t his fault, that it was Ozai’s but Zuko had a problem seeing who his father was. You’d given up trying to tell him and for the sake of your friendship decided to just support him, Iroh assured you Zuko would eventually realise the truth of everything and you prayed he was right.

You continued following Zuko but through the countryside but he was moving very quickly and you struggled to gain any ground on him. Soon Zuko disappeared from your view altogether and you just carried on hoping you’d find him. Iroh was right and soon the light rain turned into a downpour. Then the lightning started and you jumped every time a bolt boomed across the valley. If it was anyone else the lightning would’ve scared you off but Zuko was your closest friend, you had to find him. Your foot slipped as another lightning bolt lit up the sky and you sighed but continued to follow the direction Zuko had gone in. You were beginning to give up finding him when you came to the top of the hill and saw him stood on a cliff edge. You paused taken back at the sight and then you realised what he was yelling. He was  screaming for lightning to hit him, sobbing and yelling at the storm to strike him. He looked the most broken you’d ever seen him. Even worse than when he was first banished, at least then he’d had a mission he pretended was reasonable, now as a fugitive hiding from Azula as well as the earth kingdom he didn’t have that. He didn’t have any hope. Zuko was broken and Ozai had done this to him. The thought alone brought tears to your eyes and reaffirmed the fierce protectiveness you felt for him. "Zuko!" you yelled through the storm and somehow he heard you. He turned around shocked before returning his gaze to the lightning "what are you doing here y/n?". "I’m making sure you’re not doing anything stupid like trying to get hit by lightning". Zuko didn’t respond to your joke "go back y/n" he said simply and you paused. "No i...Zuko this is dangerous the storm is really close". "So go" Zuko said yelling at you now. He was angry at the world and you were the nearest thing for him to vent it through.  "I don’t want you here i didn’t ask you to come with me! If it’s so dangerous then go! You never should've come here with me anyway, you should be back in the fire nation not here with me". "Wait why is this about me leaving the fire nation with you?" you asked and Zuko glared. "Because you and my uncle are always so selfless, it makes me sick! You changed your whole lives for me, you helped me recover from my burn you both try and appease me but it’s useless! I will never accomplish my mission, i will never be able to take us back home! I’ve ruined both of your lives and seeing you trying to help me makes me sick with anger. I can’t fix it y/n, i can't repair the damage, i can’t get my honour back, I can’t" he yelled and collapsed on his knees shaking with tears. You wrapped your arms around him and held him as he carried on sobbing. "No wonder father prefers Azula i’m useless! Useless, useless" he carried on hitting the ground with his fists until you grabbed them so he couldn’t. Zuko kept repeating the world useless however and so you just held onto him tightly as he cried. Eventually he stopped talking and just sobbed into your neck. You were crying too seeing him so defeated and just held onto him tightly. The rain was mercilessly pelting you both but you didn’t even register it, you were too focused on what was happening to your best friend. "You’re not alone and you’re not useless" you told him "we don’t care for you because we think you’ll save us but because we love you, you are worth it Zuko" you told him raising his face to yours "you are worthy". Zuko just stared so you hugged him again and Zuko clutched you tightly. The rain showed no signs of stopping and after a close lightning bolt you managed to get Zuko to stand and come with you. You found shelter in a small cave and led him inside. Zuko collapsed on the floor as soon as he was inside and you helped him lean against the side of the cave. He was shaking and still crying so you wrapped your arms around him again. Zuko leant into you and you patted his back trying to soothe him. Finally Zuko stopped crying but he didn’t move away from you. You supposed he needed the comfort and had no intention of denying him that...but you were still so close to all the rain and cold. Your feet and hands were freezing and you were itching to make a fire and move further into the cave. After waiting as long as you could you spoke softly "Zuko we should make a fire....you’re freezing". Zuko got off you without a word and followed you as you walked further into the cave. You found the makings of an old campfire and the wood lit instantly. Zuko moved closer to the fire and sat hunched over his knees. You came to sit beside him and silence settled. You were sure he must be hungry and searched through your bag for some food. It was soaked but you managed to find an only slightly damp packet of fire flakes at the bottom. You opened it and held it out to Zuko. He glanced at you over his shoulder and you shook it "we won’t be able to travel in this weather so we'll be stuck here for the night, i’m sorry but this is the only food i have". Zuko sniffed "it’s okay" and took a handful. You both sat munching on the food quietly until it was all gone. You added the packet to the flame and tried warming your hands on the fire. "You’re shivering" Zuko noticed and you shrugged "it’s okay". "No it’s not, you’re soaking wet and trapped in this cave all because of me". You shook your head "not because of you, yes i choose to follow you but not because I had to. I did it because i wanted to, i’m not your responsibility". Zuko shrugged "i guess but you wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me". You knew he actually meant this whole situation not just the cave and sighed worried he still blamed himself. "Maybe but we are here so the only thing to do is to make the best of it, how about we try to sleep? Things will look better in the morning". Zuko didn’t reply but you laid down close to the fire and hoped he’d copy you. "Make the best of it" you heard Zuko mutter "okay". Zuko suddenly grabbed your shoulders and began dragging you to the side of the fire nearest the cave opening. "What are you doing?" you asked laughing and Zuko smiled "making the best of it, if we have to sleep here then you should be near the fire but we also need to make sure it doesn’t go out so we’ll block the wind with our bodies and still get the benefit of the fire”. The wind blew angrily against your back and you frowned before Zuko sat down putting himself between it and you. He blocked the cold and the fire’s warmth was more noticeable. "Better?" he asked and you nodded "thanks". A massive lightning bolt struck right outside the cave and your whole body jumped. Zuko laughed “what was that?”. “I...I hate lightning”. “What since when?” Zuko asked and you shrugged “since forever, i can usually hide it when i’m safe inside but when I’m in the middle of a storm....” you trailed off when another bolt struck and you flinched again. They seemed to be getting closer. Zuko smirked “it’s okay it can’t get us in here”. You nodded “i know that but...”. Zuko paused and cautiously put an arm around you “does this help?”. You managed not to blush but you couldn’t look at his face. “I...yes”. Zuko nodded and he smiled slightly before pausing. "Y/n about today....". "It’s okay" you said immediately but Zuko shook his head. "No it’s not, i didn’t mean to yell at you but i did and that was wrong. I’m so sorry". "You were just upset" you shrugged and Zuko nodded "i was but you are not the person to direct that at, all you and my uncle have ever done is be there for me, even changing your whole lives for me and i guess i feel guilty about that, like i’ve dragged you down with me". "You didn’t drag me anywhere i came willingly and so did your uncle because we care about you, you don’t have to be held responsible for that, we don’t hold you to that and so you shouldn’t. We made our decision and neither of us would change it". "Really you’d still decide to follow me out here in the storm?" Zuko asked with a smirk. "I’d like to say yes but i can’t feel my toes". Zuko laughed but noticed you were indeed still shivering. Zuko moved closer to you again and tightened his grip on you. You didn’t manage to hide your blush this time but luckily Zuko was looking away to also hide his own blush so he didn’t notice. "Thank you" Zuko said suddenly "that’s what i’m trying to say....i don’t know what i did to deserve someone like you in my life but somehow you’re here and i want to thank you, i don’t do it enough but thank you for being with me, for not giving up on me, it means a lot". "I’ll always be here for you" you smiled. "Really?" Zuko asked smiling, you knew he was joking but could also hear the sharp undertone of his voice, that part that was seriously asking, scared you didn’t mean it. "Always" you nodded and laid a hand on his cheek. Zuko’s blush deepened and you pretended not to notice. "We should go to sleep” you smiled and Zuko nodded still pink "erm good idea". You lowered your head against his chest to hide your smirk at Zuko’s awkwardness and folded into his side. With the rain pouring outside and the warm fire you were actually very comfortable. Zuko seemed to be too and you smiled as he stroked your arm absentmindedly "goodnight y/n" he said softly and you smiled "goodnight Zuko".

[kevindayisafrog]

Jerejean because I fucking love them, okay 🧎‍♀️

TW - anxiety, injuries and hints at past abuse

“Hi, I’m Jeremy Knox, team Captain and I’m here to pick you up”, Jeremy stuck his hand out with the widest grin he could muster whilst being glared at by the new recruit. He took in Jean’s bandages covering his neck and snaking down his shirt, the ends poking through his shirtsleeves. His eyes were sunken and he had the darkest eye bags Jeremy had ever seen. “Yes, I know. We’ve met before at games”, Jean slapped the offered hand away and shifted his duffel bag to his other shoulder. “Here, let me get that”, Jeremy made to grab the bag, but his quick step forward made Jean recoiled back so fast he tripped backwards onto the pavement. Jeremy swooped down and quickly caught the taller boy before he slammed completely onto the ground. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking”, he carefully pulled Jean back upright and took a large step back. “Just get me out of here”, Jean’s cheeks were burning red as he clutched the bag’s straps with a white knuckled grip. Jeremy nodded and blushed as he quickly turned on his heel to lead Jean away from the airport towards his car. “You can throw it in the back”, Jeremy unlocked the car and popped open the boot, stepping back as Jean literally threw the bag in. He heard the passenger door slam shut as he closed the boot door and let out a shaky sigh, “lord, give me strength”, he muttered as he made his way to the driver’s side, plastering a wide smile back on as he got into the car. “By the time we get back your new kit would’ve arrived, so we can go there first to try it on or wait until you’ve put your stuff in the dorm”, Jeremy started the car and tapped his fingers on the wheel as he waited for Jean to answer, “you’re sharing with me”, he continued when he was met with stony silence. Jean grunted and stared out his window, watching the airport fade into the distance and a long strip of road replaced it. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”, Jeremy looked over at Jean who just shrugged his shoulders and rested his head against the window. Jeremy nodded and turned back to watch the road as he blindly plugged in his phone and turned it up. They sat in silence as Jeremy’s road playlist filled the car with an array of mixed genres until Jean grunted and turned his head to shoot him a death glare. “I cannot listen to this shit, you have a terrible taste in music”, Jean picked up the phone and skipped through a load of songs before settling on a Mother Mother one, “this’ll do”, he muttered as he settled back in his seat. Jeremy smiled to himself and turned the volume up again as he watched Jean bop his head in his peripheral vision.

“Home sweet home”, Jeremy unlocked the dorm door and stepped aside to let Jean through first. “The walls are yellow”, Jean looked around himself and glared at Jeremy in disgust, “and the carpet is green, it doesn’t match”. Jeremy huffed a laugh and dropped Jean’s duffel bag just inside the door. “Do you want to see the bedroom? Oh, you have the bottom bunk by the way”, he lead Jean into the bedroom with pink walls and a purple carpet stained with coffee he dropped in his freshman year. “Your color scheme makes my eyes burn”, Jean looked around the room and quietly muttered: “at least it’s not red or black”. Jeremy glanced at him sideways until he noticed Jean watching, “anyway, the bathroom is just off the side and the kitchen is back through the lounge. Do you need anything to eat or drink?” Jean shook his head and sat down on his bed, “I need my bag”. Jeremy frowned before turning and quickly leaving the room to grab the bag. “I’ll leave you to freshen up, I’ll just be in the kitchen making lunch”, Jeremy carefully placed the bag on the floor and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Jeremy hummed and swayed his hips as he poured pasta into two bowls, throwing pieces of spinach on top. He leaned over the food and turned the dial on the radio to blare the music as he danced over to the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice. “Jesus wanking Christ”, Jeremy gasped, bending over and clutching his chest. Jean stood in the doorway silently with his arms crossed and a blush burning his ears a dark red, “you looked like an idiot”. Jeremy nodded his head as he straightened back up, “well I would’ve been a dead idiot, Christ, you scared the shit out of me”. A small smile tugged at the corner of Jean’s lips, sending an odd flutter through Jeremy’s chest. “Anyway, I made pasta for lunch..and orange juice”, Jeremy smiled a toothy grin and held the juice triumphantly above his head. “I said I didn’t want to eat”, Jean looked over at the pasta and frowned, “and that portion could feed the whole team”. Jeremy looked at the bowls piled high with food and waved his hand dismissively, “it’s good for you so it doesn’t matter, do you mind grabbing the glasses from the cupboard above the sink?” He balanced the orange juice, two forks and both bowls in his hands as he slowly passed Jean in the doorway and walked over to the dining table in the lounge. He placed the bowls at opposite chairs and took a seat. “Why do you only have three glasses if this a dorm for four people?”, Jean’s thick accent curved around the door and left a hot chill running down Jeremy’s spine. “Um...I always drop glasses and bowls, I have butter fingers”, he replied, picking up his fork and twirling it between his fingers. “I grabbed the two without scratches”, Jean walked over to the table and settled onto his chair, pushing the orange juice towards Jeremy who poured it into their glasses. “Do you like the dorm?”, Jeremy shoveled his food into his mouth and spoke through it. “Christ, you have no manners”, Jean grimaced and gently ate a mouthful. Jeremy smiled openly and quickly closed his mouth as Jean looked away in disgust. “Sorry”, he laughed as he swallowed the food, stabbing a large amount onto his fork, “you didn’t answer me”. Jean rolled his eyes and took a sip of his juice, “I hate the colors and the mattress is too thin...I hope the court will be more..”, he twirled his wrist as he thought of the word, biting his bottom lip as he did so. Jeremy took a sip of his drink to hide the annoying blush that crept along his cheeks. “Pleasing? Is that the word? I don’t know”, Jean shrugged and took another bite of pasta, tapping his fingers against his glass. “You’ve been on the court when you came to play us a few years ago”, Jeremy cocked his head to the side as he pulled his fidgeting knee up to his chest. “Yes well, I’ve never been on your side, have I?”, Jean looked out of the dorm window and watched a flick of seagulls squawk past.

“Do you know what you want to study here?”, Jeremy rested his chin on his knee as he played with the last bit of food in his bowl. Jean looked down at his bowl and hummed as he thought, “i have always wanted to be an architect..”, his voice was quiet as placed down his fork and pushed his bowl aside. “Take it as a subject then, there’s nothing stopping you”, Jeremy tapped his foot against the floor as he took in Jean’s sudden vulnerable posture, “why do you want to be an architect?” Jean shrugged and took another sip of his drink, “I’ve always wanted to make better buildings that are accessible for everyone”, he scratched his thigh and smiled a childish lopsided grin, “and you know those benches that are anti-homeless? I’ve always wanted to demolish them and make comfier ones that are for homeless only and not public use. I’d only make them for temporary use though whilst I make little homes or apartment blocks that are free for people who can’t afford homes or need shelter”. Jeremy felt his heart burst as he wrapped his arms around his knee, “that’s a really sweet idea, I love it”. Jean cleared his throat and straightened his back, “yes, well it might be impossible so..”. Jeremy frowned and shook his head, “I don’t think it is, I think that you’ll be able to pull it off. I believe in you”, he smiled widely at Jean before standing up and collecting the dishes, “I’ll wash these and then we can head to the court”. Jean nodded quietly and stared down at his hands as Jeremy left the room and turned the radio back on.

[myrandomfandomramblings]

A Chenford fanfic - in which Lucy and Tim dance at Angela’s wedding

Angela and Wesley’s wedding had gone off without a hitch due in no small part to Tim’s work as ‘Man of Honour’. Now his job was done and all he had to do was “go have some fun. Enjoy the rest of the night.” That had been a direct order from the bride herself. However, Tim had enjoyed having a role, a purpose, making sure his best friend had the special day she deserved. Now he didn’t know what to do with himself, so he sat alone at his table. 

Throughout the rest of the reception the table had been full, occupied by Sergeant Grey and his wife, Jackson, Nyla, Nolan, and Lucy, but they had all quickly taken the dance floor when that part of the evening had begun. Tim on the other hand had insisted he didn’t dance and stubbornly stuck to that every time Lucy returned to the table for a drink and tried to convince him to join her and the rest of their friends. Tim had no desire to do the Macarena, YMCA, cha-cha slide or whatever other weird dance moves they were rocking when the song didn’t provide instructions. He was pretty sure he saw Nolan do the sprinkler, Jackson do the worm, Lucy do the running man and even Nyla get in on the absurdity with some disco moves. And that was all just during the last song. 

When the song changed, so did the vibe and the moves. It was a slower song, ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift, Tim thought. Although he didn’t know how he knew that and definitely would deny it if anyone asked. Everybody on the dance floor had now grabbed a partner. Most of the couples were either closely pressed together simply swaying on the spot or doing the classic square step pattern as they carried casual conversations. The exception was Lucy and Jackson who appeared to be improvising an elaborate dance routine that involved very exaggerated facial expressions and an excessive amount of spinning and dipping each other. Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at his lips. The reason for the over-the-top performance became more clear to Tim as the night wore on. 

Every time a slow song came on Lucy would grab a new partner:  one of Angela’s brothers, Nolan, another one of Angela’s brothers, Nyla, and every time she would step on their feet so many times that by the end of the song they were limping and she was beet red, apologizing profusely.  She even managed to give the second brother a bleeding nose when she abruptly looked up from her feet and her head collided with his face. So when the next slow song came on, John Legends’s ‘All of Me,’ Tim found himself standing up from his seat and walking towards the dance floor. He couldn’t handle anymore secondhand embarrassement. 

Tim had taken dance lessons to prepare for his first dance with Isabel. That felt like a lifetime ago but he was confident he still remembered the basics of the Waltz and he was determined to teach Lucy and make her the best dancer there. After all, he had yet to find something she didn’t excel at given the chance to learn especially when he was the one doing the teaching. 

It didn’t take him long to find Lucy. Unsurprising, considering, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t taken his eyes off her all night. She was once again dancing with Jackson but this time they were in proper hold and it appeared Jackson was trying to teach her how to not step on her partner’s feet. 

“Mind if I cut in?” Tim asked as he approached the pair. Their shocked expressions suddenly made him self-conscious. What had he been thinking. Before he could really overthink it Jackson was leaving, saying something about having to use the bathroom anyway, and Lucy’s hands were on his shoulders.

“I should warn you,” Lucy said looking up at him, “I appear to have to left feet. I’ve been injuring my dance partners all night.”

Tim placed one hand on the small of her back and took her left hand in his other. “I’ve noticed,” he smirked, “and I’m here to help. Do you trust me?” 

She gave him a questioning look but nodded.

He spent the next couple minutes slowly guiding her both with his body and voice. “Step forward with your left foot. Your other left. Good, now forward and to the right with your right. OK but on a diagonal, you don’t have to go forward then right. Now bring your feet together. Ow! that was my foot. Left to right, not right to left. Now left foot back. And right back and to the right. Now feet together again, right to left. Good and now we are back where we started and we just repeat. Left foot forward…” 

Lucy was just starting to get it when the song ended and ‘Party in the USA’ came on. Tim went to let go of Lucy but she held him where he was.

“I’m just starting to get the hang of it. We can’t stop now,” Lucy stated, “please stay.” She fixed him with those puppy dog eyes he couldn’t say no to so Tim obliged and continued coaching her. 

The only problem was the pump-up pop beats that the DJ was currently favouring were significantly louder than the slow song they were initially dancing to, which meant Tim found himself pulling Lucy closer and leaning down, practically talking right beside her ear so his instructions could be heard over the music. Even when she no longer needed the verbal cues they stayed that close, caught up in their own little world as they moved in unison. When another slow song finally came on, ‘Perfect’ by Ed Sheeran this time, Tim felt Lucy tense like this was some sort of evaluation. He squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear. 

“You’ve got this, and I’ve got your back.” He felt her relax and they quickly fell back into the now familiar routine. When the song ended she pulled away from him slightly. 

“I did it. An entire slow dance and I didn’t cause a single, even minor, injury,” she beamed, staring up at him clearly proud of herself.

Tim smiled and shook his head. “Only because you had such a great teacher.”

Lucy rolled her eyed and playfully pushed his shoulder. “So what’s next?” she asked.

“Next?”

“Yeah, I got the walk in a box thing down but there’s got to be more to it than that. Show me the cool moves Tim.”

Tim didn’t think twice about fulfilling her request. They spent the rest of the night in each others arms as they slowly mastered more and more steps. When the DJ announced the final song of the night it was 3 am and they had the entire dance floor to themselves. 

Shania Twain’s ‘From This Moment On’ began playing, and they glided around the dance floor like they were dancing on air, perfectly in sync. They stepped and spun and dipped and swayed as Tim tried to memorize every moment. The way Lucy’s eyes shone when they met his and the little smile that played on her lips. The playful laugh that escaped her when he lifted her off the ground. The feeling of her hand in his, of her head on his shoulder and her breath on his neck. The warmth of her body pressed against his and her familiar scent overwhelming his senses. Then the song ended and the beautiful trance was broken. Tim drove Lucy home. She thanked him for a wonderful night and neither of them ever mentioned it again. At least not for another couple years when they finally addressed what had been building between them and started dating. Then dancing became a common part of date night and a few years after that they got to show off their moves at their own wedding.

