#Full Glass Shopfronts

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[mywhisperingwords]

everyone wants him | fred g. weasley

summary: everyone wants fred weasley, why would he want you? word count: 3.2k masterlist

The Leaky Cauldron was alive with its usual chaos—laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional misplaced spell fizzling out before causing any real harm.

You sat tucked into the corner of the pub, nursing a Butterbeer that had long since gone lukewarm. Alicia had dragged you out tonight, claiming you needed to “live a little.” You weren’t entirely convinced, but there was something about her enthusiasm that made saying no impossible.

And then there was Fred Weasley.

You’d noticed him the second he walked in, though you’d never admit it. His presence was magnetic in a way you couldn’t quite explain, drawing attention without even trying. He laughed too loud, flashed that mischievous grin too easily, and had the audacity to look good doing it.

He was surrounded, of course. Angelina was at his side, rolling her eyes at something he’d said, but not enough to hide her smile. A couple of other faces hovered nearby—girls who leaned in a little too close, their laughter a little too eager.

You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on Alicia, who was recounting some outrageous story involving a Niffler and a stolen bracelet.

“And then—are you even listening?”

You blinked, startled, and Alicia followed your gaze across the room. She smirked. “Ah. Fred Weasley.”

You frowned. “What about him?”

“You were practically drooling.”

“I was not.”

She laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Don’t bother denying it. Everyone looks at him like that at least once. It’s infuriating, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“How bloody charming he is.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Infuriating was a good word for it.

It wasn’t until later in the night, after the crowd had thinned and Alicia had gone off to dance with some guy you didn’t recognize, that Fred approached you.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already sliding into the chair across from you.

You glanced up, startled. “Uh, sure?”

His grin widened, and you felt an unwelcome flutter in your chest. “You’re Alicia’s friend, right? I’ve seen you around. I’m Fred.”

“I know who you are.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re about to use that ridiculous charm of yours to try and get in my pants.”

He laughed—a genuine, full-bodied sound that caught you off guard. “Merlin, you’re sharp, aren’t you? I like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be likable.”

“Even better.”

You shook your head, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. He was persistent, you’d give him that.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Why are you here, all tucked away in the corner like some kind of mysterious enigma?”

“Mysterious enigma?”

“It’s the best I could come up with on short notice. Don’t judge me.”

This time, you couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto your face. “I didn’t want to come tonight. Alicia dragged me here.”

“Well, remind me to thank her later,” he said, his tone light but his eyes unexpectedly serious.

You hesitated, caught off guard by the shift. For a moment, you wondered if there might be more to Fred Weasley than the charming facade.

But then someone called his name—a girl, predictably—and the moment passed.

Fred glanced over his shoulder, his grin returning as he waved her off. When he turned back to you, he seemed almost reluctant.

“Duty calls,” he said, rising from his chair. “But don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

“Why would I be anything else?”

His laughter followed him as he walked away, and you were left alone, staring at your now-empty glass and wondering what, exactly, had just happened.

&

Diagon Alley was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart, mingling with the earthy smell of parchment and ink that clung to the shopfront of Flourish and Blotts. You had come to pick up a new quill, your old one having finally succumbed to overuse during a particularly tedious set of reports.

As you stepped out of the shop, quill and a small stack of books tucked under your arm, you nearly collided with someone coming in the opposite direction.

“Careful there,” came the familiar voice, low and teasing.

Fred Weasley.

You took a step back, startled, and looked up to find him grinning down at you. His hair was windswept, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, and he had the same effortless energy that seemed to follow him everywhere.

“Do you make a habit of running into people, or am I just lucky?” he asked.

“Only the particularly unfortunate,” you replied, stepping aside to let him pass.

“Unfortunate?” He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Here I thought you’d be thrilled to see me.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re in need of a good book.”

“I’ll have you know I’m an avid reader,” he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “In fact, I was just about to pick up a—” He paused, glancing over your stack of books. “What’s this? ‘The Art of Brewing Potent Potions’? Didn’t take you for the potion-making type.”

You shifted the books slightly, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not. It’s for a friend.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “A likely story.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Despite yourself, you laughed—a small, involuntary sound that you quickly tried to stifle. Fred noticed, of course, and his grin softened into something warmer, more genuine.

“Well, I’d hate to keep you from your important potion-related business,” he said after a moment, stepping aside to let you pass.

“Important quill-related business, actually,” you corrected, holding up the bag in your hand.

“Ah, of course. How could I forget?”

You shook your head, already turning to leave, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait,” he said, his tone shifting slightly.

You turned back, surprised to see something uncertain flicker across his face. It was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual confidence, but it left you curious.

“Let me walk you back,” he said, gesturing down the street.

You hesitated, torn between instinctively brushing him off and the strange, unfamiliar pull you felt to say yes. In the end, the latter won out.

“Alright,” you said, falling into step beside him.

The walk back was filled with the kind of aimless chatter that felt oddly natural—Fred recounting some escapade involving a rogue charm and a very unhappy house-elf, you half-listening, half-watching the way his hands moved as he spoke.

When you finally reached your door, he paused, rocking back on his heels. “Well, this is me,” you said, nodding towards the entrance.

Fred nodded, his grin returning. “Good to know. I’ll keep this in mind for next time.”

“Next time?”

“Sure,” he said, already stepping away. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

And with that, he turned and walked off, leaving you standing in the doorway with a faint smile and a strange, fluttering feeling in your chest.

&

The weeks that followed your second encounter were marked by an unexpected rhythm.

Fred had a way of showing up—not at your door like expected, but in the spaces in between. He had a knack for making himself unavoidable, though never in an overbearing way. You’d catch him at the tea shop near your office, juggling two mugs precariously in his hands and grinning at you as if it were fate. Or in the park, where he’d be charming a group of kids with conjured fireworks, his laughter echoing over the treetops.

“I swear, you’re everywhere,” you said one afternoon when you bumped into him yet again outside Flourish and Blotts.

“Or maybe you’re just not very good at avoiding me,” he replied, his grin maddeningly confident.

Despite your best efforts, the barriers you’d carefully constructed began to shift, piece by piece. It started with the smallest of gestures—him carrying your books when your arms were full, sneaking you a bag of your favorite sweets when he somehow discovered your weakness for honey drops. The conversations, too, began to stretch beyond the surface, slipping into territory you weren’t entirely comfortable with but couldn’t resist exploring.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Fred said one evening, his voice softer than usual.

You had both ended up in the same quiet corner of The Leaky Cauldron—pure coincidence, or so he claimed. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, and for once, his usual smirk was nowhere to be found.

“Why would I do that?” you asked, deflecting with a raised eyebrow.

“Because I’d like to know,” he said simply.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the rim of your mug. The question had an intimacy to it that made you feel vulnerable, and yet, there was something about the way he looked at you—like he could see straight through the walls you kept up.

“I’m scared of not being good enough,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.

Fred blinked, surprised by your honesty, but his expression quickly softened. “Good enough for what?”

“For anything. Everything,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he said firmly, his gaze steady. “And for the record, I think you’re more than good enough.”

The moment lingered, delicate and raw, before you cleared your throat and changed the subject. Fred let you, but the look in his eyes stayed with you long after you’d said goodnight.

As time passed, your world seemed to orbit closer to his. He found reasons to seek you out, and you found yourself looking forward to his presence, even when you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

One evening, he brought you to his joke shop after hours, proudly showing you prototypes of new products. His enthusiasm was infectious, his face lighting up as he explained the intricacies of a new line of trick wands.

“Why do I feel like you’re trying to recruit me?” you teased as he handed you one to test.

“Because I am,” he said without hesitation. “You’d be great at it. You’ve got a good eye for details, and you don’t take my nonsense too seriously.”

“Someone has to keep you grounded.”

Fred grinned. “Exactly. That’s why you’re perfect for the job.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but something warm and unspoken passed between you.

It wasn’t long before people began to notice.

The first comment came from a colleague at work, offhand and seemingly harmless. “You and Fred Weasley seem awfully friendly,” they said, their tone laced with just enough curiosity to make you feel self-conscious.

The whispers followed soon after—barely audible at first but growing louder with each passing day. Fred’s reputation preceded him, and people were quick to remind you of it.

“Everyone knows he’s a flirt. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

The words wormed their way into your mind, sowing seeds of doubt. You began to notice the way people looked at you when you were with him, their gazes heavy with judgment or pity.

Fred, oblivious to the change, continued to treat you the same—warm, attentive, and maddeningly Fred. But the whispers weighed on you, and before long, you found yourself pulling back.

The first time you ignored his owl, it felt like a betrayal. The second time, it felt like self-preservation. By the third, it had become a habit.

Fred noticed, of course, though he didn’t understand.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked one day, cornering you outside the tea shop where he’d so often ‘accidentally’ run into you.

“No,” you lied, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

The hurt in his voice was almost too much to bear, but you held firm. The walls you’d rebuilt were sturdy now, bolstered by fear and the voices of those who’d warned you to stay away.

Fred watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping back. “Alright,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

You told yourself it was. But as he walked away, the ache in your chest suggested otherwise.

The days after your confrontation with Fred dragged on, every hour stretching unbearably long. You told yourself you were doing the right thing, retreating before you got too close, before the inevitable heartbreak. But the certainty that had driven you to push him away began to waver in his absence.

You didn’t realize how much space Fred had occupied in your life until it was suddenly empty. The silence felt heavier now. Your tea breaks were lonely, lacking his easy laughter. Even the parks seemed duller without the sound of him enchanting children with his conjured fireworks.

Work became a refuge—a place where you could bury yourself in tasks and avoid thinking about him. But even there, his presence lingered. The bag of honey drops he’d given you sat unopened in your desk drawer. You’d thought about tossing it a dozen times, but your hand always hesitated, as though getting rid of it would make the loss of him too real.

It was during one of these long, quiet days that you overheard them.

“I heard she’s been seeing Fred Weasley,” someone said behind you in the tearoom.

Your stomach dropped, and you froze, pretending to stir sugar into your tea.

“She’s deluded if she thinks he’s serious about her,” another voice replied. “Fred Weasley doesn’t settle down. She’s just a bit of fun, like all the others.”

Their laughter echoed in your ears, sharp and grating. You forced yourself to walk out calmly, but their words stayed with you. By the time you got home, they’d grown into a roar in your mind, impossible to ignore.

He deserves better. Someone more exciting, more confident. Someone who isn’t scared of taking up space in his life.

The thoughts clawed at you as you sat at your desk, staring at the parchment in front of you.

You don’t belong in his world.

Your hand moved before you could stop it, the quill scratching out the words you thought would sever the tie cleanly. The letter was short, clinical, void of the emotions tearing through you.

“Fred, I think it’s best we go our separate ways. Thank you for everything. Take care.”

The owl flew off with it before you could change your mind, its silhouette disappearing into the night. The moment it was gone, the finality of it hit you like a curse.

You curled up in bed that night, the ache in your chest feeling like a physical weight. You told yourself it was for the best. But deep down, you started to think you’d made a mistake.

You waited for him to show up at your door, demanding answers in his usual larger-than-life way. But Fred didn’t come.

At first, you convinced yourself that his silence was proof that you were right—he wasn’t serious about you. But as the days turned into a week, the void he left behind became unbearable.

It was Alicia who finally forced you to confront it.

“You’ve been sulking for days,” she said, plopping down on your couch uninvited. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, not looking up from the book you weren’t actually reading.

Alicia snatched the book out of your hands, her sharp gaze piercing. “You don’t look like this over ‘nothing.’ Spill.”

You hesitated, but the words came spilling out anyway—the whispers, the letter, the crushing fear that you’d never be enough for someone like Fred.

When you finished, Alicia looked at you as though you’d just told her you planned to live on the moon.

“You’re an idiot,” she said bluntly.

