#Glasses stores are a total racket

[captain-safetypants]

"You do not need to be spending $60 $600 on glasses !"

Also, Zenni is a good source for cheap, good-looking glasses. Note that if you have astigmatism, need bi- or tri-focals, have a really high prescription and need high index lenses to avoid Coke - bottle status, or haveother "not entirely standard" lens needs, the price goes up accordingly. Like I haven't found anywhere you can get $30 bifocals for my partner, or $30 high index frames for my ridiculously high prescription. BUT. Buying them online is still waaaayyyyy cheaper then the optical stores. Like the difference between $150 and $700.

can we talk about how literally 64% of people wear glasses, and yet we NEVER see them in movies/tv unless it's on some nerdy or uncool character? why do we adhere to such a weird beauty standard that subconsciously makes us feel bad for,, not being able to see???

[spicykaraage]

Tenipuri Complete Character Profile - Kunimitsu Tezuka

[PROFILE]

Birthday: October 7th (Libra)

Blood Type: O

Relatives: Grandfather (Kunikazu Tezuka), father (Kuniharu Tezuka), mother (Ayana Tezuka)

Father’s Occupation: Company employee (trading company, his grandfather was a judo instructor for the police force)

Elementary School: Seiharudai First Elementary School

Middle School: Seishun Academy Junior High School

Grade & Class: Third Year | Class 3-1 | Seat 12

Club: Tennis Club (captain)

Committee: Student Council (president)

Strong Subjects: World history

Weak Subjects: None

Most Visited Spot at School: Library

World Cup Team: U-17 World Cup German Representatives

Favorite Motto: “The enemy is within oneself.”

Daily Routines: Writing in his diary

Hobbies: Hiking, camping, fishing

Favorite Color: Green or blue

Favorite Music: Classical (Beethoven)

Favorite Movie: Famous classics whether Japanese or foreign

Favorite Book: Foreign books ➜ German-Japanese dictionary (he carries it around with him) [23.5]

Favorite Food: Unacha (broiled eel over rice with dashi poured over it), räucheraal (German smoked eel) [23.5]

Favorite Anniversary: August 23rd

Preferred Type: A girl who tries her best in everything (even if she’s a bit scatterbrained), a serious but cheerful person [PP] ➜ He tries not to think about it now [23.5]

Ideal Date Spot: Fishing in a stream near a mountain ➜ Zugspitze [23.5]

His Gift for a Special Person: A letter of gratitude

Where He Wants to Travel: Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu

What He Wants Most Right Now: A photobook of famous mountains across the world ➜ Mountain diorama kit [23.5]

Dislikes: Laziness, colorful cakes [23.5]

Skills Outside of Tennis: Woodworking, preparing fish [23.5]

Spends Allowance On: Books

Routine During the World Cup: Keeping a diary in German, watching foreign comedy dramas

[DATA]

Height: 179cm | 5’10”

Weight: 58kg | 127 lbs ➜ 61kg | 134 lbs [23.5]

Shoe Size: 27.5cm

Dominant Arm: Left

Vision: (With glasses) 1.5 Left & Right

Play Style: All-Rounder

Signature Moves: Drop Shot, Zero-Shiki Drop Shot, Selfless State, Pinnacle of Hard Work, Pinnacle of Great Wisdom, Pinnacle of Perfection [23.5], Tezuka Zone, Tezuka Phantom, Zero-Shiki Serve

Number of Laps He Runs in a Year: 5,870

Equipment Brands:

Racket: MIZUNO (PRO LIGHT S90) MAGNETIC TOUR 100

Shoes: MIZUNO (WAVE DUAL LIGHT <6K93009>)

Fitness Test Results:

Side Steps: 63

Shuttle Run: 121

Back Strength: 131kg

Grip Strength: 55.5kg (left)

Backbend: 60.8cm

Seated Forward Bend: 29.1cm

50m Run: 6.43 seconds

Standing Long Jump: 241cm

Handball Throw: 37.1m

Endurance Run (1500m): 4:39

Overall Rating: Speed: 4.5 / Power: 4 / Stamina: 4 / Mental: 5 / Technique: 6 / Total: 23.5

Kurobe Memo: “I obviously intended for him to thrive as a First Stringer, but unfortunately he withdrew. It’s only a matter of time before he reaches the top level of the professional ranks.” <Official Description>

[POSSESSIONS]

What’s in His Bedroom [10.5]:

Lure collection: A collection of lures neatly arranged hanging on his wall, he likes using his lures as decorations

Photo of a mountain he’s hiked: He had it printed extra large and hung it on his wall. Seeing it calms him

Small locker: A locker for storing his fishing rods and equipment. The doors are glass so the contents can always be viewed

Dresser: He always has his school uniforms neatly folded and placed on top

Bookshelves and a boombox: His only objects of entertainment, he has an extensive amount of books in his possession

What’s in His Bag [10.5]:

Glasses case: He is protective over his glasses and handles them with care

Notebook: He writes an extensive amount of notes for each of his classes and keeps it with him for review

Omamori: He’s kept it with him since he was little. He’s not a religious person, so it’s kept more out of habit

A (foreign) novel: The Big Bad City by Ed McBain. He likes foreign stories and reads them often since they help him learn English

Reference book: He reads it on the bus to and from school

Wristband: He has several different kinds and changes them each day depending on his mood

English-Japanese dictionary: Used to look up words he doesn’t understand when reading foreign books

Spray-on deodorant: Gatsby brand. He hates uncleanliness and always uses it after sweating in matches. He buys five bottles a month

What’s in His Travel Bag [23.5]:

Japanese tea: Siegfried had snuck into his bag and tried some of it

[TRIVIA]

The Prince of Tennis 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 11/02/2001

He likes outdoor activities since they help relieve his stress. He feels that nature heals him

He is actually always tense and nervous about guiding the club members

His favorite mountain is the Matterhorn. His father had taken him to hike up it when he was a fourth year in elementary school

He is described to have sharp and fine facial features

Since entering middle school, he has not lost in any official or practice matches

No one else in Seigaku’s tennis club matches his level

He has trouble looking upward to the right since his hair blocks his view

He gives very terse responses when asked personal questions

He dislikes flirtatious girls and prefers someone as serious as himself. He is currently not interested in romance, however

Despite how skilled he currently is as a player, he was not good at tennis when he first started

When asked if he’s afraid of anything, his reponse is that people cannot grow if they don’t have fears

He is the only member of Seigaku who does not call any of the other members by their nicknames

Konomi states that the editorial staff like to uphold Tezuka’s serious and stoic image despite what he thinks

He is described as someone who thinks before he acts and is so perfect that even his friends envy him

His name and appearance is based off of Kunikaze Tezuka, a character in Konomi’s other manga series COOL

Konomi describes him as “strong overall” and considered number one. He had been created since at the time, it was rare to see a character much stronger than the protagonist be on the same team

He and Momoshiro were the first Seigaku members Konomi had created

The Prince of Tennis 20.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2003

It is stated that in a previous life, he was an explorer. He is described to have never stayed in the same place, and always moved forward with a desire to improve. He had lived in extreme situations where failure meant death, and was said to be calm, collected, and always prepared for every possible situation

He has always been somewhat mature and sensitive to beautiful things since he was younger

He is very self-disciplined, independent, and has a personal set of rules for himself

He is described to be suited for professions such as starting his own business by himself or being a novelist

He is an honors student

His secondary sport would be kyudo

He is the character Konomi would like to go up against if he were in the series

His injury and departure was to initiate Seigaku’s growth without him. Since he was their strongest member and final trump card, Konomi felt that there was no sense of urgency in them losing and wanted to emphasize the whole team’s changes by the time he returned

The Prince of Tennis 40.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2007

He keeps a diary to record his daily efforts as well as take time to analyze himself. It’s a custom he’s set to identify his weaknesses and continuously improve himself

His I Ching Hexagrams are 1. Qián and 13. Tóng Rén respectively

He often makes (unnoticed) efforts in order to facilitate his relationships, such as forcing himself to socialize and/or subtly trying to lighten the mood of situations

He actually has a side to him that gets lonely easily and dislikes being in dark places

He has surprisingly gotten into comedy programs. He’s recently been watching “The Battle of Big Eaters” and actually really enjoyed the “Yakiniku Battle” in Genius 341

He is currently unsure who will be the next captain (it is eventually revealed to be Kaidoh)

He is the second character Konomi has the least in common with, the first being Ryoma

Konomi states he would like to form a doubles pair with him and be able to perform his Tezuka Zone and Tezuka Phantom

Konomi had wanted to depict Tezuka having great difficulty during his match against Kabaji

He is described to “not do doubles” by Konomi, which is why he had played one-on-one against Chitose during their doubles match. However, Konomi states he may team up with Ryoma at Wimbledon someday

Konomi states Tezuka will most likely be seen in Germany sometime in the future

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 1 | Publication Date: 11/04/2009

Mizuki claims to have seen him smiling while writing in his diary

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 2 | Publication Date: 12/04/2009

When asked what he pays attention to when leading the club, he replies with everything, but self-management and discipline being a top priority

He finds being captain to be difficult, but believes the club members would be fine without him

He finds nature healing but also enjoys the interactions that come with hiking

He does not believe in having a full day off but states if he had one, he would read in his bedroom or go fishing with his grandfather now and then

When asked about his special skill, woodworking, he states it’s come in handy when making racket racks

He is described as being a “leader” type captain

His keyword for leading the club is “discipline”

When an issue arises in the club, he writes about it in his diary and seeks solutions

Currently what weighs on his mind the most is instilling talent and confidence in the first years

He finds members who are talented but don’t show passion are the most difficult to handle

He would like a computer, projector, or humidifier for the club room

If he were able take all of the club members on a trip, it would be to Mount Fuji

His favorite sports besides tennis are fishing, skiing, and hiking

The people he holds in the highest regard are his father and grandfather

When asked about the story behind his family name, he refuses to answer and states it’s a personal matter between him and his family

He is unsure if he’s good at cooking, but states he tries to do what he can. A dish he is able to make is eel kabayaki

His favorite drink is water/mineral water

He prefers rice over bread

When asked about the possibility of a past life, he replies that the concept is not scientifically proven and therefore is unable to answer

When asked if uses a hair dryer, he replies he does not

He gets confused and slightly irritated after being asked irrelevant questions during his interview

Since meeting Kawamura’s father, the latter often compares his son to him

Kikumaru has agreed that he does not look the same age as the others

Konomi had him wear glasses to give him the image of a perfect and disciplined man

His catchphrase “don’t let your guard down” was created to give him the image that he’s humble and tough on himself, especially during his serves

According to Konomi, his special moves were created to express his power to dominate the court

Konomi states that when he draws him, he is careful to add in a touch of warmth within his strictness

One of His School Days:

5:30am - Wakes up, has breakfast after stretching and strength training

6:30am - Listens to an English lesson on the radio

8:40am - 1st Period: Social Studies (world history)

9:40am - 2nd Period: Calligraphy

11:00am - 3rd Period: Math III

12:00pm - 4th Period: Music (classical lesson)

12:50pm - Lunch, unacha (bento)

1:20pm - 5th Period: PE (hurdles)

2:20pm - 6th Period: Science III (physics)

3:20pm - Summarizes a student council proposal report

4:00pm - Club activities (free practice)

7:00pm - Returns home, bathes

7:30pm - Dinner

8:00pm - Watches a recording of “The Battle of Big Eaters” on the TV

9:00pm - Reads (mostly foreign books)

9:30pm - Writes in his diary, reflects on himself and the day

10:30pm - Goes to bed

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 5 | Publication Date: 03/04/2010

He is shown holding back laughter after watching Koharu and Amane’s comedy skit

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 6 | Publication Date: 06/03/2011

He, Fuji, and Kikumaru are shown having a chat with Yamato

The Prince of Tennis II 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 09/04/2013

He can speak German

He recently bought a new pair of hiking boots and is wondering which mountain to hike up next

Konomi states he will still be prevalent in the series despite moving to Germany

The Prince of Tennis II 23.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 05/02/2018

Franksteiner helps teach him German

He is well-accepted by most of the German team, has a strong sense of camaraderie, and wants to lead them to victory

He had intended to become a professional since he was seven years old

He had gotten into tennis when his father gifted him a racket when he was younger

Konomi states he is not the type to do any club activities half-heartedly

The Prince of Tennis 20th Anniversary Book: Tenipuri Party | Publication Date: 08/02/2019

He was initially hesitant about joining team Germany, but ultimately decided on it since it was necessary in becoming a professional

He enjoys his intense training with Volk

He felt that playing against his former teammates would be difficult to do at first, but then became excited about it. He states that fighting as allies is not the only way to improve themselves, and believes facing each other can provide new growth

He quickly adjusted to life in Germany and likes how disciplined it is, more so than Japan

He enjoys browsing secondhand bookstores and attending classical concerts (when time and money allow) during his off days in Germany

He states that while he has not mastered the German language yet, he is also able to communicate with facial expressions

He has known Sanada since they were younger due to their grandfathers being friends and former coworkers

[mira1308]

Difference between the servo motor and spindle motor.

What is a spindle motor? The spindle motor is in like manner called a quick motor, which suggests a forced air system motor with a rotational speed of more than 10,000 rpm/min. Prevalently used in wood, aluminum, stone, gear, glass, PVC, and various endeavors. Axle Engine partake in the advantages of fast, little size, lightweight, low material use, low racket, low vibration, etc, and are logically regarded and applied by related organizations. Since the Shaft Engine is by and large used, joined with its cautious workmanship, fast speed, and high taking care of nature of the motor, other typical motors can’t meet the specific necessities of the pivot motor and expect a huge part in the cutting edge creation process. This development is used in electric power, rocket, flight, and various endeavors. As a result of the extraordinary specific essentials of the business, top type, very progressed, and high-exactness pivot motors are required. The motor has gigantic power, low upheaval, stable speed, high repeat, speed rule, minimal no-pile current, slow warming, fast force spread, favorable use, and long life.

The Distinction Between the Servo Engine and Shaft Engine:

CNC machine mechanical assemblies have different necessities for shaft engines and servo motors: The necessities for the feed servo motor are: Mechanical characteristics: The speed drop and inflexible nature of the servo motor are supposed to be pretty much nothing. Necessities for speedy response: This is more extreme in shape taking care of, especially for high speed machining of articles with gigantic bend. Speed rule range: This can make the CNC machine contraption proper for various instruments and taking care of materials. It is sensible for various taking care of advances. Find out about CNC spindle. A particular outcome force and a particular over-trouble force is required: The possibility of the machine gadget’s mechanical weight is essentially to overcome the crushing of the worktable and the block of cutting, so it is the possibility of steady power. The requirements for quick automated axles are: Sufficient outcome power, the stacked thought of the hub of the CNC machine instrument resembles consistent power. Right when the speed of the motorized pivot of the machine instrument is high, the outcome force is pretty much nothing. Exactly when the pivot speed is low, the outcome force is tremendous. The shaft drive is supposed to have the property of steady power. Speed rule range: To ensure that the CNC machine mechanical assembly is suitable for various instruments and taking care of materials. It is sensible for various taking care of developments, and the shaft motor is supposed to have a particular speed rule range. Regardless, the necessities for the shaft are lower than the feed. Speed precision: The static difference is overall expected to be under 5%, and the higher essential is under 1%. Fast: The hub drive is occasionally used in the arranging ability, which anticipates that it should be speedy. The outcome indications of the servo motor and the hub motor are interesting: The Servo motor takes force (N.m), and the hub takes power (kW) as the document. The servo motor drives the worktable of the machine device, and the store damping of the worktable is the power exchanged over totally to the motor shaft, so the servo motor takes the power (N.m) as the record. The shaft motor drives the hub of the machine instrument, and its stack ought to meet the power of the machine gadget, so the hub motor takes the power (kW) as the rundown. However, through the change of the mechanical recipe, the two markers can be resolved ordinarily. Likewise checkout CNC spindle motor.