[harry-leroy]

End of the Earth, End of the World, and Towards a Bright New Future! Pasio Legendary Telepathy AU  @cinnabunni5123 - I wrote more of the fic you gave me for the ask because I got inspired! (Also not me having at least 20 more fic prompts in my asks - I will get to those haha). Because you’re not familiar with Masters - it’s essentially a mobile game where all of the trainers from the various regions come together on an island called Pasio to compete in the Pokemon Masters League (PML). Each trainer is also paired with a pokemon to create a “sync pair” and you can collect trainers in the game (it’s a gacha game). Team Break is the evil team on the island - they want to steal Pokémon (so the usual evil scheming...). Lysandre and Sycamore just came to the game a few weeks ago! (and Leon just came yesterday!) 

- note: Malva is not technically in Masters (yet), but I couldn’t find someone better for Lysandre to talk to about evil plans heheheh. Also I have no idea how housing works in the game, so I just gave everyone accommodations I think they would have (Hoopa kinda controls things on this island so I felt like anything goes?) 

Anyway, hope you enjoy! Leaving below the cut for length + descriptions of injury! 

The room was hot, approaching uncomfortable. Augustine’s vision started to blur and everything got loud. The colors were... too much. Brilliant. Jarring. Hallucinatory. There they were, in the middle of Lysandre’s elegant foyer. 

“Xerneas,” Augustine managed to get out before he dropped his drink and collapsed on the ground. 

Those around him gasped or screamed from the sudden shock of it. Some moved out of the way. Another asked if there was a doctor nearby. One man moved the poor professor out of the way of the broken glass, though there was already blood dripping down his fingers. 

“What happened?” Lysandre pushed himself through the crowd. When he saw Augustine, his heart dropped. “Professor! Move. Out of my way,” 

He knelt down besides Augustine, who was stirring out of his stupor. It was then that Lysandre noticed just how tired the professor looked. 

“What happened to him?” Lysandre took hold of Augustine’s bleeding hand while he craned his head back on the crowd. 

“He just... fainted, I suppose,” one man said. 

Before Lysandre could snap at the man, Augustine touched Lysandre with his other hand. 

“Lys,” he said. “Don’t,” 

Lysandre looked back into the professor’s eyes, tired and sick. Augustine gave a little smile. Take me home, his eyes said. 

“Please excuse me while I make sure the Professor is all right,” Lysandre said to his guests, nodding to two of his household staff to take Augustine to an empty room. There were plenty of them, Lysandre knew, though he settled on the guest suite. 

The two helping Augustine set him down on an armchair. They had removed his jacket and draped it across the back of the chair. While one was about to bandage up his hand, Lysandre took the bandage away. 

“Leave us,” he snapped. 

“Sir,” they said in unison before closing the heavy oak door behind them. 

Lysandre wasted no time in getting to work on Augustine’s hand. 

“You should have told me you were ill,” he said, aware that Augustine’s eyes still looked hazy. 

“I wasn’t,” the professor protested, weak. “It just got so hot, and -“ 

“You’re worried about something,” Lysandre stopped his work for a moment to pose the statement. 

“I’m always worried about something. What’s new?” Augustine said. He was coming back around. 

“You need a break from your work. A day to rest. Stay at home. I’ve been begging you for months,” Lysandre started. 

“I can’t,” Augustine shook his head. “I can’t,” 

He then began to cry. It was soft, weak, barely there. 

“What’s wrong, my love?” Lysandre brushed Augustine’s hair aside out of his face. He was met with bright blue eyes, almost shockingly blue. 

“I’m losing my mind,” Augustine said. “This... thing!” 

He became exasperated, pressing his half-bandaged hand to his forehead. “It’s keeping me up at night, Lysandre. It’s poking me in the skull. It’s telling me something and I don’t know what it is,” 

“Shh,” Lysandre gently took the professor’s hand and continued working. Augustine pulled it away. 

“No,” Augustine snapped. “I don’t want you telling me to be quiet. You wouldn’t understand this,” 

“Then try to make me understand,” Lysandre said. 

“I’m... I’m cursed,” Augustine said, burying his head in his hands. “The day I went into the cave, I saw Xerneas. I saw them. I keep seeing them, but not in the nice way that they’re supposed to appear. It was like... like they’re sick. They needed help,” 

“Help?” Lysandre asked. “From what?” 

“I don’t know,” the professor pressed the backs of his palms into his eyes. “That’s what’s been keeping me up,” 

“Gus,” Lysandre took Augustine’s wrist, gentle, so that he saw one bright blue eye, “I know that you’re the Kalos regional professor, but these are legendaries you’re talking about,” 

“So?” Augustine took his hand away again and held it with his other healthy hand. He quickly began to run his fingers along the gauze. It was comforting to him, despite the wound being tender. “It’s not like it’s forbidden knowledge. Kids know about the legendaries. They’ve chosen people below us, you know,” 

“I see you’ve got some of your vanity back,” Lysandre had risen up to pour himself a drink. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Augustine said. “Why don’t you believe me?” 

“I never said that,” Lysandre noticed a slight tremor to his hand as he poured his drink. He contemplated getting one for Augustine, though he stopped himself. “I merely want you to consider what happened to you. You were stuck in that cave for hours. If this is Xerneas, trying to communicate with you as you say, what do you intend to do about it? I might believe you, but who else will?” 

Augustine was silent for a moment. 

“There might be someone,” he sighed. “I don’t know. I want to go home now,” 

“Of course,” Lysandre said. “You must be tired. I’ll get a taxi for you,” 

“No,” Augustine rose and put on his jacket. “I want to walk. I need to clear my head,” 

“Are you sure?” Lysandre asked. “It’s late,” 

“I can hold my own,” Augustine said, opening the door with his bad hand in the haste of it all. He bit his tongue. “Thank you for a nice evening,” 

****

The road was long to get back to his tiny hotel on Pasio. It was dark, chilly. Augustine still felt weak from his earlier episode. He placed one foot in front of the other and tried to focus on that. 

There were others who had teamed up with legendaries on Pasio, sure. None of them, however, had succumbed to symptoms such as the ones he had been dealing with. It was always a gentle, special moment. Solgaleo could be as playful as a Lycanroc, he remembered Kukui telling him as they watched Scottie and Hau battle on the mountain at sunrise. Ho-Oh and Silver met with a teasing nudge on the elbow. Zinnia and Rayquaza had met like old friends. Why was the giver of eternal life killing him? Who else would believe him? 

He stopped by a street lamp and pulled out his Poryphone- it was still taking getting used to, though he kept the Holo Caster in his coat pocket for comfort. 

“Calem?” Augustine began. “This is Professor Sycamore. I don’t mean to worry you...,” 

He began to lightly kick the lamppost, anything to distract him from the stabbing pain in his head and Xerneas’s cry ringing in his ears. 

“I’m fine. I just need you and Serena to come to town tomorrow. I’ll be waiting in front of the café at noon. I have something I want you two to look into for me,” he continued. “I don’t want anyone else. Come alone. Uh huh. Goodbye now,” 

He hung up. Way to keep the kids out of this mess. The pounding was getting worse. He was getting hot again, despite the cool air. Taking off his coat and jacket only did so much. 

“Xerneas,” Augustine stopped and pressed both palms against his temples. “Stop!” 

There was a cry. Brilliant light. Much like before. When Augustine looked up, he saw them. A great beast, regal, with magnificent horns shining through the darkness. 

“Xerneas!” he called, his head was white hot with pain and possible fever. “What are you trying to tell me? Why do you keep calling out to me? I can help you! You just need to stop hurting...” 

Faster than he could realize, Augustine felt the scrape of pavement against his face and palms. Xerneas was gone. He had fainted again, from what he could guess. It took him a few moments before he was able to sit up again, though when he did, he jumped back. 

“Hello,” a quiet voice said. “My partner told me that you were hurt,” 

“Um, I’ve been better,” Augustine tried to shrug it off. That would only get him so far. Lysandre’s voice echoed in his mind at that moment, though the young man standing before him was far different than Lysandre. He was young, gentle; there was something safe about him. 

“Come on,” the young man stretched out a hand. “We’ll get you to a Pokémon center,” 

“No,” Augustine managed to get up nearly by himself. “No, that won’t be necessary,” 

“My partner says you’re in danger,” the man said. 

“Partner?” Augustine asked, though it only took moments before he traced them in the dark. “Huh?! Is that... Zekrom?!” 

“Yes,” the man said. “Don’t be scared. They won’t hurt you,” 

“Who are you?” Augustine said. 

“My name is N,” the man said. “I’m from Unova,” 

“N...,” Augustine said. “You said Zekrom told you about me?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. “I can hear the inner voices of Pokémon. It’s my gift,” 

“And mine is overwork,” the professor attempted to walk past, though found himself too dizzy. Zekrom caught him with a wing. 

“Please let us help you,” N said. “The center is not far. You’re injured,” 

Augustine brushed a hand to his face when he found it ticklish. Blood dripped down on his fingers. 

“Please,” N said. Then a gentle smile came across him. He reminded Augustine of Lysandre, perhaps a decade ago. Augustine strangely felt like he could trust the man. It was only for scrapes after all, though what did N mean by danger? 

“Sure,” he said. “Lead the way,” 

****

“How could I be so foolish?” Lysandre said, pacing the room with a drink in hand. “Letting him off into the cold like that?” 

“Sometimes separation is best,” Malva said casually as she stirred her own drink. 

“I’m worried about him,” Lysandre said. 

“You’re always worried about him,” Malva tossed her head back. “You haven’t told him, have you?” 

“What, that I can hear Yveltal?” he snapped. “Absolutely not,” 

“Why? I thought this was all part of your brilliant plan?” she asked. 

“It is,” Lysandre stopped and looked out the window of his lonely house. “Only I don’t think he’ll like it. Telling him that I want him to rule my perfect world...” 

“When has this stopped you before?” Malva asked. 

“This time it’s different,” Lysandre said. It was all he could think to say. 

Malva set down her drink. 

“So what are you going to do? Watch him be driven mad thinking he’s hallucinating a ghost legendary?” she asked. 

“You were there when I first met Yveltal,” Lysandre didn’t take his gaze off of the window. “It’s a power you need to control. He just doesn’t have control yet. Gus is smart. He’ll figure it out,” 

“Maybe he needs someone there,” Malva said. 

“No,” Lysandre said, though only after hesitating a moment. “Malva, I can’t tell him. He’ll hate me,” 

“Then rethink your plan, genius,” she snapped. They were both drunk. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “No, I can’t tell him,” 

He left his drink on the table and walked out of the room. 

    ****    

“Took a fall, did you?” Nurse Joy asked when Augustine sat down on the examination table. 

“Something like that,” he said. He looked to N, who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. He was brought back when he felt Nurse Joy touch his injured hand. 

“What happened there?” she asked. 

“I dropped a glass,” Augustine said. “I think,” 

She continued to examine the hand before taking off the bandages. He winced. Lysandre had been careful with dressing it, though it hadn’t done him any favors. His fingers were swollen. 

“I see,” she nodded and said something to her Chansey. 

“I don’t mean to bother you,” Augustine said. “Especially when you’ve been so busy with the league tournaments,” 

“Bothering me?” Nurse Joy asked before laughing. It was genuine, warm.  “This is my job. I like getting human patients in once in a while. Gives me someone besides Chansey to talk to,” 

“Right,” Augustine said. “You wouldn’t happen to have something for a headache, would you?” 

“I think a place to rest for the night would be more beneficial,” N spoke up. “It’s late,” 

Before Augustine could speak up, Nurse Joy let go of his hand and gave a little bow. 

“Of course,” Nurse Joy said. “I’ll get on that right away,” 

Chansey returned with a Leavanny and both gave a nod to Nurse Joy. 

“Leavanny will take care of your hand,” she said. “I’ll go get some keys for your rooms. Please stay as long as you like,” 

Augustine could only nod politely before she left and Leavanny began poking at his hand. He expected more pain, having it stitched up like this, but there was a delicacy in Leavanny’s work that no person could emulate. It made him think of his days with Rowan, growing fonder and fonder of research. Still, the pain in his head prevented him from looking. 

“I can’t really stay, you know,” Augustine said. 

“Why not?” N asked. 

“My hotel isn’t far,” the professor returned. 

“I hardly trust you’ll get good sleep in a hotel,” N said. “I’ve traveled too much to know. Besides, Zekrom was worried about you, so I am too,” 

“You hardly know me,” Augustine said. “I haven’t even told you my name, and yet -” 

His Poryphone rang. He had no choice but to put it on speaker. N sank back into his spot on the wall, looking down at his feet. 

“Hello?” he asked. 

“Professor?” it was Serena. She was worried. 

“Yes, Serena,” Augustine said. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’ve got to come quick. Those Team Break guys have taken your Bulbasaur! I don’t know how it happened, but… I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. 

“Calm down,” he said, feeling an uncomfortable poke in his hand and wincing a little. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ve gotten somewhat… tied up,” 

“I’m near the base of the mountain. Hurry! I don’t know how much longer I can wait!” she said before hanging up. 

N looked up, determined and urgent. 

“I’m going to help,” he said. 

“With what?” Augustine asked, impatient to get his hand finished with. 

“Your Bulbasaur,” N said. “I can’t let Team Break get away with this,” 

“No,” Augustine said. “It’s my Bulbasaur. I don’t expect you to -” 

“It was nothing about expectation,” N said. “I just can’t let them do that,” 

Augustine nodded. 

“I’ll be back by morning,” N said. “You should get some rest. It seems that you’ve had a long enough day,” 

He left through the door and nearly bumped into Nurse Joy. 

“Heading out already?” she asked. 

“I am,” N said. “But make sure that he stays here. I’m worried about him. I should be back by morning,” 

“I’ll try my best,” she said. 

“That’s all I ask,” he said as he exited the doors to the center. Without hesitation, Zekrom followed him from behind. 

“We need to go to the mountain, friend,” he said. “Another friend is in trouble!” 

From behind the desk and through the glass windows, Nurse Joy watched them ride off into the night sky. 

[ldaoec]

Misinterpret.

I compared you to a war time injury wrote a poem describing how I survived you, like some people survive natural disasters or trips to jurassic park I wrote a poem comparing you to a phantom limb and you text me two days before my birthday taking that poem as an invitation to start talking again. I bring this up as a point of conversation a middle ground a way to explain and describe the lapse in communication the no-mans ground where your understanding of the English Language and my understanding of the English language pass each other like ships in the night which is to say I am as intuitive and insightful as you are ignorant and bad at interpreting poetry

Before you call me mean say writing bitter poetry is just “what you do” let me explain I loved you like a super nova I loved you like picking a stuffed animal from a claw machine beating the system and taking you home even if the stuffed animal was worth less than the price of the tickets to play the game, I loved you like a choice like, “this one is mine” like, “I see his faults, and I chose him anyway.” I loved you as a friend, expecting nothing in return and, yes I slipped stumbled developed feelings for you but I loved you for you. I love you in such a way that two years later-- and I’m not proud of this-- that love is still causing phantom pains a seizing in my heart when I think of all that I had or, at least, thought I had in you. When I think of the person you were or the person you seemed to be and how I lost that like some people lose their footing slip and tumble down a hill Jack and Jill and then nothing, in those moments, my heart tightens the lingering pains of heartache that nothing, no poetry, no therapy no catharsis seems to get rid of so that I’m stuck, in part in this limbo this slow, deep well that I fell into and have been slowly, painstakingly pulling myself out of poem by bitter poem insight by insight trying to heal the broken pieces of a heart that will never trust the same way it did, when I first met you You are not good at interpreting poetry, so that is to say I loved you not as an accident something I fell into but a choice someone I saw for all his faults and “worst thing I’ve ever done” and I chose to love you anyway I loved you, at one point, romantically, but, predominantly I loved you platonically a love that gets and expects nothing in return a love, I think, more meaningful than romantic love. I loved you in the way love is supposed to be felt in a way that I have not healed from in the two years since you chose her over me. This is how I loved you. And, so, when you told me you loved me had feelings for me and for her I didn’t chose to break your heart I didn’t disregard your feelings but rather you said you loved me and showed me in technicolor that that wasn’t true that you didn’t know what love was and that your crush was easily dissolved by a night spent in bed with another girl “I just held her,” you said telling me you had feelings for me and asking if you should buy flowers for her my god I know you lack insight that you maybe don’t misinterpret so much as chose to interpret things to suit your needs like convincing yourself breaking my heart all over again was a good birthday present. but how on earth did you ever think telling me you had feelings for me and feelings for another girl would turn out any different? Even if I still had those romantic feelings even if I was still in love with you would you really want me to love someone who loved somebody else? did you not care about me enough to want me to have someone who loved me, only me, because no one else could compare? I don’t hope you’re happy with her. I don’t have to It is enough that I don’t wish you harm And, I don’t Heartbreak, sometimes A part of me thinks it is cosmically unfair that, two years later, I am still writing fucking poetry about a boy who broke my heart and you’ve been with her for two years I’m indifferent to your happiness providing it doesn’t come from her be happy have your family and go to space but the ending of you and her getting your happily ever after when as I see it it came at the price of a thousand broken pieces just doesn’t seem fair to me Two years later and I still have a lot of healing left to do a lot of processing until I can say I’m over you but I think wherever you are in life you don’t have the same problem I think you are done healing all healed up moved on probably don’t think about me or check up on me which means you’ll never hear or read my poems because I loved you I chose to love you and you never loved me and so you move on you end up happy with the girl you chose and I end up with hundreds of poems and I end up learning my worth and I end up knowing that is is better to be alone than to be with a boy who never loved me in the first place.

Kiwi Foster © 2/8/21

[potatowitch]

in which hawke finds a cat: chapter 1 (read on ao3 here)

On a walk through Lowtown one freezing Kirkwall winter, Hawke, Merrill and Isabela find a grumpy stray cat in need of healing and a warm place to stay. (warnings for mildly graphic descriptions of pet injury - it gets healed though)

“Look, Isabela, all I’m saying is that us poor Fereldens -”

“Not so ‘poor’ anymore, sweet thing.”

Hawke snorts and rolls her eyes, huddling closer to Merrill and Isabela to share warmth as they trudge through an endless ocean of sleet.

Winter in Kirkwall is a miserable, wet affair. The freezing winds coming in from the Waking Sea have a way of getting through armor and clothes and reaching right down to your bones, and the torrential rains turn anything below Hightown into a muddy, flooded mess. Lowtown is almost deserted as a result, occupied only by a few exhausted, shivering merchants manning their shabby stalls and the odd beggar sleeping fitfully on a street corner. Hawke wonders how they don’t freeze where they lay - the stone ground is so cold that even Merrill and Fenris both conceded to wearing boots today. She shakes the thought from her head as she walks.

“-right, well, us Fereldens tend to think that salt is too spicy, so you can understand why Anders looks at your stews like they’re about to attack him. He did choke on a whole chilli pepper last Wednesday.”

“Okay, but that was pretty funny, though. The shade of red he went was absolutely adorable.”

“Are you kidding?” Hawke says with a wide grin. Her face underneath her dark fringe has gone pink with the cold, and the skin of her lips has started to crack. “It was hilarious, but we’ve got to feed the man somehow. He already doesn’t eat anywhere near -”

“Vhenan, wait,” Merrill interrupts.

The three of them come to an abrupt halt outside of a gloomy alleyway. The wind is less harsh where they stand in the shadow of the tall, worn buildings, though it still manages to carry Lowtown’s signature scent of blood, sweat and shit right into Hawke’s nostrils.

“What is it, kitten?” Isabela whispers.

“Can you hear that?”

Hawke holds her breath and listens intently to the scraping of weathered wood, the howl of the wind, and … a low, coarse “mow” coming from the alleyway.

Hawke and Merrill turn to each other, faces split into wide grins, before taking off down the alleyway and dragging Isabela behind them by the wrists.

The sound seems to be coming from behind a heap of rotting crates and moth-eaten sacks. Hawke heaves them aside, revealing a large grey tabby with a snaggletooth, a long scar over her pink nose and notches taken out of both ears. She’s curled up by the wall and shivering, and she hisses and puffs up as they approach, but doesn’t run away. As Hawke crouches in front of her, she can see why - the cat has her tail stuck under a pile of heavy terracotta bricks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” coos Hawke, completely ignoring the swipe the cat aims at her when she reaches out. “Can you two see if you can move these bricks? I’ll hang on to her so she doesn’t get away.”

By the time they’re done shifting the bricks, Hawke’s face and hands are covered in deep scratches, and both Merrill and Isabela have fallen victim to a few flailing swipes from the distressed cat, who growls furiously as she’s swaddled in Merrill’s scarf and held tight against Hawke’s chest. Half the bones in her tail seem to be crushed - it’s crusted with old blood and hangs limply out of the scarf. One of her paws has also succumbed to frostbite, the fur matted with ice and the pads blue-black where they should be pink.

“Poor baby,” Merrill sighs, reaching over to wrap the scarf tighter around the cat. “I wonder if she’s got a home and a family somewhere. They must be missing her.”

“She looks pretty feral,” Hawke says. She tries giving the cat a scratch on top of her head, and is promptly bitten and hissed at. “Come on. We should bring her to Anders. He can at least deal with the frostbite and properly amputate the tail.”