“Thanks,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

“I’m serious,” Alicia said, her voice softening. “Fred isn’t like that. Not with you. Do you have any idea how he lights up when he talks about you?”

Your chest tightened at her words, but you shook your head. “He’s Fred Weasley. He lights up for everyone.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Not like this. Trust me, I’ve seen him flirt a hundred times. This isn’t flirting, love. He’s serious about you. And if you can’t see that, you’re going to regret it.”

Her words haunted you that night as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. By the time morning came, you knew you couldn’t leave things as they were.

The shop was quiet when you arrived, the familiar smell of wood polish and faint smoke lingering in the air. You knocked hesitantly, and Fred appeared in the doorway moments later, his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Fred stepped aside without a word, letting you in. The silence between you was suffocating, the usually lively space feeling oddly hollow.

You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, searching for the right words. “I—”

Fred cut you off. “Why are you here?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made your chest tighten.

“I… I wanted to explain,” you said, your throat dry.

“Explain what?” he asked, his arms crossed. “Why you decided to shut me out without a real reason?”

The hurt in his voice cracked something inside you. “I was scared,” you admitted. “Of getting hurt. Of not being enough.”

Fred stared at you for a long moment, his expression softening as he stepped closer. “Why would you think that?”

“Because everyone says—”

“To hell with what everyone says,” Fred interrupted, his voice fierce. “I don’t care what they think. The only person whose opinion matters is yours.”

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. “I didn’t know if you were serious. About me.”

Fred reached out, taking your hands in his. “I’m as serious as it gets,” he said quietly. “But I can’t make you believe that. You have to let yourself believe it.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over, and Fred gently pulled you into his arms. His embrace was warm, steady, and everything you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his chest.

Fred pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice soft but certain. “You’re the only one I want.”

When you finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your face, his thumbs brushing away the last of your tears. The look in his eyes was so full of warmth and determination that you felt the last of your doubts dissolve.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t just a promise—it was a beginning.

[mrs-luigi-vargas]

Shopping Trip Detour

[AO3 Link]

It was a beautiful day in Toad Town, and Mario and Luigi had just finished their grocery shopping.

Bags loaded into the back of Luigi’s kart, the two of them had decided to wander around town for a little while longer before going home; it had been a while since the last time they’d visited. And the Toads made sure they knew it, too, waving at them and calling out to them and roping them into enough small talk to make their heads spin.

In a lull in socialization, Luigi examined the surrounding shopfronts. “That one looks new,” he remarked, gesturing to the colorful sign of what looked to be some sort of toy shop. He changed course towards it, and Mario followed behind him.

Peering through the window, Luigi contemplated the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and the little robot with its remote resting in its arms, and whether he could convince his brother to buy either of them for him. He glanced at Mario, considering. Mario was also looking through the window, but his focus was further inside, where the presumed shopkeeper was arguing with a person in a hooded cloak. The person was leaning over the shopkeeper threateningly; the shopkeeper was gesticulating wildly, face dark.

Mario pushed the door open. The sound of the little bell connected to it drew the attention of the squabbling pair. From where Luigi still stood outside, he saw the hooded figure turn for one last parting insult before pushing past Mario to exit the store. The shopkeeper yelled something unintelligible but no less angry after them.

While Mario dithered in the doorway, staring after that mysterious figure thoughtfully, Luigi squeezed past him to enter the store himself. The interior was quite modest — and mostly full of toys for much littler kids — but the sprawling active toy railway network hanging suspended by the ceiling was particularly impressive. Getting all of those toy trains up there to begin with must have been quite the ordeal!

As Luigi ruminated over the existence of extremely tall ladders, Mario went up to the shopkeeper to ask what that earlier patron was arguing with him about. The shopkeeper huffed, pointing at a figurine sitting in an unassuming display near the back of the store. “That uncultured idiot was talking about her like she’s some common doll he could buy for cheap!” he spat. “As if! She’s the rarest item of the series and the highest quality! Show her some respect!”

Luigi walked over to the figurine. A little plastic woman wearing a semi-elaborate gown stared dourly back at him through her glasses as she posed with a wizard’s staff, her hat barely fitting over her puffy hair. She was very pretty, but Luigi wasn't really sure she was worth the shopkeeper’s continued rambling about “scales” or “articulation” or whatever. There were certainly other things in the store he would rather spend his money on, at any rate. But when Luigi turned to whisper as much to Mario, he found his brother reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

“Eh?” Luigi goggled at him. “You wanna buy that?”

The shopkeeper crossed his arms. “Oh, yeah?” he said, going for an air of nonchalance and mostly failing. “That’s cool. But you’re not getting a discount just because you’re a celebrity.”

“How much is it, anyway?” Luigi asked, and then regretted asking because then the most absurd price for a vaguely fancy-looking toy left the shopkeeper’s mouth.

Mario rocked on his heels in shock. “But it’s just an action figure!” Luigi exclaimed.

“She’s not an action figure!” the shopkeeper shouted over Luigi’s immediate apologies for setting him off. “She’s priceless! I’m doing y’all a favor!”

Hesitantly, Mario began counting his coins. Luigi watched with bated breath. With a frown, Mario emptied his wallet. He didn't have enough.

“Too bad,” the shopkeeper said, not looking all that sorry. “Guess she’s not going home with you!”

Mario’s frown deepened. It tugged a frown onto Luigi’s face as well, and after a moment of watching his brother sulk, he sighed. “Alright,” he said, pulling out his own wallet.

Luigi counted his coins. Mario watched him with bated breath. While he didn't have nearly as much money on hand as Mario did, on account of being the one to pay for the groceries earlier, it was somehow enough to make up the difference. Mario beamed at him.

---

Sale made, the bros exited the toy store, their purchase dangling from Mario’s arm, both politely ignoring the shopkeeper’s tears about the loss of his “Darling Dami” — the name of the character the figurine was modeled after, apparently.

As they walked, Luigi asked Mario, “So why did you really buy that?” because Luigi knew full well that Mario had no idea of the show the figurine-lady was from, let alone anything about her specifically.

Mario only winked. With purposeful steps, he made his way towards the outskirts of town. Luigi followed behind him, full of questions but nonetheless letting his brother lead him to a clearing just outside of town, where that hooded figure that had been in the shop before them was grumbling about stupid Toad stores and their ridiculous owners. They reached into some hammerspace and pulled a broomstick longer than they were tall, and the motion of doing so knocked their hood off their head, revealing —

“Kamek?!”

Kamek started, whirling around to face them. “Wha — you?!”

Out of all of them, Mario was the only one who didn't look surprised. How in the world had he known?

Kamek was the first to recover, schooling his expression into something sardonic. “Two against one?” he drawled, brow raised. “That’s hardly fair.”

Mario shook his head. He reached into the bag on his arm and pulled out the box containing the figurine they’d bought.

Kamek’s face soured. “Oh, of course it was sold to you. Here to rub it in my face, then?”

Mario shook his head again. He put the figurine back into the bag and held it out to Kamek. Kamek regarded it warily.

“We bought it for you,” Luigi added, finally catching on to what Mario was trying to do. “No need to thank us!”

“I wasn't going to.” With a harsh wave of his wand, the bag was ripped out of Mario’s grip and settled on the end of Kamek’s broomstick. With one hand securing it, he gave the bros a long, considering look and then flew off, kicking up an unnecessary amount of dust that had the bros coughing and shielding their faces. They watched him shrink to a speck in the sky in silence.

“...You're doing my laundry for the next month.”

Mario made a face.

“That was all of my pocket money!”

Mario sighed.

[coramatus]

A Unovan in New York City (part 1)

An AU in which Ingo and Akari go on a rescue mission to retrieve Emmet, only to find him living a perfectly normal life… in our universe’s NYC.

(Currently incapable of committing to a full story. Hope rough summaries will suffice.)

Our story starts in Hisui, where Akari, or rather Dawn, and Ingo have said their goodbyes and are about to head home by speaking to Arceus. Arceus is happy to send them back to their time, but something has come up that is relevant to them. It seems Ingo’s twin brother has thrown himself through space-time and landed somewhere that Arceus’s influence is almost non-existent. They can all still go home together if they use a macguffin device on the machine that eeby deebied Ingo’s brother. They just need to find him first.

The two humans exchange glances. Ingo tells Dawn she ought to go home to her family, but she shakes her head. Dawn is all too happy to help Ingo with this retrieval mission. Knowing how capable she is, Ingo accepts her assistance with a small smile.

Before they leave, Arceus warns them that they need to exercise great caution in this world. Pokémon do not exist there at all and the presence of theirs could cause trouble if they’re too reckless. Which sounds completely insane to them but if Ingo’s brother is there then they have to go.

Arceus nods, opening a glowing portal with a thought. Dawn reaches out for Ingo’s hand, who grasps hers with a comforting squeeze. Hand in hand, they step through into blinding light.

When the light clears, Dawn and Ingo find themselves blinking away light spots in the middle of a large city on a cloudy day. Towering buildings of stone, metal, and glass loom around them and bustling crowds of people and vehicle traffic are everywhere. Between the sounds of countless humans chatting and shouting blending into a noisy thrum, indistinct music can be heard playing from the many surrounding shopfronts, vendor carts, and cars. In the distance they can hear the piercing call of sirens, sharp whistles, and dull rumblings of heavy machinery at work. Lights and screens of advertisements play continuously, screaming for attention despite it being the middle of the day. Punctuating all of this chaos are the scents of wet pavement, hot food, and old trash mixing into a smell that was unmistakably of a developed city. (Not Times Square)

But all of that is suddenly lost to the sound of screeching tires as an incoming car brakes to a stop mere inches away from a startled Ingo. It’s followed by a cacophony of screeches as the cars following it are forced to suddenly stop too. Dawn looks around and realizes they’re on a street in the middle of an intersection. The first car blares its horn loudly and repeatedly at the two, the driver even sticking her head out the window to scream at them to get out of the road (“I’m drivin’ ‘ere!!”). More horns blast as people behind the first add into the noise by throwing in their displeasure. The explosion of sound only causes bystanders to stop and stare at the scene unfolding before them, a fair number pulling out flat rectangles that resemble smartphones of some sort and aiming them in their direction.

Ingo freezes. His mind is instantly overwhelmed by both sensory overload and a visceral memory of experiencing almost the exact same situation long, long ago.

Dawn is quicker on the uptake and grabs the dazed Ingo by the arm, pulling him out of the asphalt road and onto a sidewalk, ignoring the angry shouting behind them. Onlooking pedestrians back away at their approach but otherwise they just give them the stink eye. She mumbles shy apologies and hurriedly pushes past the small crowd, dragging Ingo along the sidewalk, who thankfully seems aware enough to keep his balance and follow after her.

After a lot of shoving her way through throngs of people, Dawn finally comes across a small park with trees and a fountain. Ducking into it, she and Ingo collapse onto a bench, taking a moment to regain their bearings. As Dawn catches her breath, she notices that Ingo is… somewhere else, slightly disconnected from reality as far as she can tell. She gently shakes his shoulder to get his attention and asks what’s up.

In a daze, Ingo says he recognizes this.

This place feels eerily familiar to Ingo. The crowded nature of the city, the traffic of motorized carriages, even the rude attitude of the people… he’s lived this life before. It was what he was used to until… until Hisui…

Dawn looks around in confusion. Here? Here, here??

Ingo snaps out of it and shakes his head. No, not this place in specific. It’s too… strange. There’s not enough Pokémon.

Wait…

They’ve seen neither hide nor hair of a single Pokémon since they got here. Checking around her, Dawn finds a lot of bird things that look like tinier Pidoves but literally nothing else. It seems that Arceus wasn’t kidding about this world’s lack of Pokémon.