[diredove]

Curious Fool

My first time attempting to write anything longer than headcanons, please note I’m going off of this AU! I’m in love with Crowley so I see this as an x reader story, but it can easily be interpreted as something else!

Warnings: Very Mild cursing, Crowley being scary (as in, threatening and a hand squeezing a throat), Me grasping at straws to make Potentially Evil!Dire make sense! Gender Neutral Reader as well!

You wondered about Dire Crowley more than you would like to admit. He was an enigma that your brain for some reason was terribly invested in solving. It started small, maybe because you were holding back your suspicion out of guilt, the man had given you a roof over your head and food to eat in this strange new world, surely he deserved better than you concocting conspiracy theories about him? But gratitude should not inspire stupidity in someone, and it didn't inspire in you.

Why exactly was he being so gracious? For all the pretty words he spoke to you, he certainly didn't act guilty. Every sympathy he offered to your plight felt like it was meant to silence you, "Shush, no more of that." he seemed to whisper between the lines. Yes, it was all too bad you were stuck in a world not your own and that poor, poor Crowley was working himself to the bone to find a way back for you to no avail, but what would you have him do? He's already being so kind.

And that was another thing, wasn't it? He wasn't all that kind at all, or if he was it was only in a backhanded way. Wasn't he just the sweetest thing alive for giving you a place to stay? As if you weren't breaking your damn back every single night sleeping on the couch of the teacher's lounge and waking to the racket of your dearest headmaster starting up that monstrous coffee maker at the crack of dawn each morning! Well, what about the food you were provided every single meal time? Quite generous, he'd say. And you would beg to differ because you had a diet of convenience store sandwiches and children's snacks and sodas! Everything you ate was from Sam's shop and didn't cost that old crow a dime!

And maybe, just maybe, you would have been more understanding and grateful for it given your circumstances, if Dire Crowley wasn't absolutely loaded. He could easily afford to buy you actual meals, put you up some place that wasn't a glorified common room, pay you! But for all his guilt and graciousness, he didn't. It felt like he was trying to trick into being grateful to him when he hadn't actually done anything for you to be grateful for, in the grand scheme of things.

But that's not all. If that had been it then you could have convinced yourself you were being dramatic and gone on with your topsy turvy little life. But no, Dire Crowley simply would not let you rest (on a proper bed or otherwise).

Why did he act like that? You were not someone to turn your nose up at an odd personality, considering how well you were handling being in a potential alternate universe, one might say you have one yourself. But there was just something... off about him. He always seemed a bit too happy, he laughed just a tad too hard, his stares were too intense, he went silent after whatever spiel he'd been on so quick you'd think he had a switch inside him. Alone, those were just the quirks of being human (though you didn't even know enough to call him that either), but they stacked up quickly.

And you had really fought with yourself on this, worried you were being prejudice against him out of paranoia, but then you saw him get angry.

Everyone gets angry, everyone yells sometimes, it's a fact of life and you're an adult who can accept that. But seeing the headmaster shift from harmless eccentric man to inflicting backbreaking labor on teenagers who didn't get to explain themselves at all was rather... jarring to say the least. He yelled in his oddly charming accent and his mask hid whatever anger would have shown on his face, and maybe you were being overprotective of the young ones and forgetting that that type of punishment was far more manageable in a world of magic. But you couldn't shake the feeling that he was holding back, like he was seconds away from sounding like a different person beneath the quirky act. Like a parent putting on a goofy voice to scold their child to keep themselves from letting their frustration show.

But, and maybe you're just dense from here on, all that did was make you squint a little. There was just as much of a chance of him putting up a front as there was of you misunderstanding things and reaching too far. But the seed had been planted, and now you were curious.

So, instead of coming up with crazy ideas you had no backing for, you thought: "Let's just ask."

Not Dire, of course, as if he would tell you the truth or appreciate you prodding him. Thankfully though, there were people close to him that you could interrogate instead.

And then you started hitting walls, thick ones.

"What's Dire's deal?" Seemed like a pretty clear question, so why was every single answer you got so convoluted?

Sam had tried to act unbothered, but you saw how his hand froze as he stocked the shelves of the Mystery Shop. He looked at you with his bright smile and waved his free had dismissively.

"He's something alright, I'll give him that! He's an odd one, I guess you could say! What's with the interest, Starlight?" He answered, though a question for a question hardly satisfied you.

Crewel had outright ignored you, even after you had repeated your question several times he kept maneuvering around you and acting like he was busy. He absolutely wasn't, he had moved the same four beakers back and forth between lab tables three times. Once he realized you weren't going to take his hint and scram, he looked down his nose at you as if you had ruined his entire week.

"You know, puppies that never stop yapping are troublesome. But do you know what's even more troublesome, Little Scamp? Puppies that sniff around where they don't belong. You'd do well to train yourself out of that habit, and quickly." He'd told you coldly, which shocked you into a stupor because you had thought him overzealous but friendly just moments before.

You had hoped Trein, with his unflappability and no nonsense policy, wouldn't beat around the bush and would be the one to change your luck so far. Instead, he averted his eyes and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He seemed to be taking extra care to choose his words, as though they were fragile as glass slippers. Even Lucius looked still in his arms.

"He is a man, as am I, nothing more and nothing less. It is best to leave it at that, My Dear." He implored you gently, you couldn't help but feel this was as close to a plea as the stoic man would ever get. Lucius stared at you unblinkingly, as if trying to determine your answer through your eyes alone.

You hoped the cat couldn't actually tell, because your answer was no.

You still had one more shot. Vargas was loud and a bit much at times, but his love of his own voice would work in your favor. However, you had learned from your mistakes and decided getting straight to the point wasn't in your best interest. If everyone wanted to play with you, it was only right to join the game.

"Please, tell me more about your school days, Ashton! Were you really the star of the Magic Shift team?" You asked in an awed tone, eyes wide.

The coach was eating it up like it was his last meal, you had been stroking the man's ego for over two hours already and if he tells you about the goal that turned the playoffs around one more time you think you'll snap. But his defenses are down, and his lips are loose, so you'll grin and bare just a little longer.

"That's right! I was king of NRC, undisputed! There wasn't a soul on campus who didn't want to be mine!" The man boasted, "Well, except for Beth. She wasn't all there though, not that I cared! She wasn't all that, I'm not bitter about it!"

He's definitely bitter about it, but you don't have time to unpack that when your opening is right in front of you.

"Right right, I totally get it. Hey, speaking of the past, when did you meet Crowley?"

Okay, you lied. There wasn't an opening at all, you burst in with a sledgehammer. But your cutesy act was getting hard to keep up!

Vargas takes the sloppy bait though, " Oh, that guy? He just kinda popped up and offered me a job to be honest. The pays good, so I deal with the old coot being a weirdo."

You have to stop yourself from lighting up, "Weirdo?" You question dumbly, finger on your chin and all.

Vargas looks both ways and then gestures for you to come closer, you can't tell if he's being playful or not with that glint in his eyes.

"Look, don't tell anyone I told you this, okay Dolly? Crowley's got some crazy going on around here, I swear. I don't know details but I've got suspicions." The coach whispers, you nod eagerly for him to continue.

"There's this... room. I don't know what's in it, it's always locked and not even the staff master key opens it. He goes in there every Friday, and I don't see him come out, he just appears again Monday morning. There's this bright light that shines under the door whenever he goes in, and after a few seconds, it stops." Ashton explains, and it's more than you had hoped for.

Creepy locked room, disappearing act, unexplained happenings? This is exactly the dirt you've been looking for!

"He thinks he's being sneaky about it, but I caught on, see? I was following him to ask about a some paperwork and I saw it. I know somethings up, Crowley is up to no good and I don't care how crazy I sound." Ashton stresses, as he goes on he seems more serious, you can't take time to be happy about your findings because he looks so pale.

"Vargas, are you oka-"

"Listen Dolly, I know you're curious, but you don't want nothing to do with this and neither do I. Freaky shit is going down, and if you're smart like me you'll act like you don't know a thing."

You stare at him. H-Had he been on to you the whole time?

"I'm trying to help you, stay away from the west wing and don't-" He stops. His eyes are on something behind you.

"V-Vargas?" You call, shakily.

"I've said enough. Stay outta the west wing, Doll. For your own good."

You don't stay out of the west wing.

In fact, you deliberately seek it out. Ace gives you a funny look when you ask him, but he points you in the right direction anyway. You wish you were more embarrassed about being a member of staff asking students for directions, but you've got bigger fish to fry.

You know this isn't smart, no matter how harmless the headmaster may seem, no one likes being found out. But your life is in his golden-clawed hands and you'd feel even less smart following him blindly and hoping you're safe with him.

The west wing isn't what you expected (though to be fair you had been expecting a torture chamber), it's an entirely normal hall like all the others in school. It's so mundane your face falls. There's also no way to tell if anything is amiss from a glance alone, so you'll have to use less tact than you were hoping to. Making your way down the hall you turn each knob one by one to see which won't turn.

After about twenty or so doors, curse the long hallways in this college, you see one that's quite out of place. It's at the very end of the hall, how cliché, and while it is the same size and color as all the others, it's surrounded with a ridiculous number of portraits. There are big ones above the doorframe and little ones squeezed into the narrow spaces along the sides of it, and if that wasn't enough, the ones that wouldn't fit in either spot were enchanted to float nearby. And the portraits themselves are nothing like the silly but sweet ones that gossip as they watch over everyone who passes in the main building, these are painted with snarls and angered eyes. Both human and nonhuman beings are depicted, each one staring straight at whomever would stand in front of the door. Their eyes seem to be looking in every direction at once even though their pupils are painted straight ahead, it feels like they can see everything without shifting their gaze. You can't even tell if they're alive like the others, they're so... cold.

You take a deep breath, that must be it. You've come to this far, and you'd planned everything so carefully there was no reason to be afraid. The students were having Magift practice today, so that meant Vargas was busy, but it also meant that Crowley was doing his rounds and would stop to "give the players some good old fashioned encouragement ". He would go on forever, there was plenty of time for you to investigate and cover your tracks before he ever even wondered where you were.

You could admit the only person you were convincing was yourself, but it helped you forced your legs to move toward the end of the hall. Even as you walked closer, you knew you shouldn't, the air around you seemed like it was trying to force you back, oppressively pushing you with every step you took towards that door. You wouldn't be able to open it, Ashton had told you already, what exactly were you gaining, being stared down by the lifelike yet lifeless portraits as you neared the door? Nothing, and yet your hand grabbed the knob impulsively, you hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath until it left your lungs in a rush at the touch of icy cold iron in your clammy grip.

You shouldn't have touched it, you shouldn't have, now what? Your plan was to turn back after your curiosity was sated, but you couldn't. The force that was pushing back against you before was now pulling you forward, beckoning you. The portraits no longer looked like a warning, but an invitation. You've come so far, now come a little closer, something that wasn't a voice nor a thought breathed around you.

You twist the doorknob, like a fool.

It turns.

Your heart leaps with excitement and fear, and you feel a surge of adrenaline run through your body. You can go in, you can go farther!

You feel yourself smiling widely even though you're sure you're not happy, you go to push the door open just a little further.

You stop as four pinpricks upon your throat flare with pain, your eyes go wide like a deer and you freeze.

"Crewel was right, you're truly nothing but trouble."

The voice sounds familiar, and yet nothing like the person it belongs to. But you'd know those gold-tipped fingers anywhere.

"I really am getting on in years, to make such a mistake." Dire sighs, his voice does not lilt and his tone is low. He sounds like an actor who's given up on staying in character.

You catch a whimper in your throat when the hand upon it slides up the front of your neck to grip under your chin and rear you head back at a terrible angle. You meet the dead-eyed gaze of Crowley's mask as he looks straight down at you.

"But you've made an even bigger mistake, Youngling, by testing me."

You want to apologize, or plead for your safety, because the man looming over you is not the one you've grown reluctantly fond of. But because we have established that you are a fool, you say instead:

"Your vest is a mistake. There's sequins on it." You snark weakly, you sound pathetic, half because of the grade school insult and half because you're gasping for breath.

Dire stares down at you blankly. Then he grins, not his usual one full of jolly cheer, but a wide toothy one that is just a few degrees off from a sneer.

"Oh, you really think you're just the cutest little thing under the sun, don't you?" He asks, he chuckles halfway through but it's dry and dark.

Why are you so foolish, why do you speak?

Abruptly, the pressure points on your neck are released and you fall to your knees, gulping sweet sweet air.

"Well you're right! You're just adorable, thinking you could catch me out!" Dire shouts cheerfully, hands on his hips and accent back in full swing. His façade is back in place like it was never gone.

You stare in disbelief.

"You know, anyone else would have to be put under a curse of eternal silence for snooping around like you did." He continues, "But I am so very kind, I'm going to let you walk out of here without laying a finger on you."

You shakily get to your feet, leaning against the wall for support and as something to curl in on to cower from the overly happy man before you.

He stares at you smiling for many moments too long, you know he's trying to scare you and you're angry at yourself for being so. Abruptly, he nods.

"I'll be off then, I'm sure you get the message? Of course you do! Make your way back to your room then, off you get! Goodbye!"

The man walks away quickly, waving his hand in farewell.

He left you without a fight, with the door left unlocked and you still in position to reveal what was on the other side. You balk at the obvious show of his power over you.

He knew you were too terrified now, he knew you would obey him like a dog told to stay, the smug bastard.

You bite your lip in frustration and confused tears fill your eyes. You just want to know what's going on, you just want to go home! Nothing makes sense.

You look at the door that's slightly ajar.

Then at the exit of the west wing across the long hall.

You can no longer hear Crowley's footsteps.

And because you are a fool, and because you are defiant, and because you want some semblance of control, you make a mad dash through the door before you can change your mind.

[osakaso5]

IDOLiSH7 End Of Year Story 2020: A Stage of Celebration

Every Day is a Good Day Part 1: Standby

Part 2

Otoharu Takanashi: Tsumugi, Banri-kun. Happy New Year!

Tsumugi Takanashi: Happy New Year.

Banri Ogami: Happy New Year! It's a pleasure to be working with you for another one!

Otoharu Takanashi: We haven't even celebrated yet, and we're already back at work!