Merrill and Isabela nod their assent, and Hawke leads the way through the sleety, stinking streets towards the elevators leading to Darktown.

The elevator creaks and whines as they board it. The chains and gears are covered in a layer of ice, and it takes Merrill melting it with a small handheld flame for the controls to finally release and begin their descent into the undercity. Stepping off at the bottom, they’re assaulted with the sounds of metal hitting metal, wailing children and arguing refugees along with the foul stench of waste, decay and desperation. Unlike Lowtown, Darktown is still full to the brim with people huddled around sputtering fires, hunched over as they soothe their starving babies or upend the contents of their stomach into a corner. Hawke, Merrill and Isabela are watched suspiciously the entire time they walk through the twisting alleys, but they’re visibly well-armed enough that no cutthroats or gang members seem in the mood to risk a confrontation.

The outside of Anders’ clinic is surprisingly free of people. Most winters, Hawke has to push past a swarm of refugees needing food for their children or healing from a mine accident, a spare blanket and somewhere to shelter from the cold. Stepping inside, she sighs with relief as she’s hit with the warmth from the heating rune Anders has scratched on the ground underneath his desk. The clinic unfortunately doesn’t smell much better than the rest of Darktown, but the sharp tang of elfroot and lyrium cuts through the stench enough that it’s a little easier to breathe inside than out.

Every cot in the clinic is occupied, and Anders himself kneels in front of a cot on the back wall, hunched over an elven child’s wounded leg. The child’s mother looks on, shifting anxiously from one foot to another as shredded flesh knits back together under Anders’ hands. When he’s done, Anders murmurs something to the child that makes her smile, and he hands her mother the threadbare blanket from the cot.

As he rises and turns, Hawke can see how purple and hollow his undereyes are from where her, Isabela and Merrill stand in the clinic’s doorway. His hand shakes as he pushes it through his scraggly hair, leather tie long since lost in the chaos of his work. When his eyes finally fall on the three women hovering awkwardly by the door, he frowns and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Hawke, unless you’re actively dying, I really don’t have time for - what’s that?”

Anders steps forward and peers curiously at the bundle in Hawke’s arms. As Hawke tilts the cat forward a little to show Anders, she puts her ears back and growls at him.

“Oh, hello gorgeous,” Anders croons. The frown immediately lifts from his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he beams down at the cat. She hisses in response.

“Where did you find this sweetheart?”

“In an alleyway in Lowtown,” Hawke says. “Had her tail crushed under a pile of bricks. Her back paw has frostbite, too.”

“Poor thing. Bring her to the back room and I’ll have a look at her.”

The back room is separated from the main clinic by a cracked, rickety door. Inside is dark and cramped, the only furniture a rickety table and chair, a cracked washbasin, a dresser with a wonky door and a bed far too small for Anders’ lanky frame. The bedclothes have been stripped, likely given to a refugee, and the wardrobe door hangs open to reveal the inside is empty save a few spare bandages and potions. Anders must have moved all his clothes to his room in Hawke’s estate.

Anders deadbolts the door and closes the wardrobe. “Put her on the table.”

The cat, to her credit, doesn’t immediately try to run when Hawke lays her on the table and pulls away Merrill’s scarf. She instead backs up to the far edge of the table and raises her hackles, spitting and swiping at Anders’ hand as he reaches for her.

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay,” Anders murmurs to her, braving another attack on his hand to investigate her injured tail. His hand glows a muted blue as he hovers it over the worst of the damage, and his brows draw together in a frown. He does the same to her frostbitten foot, and lets out a heavy sigh.

“The good news is I’ll only have to take off half the tail,” he says. “The bad news is that the foot will have to go too, and she’s seriously dehydrated and malnourished. She can’t go straight back out onto the streets once I’ve healed her.”

Hawke considers this for a moment and shrugs. “That’s fine. She can stay with us.”

Anders’ eyes light up and he stares openly at Hawke. He barely seems to notice when the cat nips at his hand. “Really?”

“Really. Weren’t we talking about getting a cat, anyway?”

“We were,” Anders says. “But I thought you’d prefer one less …”

“Hideous?” says Isabela.

“Grumpy?” says Merrill.

Anders scowls.

“Hey! She’s adorable, and she’s only lashing out because she’s scared and in pain! You would be too! She just needs some love and care and I’m sure she’ll be an absolute softie in no time.” Anders tries to scratch under the cat’s ear, and is rewarded with another bite. His hands are already littered with tiny wounds that he’ll have to clean later to avoid infection.

“Well then,” Hawke chuckles. “Once her foot and tail are dealt with, you can bring her back home. Don’t get too excited, you’re the one who has to give her a bath.”

Anders beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling again. He looks happier than Hawke has seen him since … well, ever, really.

“That’s not a problem, Hawke.”

[sylvain-writes]

Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 6/9

Rated: T

Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family.

for @melodiousmelodrama

Maybe Mikey should have called ahead to say you were coming down. Maybe you should have asked permission from Leo, their appointed leader, to enter their new home. But Mikey invited you and you hadn’t heard from Leo in almost two weeks. Maybe Leo shouldn’t be shutting you out when all you’ve ever done is be there to help.

The platform looks great. Donnie’s setup spans the entire western wall. You think he must run himself tired going up and down the line, but the skateboard under his feet helps him make it a quick and easy ride from one end of his work station to the other.

“Raph’s down there, probably.” Mikey waves down the tracks. “Streets have been kinda quiet. It makes him uneasy. 'specially when we know the Krang are out there, but we can’t find ‘em.”

“Dare I ask about-”

“Leo? Heh. He’s probably training. Sensei has him working on finding balance." Mikey walks the rail with ease, one foot in front of the other. "You see, Leo’s been all kinds of bent outta shape since he walked out on you.”

“Leo didn’t walk out on anybody, Mikey,” you say with a frown.

With a leap, he turns to you. “Anyway! Leo’s been having some trouble focusing so… he’s in the ha'shi.”

You let Mikey lead the way up the opposite end of the platform until you hear a stern voice barking commands. “Find your center, Leonardo. Strength, speed, stealth… these are things that can waver, can fail, and still you keep focus on your path.”

“Yes, Master Splinter.”

You watch, with Mikey, from the edge of the small room. It must have been designated for another track, but it’s far more run down than the one Leo chose for his family.

Leonardo’s muscles strain and tremble as he holds himself on the ropes suspended overhead. His twin swords cut through the air like a dance.

“He’s really something else.”

“Huh?” Raphael comes up behind you smelling every bit as bad as Mikey promised he would. “Oh, yeah, he’s a real piece o’ work.”

Raphael raises his voice as he claps for his brother, “Good work, Leo! Nice form, brutha! Dropping that left still, but you’re comin’ around!”

All the cajoling doesn’t break Leonardo’s focus for an instant.

“I wonder if he even notices I’m here,” you say to no one.

“You ain’t said Hi to our guest yet? Come on, man, we raised you betta than that, Leo!”

Leo does a double take at his brothers, at you standing between them, and loses concentration. All it takes is one instant of distraction to have him falling from the ropes onto his shell.

“Ha ha!” Raph and Mikey bump fists.

Seeing they made Leo fall, you figure Splinter is going to have it out for the younger turtles, but the sensei's frustration is focused on Leo alone. “You mustn’t be so easily distracted, Leonardo. Clear your mind.”

Leo sits up and shakes off the shock of impact.

Splinter follows Leo’s line of sight to you. “This is the cause of your distraction? Of your failures? This human?”

You don’t think you should be insulted. You’re the outsider here. And if what Splinter is saying is true, then you’re dangerous. You’re dangerous if your presence means Leo’s unfocused, if it means that Leo has been making mistakes.

You swallow hard and bite your tongue and wait for Leonardo to say something. To stand up for you, to throw you under the bus. To say anything that would give you a clue as to how to respond.

“You. You.” Splinter points his gnarled staff from you to Leonardo and then raps it against the cement at his feet. “Speak. Communication. Trust. Honor.”

You think there will be more. More explanation. More reprimand. But Splinter taps his staff against the floor again, and then he’s gone. You think he walks out. You’re pretty sure he walks out. He can’t just disappear. Can he?

Your eyes are drawn back to Leo at the sound of him shuffling on the straw mat. “He’s right," you say, wishing you didn't have to. "If I’m a distraction, I should stay out of your way.”

Leo rubs his shell as he stands. “Then why did you come?”

“Mikey… he-”

“Mikey? Of course it was. Of course it was Mikey, or Donnie, or Raph.”

There's an accusation in his words. It fans your frustration with him into anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leo huffs, throws up his hands, and gathers up his katanas from the ground.

“You’re never around, Leo. They look out for me and my family. They kept their promise to look after us.”

Leo's eyes are piercing. He sheaths his swords at his back without dropping his gaze. “I kept my promise.”

“Then where have you been?”

“I stayed away. The Krang is looking for me. I’m not going to lead them back to you. Not again." Squaring his shoulders, Leo faces you head on. His words are stiff. But he places a hand over his heart, and you remember the soft warmth of that hand under yours.  "I swore I would protect your family, on my honor. And I am doing that. By staying away, by keeping my brothers close. But you…”

“Me? What about me? I’ve offered you everything. And you pushed me away." That day on the mat, when everything was broken but Leo held you close, feels like it was a lifetime ago. "So, what? You’re mad that I made friends with your brothers? They were there, Leo.”

Leo wrings his hands in front of him as he begins walking forward and back. When his paces draw him near, you can see the tightness in his jaw, the flush of his cheeks, the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “Mikey’s been upset since we came down here. I thought it was just the move, but it was more than that… He opened up to you.”

“And you’re mad?”

“He opened up to you! You’re a stranger!” No, it isn’t anger in his voice.

“I’m a friend,” you say softer. “To them and I thought to you too.”

“I’m their brother. Their leader.: He presses his lips together and you think, maybe, his chin is trembling. You think, maybe, there is sadness in his wavering tone. “They're supposed to come to me. I’m supposed to see when they need me.”

“Sometimes people need a friend though. To talk to someone outside of the family, someone who isn’t their older brother.” After that moment in the old dojo, Leo must understand what it is to hide. “Mikey didn’t go to you because... he can see you’re doing the best you can. That you’re trying so hard to hold it all together. Didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

"You don't know us like that. You don't get to have us like that. He's my brother. My responsibility."

Raising a hand to hold his, to comfort him like the night when the Lair was destroyed, you come forward. "You take on so much, Leo."

But he considers your outstretched hand with a hard stare. "No. You think you know me. You're too familiar. You saw what you shouldn't have seen."

"It's not a weakness to need someone sometimes."

"I don't need you. We don't need you."

You stare at Leo and let what he says really sink in, for him and for you. Your parents taught you to notice when someone is hurting. They instilled it in you to help when you can. But you won’t stay where you’re unwanted.

With a nod you acknowledge Leo’s rejection. Though his words expressed his wish to be left alone, he pales as you take a step back. He inhales a sharp breath as you withdraw your support. But when you walk away, he doesn’t ask you to stay.

Splinter waits for you at the edge of the mat, staff in hand, scowl in place.

“He doesn’t want to talk,” you say. You’re tired. You’re tired of giving yourself and being cast aside.

Splinter’s voice is deep and broken. “Then make him listen.”

You turn. And without taking any steps toward Leo, you raise your voice to grab his attention. "I'm going to help Mikey with his room. He misses Raph. That's the big secret. He isn't used to having his own room and he isn't sleeping through the day.” Leo doesn’t even look up. Too focused on polishing his swords.

You sigh before continuing, hoping he’ll listen. “He's hurting, not because you did anything wrong or because he's mad at anything you did. He's just having a hard time with the transition. If Raph agrees, we're gonna make windows between them so when Mikey needs to, they can hear each other."

At that, Leo pauses his work. "They'll keep each other up. Pick on each other until I come down on them."

"Is that what they used to have?"

Leo wipes his blades with a cloth and shrugs.

"Then maybe that's what they need, for now."

Leo’s quiet for a long while. You consider leaving, but something in your gut tugs you to go over to him instead.

He still hasn’t lifted his gaze, when he grumbles, "How did you get so smart?"

Your self-deprecating laugh comes out in huff. "I'm not.” You remember that night on the roof, when you should have run, but moved closer to the action instead. “I saw a fight between mutants and an alien and got caught. I'm reckless."

Leo offers the barest shake of his head. "You saw Mikey was hurt. You stuck your neck out for us.” There’s a glance where your eyes meet and you forget to breathe. “You got a big heart."

Your response is a whisper. "Right back at ya.”

There's a pause, a quiet. When Leo's cloth runs down the blade again, it doesn't feel like he’s putting on a show. Doesn’t feel like he’s trying to ignore or dismiss your company. It's routine. He's caring for his blades and you're there with him.

You take a seat on the mat and pick at the laces on your shoe. "Heart's not a bad thing, y'know. Loving your family, it's what drives you. I've always admired that about you."

"My family needs me. I have to think with my head, not my heart.” And just like that, Leo’s starts building his walls of defense, brick by brick. “I've seen what thinking with one's heart can do to a person. Passion clouds the mind.”

Leo rolls his shoulders, focuses on his task as he strengthens his resolve. "I fight because to walk away would be cowardly and shameful. It would bring dishonor to my family.” You wonder if those are his true beliefs or if they’re ones drilled into him by his father. “I fight because I am able. I am strong where others are vulnerable."

It breaks your heart to hear him pit strength and vulnerability against each other, as if they are mutually exclusive. "A reed before the wind lives on, while mighty oaks do fall.”

Leo gives only a hum in reply.

“It's ok to be vulnerable every once in a while. Better to bend than break.” You move closer to him as he oils the pommel. “Leo, you used to let me see you. Really see you. What changed?"

You place your hand on his blade and push it away with easy pressure. "Leo."

He lays the sword and cloth on the floor and looks at you with open palms. "I don't know if I can be both."

"Both?"

There’s a different kind of tension in his shoulders. Not the kind that he wears when he’s closing himself off, but the kind he wears when he’s trying to open himself up. "I don't know if I can be the man who teases you into getting hearing aids and still be the leader my brother's need in a fight."

The corner of your mouth lifts in an easy smile. "Leo,” you say, relief and affection moving through you like a wave, “you'll never be the tease. You'll always be the one pretending not to listen.” His frown twitches, and you take his hand. “But you'll hear me."

"How do you know?"

"Because you heard me all the other times. When I asked you to let my family help yours. When I asked for your trust. When I asked you to trust your brothers with the new Lair. You listened now, when I told you about Mikey."

Leo takes your hand in his and draws you to your feet. He pulls you in until you're standing close enough to hear his breath. "I'm supposed to look after my family."

"And maybe sometimes you can let me look after you."

Leo's expression turns soft. His eyes lose the last remnants of their walls and his head tilts as he assesses the sincerity in your voice.

“You came into our world and turned it upside down,” he says. “I don’t know if I can.”

Despite his words, Leo inches closer. His hands slide up your arms to your elbows. His fingers curl around your arms as he takes a trembling breath.

Your hand rises to his chest. Pauses over his heart before it moves to his cheek, briefly brushing the edge of his frown. “It’s OK… if you don’t need me. But if you do-”

You’re hushed by the feeling of Leo’s thumb caressing your cheek. You’re stilled by the sensation of his hand smoothing down your hair. “If I do,” he says, waiting for you to fill in the rest.

“Then I’m right here.”

The quiet spell is broken when Donatello rushes into the gym, skidding to a stop at the edge of the mat.

Leo pulls away from you quickly and strides to his brother, ready to take a report. “Sitrep, Donnie.”

“The-the-the Krang. Leo, they’ve hit the city. Leo, they… they…” His gaze locks on you before his face twists to a mournful scowl. “They must have known we’ve been getting help from humans. The apartment was attacked.”

[panda-noosh]

the missing part {George Weasley x Reader}

Words: 10.5k

Summary: The trio becomes a pair.

Genre: angst

Warnings: mentions of death - grief - this is also a platonic fic so if you’re looking for some good good romance, you might not wanna waste your time with this one. 

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - THIS IS A SAD ONE BOYOS 

----

You receive the news shortly after everything happens.

   The change to the wizarding world is a physical one. Wizards all over the globe can feel the difference, even though they weren't at the scene, even though news has yet to break of the details describing what really happened that evening in Hogwarts. People are cheering and screaming victory in the streets, because everyone just knows. Everyone is breathing normally again. Everyone is safe.

  It's excitement that claws at you first and foremost, because you're stuck in that head space where nothing feels wrong. Voldemort is dead – you know it, the world knows it, everyone is okay. You celebrate with a glass of wine, too absorbed in this massive victory to think of the sacrifices that must have happened to make it happen. For tonight, all you want is a chance to bask in a freedom you have not felt nor experienced in many, many years.

  But the euphoria can't last forever. One problem has been taken care of, and now there is room for more to trickle in.

  You receive the letter the next day. You wake up from a wine-induced sleep to the sound of the owls beak tapping against your window; you retrieve the letter with a hopeful mind and trembling fingers, because it has been so long since you've received a letter that isn't a warning of the Ministry getting closer to your home, or a newspaper reporting news you do not want to hear, news so false and manufactured it made you start buying The Quibbler just for a real taste of what was happening in the outside world.

    You open the letter at your kitchen table, and this is something you will always, always remember, a moment that will forever be locked in your brain due to the trauma – genuine trauma – it swept upon you. Over a glass of milk and a bowl of cereal, you read the words Fred is dead, scribbled in the handwriting of Molly Weasley.

  You read it over and over again, just to make sure your mind is not playing tricks on you – you would be less surprised if you suddenly found out your months of isolation had made you gone insane, because it seems most impossible that Fred Weasley is no longer alive, no longer with you, no longer laughing and smiling and brightening up a room with his twin brother at his side.

   Through your heartbreak, this thought leads you to the even more heartbreaking thought of the twin that is still doing all those things – George. How his world must have shifted, how he must be feeling. You remember sitting beside him back at Hogwarts, listening to him and Fred speak at the exact same time – back then it felt so weird, and you'd cringe and tell them to stop; now, however, you can barely stomach the idea of not hearing their synchronised sentences.

  You write back, asking Molly if there's anything you can do, sending your condolences without making it obvious you are completely and utterly crushed. She replies shortly, saying she wants you there for the funeral, George wants you there for the funeral, Fred would want you there for the funeral.

  And you don't want to go. Call it selfish,cowardly, but you don't want to. Standing beside his casket, surrounded by his family and friends, will make it real. When you're huddled in your home, away from it all, it's easy enough to pretend Fred is sat at The Burrow, celebrating the same victory as the rest of the wizarding world, the victory he played a part in.

  Nonetheless, you arrive at The Burrow the very next day.

   Molly opens the door before you've knocked, having clearly heard the faint pop of you Apparating in her front garden. A gnome runs right for your knees, but Molly shoves it away with her foot before dragging you into a bear-like hug; you can see she's been crying furiously, her eyes swollen, her face having aged a number of years in the space of a day. Her hug, though, is just as you've always remembered it, arms tight around your neck, body swaying slightly from side to side as she whispers unintelligible things in your ear.

  She pulls away and holds you at arms length; you can't imagine what she must be seeing. That young wizard she used to babysit is gone now, replaced by someone harder, someone more refined and experienced. She's not the only one who has aged a great number of years in such a short space of time.

  “How are you?” is the first thing you can manage to say.

  And already the tears are flooding her eyes again, like the question has triggered some memory she cannot fight off. Her lower lip trembles, and she humours you with a small nod before she wraps her beefy arm around your shoulders and guides you into the warmth of a home that should not be able to hold so many people but does so anyway.

  There they are – the Weasleys, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, all stood in the kitchen. They're chatting, but the conversation is hushed and it ends as soon as you make an appearance. Harry is the first to stand, offering you his hand for a handshake he is too young for; you roll your eyes and tug him into a hug. He grunts against you, but you don't even care – it has been two years since you laid eyes on the Boy Who Lived, and a handshake will simply not cut it.

    “You made it,” Hermione says, approaching you once Harry has stumbled off. She wraps her arms gently around your waist. “How was the trip?”

  “Easy enough,” you reply, lips pressed into her hair.

  “Where have you been all this time?” Bill asks.

  Still holding Hermione close, afraid of letting go lest she takes your composure with her, you say, “I've been hiding. Just a flat in Hogsmeade; a pure-blood owns it. He let a bunch of us Muggle-borns stay with him until it all died down.” You glance at Harry. “You feeling alright?”

  He nods. “Just. . . Still tired, I guess.”

  You can understand that; though you know the newspapers will never do the scene justice, you were able to gather the basic jidst of the events that took place in Hogwarts only a few days prior – the deaths, the injuries, the horrors so many young kids have seen and will now never be able to erase from their memories.

  “Well,” Molly exhales shakily. “I'll get the kettle on. Y/N, you must be starving. How does a bit of stew sound?”

  You nod, giving Molly a grateful smile before your mind zones back in on where you are, what you're here for. Instinctively you search the room for any sign of your best friend – the one that's left – and it's not exactly a surprise when you see he is not there. The rest of the Weasleys are – even Percy, who sits in the corner with his legs folded over one another, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands. He looks up at the feel of your eyes burning into him, surprising you by nodding towards the back door.