Pulling out her Arc-phone, Dawn checks the device’s functions. Fortunately, it seems it’s granted her access to this world’s internet. With a little poking around, she finds a map site that shows them being in a place called ‘New York City’. Ingo shakes his head, those words meaning nothing to him. Zooming in and out of the map doesn’t offer much more context, just the names of more unfamiliar places and unrecognizable geography. All they can say for sure is that this city is stupidly huge and finding Ingo’s brother in this won’t be easy.

Deciding they need a better place to start, Dawn asks Ingo if he remembers anything about his brother. Arceus said he’s his twin? That had to be the ‘man with a face like his’. Right?

Ingo gets that distant look again as more bits are shaken loose from his damaged memory. He remembers a few scraps: the color white, a broad smile, the crackling of electricity, something about fuzzy yellow things, someone always at his side in the good times and bad. And a lonely sadness.

But those are just thoughts and feelings, nothing substantial worth mentioning to Dawn. And unfortunately, none of them came with a key piece of information: a name.

But Ingo does remember the word ‘train’ being strongly associated with his brother. More specifically the word: ‘subway’.

Now that they’re in a place with internet, Dawn realizes that finding things out should be a lot easier. On a hunch, she finds a search engine and looks up the word. The results are quick with pictures and articles aplenty.

There’s a choked noise from Ingo and Dawn turns to find him staring wide eyed at her screen, a shaking hand raised as if trying to reach for her phone. Dawn wordlessly hands the device over to let Ingo look at it and he easily thumbs through the webpages. His eyes keep drinking in the images, unable to get enough.

“This… This is it!” Ingo breathes out as long withheld memories finally break free. “This is exactly it!! THIS is a train! A machine on rails! The greatest form of transportation ever invented! I used to drive these all the time! How could I have ever forgotten this?!”

“Ingo??” Dawn gently squeezes his arm in worry, “You’re crying.”

Ingo blinks at her before pressing the tips of his fingers against his cheek. They come away wet.

“Ah, so it seems,” he acknowledges, wiping his face with the back of a sleeve. He chuckles reassuringly, “Never fear, Miss Dawn. These are happy tears. You’ve rerouted an important part of me back to my station. I should be thanking you right now.”

Without another word, Dawn holds out her arms in a clear offer for a hug. He embraces her in gratitude.

“So your brother worked on trains too?” she asks when they part.

“Yes… we did it together,” Ingo says wistfully, “Like everything else we did. He would battle Pokémon alongside me in a moving subway car. It was what we were renowned for.”

Dawn shoots to her feet, her fist punching her palm as she grins at him, “Then that settles it! First, step! We find a subway. If your brother is as obsessed with these things as you are, then he can’t be too far off from one!”

“That sounds like a good place to start,” Ingo nods sharply. With a dramatic sweep of his arm, he points towards the road, “Next stop: a subway station! All aboard!!”

His moment of triumph is interrupted by a surrounding flock of not-Pidoves erupting into flight, startled by the sudden boom of his voice. Parkgoers and pedestrians are equally startled by the fleeing birds, eliciting a few shrieks of terror. Some people turn to glare at him and Ingo has the good grace to duck his head down, tipping his hat brim over his eyes in embarrassment.

Dawn just about loses it from laughing so hard.

His shout also catches the attention of a colorful group of people who immediately start excitedly pointing at them and chattering amongst themselves. Dawn pays them no mind until one breaks off to approach them.

She looks a few years older than Dawn with brightly colored hair in pink and purple and wearing a slightly off-beat outfit compared to most of the city-dwellers around her. She smiles at them, raising a hand in nervous excitement.

“Hello! I’m really sorry to bother you two, but I just wanted to say that I love your cosplay! It looks amazing! So on point!”

Dawn and Ingo exchange glances.

“Oh, uh, thank you!” Dawn says, thinking fast. She has no idea what this stranger is talking about but she seems to be nice enough. Dawn hopes that’s the end of it, but the girl pulls out a smartphone and looks a lot more nervous.

“Um! May I please take a picture of you guys?” she asks with an embarrassed flush in her face, yet looking hopeful, “It’s just that you did such a great job on your costumes!”

Ingo looks like he wants to say something but Dawn cuts in with a polite but rueful smile, “Ah, I’m sorry, no, we’re kinda in the middle of something. Maybe some other time?”

There’s a look of faint disappointment, but it doesn’t last as she grins in reassurance, “Oh! Of course! I totally understand. I’m really sorry for interrupting you! Have a great day!”

And just like that, the stranger waves goodbye as she makes her exit and jogs back to her friends. A few of them tease her but she takes it in good stride, tossing a few comebacks at them. They depart trading playful insults.

Dawn sighs in relief.

Ingo looks puzzled.

“What is ‘cosplay’?” he asks.

“It’s a dress up thing, where you wear what a movie or tv show character wears. It’s just for fun,” Dawn explains.

“Hrm,” Ingo rubs his chin in mild concern, “I wonder what they think we are cosplaying as.”

Dawn shrugs, “I guess they have something where characters wear clothes like ours?”

Ingo makes a noise of uncertainty but doesn’t press the matter.

They have to walk a few blocks, but they find the nearest subway station easily. Going down the stairs, they are met with a scene that makes Ingo stop and stare as familiarity washes over him once more, the feeling rocking him even more powerfully this time.

Ticketing machines, turnstiles, worker booths, the smell of stale air and the faint rumbling of fast-moving steel.

It’s like he’s come home.

Dawn is just as fascinated by Ingo’s reaction, “Is this what your subway station looked like?”

“Stations,” Ingo absently corrects her, his eyes sweeping across the station interior, picking out every familiar detail, “And yes, some of them were not dissimilar to this.”

But as he takes a closer look, the reality of this place seeps in. There’s litter strewn everywhere, the lights are too dim to be effective, several machines are labeled with out-of-order signs, and that odor… Ingo makes a faint sound of disgust and covers his nose with his coat sleeve.

“Except my stations were far more sanitary than this! Ugh, did someone urinate in here?!”

Dawn crinkles her nose too. “So they’re not supposed to smell like pee?”

“Not in a properly run system, no!” Ingo growls in a rare show of irritation. “If my brother holds a job here, he has some explaining to do!”

“I get the feeling this is something out of his control,” Dawn comments. Then a lit board shifts her attention, “Oh hey! A map!”

She hurries over to the display, but as she gets close she realizes they may have underestimated things.

“Ingo? I think we have a problem,” Dawn calls over her shoulder.

He’s not sure what she means until he gets a clear look at the map for himself: a sprawling mess of lines and stations crisscrossing the map in a dizzying display. Even he has to admit that this is going to be a daunting task.

“That is… a lot of stations,” Ingo mutters in awe.

Dawn doesn’t recognize the characters used on this map. She pulls out her Arc-phone and thumbs over to her translator app. Holding the phone up to the display, the screen instantly offers an overlay of letters she can read.

She turns to look at Ingo expectantly, “Any ideas? You’re the subway master.”

Ingo squints at the translated map, the corners of his mouth pulling down in visible concern, “It’s hard to know where to start, even for me.” His frown deepens as something else occurs to him, “Not that it matters. Neither of us has the local currency to purchase tickets.”

Dawn realizes he has a point there and thinks about it, “Ok, plan B! We walk to each station!”

Ingo side eyes her, “That will also be a significant undertaking.”

“Well I don’t have any better ideas.”

Dawn is about to suggest using one of their Pokémon when she suddenly remembers that might cause more problems. She sighs and shrugs.

They stand there, stumped.

This is when the group of fans pop up again. One of them notices Ingo and Dawn and excitedly points the pair out again. This time they can see that the two ‘cosplayers’ seem to be having some trouble and offer to help. Akari tells them they want to ride the subway but they don’t have any money on them, laughing it off as the result of a long story. One of the fans is feeling charitable and gives them both twenty dollars. A friend makes a small objection to the amount so Akari gets the idea to offer them those pictures they wanted earlier as thanks. The group excitedly agrees and they head back up to start their impromptu photoshoot.

On Twitter, Youtube, Tiktok and Tumblr, images and video of two cosplayers start making the rounds through the Pokémon fandom circles.

In the photos, an Akari cosplayer is grinning widely with her fingers up in a v-sign. Her outfit is remarkable in how worn it looks, like it had been repeatedly rolled in mud, grass and stone. Her makeup is on point too, looking scratched and smudged with dirt.

She is accompanied by an Ingo cosplayer, who is dressed in a similar state, though his outfit is far more realistically tattered and frayed, as if it had become that way through natural wear and tear. Even his face seems naturally lined and aged. What really stands out is how he’d styled his trademark knife-sideburns/locks, which seem to offer a definitive answer as to what they really were. This cosplayer, however, looks genuinely baffled, wearing an uncomfortable smile that borders on a grimace. All of this is perfectly in-character of course and he absolutely sells it.

Most of the pictures features a group of friends posing with the two, either just smiling in excitement at the camera, doing silly poses, or are seen in a few candid shots of them marveling over the costumes.

However the most notable result of this meeting was a short Tiktok they’d shot together.

The Tiktok video only features the Akari cosplayer. There is a brief blip of the Ingo cosplayer in the beginning, the camera turning to him sitting off to the side, shyly begging off from whatever came next before the camera refocuses on the Tiktoker and Akari. The rest of the video shows Akari being shown how to do the steps of a Tiktok dance, followed by a few clips of some goofy failed trial runs, before concluding with Akari and the Tiktoker successfully pulling off the dance together. They excitedly high-five and congratulate each other, punctuated by a loud ‘BRAVO!’ booming in the background, before the video ends.

The Pokémon Legends Arceus fans are particularly tickled by the new images and happily share them amongst themselves. It doesn’t take long for them to land on the Tumblr dashboard of one Jamal Bashir.

By the time any of this reaches Jamal, he is still waking up from a nap and sleepily flipping through his phone before he has to get back to work on a project. When the first pictures flash by, he chuckles and taps the like button before adding the posts to his queue. He figures that’s the end of it until he comes across a reposting of the TikTok video. The video is short and sweet and he gives that a like and queued reposting too. On a whim, he rewatches it to admire the realism of the outfits. But as he spots the Ingo cosplayer again, something catches his attention.

There’s something familiar about his face.

Intrigued, Jamal goes back to the photo posts and studies the man a little more closely. His side hair and goatee are spot on and natural-looking in a way that is difficult to replicate without actual facial hair. Jamal has only seen one other person who managed to pull it off so well and that person is…

When the realization hits him, Jamal just about falls out of bed.

He frantically checks and rechecks the photos, scanning over them and picking out details that only add to his theory. He even pulls up a few of his photos to be sure, because if this isn’t anything less than what he thinks it is, his friend is going to kill him. And he can’t do that to the guy after everything he’s been through.

But he’s almost positive.

Only one last thing to do.

With his heart pounding in his throat, Jamal sends a frantic text to a contact only labeled with a train emoji.

DUDE HOLY SHIT YOU SEEN THIS?!?!?!?!??

He attaches links to the videos and images, practically flooding their chat history with embedded media.

I THINK ITS HAPPENING GET UR ASS READY

The next hour is agonizing.

Jamal has probably worn a track into his floor from all his anxious pacing as he tries to figure out what’s taking so long. He’d figure the guy checked his phone on occasion while working, but has to remind himself of who he’s dealing with. He absolutely would not check until he was on a break. Just as Jamal is about to march off to go find him, his phone dings with a new message.

The reply is concise in its desperation.

WHERE

[quickshopfrontss]

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[londonshutter465]

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[bella123lin]

Research - Retail and shopfront

Atlife Bookstore in Ningbo / Kokaistudio

The project's inception was to design 'a place for people to linger and spend time in', where the core function of books' appreciation was to be complemented and integrated by a wide variety of activities, enabling customers to sit and read, to study, to take part in workshops or live events.