Otoharu Takanashi: We got through BorW and wrapped up the previous year, but there's still much to be done.

Otoharu Takanashi: I want to take care of what still remains as soon as I can, and I'll need your help to do so.

Tsumugi Takanashi: What still remains..?

Banri Ogami: As soon as possible..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Yes. There's something we've yet to fully go through with.

Tsumugi & Banri: ........

Tsumugi & Banri: Our TRIGGER impersonator show..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Exactly!

Otoharu Takanashi: We even learned the dance for that first anniversary party,  but we haven't had the chance to   show everyone our moves!

Tsumugi Takanashi: I guess not!

Banri Ogami: I'd completely forgotten!

Otoharu Takanashi: We might as well throw a big New Year's party and make our debut there!

Banri Ogami: Alright! I'll be counting on you, Tenn!

Tsumugi Takanashi: And I'll be counting on you, Ryu.

Otoharu Takanashi: Good, you're both raring to perform. However, we  won't be doing a show as TRIGGER.

Tsumugi Takanashi: We're not? Then who..?

Ogami Banri: Re:vale, maybe? Am I going to play Yuki, since I'm the tallest..?

Tsumugi Takanashi: Yuki, you're such a hunk..!

Banri Ogami: You always were quick to get to work, Momo.

Otoharu Takanashi: No, we're not doing Re:vale either. I gave this more thought than that.

Otoharu Takanashi: We have plenty of great idols right here, in our own agency.

Otoharu Takanashi: It would be wrong of us to pretend like we're idols from any other place!

Banri Ogami: So..!

Tsumugi Takanashi: We're impersonating IDOLiSH7!?

Otoharu Takanashi: Precisely!

Kinako: Myu myu~!

Banri Ogami: But there's seven of them. We'll need more people.

Tsumugi Takanashi: And if we ask people from our staff, they might feel forced to do it...

Banri Ogami: The newer employees would probably have a hard time refusing a request from the president, the president's daughter, and a long- time veteran...

Otoharu Takanashi: Don't worry about numbers. Plenty of people from various third parties have offered their help!

Tsumugi Takanashi: Third parties?

Banri Ogami: Like who..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Helper number one!

Otoharu Takanashi: Sosuke Yaotome, from Yaotome Productions!

Tsumugi & Banri: ........

Tsumugi Takanashi: The president of Yaotome Productions agreed to help us..? Really..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Yep! When I called him, he was all like, "Yeah, totally! Let's get crackalackin'!"

Banri Ogami: I don't remember him having that type of personality...

Tsumugi Takanashi: I don't think he'd ever use words like "crackalackin'"...

Otoharu Takanashi: Helper number two!

Otoharu Takanashi: Our friendly neighborhood soba delivery man.

Banri Ogami: Ah! The guy who looks just like Yaotome-kun!

Tsumugi Takanashi: He'll probably be a good dancer! Did he really agree to help us?

Otoharu Takanashi: As soon as I asked him! All he wants to know is whose parts he'll do, and what song we'll perform!

Banri Ogami: He sure sounds motivated!

Tsumugi Takanashi: That he does! How exciting!

Otoharu Takanashi: Helper number three!

Otoharu Takanashi: Iori-kun and Mitsuki-kun's father!

Tsumugi Takanashi: Their who!?

Banri Ogami: Sir, are you sure you weren't hounding him to do it..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Of course not! He said that after all we've done for his sons, he'll help if the situation absolutely demands it!

Otoharu Takanashi: And he said we could help convince him even further by ordering a bunch of Christmas cakes.

Banri Ogami: He doesn't sound very excited to help at all...

Otoharu Takanashi: I'm sure it'll work out. Finally! Our last helper!

Otoharu Takanashi: Iori-kun and Mitsuki-kun's mother!

Tsumugi Takanashi: No...

Banri Ogami: Now I'm sure you did something to force them into this! If they're both helping us, who'll run their bakery?

Otoharu Takanashi: She said that if it's a matter of life and death, she'll help, since her sons are on our payroll...

Banri Ogami: She was almost definitely refusing, if that's how she phrased it.

Tsumugi Takanashi: You're unbelievable, President. I need to call them later and apologize...

Tsumugi Takanashi: Cake stores are especially busy around December. And so is the soba restaurant, now that I think about it...

Otoharu Takanashi: Yeah... That's true... They did all outright refuse my invitation later.

Banri Ogami: I knew it... They wouldn't have the time, not with Christmas and the New Year...

Tsumugi Takanashi: I guess that means our IDOLiSH7 isn't happening...

Otoharu Takanashi: Don't give up yet! I've gotten new potential helpers!

Otoharu Takanashi: Let me introduce them to you right away! Come on in!

Tsumugi Takanashi: They're already here!?

Banri Ogami: We've got a full cast for our IDOLiSH7 impersonator group..!?

Otoharu Takanashi: New member number 1!

Otoharu Takanashi: Kaoru Anesagi!

Kaoru Anesagi: Good evening.

Tsumugi Takanashi: Anesagi-san..!

Banri Ogami: So you're one of our new members!

Kaoru Anesagi: It's more that I was asked to help by our... I mean, Yaotome Productions' president.

Kaoru Anesagi: I hear your dad was bombarding him with calls for help. Try not to bother him next time.

Tsumugi Takanashi: I'm so sorry about him...

Otoharu Takanashi: New member number 2!

Otoharu Takanashi: Rinto Okazaki!

Rinto Okazaki: Good evening!

Tsumugi Takanashi: Okazaki-san!

Banri Ogami: Did our president ask you for help, as well?

Kaoru Anesagi: I asked him! If I'm going to start the year by making a fool out of myself, I'm taking as many  people down with me as I can.

Rinto Okazaki: I will be made no fool! I've been working out, and taking dance lessons!

Otoharu Takanashi: You're taking this so seriously, Okazaki-kun!

Rinto Okazaki: But of course! As a fellow glasses wearer, I've been focusing on Yamato-kun's parts!

Kaoru Anesagi: So you just went and hogged the leader's role. As for me, I just so happen to have many of Nagi Rokuya's moves memorized, for strictly professional reasons.

Banri Ogami: I could probably pull off either half of MEZZO"!

Otoharu Takanashi: In that case, maybe I should be the other half of MEZZO? You can teach me!

Banri Ogami: So-chan.

Otoharu Takanashi: Tamaki-kun.

Rinto Okazaki: You make a great MEZZO" already!

Kaoru Anesagi: What about you, Takanashi-san? Whose part do you want to play?

Tsumugi Takanashi: I'm not sure yet. Who would fit me the best..?

Otoharu Takanashi: Before that, I have more new members to introduce to you!

Otoharu Takanashi: Kinako!

Kinako: Myu myu~!

Banri Ogami: Kinako! You'll finally get your own debut!

Kinako: Myu~!

Rinto Okazaki: Can she dance?

Otoharu Takanashi: Of course she can. I interviewed her on what she wants to do, and...

Kaoru Anesagi: Wait. You successfully interviewed a rabbit?

Otoharu Takanashi: I can more or less read her vibes! And she wants to take Iori-kun's role!

Kinako: Myu myu~!

Tsumugi Takanashi: So you'll be doing Iori-san's parts. That's great, Kinako!

Banri Ogami: Iori-kun may complain and call her a "fluffy creature"...

Banri Ogami: But he always buys cutesy rabbit stuff!

Kinako: Myu myu~♪

Rinto Okazaki: ......! She's performing the hook to Perfection Gimmick...!

Kaoru Anesagi: What a talented bunny!

Otoharu Takanashi: And now, our last new member!

Otoharu Takanashi: Come on in, so I can introduce you to everyone!

???: Good evening. It's a pleasure to meet you all.

Tsumugi, Banri, Kaoru, & Rinto: ......!

Tsumugi, Banri, Kaoru, & Rinto: Who!? 

- - - -

Tamaki Yotsuba: Stick the chopsticks here, aaand... Okay! I'm done!

Riku Nanase: I'm done, too!

Mitsuki Izumi: Done with what? You guys have been cutting and gluing milk cartons to chopsticks for a while now...

Riku Nanase: Our handmade shuttlecock rackets! Tamaki learned how to make these on a news show he was on!

Nagi Rokuya: Beautiful! Did you draw these pictures on the rackets, as well?

Tamaki Yotsuba: Yep! Mine's King Pudding!

Riku Nanase: Mine is kagami mochi! Look, that's the orange, and that's the mochi!

Iori Izumi: You don't need to explain every individual part of it. Here you go, the shuttle is ready.

Tamaki Yotsuba: Awesome! Let's play right now, Rikkun!

Riku Nanase: Are you sure we won't hit things if we play here?

Tamaki Yotsuba: Even if we do, it's not like our rackets and shuttle  are gonna break anything.

Mitsuki Izumi: Ahaha. Just don't hit the rest of us!

Riku Nanase: We won't!

Iori Izumi: Somehow, I don't trust you to make sure of that...

Riku Nanase: Let's do this, Tamaki! Here you... go!

[Tap]

Sogo Osaka: Good morning.

Yamato Nikaido: Good mor...

[Thump]

Yamato Nikaido: ...Whoagh!

Riku Nanase: Aaah! I'm so sorry, Yamato-san!

Yamato Nikaido: What are you two doing..? You scared the crap out of me.

Riku & Tamaki: Playing shuttlecock...

Yamato Nikaido: Play outside next time.

Tamaki Yotsuba: But we were so busy watching all the New Year's TV shows that we didn't have time to go outside!

Sogo Osaka: But you got to fly a kite on the set of that shoot we did the other day. Didn't you like that?

Tamaki Yotsuba: Yeah, but it's not the same thing as shuttlecock! Can't we play a little later?

Yamato Nikaido: Oh wow, did you make these rackets yourselves?

Riku Nanase: Yes! We just finished them, so they're brand new!

Yamato Nikaido: Y’know, the best  part of shuttlecock is hazing the loser. Riku, you're the one who missed, right? That means you're in for a punishment.

Riku Nanase: Are you going to doodle on my face?

Mitsuki Izumi: He better not. We've got a shoot ahead of us.

Yamato Nikaido: I know, I know. I'll draw on his belly instead.

Riku Nanase: My belly?

Yamato Nikaido: It's not like you’ll  be lifting up your shirt on camera.  Now get me a calligraphy pen.

Iori Izumi: Are you serious about doing this?

Riku Nanase: ...Ahaha..!

Sogo Osaka: You're not already being drawn on, are you?

Riku Nanase: I'm laughing in advance..!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Rikkun might start coughing, so you can draw on my belly instead.

Yamato Nikaido: Are you sure you won't start showing off your abs on TV or anything?

Iori Izumi: Are you sure you won't undress in front of the cameras?

Tamaki Yotsuba: Why would I?

Yamato Nikaido: Well, you're young...

Iori Izumi: ...And very energetic, at that.

Riku Nanase: In that case, you should draw King Pudding on Tamaki's stomach!

Yamato Nikaido: King Pudding!? I dunno if I can...

Tamaki Yotsuba: Eek! It's cold!

Nagi Rokuya: Tamaki! I am taking a picture! Whoosh!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Quit making shuttlecock noises!

[Snap]

Nagi Rokuya: OH! Now that is a fine photo. Take a look, Sogo!

Sogo Osaka: Ahaha. He's making such a funny face.

Tamaki Yotsuba: Don't be mean, So-chan!

Sogo Osaka: I didn't mean it in a mean way. It's just so different from how cool you usually are...

Yamato Nikaido: Uh, is this correct? Did I miss something?

Mitsuki Izumi: The beard, maybe? Doesn't King Pudding have one of those?

Iori Izumi: ...A ribbon.

Riku Nanase: Right! His ribbon!

Yamato Nikaido: Like this?

Nagi Rokuya: No, no, no! The king only wears a crown on his head! The ribbon goes around his neck...

Yamato Nikaido: I'll just scribble over that part so it doesn't show.

Tamaki Yotsuba: Hey, that tickles!

Iori Izumi: Must I remind you that his stomach still needs to be in a presentable state for any potential cameras?

Riku Nanase: Ahaha! I've never heard a stomach get called presentable! What does yours look like, Iori?

Iori Izumi: Huh?

Riku Nanase: Is it presentable?

Iori Izumi: Are you seriously trying to lift up my shirt so you can take a peek!? As if I wouldn't notice..!?

Riku Nanase: Yamato-san saw mine!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Plus you were totally looking at my belly, Iorin!

Iori Izumi: That's because you had it out for the whole world to see, Yotsuba-san!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Well, was it presentable?

Riku Nanase: It was fine!

Tamaki Yotsuba: In that case, we can swap my belly out for Iorin's if we need to.

Mitsuki Izumi: With your body types, you wouldn't fool anyone for very long. Ah... I just remebered something. It's about our manager.

Riku Nanase: What about her?

Mitsuki Izumi: She's been looking tired lately. It doesn't seem too bad, but  she did tell me she was having muscle pains all over just the other day.

Yamato Nikaido: Come to think of it, I think the lights were on in the  lesson room when I went to visit the agency late one night.

Sogo Osaka: It feels like Banri-san's been working late for the past few day, too. I'm a little worried...

Nagi Rokuya: Hm... When we are busy, our managers have much work as well.

Nagi Rokuya: Hopefully, they will have the time to rest at our New Year's party.

Mitsuki Izumi: We should make all their favorite foods for them, as a surprise!

Yamato Nikaido: Great idea!

Yamato Nikaido: Fancy takeout and sushi can be nice, but there's something especially relaxing about eating your favorite food.

Riku Nanase: I think she's told me what foods she likes before. I'll try to remember what they were!

Iori Izumi: You do that. Does anyone know what Ogami-san and the president like?

Tamaki Yotsuba: I dunno about Ban-chan. I think he likes birds, so maybe fried chicken?

Sogo Osaka: He did mention that he likes grilled meat. Banri-san's quite the cook, himself.

Tamaki Yotsuba: We've been to Ban-chan's place a couple times, and he always makes us yummy food.

Sogo Osaka: He adds just the right amount of spice, too. And on top of that, he's good at other housework.

Mitsuki Izumi: He told me he lived alone with his dad for a pretty long time.

Mitsuki Izumi: He had to learn how to cook, since his dad was too busy and no good around the kitchen.

Yamato Nikaido: What about the president? Does anyone here know?

Nagi Rokuya: He seems to enjoy meat stew. I hear it was a specialty of the dearly departed Mrs. Musubi.

Iori Izumi: So he likes simple home cooking. Or manager makes great meat stew, too.

Mitsuki Izumi: Home cooking, huh. I'll need to make it have that same homely taste, instead of trying anything new.

Mitsuki Izumi: Gramps, you're gonna have to sweet talk our manager into giving you the recipe.

Yamato Nikaido: Fine. I'll try asking around. 

Riku Nanase: I can't wait for the party! Hopefully, they'll like it too! 

- - - -

[Tic tic tic]

[Ding!]

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Hot, hot! It's done, you two!

Gaku Yaotome: Ooh. The mochi smells great.

Tenn Kujo: Don't eat too much. Mochi is high in calories.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: It's a staple of the New Year's dinner table! You can wrap it in seaweed, put it in zouni or zenzai soups...