  You raise your brows, but follow him out nonetheless. Percy and you never truly got on – he was Fred and George's bossy older brother, and that was always what you left it as. Whenever he decided to abandon the Weasley name for the sake of his precious minister, you lost what little respect you had for him.

  Now, however, it's difficult to keep that attitude up; the other Weasleys all look exhausted, but Percy looks a little ill, stumbling over the final step the two of you descend. You grab his elbow before he can fall, and he shakes you off in his attempts to pretend he hadn't nearly fallen face first onto the concrete.

  He turns to look at you when you're a decent enough distance from the house. “I wasn't sure if you were going to be here.”

  “Of course I was going to be here,” you reply, startled by the croak in his voice, as if he hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks. “He was my best friend, Perce.”

  “I know. I know he was, but – just – with everything that happened. Mum wasn't even going to send you an owl. She was just going to let you enjoy the celebrations with everyone else. It was Dad who had to step in and tell her you had a right to know.”

  Your stomach flips. “Well I'm glad she told me. I'm – I'm glad I can be here.”

  Percy nods, looking off into the distance. “Has anyone told you what happened?”

  “No. I'm not going to make you relive it if-”

   “I was there when it happened. I watched the curse hit him.” His voice breaks, and that drives it home for you; Percy Weasley, usually so composed and professional, is struggling to form a sentence right now. He can't even bring himself to look in your direction.

  You step forward and touch his elbow, as if that will cure anything, take away his pain. His eyes close at the feel of your fingers.

  “I'm so sorry,” you mumble.

  “Yeah,” he replies shakily. “I got the bastard who did it, though.”

  You force a smile. “Good.”

     “And you know what the most fucked up part of it is?” He opens his eyes and looks at you. “My first thought wasn't even Oh God, my brothers dead. It was Oh God, George is going to be heartbroken.”

  Your lower lip trembles before you can stop it, before his words have even properly processed; it's heartbreaking to hear something like that, a blow to the gut you were not prepared for.

  Percy laughs, cold and dead. “Can you believe that?”

  “Yes,” you choke out. “Yes, I can. Where is George?”

  “In his room. He didn't want to see you yet.”

  It doesn't even hurt your feelings. You completely understand, considering you're not entirely ready to see him just yet, either.

  You glance over at the front door; everyone is beginning to gather round the kitchen table. Arthur pops his head in the window and beckons for you and Percy to hurry up; you give him a thumbs up before whirling back to Percy and grabbing his hand. He starts, eyes widening, but you hurry on before he can say anything.

  “What happened to him, Perce? What happened to Fred?”

  Percy pauses. “He was dead before he even hit the floor, Y/N. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

   You inhale shakily; you cannot cry, not right now, not whenever dinner is being served and his family has pulled themselves together. Percy pulls you into a tight hug when he sees the struggle for peace on your face; you asked for that detail to see if it would help, to see if stripping the mystery from the equation would help you heal a bit quicker, but it doesn't. Now all you can imagine as you walk back into The Burrow, tucked under Percy's arm, is that curse blasting Fred's chest cavity apart, his forever smile fading away for good.

  ---

  The next morning arrives, and you are still yet to see George.

  Molly apologises a grand number of times for his absence, but you brush it off every single time – you understand. He's healing. He's suffering, trying to process this just as much as you are. Seeing you after so long apart will only bring back fresh memories, and you don't want to be the reason behind his breakdown.

  So you keep your distance, helping Molly and Ginny with breakfast before heading out into the garden to help Ron and Charlie clean up bits of shrapnel that had been left behind from Bill and Fleur's wedding, shrapnel they weren't able to clean up with everything going on.

  Charlie keeps the conversation up, forever the chatterbox. Ron humours his older brother with little bits of laughter sprinkled in here and there, but it's obvious he wants nothing more than to just sit in silence for a little while.

    As the morning rolls into the afternoon and jobs become scarce, you find yourself walking around the garden on your own. Once upon a time, this used to be the playground for you, Fred and George – three best friends who had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, an entire summer on their hands. Your parents never outwardly disowned you after you received your letter to Hogwarts, but they were always weary of you afterwards, as if expecting you to snap at any given moment. Their fear gave you an excuse to spend the two months of summer holidays at the Weasley's house, where you, Fred and George would play Quidditch for hours on end, hiding from Molly when you could just tell she wanted you to do a job for her.

   The memories come back to you in waves, and it hurts, but you force yourself through it, because you'd much rather remember the good times spent with Fred than sit and concentrate on the fact there will no longer be any more of those good times.

   You arrive at the tiny square of grass you used to use as a make-shift Quidditch pitch; George would haul the bins over and enchant them to float high enough in the air that you could trick yourselves into believing they really were Quidditch goal posts. You would always be Seeker, because you were good at that, and Fred and George would play against each other with the Quaffle, yelling insults that had Molly emerging from the house, threateningly waving a wooden spoon in their direction. You could never hear what she was saying from so high up, but maybe that was for the best.

  You place your hand on the fence, gazing out at the square, so unused and untouched. A gnome scatters across the centre of it and dives into a hole on the other side; you don't even try and grab it.

  The sound of footsteps makes you freeze; after months of being in hiding, any noise you cannot immediately identify has you on edge, though this is something you're trying desperately to combat; Voldemort is dead now – he doesn't have to control your life any more.

  “Mum told me you were walking about on your own, you little loner.”

  George's voice is like a song. Your favourite song. A song you haven't heard in years, but one you love no less than when you heard it every single day.

  You glance at him over your shoulder; he's still in his pyjamas, red hair stuck on end, lips chapped and cheeks sunken. His skin looks pale – paler than it usually does – but he's still smiling when his eyes meet yours. You know it's not real, but you appreciate his attempts nonetheless.

  “Yeah,” you reply. “I was just getting a bit of fresh air.”

  “Nothing fresh about the air around here.”

  “It's better than being inside.”

  George shrugs. “I didn't get the memo.”

  You hollow out your cheeks, turning back to the field. “Harry told me about your ear.”

  “Oh, did he? Did he happen to find it lying about somewhere, 'cause if so, I'd love to have it back.”

  “He said you lost it. It got blown off or something.”

  George hums. You can see his knuckles tightening on the fence, and you silently wonder if you've perhaps said too much; maybe he doesn't want to talk about that time.

  “It was Snape,” George says at last. “Knocked me out cold, so I don't remember too much. Not like I really need to – I've got all the evidence I need of it happening right here.” He turns his head, showing off the hole where his ear used to be. It looks clean, unbandaged, not very painful if his jokes and snide grin are anything to go off.

  Nonetheless, your heart skips at the sight of it; yet another moment where George needed your help and you weren't there to offer it.

  “Bloody hell, Georgie,” you whisper. “How many girls did you manage to bag with an injury like that?”

  George scoffs. “Not many, I'm afraid. Bit of a waste, I think.”

  “Definitely.”

  It's quiet for a moment. The wind whistles, and the birds chirp, and there's a gnome cursing beneath the dirt, but all you can focus on is the heavy presence of George standing beside you.

  Maybe it's not even George's presence you're focusing on. Maybe it's Fred's, because you know he's there. He's always there, making sure you and George don't step out of line or embarrass him, because now it's the job of his two closest confidants to carry on his legacy – Fred Weasley would want to keep an eye on that.

   “How are you feeling, Georgie?” you whisper, the silence suddenly too much when you think of Fred standing within it. It would never be silent if he was really here. Never. “How are you really feeling?”

  George takes a moment to answer. You glance over to see him nibbling his bottom lip, brown eyes trained on a spot in the garden where yet another gnome has just emerged and is scarping across the field to freedom. “I don't know.” He looks at you. He's taller now, so he has to look down. “What about you?”

  You shrug. “I've – I've definitely been better.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Percy hugged me.”

  “He hasn't been taking it well.”

  “I can't really blame him, poor git.”

  George chuckles; it's not a noise George usually makes, but you don't question it, knowing he isn't really himself right now.

  “The funeral's tomorrow,” he says after yet another pause. “I don't know how any of us are going to do it with dignity.”

  “Dignity isn't important at a funeral.”

  “You know full well Fred would take the mick out of us all if we showed up to his funeral sobbing our eyes out.”

  Your lips twitch, the first signs of a true smile you have worn in weeks. “I suppose so. But he's going to have to get over it, isn't he?”

  George chuckles. “You tell him, Y/N. You tell him.”

  You and George hang around the makeshift Quidditch pitch for only a few more minutes before you start back towards The Burrow; although neither of you want to acknowledge it, you have to get ready for the funeral tomorrow. Things have to be put in place for the small number of visitors who are due to arrive tomorrow morning – Fred, McGonagall, Oliver Wood, some other members of the old Quidditch team. Over the hill, you can see Molly already stressing out over everything that has to be put in place, and your heart aches for her.

  “She never slows down, your Mum,” you say before you can stop yourself.

  George hums, a fragile attempt at agreement. “Keeping busy helps take her mind off things, I think. It's when she stops that it all crashes down on her.”

  “Will she be okay tomorrow?”

  “No.”

   You're glad he isn't lying. At this moment in time, you can almost pretend it was all a dream; opening the letter, reading the news, having to come to terms with it all. None of it will truly be real until you've looked down and seen Fred's body for yourself, and maybe that's why you're dreading it so much. It's not the idea of seeing him – god, what you wouldn't give to see his smiling face one last time. It's the idea of no longer having that excuse. Once you've laid eyes on his body, any denial you have of his death will just be pitied.

  You and George head into the house and go your separate ways. You head into the bedroom you're sharing with Ginny and Hermione whilst George goes back to his own room; you don't think Molly bunked him up with anyone, considering the circumstances, and the thought of him sitting in Fred and George's room on his own makes your heart ache. You have half a mind to turn and go after him, but your plans are foiled when Ginny emerges from the bedroom and smiles warmly at you, despite the puffiness around her eyes.

  “Hey,” you say. “You alright?”

  “I was just coming to find you,” she replies. “Can we talk?”

  Anxiety prickles at your skin, but you nod and follow her into the bedroom anyway. Hermione is nowhere to be seen, though her funeral clothes have already been folded and stacked upon her camp bed, along with a packet of tissues and her wand.

  Ginny takes a seat on the end of her bed. You stand by the door, nervously biting your lip as you realise this is the first time you and Ginny have been alone since everything happened. You haven't had a proper chance to sit down with the youngest Weasley and ask her how she is truly feeling.

  Keeping her eyes on her freckled hands, she says, “Were you talking to George?”

  You tilt your head. “Y-yes. He came down to the Quidditch pitch – oh, uh – the fields, sorry, just to talk.”

  Ginny sighs, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes. She's clearly exhausted, no longer even trying to hide it. You have the urge to reach out and hug her, just as you would have done when she was younger, but Ginny has been through so much in the two years since you last seen her; she might not appreciate a hug any more, so you keep your distance.

  “And has he gone back to his room now?” she asks.

  “I think so. I think he's getting ready for. . . you know. . . tomorrow.”

  “He's not handling this well, Y/N.” She drops her hands into her lap, shaking her head grimly. “I know none of us are, but I've never seen George acting like this. The only person he's properly spoken to in three days is you.”

  Your heart lurches. “He's grieving, Ginny.”

  “We all are! We've all had to grieve before this, too.” She hollows out her cheeks, and it's only then do you spot the tears making their way to the surface of her eyes. “The Weasleys grieve together – that's how we've always done it. We're a family.”

  Something inside of you snaps. You dart forward, sitting down beside her and tugging her into your chest. It is there, wrapped tightly in your arms, that she finally lets go, sobbing into your collarbone with a ferocity you've never seen from her – not once. Not even when she used to take a tantrum every time one of her brothers got to go to Hogwarts and she didn't, not even when her cat passed away, not even when she was possessed by Lord Voldemort himself.

  She clings onto your jacket, trying to speak but being unable to do so past the sobs. You grip her tighter, stroking your hands through her red hair that hasn't been brushed in days. There are things to say, procedures to take when this kind of thing happens, but nothing you have been taught to say comes to the surface; she's heartbroken, utterly heartbroken, and you know why. Just because you're not sobbing doesn't mean you don't feel the same way.

  “Make sure George is okay,” she chokes out. “Please make sure I don't lose him, too.”

  You close your eyes, tears slipping from your eyes. “I will, mate. I'll – I'll try my best.”

  ---

  Everyone is here.

  You greet them all, because that's what is expected of you. They give you hugs and kisses on the cheek, because that's what is expected of them. Nobody wants to acknowledge the fact that nobody truly wants to be here; to the untrained eye, this gathering of black-clad wizards could very well be some kind of high school reunion.

  But it's not.

  A high school reunion would hold the air of memories, people rekindling, saying hello after a long time apart. This event holds the air of denial, sadness, saying goodbye to someone taken too soon.

  All morning you are busy taking over the jobs of Mr and Mrs Weasley; both of them are too shaky to function, though Molly tries her damned hardest to get out of her chair and do something. She ends up tipping a cup of coffee over poor Harry, and so you and the Weasley kids take over. This means you have barely any time to find George.

  He's not around. Ron told you he's still hiding in his room, not wanting to show his face until the very last minute.

  “You should go and talk to him,” says Ron, voice wobbling with the effort to keep the tears at bay. “He won't let anyone else in. Mum's tried, Dad's tried, I've given it a go.”

  You flick your wand, sending a chair across the grass where it lines up with the rest of them. “What makes you think I'll be any different?”

  “He likes talking to you. He only came out of his and Fred's-” Ron's eyes slip closed. He takes a deep breath before starting again. “He only came out of his room yesterday because he heard you arrived.”

  You bite your lip, flicking a glance back towards the house; his curtains are still shut. He might still be asleep and nobody would even know.

  You sigh, handing Ron the stack of napkins you were given. “I'll go see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Y/N.”

  You nod and duck into the house, giving Oliver Wood a watery smile which he returns as best he can, hands trembling around a glass of pumpkin juice. You march upstairs before anyone else can see you, heading directly for the room at the end of the hallway.

  The glittering sign is still nailed to the door: Fred and George's Room. KEEP OUT!

  You wonder how long it will take for George to take that down – if he ever will.

  You knock softly and take a step back, folding your hands in front of you. For just a second, there is no answer, not even a call of Who's there? And you force yourself to step forward and knock again, a bit harder this time, lest he didn't hear you.

  Again, there is no response.

  Heart hammering, you do the last thing you can think of – you tap three times, pause, and then tap again. It's the secret knock the twins used to do on your door when they wanted you to come out with them past curfew, how you would know they were up to no good.

  There is a moments hesitation, and then, “Y/N?”

  You press your forehead against the door, relief flooding you. “Yes. It's me. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

  You pull away from the door just as it opens and George pokes his head out; his hair is still a mess, but he's wearing something other than pyjamas at least. His outfit consists of a white shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers, a black blazer hanging over one shoulder. Fred would be laughing if he could see him now.

  George gives you a tiny smile before moving out the way, offering you access. You hesitate, and George notices.

  “I know,” he mumbles. “You don't have to if you're not ready.”

  But he's been forced to sleep in this room since everything happened. He's had to endure that pain, so you will too. You brace yourself before stepping in, trying desperately to ignore the flip of your stomach, the sudden fight or flight response that is attacking your system at the sight of it all.

  The room has barely changed since the last time you stayed here nearly three summers ago. Two beds pressed against either wall, one perfectly made, the other slept in. Posters hang upon the walls of different Quidditch teams you remember they used to be mad over, and thrown in the midst of them all is a new poster you have never seen before – a poster dedicated to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

  “Mum made his bed the day we got back.” George's voice is fragile. You glance at him; he's still stood by the door, hands pushed into his pockets as he watches you wade around the room. “Fred never made his bed when he woke up, so she always used to do it for him.”

  You nod, remembering those summer mornings when all you could hear was Molly telling Fred off for – yet again – not making his bed.

  “Old habits die hard, huh?” you reply, and George hums his agreement. “Ron sent me up here to make sure you were ready.”

  George scoffs. His bed springs protest when he leaps onto his mattress. “You can go back down there and tell Ron to have a little patience. I'm fragile today.”

  “You are a little late, Georgie. Worryingly late; I thought you'd gone back to sleep.”

  George rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. You stand over his bed, arms folded over your chest. “I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have my brothers funeral to attend today.”

  You bite your lip. “You know, George...” And this is it. The sentence has started, and George's eyes have snapped to meet your own, waiting for you to finish whatever you have to say. “We're all grieving. A lot. A whole lot. But locking yourself away like this isn't going to help anything. It's not going to make anything easier. Not for you or anybody downstairs right now.”

  George stares at you, waiting for the punchline.

  “I'm serious.”

  He lifts his eyes back to the ceiling, wearing a frown you have not seen him wear in the many years you have known him. Your heart picks up, panic spiking at the idea of upsetting him; he's not going to listen to you, that much is clear. He hasn't listened to anybody else when being told the same thing, so why should you be any different?

  “Look, okay,” you hasten to add, “we'll go down there together, alright? You and me. You don't have to do this on your own.”

   “I don't want to go at all. I don't want to see him like that.”

  You sit down on the corner of his bed and grab his hand, pulling it onto your knee. The tears slip from the corners of his eyes, which he squeezes closed in an instant.

  “I know,” you mumble. “I don't, either. Nobody does. But once we've got this funeral out of the way, you're free to mourn however you want. It's over then; Fred will be peaceful, and we can . . . we can move on. We can try and move on. That's what he'd want us to do.”

  George's shoulders jerk, a silent sob. Tears of your own flood your eyes. You grab his shoulders and pull him up, pulling him into a hug that reminds you so much of last night, the exact same scene but a different Weasley sibling. You just want to comfort them all; you want to round up each and every one of them and pull them into this embrace, let them know it will all be okay and you will not leave them to suffer on their own, not like last time. You will be there for all of them through everything if they'll let you.

  George's arms wrap around your middle. He rests his head on your shoulder, stifling his sobs as best he can; he's better at it than Ginny, who all but wailed into your collarbone yesterday evening. George doesn't want to be seen like this, but it's clear he can't hold back any more.

  “It's okay,” you whisper. “It'll be fine. We'll go downstairs together.”

  He nods, pulling away slowly. He bites his lip, glances at your shoulder and says, “I got tears on your shirt.”

  You shake your head, brushing his hair out of his face with trembling hands. “Don't worry about it. Fred would say it adds flare.”

  “He would,” George chokes out. “He really would.”

  And so, the two of you stand and head towards the door, hand-in-hand. George hesitates before shutting his bedroom door behind him, and you pretend not to see the way he gently runs his fingers over Fred's name engraved in the metal sign.

  You walk downstairs slowly. Heads start turning when you appear in the doorway of the kitchen, George all-but cowering behind you, his hand still in your own. You run your thumb along his knuckles, giving his awaiting family members a smile despite their eyes all being trained on George.

  Molly is the first one to run forward. A cry escapes her lips, and you have only seconds to jump out of the way before she barrels through the doorway and into George's arms; George grunts, stumbling before he catches his balance and hugs his mother back with just as much enthusiasm as she is showing. You slowly remove yourself from the scene, letting the rest of the Weasley family file in to mimic their mothers actions.

  “So you did it,” Harry says when you find yourself standing at the back of the room with him. “You got him to come downstairs.”

  “He just needed some coaxing,” you reply, wiping your eyes. “Is Fred here?”

  “Kingsley's just brought his body back.” Harry nods out the window, but you don't follow his gesture because you know exactly what is going to be there; the back garden, chairs all lined up, Fred's casket set up at last. You can only imagine that is the reason the Weasley family is stood inside – they don't want to be around it any longer than they have to be.

  But they cannot hold off forever. Arthur and Molly head out first, Arthur with his arm around Percy's shoulders, Molly holding Ginny's hand. Together, the Weasleys take their seats at the very front of the garden, each sobbing quietly into handkerchiefs and sleeves and partners' shoulders. You, Harry and Hermione take the seats directly behind them whilst everyone else files in behind you.

  And you see him up there, eyes closed, hair styled, suit perfectly pressed. His hands have been folded on his chest, and his wand has been tucked into his fingers. Standing beside his casket is a picture of him and George – because there is not a picture in existence where the two of them are on their own, not one – and Fred is pulling a funny face whilst George looks off into the distance, oblivious to the photo being taken.

  It hurts. It hurts worse than you ever imagined it would, but you can't bring yourself to cry – not whenever his body is right there in front of you. Fred used to chastise you every time he saw you cry, swat you over the shoulder, make some wise-crack comment along the lines of, “What do you have to cry about? You have me!”

  You always did have him. You always will have him, as long as you keep his memory alive.

  Kingsley says a few words, kind words that speak of Fred's bravery and his knowledge and how he did not die in vain. They sound so official coming from him now that he's the temporary Minister of Magic, but you know for a fact Fred would have appreciated it, scripted or not. Oliver Wood says some things, and Molly and Arthur try their hardest to get some words out about their son, but it doesn't go to plan and they end up just sitting down, passing the baton onto Percy who makes a big, emotional speech about how he and Fred didn't always get along, and how he's glad they managed to find peace with each other during those last few hours of complete turmoil within the Hogwarts castle.