The journey starts at the main ground floor entrance, through a renovated glass pavilion located at the center of the stoned paved square. A hanging grand staircase, designed like a spiral bookshelf, connects the entrance to the mezzanine and to the main floor below.

During daytime, natural light floods the bookstore interiors through this glass pavilion, filtered and softened by translucent acrylic panels integrated to the white bookshelf modules. Conversely, at night, is the artificial light from the interiors lighting up the glass pavilion and making it shine; a shimmering showcase for the bookstore and for the many activities programmed for it. 

The staircase lands at the mezzanine level, where seating and reading areas are located, and proceeds to main floor below. Four stairs provide additional vertical connections between the two floors. Along the perimeter, walls are entirely lined with full height book shelves, conceived as a continuum ribbon unwinding along all spaces, dividing or relating among them areas dedicated to different functions, guiding customers in their journey through the bookstore, and the manifold types of spaces that alternate in it.

Compressed, enclosed spaces, suitable for specialized functions, such as the children bookstore or the multifunctional space equipped for audio-visual events, seamlessly expand into open double height spaces like the central axis of the bookstore, or the book island, dedicated to family activities. Areas for circulation alternate with areas encouraging stay and individual appreciation of books or collective activities.

Geometries are fluid and organic. Material and textures are soft and warm in colour, inspired to different qualities of paper, material historically and quintessentially related to the essence of books.

I found the grand staircase with the spiral bookshelf to be the most eye-catching element in this bookstore. The white frames with the translucent, frosted glass incorporated with the natural lighting streaming through the glass pavilion at the top, created a bright and airy atmosphere. Along with the layout of the staircase that transcends from the entrance at the top leading to the main floor at a lower level, gives an impression of transitioning into a different world.

ArchDaily. (n.d). Altlife Bookstore in Ningbo / Kokaistudios. Retrieved from https://www.archdaily.com/880762/altlife-bookstore-in-ningbo-kokaistudios

[unitedshopfronts11]

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[ihateclaws]

Eiden 1,5,18 NOW

What does their bedroom look like?

It's at back of his shop. It's EXTREMELY neat aside from the unmade bed. There's about 4 blankets, a comforter and one pillow on it. The sheet is tucked in perfectly and it's grey. The comforter and the pillow are striped. There are 4 mugs, a few shot glasses, a bunch of paper and pens on the small desk that just about fit. The window is decent sized but the curtains are always closed. Everything is labeled and there's 2 to-go first aid kits and 3 to-go tech kits. There's also a bookshelf that takes up half a wall. The sink and the mirror is very clean. The nightstand is between the desk and the bed, 5 pairs of glasses in the drawer, and one change of clothes is on it (it looks almost exactly the same as what he's wearing). The wardrobe is full with half of the hanging clothes being things for undercover. Nothing matches in colour. 5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Change clothes regularly (more than typical people in the wasteland), shower every day, nails clipped, always wears gloves when working unless it's necessary not to, googles always on when working.

Workspace... imagine a lab.

Shopfront is about the same as other wasteland gun shops. Huge display cabinet and glasses cleaned probably once a week. His eyeglasses are in a massive drawer. You can smoke in it but he'll ask you to put out the butt in an ashtray.

18. Favorite beverage?

Purified water... and coffee with sometimes one sugar sometimes not.

For alcohol he drinks shots. He does drink other things socially.

The Excessively Detailed Headcanon Tumblr Meme

[helenthelibrarian]

Some festive fun with our ineffable husbands:)

The Whickber Street Shopkeepers’ and Traders’ Association had nearly come to blows over the Christmas lights.  Nina had had THINGS TO SAY about the Christmas lights: she looked pointedly at Mr Brown of Brown’s World of Carpets as she remarked frostily about the overabundance of sparkly lights fulsomely draping the carpet store’s shopfront, and the feeble forty watt bulb arrangement dangled precariously from the lamppost outside her coffee shop.  “Nobody buys bloody carpets at Christmas!” she shouted. “If I got a carpet for Christmas I’d roll it back up and shove it in - “

“Now, now”, said Mutt, the magic shop owner.  “Season of goodwill, and all that.”

“That’s all very well, my good lady”, Mr Brown said, in a wheedling tone. “My January sale is the highlight of the Whickber festive season. Surely you don’t begrudge a little spotlight on my top-of-the-range rugs?”

“Top of the range? They’re even more threadbare than your moustache.”

Mr Brown bristled.  “Personal remarks won’t win the argument, I think you’ll find.”

“No, but I’ll feel a whole lot better, you tweedy old coot!”

Mrs Sandwich cackled.  She didn’t want any twinkly festive attention drawn to her own place of business, but she and her ladies relied very heavily on Nina’s coffee at the end of a working night, and they never turned down the free mince pies the barista put their way, so she was very firmly on Team Nina.  Besides, Mr Brown bored her witless and this meeting was shaping up to be particularly tedious.  

“Mr Brown, just sort yer lights out n make sure our Nina gets her full share of the light-up snowmen n the blow-up polar bear, or - “ and here she dropped her voice and whispered in his ear, “I'll reveal the true identity of the Whickber Street Knicker Nicker.”

Mr Brown cleared his throat. “Aha, well, no problem about the festive inflatables, Nina.  Nine o’clock tomorrow morning alright with you?”

Nina gave a thin smile. “Splendid.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mr Fell sighed.  He hated meetings, but after the debacle of the bookshop ball, he felt obliged to host this one.  Most of the shopowners had had their memories, ahem, rearranged after the demons attacked his shop, so they were delighted to visit his fancy antiquarian bookseller business for - as far as they were concerned - the very first time; Maggie and Nina, however, were a different matter.  He had tried to miracle a little memory loss in both of them, but they were strangely resistant. Crowley had suggested there was something not quite right with them; were they occult? “No, surely not, my dear. We’d have certainly detected them as such.”

“Well, it’s bloody awkward every time I see them, angel. I’m sure they blame me.”

“You did trap them in the shop. And you’ve never attended that anger management course we talked about.”

Crowley had said he usually had no reason to get angry except when Aziraphale did something exceptionally silly, which was all the time.  There was very nearly a row.

Aziraphale let it pass, however. “It’s nearly Christmas, Crowley. Let’s not fall out.”

Crowley growled. “Alright, but you’re off my Christmas list.  I haven’t written to Satan yet.”

“Santa.”

“I know what I said, angel.”

“Will you stay for the meeting, dear?”

“Not even at gunpoint.  I’m off to the pub.  If there’s any demonic activity I’ll be straight over. To the airport.  You’re on your own with this one.”

Aziraphale had spent the afternoon before the meeting decorating a buffet table with candles, greenery, glasses and china.  “There: positively Instagrammable! Whatever that is”, he said to himself.  The buffet was laden with canapes and finger food, a few bottles of sherry (not the best sort; he might be generous but he wasn’t an idiot), and some Christmas crackers. He found a few Christmas LPs - Jim Reeves, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, all daringly modern - and placed them by the gramophone, ready for the post-meeting jollification.

Aziraphale was chairing the meeting, so it was the quickest one they’d ever had.  The sooner they were all on the sherry, the better.  “Well, everyone, if we’re all agreed on the Christmas lights, shall we call this meeting to a close?”

A grateful chorus of oh yes, please, rose from the attendees.  Maggie got up, stretched her legs, and took Nina aside as they joined the queue for the buffet.  “There was no need to be quite so rude with Mr Brown, you know.”

“Hah, he deserved it. And anyway, I’m hangry. What’s on the buffet? Anything suitable?”

Maggie picked up a plate and napkin. “Hmm, pickled onions, salad, garlic bread…”

“Any mini sausage rolls?  I love mini sausage rolls.”

“Oh yes, lots. Mr Fell’s outdone himself on the comestibles.”

Nina was about to pick one up, but Maggie stopped her. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think we can eat these.”

“WHAT? I’m absolutely starving.  What’s the matter with them?”

Mr Fell, fussing with the cheese and pineapple on sticks arranged into the shape of a hedgehog, overheard this.  “Oh no, my dear. Whatever is the matter?”

Nina burst into tears, an unfortunate by-product of having not eaten since breakfast and a particularly trying apprentice barista. She wailed, “They’ve got meat in them, haven’t they?”

Mr Fell’s face sank. “Ah, I’m afraid they do.”

“Well then, I can’t have them. And it’s Christmas!  And I’m very tired!  And Maggie’s present won’t come before the big day now because the delivery company is rubbish, and I hate sprouts, and - “

Mr Fell took her arm. “My dear Nina. Leave it with me. Have a sherry.  Not a big one or you’ll be squiffy in no time.”

He rang Crowley, who answered with, “Absolutely not, angel.”

“But you’ve no idea what I was about to ask.”

“If it’s anything to do with the meeting, the answer’s no.”

“Crowley, do stop it.  It’s about Nina.”

“Oh god, is something occult happening? I knew she and that missus of hers were dodgy.”

“Nothing of the sort.  I just want you to run along to Gregg’s for something.”

Crowley laughed incredulously.  “You what? Have you ever been in a Gregg’s? You, angel?”

“No, but they do have something Nina needs.  Now, here’s the list…”

By the time Crowley returned with his parcel, Nina was ugly crying into her third sherry.  Maggie was trying to console her, and Aziraphale was trying to separate an increasingly oleaginous Mr Brown and a furious Mrs Sandwich over the blinis.

Crowley never ceased to marvel at the chaos humans so easily manufactured without the least assistance from himself. This party was shaping up to be quite the pandemonium he had always privately hoped for but not had the opportunity to, um, assist, while Aziraphale was around.  He would tease him about this later.  In the meantime, he sauntered over to Nina and handed her a Christmas present.

“From me and Mr Fell.  Happy Christmas, Nina.”

Nina sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “What’s this? It’s warm.  Ew, it’s not a joke thing, is it?”

Maggie tutted and then smiled. “Just open it, darling.”

Nina did.  Inside the Gregg’s packet was a perfectly baked, golden, meat-free sausage roll.  It steamed gently among its wrappings, smelling heavenly.

“Oh”, she said. “Oh.” And burst into tears all over again.  

“Do eat it, my dear”, said Aziraphale. “You’ll feel a great deal better.”

Nina ate it, savouring every last mouthful.  The sausage roll worked its magic - warm, tasty, infinitely better than any meat-based sausage roll. She licked a finger and scooped up all the crumbs of pastry.  At last, she smiled beatifically.  “Thank you.  Best present I’ve ever had.”

Mr Fell squeezed Crowley’s arm. “I think it’s time to send everybody home, you know.”

“Ok, this one’s on me.” And Crowley moved his hand upwards, and clicked his fingers.  The guests suddenly felt it was time to be getting coats on and moving along. There were cries of “Oooh, would you look at the time?” “Quite enough sherry for me.”  “Splendid do, Mr Fell!” “Happy Christmas, everyone!”

Crowley said, “Nina. Maggie. Do come for lunch on Christmas Day.  I’ve worked out the perfect menu for you.”

They looked delighted. “We’d love to.  Thank you so much.  You’re absolute angels.”

When they’d gone home, slightly unsteadily, Crowley said, “I think I’ve worked out why they’re so hard to miracle. You can’t persuade them of anything.  They’re always so damned rational there’s no amount of hand-waving will work.”

“Have you, my dear?  Do you think they’re occult, after all?  It is indeed very hard to, er, manipulate them, and believe me, I have tried.  Not soft in the head at all.”

“I’m sure you have. I said you were just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.  No, I know what it is.”

“Do go on.”

“It’s simple.  They’re vegans.”

[pgaluminium]

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[kd-holloman]

This is an excerpt from The Traveler's Gift!

Bullring raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t  know where you are? Shit. Did you hit your head or  something?” 

“No—well, yes. But where am I?” He resisted  the urge to grab the front of his multicolored shirt and  give him a ferocious shake. 