Gaku Yaotome: I discovered a really great way to eat mochi the other day.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: What is it?

Gaku Yaotome: Eat it with some grated radish, whitebait, and soy sauce.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: That sounds really good!

Gaku Yaotome: It's the result of lots of experimentation.

Tenn Kujo: You're customizing mochi like it's tapioca pearls.

Gaku Yaotome: Hey, don't call it customizing. All you eat is abekawa mochi, anyway.

Tenn Kujo: Because it's nice and simple. What about you, Ryu? What do you like?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Kaasa muuchi. It's sweet mochi, wrapped in shell ginger leaves.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Still, I like mochi in all its forms. The pizza style mochi we made the other day was good, too.

Gaku Yaotome: Sure was. Oh, did Anesagi leave this magazine here?

Tenn Kujo: Hey. Don't read magazines while eating your mochi.

Gaku Yaotome: I wasn't gonna. I just wanted to check it out right before eating mochi.

Tenn Kujo: Now you're just splitting hairs.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Ahaha. You're just like my younger brothers.

Gaku Yaotome: Oh shut up, big bro.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Ahaha! Now you're even starting to sound like them.

Tenn Kujo: Heh. That's younger brothers for you. As soon as you give them any advice, they get defensive.

Gaku Yaotome: Ahaha. Must be tough, being the oldest sibling. So, is Anesagi gonna be back soon?

Tenn Kujo: She said she would be.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: It's been a while since we last had a quiet New Year.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: We'll have to go on tour again at the end of January, but at least we'll have some down time before then.

Gaku Yaotome: Yep! Problem is, I have no idea what to do with all this free time.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Same here! Usually, I never run out of stuff to do.

Gaku Yaotome: Maybe I could go buy a grab bag.

Tenn Kujo: They're all sold out by now.

Gaku Yaotome: Really?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Ah... Looks like this magazine comes with a poster.

Gaku Yaotome: Oh, who's on it?

Tenn Kujo: I told you to leave the magazine alone while you're eating...

Gaku Yaotome: I'm not even eating yet. I just wanna check whose poster it is. ...Here we go!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: It's Nagi-kun!

Tenn Kujo: Nagi Rokuya.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: He's so cool. I mean, he always was, but he's even more cool now that I know he's an actual prince.

Gaku Yaotome: Whether he's a Northmarean prince or an otaku wandering around Akihabara, he's still the same old Rokuya.

Tenn Kujo: Right. Huh... We're not in this magazine at all.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Anesagi-san did say she'd research stuff that we're not in.

Gaku Yaotome: She also said she'd cut back on spending now that we're without an agency.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Now that you mention it, I guess she did...

Tenn Kujo: ........ You know, I've been thinking...

Gaku Yaotome: What?

Tenn Kujo: Do you think Anesagi-san might be a Nagi Rokuya stan?

Gaku Yaotome: No way. We're the only people she'd ever stan.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: She probably does stan us... But as just an ordinary fan.

Tenn Kujo: Exactly.

Gaku Yaotome: But why would she be his fan, when she's got us?

Tenn Kujo: Do you not like that she's his fan?

Gaku Yaotome: Well, yeah. It makes me feel jealous!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: I like how honest you can be about these things, Gaku.

Gaku Yaotome: Are you saying you're okay with it, Ryu!?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: I... guess I am? I like both Anesagi-san and Nagi-kun, and she's free to stan whoever she likes.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: What about you, Tenn?

Tenn Kujo: I...

Tenn Kujo: I'm jealous, too.

Gaku Yaotome: Knew it.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: I had no idea!

Tenn Kujo: Of course I'm jealous. Though I don't feel particularly angry or offended over it.

Tenn Kujo: It makes me want to do something, so she'll only look at us.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: You guys are so cute...

Gaku Yaotome: We're not trying to be cute. This is a matter of pride.

Tenn Kujo: Yes, it is.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: I know. You're cool too, not just cute. But, haha... I guess you've got a point.

Gaku Yaotome: You're too calm about this. Don't you ever feel jealous, or frustrated over this kinda stuff?

Tenn Kujo: You don't feel even a little betrayed by our manager?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: A little bit, maybe, but I feel like all four of you are mine, in a bigger sense.

Gaku & Tenn: That's pretty big...

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Similarly, I think I both belong and don't belong to everyone else, so I don't really get super jealous.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: So, you felt betrayed, huh? It makes me really happy that you both care so much about Anesagi-san!

Gaku Yaotome: Quit grinning at us. Oh well, if she's got her eyes on other idols, we'll just have to work harder to only make her look at us again.

Tenn Kujo: Exactly. She'll be obsessing over us in no time.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Sure. Let me just put the magazine and the poster away.

[Door opens]

Kaoru Anesagi: I'm home. Oh, what a delicious smell.

Gaku Yaotome: Anesagi.

Kaoru Anesagi: What is it, Gaku?

Gaku Yaotome: We'll keep you satisfied, so don't you dare look at other men.

Kaoru Anesagi: Excuse me!?

Tenn Kujo: Just you wait. We'll steal your heart back, and leave you no time to look at anyone else.

Kaoru Anesagi: What is going on here!? Are you doing some kind of fanservice thing!? Gosh, I'm blushing!!!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Oh, Anesagi-san. Did you change clothes before coming back here?

Kaoru Anesagi: I did. My other clothes were soaked in sweat...

Gaku Yaotome: Sweat?

Tenn Kujo: On a cold winter day like this?

Kaoru Anesagi: Ah... Um... Forget I said anything!

Kaoru Anesagi: In any case, you're all going to Takanashi Productions' New Year's party, right?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Yes. We got invited, after all.

Kaoru Anesagi: Then it looks like I'll have to keep working hard... Ouch.

Gaku Yaotome: What's wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?

Kaoru Anesagi: I'm just having muscle pains, that's all. Make sure to get plenty of rest, you three. You've earned it.

Tenn Kujo: Leaving again so soon?

Kaoru Anesagi: I need to do some solo excerci... I mean, examinations! Later!

[Slam]

Gaku Yaotome: ...She seemed busy.

Tenn Kujo: And tired...

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: She needs a break just as much as we do, though.

Gaku Yaotome: I know. How about we make Anesagi's favorite foods for the New Year's party?

Tenn Kujo: What foods? And for someone else's party?

Gaku Yaotome: Yeah. Izumi Senior told me they were making their managers and president a big New Year's feast, too.

Gaku Yaotome: I thought we could do a little something for our manager, too.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: That's a great idea! Tenn, do you know what foods she likes?

Tenn Kujo: She said she likes anything with lots of cheese, like cheese fondue. Recently, she's also been into cheese dak-galbi.

Gaku Yaotome: Yeah, she sure has. Alright... Let's do this.

Tenn Kujo: Will we all fit into their kitchen, though?

Gaku Yaotome: Let me ask Izumi Senior. I'll message him now.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Did he tell you what foods President Takanashi and Ogami-san like?

Gaku Yaotome: Meat stew and fried chicken.

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: That sounds like the menu of an all-male household.

Gaku Yaotome: As for what the president's daughter likes...

[Phone rings]

Gaku Yaotome: Ah, he replied.

Tenn Kujo: What's Mitsuki Izumi's response?

Gaku Yaotome: He says it's no problem!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Great!

Tenn Kujo: I guess that means we're all set for our big show of gratitude to Anesagi-san.

Tenn Kujo: I can't wait for the party. 

To be continued...

[foreficfandom]

Mystic Messenger - Interior Decorating Preferences (Living With MC)

— Zen —

Being a famous stage actor unfortunately doesn’t lead to heaps of cash, so even after establishing his career, Zen stayed in his garden unit for several years. You and him made the best of the place for as long as you could - brightening up the dankness with cheery lighting, making sure everything was clean - but eventually the tiny, cheap apartment wore out its welcome and the two of you decided that enough moldy air was enough. 

Your new place was larger, newer, and located in a better neighborhood. Rent was more than twice the amount, which sometimes puts a strain on the books, and Zen also had to rent a separate parking space for his bike. But it was just a cheerier place. Both you and Zen began feeling the effects of a better ventilated, better lit home, and it energizes the both of you. The extra money was worth it. 

While moving, Zen decided to dump most of his old furniture, keeping only the flatscreen and a table or a lamp. The new apartment was decorated with new couches and cushions, cabinets, mirrors, curtains and rugs. Zen had a surprisingly nuanced taste for interior decorating, and sought out decor with modern, smooth metal and muted grey colors.

Before, Zen lived with a mishap match of cheap furniture that clashed with each other and gathered dust as the years went by. Now, with a new place, you and Zen took the opportunity to really turn the apartment into a home. 

He loved keeping the house brightly lit. Curtains were almost always drawn to let in the natural sun, and there were multiple lamps in every room to brighten up every corner. Sometimes, if a production was generous enough, Zen was allowed to take home one of the props as a gift. So the apartment was eventually decorated with several unique pieces, all mementos from his work. 

He loves seeing the splashes of color dotting his brightly lit home, especially if you’re there to enjoy it with him.

— Yoosung —

It takes a while to move out of the dorms. He finishes his degree two years into you dating him, but before that point he had very little space to live in. His dorm didn’t have a kitchenette nor a shower, though luckily he didn’t have to deal with a roommate. 

Any decorations he had were haphazard and cheap - a character mug for his pencil holder, a bedding set from Target, and other things typical for a full-time college student. His furniture belonged to the dorm, and there was quite a bit of clutter scattered around. Whenever you came over to visit, you would trip over things like random plastic figurines from vending machines. 

After graduating, he moves back with his parents like many young people in Asia. But he really wanted a place of his own as soon as possible, mostly due to your influence. He didn’t want to awkwardly balance his family life with your availability. So after saving up from his internships, he found his first legit apartment to rent.

It was small, old, and the best he could find on such a small income. But it wasn’t bad, per se. Just needed some sprucing up. So that’s what he decided to do; actual decor, now, instead of cheap junk. Furniture from IKEA, legit bedding and curtains. It was important that you saw him as a budding adult, instead of some college kid.

He always loved bright colors and cheery imagery. Some of it kinda clashed, if you were totally honest. But he loved how it gave his home a slightly artsy twist. 

And he still enjoyed his character merch, just not as vigorously as he did before. His desk was no longer covered in old acrylic keychains and plastic charms, but the tissue box on the dresser was decorated with characters from one of his favorite animes. 

Above all, he loved how his space wasn’t an embarrassment to show you, anymore. Quite the opposite, in fact. Every corner held evidence of how much he’s grown. And you were there to share it with him. 

— Jaehee —

Before you came into the picture, her apartment was kinda threadbare. She spent so little of her time there, she couldn’t really decorate the space to her liking. Although her work at C&R earned her an impressive paycheck, you couldn’t see any real evidence of it amongst her home. 

Except for her technology, which she was happy to splurge on. A large plasma TV, the latest Kureig model, a snazzy smartspeaker. Plus, her furniture was brand-name. If it wasn’t for Jaehee herself living there, you could almost believe this apartment was some sort of photoshoot studio - perfectly decorated and sterile. 

After leaving C&R and starting a cafe with you, she finally had time to really invest in her home. And she took it by storm, not just buying tasteful wall art and coordinated throw rugs, but also contracting people to install new granite to the kitchen countertop and re-modeling the entire bathroom. 

She and you had a real eye when it came to decor. It took an entire day set aside to tour furniture stores when it came time to buy new floor lamps, or accent tables. You compared prices on your phone, she agonized over color swatches and metal finishes. 

And she switches up things pretty rapidly. She’ll buy these chic polished metal salt-and-pepper shakers for the kitchen, and two months later she’ll decide they’re too plain so she’ll bring home a dyed blue glass set, only to eventually think they’re too tacky.

All the colors are warm, sometimes dim and cozy, sometimes brightly lit. Antique gold and brass in the kitchen, warm pearls in the bathrooms, buttercup yellow decorating the bedsheets.

No longer was her apartment an oppressive, lonely place that money couldn’t fix. She had a home now; under her feet, and also within you. 

— Jumin —

Now, the images of Mystic Messenger don’t give us the full tour of Jumin’s skyline penthouse studio, but if they did we’d all be shook. ‘Cause his place is no fucking joke, its literally one of the top ten most expensive homes of South Korea.

 It’s located atop an 85-floor skyscraper, and takes up the entire floor with a 20,000 square feet span. It boasts four bathrooms, two kitchens, three separate lounge areas, and crazy expensive architecture. That vertical fish tank next to his Wyoming-size king bed is only the beginning of the luxury that surrounds this man’s abode. 

Even after months of living with him, Jumin surprises you by pointing out some decadent part of the apartment you had missed. Like the jacuzzi settings on one of the bathtubs, or how the massive span of windows can be tinted using a remote. He had lived the life of a millionaire for so long, he got used to these sorts of things. 

You, on the other hand, are constantly charmed and even overwhelmed by the decadence. Half the wine in his personal cellar cost more than your college tuition. You couldn’t help but just, lap up this ridiculous palace, at times. It was really something to wake up to carved marble tiles, crystal lamps, and designer furniture every day. 

When you moved in, Jumin soon began considering buying a larger place, because to him the massive studio was ‘too small for two people’ and you had to quickly stop him before he bought a literal estate. True, the interior decorating had already been carefully furnished with only Jumin as the sole resident in mind, but bit by bit, your personal touches began gracing his home. 

Like your closet became your closet, both lounges were slowly re-decorated with your own personal tastes in color and decor, your little knick-knacks found their way upon bookshelves and countertops, Jumin’s luxury dishware now included your favorite decorated mugs and cute kitten ramen bowl.

And those touches are what finally made Jumin feel like his apartment was a home. All the luxury in the world couldn’t buy this coziness. 

— Saeyoung —

The man is a dirty, rowdy boy who pays almost no attention to maintaining his habitat. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an aesthetic, though. He buys the top-of-the-line technology with colored LED lights and polished marble surfaces. There’s so much color surrounding his bunker, you can almost forget you’re twenty feet underground. 

Seriously, sometimes it’s like a rave. His triple-door smartscreen fridge is lit with deep blue blacklights, his bathroom mirror is backlit with a chrome rainbow spectrum that shifts colors, the ceiling light of his bedroom is this big circular fixture that mimics different planets with a push of a remote. 

But he only pays attention to decor he’s interested in. So when it comes to his couches, his dining table, his bedframe? He just outsourced it to designer brands and picked the most generic, modern-style ones they had. To keep it even more simple, it’s all a boring black color. And many of it is part of the same collection - you noticed that the dining chairs, the coffee table, and the barstools are all the same design. 

And no, he’s doesn’t clean after himself. He really doesn’t have the heart nor time to, especially before meeting you. So there’s food crumbs in the crack of his office chair, loose clothing in random places on the floor and tossed over chairs, and product bottles thrown haphazardly amongst the bathroom. 

When you came into the picture and saved him from the agency, his work racketed down by a huge margin. No more working 52 hours at a stretch without sleep, no more entire weeks spent fearing for his life if he didn’t finish a job. This left more time and energy to step it up a bit and stop being such a slob. Mostly for your sake, if he was being honest. 