  George doesn't make a speech. Neither do you.

  The funeral ends with the burning of the body. Kingsley waves his wand and the white curtains fall from nowhere, closing around the casket, and soon, the only thing you can see is the smoke billowing from the top of them. The air suddenly erupts with the smell of black current – one of Fred's favourite scents – and people are standing, giving each other hugs, crying.

  You and George stay seated, him directly in front of you. You don't tap his shoulder, don't move, don't say anything at all – you just watch his shoulders rise and fall as he tries desperately to keep his breathing slow and steady. He's staring at his brothers casket like he can't quite believe it's there, and you don't blame him, because you're feeling the same way.

  How can a ten minute ceremony be enough to celebrate the life of someone like Fred Weasley? How can a few words passed between people who knew him be enough to remember the wonders he discovered, the joy and laughter he brought upon so, so many lives? It doesn't seem possible. It's ludicrous, completely unfair, and suddenly the sadness you have felt since hearing the news is morphing into anger, and you have the urge to just scream, to just let your lungs rip in half with the fury that rushes through you at a million miles per hour.

  But in real life, you're rooted to your seat, fingers curling against the back of George's chair, staring at the smoke rising high, high, higher into the air, disappearing amongst the clouds – Fred's final resting place.

  George stands up.

  It's so abrupt. It takes you a second to even comprehend what he is doing as his chair tips back against your knees, only failing to fall due to you still being seated behind it. Your head snaps up, mouth opening to call him back, but you don't get a chance to say anything before Angelina Johnson is grabbing you and pulling you to your feet, into an embrace you were not prepared for in the slightest.

  “Oh, Y/N, I knew you'd be here! I knew you'd make it! Fred would have been so happy to see you and George back together again!”  You laugh awkwardly, watching George march up to The Burrow over her shoulder.

  ----

  George doesn't make an appearance for the rest of the day.

  The guests Disapparate, giving the Weasleys some much needed time and space after the exhausting day they have just performed. You, Harry and Hermione head up to bed for the same reason, crowding in Harry and Ron's room for a few hours before you and Hermione excuse yourselves for the night.

  Hermione is asleep in minutes, and you can't really blame her. Not only has that girl gone to hell and back these past few days, she's also had to deal with the additional baggage of death. She has fought absolute monsters, seen things no person of her age should ever see, had to think quicker than anyone just to stay alive – and now that it's over, she's been given the additional task of mourning people she loves.

  You, however, struggle to close your eyes without the thoughts flooding your mind, making you restless. You keep remembering his body, the tip of his nose peaking out from the casket, the smoke that billowed, the smell of black current that was surely conjured to hide the smell of Fred's burning flesh; god, you want to throw up. You feel ill, and angry, and you want to punch something so, so desperately.

  Back in your school days, George taught you how to use Quidditch as a way to get your anger out; he and Fred had been the best Beaters the Gryffindor had ever seen, and they claim it was solely because they got themselves riled up before a game. They would make themselves so angry that the idea of volleying a heavy ball at someone was all that could calm them down again.

  That's what you need right now; a good game of Quidditch, a Bludger to just annihilate someone. But you have none of that; all you have right now is your pillow, which you shove your fist into multiple times over now with no results. Your stomach still feels tight, and tears are still threatening to reach the surface, and you're beginning to lose hope that you'll ever feel calm and collected ever again.

  The clock has struck four am when you finally give up trying to sleep. You slip your feet into a pair of carpet slippers – courtesy of Hermione – and head downstairs, pulling a dressing gown on as you do so. The kitchen is barren, the sun just starting to peak over the green hills surrounding the cosy cottage. From the window you can see a garden gnome furiously kick a wicket chair before howling in pain and bouncing back into the floor to go and huff on its own.

  You head outside. The fresh air feels nice on your skin – cold, but it's enough to bring you back to reality a little bit. You walk across the garden, and before you know why, you're sitting down in the very same chair you sat in whilst watching people talk about your dead best friend, like you want to relive that moment all over again.

  But this time you're on your own. It's just you and the chairs, and the odd garden gnome that sprints across the grass, sees you and then sprints in the other direction. You fold your legs over one another, stare at the space Fred's casket once stood, and then you start speaking.

  “Miss you, buddy.” It starts as a whisper, hoarse and fragile. “Thank you, for everything. Fighting for the sake of the world – you're braver than me. I couldn't have done it. I was – I was hiding away in my flat, pretending nothing was happening, convincing myself you two weren't stupid enough to get yourself into any danger.” You close your eyes, tilting your head back, talking directly to him now. “Nothing feels right any more, Fred. The world isn't meant to be without a Fred Weasley. George isn't meant to be without a Fred Weasley. God, I'm not meant to be without a Fred Weasley.”

  The tears start trickling, running quickly down your cheeks and disappearing within the corners of your mouth.

  “I'll make sure he's okay, Freddie,” you whisper. “George, I mean. We'll keep each other sane, I promise. You can watch over us and – and make sure w-we keep each other in ch-check. I won't let him out of my sight ever again.”

  “Y/N?”

  Your head snaps up, eyes opening. Standing in the pink light of the slowly rising sun is George Weasley, wand in hand, still dressed in the very same clothes he was wearing earlier. His tie has been pulled loose from its knot and is now cascading messily down his middle, a few of his buttons undone, his hair back to being a disgruntled mess.

  You stand up. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “You sound like Filch.” He tilts his head to the side, just enough to let you see the bags under his eyes. “What are you doing?”

   You awkwardly kick at the ground. “Nothing.”

  “Mhm.” George walks over, examining each of the chairs as he does so. “You were talking to him, weren't you?”

  You don't reply; he knows. You don't feel a need to confirm it for him, not when he probably heard every single thing you said.

  “I can't do it,” he continues. “It feels weird not having him say the exact same thing as me. My voice isn't meant to be on its own.”

  “Yeah,” you croak out. “I noticed that, too.”

  “I'll get past it,” he mumbles. “I just. . . I just wanted everyone to leave today, you know? I didn't want all these people in my house, staring at my brothers dead body, crying over him like that. This was supposed to be a family event.”

  A tinge of guilt stamps an imprint into your heart. “Right. Should Harry, Hermione and I have left?”

  George purses his lips. “You guys are family – it's everyone else I was a bit iffy with.”

  And maybe it's the anger from earlier that boils over now. Maybe it's the reminder that George left – halfway through his brothers funeral, he got up and left his family, his grieving family, to deal with everything. You know he's upset, heartbroken, downright traumatised, but so is everyone else. Nobody is taking this lightly. Nobody was here today just for the sake of it.

  You curl your hands into fists. “George, you're being really selfish right now.”

  His head snaps up. “What?”

  “How can you sit there and say you wish those people who came today had just stayed home? Do you think they wanted to be in this situation any more than you did? God, You-Know-Who was killed a few days ago – people want to be out celebrating their freedom, not going to the funeral of one of their friends. None of this is easy on anyone, so it's really bloody ungrateful of you to say they should have just stayed home, because I'm almost positive that's what most of them wanted to be doing in the first place!”

   George's eyes cloud over. “Fred wouldn't have wanted the Ministry taking over his funeral.”

  “Kingsley knew Fred just as well as I did!”

  “No he didn't! You and Fred were best friends – Kingsley was part of the Order. That's how he knew Fred – through business! That isn't a bloody friendship!”

  “So, what? Kingsley should have just moved on, walked away whenever he looked down and saw Fred's body that day in the castle, huh? Because god forbid somebody grieve if they don't know someone for more than seven years!”

  George throws his hands in the air, face beaming red. “You're putting words in my mouth now, you are. You know that's not what I meant-”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you should learn how to word things better, because at the minute you're sounding like an absolute arse!”

  George opens his mouth to respond, but you're crying. You're crying, and you can't stop it, and you don't want him to see you like this. You dart off before he can get the words out, cracking your shoulder against his before picking up your pace to a run, darting back towards the house. Behind you, George calls your name, but you don't listen. You shove past Charlie, who stands in the kitchen door with a mug of coffee, and head directly to your room, not wanting to talk to anyone.

  ---

  Charlie comes to visit you a few hours later.

  It's eight o'clock now; Hermione has risen, said good morning and headed off to help Mrs Weasley make breakfast. You stayed huddled under the covers, using the excuse of exhaustion as a way to get her to leave without worrying too much; as soon as she was gone, you had pulled yourself from your bed and headed to the window, where you have been for a while now, dreading the moment you will have to go downstairs and face George again.

  Charlie knocks softly on your door before letting himself in. He's wearing a pair of grey sweatpants this morning along with an oversized jacket. His skin has been paler since he came home from Romania, since his little brother died, since it felt as if his world was falling apart. This morning, he looks a bit better, as if the relief of having finally set Fred free was a weight from his shoulders.

  “Morning,” he says. “You alright?”

  “Yeah, I'm fine. You?”

  He closes the door and walks to your side, placing his head against the wall as he, too, takes to gazing out the window. “I'm good. Better than I was yesterday. Worse than I'll probably be tomorrow.”

  “What a Charlie way to answer that question.”

  He smiles before nudging your arm. “You gonna talk to me about what happened this morning?”

  You purse your lips and look away. Charlie gazes at you, waiting for you to say something, anything, but you don't really know what he wants to hear – that you're sorry? That you were tired and heartbroken and it just kind of happened all at once, a jumbled mess you couldn't quite keep track of?

  That's not what it was at all. It was the truth spilling from your lips, though you will admit you now wish you could have executed it with a little bit more sympathy. George, the man who has been your best friend for so many years, didn't deserve that kind of treatment – not after everything. Not when there's still so much more to come.

  Charlie sighs, folding his muscled arms across his chest. “You know George loves you, right?”

  “And I love him.”

  Charlie pauses, contemplative. “I just – I don't know what you two were arguing about, but I think it would be a real shame for George to lose two loved ones, which is what is going to happen if you don't talk to each other. Do you want to cut ties with him?”

  Your head snaps up. “No! No, of course not. Look, Charlie, the argument wasn't even that serious. We just-”

  “If it wasn't that serious, then why did George punch a whole in the dry wall when I tried to ask him what happened?”

  You pause, mouth running dry. Charlie raises a brow, leaning against the wall. Your voice is quiet when you say, “He did what?”

  “He punched a hole in the wall. Tried to punch me, too.” He sighs. “Obviously, a scrawny little git like him compared to me didn't get very far, but it was the intent that shocked me; George hasn't got a violent bone in his body. Not a properly violent one, anyway – a few dangerous pranks here and there, but he would never want to genuinely fight someone. I think this whole thing is getting to him – and bad. The only time he's been calm is when you've been in his bloody eyeline.”

  “He tried punching you?”

  Charlie waves a dismissive hand. “That isn't the part of that speech I wanted you to pick up on.”

 You close your eyes, pressing your head against the window. “I lost my temper, started an argument with him for no reason. I should have realised he's not in the right head space – he isn't talking right, Charlie. He isn't himself.”

  “Well, no, I wouldn't say he is.” Charlie leans forward. “But right now, the only person getting through to him is you. How I see it, you're the only person who's going to drag him through this before he hurts himself or somebody else.”

   “That's a lot of pressure, Charlie.”

  “Has it been difficult talking to him since you got here?”

  “No.”

 “Then you're fine. Just keep doing what you're doing.” Charlie stands up straight, brushing his hands down his jacket as he does so. “Mum said breakfast is gonna be ready in a few minutes if you're feeling hungry. If not, don't tell her that or she'll be up here in two seconds flat with the thermometer out; she did it to Ron a few days ago, gave him a right telling off when it turned out he just wanted to stay in bed for a bit longer.”

  You nod, giving him a warm, grateful smile as he walks out of the room.

  You give his words thorough thought; though your brain is no less exhausted, and your heart no less broken, you can see where you went wrong now better than you would have been able to at four this morning; Charlie has helped you realise that perhaps everyone needs to be a bit patient with each other right now, needs to learn how to put themselves in other people's shoes.

  You get changed and head downstairs. Sure enough, breakfast is already being served, and everyone besides George is already sitting round the table. You take a seat next to Hermione and tuck in, trying to regain some energy sapped due to your lack of sleep.

  Once breakfast is finished, you head straight to George's room. Charlie gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up when he turns away from the washing up basin and sees you heading upstairs; you give him a smile, though a nervous one.

  You have to do this now. You have to talk to him, tell him you're sorry, explain yourself a bit better than you did earlier, and if you don't do it now, you're going to back out and you won't ever do it. And so, you reach his door and do the secret knock that granted you access yesterday, and you wait.

  There's a shuffling on the other side, followed shortly by George's soft voice calling, “What?”

  “Hey, mate. Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?” You wince at how formal you sound – this is George you're speaking to, your best mate, the person you've grown up with. “Please?”

  “You're just gonna tell me off again, aren't you?”

  “No, George, don't be daft. Open the bloody door, or-”

  “Yeah, yeah, shut up.” The door opens, revealing the exhausted looking George. He isn't smiling, but instead keeps his eyes narrowed when he looks at you. “Do you wanna come in, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don't ask for much, do you?” He rolls his eyes and steps out of the way, granting you access to the room that still sends eerie chills racing along your arms, because Fred is no longer occupying it, too.

  You push these thoughts from your brain and enter, immediately spinning around with your arms folded. “Our argument was stupid.”

  George falters, one hand still secure round the doorknob. “Come again?”

  “Everything I said to you was stupid, and said in a fit of blind rage. I didn't mean it. Not really.”

  “Right...”

 “So, yeah.” You nod, glance around the room once before saying, “That's all I wanted to say.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Yes. I'll see you at lunch if you fancy coming down for a bit of food. If not, I'll – uh – see you when I-” You try to step around him, but he's quicker, blocking the door. You bite your lip. “George-”

  “Nothing you said earlier was wrong, you know.”

   You lift your eyes, and the tension in the room suddenly becomes a physical thing. He's staring down at you, that exhausted look in his eyes that he's worn for weeks pushed to the forefront. His lips are still chapped, and his knuckles are white around the handle of the door. You want to push his hair out of his face, but you're scared he'll push you away or cringe from your touch if you even try.

  “I was being a selfish little git when I walked off, and I should have been – should have been thankful to have so many people come out to send Fred off. He would have liked that, I think, having a crowd around him.”

  You laugh softly. “He always did enjoy the attention; you both did.”

 “Oi.” He nudges your shoulder. “You were part of our group, you know. You liked the attention just as much as we did.”

  And he isn't wrong. So many pranks, so many years of getting into trouble, so many years filled with laughter. When it felt like the world was falling apart, when your parents stopped talking to you, stopped asking you to come home for Christmas, stopped sending you owls – it was Fred and George who reminded you that you didn't need anyone. You were perfect on your own.

  “I agree that our argument was stupid,” he says softly. “But you were right.”

  “I shouldn't have made you feel bad-”

  “You could never make me feel bad. Not with a voice like that.”

  You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. He laughs, stumbling back into the door. You realise with a jolt that this is the first time you've heard him laugh since you arrived at The Burrow, and it seems as if George is realising this too. His smile fades uncertainly, as if he's not allowed to let himself laugh, not allowed to let himself smile when Fred isn't around to join in.

  You tilt your head to the side. “Well that's a step in the right direction.”

  He closes his eyes. “I haven't had the chance to tell you how happy I am that you're here.”

   “Of course I'm here. I would never miss-”

  “No, I know.” He opens his eyes and shrugs. “I'm glad you're here to – like – mourn Fred and all that, but I'm glad you're here for me. Most people would have given up on me by now. Nobody would have bothered putting me in my place.”

  You shudder, can hardly help it when you're hearing him speak like this; it's so weird, so not what you're used to, but it hits a nerve nonetheless. You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around him, to pull him in for a hug that means more than just It's going to be okay.

  “I'm a complete state when you are here, but I wouldn't even function if you weren't,” he continues, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Everyone's told you that already, though, haven't they?”

  You bite your lip to suppress the giggle. “I've heard I've been a good helping hand.”

  George rolls his eyes. “Don't let it go to your head. No one likes an arrogant bastard.”

  Your grin breaks to the surface before you can stop it. It feels weird upon your face after spending so long believing you would never smile again, and yet with George stood in front of you, it couldn't make more sense. You're brought back to your Hogwarts days, when this very smile would never leave your face, was a permanent fixture to your expression. And it doesn't feel like you're back there – it will never feel like that again, not with Fred missing – but it's a start. It's the first step back into the normal world.

  Looking up at George's smile now makes you feel like you're walking back into it, slowly, with George by your side.

  ----

  “So what's the point of all this then?” you ask, struggling to fight your way through the crowd of screaming school kids.

  George moves with such grace, not even pausing when a group of kids nearly bowl him over in their struggle to reach the Pigmy Puff pens on the other side of the shop. He's grinning from ear to ear as he walks, his fancy, dragon skin blazer billowing out around him.

  “This, my dear Y/N, is what Fred and I have built from the ground up – and we're about to take it to the next level.”

   You raise a brow at his back. “Oh?”

  “Oh, indeed!” He hurries up a flight of winding stairs and stops at the top. He spins and smiles at you, pulling a sheet of paper from his blazer pocket with that dramatic flair you love so much. “Have a read of this and tell me how proud you are of me, right now. Quickly!”

  You roll your eyes, snatching the parchment and unrolling it. At the very top are the words Dear Mr and Mr Weasley, followed by the announcement that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be opening a shop in multiple areas around England and Northern Ireland.

  Your eyes widen, snapping back up to George who is staring at you fixedly, waiting for your reaction. You don't even have words. All you can do is stare at him, jaw open, hands beginning to tremble.

  George glances at your shaking hands and laughs, rushing down the steps towards you. He snatches the parchment back and bundles you in his arms, laughing brightly into your hair.

  “Don't show too much excitement, Y/N, we're in public!”

   “George Weasley, you brilliant old git!” You wrap your arms around his waist, burying your head in his chest, and together, the two of you laugh – you just laugh, unable to fully process that this tiny little business Fred and George have always dreamed about will finally be taking off, dotting itself around the globe for wizards everywhere to enjoy.

  You pull away from the celebration and yank the parchment back, giving it yet another read. “Mr and Mr Weasley – you and Fred?”

  “Of course,” George confirms. “I sent the request letter in using both of our names – it didn't feel right just signing it with my name and my name only. Fred would kill me if I did that.”

  “Aye, it's better not to take the risk. I'm still convinced he's punishing me for ordering that BBQ base pizza the other night.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  You reread the contract over and over again, grin getting wider every single time. It gets to the point where George groans and has to pry it from your hands, getting tired of watching you read the same sentence over and over again.

  You look at him and shake your head. “It's so cool that I'm able to say my best friend is a businessman. A real life businessman.”

  George cocks a brow. “You're gonna use me to make yourself look good, are you?”

  “You still owe me for that time I got you out of detention with Umbridge – it's the least you can do.”

  George laughs, bundling you in his arms again. “Just remember to mention Fred when you're giving us the good reviews – he'd appreciate it.”

   And you know, somewhere out there, Fred is nodding, saying, “You've done a brilliant job, Georgie.”

[seiin-translations]

2.43 S1 Chapter 1.8 - Young Yunichika

8. CONTINUE GAME?

Translation Notes

1. This is just for clarification but Yuni’s just calling this old man “grandpa” as an endearment

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“My my, I see, Itoko-chan…Okay, take care. Ah, Yuni? It’s already time to go? Make sure you don’t forget anything. Today—”

While his mother was on the phone with someone, he run out of the house without saying goodbye and straddled his bike with a force almost like that of a fugitive.

What was she going to say after ‘today’? “Today, do your best as well?” “Today, I’ll go cheer you on as well?” I don’t want to hear either of those sentences.

July 27. Today was the second day of the tournament where four matches, consisting of two semifinals, the playoffs for third place and the finals, would be taking place. The first semifinal match started at nine-thirty. They planned to gather at Monshiro Station and go to Suzumu City together by train to arrive at the venue.

He stood on his bike as he pedaled on the road to the station. However, the further he got away from home, the more his pedaling speed slowed, and he started to wobble left and right before finally zigzagging uselessly across the full width of the road.

A horn sounded. When he looked back, he saw a small tractor approaching from behind.

“Oh, if it isn’t Bon. Be careful!”

An old man wearing a straw hat over the scarf that covered his head stared closely at him with sullen eyes from the driver’s seat and said in a slow, hoarse voice.

“Sorry, grandpa!” (1)

He brought his bike close to the guardrail and the tractor overtook him at a sluggish speed. The paint on the guardrail had mostly peeled off and some spots were obviously bent, as the elderly scraped against them in their agricultural vehicles. It made one nervous about whether or not they were starting to lose their driving skills.

The road that continued straight ahead was surrounded by, as far as the eye could see, paddy fields, paddy fields, paddy fields. The verdant sea of rice swayed in the summer breeze.

How about I ride my bike straight into a paddy and twist my ankle? An injury or something where I can’t walk today because it hurts too bad but it’s completely healed tomorrow, where it’s just the right amount and not exaggerated…He was in such a negative mood that thoughts like those passed through his mind. He quite honestly wished that he could be barred from the game for some unavoidable reason rather than possibly showing such unsightly behavior like yesterday.