“Chicago, man. Don’t bug out on me.” 

“Chicago?” He chortled and shook his head.  “No, this isn’t Chicago. Okay? I’m from Chicago, and  it doesn’t look like this.” 

Bullring rubbed the back of his head, shifting comfortably. “I think I’m going to call you an ambulance.” 

“Don’t bother.” Louis didn’t give the peculiar stranger another moment of his time. He turned and  jogged down the street. He couldn’t teleport home until he knew where he was. 

The entire city looked the same. Block after block was full of the same towering buildings,  shopfronts, and traffic signals. Panic was a cinch  around his waist, squeezing the breath from his lungs. 

Louis slowed to a stop in front of a sandwich shop. A woman inside was sweeping under tables. He almost asked her where he was but stopped when he  saw a metal box with a glass window sitting nearby. A  newspaper was splayed against it. He crouched to read  the title—Chicago Tribune. He saw the date and fell to  his knees. 

He sat on the sidewalk, staring at the date. The  day was right. It was July fourth, but the year was wrong. It had to be a misprint. There  was no possible way he’d jumped forward in time nearly one hundred years. 

Louis removed his hat and ran a hand through his curls in disbelief. How? How had this happened?  He’d used his gift dozens of times and had never  traveled through time! He’d only ever gone from one  location to another. 

“What are you doing?” The woman who had been sweeping the floor of the sandwich shop stood in  the doorway, broom still in hand. A few strands of her  brown hair had fallen from the bun on top of her head,  curling wispily around her ears. Her eyes were  narrowed in suspicion behind her glasses. “Do I need to call the cops?”

“No, ma’am.” He pushed himself to his feet and the paper before focusing on her. “Have you seen  today’s newspaper?” 

Curiosity puckered her lips. She stepped  outside; the door swung shut with the tinkle of a bell.  “No?” 

He pointed to the paper. “Can you tell me if  that’s a misprint?” 

She leaned down to read the paper behind the  glass. She frowned at him over her shoulder. “What  misprint?” 

The cinch around his waist was crushing him now. “The date.” 

“No? That’s right.” 

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how he’d gotten to the future. He could try, he supposed, to teleport back to 1923, but  that would be difficult, because he had no idea how  he’d gotten in this predicament to begin with. 

“Are you okay?” 

No. He touched his fingertips to the brim of his cap. “Have a nice night.”

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[spreadyovrwings]

64 Oslo Square

‘Companion’. Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon’, literally ‘one who breaks bread with another’.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it’s more than worth it. It’s worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: None! Except like major flirting (gross)

//

Chapter Five

Two doors down from 64 Oslo Square, there was an Indian takeaway. John had been meaning to pop in a few times, but the emptiness of his pockets had always far outweighed the emptiness of his stomach.

He stopped and gazed at his own reflection in the glass shopfront, coldly cut off from the promise of good, warm food.

John would never admit it to anyone, but he did take quite a bit of pride in his appearance. He wasn’t vain, he hoped, he just liked to look nice. He dressed casually most of the time, but John never left the house without first making sure that he smelt great and his hair was perfectly set.

He frowned as he pulled at his long curls, then brushed his fingertips over his fringe, making sure he looked just right. Roger and Freddie would be dropping round today, the least he could do was look his best while they were antagonising him in front of you.

As John entered the bakery, he took in a deep breath. It had become a habit, filling his lungs with the incredible smells of fresh bread, vanilla speckled custard, and power-soft icing sugar. He’d never get tired of this place.

When he couldn't see you behind the counter, John began to relax. He was always disappointed when your paths failed to cross, but it was a bit of a relief. Perhaps you had taken a rare holiday? Freddie and Roger would, without a doubt, simply reschedule their plans to darken the bakery’s door, but it would buy John some more time, perhaps enough to properly warn you, make up some excuse, or die, whichever was easiest.

Laughter rang out from the kitchen, bright and pretty. John’s stomach flipped, then a moment later, his shoulders lowered. You were here after all.

His disappointment didn’t last very long at all. He saw you move past the kitchen doorway, soft and beautiful and warm, even at a glance. Then, you popped back into sight and waved at him, even though you had to prop the tray of croissants you were carrying up against the doorframe to do so.

Beaming, John waved back until you disappeared from sight again. As he lowered his hand, he realised his heart was pounding.

He wasn’t sure what would be more rude, to slip behind the counter and make himself a cup of tea or wait to be served. John didn’t want to give the impression that he’d made himself at home, but he didn’t want to be waited on by his friends either.

While he was dithering, he caught sight of Alastair, Gladys’ famed boyfriend. The bakery was, as usual, full of customers, but while they were all seated at the tables dotted around the room, sipping teas and coffees and munching happily on sweet treats, Alastair was standing by the kitchen doorway.

It made John frown. You certainly wouldn’t be happy if you knew about that. Alastair had carefully hidden himself away out of sight, tucked behind the corner so that you and Mickey couldn’t see him as you flitted about.

He watched on incredulously as he realised Alastair was using the bakery’s phone. John could just about hear his deep, impassive voice under the low hum of activity. As he spoke, Alastair turned his body away from the kitchen doorway and the other customers, the telephone cord pulled tight against his arm as he tried to move as far out of earshot as possible.

“Just off the high street. Yeah. Yeah, no. No, it’s closer to the park.”

Curious, John moved closer, keeping his gaze down so that anyone would think he was just having trouble deciding what to eat.

“Yeah. Three stories. There’s a flat above and a cellar. She said they had a flood a few years ago but that’s been sorted now. Yeah, no, shouldn’t be any trouble…”

Perhaps sensing he was being watched, Alastair looked round over his shoulder. When he caught John’s gaze, he gave him a quick, polite but cold smile. John did not smile back.

He wondered if he should say something, challenge what he’d overheard, but then you came out of the kitchen at last. You smiled at him so prettily that John completely forgot all about Alastair for now.

“Alright, New Boy?”

“How are you?”

“Good, good. Just trying to sort an order out for this bloke. Called last minute just before closing yesterday, asked if we could add a ‘few’ more things to his delivery. Of course, Gladys said yes. I keep telling her the cut-off is midday but-” You smiled. “Boring, sorry. How are you doing? Isn’t today your day off?”

“S’pose I just can’t get enough of you.”

You blinked.

John gawped. He had intended ‘you’ as a plural: you, Mickey, even Gladys. But that wasn’t what he said and both of you knew it wasn’t what he meant either. He really couldn’t get enough of you. It was as simple as that.

Luckily, a customer required your attention and you were both saved.

You put up one finger, holding him in place.

“Hang on,” you said, then went to serve the customer.

John let go of the breath he’d been holding.

He really was a shambles. He should just ask you to dinner and get it over with; his heart couldn’t take much more of this. It’s just that whenever he spoke to you, all his carefully prepared words went out the window, and even breathing became a struggle, let alone talking.

John watched you interact with the customer, how you smiled and waited patiently for them to choose a cake.

He liked the way you stood, with your weight on one hip, how you rested your hands on your waist, and how you spoke, confident and disarming with an edge that gave away that you were always two steps ahead.

Even if he could work up the courage to ask you out, where could he take you? John barely had enough money to feed and clothe himself, he wasn’t much of a catch. The thought sank like a stone to the pit of his stomach.

John’s gaze slid wearily back over to Alastair, who by now had hung up the phone and was blowing kisses through the kitchen doorway, presumably to Gladys since he didn’t think Mickey would appreciate the gesture.

Alastair dressed well: his shoes gleamed, his shirts were always neatly pressed, and he reeked of expensive cologne. Off-putting as he was to be around, he could afford to treat Gladys to dinners, dates, and opulent gifts, or so John had heard.

What did he have to offer you but an incomplete degree, a second-hand bass guitar, and so much social anxiety that he had to practice saying hello to you in the mirror for twenty minutes before he left his digs?

“Look at that!

John turned to find you lifting the glass dome from a cake stand. It was only after you’d boxed the last remaining slice and handed it over to the customer that he realised why you were smiling at him. John’s lips parted in surprise as he gazed at the now empty cake stand.

“Was that my..? People actually bought it?”

As Gladys bustled past, she reached over the counter and pinched his cheek.

“Of course they did!” She said. “It was lovely, John. You did a great job.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head at your boss as she swept past you.

John cupped his now smarting cheek with one hand, his other fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter. He feared if he let go, his weak knees wouldn’t support him for very long.

“Thank you. Is it…? Is it really all sold out?”

He spoke softly, raising his eyes to you. John would never know how his tender gaze made your heart melt, how the slight tilt of his head made you want to just throw away your dignity and kiss him.

For a moment, your gaze softened. He wished he knew what you were thinking, what it was that made you look at him so sweetly before your smile turned pointed again.

“I said it was for charity; it went in seconds,” you said, making Gladys laugh.

John pretended to look wounded, pressing his palm flat against his racing heart.

“Oof, you’re mean.”

Your smile relaxed into something more gentle, and John couldn’t help thinking how pretty you looked when you were pleased to see him.

“Just kidding, Johnny. People really liked it.”

John’s hand was still resting over his heart. The nickname made it thump against his palm. He had to look away, if he didn’t, he knew a bashful grin would spread across his face, and he would have a hard time explaining away his bright red cheeks.

“Well, you baked it. I just made it look nice.”

“You’re good at that. Why do you think we hired you?”

Gladys reached over and flapped her hand at you without taking her eyes off the tea she was steeping.

“Stop flirting in front of the customers.”

To John’s amusement, you rolled your eyes at her, but then you smiled, tired and pretty, and winked at him.

“Wait till I get you alone in that kitchen.”

You were only kidding. At least he thought so. Still, John couldn't help his mind wandering to what that might entail. Your gorgeous round hips under his hands. The soft gasps he might inspire as he parted your thighs. Your fingers wrapped around his jaw as you kissed him, deep and slow, in a dark, quiet corner of the kitchen where no one would see you.

While John all but melted, Gladys huffed and shook her head.

“You are shameless.” She gave John an apologetic look. “Cuppa?”

“Please.”

He got himself seated, then a few moments later, you came over with a steaming cup of tea and a couple of biscuits.

John hoped you would sit with him but the shop was full today and you just didn’t have the time. He watched your fingers wrap around the seat opposite his and knew you ached to stay. It must have been a busy morning, your eyes were clouded and soft, but even though you must be exhausted, you still made time for him. The thought warmed his chest.

“I’ve got some friends coming round.”

“To your digs?”

Your hair was down today. He thought he could smell your shampoo, something citrusy, sharp but sweet just like you.

“Here,” John suddenly panicked. “If that’s alright?”

You smiled, and his shoulders relaxed.

“Are these your mates from your band?”

“Yes, um…”

There was a streak of flour on your cheek. His fingers ached to brush it away for you, to cup your face and feel you sink into him as he kissed you.

“They’re, er…”

John could never hold your gaze for very long. He meekly glanced away, then back again, but there was something about you looking down at him from this angle that made his cheeks burn. His eyes felt heavy as they drifted down to your cheek again, then the safe, soft curve of your shoulder.

“I wanted to apologise in advance.”

If he’d been brave enough to meet your eyes, he would've seen understanding, then amusement flash across your face.

“Are they coming to embarrass you?”

“Yes,” John sighed, forcing himself to make eye contact again. “And I’ve talked about you a lot so they know your name and- Basically, they’re gonna drive you mad and I’m really sorry. You don’t have to talk to them.”

To his surprise and no small amount of relief, you reached over and rested your hand on his bare forearm. Warmth spread through his veins immediately, all the way up to his now burning cheeks.

“I can’t wait to meet them,” you said gently.

You are so beautiful.

The words almost slipped from his mouth but John clamped his lips together just in time.

You gave his arm a squeeze, then went back into the kitchen where Mickey was waiting to tease you about getting distracted.