Almost all of the fancy tricked up stuff in his apartment was his own doing. And once he had more free time, there was even more of it. So enjoy your voice-activated desk lamp with bluetooth and 30 different color settings, that was just an afternoon project and he’s got something even better for the two of your’s anniversary!

— Saeran —

Unlike his brother, Saeran actually values cleanliness and a good living space. Partially due to his bad immune system and how a clean environment can make a big difference in his health, and partially because that’s just the kind of guy he is. He had his own room in Mint Eye, which was tastefully decorated under his own hand with antiques and art statement pieces. Decorating his room was one of the few opportunities he had to express himself. 

Once he escaped Mint Eye and began living with you, it took many months to regain some assemblance of a normal daily life, and one of the first steps was to retrofit his living space into a safe, encouraging home. 

With your help, the two of you planned out everything with the intention of creating a haven of sorts. He still wanted his antique aesthetic and romantic colors, but now there was technology that encouraged communication with the outside world. Now, the curtains were pulled to reveal an exciting, open world right on the doorstep.  

The antique interior complimented his flowers very well. ‘Cause flowers and plants are a constant fixture in the home. Sometimes, its cut flowers arranged in a Regency-era glass vase, but mostly they’re potted flowering plants. Huge ones in the living room, or tiny ones on accent shelves, or the several window planters you and he maintained with love and care.

As he regained his confidence, the apartment showed his progress. He began going out to buy things on his own, without needing you to accompany him. And the things he brought back were sometimes ... weird, but oddly charming, like a mounted authentic Viking drinking horn, or a framed poster of a map from a fantasy video game. 

He just ... enjoyed these odd things. His life was so free now, which meant he could go out and be weird and enjoy these weird things without anything holding him back. You proudly displayed all of these trophies, all evidence of Saeran’s healing.  

— Jihyun —

It’s canon that Jihyun’s apartment in-game was mostly fitted to Rika’s wishes, not his own. We don’t really see it, but if the photo panned out more we’d see pale, birchwood accents and light linen fabric. Everything bright, and lit with white lights. Almost all of it Rika’s influence.

When he and you found a new apartment, Jihyun wanted to take this opportunity to establish himself more, this time. So instead of that pure, untouched look, he added more color in washes of warm leathers, brushed metal, and natural lighting. 

It was worldly, for lack of a better term. Lots of mementos from his time traveling, all adding dimension to the living space. A woven Navajo basket from New Mexico, a large print replica of a page from the Book Of Kells, a bronze modern art sculpture from an emerging Indian artist. 

And the furniture themselves were uniquely artistic, too. Jihyun one day brought home new earthy-brown decorative cushions, bought from a company that produced textiles dyed using food waste scrap. He went to a warehouse auction for authentic, obscure antiques, and graced the living room with a richly red bubinga-wood rocking chair from 1950′s Germany. 

Funnily enough, as graceful of a man he is, he can sometimes be a bit too tacky in his choice for decor. He tried to argue for fake exposed-brick wallpaper as an accent wall, which you had to shoot down. More than once, he showed you a new art piece about to be sold at a new gala that he wanted to go bid for, and the particular piece was just ... too esoteric or even gaudy to be displayed. 

Jihyun just loved to feel like he could be himself. And he loved how you encouraged this new life of his. An actual home, now, free from his family or Rika. True love can only blossom under freedom, and that’s what this home represented for him. 

[tally-vi]

So I got bored and over-analyzed Lilypadton’s inventory

 @thatsthat24​ @thejoanglebook

I don't know what compelled me to do this, but one second I’m rewatching SVSR for the thousandth time, the next I’m spending an entire hour on whatever this is. But hey I had fun and that’s what matters. And honestly good job to Thomas and friends for putting so much detail into something that was on screen for maybe 3 seconds. :)

So here’s the inventory, which is based of the inventory from Stardew Valley:

The contents of his inventory are:

his cat onsie,

278 of something (cans of cat food, maybe?)

2 rackets

a candle

an eyemask

a poster/piece of paper

his Christmas sweater

2 cookies

a mouse?

string/rope

something

a framed picture

a dog collar (maybe the one from his Halloween costume, but looks more like Scooby Doo’s)

something else

Lee and Mary Lee

The discription for Lee and Mary Lee reads “Beloved companions since the dawn of Tom.” Lee and Mary Lee are inedible. 

The $1.05 in total earnings is comprised of the nickel he has currently and one dollar from the losing motivation video. the lack of spaces to put cosmetic clothing shows that Patton hasn’t updated to 1.4 yet. Patton also hasn’t started fixing the Community Center, probably because there is no community center to fix in this case.

There are also several differences in his inventory tab buttons (I took the Stardew Valley screenshot from the wiki, so just ignore the 1). Gonna try and find any meanings in there.

the one on top is Patton’s.

the tab for the actual inventory has a white backpack instead of a red one. not sure why

the skills tab automatically reflects what your in-game character looks like, so this isn't all that noteworthy

the friendship tab has a cyan heart, probably just cuz that's his color.

the map tab has a compass. i think this is because Patton is like Thomas’ “moral compass”

crafting tab has a pair of those glasses with the fake nose and mustache. he does make a lot of dad jokes :)

collections tab has a photo instead of a little baggie. photo’s are used to capture events, events are stored in our minds as memories, Patton’s room is a great place to look back on those memories.

The settings and exit game tabs are the same.

Now i just really want to see the rest of Patton’s inventory, just to take a look at the world of Sanders Sides through one of my favorite games. Also PATTON UPDATE YOUR GAME ALREADY THE VIDEO TOOK PLACE MID APRIL THE UPDATE HAS BEEN OUT FOR MONTHS COME ON.

Anyways thats about all. bye!

[cgcpoems]

less than twenty four hours after you re-break my heart over coffee and a sticky tabletop, the 2017 solar eclipse happens. it’s impressive that my heart’s racket during this short amount of time was so loud that the universe chose to respond with such a passionate acknowledgment of its suffering. [I know supposedly that these things aren’t related, but I rely too much on signs to act as if this wasn’t a causal relationship.] so, in this scenario, you’re the sun and I’m the moon. or, maybe I’m the sun. or, maybe neither of us are the sun or the moon and we’re just two people on opposite sides of the planet pointing at the same thing. either way, while the moon was trying its best to prepare itself for the kiss of every photographer’s wet dream I was crying over you in the middle of target with a ten dollar planner and four pairs of socks in my cart. fast forward to 2:34 p.m. the next day and I find myself sharing eclipse glasses with my coworkers, playing audience to a love so tender that, without taking the proper safety precautions, it could leave a permanent spot on your retina. I don’t know if this is romantic, tragic, or a different class of dedication altogether. anyways, when the moon began to leave their star as they always do, I looked away, the world tinged grey by how bittersweet it is to yearn for someone you’ll never be on time for. and I wished you were there. I wished you were there. but, of course, you weren’t. maybe in another world under another sky you were, but not here. not with this skin. not with those hands. so with that idea bobbing tirelessly within my gravitational pull I walked back to the break-room and made a note in my planner to run to the store after my shift for some boxed macaroni and the seltzer that reminds me of our lips meeting again and again, a natural phenomenon now rendered obsolete.  god, we never stood a chance, did we?

total eclipse of the part, by Caitlin Conlon

[tessbenser]

Three On a Match: Chapter 1

Chapter preview below the cut. 

August, 1994

Frances ***

If anyone had terrible luck, it was Frances Murphy. Not just bad luck, not merely a haphazard pile of unfortunate circumstances jumbled together like a badly tossed salad of crappy events. Honest to God, unequivocally terrible luck. If something were going to happen to Frances Murphy, putting money on it going poorly was a safe bet.

The alarm blasted a deafening shriek. Before Frances could even gather herself enough to groan in an appropriate manner to the jarring jolt back into consciousness from a dream which wasn’t a gargantuan pile of suck, she was hit square in the face by a down pillow with unfairly sharp corners, one of which caught her in the eye. “Get up, fuckwit!”

Frances blinked sluggishly, slamming her fist down on the clock radio to silence the racket.

Margot carried on shouting, “If you make me late, I swear to god I will circulate as many copies of that picture of you running around in your first training bra as I can afford to print. And I babysat. All summer!”

Frances frowned at her sister, the foul-mouthed pillow flinger who had taken it upon herself to ensure Frances’s misery over the last three months. It appeared she was to be unwavering in her efforts at the dawn of the school year. “It’s only 5:45. Did you change my alarm?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Frances, it’s like you’re trying to be a dipshit.” Her little sister’s angelic and impeccably made up face contorted to something horrible and ugly when she swore. The pure, unabashed disdain matched Margot’s dark red and gray cheerleading uniform incredibly well. “I have to be there early. Melanie and Courtney want to show me my locker and where all the other cheerleaders meet before school starts, so I need to be early. Super early. I told you this, like, four times!”

Margot had spent the entire summer bragging to Frances about the apparently impressive feat of making the J.V. Cheer Squad as an incoming “freshie.” According to Melanie-and-Courtney, the two-headed conventionally attractive cheerleading monster that had apparently adopted Margot, her achievement was something akin to walking on water, raising the dead, and curing acne with the wave of a single pom. Before Frances moved back home, Margot hadn’t expressed an interest in cheerleading but after Melanie-and-Courtney’s prescribed diet of regurgitated jock cock or something, Margot was a total convert to the teenage cult of popularity.

“Christ, Frankie! I do not have time for your dipshitery! I would like to make a decent impression at this school even if you don’t. Get up right now!”

Frances cast a withering look at her sister, and then rolled out of bed before another down pillow in a pastel case could make contact with her already sore face. She slouched past her teeny tiny cute baby sister and tried to remember a time when she didn’t look at Perfect Margot without her guts twisting in dislike. She and Margot had never been braid-each-other’s-hair besties, but they had once upon a time existed a bit more peacefully. Or so Frances thought she remembered. Her mind was awfully cluttered with other garbage these days; it was hard to keep track of the minute details of whether or not she had ever gotten along with her Precious Baby Sister.

Once she was locked in the bathroom, Frances raked a hand through her long, colorless hair and dropped the boxer shorts she had worn to sleep on the floor. She bent over the tub, twisting the taps to turn on the shower, and then pulled her massive, sleeveless “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD” shirt over her head. She quickly peed while squatting over the toilet, and then stepped into the shower spray before she got any wise ideas about slinking back to bed.

Last year before the first day of school, she had climbed up the drain pipe and through her bedroom window at five in the morning. She’d hidden her clothes in a garbage bag stashed in the back of the closet because they smelled like gasoline, bonfire, and weed and fallen asleep in a matching pajama set she never actually wore, looking the picture of innocence. An hour and a half later when her Dad came in to wake her, Frances had put on an Oscar-worthy performance, convincing him that she had lost track of time studying to prepare for the Ever-So-Important Junior Year at Saint Francis that she got to bed late, and no really Daddy, that’s why I slept through my alarm.

Frances snorted as she shampooed her hair. That was back before her Dad had even considered that his Gorgeous Frankie could ever be anything less than an honest, innocent little lamb. Back before her Dad could even fathom calling his child a whore.

Frances tilted her head back, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair.

“You look like shit, Frankenberry.”

“Oh Sam… You’re just jealous you didn’t spend your evening fucking The Man or any man for that matter.”

“Before the first day of school? I’m so disappointed in you. Let’s go pray about it.”

The memory skittered unwelcomed and uncoordinated across the forefront of her mind like a spider. It was a clumsy, clunky conversation, one that seemed to Frances pathetic and naive in hindsight. Nothing was ever smooth between Sam and Frances, and for maybe the hundred-thousandth time since May, a dark discomfort spread from Frances’s belly through her limbs, cool and unpleasant, at the thought of him. She was so ashamed. She was so ashamed and embarrassed, both that she missed Sam and that they had been so stupid.

There was a violent successive thumping on the door. “WHAT PART OF EARLY IS NOT PENETRATING YOUR SKULL?”

“NOT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON TO USE THE WORD PENETRATE, MARGOT!”

Frances wondered if you could drown in a shower. Frances knew you could drown in a glass of water, so a shower could do the job, couldn’t it?

“COME ON FRANCES!”

Frances twisted off the taps. She stepped out of the shower and started violently toweling off her hair, as if she could begin undoing the shame she carried around with her by making her hair dry. As if she could be clean, free of it, if she just got herself put together in this fogged up bathroom.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the steam-clouded mirror just as she was heading out of the bathroom and averted her eyes. Frances hadn’t liked mirrors, not in months. As a child she had been a classic narcissist, obsessed with her fair complexion and fine, smooth hair. All of that had disintegrated since the Spring. There was nothing to see there anymore. Nothing worth looking at. Certainly nothing worth admiring.

“It’s almost six fifteen!” Margot moaned dramatically from just outside the door. “C’mon, you promised we could get there early. Please? Please please please?”

Frances turned to snap at her sister but – in perhaps the very first and last display of warmth she would show Margot in 1994 – she chose to bite back the caustic retort she had prepared. Frances took a breath. Took another. Looked her sister in the eyes and said, “Can you just give me like… ten minutes to get dressed?”

Margot rolled her eyes, but she and her brilliant new white sneakers trounced off to the living room to let Frances get dressed in peace. She selected a pair of cut off jean shorts and a black shirt from a still not unpacked box in the corner. Her mother had been on her case about unpacking all of her things since she’d been exiled here after Memorial Day, but Frances was more than comfortable with being difficult. She supposed now that she would be wearing clothes other than her work uniform or her pajamas, it might be worth it to move the clothes from old beer boxes and back into her actual drawers for convenience sake.

And yet.

Something about the idea of moving the artifacts of her destroyed life into the baby pink plywood furniture of her childhood seemed far too morbid.

“FRANCES! COME ON!”

“God, Margot, keep your briefs on!” Frances shouted back, hopping around, pulling on a treasured pair of Doc Martens and tying a worn old red flannel around her waist. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder and took one single deep breath. Frances emerged from her bedroom, feeling perhaps the first glimmer of optimism at the prospect of a new start at this new school. Couldn’t be all bad, right?

“That’s what you’re wearing? God, do not tell a soul we’re related. I’ll be the laughing stock of the squad if they find out I came from the same family as the Sexy Lumberjack.”

Well, so much for that theory.

Ben ***

Despite overwhelming opportunity to disprove this thesis, Benjamin Franklin had utterly fantastic luck.

Even when circumstances seemed to dictate that his luck should be shit, the universe seemed to smile upon him. Take, for example, his totally embarrassing name.

His name was Benjamin Franklin. No middle name. He shared his name with a founding

father and a chain of craft stores. His dorky parents had let their ridiculous obsession with the American Revolution overwrite the parts of their brains that did logic when he was born, and in choosing the name Benjamin Franklin, they had essentially damned him to a life of people thinking he was a) kidding b) lying or c) utterly insane whenever he said his name.

And yet, as luck would have it, Ben was actually pretty good at steering into the skid that was his sort of embarrassing name. He would play along, and people thought that was grand, By the time he was ten, Ben could charm the pants off any passerby who thought to inquire about his name.