Because…if we have Haijima, then we can probably win anyways even if you stand scarecrows in the other positions.

He didn’t speak a word to Haijima after the match yesterday. Other than the advisor, none of the team members attempted to approach Haijima, only glancing at him like they were looking at a grotesque thing disguised as a person. He could see a clear gulf emerging between Haijima and themselves. The differences in their experience and ability as well as their language existed from the beginning, but usually they were hidden like gutters buried in the snow. As soon as they got on top of one by some momentum and put their weight on it, they lost balance and were reminded of its existence along with the pain.

I don’t feel like I can be in a match with him today. I don’t wanna go…That was all he could think about as he meandered around on his bike again. He even felt a slight stomach ache. I haven’t had something I wanted to avoid so badly it made my stomach hurt since early elementary school. Better yet, if I end up having appendicitis, then it’ll be that “unavoidable reason” thing…

Seeing a motorcycle approach from ahead, he let out a “Hmm?” and stopped zigzagging around. The motorcycle seemed to have noticed him as well, and it decelerated to a stop. Kuroba also stopped his bike and put his foot on the ground.

“Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve seen your face.”

It was Yorimichi, looking like a textbook example of a summertime delinquent with his helmet with worn-out paint, Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. In the summer of his third-year of high school, he had completely developed the presence that came with age and experience. With his tanned face, perhaps from going to the sea, and stubble, he didn’t look like a high schooler no matter how you look at it.

“Yori-chan…”

Not knowing what attitude to take, he had a hopelessly half-hearted look on his face. They barely talked since March, and it had been about a month since he saw his face.

“You’re not tanned at all, eh. Ain’t it summer vacation?”

“Ah, yeah, all I’ve been doing is practicing in the gym, so I’ve got no time to tan.”

“Volleyball’s a pasty sport, eh. Oh, I thought you had a game today. Mm? Didn’t they say it was yesterday?”

“The game was, uh, yesterday, but…Anyways, why are you coming from the station?” The fact that he came from the opposite direction of his house was questionable, but it was also unusual for Yorimichi to be active this early in the morning.

“I’ve been staying at a friend’s place, but I got called back in the morning. They said Itoko got hurt yesterday?”

“Huh…I didn’t hear anything about that? You’re kidding, right? She came to cheer us on yesterday too…”

Come to think of it, didn’t his mother mention Itoko’s name on the phone earlier? He didn’t pay attention to it at the time because he wanted to get out of the house before anyone said anything, but was that a call with Itoko’s mother?

“How did she get hurt? Is it bad?”

“Didn’t hear the details, but apparently they didn’t call the ambulance, so it probably wasn’t a big deal. You can come over if you’re worried? Oh, don’t you have practice now?”

“Huh? Aah…”

Making a vague reply, he looked at the enamel bag on his back. He could have said, “We won yesterday, so we have another game today,” but he was at a loss for an answer for some reason.

“What’s wrong? If you’re coming, it’s faster to leave your bike and ride on this.”

Yorimichi gestured to the tandem seat of Komashi-gou with his chin.

He promised to Haijima before spring break that he would refrain from hanging out with Yorimichi.

Riding tandem on a motorcycle would be out of the question for him. It’ll be a problem for the team if we got into an accident—

The bubbles of antagonism floated up from the bog that had accumulated in the bottom of his heart.

In the end, he’s playing volleyball for himself alone. Why do I need to faithfully keep a promise with someone like that?

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Yesterday morning, when she was riding her bike to the station, triumphantly holding up that “Spread your wings! Kuroba UNIVERSE!” flag that she had spent all night completing, the flag got caught in the wind and she lost her balance. Of course it would be dangerous to pedal your bike with something like that fluttering around. There was a fool who had already fell yesterday just when Kuroba was thinking “I wanna get stuck in a rice paddy and twist my ankle.” At night, the swelling had gotten worse, and his aunt panicked so much that she called Yorimichi home, but as it turned out, it was just a sprain.

There were literal twists and turns before they heard that whole story.  Because when they went to Yorimichi’s house, they found a note that said, “I’m going to the clinic,” so they immediately rode there on the motorcycle, and when they got to the clinic, they were told that she must be at the orthopedic clinic because she hadn’t come there, and when they went to the orthopedic clinic, they were told that she had just left, so they ended up going back home again and was able to meet up with Itoko and the others. They had pointlessly gone around town.

Itoko was sitting on the tatami chair in the first floor living room, stretching out her bandaged right foot out on the tatami. In the alcove behind her, the “Spread your wings! Kuroba UNIVERSE!” was displayed like a scroll of appreciation. Kuroba’s face stiffened, and he started to take down the flag.

“Ah, what are you doing to my hard work!”

“Are you dumb? If you hadn’t spent your time on this and came to the first round, you wouldn’t have fell, and the game would have been more fun.”

“You’re talking like the second round wasn’t fun.”

“Well, that’s, you know…”

He trailed off weakly and averted his gaze. The phone in the hallway started ringing. “Onii-chan, get the phone!” His aunt’s voice came from the kitchen. A door on the second floor slammed open, and then Yorimichi’s rough footsteps descended. “Don’t push me around, old hag. Going crazy and calling me back just for an ankle sprain.” “It’s your fault for wandering around right after summer vacation and not coming home at all.” In this house, the mother who called the oldest son “Onii-chan” and the little sister called him “Yorimichi” without any honorifics.

He sat in seiza on the edge of the tatami, crammed the flag behind his butt, and clenched his fists on top of his lap.

“…Was it fun? Watching it.”

This was the first time he was asking someone about their thoughts on yesterday’s game. He didn’t want to be talked about at home, so he avoided as much contact with his family as possible last night and this morning.

“You want to talk about Haijima, don’t you, Yuni. I don’t know anything about volleyball, but that kid looked really out of place yesterday. I was having a little trouble cheering you guys on.”

“Right? There’s something wrong with that guy, don’t you think? Volleyball’s something you play with a team. I know he’s super good, but he’s fatally bad at reading the room.”

Feeling as though he got what he wanted, Kuroba subconsciously gathered strength and put his weight on his knees. However, Itoko, with a somewhat indifferent look on her face, tilted her head to the side.

“Read the room, huh… How did you want him to read it? Did you want him to cut corners to suit you guys’ level, then lose the game and laugh like idiots together about what a shame it was?”

“It’s, it’s not like that…”

The Haijima who cut corners to match the level of others as well as the Haijima who laughed like an idiot when they lost were both creatures who he found creepy and didn’t want approaching him in their own right. That’s not what I meant, but there are probably other ways to do it…What other ways? Did I think it was natural for Haijima to come up with something I couldn’t think of? Honestly, was there anything else Haijima, who only has talent in volleyball, could have done in that situation…?

“That’s a girl thing.”

“What?”

He darted her eyes about and asked back. Maybe her foot was aching or something, because Itoko bent forward and languidly rubbed her ankle.

“Girls usually do things like matching to everyone’s pace so they won’t stand out, or being modest by saying they have no confidence in themselves for things they actually are confident in. I do it too. But boys don’t play those kinds of superficial games, it’s just, like, instinct I guess? …I thought you could understand each other, but I guess that was just my own ideals... Yuni, when you’re doing club activities, you look like you’re having so much fun, and I was admiring you guys by myself and getting so excited, thinking that boys are so incredible, and I was so enthusiastic that I even made that flag, but now I’m so embarrassed I wanna die… Thank goodness it’s summer vacation… I wouldn’t be able to go to school…”

Her face, which was turned downwards like she wanted to sink into her knees, was bright red.

If only he had done a good enough job at yesterday’s second round that would let Itoko proudly fly her flag and freely cheer them on, she would not be so embarrassed like she was now. He felt sorry and had no words words to say to her. It wasn’t Haijima’s fault that the atmosphere of the match went off the rails. He was painfully aware that it was his own pathetic predicament that caused Haijima to play like that.

“Hmm? Why do you guys look so down? Something happen?”

Yorimichi’s large frame appeared at the entrance to the living room. If he wasn’t careful, he’d scrape his head against the lintel, so he bent down slightly while holding up the phone handset.

“It’s getting pretty funny. All our relatives cleaning out the ditch right now. Our family phone tree is working pretty well.”

“Cleaning out the ditch? Did something fall in?”

“Yeah, apparently the Bon of the head house fell in,” he said while grinning like a brat who had just thought of a prank. Itoko cheekily pointed at a stunned Kuroba and said, “You’ve been sleep talking since morning. If you want the head house’s Bon, he’s right here.” She was thoroughly cruel to Yorimichi, a complete change from her meek and gentle attitude.

“You abandoned your bike at the paddy fields.”

“I left it…but I didn’t let it fall into the fields. How old do you think I am?” It was a path that only acquaintances took anyways, so there was no chance of a bike thief. And so he left his bike on the roadside where he met Yorimichi, thinking he could go and get it later.

“Your club advisor called you at home. You have a match today? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“…Ah.”

The stories finally connected. Even though he had left home a long time ago, he didn’t show up at the meeting place, his bike was abandoned on the way there, the only witness was his senile but worried relative, and there was nothing but rice paddies around… Though because he wasn’t a kindergartener by any count, they must have thought it was weird for a third year middle school boy to get caught in them.

Looking at the clock on the wall, it was past nine-twenty-five. The match started at—nine-thirty.

“Yuni…”

Itoko’s voice lowered. Her anger-filled gaze stung the side of his face.

“I can’t believe this, but are you skipping your match? No wonder you’re so relaxed…I can’t believe this. You’re the worst.”

Kuroba could only groan. He didn’t fall into a rice paddy or had appendicitis, but luckily, if he didn’t feel like he had an “unavoidable reason,” now he did.

“Please go immediately.”

“You, you say that, but it’s not like I’ll make it in time since it’s in five minutes, and since Haijima’s there…”

Itoko stood up indignantly, startling both him and Yorimichi. “O-oi, your foot.” Without even trying to protect her sprained ankle, she grabbed Kuroba’s bag and lifted it over her head with the look of a demon.

“Men are always making all kinds of excuses…”

“Oi?”

Yorimichi ducked just in time as a bag flew over his head into the hallway.

***

When he approached the spot where he left his bike, he saw minitrucks parked parallel to the shoulder of the road. His relatives, with rakes and sticks in their hands, were standing in the rice paddies, scratching around in the mud with desperate looks on their faces. The mood there was like they had decided that the Bon of the head house was going to rise up as a drowned body. In the shadow of Yorimichi’s back, Kuroba pulled his helmet low over his eyes and shrank his body.

Thanks to the group of trucks forming a shield, they could pass by without being noticed. Right when he breathed a sigh of relief, the Komashi-gou slowed down and his nose bumped into Yorimichi’s back.

“Yo-Yori-chan?”

With Kuroba clinging to his back, Yorimichi turned around and, unbelievably, shouted loudly.

“Everyone, I’m taking Bon’s bike back to the main house!”

“Eh…oh, Bon! You’re okay!”

“What!?”

Their relatives all raised their faces in astonishment. Yorimichi laughed at them mockingly and started taking off at full throttle. Kuroba, who almost got thrown off, clung to Yorimichi’s torso, but didn’t feel like he was alive anyhow.

“W-w-what will we do if they get mad at us!? W-what will happen to me if I go home today…?”

I’m not in a position to complain because I brought it all onto myself with my actions, but…I wanna leave home and escape somewhere…

The Komashi-gou could bring him all the way to the competition venue, but he was just about to catch the train to the city, so he decided to get dropped off at the station. He wasn’t sure if he could make it to the venue at ten-thirty. It had been one hour since the start time for the semifinals—if it got carried over into a third set, then he might be able to make it just in time, but they probably wouldn’t let him get out there without warming up. If they won, they would be in the finals, and even if they lost, there was still a chance he could play in the third-place deciders. I’ll probably have to kneel down on the ground at least. Apologizing to Sensei, and everyone on the team, and Haijima…is aggravating, but…

“…Hey, Yori-chan…do you remember talking about how the guys from Haijima’s old school were bashing him online?”

He asked as his face got hit by Yorimichi’s Hawaiian shirt that was filling with the wind.

“Hmm? Yeah.”

He could hear the indifferent response from between the noisy clattering and thumping sounds that hit his ears. Even Yorimichi himself, who had used that information to rile up Haijima, scorned it as a petty way to do things. Would I be hated if I confessed…? But the feeling of a foreign object being stuck in his throat was agonizing, and he couldn’t help but spit it out.

“I did the same thing last night…”

Last night, he had phone conversations with several of his teammates. Some calls came from them and some came from himself. “That definitely puts me off.” “It feels like you’re playing the match alone when he does that.” There was something comforting about complaining to each other in that way. He felt comforted in being able to confirm that it wasn’t that he was the only one who was intolerant or narrow-minded, and that everyone felt the same. Perhaps the same group psychology that was at work in the people who posted bad things about Haijima online was at the root of it. When everyone shared their frustrations, it made them feel a little better.

It would make Itoko disappointed, but—the invigorating community of men who could “understand each other like it was natural instinct” that she admired only existed in sports manga or battle manga.

The wind was so loud that he didn’t know if Yorimichi responded or not. Maybe he was trying to make himself feel better by thinking that he had repented by telling Yorimichi. That made him feel even more cowardly, and Kuroba couldn’t say it a second time.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

When Kuroba came running at ten-twenty-five, the semifinals were over a long time ago. He couldn’t believe it when he heard that they lost the match in straight sets in less than forty minutes of match time.

“But we have Haijima! Like yesterday…”

“Are you an idiot?” His advisor flatly brushed him aside. “It’s true that we’re a team based around Haijima, but it’s not like we can win with him alone. There’s a rule in volleyball that one person can’t touch the ball twice in a row, right? Don’t you know that? Want me to lend you the rulebook?”

Kuroba sullenly hung his head. It was Haijima who did that off-putting play that could have overturned the base premise of volleyball yesterday…

“Didn’t you talk to Haijima yesterday, good grief…Haijima said that yesterday’s high-handed way of doing things was like a surprise attack, and that he knew what he was doing. He said that no matter how you look at it, it won’t work today. He said that as long you could recover, we could win…”

“Haijima did…?”

“A guy like that acts calm and composed, even if you weren’t here, but…it looks like that happened in the middle of the first set. I had a feeling something was wrong, but his face never changed even once…Oh, oh, Haijima, you ready to go?”

He tensed up at the advisor’s voice, a conditioned reflex.

Haijima appeared slowly from the back of the dim hallway. He was dressed in the Monshiro Middle School jersey pants and a white T-shirt, his enamel bag was slung over his shoulder, and he must have just washed his hair, since his bangs were wet. The middle finger of his left hand was lightly pressed against his side with his ring finger supporting it, and there was tape winded around it.

It seemed that he had dislocated his left hand’s middle finger.

Because Monshiro, which had an injured player in the semifinals, didn’t have enough reserve members, they withdrew from the third-place deciders. In spite of getting fourth place in the prefecturals, an outstanding achievement that would be carved into the history of Monshiro Middle School’s athletic clubs, it ended in a way they couldn’t be proud of at all. At the same time Kuroba arrived, the advisor had dismissed the club members on site and was about to accompany Haijima to the hospital.

They could have just waited for Kuroba to arrive until just before the start of the third-place deciders. However, the advisor decided to withdraw from the game as soon as possible, because he concluded that even if Kuroba was able to make it and the team had enough members, they wouldn’t be able to play a game worthy of the third-place deciders with Haijima in a non-functioning state. They could do the semifinals without Kuroba, but the team was fundamentally unsustainable without Haijima.

Haijima raised his gaze that was tending slightly downwards. As soon as he recognized Kuroba, his narrow eyes widened a little. His lips opened thinly as he was about to assemble some words. Kuroba clenched his teeth, wondering if he was going to punch him.

However, Haijima only gave a small sigh, like he was exhausted, and then cast down his eyes again. …His eyes are red? Don’t tell me he was crying?

“…What. So you’re alive…”

He spat out in a low voice. He sounded a bit nasal. Dislocations were an integral part of volleyball, something Kuroba had yet to experience, but he had heard that the pain was enough to make one cry. Or was he frustrated that he lost? He wondered if he had ever cried in frustration before. He didn’t think so. …He felt somewhat guilty that he couldn’t understand a single thing about Haijima’s pain.

“When did I die?”

Even though he should have first apologized for skipping the game, but he couldn’t get the word “Sorry” out. He responded jokingly in spite of himself, but got no reaction. Haijima silently walked past the advisor and ignored his confused voice calling out to his back with “Haijima, that’s not the way to the taxi.” He passed Kuroba without making eye contact with him.

Their shoulders brushed. It was Haijima, not Kuroba, who staggered.

The March incident suddenly flashed across his mind. It vividly reminded him of when Haijima became like a lifeless doll that had its important circuits fried after he was knocked down by Yorimichi—

Oh…

The signs matched up in his head, and he was aghast at himself for making such a stupid joke. For Haijima, the life or death of his teammate wasn’t something he could joke about. It must have been engraved into him as a trauma. He didn’t know the details, but apparently someone on his team attempted suicide because of Haijima.

Don’t tell me he was seriously afraid of that while I was reluctantly tossing around reasons to skip…

“Hai…”

When he suddenly turned back at Haijima’s leaving back, he heard his voice.

“I know what your ‘judgement’ of me is. It’s enough…”

Haijima’s voice was hoarse, so difficult to hear that it was hard to believe it came from him.

He couldn’t come up with anything to say right away. He should have run after him, took his arm and said “You’re wrong,” but his feet were stuck to the ground and he couldn’t move.

Even if he tried to deny it, he actually did them. The mean and cowardly act of calling around and badmouthing him behind his back. The childish act of skipping because he didn’t want to be in a match with him. While coolly declaring that “I’ll make up my own judgement about you,” he ended up making Haijima feel the same way he had in his previous school.

Even though he wasn’t wearing headphones like when he first transferred, there was a hard shell being put around his back, and he couldn’t find a gap to call out to him through. Ah…why am I even recalling this now? Haijima hasn’t brought that bag with his old school’s emblem on it since who-knows-when.

We’re going backwards.

…No way, it’s over? That’s it? It was only then that he realized that there would be no more opportunities to recover. Why hadn’t I thought of that until now? The third-year middle school summer tournament only comes once. It’s our first and last tournament. Why didn’t I value each minute and second and engrave them into my heart? We’re just going to end this with this letdown of an ending where we withdrew from the third-place deciders—.

He felt like time was suddenly zipping by at a dizzying speed, and he stepped on the ground with both feet to keep from falling.

I don’t want it to end here.

I still—still want to play volleyball with Haijima.

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[cutiepisenpai]

Gifted part 9

Spencer Reid x F!Reader Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Y/N wakes with a jolt her heart is beating so loud and rapidly in her chest and she is coated in a layer of sweat. What was that? She doesn't remember her dream but it couldn't have been good. She can't shake the feeling of dread so she gets up turning on every light in her apartment checking every room for danger but finds nothing. The uneasy feeling does not leave as she paces through her apartment, her palms are sweaty, hair is stand on end. She feels like she needs to leave, to escape but it's the middle of the night where could she go. She could call Spencer but he's finally sleeping and she doesn't want to be a burden. She tries putting on music but the sound doesn't help it actually makes it worse, reminiscent of a dentist's drill. If there is something to hear she won't be able to hear it over the music no matter how low it is. She tries to meditate and when she sits down and closes her eyes it feels like someone is in the room right in front of her, she can feel eyes on her but when she opens them no one is there. She gives up getting up, she gets dressed and heads out the door. Y/N is hypervigilant aware of every sound around her, the buzzing of the streetlights, the patter of water dripping onto the sidewalk she had gotten a good distance away from apartment building before it dawned on her that she shouldn't have left on foot but it was too late to turn back now. She was standing outside of Spencer's door before she knew it. Looking at it not wanting to knock but that uneasy feeling stuck to her. She knocks lightly as if not wanting to be heard. She waits a few moments before turning to leave when the door opens. "Y/N?" Spencer questions, voice groggy filled with sleep. "Sorry, I...I uh shouldn't have come. Go back to sleep." She says with a fake smile before turning again to leave. "What's wrong?" He asks, stepping outside closer to her. The thing is she didn't know how to answer that question. She didn't really know what was wrong but she could feel it. Something was off, something had changed. "It's nothing really just a nightmare." She says. She doesn't try to leave and she can't bring herself to face him. Spencer walks up behind her rubbing her arms, "you should come inside." He says and she nods allowing him to usher her into his apartment. Sitting silently on the couch, Y/N finally felt at ease as she leans into Spencer. They stay that way for a while simply enjoying the presence of one another until eventually the sun rises and a warm glow envelops the room. “Thank you.” Y/N says. “For what?” “I interrupted your sleep and you stayed up with me.” “Of course I did.” He says as if it was so obvious. “Do you want to talk about your nightmare? Was it about a case?” Spencer asks. “I don’t know what it was about. Like many other things I don’t remember.” She chuckles “When I woke up it felt like someone was in my apartment.” She feels him tense at her comment. “Don’t worry I checked the entire apartment. There was no one there; I just couldn’t shake the feeling.” She finishes. “Are you sure? If you thought someone was there that could mean something.” He says. “Yea like I might be paranoid.” “You are not paranoid. You are a great agent with great instincts and should definitely have someone double check your apartment. Morgan and I can go, it wouldn’t be a problem.” “It’s ok really I think it just had to do with the dream.” She can tell that he isn’t convinced and will probably go check on his own anyway, profilers, they can be your saving grace or the biggest pain in the ass. “You’re going to go check anyway aren’t you?” She asks. “Just to be safe.” She groans and lays back into his chest, yep profilers giant pain in the ass. 