John watched you walk away. He hoped you might turn back at the last moment and ask if he wanted another baking lesson, or simply catch his eye and wink at him again. But you didn’t.

Instead, he let his gaze drift down so that he might memorise the shape of your arse, your hips, and your thighs in those tight, dark blue flares. John turned his attention to his cup of tea, his face hot, feeling guilty and exhilarated all at once.

Roger and Freddie had warned John that they’d be dropping by about lunch time, so, of course, they rocked up just as the clock was ticking towards three.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of the bakery with his back to the door, John felt safe. No one looked his way, no one bothered him, and he had a perfect view through the kitchen doorway, where you were dusting cinnamon rolls with clouds of bright white icing sugar.

He heard them before he saw them. 64 Oslo Square’s peace was broken by the door being pushed open with gusto, then the clomp clomp clomp of chunky heels on the wooden floor.

“Sorry we’re late!”

A hand came down on John’s left shoulder. Freddie’s neatly manicured black fingernails shone, his bangles rattling in John’s ear as he shook him gently.

“Bloody hectic morning. You’d think the whole of London was in that market.”

“I am starving!”

Roger dropped into the seat across from John like a sack of potatoes. He immediately flopped over the table, resting his head on his forearms with a long groan.

“Deaky,” he complained. “I’m so cold. Can I hold your tea?”

Huffing softly, John pushed his mug across the table.

Roger unfolded his arms and wrapped his fingers around it, his forehead now pressed against the table. He yawned loudly, his back arching under his big coat.

“What a day, Deaks. It’s bloody freezing out there. I was wearing three furs by the end.”

“Oh, this place is lovely though,” said Freddie, scanning the room with a glint in his dark eyes. “Nice and cosy. Oh, for God’s sake, Roger. Move over!”

Roger had taken the outside seat, so Freddie had to squeeze behind him to reach the empty chair by the window. Muttering and swearing, he lifted one leg high and hopped the rest of the way. Roger didn’t raise his head from the table once but a few customers did look over in interest.

John shrank back into himself, hunching his shoulders with embarrassment. Freddie wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous of figures at the best of times, let alone when he was cursing Roger and making a big fuss.

He looked fearfully towards the kitchen doorway but thankfully, you didn't seem to notice the commotion over the rumble of the ovens and the notoriously ancient and unreliable whisk.

Freddie must have followed his gaze because he suddenly gasped.

“Is that her!”

John shot him a pained look. If he shrank back in his seat anymore, he would be in serious danger of slipping right under the table.

“Please, please don’t say anything.”

“What! When we came all the way here to meet her!”

“It’s a five minute walk from the market.”

“Yes,” Roger lifted his head. “But it’s raining.”

Freddie gestured emphatically, as if he’d made a salient point.

“Pouring. And I turned down lunch with Zandra for this.”

“She is pretty.”

Roger was gazing at you too now. He craned his neck, trying to get a better view, and nodded his head approvingly when he did. Something about the way he looked at you made John frown.

“Is she going with anyone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” John sighed. “Mickey says she isn’t.”

Freddie frowned.

“Mickey?”

“The big lad in the kitchen,” Roger reminded him.

Freddie perked up.

“Oo?”

“He’s married.”

Disappointed, Freddie flopped dramatically back in his chair.

“Typical,” he muttered while Roger pulled a sympathetic face.

John couldn’t resist smiling. As embarrassing as they were, it was good to see his friends.

They were always teasing him, poking fun at each other and generally being a nuisance, but just because they could be silly didn’t mean they were unreliable. Roger, for example, might not care too much for his degree, but drumming was his life.

Passion, they had it by the bucketload, but they also had a wonderful habit of reminding John that he was still young, that he should be having fun, and that sometimes, it was alright to not take things too seriously.

Roger was already practically falling out of his seat with excitement, but when you left the kitchen to talk to Gladys, he slapped Freddie’s arm frantically.

“So how does it work?” he asked. “Do we go order at the counter or does she…?”

Freddie flung up his hand and waved it airily in your direction, his chin raised to the ceiling, reminiscent of a duke or a prince.

“Hello!” He called across the room and beamed when you looked over. “Hello, love!”

John saw the bewildered expression on your face and wanted to melt right into his shoes. The bakery didn’t do table service; hopefully you wouldn’t think they were being purposefully rude.

“Freddie, please,” he hissed.

“I’m just saying hello!”

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see you starting to make your way over.

“Oh, God.” He sat up straight. “Please be normal.”

Freddie just scoffed and waved him off.

Roger began to form what would probably have been a painfully acerbic response, but both he and Freddie looked up when you finally appeared by the table.

“You hollered?”

You sighed the words, resting your weight on one hip in a way John found frankly exhilarating.

You looked down at them, taking them all in, one by one. Your expression was flat, though thankfully, you didn’t seem to be genuinely irritated.

When your gaze finally landed on John, the corner of your mouth flickered, and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

Freddie leaned right over the table, stretching out his hand towards you.

“Freddie Mercury, pleasure to meet you.”

As he reached over, he accidentally shoved his shoulder into Roger’s face, who complained and huffed and tried to push him away.

Amused, you shook Freddie’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You know, John hasn’t stopped talking about this place since he was hired,” Roger beamed up at you. “And now I see why.”

You shook his hand too, your eyes flicking towards John, perhaps to see how he felt about that last comment.

“He talks a lot about you too.” You smiled. “You must be Roger.”

“It’s great to meet you. You know, I’ve been past this place a hundred times and I keep meaning to come in.”

“Well, now you have, what can I get you?”

They ordered two cups of tea and two slices of cake, chocolate for Roger and coffee and walnut for Freddie.

You returned with their food quickly. If John didn’t know any better, he’d think you actually were excited to meet his friends.

When you’d expressed interest in them before, he thought you were only being polite. But no, he could see it in your face, you were practically fizzing. The others wouldn’t be able to tell but they didn’t know you like he did.

But why? Why were you so eager? To tease him? To eek more information about him out of his friends? Perhaps. There was a far more likely explanation, one that warmed his chest to even consider. You liked him, you wanted to meet his friends, you wanted to be a part of his life, as he’d become a part of yours.

You set two cups of tea down on the table in front of Roger and Freddie, as well as their slices of cake. To John’s amusement, you set another slice of chocolate cake down in front of him.

He opened his mouth to say something but to John’s surprise, you chucked him under the chin before he could protest.

“So, what’s the verdict?” You smiled down at them. “Are we good enough for John?”

“I think this place has done him the world of good,” said Freddie.

When you glanced at him, John offered you a brave little smile.

He thought it was rather obvious that this place, that you, had had a profound effect on his confidence. John wouldn’t be shouting the others down in an argument anytime soon, but he carried himself in a different way. Yes, you’d done him a lot of good.

“Is he as chatty with you lot as he is here?”

“Oh, Deaks? Can’t shut him up, can we Deaky?”

Roger stuck out his foot and nudged John’s under the table.

You turned your gaze to him. There was a small smile on your lips, soft and gentle. It lacked your usual snark. In fact, John thought it was the warmest look you’d ever sent his way.

“Deaky…”

You repeated the nickname, trying it out for the first time.

John would be the first to admit that he didn’t have the most exciting name. First, middle, and last, it was a title that did the job, a sensible, straightforward, boring old name that he sometimes wished his parents had put just a little more thought into.

He didn’t think his nickname was particularly exciting either, but neither his real name nor the one his friends had given him had ever sounded better than from your lovely, smiling mouth.

“A fantastic bassist,” Freddie was saying, while you and John gazed at each other. “Great head for business-”

“Great head. Ow!”

Roger yelped as Deaky’s boot connected with his shin.

“He’s brilliant,” Freddie went on. “You could hang your hat on him.”

“Especially when he’s talking about you.” Roger was faster this time and moved his leg away from John’s swinging platform. “Though, you’ve gotta watch the bruises on him, love.”

“Bruises?”

“Yeah, from all the girls pushing him away with barge poles.”

John looked up at you, hoping his exasperated expression would go some way to apologise for his friends. But you weren’t looking at him, you were watching Roger almost reproachfully. And there was that taut bowstring smile.

“And what do you do, Roger?”

The way you said his name, John had to hide his smile behind his mug. It was very different to the way you said his, always so warm and soft when you were pleased to see him, or staccato and electric when you were teasing him.

Roger didn’t seem to notice the acidity of your tone. He puffed out his chest.

“Oh, you know, I’m in the import/export business. Real premium merchandise.”

John rolled his eyes.

“They have a stall in Kensington Market.”

Your smile cut through Roger’s affronted response.

“I’ll leave you to it.” You waved airily at his friends. “Nice to meet you both.”

They tried to convince you to sit with them, but you politely declined. You were still on shift, you said, you had work to do, but John caught the glance you threw his way before you left. You were lying.

Concerned, he hoped they hadn’t bothered you too much. But that particular worry settled again almost as soon as it shook off its wings. His friends appeared to amuse you, the roll of your eyes told him that, and the little smile that was just for him.

Roger and Freddie watched you leave, grinning.

John hadn’t known him all that long really, but a stranger on the street could tell that Roger loved women, all women. And loved them genuinely too, not for sport but for the way they spoke, the way they walked and held themselves, he loved their nuances and their laughter, and he already seemed to adore you.

It should have made John nervous. It should have made him bristle with envy. Roger was clever and kind, handsome and beautiful all at once, easy to talk to and to get to know, something John just couldn’t seem to get the hang of. But it was him you kept smiling at, his mouth you were always watching, his shoulder you squeezed when you said goodbye.

“Oh, she is lovely,” Freddie watched you walk away with an almost fond smile. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“She is, isn’t she? She’s so…”

Roger grinned.

“Smart and funny and pretty, and bossy in a way that makes your knees weak…”

“All warm and delicious and soft, and you’d frankly let her do anything she wanted to you?” Freddie finished, raising a delicate eyebrow.

John nodded.

“That pretty much sums it up, yes. She’s just… Wow, you know? And I think she really likes me.”

“Ask her out then!”

John snorted.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I’ll die.”

“Oh,” Roger scoffed and rolled his eyes in an almost motherly way. “Don’t be a twat. You like her. She likes you. What are you waiting for? I’ll die of old age at this rate.”

“I’m not- I’m not being a- It’s hard!”

“To ask out someone you like?”

“For me, yes!”

Freddie put a hand on Roger’s arm.

“John probably just wants to do it right. Is that it, Deaky?”

“Yes! Well, it- Yes, I want to make sure she actually likes me.”

“She looks at you like she wouldn’t mind bending you over one of these tables.”

“Roger!”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind that myself. She’s gorgeous.”

“Please,” John pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. “Please shut up.”

“I hope those kitchen walls aren’t too thin,” Freddie smiled, sipping his tea regally. “You’ll give her ideas.”

“Like she hasn’t had them already. She’d definitely have you pinned up against the bread slicer if you gave her half a chance.”

“I want to do this right,” John pressed on gallantly, his voice a note or two higher than usual. “I don’t want to make things uncomfortable and lose this job and my friends… I want to… I want to see her outside of work but I just can’t figure out how to… Nothing seems right. Everything I think of either seems boring or too much or… Oh, God, I don’t know.”

John took a bite of his chocolate cake, miserable.

While his mind raced, turning over and over like a sputtering engine as he tried to decide what to do, his friends exchanged a glance that said many things all at once.

Freddie’s twisted mouth suggested they should help John take the next step, while Roger’s raised eyebrows emphasised that they ought to act soon, as John looked like he was about to keel over.

They changed the subject, aiming to reel John back in with talks of their next gig, of a new song idea that Roger wanted to try, and some gossip about the girl Brian was seeing. They ate their cake and drained their tea, warmed by the bakery and its gifts.