That was just the kind of life that Ben had. It was a lucky one. His parents, history nerds though they were, were doting, supportive, and kind. His siblings were significantly younger than he was, but rather than being bratty or attention hogging, Abbie and Georgie were generally pretty self-contained and well-behaved. Even though he attended the same school where his father taught history, Mr. Franklin was by far the most well liked teacher at Antioch Community High School, considered smart and funny and fair by most students, and Ben too enjoyed a level of popularity as a result.

And it was this, and only this, that gave Ben the ability to pull himself out of bed on the first morning of his senior year of school. Things had been shit these last few weeks, but things usually just worked out for him. He just needed to get over himself and get out of bed. Things would work out. Things always did.

Ben yanked off the covers, standing to stretch. He let himself shift into autopilot, going about the same morning routine he’d had for the last five years. Skipping and hopping over the piles of clothes and and other debris, he got dressed without thinking too hard about it - he had to spend the day babysitting freshmen for National Honor Society, so he had to wear the navy NHS shirt anyway. He was lacing his shoes when a knock came at his door.

“Ben, Daddy says fifteen minutes,” A tiny voice squeaked through the door. Ben stood up, snatching up his backpack slouched against the wall near the door, and opened the door. His little brother, George, was standing outside, all dressed in his first day of school outfit: a striped polo, new khakis that were a bit too big, and brand new sneakers that lit up when he walked. These shoes had real shoelaces, a fact that George had been rubbing in his little sister Abbie’s face since their mom had made her get Velcro shoes when they went shopping two weeks ago. George was starting the second grade; Abbie was starting first.

“Okay, I’m heading down,” Ben said, smiling as he stopped to ruffle Georgie’s bowl cut.

“Staaaaaaahp,” George whined, pushing Ben’s hand away. “Now it’s all messed up!” He was frantically smoothing out his hair, and Ben shook his head, smiling. Little Georgie was awfully finicky about his appearance for a seven year old boy. Their younger sister Abbie was content to show up to school in a mismatched outfit with her hair in a frizzy halo of red curls covered in mud, but George wasn’t happy until he had examined and approved everything their mom put out for him.

“Okay, kiddo, let’s go eat breakfast,” Ben said eventually, putting his hand on Georgie’s shoulder and nudging him toward the stairs. George took off at a run, and Ben groaned because he was sure that he would be in a full tantrum by the time he got to the foot of the stairs because Ben dared to touch his hair.

...Of course he was right. George was red faced and motor-mouthing to their mother by the time Ben ambled into the kitchen. His luck really wasn’t what it used to be.

“Morning,” his father said, looking up over his cereal. Joseph Franklin was the only self-respecting man approaching middle age who thought nothing of starting his day with Fruit Loops.

Ben nodded, heading over to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup before moving to sit down at the table.

“Mom says that’ll make you short,” Abbie said from across the table. She was a sight, wearing yellow tights, a yellow tutu, and a yellow sweatshirt. She was sitting on her feet so she could see properly across the table, but Ben supposed she had managed to put on yellow shoes as well. “Mom says coffee will make you short,” She repeated when Ben didn’t respond. “She says it ‘stunts your growth.’”

“I’m already pretty tall,” Ben said, rolling his eyes.

“Benjamin, please stop being so grumpy,” His mother scolded as she stepped into the room, George hiding behind her legs. She was wearing a red blazer with shoulder pads that made her look kind of like a football player. Her hair was teased high in a way that seemed to only be popular among teachers and administrators these days.

“He’s just nervous about the big day.”

“What’s there to be nervous about?” Ben said quickly, feeling his blood pressure rise. He was fine. They were the ones with an issue.

“Well, you know, first day of senior year. First day of school since Penny…” His father trailed off, perhaps realizing how god damned insensitive he was being.

Since Penny had left for college, since Penny had dumped him over Dairy Queen saying he was “too depressing to be around these days,” since Penny had decided to turn into a total bitch and never actually call him to say if she got to Northwestern alright even though she promised she would and swore that they would still be friends? The possibilities were endless.

Ben breathed heavily out of his nose. He counted to three and reminded himself that he was Ben Franklin. Things just worked out for him, even when they sucked.

“Well we should hit the road,” His father said, rinsing his cereal bowl and moving smoothly toward the attached garage as if he hadn’t just accidentally reminded Ben of all the reasons he did not want to go to school that day. His dad stopped, kissing Abbie, Georgie, and their mom all on the tops of their heads as they bent over the table to finish their breakfasts, and then grabbed his keys from the hook over the counter. “Ready, Ben? Let’s motor.” He pressed the button for their new automatic garage door opener.

“God Dad, just…. don’t. Say. That.” Ben said, dumping out his coffee and following his dad out into the garage. He flung himself into the passenger seat heavily, and his dad fiddled with the radio for a moment before backing out of the driveway.

“Buckle up,” his dad said after a moment, and Ben heaved an uncharacteristically moody sigh as he pulled the seat belt around himself. “You alright, champ? You seem a bit more riddled with teen angst than is your usual MO.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Ben found himself wondering aloud, the words spewing from his mouth before he could remember that his dad wasn’t actually the reason he was a in an awful mood.

Joseph Franklin had always been an incredibly patient human being, and he very politely did not react to Ben’s unnecessary level of snark. “I’m just worried about you,” he said, as if Ben had never spoken at all. “You have not been your usual self since Penny left for school. I know it’s not easy, bud, but that’s fairly common when it comes to first loves. That’s why they are firsts. They end, and there are lots after.”

“Says the guy who married his high school sweetheart.”

“We’re the exception, not the rule kiddo. Your mother and I were made for each other.”

“And me and Penny weren’t?”

“Don’t get defensive,” His father said, stopping at a stoplight. “I’m only saying that I know you feel bad, but that you can’t just expect to feel better by throwing all that badness at other people.” He made the turn into the staff parking lot, continuing to go on about being a good person and a good example, especially since Ben was National Honor Society president and he was going to working with impressionable freshmen all day, but Ben kind of just tuned him out, hoping that he could just stay positive and not bite anyone else’s head off during school today.

His father parked the car, and Ben hurried out before his dad had even finished telling him to have a good first day. Ben strode inside with single minded resolve to throw his shit in his locker and stop being a total dick for the rest of the day. Things worked out for him. He just needed to tap into some as of us untouched internal source of luck.

He reached his locker without incident, the school still sparsely populated with forty-five minutes still to go until the school day started. He had to try his combination twice to get the damn thing open.

“Hey white boy!” Ben looked up as he was closing the door to see his best friend, Joel, striding toward him with the kind of confidence that nobody wearing a National Honor Society shirt had any right to have. “Heading to cafeteria to herd some ninth graders?”

“Yeah, in a sec.”

If Ben had to pick a favorite thing about Joel Clark, it was his complete unwillingness to discuss emotional matters. When Penny had unceremoniously dumped Ben in the Dairy Queen parking lot two weeks ago, Joel had taken the news like a weather report, blinking twice before summarizing, “Oh, that’s bull,” and then dragging Ben to an end of the summer kegger that some mutual acquaintance was throwing. None this “first love” garbage that Ben’s parents had been spouting, nothing mushy or fabricated like the few girl friends he had run into since the dumping. Just beer and an agreement that Penny sucked and they didn’t talk about her anymore.

“So… should we do the whole ‘Senior Year is gonna kill it, we’re totally getting laid’ bit, or is that too Fast Times at Ridgemont High?” Ben asked as he and Joel took off the hall.

“I feel like it’s more like Carrie.”

“Skipping it then?”

“Oh, absolutely. Can’t tempt fate.”

“They always kill the black guy first,” Ben said.

Joel stopped, flinging an arm across Ben’s chest to stop him. “Dude, that’s racist,” He said in a serious voice.

They locked eyes for a moment.

Joel laughed first, like he always did, and Ben laughed with him. Joel shoved Ben playfully, Ben stumbled a little for dramatic effect, and they started off down the hall again.

Joel and Ben stepped into the cafeteria, totally empty except for the small group of navy NHS t-shirts all gathered around a table in the far corner.

They got greeted by a smattering of “hey Ben”s and “hey Joel”s as they took up their spaces in the group, falling easily into routine just-back-from-break questions.

“Sorry to hear about you and Penny,” Sarah Freeman said in the middle of the business as usual conversation, and the whole group went completely silent.

“Thanks, I guess,” Ben mumbled, feeling heat climb in his face. He was so over talking about this.

“Okay, people, buses are arriving!” sang Mrs. Williamson, the NHS advisor. “Please remember to be polite and friendly as you help the new students find their way around. And stop telling people about the pool on the third floor, Dominic, we all know it was you last year.”

Sam ***

Samuel Keddy knew better than to believe in luck.

Luck was something for children, like Santa Claus and the saying “everything happens for a reason.” It wasn’t real, it didn’t mean anything, and it certainly should not be impacting the way a person lived their life. That was the mistake that people usually made, Sam thought, trusting that the universe was controlled by something as stupid as luck.

In the fourth grade, Sam had this stupid blue rabbit’s foot he had carried around, hoping that if he kept it close, luck would win out and save him the horrors of having his lunch stolen by the sixth graders.

He didn’t eat his lunch once in the fourth grade. It was always stolen, and he was always hungry, and nobody and nothing did a thing to change it. On the last day of the fourth grade, he chucked the damned rabbit’s foot at the head of Chuck Finn, one of his sixth grade enemies. The end result was a fist fight, which nobody won, because the playground attendant broke it up right after they had each landed a swing. Sam started the next school year with a note about disciplinary problems on his permanent record and a week of detention. Luck? Fuck no. A lie, like justice and fairness and Santa Claus. Something to tell the kids to help them sleep at night.

So Sam knew there was no such thing as luck. The world wasn’t nearly that organized.

“Samuel!”

Sam pulled the covers over his head.

He heard his door open. “Sam, you need to get up right now,” his mother’s commanding voice invaded his bedroom, and he heard her click on the lights. “I need to be in the office in forty minutes, I will drop you on the way, but you need to get up right now.”

Sam rolled over, firmly keeping the blanket over his head.

“Damn it, Sam, now!” He heard his door slam and the flimsy wooden cross above the door clattered to the floor. Sam slowly turned over, and after a moment of deliberate stalling, he pulled himself upright. He took his sweet time pulling on his white dress shirt, gray pants, and his navy blazer with the St. Francis crest on the breast pocket. He did up his shoes, annoyed to discover that they were a little tight - like his mother said they would be when she had tried to drag him shopping last week. Sam wondered how long he would be able to put up with the pinching of his toes before he finally agreed to let his mother buy him new shoes.

He glanced briefly in a mirror and saw that his dark hair was a long, stringy, dirty mess that certainly did not abide by his private school’s dress code. Good. If they were making him go back – and they were making him go back, no matter how much he had protested and fought and whined and bargained with his parents and the administration – he wasn’t going to come quietly.

Sam cut through the foyer to avoid saying goodbye to his father and went immediately to sit in the passenger seat of his mother’s Jetta.

“God, do something with that hair of yours,” Sam’s mother said, slamming the door as she climbed into the driver’s seat in a pair of royal blue scrubs. Her black hair was tied up in a neat plait, her bangs hanging heavily over her eyebrows. When she didn’t fluff them up and spray them, Sam thought the bangs made his mother look incredibly young. Like an anime character who ought to have been wearing a sailor suit uniform instead of scrubs.

His mother rooted in her purse and tossed a small, foldable hairbrush at him. Sam let it bounce to the floor while his mother pulled out of the driveway.

“Surgery today?” Sam asked, ignoring the hairbrush and playing around with the radio until his favorite rock station from Chicago came in clearly.

“Jesus, Sam,” His mother said, switching off the radio. “Fix your damn hair. You know how much trouble your father and I went to to keep you in school, and you will show up looking presentable.”

“I don’t even know why–”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sam!” His mother shouted, braking suddenly at a stoplight and flinging her arm out so it hit Sam’s chest and kept him from flying forward. “Put on your seat belt for Christ’s sake!”

Sam rolled his eyes, but nonetheless buckled himself up.

“We have been over it a thousand times. We are keeping you in this school so that you can actually get an education! We want you to stay in one place, to learn something, and now that that girl-”

“Mom, for the last time, none of this was Frankie’s fault-”

“Sam! Enough! I don’t need to explain this to you again. You are going to stay at St. Francis’s because I said so. You are going to stay out of trouble, because I said so. You’re going to join an academic club, and you’re going to improve your grades, and you’re going to go to a good college like your sisters because I said so! Is that clear?”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Why is it the end of the world if I don’t do well in school? Worried about what the other moms will think?”

A look crossed his mother’s face lightning fast, and it occurred to him that she could kill them both with a sharp jerk of the steering wheel. He’d hit the soft spot. His mom, Dr. Lily Keddy, had been trying desperately to fit in with the other parents at Sam’s schools, with the neighbors on their block, with her co-workers for as long as Sam could remember, but it was never easy or smooth. There was always judgment: judgment about her having married a man with two preteen girls, judgment because she was a surgeon while her husband worked in insurance, judgement because she had been in the Navy, judgment because she had married a white man and adopted his white daughters but then dared to produce a kid who was definitely not white...

They had pulled into the school’s parking lot. “Can you just drop me off here?”

His mom stopped the car, her brown eyes flashing as she through the car into park. “I’ll walk you to your first damn class if I have to, Samuel. You’re going to do better this year, is that understood?”

“Yeah, fine, got it! Whatever!”

“And drop the goddamned attitude!” Sam’s mother shouted.

“In a church!” Sam shouted as he unbuckled and pointed to the steeple of the chapel on the high school’s campus.

“I think God will understand! He had a smart ass for a son too!”

Sam slammed the door of the car, his hands curling into tight fists. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to just become this perfect kid his mother thought he should become. He had been trying for as long as he could remember, but Sam had never been able to measure up to his sisters Dorian and Iris who were perfect and brilliant and responsible. Dorian was a lawyer, and Iris had started her surgical residency, and Sam was the fuck-up.

Sam had always been the fuck-up, who struggled in school and couldn’t play nice and who stole money from a Catholic School fundraiser to pay for an abortion. He argued with teachers, his grades were unimpressive, his focus was shit and his talents mediocre. Sam was good at the guitar and good with fixing cars, but his parents didn’t reward that. Those weren’t desirable strengths. They were signs that he simply wasn’t applying himself in the areas that his parents thought mattered. He just got trapped in the middle of the road, never being good enough for his parents or bad enough to get sent away from them.

Sam hurried to his first class, slinking into the only empty seat just two minutes before the bell was set to ring, earning a sidelong glance from the teacher.

“Hey, sweetheart, having a rough morning?”

Sam turned to see he had chosen the seat in front of Jim Peterson, who was possibly the worst human he had ever had the misfortune of encountering. Jim was your typical brand of asshole, who liked to zero in all everything that made a person different and then make sure that everyone around him noticed too. When it came to Sam, Jim had a few favorites he liked to share: Sam being half Japanese, Sam getting caught ditching gym class to smoke cigarettes and having to serve weeks of detention by cleaning up the bathrooms after school, and Sam being the only person who still talked to Frances at the time that she got kicked out of school last year.