When the time is appropriate enough Spencer calls Morgan before going to Y/N’s apartment. He leaves her at his place to get an unbiased feel for what’s going on. When Morgan and him get inside they separate checking every room. They meet up in the living room, “I don’t know man I don’t see anything out of the ordinary but I don’t know Y/N as well as you.” Morgan says. Spencer hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, everything was in its place as it always was but he understood the feeling she was having he just couldn’t place it.  “Everything appears normal but I understand why she felt uncomfortable. I just can’t place it.” Spencer says looking around the room. He had an eidetic memory so even the slightest difference he would notice and yet everything is the same as the last time he was here. But maybe that’s the problem, maybe things have been different for a while.  “I’ll um get some of her things and take them back to my place for now.” Spencer says, going into her room to gather some of her things before leaving locking the door behind them. When Spencer gets back to his apartment he finds Y/N asleep on the couch. He treads quietly through the apartment not wanting to wake her but she stirs anyway, rolling over to face him when a floorboard creaks. “Sorry I was trying to avoid waking you.” He whispers. She sits up and stretches, “It’s alright. You should consider taking a nap yourself.” she says. “I don’t need to nap, I’m fine really.” “You know sleep is necessary for proper cognitive function. That big brain of yours needs rest.” She says. “Yes I know I know you have said it enough times.” He grumbles. “This is the first time I have said that to you.” “No, it's the 27th time you have said that to me.” He says. To this she doesn’t respond simply looking at him quizzically. “Sorry, I know you don’t remember.” He says. “It’s okay, wasn’t it you that said the memories might come back.” “I don’t like that you seem smarter than me.” He says. “I am smarter than you.” She says with a smirk. He turns and sticks his tongue out at her. “Really how old are you? Because If I’m not mistaken a little older than me.” “I learned that from you.” He smiles at her. “Nah, I’m much too mature to do that.” She giggles. “So did you actually find something at my apartment or can I go home?” She asks. “We didn’t find anything but it gave me a weird feeling so I brought some of your stuff back here.” “You brought my things here?” “Yea, just some of the basics so you don’t have to go back to your apartment tonight” He says. “You went through my drawers?” “I’ve seen everything in there before.” He explains but from the look on her face she still isn’t happy. “I can’t unsee it. I have an eidetic memory.” He defends himself. She continues to glare at him. “What?” “Stay out of my drawers Dr. Reid” “Really? Dr. Reid?” “You might not remember but I have seen everything before?” He says gesturing to her body. She flushes blood rising up her chest to her face mouth agape. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.” She playfully hits him. “You’re terrible.” She says. “And yet you love me anyway” “Eh I’m not sure I remember that. How do you?” She says with a beaming smile. “I am a profiler and a pretty good one I think.” They both laugh after the long banter. “So how shall we fill the day since we’re apparently spending it together?” She asks.

The rest of their weekend goes well and they end up hanging at Spencer’s apartment for the most of it, playing chess, reading books, he tries to continuously order food with Y/N complaining that he needs to learn how to cook. The next night she went back to her apartment, she needed to get things ready for work the next day. Spencer had insisted he go with her just to make sure it was safe but she declined. After everything was ready for work in the morning, Y/N couldn't get to sleep. She went through her apartment again checking for even the most minut of changes, the issue with that was from what she could remember many things had changed. So she started there; she gathered all of the unfamiliar items she gathered and placed in a box on the coffee table. Before she starts to go through the box she makes a pot of coffee. Coffee in hand she starts to sort through the items; the items she can tell are Spencer’s she pulls out and sets to the side. The other items are strange knick knacks and books she wouldn’t have bought but from examination there is nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe she was just paranoid. She walks to her wall and takes down a painting revealing a safe behind it. She opens the safe and removes two files from within. She wasn’t supposed to have either of these but for vastly different reasons. The first file contained all the information the team had gathered from the case when she was shot. Hotch had told her that this was considered a cold case and because of her injury she wasn’t allowed to assist the team even if they got a new lead. The other file was from the NSA and the consequences of having this file are much greater. In this file was information on a suspect, a dangerous one that had avoided apprehension. The information in here would help the BAU but she couldn’t share this with them lest they all be dragged in and interrogated in the bowels of the pentagon. She no longer worked at the NSA so even if they were still investigating she wouldn’t be involved but she had made at least one friend in her time there and could call and see if they knew anything. She spent a long time looking at the message on her phone debating if sending it would be a good idea before taking the plunge and sending the message. Hey I know it’s been a while but I was wondering if we can meet up. She doesn’t expect an immediate reply if she gets one at all after all it’s the middle of the night. But nonetheless the phone chimes a few minutes later with a reply. Meet in the usual place. Y/N changes clothes before leaving, also leaving her phone behind knowing full well how much can be monitored with it on her. Fifteen minutes later she is walking up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, when she reaches the top they are already there waiting. “Hello stranger.” They say. “Hello” Y/N responds, they aren’t the closest of friends rivals were more like it from their time together at the NSA. “It’s been a while, I’m actually surprised to hear from you it’s been nearly a year since you left.” They say. “Has it? I wouldn’t know.” “How would you not know?” Y/N moves her hair to one side revealing the healed scar. “Wow who managed to get a hit in on you?” They ask. “You remember the sniper case we worked on?” “A bullet with your name on it really?” She moves her clothing around to reveal the other two scars. “Three bullets total first, middle, and last name carved into the bullet.” Y/N says. “And you’re alive? I knew you were badass from working with you but to survive getting shot in the head it’s a miracle you’re alive. None of his other victims survived.” They say “Yea I’m aware.” She goes to scratch at the scar but winces at the pain. “If my mother wasn’t as great of a surgeon I’m sure I would have died, but that’s not important right now. The BAU stopped working the case when the trail went cold and I can’t tell them what I know. So do you know if the NSA is still looking into him?” Y/N asks. “You of all people should know I can’t speak on the goings on at the NSA. We both know where that will get us.” They say. “I’m not looking for details, just a simple yes or no will do. I can’t officially work on this case and unofficially comes with risks as well but if the NSA is still looking into him. I know how to share information unseen.” She says. “Always wanting to be the best. That pride of your will be the death of you.” They say, “Contact “Firebird” they will be your way in.” They say. “Firebird huh, that’s surprising. Well thanks for the help. I would say I’ll see you around but we would both know that’s a lie.” Y/N says walking away. “Hey “Foxtail” try not to get killed why don’t you.” They say. “Don’t use that name out here. I’m not Foxtail anymore.” She says leaving. 

Taglist:  @ eevee0722

[starbuckie]

Some Quarantine Lovin’  Chapter 1: A Phone Call

Marvel Highschool! AU

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Obscene amounts of fluff, kissing, swearing, kinda a lot of angst

Description: Bucky Barnes is absolutely, no doubt about it, in love with Y/N L/N. He’s loved her since the day he laid eyes on her in the third grade. He loved her when he had his own girlfriend, and when he was barely friends with her for a whole summer. And of course, in his freshman year, they are now stuck together. In a house. During a worldwide quarantine. This should be fun.

Words: 2,272 words

A/N: Hey y’all, I’m back. Here’s the new and improved chapter, because the last one was a but messed up. Thank you so much for the likes and reblogs, they mean so much to me. I’ve been having a lot of fun writing this series, and I’m excited for the rest of the series. I’ll probably be posting weekly, so thanks for sticking with me. 

Y/N walked into the office, pep in her step and a huge smile on her face. Dear God, she hoped her parents said yes. Her parents loved Bucky a lot, they always told him every chance they could, but she didn’t know if they would even allow this. She took a deep breath, and looked into the eyes of the administrative assistant at the desk. “Hey Mr. Coulson, how are you this morning?” Y/N asked.

“Y/N, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Phil,” Phil chuckled, “you’re making me feel so old!”

“Sorry Phil,” she replied, “could I call my mom real quick?” Though she had a phone herself, her school’s cell service was absolute crap, and her phone refused to connect to the wifi, bringing her to the office to use the school phone. She usually tried to avoid the office at all costs, but this call meant everything to her. 

“Sure, what for?” This is where she knew it would get tricky. If it was anything besides an injury, illness, or being sent home, the office would not allow her to call home. They were strict like that.

So, without any other choice, she lied. “I’m not feeling too good right now. My head hurts so much, and it's pounding a lot.” She put on her best show of weakness.

Phil frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want any Advil? I think it’ll help your head feel better.” He moved his hand to his desk drawer and started to open it.

“Actually, it’s my head and my stomach. They both don’t feel good. And I hurt my foot. A lot.” She knew she was laying it on thick, but she leaned on her right foot to make it seem as if she couldn’t bear to put pressure on the other. Phil knew something was up, but he only narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“The extension is a one before the area code.” He said, but she was already fake-limping as fast as she could to the room next door. 

“Thanks Phil!” She yelled back. Y/N made it to the door, opened it, and peered inside to make sure the lounge was empty. Once she knew she was in the clear, she rushed to the phone to dial her mom’s work number in. Pressing it to her ear, it ringed a few times, until she heard the static and her mom’s voice.

“Hello there, Mary L/N, how can I help you?” Her mom’s cheery voice made her calm down a bit, but then she remembered her mission.  

“Hey mom, it’s me Y/N” 

“Oh hey sweetie, what’s up?”

Y/N decided to try and get this out fast to lessen the blow. “Y’know Bucky, right?”

Her mom’s chuckle was heard through the phone. “Of course, he’s been your friend since the third grade.”

“And how he’s living with his dad and Becca alone?” Her mom’s hum of agreement prompted her to say her next words. “I was wondering if Bucky and Becca could stay here during quarantine. And, before you say anything, I know that you’re gonna say we don’t have any supplies, but we do! We still have the baby crib for Becca, and Bucky can just stay in my room like normal, and it’ll be like a sleepover. A very long sleepover.” Y/N winced at the awkward phrasing of her last few words.

She could hear her mom’s sigh through the phone, and the thoughts running around in her head. “But, even with all that, and I really hate to bring this up too, what are we gonna do about money? We’ll have to buy resources for not three, but six people.” Y/N’s shoulders slumped at her words, and she exhaled through her nose deeply. 

Suddenly, like a godsend, she got a text from her sister. Thank whatever god is watching over cell phone service to allow them to receive this text, she thought as she read it. 

“Hey mom, Ria just texted, she’s staying with her boyfriend for quarantine.” She was sure her mom could hear the huge smile through her voice, but in the moment she didn’t care. Y/N was desperate for her mom to agree, because she knew that he and his sister wouldn’t be safe. Bucky would always be her priority, even if he didn’t love her back the same way. “Mom, I know that this is huge, but we used to have him over for weeks at a time. This will be the same. If you need me to, I can use all the money that I made over the summer, I can pay for Becca’s food, and the formula, and oh god, what else does a baby need-”

She was abruptly interrupted by her mom. “You will be owing me big time. Your dad is going to murder me.” Y/N grinned widely at her mom's words. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t fucking believe it. Her mom was allowing this. Bucky would be safe. Becca would be safe. “Before you go off running to talk to Buck, I should tell you to tell him that I need to voice a few concerns and rules.”

“Okay mom, thank you so, so much. I appreciate this so much, and I know Bucky and Becca will too. I’m gonna go tell him right now.”

“You’re welcome. God, I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Mrs. L/N wasn’t upset about it, no, she was ecstatic to get the Barnes children away from their asshole of a father, but she was going to get to care for them for however long the shelter and place would be going on. “Stop by the Barnes’ house and grab Becca and their things before you get home okay? Unless Mr. Barnes is there, then come straight home and I’ll go with you. You should also leave a note, if you can go inside.”

“You got it, mom. Again, thank you so, so much for this, but I gotta go back to the library to meet Steve and Buck. I love you tons!” Y/N said hurriedly. She was bursting with excitement to get her two favorite people away from their dad, and a month of spending time with her best guy friend that she happened to be in love with just added to it. 

“I love you so much, Y/N. See you after school.” As soon as her mom hung up, she bolted. She didn’t care if Mr. Coulson saw and questioned her, nor did she care that she was shoving people in the halls and being a large disruption. Y/N burst through the doors of the library, eyes scanning around the room for her two friends. She spotted Steve talking to the librarian, probably about another spelling error he found in the book he was reading. Another time, she would have made fun of him for it, but she marched straight up to him with a determined look.

“Where’s Buck?” She asked. Y/N must have looked slightly insane and menacing with her windswept hair and slightly ruffled shirt, because her tall blond friend looked downright terrified of her. With wide eyes, he pointed to a couch where Bucky sat with his headphones in and watched a video on a school laptop. She nodded towards Steve in thanks, and dashed off to Bucky. As she approached him, she tried to also figure out the best way to say this. Oh god, what if he’s mad? I didn’t ask if this was okay with him.

The shadow that fell over Bucky gave him the notice that someone was near. His blue eyes looked up and met her gaze. “Hey doll.” He took one more glance at her appearance (not like he didn’t stare at her regularly), and asked, “Did you happen to get caught in a tornado in your hurry to your destination?” They both chuckled, but he could also feel the nervousness and excitement radiating off her. “In all seriousness, what’s up?”

She opened her mouth then closed it. “I need to talk to you. Just you and me. Even though, if you agree to this, the rest of the gang’s gonna find out anyway.”

“Now I’m a little scared, what's happening?”

She took a deep breath.”Well, after you mentioned it earlier, I was reminded that during quarantine, you’d be staying with your dad alone.” Y/N knew it was a little difficult for Bucky to talk about his family, so she decided to break it down slowly to him, even though her nerves were rattling. “And I hate the idea of you and baby Becca staying there, because… y’know.” He nodded his head in understanding, and you got the courage to continue. “Well, I talked to my mom, and she said that you could stay with us. For the quarantine. As long as you need. We love you so much Buck, and so if you wanna, you can stay with us.”

Bucky stared at her with wide eyes, in shock, but soon enough they started to get glassy. God, he couldn’t believe that she would think of him for over break. Y/N was the most selfless and caring person he knew, and he was just in awe of her. He stood up and grasped the girl for a tight hug. His face hid in the crook of her neck, because he was trying so hard not to let anyone see his tears, but he was having trouble controlling the sobs that wracked his body. Thank God they were in the corner of the library with the couches, so no one could see him. Y/N’s hands ran soothingly up his back, and it stayed that way for a few minutes until Bucky finally looked back up at her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” 

She smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “I would throw myself in front of a moving car for you Buck, okay? Never tell Tasha, but you’re my best friend. I’ll love you forever.” Her arms tightened around his waist again, and his heart was filled with relief and love. “After school we’ll swing by your house and if your father’s not home we’ll grab Becca, your stuff, leave a note for your dad, and go to my place, sound good?”

His heartbeat immediately increased its rate. And there’s the panic. “But what if he is home, Y/N? I don’t wanna leave Becca by herself for any longer than she has to be. And do you have any baby stuff? Or food? She has to have formula, and her food needs to be in this weird food processor thing, I don’t know what it’s called, and oh god-”

“Bucky!” She cut him off with a giggle and a hand over his mouth, which he would’ve probably found hot, had he not been freaking out. “Me and Ria were once babies, we have stuff to take care of Becca. My mom knows all the products she uses, and we have the crib from the last time you came over. And if your dad is home, then we’ll just take Becca with us to my house and have my mom drive us back to yours to get your stuff, so she’ll know we’re okay. We’ll be okay James.” Y/N stared at him dead in the eye, so he knew she was serious. She never, ever used his first name unless she was being earnest. 

He nodded. “We’ll be okay Y/N.” He released her from the hug, not wanting to make it awkward, but he regretted it, as he loved holding her in his arms. Looking to his left, he could see Steve bounding over to them.

“Ms. Moore said I need to stop talking to her about the typos and mistakes in the books, it’s like she’s completely unaffected by the flaws!” He exclaimed, but then he noticed the tears still resting on Bucky’s cheeks. “Hey Buck, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just Y/N offered to let me and Becca stay at her house for quarantine.” He sniffled and wiped the cuff of his sweatshirt against his face, looking to Y/N to find her already looking at him. Her small smile grew a little wider catching his eye, and she motioned toward the couch. 

“Let’s get down to work y’all.” The trio sat down on the small couch, Y/N squished in between the two boys. Bucky placed his headphones back on, resuming the video from before, but not really paying attention. No, he was paying more attention to the girl at his side, resting her head on his shoulder as she typed away on her laptop. She managed to be the only one who completed any actual work during their free periods, but she always kept time open to have fun with her friends as well. Bucky couldn’t help but have his lips quirked up at her, leaning back to relax against the cushions.

He turned his head towards her, and whispered in a barely audible voice, “Thank you Y/N.” She looked up at him with her infamous smile and kissed him on the cheek.

“Anytime, Buck.” She turned back to her computer, plugging her earbuds in and softly humming to her music. Her head moved to his chest, and Bucky prayed that she couldn’t hear how fast his heart was thumping, filled with adoration and love. God, how he would love this girl for the rest of his life.

[scriptflorist]

I have customers in my story complaining about flowers that die way too early. When is it simply bad luck or when it is improper customer care or in fact improper florist care? What about customers who want to raise more hell than simple complaining, when would it be a trouble customer or legitimate requests?

Hi there,

This might not be the answer you’ve been looking for, but it can always be bad luck. Both the customer and the florist can do everything in their power to make the plants survive and they still die. To give an absolute guarantee on mother nature just isn’t possible. However, there are a few things which might have gone wrong on either end.

If the florist is in any way at fault they might have not changed the water when it was due, however more than likely they cut their bouquet with a pruner instead of a knife. Now there are some things in bouquets that require a pruner, namely any wooden stems it contains, all flowers however should be cut, diagonally, with a knife before being put into water.

If it’s the customer, both of them apply as well as not removing any leaves/foliage from the stems in the water. All those are the most common mistakes so to say that your characters could make that would lead to the flowers generally not lasting as long as they should.

Flower food is a bit tricky, because it is not meant for all cut flowers – primarily roses, peonies and lilies – however it seems to work under the same rules as green thumbs do. Somehow it seems to work with everything for some people. Your character might as well be one of them. The rule of thumb however is that no gerberas or spring-flowering plants should receive it, in general no cut flowers that require little water also require flower food.

Another thing that could go wrong on either end, but more likely the customers if they lack the knowledge is that some cut flowers need a quick foot bath in hot water. About ten-ish seconds. This applies to sunflowers, peonies and hydrangeas for example and what is does is help the flowers drink more water. Now simply not sticking them in hot water and being taught better a day or two after usually still saves the flowers, if they receive a fresh cut as well. However the customers in your story could very well get creative with that. In German we generally refer to the process as “ankochen” (to parboil) which is… sort of true given what the process entails and is supposed to do. Now I’m telling you this because I had a customer look me in the eye and tell me that what they thought they were supposed to do what hold the stems over an open lighter. They even brought the flowers so the evidence was right in front on me. There is nothing in the instructions that suggests taking a lighter to the plants, however it is a valid wrongful interpretation given that it happened.

I haven’t really had customers raising hell in my time as a florist, however the store I worked for was very accommodating. We had like a week long warranty so to speak, customers didn’t even need to bring in proof of purchase or the flowers themselves. Their word was good enough. Now it was big company so they could away with it, but generally we got them their money back and let them buy new plants on the spot if they wanted to. Anything that was within that one week of purchase was considered a legitimate request when it came to cut flowers.

Potted plants are a different kind of scheme. They live longer so of course there is a bit more leeway when it comes to their death and getting money back. Generally, the one week rule still applied because outdoor plants are supposed to last 2-3 weeks indoors and everything else should live longer anyway so it is definitely more a case-by-case situation for your characters. A hydrangea that died half a year wouldn’t get refunded, a month I think is about the longest period that could be chalked up to circumstances out of the customers or florists control.

While nobody raised hell, we had a kalanchoe lady. We called her that because it was all she ever bought. I don’t remember what size she bought them in I think the tiny ones that make great decorations. I do however remember that my colleague noticed that she would be dead on time about two or four weeks later and return with the complaint that her plants had died. She would then proceed to exchange them for new ones in the exact same size. Which cost her nothing because the prize was always the same. That, of course, was not a legitimate request anymore.

– Mod Jana

I’m going to add on one thing that has always stuck out to me as potentially bad florist care. Well, it’s not really bad care, but it’s using flowers already at or past their prime in order to recoup the cost. Flowers are expensive even for the florist, and they are perishable goods, so that can be a lot of money in the dumpster if they don’t sell things on time. 