At last, the rain began to ease and the staggered buildings that bracketed the street were backed by a rosy sky. The city was slowly turning its face towards the evening, soon the lamps that lined the roads would beckon them out into the dark.

A serious lack of funds and four conflicting schedules meant that the only time Queen managed to book a slot in any recording studio was around midnight, when every musician in their right mind was off having fun. Tonight, the boys were meeting across town, hoping inspiration might find them and bless them with a track or two.

John didn’t want to leave. The rain had almost stopped now but he knew the harsh wind would slip under his clothes until his muscles ached from trying to shake some life back into him. It was a long trudge to the studios in the north of the city, especially in the platforms he’d worn just in case you saw him and his friends standing together and it wasn’t obvious that he was tallest.

Distracted by thoughts of homework, a feeble dinner, and leaving the delicious warmth of the bakery, John didn’t notice Roger slip over to the counter to talk to you until it was too late.

You were chatting with Gladys, haggling over wages again, but stopped when Roger leaned right over the counter and waved at you.

“Here, love, what time do you finish?”

“We close at six?”

Too late, John realised his friend had gotten away from him and marched over to rescue you. He got there just in time to hear Roger ask,

“Perfect, are you free tomorrow night?”

John wrapped his fingers around the scruff of Roger’s shirt and pulled him away from the counter, shooting you an apologetic look at the same time.

While Freddie went up to pay for their drinks, John cornered Roger.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing!”

“You’re meddling.”

Roger smiled, wide and unapologetic.

“No...”

“Roger Meddling Taylor.”

“I just thought I’d see if your gorgeous boss has plans this week!”

“Why would you..?”

“You know how I’m your favourite person in the whole wide world?” Roger grinned. “Well, after your lovely new friend.”

“Roger…”

“And how I would never steer you wrong?”

John only grimaced.

When he went up to say goodbye, you were there waiting for him with a soft smile.

“They seem nice.”

“They’re…” John huffed. “They’re a lot. They’re nice but they’re idiots.”

“They love you to bits.”

“You think?”

You just smiled again, then asked,

“You off, then?”

“Uh, yes. Yeah. I was um…” John glanced back over his shoulder to find his friends watching him with eager expressions. “We’ve got a gig. Tomorrow night. It’s not far from here, actually.”

“That’s ni-”

“Do you want to come?” It came out too quickly, too nervous. John winced. “Sorry, I- Sorry. It’s, uh, it’s the first one I’ve organised myself and I’m terrified no one’s going to show up. Or worse, only a couple do and- Doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is, I’d really love for you to come.”

He watched your smile grow, but before it could meet your eyes, it changed shape, hollowed out, and turned downwards.

“Tomorrow night? I’ll be-”

“Working, I know.”

You were always working. In all the time that you’d known each other, John couldn’t recall you mentioning any friends, any hobbies, or any life outside of this bakery.

He knew all about loneliness, how you could sink so deep before you even noticed, and trying to break through the surface to catch your breath felt impossible. He thought you might be able to help each other.

Still, he didn’t mean that to come out quite so sharply. He saw something flicker across your face. John tried to soften his expression, hoping you’d see that he was trying, at last, to reach out, to make a connection.

“It’s at eight.” He placed his hand flat against the counter but was too cowardly to brush his fingertips against yours. “One night, that’s all I’m asking. My way of thanking you for helping me settle in. And, hey, there’ll be popcorn. Maybe even a beer if you’re lucky.”

For a moment, he thought you might decline. Between your uncertain gaze and the unmistakable sound of Freddie and Roger practically vibrating with anticipation behind him, John almost caved and told you not to worry. He was glad he waited. That one second meant all the difference, just one moment of bravery.

You moved your hand forward, so now the very tip of your middle finger was pressed against his.

“Okay, yeah. Alright, New Boy, you’re on. I’ll see you then.”

As you spoke, you slipped your hand over his, your index, middle and ring fingers now resting over his.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Yeah, no, that sounds like fun. I’ll be there.” You laughed. “I’ll even make a sign with your name on it, make sure everyone knows who I’m there to see. I’ll shout ‘that’s my delivery boy!’”

John smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

You glanced over his shoulder at Roger and Freddie, beaming away, and pulled your hand back.

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself.” John gave a little wiggle he’d want to punch himself for later. “And your dancing shoes.”

As he turned to go, Roger cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke loud enough for the whole bakery to hear.

“And preferably something revealing so Deaky has something to look at while he’s-”

John grabbed him by the shoulders, span Roger around, and pushed him out the door.

“See you later!”

/

Bedford College was a tall, imposing building, red-bricked and impressive, even in the half light of a blustery spring evening. You felt the eye of the clock tower follow you as you crossed the campus, following the signs sporting Queen’s scrawled logo.

You tugged at your velvet flares, then the front of your top. You looked good, hopefully, but not too good, like you’d made an effort but effortlessly. You didn’t want John to know how eager you were to see him outside of work, but you didn’t want him to think that you didn’t care about the gig, about him.

You found the sports hall with little trouble. Concerned, you realised you couldn’t hear any music. Perhaps you’d got the time wrong? You checked your watch. No, a few minutes before eight, you were right on time.

The sports hall doors were heavy, you had to lean your whole body against one to push it all the way open. When you stepped inside, the air was warm and close, the unmistakable odour of a school gymnasium.

For a moment, you thought you must have come to the wrong place. The room was practically empty. Through the low light, you could see six or so teenagers floating around near a makeshift stage, and a low drinks table dotted with paper cups and homemade bags of popcorn.

Finally, you saw John. He and his band mates were standing beside the stage. He looked decidedly nervous. Next to him, Roger and a tall man, who you knew must be Brian, seemed to be spatting at each other like alley cats. Even unshakeable Freddie was tugging at his silver bangles, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You moved slowly towards the stage, keeping an eye on the other attendees. Perhaps something had happened? Maybe rather than being late, you were actually too early?

The band moved onto the stage. They got into position with practice ease, though you were sure John’s restless fingers, Roger’s scowl, and the half-interest of the meagre crowd were not part of the act.

You watched John with such obvious interest, you couldn’t believe it took him several moments to notice your eyes on him. He seemed relieved to see you.

While Freddie introduced the band, John lifted his fingers from the sleek black body of his bass guitar and waved them at you. You smiled back in what you hoped was an encouraging way, but the four lads and two girls that made up the rest of the audience were beginning to grow restless.

John was just starting to mouth something to you, something you couldn’t make out in the low light of the sports hall, when suddenly, Brian swung his arm and a shriek shot across the room and hit the back wall.

The sound reverberated through you, then Roger threw up his arms and brought them down again hard, the sound of the toms smacking the crowd with such force it took your breath away.

Freddie ricocheted across the stage, a tightly coiled spring finally set free. He thumped his foot in time with Roger, his microphone angled downwards as he held the gaze of everyone in the audience, almost like he was daring you all to try and stop him.

And beneath it all, beneath Brian’s soulful guitar, beneath Roger’s pounding beat and Freddie’s glorious voice, was the steady, faithful, perfect thrum of John’s bass guitar, keeping everything tied together.

You watched him with tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You weren’t even sure why. The sound was just so warm, so safe. The others were unpredictable and fantastic, but John, standing there with his eyes almost closed, his head tipped down towards the neck of his guitar, his legs parted in a wide stance, he was the heart and soul of it all.

“You were right. They are good.”

You turned your head and saw two boys whispering to each other, smiling at the music washed over them. Their enjoyment made you smile. You couldn’t be more proud of your delivery boy.

You didn’t take your eyes off John for the whole performance, which, with its limited audience, the band seemed to be treating as more of a rehearsal. They chatted between songs, swapping notes and fiddling with their equipment. That didn’t mean they didn’t give it their all though.

You kept waiting for John to turn and chat to you, but he kept his voice low, only speaking to his bandmates when they spoke to him first. Whether it was the nerves of the low turnout or not wanting to break the barrier between audience and performance, you weren’t sure.

It wasn’t until the last song that you remembered what John had said. Bedford College had been booked under his recommendation, he’d organised the whole thing and only six paying punters had turned up.

“Oh, New Boy,” You murmured, as the last notes of this shambles of a gig circled your head. “This is gonna set you back.”

The boys took their bows, nodding gratefully when you all applauded, then gathered at the back of the stage to talk.

Unsure of what to do, you hovered vaguely in the direction of the drinks table. The rest of the audience were either chatting, glancing hopefully towards the band or stuffing bags of popcorn into their pockets, while you stood alone, off to the side, feeling so awkward it was almost painful.

You wished John would just come over and say hi. You were a couple of years older than everyone else here and the only one who’d come alone.

A small voice in your head wondered if it would be better to wait outside, away from their watchful eyes. Would it be cooler to catch John on his way out? Or would he think you didn’t care? You worried your bottom lip, torn and uncertain of yourself, a feeling you hated above all else.

As you poured yourself a cup of water, you watched the band out of the corner of your eye. The boys were discussing something important in hushed voices. You wouldn’t be surprised if John had completely forgotten you were there, seeing as the snatches of conversation you could hear seemed to be about the low turnout.

You saw John roll his eyes, his lips pressed together with thinly-veiled irritation. But then he caught your gaze and his expression brightened, as if with relief.

To your surprise and no small amount of delight, John jumped down from the stage, his heels clacking against the worn wooden floor as he hurried over.

“Hey! Hey, Skip!”

You smiled awkwardly at a gaggle of teenagers with clothes much cooler than yours as John clomped over to you. Thankfully, Roger and the others had hopped down from the stage too now, capturing the kids’ attention, so you and John were left alone.

“Hey, rockstar! You-”

He’d jumped down from the stage so quickly that he still had his bass slung around his neck. With a move that would have your heart racing whenever you thought about it in future, John swept the heavy guitar behind him so that he could wrap his arms around you.

“You came!”

He held you tight against his chest as he laughed, so soft and sweet that only you could hear it.

“It’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming.”

John’s narrow frame felt so small against your own, yet you seemed to fit together perfectly. His long hair tickled your nose as he bent his head and rested his chin on your shoulder, his heart hammering in time with your own.

He smelt like sweat and cheap aftershave, and to your delight, a little bit like the bakery. 64 Oslo Square had a way of embedding itself in all your clothes, your hair, even, it sometimes seemed, under your skin. It didn’t occur to you until then just how much John had come to feel like home to you.

The thunk in your chest when he moved away jarred you for a moment. You’d been toying with his bass behind his back, tugging at the thickest string to feel the reverberations. You wondered if he could feel them echo from the guitar through his spine.

“Wow, you look...” John shook his head, looking you up and down so unabashedly that it made your face heat up. “I mean, you’re… Do you always..? You look… I’m-”

You smiled.

“Hi, John.”

“Hi.” He shook his head again. “Wow.”

Blushing and lost for words, you shook your cup of water at him.

“I was promised a beer!”

He laughed.

“Well, I did say ‘if you’re lucky’.”

“I should’ve known you’d cheap out on me. You could always buy me a drink to make up for it?”

“Then I’d be the lucky one.” John’s smile faded as quickly as it appeared. “I’m sorry about tonight. I promise, next time there’s a gig it won’t be organised by me and the room will be… Well, it’ll be better.”

“I thought you were amazing.”

It was John’s turn to blush. His gaze dropped to the floor as if it suddenly weighed a ton, his forehead all scrunched up and serious.

“Well, we’ve been working really hard. We rehearse almost every day.”

“It shows. But I meant… John?” You slipped your fingers under his jaw and gently lifted his head. “I meant you were amazing.”

Slowly, he began to smile again.

“Yeah?”

You laughed and squeezed his hand, hoping he’d be able to feel just how proud you were of him, as if the words were written on your palm, now pressed against his, a secret message just for him.

It must have brought back some of John’s courage because suddenly he said,

“You look beautiful.”

Taken-aback, all you could do was smile, bemused.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Not just tonight. Always. You’re beautiful.”

He pressed his lips together, almost like he wasn’t sure whether to say what he wanted, but then John huffed a tiny laugh, the battle in him an apparent surrender.

“I fancy you like mad.”

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No! No, I’m just really, really nervous.” John pulled a face. “Actually, okay, yes, I might have had one little drink. Freddie says it’s good luck before a show.”

“Mm, Dutch courage.”

“I think his family’s from Zanzibar, actually.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Muppet.”

John grinned.

“Anyway, I- It’s mostly just- This’ll sound daft but I’m just really pleased to see you.”

You’d never seen a man so nervous. John could hardly hold your gaze. His skin, scattered with tiny beads of sweat, shone pale under the low lights, his fringe now plastered to his forehead from the exertion of the show. When he nervously swept at his hair, you could see that his hand was shaking. He looked like a dream.

“Not that daft,” you said, hoping he’d catch your meaning.

John’s usually impassive eyes softened just a little.

“No?”

Before you could respond, Roger appeared from nowhere and jumped on John’s back, clinging to him like a monkey as he laughed. When he saw you, Roger practically fell into you, his bandaged hands gripping the tops of your arms.

“You came!” Roger kissed both your cheeks with gusto, grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you would. Didn’t I say Johnny Boy? He was worried you weren’t going to show but I told him, I said to him, ‘Deaky,’ I said ‘That girl will be here front and centre and you won’t be able to string two notes together’. But didn’t he do well!”

Over Roger’s shoulder, John looked like he wanted to sink right into the floor.

You just laughed and gently peeled Roger off you. Lovely as he was, he was all sweaty too.

It was a nice glimpse into his character though, the others too, that even for a crowd you could count on two hands, they’d put everything they had into the show. You couldn’t imagine how John would look performing in front of hundreds, maybe even thousands one day.

“You all did brilliantly.”

As if he’d heard you thinking about him, John slipped his arm past Roger and hooked his fingers through yours. He dipped his head down so that he could speak by your ear, and though you were distracted by his warm breath on your skin and the knowledge that John’s fingers were so long, his fingertips brushed your wrist, you just about managed to catch him ask,

“Don’t suppose you wanna go for a walk?”

/

You ended up walking to the nearest tube station together. John simply slung his guitar case over his shoulder, waved goodbye to his friends, then led you from the sports hall with a hand pressed to your lower back.

You could still feel it now, even though he’d long since stopped touching you. It was like his handprint was seared onto your skin, warm and steady and surprisingly possessive in a way that made your heart pound. John was often so quiet and unsure of himself, the sudden surge of confidence was enough to make you dizzy as he guided you out into the night.

You wanted to ask why he didn’t say goodbye to his friends properly. You wanted to tell him again how wonderfully he played tonight. You wanted to tease him about the low turnout. But the hand that had felt so big and confident against your back kept brushing your own as you walked, and it was enough to stun you into reticence.

He surprised you again by breaking the comfortable silence first.

“No stars.”

John’s gaze was fixed on the dark sky. There were no clouds tonight for the first time in weeks, but still, the night was empty and lonely.

“No, it’s funny, innit. Completely black.”

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“C’mon, you’re hardly a country boy.”

“There are more stars in Oadby than in London.”

John pulled at his thin red jumper, squaring his shoulders against the cold night air.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“Are you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You laughed and tugged at your scarf.

“C’mere.”

As always, John did as he was told. He stopped and bent his head so that you could reach up and wrap your scarf around his neck.

John mumbled a thank you as he buried his nose in the soft material. It smelt like you, of sweet things and good dreams. He rearranged the scarf around his neck so the cold air wouldn’t sneak inside the collar of his jumper.

“Is it my colour?”

Beaming, you flipped one of the ends over his shoulder, unable to ignore how good it felt to see him wearing something of yours.

“You know, I think it might be.”

John’s gaze fell to the pavement as he smiled. You could practically see the gears turning in his head and knew he wanted to say something. Your heart hammered at the endless possibilities of such a bashful expression. Before you could prompt him to talk, he raised his head and surprised you yet again.

“I’m so glad you came tonight. I know it was rubbish. I promise it’s not usually that depressing. We usually pull a pretty good crowd, actually. I was hoping you’d see that side of the band.” John’s gaze slid away out of habit, just for a second, then he was back. “Of me.”

“I’m glad I came too, you really were brilliant, John... To be honest, I was a bit nervous. I almost called to say I couldn’t make it.”

“Why?”

The bluntness of his question caught you off guard. You didn’t mean to admit that, but something about John and his clever grey eyes made you want to say things aloud about yourself that you couldn’t imagine telling anyone else.

When you didn’t say anything, John tilted his head to the side.

“When was the last time you went out?”

You opened your mouth but no sound came out. You realised you had no answer.

“Gigs aren’t really my thing, usually,” you said instead.

The station was just a few steps away but there was no one around, and the little shops that lined the street were empty and dark. Every house had its curtains closed. Even the Thames seemed to be whispering as it slinked past behind you, it’s waters endless and ancient.

You stepped back and leaned against the brick wall behind you, subconsciously putting some space between you and John. You pulled your coat around you, feeling suddenly vulnerable, and hoped he would think it was just from the cold.

The tables had turned and now the spotlight was on you. It was fun teasing John, peeling back his layers and getting to know the parts of him he didn’t often show, but you hadn’t expected him to turn it back on you.

John followed you, keeping close, and as much as you hated yourself for it, the proximity made your chest flutter.

“Not just to a gig. To a club or out for dinner, or something?”

Again, you said nothing. You didn’t exactly feel interrogated but John’s sudden interest was surprising. If it had been anyone else, you would have fought back, but his expression was so earnest, his voice low and gentle. He was asking because he cared.

John sighed, and for a moment he looked conflicted. You wondered if he was alarmed by his own actions, if he too was surprised by how much he cared. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe John just wasn’t used to expressing how he really felt. It was certainly interesting to watch.

“You work so hard. That bakery is going to be yours someday but it’s not right now.” John squeezed his eyes shut, like he always did when he was trying to think of the right words. “What I mean is, you’re young, you deserve time off, you deserve the chance to see your friends.”

“I don’t really have many friends.” Embarrassed, you quickly added, “Why do you care anyway?”

John took the tiniest step closer. He wasn’t quite invading your space yet but he was within arm’s reach. You had to raise your chin to meet his gaze now. It made you feel small, a feeling every instinct told you to challenge, but you held on, trusting John to know you and to understand your limits.

“Because I like you. I wanted to make you smile.”

John spoke matter-of-factly, as if it were obvious. Did he know what he was doing? Did he know that he was making your heart pound? Or was he just as uncertain as you, just as slow to fall and as quick to worry.

He sighed then, slipping his hands into his pockets. You thought you saw a little of his nerves slip away, as if he’d realised that he was asking for a lot of honesty from you without giving anything back.

“I know what it’s like to feel… Stuck,” he said.

“I’m not-”

“I know. I know. But you can miss a lot of living while you’re waiting for your life to start, you know? You’re… You’re kind, and beautiful, and you deserve to have some fun.”

He was right. You had been feeling lonely. The bakery was your whole life, you worked every day, you lived above it, socialised there… Now that he’d asked, you really couldn’t recall the last time you saw friends or went out and enjoyed yourself.

You let his words wash over you like warm water over golden sand. John cared. John saw you. John wanted to know you and help you and make everything better.

“That’s twice you’ve called me beautiful tonight,” you said.

For once, your forwardness didn’t make him retreat. John simply smiled.

“My turn.”

“Hm?”

“To flirt with you outrageously.”

“I don’t flirt with you!”

“Yes, you do! Outrageously! You’re a menace!”

“Is it working?”

John raised his eyebrows.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Pleased and blushing, you could only smile as you struggled to keep your eyes from drifting down to that intriguing mouth of his.

“You’re here because you just played an incredible gig to a heaving crowd.”

Even though it made John laugh, you couldn’t help feeling bad. You’d accidentally burst the bubble of tension building between you. Strangely, you missed it. You couldn’t help wondering what might have been, how much closer John might have stepped, how bravely you might have spoken if you’d let the moment go on just that little bit longer.

“Sorry about tonight.”

John shrugged.

“Something to learn from.”

“Are you always so..?”

“What?“

“I don’t know. ‘Easygoing’ doesn’t seem like the right word, but…”

“No point worrying about what you can’t change.”

“The others agree?”

“Rarely. On anything.” John looked down at the pavement again. “I think I’m different. From them, I mean. They all seem to slot together pretty well and I’m… I don’t know. The odd one out. I don’t really know who I am in the group.”

“Aren’t you the cute one?”

John huffed through his nose, shaking his head. You’d flustered him. With a smile, you realised you had the upper hand again.

“Have you seen Roger? He could charm a tortoise out of its shell.”

“Oh, he’s got nothing on you, New Boy.”

You pushed off the wall and stepped closer, and now you were invading his space. John didn’t move back though. He held his ground, his peculiar eyes fixed on yours.

“Mickey told me you said I was pretty,” he said eventually.

That stunned you for a second but you quickly recovered.

“Mickey’s an idiot.”

“So you don’t think I’m pretty?”

The street was completely empty, no cars, no people. There was only you and John, the only two people in the whole wide world. Under the amber light of a towering lamppost, you watched each other, waiting, daring, hoping.

At last, you said,

“I think you’re beautiful.”

John smiled, and you finally had an answer for him about where all those missing stars had disappeared to.

Feeling bold and drunk on the surreality of the evening, you asked,

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Mickey said you weren’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Gladys thought you might be.”

“I’m not, Skip.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Are you?”

“No!” You had to laugh. “No, no, I’m not. Not for ages. I mean, not ages. I have dated. But there’s not been anyone since- Not for ages.”

“Right.”

You watched each other again, just for a moment. John’s gaze dropped first. You knew to him it would feel like mere moments, but to you, the difference between his eyes on yours and his eyes on your mouth was staggering. It left you breathless.

When you stepped forward again, testing the waters, you were sure you saw John’s hand jump inside his pocket. What had its intended target been before he stopped himself? Had he felt cornered? Was it to press against his own racing heart? Did he itch to pull you in closer? You weren’t sure which option made you the most nervous.

His eyes were still fixed on yours though. John was a bundle of nerves but he was still here, he was still holding your gaze. What would happen if you took that final step closer?

It felt like an age before either of your moved again. It was John who finally surrendered.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Breathless and brimming with every emotion under the sun, you forced a grin that slowly became more real as your heart began to settle again.

“Yeah, see ya. Don’t stay up too late, New Boy, you’ve got about a hundred orders to deliver in the morning.”

John laughed and rolled his eyes, muttering something like ‘great’ or ‘can’t wait’ under his breath, but you were still recovering and didn’t quite catch it.

You stepped into the warm, stark entrance to the tube station together. John had to take the Circle Line, so you parted ways after passing through the barriers. You waved goodbye to each other, both of you feeling suddenly very lonely.

You were just about to head towards the escalator down to your platform when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Almost forgot.” John slipped your scarf off and wrapped it around your neck, then bent down and kissed your cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

He said your name, your real name, so softly and so lovingly that you could hardly believe it. Then he was gone.

You stared after him, bewildered and flushed and fizzing with delight. It felt like every nerve in your body was alight, even your fingertips seemed to be tingling.

It wasn’t until the station guard sent you a warning look that you realised you were blocking the way. You hopped on the escalator, still feeling dizzy.

You pressed your fingers to the spot on your cheek where John had kissed you, then let them slip down to where his fingertips had grazed your neck as he tied your scarf for you. Though you weren’t sure why, you looked back up the length of the escalator, back to the spot where you’d said goodbye.

“Fuck,” you said, and laughed.

//

Master List