The most notorious that I’ve seen for this is roses. Because roses have so many layers of petals, and florists often remove the guard petals anyway (they are the most likely to have discoloration, bruising, or tears), some florists will remove more petals to make a rose that’s already pretty open look more like it’s just past the bud stage. This leads to customers that are frustrated that their roses only last a couple of days. 

While it’s true that the roses might have died early because the customer didn’t give them enough water, fresh water, floral food, or other proper care, sometimes it’s because the roses were already past their midlife to start. I’ve notoriously seen this at grocery stores and big box stores that just have a flower case and people grab the pre-grouped bunches of flowers. Those roses are cheaper because they haven’t been prepped at all, and also no one is checking if they’re really still fresh for selling other than water and food.  On the other hand, the actual florist shops I’ve worked in have had a regular task of gently squeezing the roses near the base of the petals to make sure they felt firm. If it was firm, then there were still plenty of petals in there so that the rose would open and give over a week’s worth of blooming and beauty to the customer. If it was squishy then the inner petals had all already started blooming outward and it was probably past it’s prime. (One of those owner-florists would let me take the old roses home with me rather than throwing them out. That was nice.)

- Mod Den

Disclaimer

This blog is intended as writing advice only. This blog and its mods are not responsible for accidents, injuries or other consequences of using this advice for real world situations or in any way that said advice was not intended.

[sadclearance]

i don’t miss you at all

pairing: mahiru koizumi x female!reader

summary: mahiru misses y/n. (i don't miss you at all by finneas)

category: past fluff, angst, songfic

warning(s): minor suicidal thought for like a second, no actual suicide, non-graphic accidental death

word count: 1300

key:

italicized - past

bold and italicized - lyrics

i swear i don't

"i love you, mahiru," y/n said, giant grin growing even bigger.

miss you at all

"it's nothing, really," mahiru tried to subtly hide her face from her lover, embarrassed of how red those words made her.

"i'm serious! i'm not letting you act like it's nothing. you're the best girlfriend ever," y/n engulfed her.

and i barely still remember

"if anything, you are for letting me use you as my model," mahiru avoided taking the credit again. "thanks to you, i got recognized by real professional photographers out there. it's more like i'm hanging up my gold medals."

"oh, shut up. you did that by yourself with your talent. i'm glad i could be a part of your recognition," y/n kissed mahiru with a smile. "still can't believe you put up all these pictures of me."

"it's normal for people to hang up beautiful works of art."

who's in the pictures on my wall

'cause no i can't

"you smell like flowers," mahiru commented while being embraced by y/n.

"i'm glad you noticed," y/n smiled as she pulled back. "you said your favorite place that you've ever been to was mexico. did you know that tuberose are native there?"

"no, i didn't know that," mahiru smiled as she watched y/n talk animatedly about her newfound knowledge.

recall your scent

mahiru picks up the bottle of ridiculously overpriced perfume.

y/n had continuously bought it just because of that story mahiru had told her about her favorite travel spot.

mahiru had always found it ridiculous and unnecessary, but she couldn't deny that it made her all warm and fuzzy inside.

mahiru throws it in the trash can, ignoring the loud crashing of the glass.

jasmine, tuberose and lily

"stop doing that," mahiru made a face.

"but you just went to pari'. i must recreate the french girls you must 'ave missed," y/n continued on despite mahiru's protests.

"it's nowhere near close to how french people sound," mahiru smacked y/n's arm lightly. "and the only girl i've ever missed is you."

"okay, okay, i'll stop if you stop being such a cheeseball," y/n made a face of her own with a laugh.

or your silly french accent

all but forgotten

"you know, i read a book the other day."

"you, reading? i don't think so," mahiru joked.

"hey! anyway, it was an american book. the great gatsby."

"yeah, i've heard of that before," mahiru nodded as she continued to mess with the controls of her new camera.

about those eyes

"well, your beautiful green eyes are like the green light to me."

"oh, shut up, you flirt!"

the shade of green that if he'd seen would make f. scott fitzgerald cry

but i won't

the alarm clock on her bedside table flashes "2:00am" in an agitating red. it's been that color since forever, but it bothers mahiru a little more than usual tonight.

she blames that for her not being able to sleep.

she reluctantly grabs her phone from the bedside table and turns her alarm clock away so that it's no longer facing her.

she scrolls through some old photos, but they don't help ease the discomfort in her heart. she sighs exasperatedly at her own mistake and swipes out of the app.

she avoids the green icon with the telephone on it for as long as she can will until she eventually gives in, tapping the latest call.

"the number you have dialed is no longer in use."

break down at two a.m. and call

'cause i don't

mahiru throws her phone across the room, even if she knew that this would happen because she's been doing it every night.

miss you at all

neglecting the phone that she just threw, mahiru turns to her side.

and i'm sleeping fine

she closes her eyes, but her mind won't shut off for a while. she frowns as she gets more melatonin.

i don't mean to boast

mahiru wakes up feeling uneasy, her heart beating rapidly. she knows she must've been tensed up the entire time she was asleep because her shoulders are stiff and her limbs feel strained.

but i only dream about you

it's like it's a part of her routine, and she knows what the results will be, but she takes more melatonin anyway. she supposes that restless sleep is better than none.

once or twice a night at most

mahiru sits down at teruteru's restaurant on a saturday night--a tradition that she's been neglecting for a few months.

and it feels so good

"haven't seen you for a while, mahiru," teruteru forgoes the usual perverted comment.

"yeah," mahiru nods. "been busy."

"well, what can i get for you?"

eating alone

"why don't we share?" y/n asked with a cheeky grin.

"you just want to try everything, don't you?" mahiru shook her head but couldn't help the amused smile.

"you want to make me happy, don't you?"

"only because your smile's my favorite thing to capture on camera."

i don't get distracted by your smile

"drive safe," teruteru waves when she starts to leave. "wait, i didn't mean--"

she ignores him and continues to walk to her car.

she gets going as fast as she can because even though she knows teruteru's comment was just a thoughtless goodbye, it bothers her, and she wants to get away.

there's a red light, and mahiru can't do anything but stop.

she takes the time to look at the passenger seat. she sighs at her own mistake as she finds herself unable to rip her eyes away. there's a nostalgic reminiscent feeling inside, but it's chased by something cold and hopeless.

her hand goes to touch the seat when the person behind her honks.

and miss the green lights driving home

no sign of stopping

she had been there so often, she always sort of went on autopilot when driving around these familiar parts.

by the time she's conscious of her surroundings, she's sure she's just a turn or so from her home.

the house isn't far

a song that isn't necessarily to mahiru's taste comes on the radio that she had turned on to serve as a distraction from her thoughts, and the hands on the wheel turn white with how hard she's gripping it.

but i think our song is coming on

she's never liked it, but she's always let it play because y/n liked it, and mahiru had loved the way y/n sang it so passionately, putting her soul into it. she remembers making some offhand comment about how loud and rude it could be considered, but she hadn't really meant it.

looking back on it, mahiru regrets saying that.

thinking of all of the things she regrets saying and not saying, she considers the power she holds, with her foot strong on the gas pedal.

and now i wanna crash the car

she frowns and lessens the pressure on the pedal, her car slowing down as she continues on the road.

but i won't

"y/n!" mahiru screamed in horror as an unconscious y/n was put on a gurney. she was held back by the nurse who was treating the minor injuries and scratches she had received from the crash.

make that mistake again and fall

"oh, y/n," mahiru cries loudly, as if she was reliving that painful day.

so i say i don't

she lets her head fall onto her steering wheel when she's parked, accidentally causing a loud honk that had no doubt irritated her neighbors at this late hour.

miss you at all

"why?" mahiru sobs. "why did you have to... why did i have to..."

and someday i won't

she cries harder, and she feels like she'll be stuck with this feeling for the rest of her days.

miss you at all

❥๑━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━๑❥

a/n;

5:33am - 6am i usually take like seven years to come up with an idea then actually finish writing it woah

i guess coming up with the idea thing is...

i wrote a songfic with this song almost a year ago for another fandom that i was only really in because i can't sit through and watch something longer than like a minute for--which gives you a hint on what it was--

and i liked the plot for it actually and wanted to reuse <3

and immediately mahiru came to mind because green eyes

most of the characters i choose for the oneshots are like on a whim or small reasons like that lol

[x-lulu]

gurl 1-99 I dare you😄

haha no if that's too much just 1, 2, 24, 32, 77, 85, 95

well I finally answered them all babe, took me a week haha 💗

1: 6 of the songs you listen to most? world away by tonight alive, you give love a bad name by bon jovi, amnesia by five seconds of summer, had enough by lower than atlantis, take it out on me by thousand foot krutch, if I could fly by one direction, I just named the first that popped in my head

2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be? YOU

3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17? a wind came in off the harbour, bringing the smell of the sea

4: What do you think about most? I’m an overthinker with anxiety so yeah I think about everything a lot, so I wouldn’t know what I think about most

5: What does your latest text message from someone else say? just an okay haha

6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on? with, an oversized shirt and underwear

7: What’s your strangest talent? latin maybe?

8: Girls… (finish the sentence); Boys… (finish the sentence) I don’t know rock? I’m not really the kind of person that puts a gender in things

9: Ever had a poem or song written about you? uhm I don’t think so, now I feel unimportant haha

10: When is the last time you played the air guitar? I’m more an using a hairbrush as a microphone kind of girl

11: Do you have any strange phobias? probably, I’m scared of a lot of things

12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose? don’t think so

13: What’s your religion? officially I’m Christian, I’m a bit searching for what I believe in tho, I do believe in jezus but not like walking on water and coming back from the death, I might believe in the Greek gods and nature gods

14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing? enjoying the fresh air, going for a walk/ride and look at cute animals

15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it? behind

16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band? even if you kill me I don’t know what band to say

17: What was the last lie you told? I lied about not being sad

18: Do you believe in karma? I don’t know, sometimes, but like there are people who’ve done terrible things, where is their karma?

19: What does your URL mean? it’s just my nickname, I didn’t want to make it fandom related because I’m a multi fandom and I didn’t want to have to change my url a lot, I also didn’t want to put my real name because I don’t want people to find me who I know in real life haha

20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength? my insecurity is my greatest weakness I think, I don’t know my greatest strength... maybe being a person who people feel loved and welcome by? Idk if people feel that way and idk if it’s a strength. If I’m gonna be poetic I have to say my greatest weakness and strength are both that I love someone with my whole heart, when I start loving you, I love you so much, I would do anything for you, but when someone fucks up, I’ll still love them even tho they don’t deserve it, so that comes with a lot of pain so yeah a weakness and a strength

21: Who is your celebrity crush? rudy pankow and dylan obrien

22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping? yes

23: How do you vent your anger? I keep everything to myself till I explode and start screaming

24: Do you have a collection of anything? music records, stones and just memories from places I’ve been to

25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online? neither? If I’m comfortable I do enjoy video chatting especially in times like these where you can’t speak in real life

26: Are you happy with the person you’ve become? this is hard one, I’ve never been happy with who I am, I do like me better than who I used to be

27: What’s a sound you hate; sound you love? sound I love is when you’re walking trough the woods just the birds, can’t think of one I hate, I definitely have some they just don’t come to mind rn

28: What’s your biggest “what if”? what if I keep going through and it doesn’t get better

29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens? yes and yes/maybe

30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm. my laptop and my pillow

31: Smell the air. What do you smell? flowers

32: What’s the worst place you have ever been to? xanten

33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast? uhm west coast? Idk haha

34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender? harry styles is the first one that pops in my head

35: To you, what is the meaning of life? to find love, can be someone something, experience things that make you happy, enjoy it, learn, better the world

36: Define Art. creating something, it can have a meaning but it also can’t, a lot of people give it a deep meaning, which can be it, I just think art doesn’t always have to be deep are spectacular it can be someone making something because they have so much going in their head and they find peace in creating art and get inspired by their own experience, people also can it just do for fun, there are so many different kind of art and artists, I don’t think it can’t be defined

37: Do you believe in luck? I don’t know

38: What’s the weather like right now? rainy

39: What time is it? 9:54 pm

40: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed? no licence

41: What was the last book you read? a fanfic on Wattpad fight or flight by ffsumth

42: Do you like the smell of gasoline? yes 🙈

43: Do you have any nicknames? lu and lulu obviously, loesje , samantha, pinguïn, polar bear, you called me lulu bear hehe

44: What was the last film you saw? I don’t remember...

45: What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had? uhm ive broken a few things, my toes and my arm, but nothing really bad actually

46: Have you ever caught a butterfly? no, I don’t want to, I have seen some really close, they’re beautiful

47: Do you have any obsessions right now? again you haha, but like all the stuff I post on here are my obsessions

48: What’s your sexual orientation? I don’t know, I think straight, but I don’t know for sure

49: Ever had a rumour spread about you? yeah

50: Do you believe in magic? I’m not certain, maybe I do :) I do live by the saying ‘just because you haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist’

51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong? sadly yes, like I won’t be mean to you or anything, but I will never ever trust you again, if I’m hurt I’m hurt and sadly I haven’t found a way yet to leave it behind, so I’m feeling a lot of pain and I’m never gonna forget that pain, so yeah...

52: What is your astrological sign? capricorn

53: Do you save money or spend it? uhm both? depends on how I feel and what time of the year it is, I have the bad habit to save it for a few months and then spend a lot of it

54: What’s the last thing you purchased? a apple pen so I can start trying digital art

55: Love or lust? love

56: In a relationship? with you hehe

57: How many relationships have you had? none official relationships, I’m just not lovable okay leave me alone haha

58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue? no oops

59: Where were you yesterday? home, school, therapy

60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you? a pillow

61: Are you wearing socks right now? no

62: What’s your favourite animal? polar bears

63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you? no idea haha, I don’t have one

64: Where is your best friend? at home, like 20min away

65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr. this is hard so I’m just gonna name the first five that come in my head @nxsmss @rafej-cambanks @thegreatestofheck @chrlsgillespie @nedleed

66: What is your heritage? I don’t know 🤷‍♀️

67: What were you doing last night at 12AM? sleeping, I had to get up early today

68: What do you think is Satan’s last name? never thought about it

69: Be honest. Ever gotten yourself off? no

70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend? Is it bad to say yes? I mean I hate myself but I do think I’m a good friend

71: You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do? save the dog obviously!!!!

72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remaining days? c) Would you be afraid? I think I would tell people, I’m not sure, but like so have people got the time to say goodbye the way they want to, I would travel the world I think, do everything on my bucket list, maybe some illegal stuff 🙈 (where no one gets hurt tho obviously), I don’t think I would be afraid... I mean I’m suicidal, I’ve literally been connected to death my whole life, if you understand what I mean

73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love. uhm trust I think? If I would have love but don’t have trust I wouldn’t really feel loved anyway, I do really want to experience how it feels like to be loved tho...

74: What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it? the first song that came to mind is love my life by Robbie Williams, I rarely listen to it, but the lyrics really gives a boost of happiness and confidence

75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number? 51 54

76: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship? loyalty and trust, you don’t have to agree on everything or be interested in the same things, you do have to be there for each other

77: How can I win your heart? YOU ALREADY HAVE

78: Can insanity bring on more creativity? yes I think so

79: What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far? to get dogs

80: What size shoes do you wear? uhm 38 eu, 4,5 uk and 7 us

81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone? a loving ... I hope to be a loving daughter, friend, wife and mother, someone who was always there for others

82: What is your favourite word? fuck haha, no idk but that is definitely a word I use a lot

83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart. pain....

84: What is a saying you say a lot? enjoy the little things

85: What’s the last song you listened to? ignorance by paramore

86: Basic question; what’s your favourite colour/colours? uhm I do love black, I also like pastels and like a turquoise kind of colour

87: What is your current desktop picture? me and my friend

88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be? no one, there are a lot of people who did wrong, the need to be in jail, but I’m not saying someone deserves to die

89: What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on? what goes on in my head, how I’m feeling

90: One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do? scream probably haha

91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power? teleportation, I would travel the world haha

92: You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again? when I was in Ireland by the cliffs of moher

93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? uhm this is a hard one, maybe seeing my father almost dying? (he is okay btw, we were lucky), I’ve had nightmares and anxiety ever since

94: You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be? I find this so weird to say for some reason... if I have to give a name it would be harry styles I think, because damn look at that man, but I don’t know, I would rather be friends with him than sleep with him tbh, I know you can do both haha, but idk I’m not like yes I want to sleep with him haha, I think I’ve read too many fanfics about him that I would find it awkward

95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go? ice land or canada

96: Do you have any relatives in jail? don’t think so, not close ones anyway

97: Have you ever thrown up in the car? no, I got out in time haha

98: Ever been on a plane? yes, when I went on a trip to georgia in west asia

99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say? you’re all ignorant assholes haha, no idk what I would say, there are a lot of good people on this world I know, but man there is some fucked up shit, so maybe I would educate some people or it would have something to do with mental health, maybe about loving yourself or that it’s not a sign of weakness and that we should be treated as equals to physical pain, we should be taken seriously... I don’t really know, there are so many things haha

[ldaoec]

Bad at Poetry.

I compared you to a war time injury, wrote a poem describing how I survived you like some people survive natural disasters, or trips to jurassic park. I wrote a poem comparing you to a phantom limb, and you text me two days before my birthday, taking that poem as an invitation to start talking again. I bring this up as a point of conversation, a middle ground a way to explain and describe the lapse in communication the no mans ground where your understanding of the English Language and my understanding of the English language pass each other like ships in the night which is to say I am as intuitive and insightful as you are ignorant and bad at interpreting poetry Before you call me mean say writing bitter poetry is just “what you do” let me explain I loved you like a super nova I loved you like picking a stuffed animal from a claw machine beating the system and taking him home even if the stuffed animal was worth less than the price of the tickets to pay the game I loved you like a choice like this one is mine like I see his faults and I chose him anyway I loved you as a friend expecting nothing in return and, yes I slipped stumbled developed feelings for you but I loved you for you I love you in such a way that two years later and I’m not proud of this that love is still causing phantom pains a siezing in my heart when I think of all that I had or, at least, thought I had in you. When I think of the person you were or the person you seemed to be and how I lost that like some people lose their footing slip and tumble down a hill jack and jill and then nothing in those moemnt my heart tightens the lingering pains of heartache that nothing no peotry no therapy no catharsis seems to get rid of so that I’m stuck, in part in this limbo this slow, deep well that I fell into and have been slowly painstakingly pulling myself out of poem by bitter peom insight by insight trying to heal the broken pieces of a heart that will never trust the same way it did, when I first met you You are not good at interpreting poetry, so that is to say I loved you not as an accident something I fell into but a choice someone I saw for all his faults and ‘worst thing I’ve ever done’ and I chose to love you anyway I loved you, at one point, romantically, but, predominantly I loved you platonically a love that gets and expects nothing in return a love I think more meaningful than romantic love I loved you in the way love is supposed to be felt in a way that I have not healed from in the two years since you chose her over me This is how I loved you and so when you told me you loved me had feelings for me and for her I didn’t chose to break your heart I didn’t disregard your feelings but rather you said you loved me and showed me in technicolor that that wasn’t true that you didn’t know what love was and that your crush was easily dissolved by a night spent in bed with another girl “I just held her,” you said telling me you had feelings for me and asking if you should buy flowers for her my god I know you lack insight that you maybe don’t misinterpret so much as chose to interpret things to suit your needs like convincing yourself breaking my heart all over again was a good birthday present. but how on earth did you ever think telling me you had feelings for me and feelings for another girl would turn out any different? Even if I still had those romantic feelings even if I was still in love with you would you really want me to love someone who loved somebody else did you not care about me enough to want me to have someone who loved me only me because no one else could compare? I don’t hope you’re happy with her. I don’t have to It is enough that I don’t wish you harm And, I don’t Heartbreak, sometimes A part of me thinks it is cosmically unfair that two years later I am still writing fucking poetry about a boy who broke my heart and you’ve been with her for two years I’m indifferent to your happiness providing it doesn’t come from her be happy have your family and go to space but the ending of you and her getting your happily ever asfter when as I see it it came at the price of a thousand broken pieces just doesn’t seem fair to me Two years later and I still have a lot of healing left to do a lot of processing until I can say I’m over you but I think wherever you are in life you don’t have the same problem I think you are done healing all healed up moved on probably don’t think about me or check up on me which means you’ll never hear or read my poems because I loved you I chose to love you and you never loved me and so you move on you end up happy with the girl you chose and I end up with hundreds of poems and I end up learning my worth and I end up knowing that is is better to be alone than to be with a boy who never loved me in the first place.

Kiwi Foster © 1/31/21

And yet. “I’ve read all the poetry,” you said. I suppose I can chalk that up to another one of our miscommunications— you read the poetry, is what you said. I understand, is what I heard. At the very least, when you told me, “I’m not responsible for your feelings,” and, “it’s been three years; I shouldn’t still have this sway on you,” at least then— I think we both understood what you were saying: “I’m a coward. And, I can’t take responsibility for my own actions,” is a lot of words for you to spell. So, I understand the abbreviation. Then again, I was always so much better at interpretation than you.