At least Jim never made a big deal out of Sam liking boys.

That was the only secret Sam seemed to still have left. Sam supposed that, if nothing else, those drunken make out sessions with Jim the summer after their sophomore year had bought his silence in that respect. At least Jim hadn’t been the shining example of asshole he was now when they fogged up the windows of Jim’s Volvo… Though that brief escape from Jim’s predictable bullying and assorted other bullshit was mostly Frances’s doing.

Frances had been really very popular, due mostly to having an older boyfriend who bought beer for underage morons, until she broke up with Kurt and was expelled last May. Apparently Jim and his jock friends only liked the parties, and when those stopped, Frances, and Sam by association, were quickly phased out of the reigning teen royalty at St. Francis. Before long, Sam was back to being shoved into lockers, called unrepeatable names, and having zero friends at this damn school.

“Come on, Spicy Tuna Roll, how come you won’t talk to me? Run late because you were working in the rice field?” Jim leered, and his other jock friends tittered with low laughter as their teacher brought the class to order.

Jim was too stupid to even properly be racist. He started miming karate chops and reversing his R’s and L’s just before the class let out, and Sam bit his tongue. His mother would be so proud. As the jocks all chuckled and high fived over Jim’s blatant display of racism and idiocy, Sam decided he needed to put his foot down. He was not going to spend his senior year of high school playing punching bag to the closet case who was far too comfortable living in a shit hole excuse for a suburb.

Parents be damned, he just wasn’t capable of shutting up and staying out of trouble.

Sam winked at Jim on his way out of class. “Catch you later, stud.” Sam exaggerated the swing of his hips as he walked out of the door on his way to gym class, and there was a collective “ohhhhhhh” of schadenfreude from the football and lacrosse players still loitering in the back of the math class.

Sam Keddy didn’t believe in luck because he didn’t have any, good or bad. He just had himself.

[spicykaraage]

Tenipuri Complete Character Profile - Sadaharu Inui

[PROFILE]

Birthday: June 3rd (Gemini)

Blood Type: AB

Relatives: Father, mother, cat [23.5]

Father’s Occupation: Public servant

Elementary School: Midorikawa First Elementary School

Middle School: Seishun Academy Junior High School

Grade & Class: Third Year | Class 3-11 | Seat 2

Club: Tennis Club (Regular)

Committee: School Festival Committee

Strong Subjects: Physics

Weak Subjects: Home economics (especially cooking)

Most Visited Spot at School: Reference room #3

World Cup Team: U-17 World Cup Japanese Medical Team

Favorite Motto: “Knowledge is an everlasting treasure.”

Daily Routines: Organizing data, glasses maintenance

Hobbies: Having the club members drink his (terrible) special vegetable juices, backlighting ➜ Making special vegetable juices for people to drink, playing TRPGs [23.5]

Favorite Color: Black

Favorite Music: Any kind

Favorite Movie: Korean films

Favorite Book: Mystery novels, horror novels [TP]

Favorite Food: Durian? (Momoshiro’s guess), spaghetti soup? (Kikumaru’s guess) ➜ Yakult, cilantro [23.5]

Favorite Anniversary: May 30th (the day he began gathering data)

Preferred Type: A calm person, preferably older ➜ A cute person [TP]

Ideal Date Spot: Art museum ➜ A factory tour [TP]

His Gift for a Special Person: “Special Inui Juice… is what I would say, but maybe a wristwatch.”

Where He Wants to Travel: Ho Chi Minh City to buy rare herbs

What He Wants Most Right Now: State-of-the-art blender ➜ Rotary evaporator [23.5]

Dislikes: Lightning strikes, power outages (since his computer will go down) ➜ Fortune-telling, rhythm games, choosing souvenirs [TP]

Skills Outside of Tennis: Reversi, shogi, chess, Go, administering first aid [TP]

Spends Allowance On: Notebooks, reference books

Routine During the World Cup: Gathering data on foreign players, chatting with an old man whom he became friends with

[DATA]

Height: 184cm | 6’0” ➜ 185cm | 6’0.8” [23.5]

Weight: 62kg | 136 lbs ➜ 64kg | 141 lbs [23.5]

Shoe Size: 28cm

Dominant Arm: Right

Vision: (With glasses) 1.5 Left & Right

Play Style: Serve & Volleyer

Signature Moves: Data Tennis, Sonic Serve, Waterfall, Super Sonic Serve

Number of Notebooks He Owns: 218+

Equipment Brands:

Racket: Puma (Sequence PT0636 0067)

Shoes: prince (Graphite Challenge)

Fitness Test Results:

Sidesteps: 53

Shuttle Run: 100

Back Strength: 118kg

Grip Strength: 55kg

Backbend: 64.5cm

Seated Forward Bend: 51.8cm

50m Run: 7.05 seconds

Standing Long Jump: 225cm

Handball Throw: 36.2m

Endurance Run (1500m): 4:55

Overall Rating: Speed: 2 / Power: 3 / Stamina: 3 / Mental: 2 / Technique: 4 / Total: 14

Kurobe Memo: “I have no complaints with his play style that makes use of collected data. I must say, though, matches in the real world will inevitably require going against unfamiliar opponents. If he is overwhelmed by an opponent he’s meeting for the first time, he will need a back-up plan. Otherwise, he will be at a disadvantage and it will be difficult for him to turn the situation around.” <Official Description>

[POSSESSIONS]

What’s in His Bedroom [10.5]:

A massive bookshelf: He has an enormous amount of “secret notebooks” that he’s been writing in

Magazines on the floor: Half-read tennis magazines and other items scattered across his floor. He’s not good at keeping things tidy

Digital camera connected to his TV: He often records other schools’ matches for data collection

Computer setup: The hub where he processes all of his data. He’s gathered data on the other schools and players as well

Notes written on his walls: He has a tendency to write whatever pops into his head, and has unintentionally written notes on his walls here and there. He’s also written on his desk

What’s in His Bag [10.5]:

Laptop and calculator: A laptop to store data and a calculator to calculate trajectories and probabilities

MD recorder and player: Used to record things that come to mind and information from others

An 8mm video casette: Footage from a handheld camera. Most of the contents are matches of Seigaku and other schools

Secret notebook and rule book: The secret notebook contains a large amount of data on players. The rule book is for guiding underclassmen

Hole puncher: A two-hole puncher, used to assemble any data he’s written on sheets of paper

Digital camera: Used to record the forms of the other members and situations that had occurred at venues

Stopwatch and measuring tape: Used to acquire various numerical data, he uses them with his laptop and calculator

Binoculars: High-magnification binoculars that allow him to see every detail of a match, no matter how far away it is. The price was tens of thousands of yen

What’s in His Travel Bag [23.5]:

Glasses made of tempered glass: He’s purchased many pairs since his previous pair was destroyed by Atobe using “Ice Emperor” in Golden Age 208

[TRIVIA]

The Prince of Tennis 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 11/02/2001

He is the tallest of all the Seigaku members

He supposedly gained his tall stature from drinking a lot of milk. He enjoys milk and drinks it often, and will try out different types everyday as well as compare and research them

Prior to Ryoma joining the team, he was Seigaku’s third best player

Konomi made his glasses obscure his eyes to give readers the impression that they aren’t able to tell what he’s thinking

Konomi had written him to be temporarily dropped as a regular in order to highlight Ryoma’s entry into the team

His favorite foods are unknown but are guessed to be spaghetti soup by Kikumaru and durian by Momoshiro. He states he has neither likes nor dislikes, but does like spaghetti soup. Momoshiro had guessed durian due to his spiky hair

He has been playing tennis since elementary school and enjoys it since he views it as a battle of wits

He had a smaller stature when he was younger

He states that he does not make his Inui Juice to torment his teammates and his intention is to improve their nutrition with it

He is described as someone who relies a little too much on data, but everyone else around him relies on it as well

Konomi describes him as “not just a data man,” and that even though he lost to Ryoma, he is still skilled

The Prince of Tennis 20.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2003

He tends to speak his mind without hesitation, but means no offense by it

He is described to be suited for professions such as a lawyer, accountant, or stockbroker

He is steady and cautious, but can be bold and intrepid as well

He is deeply into physics since the knowledge is useful for tennis

He will also utilize his data to improve himself and has an aggressive side while playing tennis due to it

He is the hardest working member of the team

He is top of his class in science and math

His secondary sport would be baseball

The Prince of Tennis 40.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2007

He is surprisingly(?) interested in romance since love cannot be measured, which is also why he likes Korean dramas

His overly calculating and cautious personality often manifests as a deterrent towards others, but he will show a side completely contrary to his usual self

He began writing in his “Inui Notebooks” once he started playing tennis. He has approximately 218 currently in his possession, but has countless “other notebooks” such as “Exclusive Notes on Yanagi”

He hums from time to time, but is extremely tone-deaf. He is able to read sheet music but is unable to produce the right sounds

He has a total of 121 pairs of the glasses he wears

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 1 | Publication Date: 11/04/2009

He had been caught trying to collect data on Koharu while he was taking a bath

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 2 | Publication Date: 12/04/2009

He is shown playing shogi with Yanagi and Chitose at the training camp

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 7 | Publication Date: 07/04/2011

He had fallen asleep in the cave at the losers’ training covered in bandages, which frightened Kaidoh and Gakuto since they mistook him for a mummy

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 9 | Publication Date: 09/02/2011

He has no desire to give out any Inui Juice recipes since he states there’s no backup for them

He is not picky over any food, as long as it provides the necessary nutrition

He has went to a kitchenware store the other day to purchase a new mixer

He is a fan of the Kyoichiro Kaga series and finds the protagonist’s methodology of observing people fascinating

If he were not playing tennis, he would be a baseball coach

When asked what he thinks of his teammates, he commends their growth over the past few months

He is named after Sadaharu Oh, a famous baseball player. Konomi does not recall how he came up with his surname, however

Konomi made him to be a data collector because of his glasses and thought he should be studious. Since he was one of Ryoma’s first matches, he wanted his play style to be completely different from Kaidoh’s

His mouth is usually half-open when Konomi draws him

Konomi describes him as a character that does not get discouraged and that he has a strong presence even when he isn’t playing tennis

One of His School Days:

5:15am - Wakes up, has breakfast, tends to his glasses

5:40am - Prepares his Inui Juice (cold soup with mulukhiyah and chocolate)

6:48am - Arrives at school, attends morning training (gives training instructions to each member)

8:40am - 1st Period: English (short test)

9:40am - 2nd Period: Math III

10:30am - Break time, checks on Kaidoh training

11:00am - 3rd Period: Science III (chemistry)

12:00pm - 4th Period: Home Economics (cooking practice, fails)

12:50pm - Lunch, Tezuka cautions him about processing data while eating lunch

1:20pm - 5th Period: Social Studies (geography)

2:20pm - 6th Period: Music (practicing assigned pieces)

3:52pm - Club activities, checks on Kawamura’s physical fatigue

4:35pm - Goes on a reconnaissance trip to Rikkai

6:35pm - Returns home after shopping for ingredients that are good for relieving fatigue, has dinner

7:20pm - Compiles a report on Kikumaru

7:45pm - Watches a rented Korean move DVD

8:25pm - Hard training such as practice swings using lead plates, jogging, etc.

10:33pm - Organizes his data, gathers information on his computer

12:20am - Bathes, then goes to bed

The Prince of Tennis II 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 09/04/2013

He has been conducting various experiments at the training camp to improve his Inui Juice. There may or may not be victims of those who’ve taste tested for him…

The Prince of Tennis II 23.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 05/02/2018

The Koala themed drink he made in Golden Age 226 is called “Coca Koala”

He had inspired Yanagi with his Inui Juice who in turn inspired Mitsuya to make his Akuto Cuisine

The Prince of Tennis 20th Anniversary Book: Tenipuri Party | Publication Date: 08/02/2019

When he had been removed as a regular early in the series and wore a standard training outfit, he also wore a friendship bracelet. It is revealed the bracelet was given to him by a local elementary school student, and he chose to keep it on for some reason

[mira1308]

What is a Spindle Motor?

The spindle motor is moreover called a fast motor, which suggests a climate control system motor with a rotational speed of more than 10,000 rpm/min. Essentially used in wood, aluminum, stone, gear, glass, PVC, and various endeavors. Axle engines partake in the advantages of quick, little size, lightweight, low material use, low upheaval, low vibration, etc, and are continuously regarded and applied by related organizations. Since the shaft motor is extensively used, joined with its cautious workmanship, fast speed, and high taking care of nature of the motor, other normal motors can’t meet the specific essentials of the shaft motor and expect a critical part in the cutting edge creation process. This advancement is used in electric power, rocket, aviation, and various endeavors. On account of the extraordinary specific essentials of the business, predominant grade, inventive, and high-precision shaft motors are required. The motor has colossal power, low racket, stable speed, high repeat, speed rule, minimal no-pile current, slow warming, fast force dispersal, favorable use, and long life.

The Distinction Between the Servo Engine and Axle Engine: CNC spindle devices have different requirements for shaft motors and servo motors: The necessities for the feed servo motor are: Mechanical characteristics: The speed drop and rigidity of the servo motor are supposed to be nearly nothing. Essentials for speedy response: This is more extreme in shape taking care of, especially for quick machining of things with colossal rhythmic movement. Speed rule range: This can make the CNC machine device sensible for various instruments and taking care of materials. It is sensible for various taking care of advancements. A particular outcome force and a particular over-trouble force is required: The possibility of the machine gadget’s mechanical weight is essentially to beat the scouring of the worktable and the resistance of cutting, so it is the possibility of reliable power. The requirements for high speed motorized shafts are: Satisfactory outcome power, the stacked thought of the pivot of the CNC spindle motor contraption resembles consistent power. Right when the speed of the motorized hub of the machine gadget is high, the outcome force is nearly nothing. Right when the shaft speed is low, the outcome force is gigantic. The shaft drive is supposed to have the property of predictable power. Speed rule range: To ensure that the CNC machine device is sensible for various instruments and dealing with materials. It is sensible for various dealing with developments, and the shaft motor is supposed to have a particular speed rule range. Regardless, the essentials for the hub are lower than the feed. Speed precision: The static differentiation is generally expected to be under 5%, and the higher need is under 1%. Speedy: The shaft drive is on occasion used in the arranging capacity, which anticipates that it should be fast. The outcome characteristics of the servo motor and the shaft motor are extraordinary: The Servo motor takes force (N.m), and the shaft takes power (kW) as the record. The servo motor drives the worktable of the machine contraption, and the store damping of the worktable is the power changed over totally to the motor shaft, so the servo motor takes the power (N.m) as the record. The shaft motor drives the pivot of the machine gadget, and its pile ought to meet the power of the machine instrument, so the shaft motor takes the power (kW) as the rundown. Nonetheless, through the change of the mechanical condition, the two markers can be resolved normally.

[buzzdixonwriter]

"The Cop and the Anthem" by O. Henry

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.

A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.

Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.

The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.

For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.

Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.

Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.

Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.

But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.

Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.

At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.

"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.

"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.

The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.

On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.

"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."

"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"

Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.

Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.

It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.

Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:

"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"

The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.

"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."

With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.

At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."

On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.

The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.

"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be."

Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.

In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.

"My umbrella," he said, sternly.

"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."

The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.

"Of course," said the umbrella man—"that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you'll—"

"Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.

The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.

Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.

At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.

But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.

The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.

The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.

And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—

Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.

"What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.

"Nothin'," said Soapy.

"Then come along," said the policeman.

"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

[feelingsdusk-writes]

Runes and all kinds of things

Chapter 8

Stiles is seriously considering important life choices right now.

He has sneaked into the Argent’s backyard mostly unnoticed (mostly because it seems that every neighborhood has the nosy neighbour that notices everyone and everything at any given time of the day, and that old lady hadn't lifted her eyes from Stiles for even a second) and is now contemplating the wall that has what he knows to be Allison’s window. A wall that might as well be the Yosemite Dawn Wall in terms of climbing difficulty as far as Stiles is concerned.

But he has a mighty mission and he can't let this measly obstacle stop him. He won't fail, it's just a wall, he rallies himself as he starts to hum Mission Impossible's theme. So if he grabs the… and then pushes and uses it as a lever...

Stiles braces himself and approaches the wall. He reaches to place his hands on its surface and stops abruptly, looking at the white plastic bag in his hands contemplatively. He unloops his belt until he can push the bag through its handles to rest over his butt and then he fastens it again. He heaves himself upwards.

A third into the climb, he starts to doubt the wisdom of his idea, and by the halfway point, he’s regretting his life choices completely. Nevertheless, he perseveres. Finally, he hauls himself through the window with a grunt and nearly faceplants as he trips over a box.

“Honey, I’m home,” he lets out in a rather pitiful mixture of a singsong and a wheeze, bent over his knees.

His side aches quite a bit and it's pulsing with the rhythm of his heart, so maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. But he's done it, which means he's a badass ninja too, just like Allison, and he could totally be one of those action heroes and... fucking hell, he can't stop wheezing. He takes a deep breath. Beautiful oxygen, come to papa.

(Yeah, still a BAMF.)

(Totally.)

“Stiles?” Allison’s voice comes from her bathroom. “Thank God, I couldn’t take it anymore. Bring my baby here!”

With his breath mostly back under control, Stiles starts singing raunchily, butt wiggling included, as he unfastens his belt again and approaches the bathroom. “I’ll give you what you want, what you really, really, want. I wanna hey, I wanna-” A strained sound comes from his left and he freezes, turning to look. “Ah. Hello, Mr. Argent,” he chirps cheerfully, his still undone belt in his hand. It emits a clink when he lets go of it to wave at the man.

There’s a moment of complete silence in the bathroom followed shortly by a snort and muffled laughter.

“The Midol and the tampons, please!” Allison calls out mirthfully and Stiles shrugs, dismissing the shocked man with a gun (literally) to grab the bag and pass it through a crack of the bathroom's door. “You bought a new box? I left some in the bathroom drawer.”

“Super Plus, right?” Stiles asks as he passes the belt through the loops and refastens it. "I was already on my way when you called so it was more convenient to stop to buy some instead of turning around."

“You bought tampons,” Chris states incredulously.

“Mr. Argent,” Stiles chides him in a disapproving tone, “being ashamed of buying tampons is awfully immature, you know. Menstruation is a natural part of life.” He turns to Allison when she exits the bathroom. “Which reminds me. How’s the Midol working for you?”

“Mostly fine, why?” she answers, trying to not show how funny she finds it that her father has been shocked into speechlessness.

“There was a huge line to pay so I researched a bit,” he states eagerly, wiggling in place.

“Now I’m afraid,” she deadpans.

“Prepare to marvel at my magic hands!” He tackles her, making her lie on her bed, and digs his fingers in before she can react.

“Oh. My. God,” she moans a few minutes later, face buried in the comforter after he made her turn when he finished with her stomach. Her father’s brain still hasn’t rebooted and he keeps opening his mouth as if to say something and closing it immediately after. His gun, which he had brandished when he had heard the awful racket Stiles was making while climbing, hangs limp at his side. “I’m never letting you leave this house.”

Lydia chooses that very moment to call.

—

“Are you serious? Somehow this wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when you said you had something that would cheer us up,” Allison says, her voice dry as the desert, and looks at him incredulously. Stiles nods eagerly, bouncing in place like an excited two year old. “Okay, then, but if I end traumatized by this experience you’re going to owe me so bad.” She sighs resigned as she braces herself.

They are in the worst part of town, in front of the dingiest store she’s ever seen. Even the sign, which is in an appalling mix of lemon yellow, neon green and black dotted orange, looks only a sneeze away from falling, and that’s being generous. She isn’t very impressed by the name either… especially since she can’t read it entirely because most letters are either completely missing or partially faded in the aforementioned sign.

“And if it’s good? What if this experience changes your world as you know it?” Stiles counters mischievously as they enter. She eyes her surroundings with even more skepticism and raises an eyebrow at him. At first glance everything looks so incredibly dirty that she almost recoils. At second glance, she finds that it’s just that the furniture is so old and stained that it makes it look as if it hasn’t been cleaned since the store was opened, back when the dinosaurs roamed the Earth. “You’ll be eternally grateful to me for giving you the peace of mind of knowing there’s something good in this world that’s worth fighting for,” he ends dramatically, fist in the air.

“I’ll be eternally grateful to you if I don’t expend the last day of vacation with diarrhea,” she deadpans and Stiles rolls his eyes, laughing.

That the extremely little cafe is empty doesn’t inspire much trust either.

“ANA BANANAS!” he exclaims at the top of his lungs as they approach the counter, startling her.

An even older than the furniture woman appears, leaving the backroom. She’s stick thin, has her white hair in a perfect 60’s hairdo and the thickest glasses she’s ever seen rest in front of her eyes, making them ant small. She’s also stone deaf and, according to Stiles, he’s been coaxing recipes out of her ever since he was a little kid, first with shameless cuteness and later on with equally shameless emotional manipulation that she has always been completely aware of.

She’s also the grumpy cat personified and Allison would swear that she hears better than she lets on, but that she enjoys watching people make a fool out of themselves way too much to correct the assumption. Whatever Stiles asks for, she mishears and then proceeds to give him a completely different thing, and he isn’t even fazed, obviously expecting it. In the middle of it, he tries to manipulate, flirt, compliment and coax a recipe out of her in equal amounts. More than the purchasing of baked goods, it looks like the mix of a cutthroat bargaining battle and the negotiation of a peace treaty. It’s so hilarious to watch that it’s making this trip absolutely worth it just on its own. At some point she even shoves a cinnamon cookie into his mouth in the middle of a phrase and he just munches delightedly with a full mouthed Is this a new recipe? The touch of cayenne is genius! before continuing with what he was saying as if nothing happened.

They leave Bananas (the actual name of the cafe slash bakery) with an armful of baked goods, two coffees that smell heavenly (even though, apparently, she doesn’t sell coffee, just tea, because coffee is a disgusting sludge not fit for human consumption) and two new recipes for a cookbook she didn’t even know Stiles had. He passes her an oatmeal, banana and raisin bar that, according to Stiles, the woman apparently had sneakily put in the bag when she was making a dry remark about him being shot and being too thin. Allison hadn’t even noticed because she was too busy cackling after the woman had slapped his hand with a hot pink spatula. Twice.

After taking a bite, Allison stops mid-step and stares at it incredulously. She looks back to the store and internally mourns her lack of financial resources at the moment, which make it impossible to buy like a few thousand bars and spend the rest of her natural life feeding on them. Stiles cackles and passes her the bag to keep. She doesn’t even give a token protest and actually eyes the rest of the bags covetously. She knows there are chocolate treasures in there and they will be hers.

“Let me try that and I’ll give you something really good,” she bargains and Stiles laughs at how that sounds.

Later, when they are in her room and she gives him a paper bag in exchange for the white chocolate and pecan cookies, he starts geeking so bad at the contents that she chokes on a mouthful laughing. He’s reclined on her bed, on his side, purely because the act has proved to be the source of an endless amount of entertainment in the form of her dad trying to be inconspicuous in his check-ups and failing horribly at it.

The mood takes an abrupt turn to the morose when she sighs and lets herself fall to lay beside him. He echoes her, laying the books in front of him, and starts tracing the cover absently with his fingers.

Lydia’s so adamant about seeing her today that she has to cancel her plans with Stiles and can’t give him her gift. She asks Allison to pick her up because she doesn’t have her car and throughout the whole lunch and subsequent afternoon, she is in one of her bitchy moods and seems to be making an impressive attempt to bankrupt her parents through retail therapy. However, let it never be said that Allison is a bad friend, so she soldiers through it. She gets that Lydia is most likely depressed about Jackson leaving after what they went through. Allison's waiting and trying to coax her into talking to her.

When she finally speaks it’s absolutely not what she expected to hear.

“Say what?“

“I took the last of my exams two weeks ago.” Lydia drops the bomb and Allison gapes. Lydia looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable but her eyes never leave Allison's. “I didn’t go to those lengths for Jackson to be stupid thousands and thousands of miles from here and get himself killed. I got confirmation from Oxford and Cambridge.” Allison is speechless at this point. “I’ve chosen Oxford and I’ve already shipped my things. I leave tomorrow,“ she finishes primly and then passes the brunette all the things she’s bought, as if to soften the blow.

And after that, to round out the day even more, on the way back after leaving Lydia at home, a terrified deer crashes into the windshield of her car, leaving it totaled.

Super.

“I’ll give you a ride to Lydia’s later if you want,“ Stiles offers breaking the silence, gaze still fixed on the cover where he is drumming his fingers.

“What for?” she returns, pursing her lips. “I already said my goodbyes yesterday.”

He hums and doesn’t pursue the topic. An hour later, when she changes her mind, he gets her in time to catch Lydia before she leaves. He waits leaning on the driver’s door, face carefully blank and closed off, as they tearfully say goodbye again. He doesn’t react when Lydia approaches him and awkwardly says thanks before getting into her mother’s car.

They spend the rest of the afternoon aggressively playing Black Ops at Stiles’ home and binge eating sweets until they’re almost sick. They don’t feel better by the time Chris comes to pick Allison up.

—

Stiles waits in front of the school for Allison to show up, leaning on his jeep. He offered to pick her up, but she declined, saying her father was driving her to school today. Against his own better judgment, he’s been subconsciously looking for Scott too, but so far he hasn’t showed up, nor has Isaac for that matter. Suspiciously enough, five minutes later Scott appears on his bike at the same time as Chris’ SUV rolls into the parking lot. He glares at Stiles when Allison makes a beeline for him and ignores Scott altogether. Stiles follows her example and brushes him off too, and he can feel the glare trying to burn holes into his back.

By the time fifth period rolls around, rumors are running rampant. They are so ridiculous that he’s been in a perpetual half-giggly, half-incredulous state since the second period ended. By now, Allison has rolled her eyes so many times that it’s a miracle she hasn’t strained something. She also has had that glint in her eyes that he has learned to recognize as her plotting for mischief tell since the funny and full of endless entertainment affair that was lunch.

Stiles wouldn't have thought it possible but the rumors double in amount in the five minutes leading to English class because Scott leaves. Especially since he rushes out with another glare at Stiles and a longing look at Allison, whom doesn't even notice because she's too busy sharing an almond bar with Stiles.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Blake, but I never turn off my phone,” Stiles tells her seriously when she tells them to do exactly that.

He always keeps his phone on because of his father and he’s not going to change that for an English class. Normally he would keep it on and not say anything, but it won't work in this case.

“You will have to if you want to take this class, though,” she answers sweetly but sharply at the same time.

Before he can argue his case, something slams into the window leaving a bloody imprint. A bad feeling creeps over him and he can feel his tattoos start to move across his skin with unrest. Ms. Blake approaches the window cautiously and Stiles does exactly the opposite, for some reason remembering Allison’s deer incident. Without thinking he reaches for her and finds her doing the same. They share a wary look as they spy the black dots quickly approaching. They pull each other towards the exit as the rest of the class approaches the windows curiously, but they never make it. Birds dive and slam into the windows and then into the students when they break through in a shower of crystal. Students scream and bat at the birds. Stiles pulls on Allison, Allison pulls on Stiles, and they make it to the teacher's desk and crawl under it for cover.

“Stiles? Stiles!” A voice finally penetrates his mind, when all the birds lie dead all over the classroom. At Allison’s wild eyed look, he recalls the ash back, praying no one noticed it. Some teachers rush in, having heard the commotion. “Stiles!”

He eyes his phone, breathing harsh and heart pounding wildly. He still has Allison under his arm, his hand covering her head protectively and her hands are fisting her own jacket, which she had used to cover them both, in a white knuckled grip. He distantly remembers hearing the phone ringing but doesn’t recollect taking the call at all.

“Peter?”

"Stiles..."

A moment later, there’s a ringing in his ears and he can’t breathe. Allison presses a bag into his hand and he tries to control his panic attack. And no. No, no, no. No, he doesn’t have time for this now, he has to get to the hospital. His father is hurt.

The moment he has himself more or less under control, he gets up to head to his jeep. Ms. Blake stops them and when he tries to explain that he has to get to the hospital now, she says she can’t let them drive in shock, that that’s an accident waiting to happen. He ignores her and tries to leave anyway. Allison follows him, both of their bags in her hands. When the woman actually steals his car keys from his hands, right there in the parking lot, Stiles is ready to commit murder. He snarls at her and she recoils aghast. Coach Finstock, of all people, steps in, taking the keys from her hand before she can even register his presence.

“Bilinski! Get in the car,” he bellows signaling to his own car before turning to Allison. “You too, but just because I know you’ll follow and I don’t want to deal with the problem of explaining to your father why they have to unstick you from the asphalt with a spatula.”

Stiles has never been more grateful to that asshole of a man as he is now. Finstock gets them to the hospital in record time and harasses the nurse until she gives them the information they need. Stiles almost sags with the relief he feels when he learns of his dad’s condition. Allison's arm is firmly hooked around his own and normally Stiles would recoil at the contact in a situation like this, but it feels wonderfully grounding.

They reach the waiting room and Peter is there, silently snarling at Derek, Isaac, Scott and Melissa. When Stiles spies the blood on the man’s clothes, it’s as if time stops and then, when it restarts, everything goes in slow motion.

“Thanks, Coach, I can take it from here,” he says, hearing his own voice as if it’s coming from underwater.

“You sure, Bilinski?”

“Yeah, I’m not alone. Thanks for driving me here.”

The man finally leaves after a moment of hesitation. He tosses the teen the keys to his jeep as he turns and Allison is the one to catch them when Stiles misses them. He accepts them from her with a thanks and pockets them. Stiles waits until he can’t see Finstock anymore before finally talking, his voice so cold that it burns.

“What. The. Hell. Happened.”

Derek frowns, Melissa and Isaac honest to god flinch and Scott recoils. None of them make to speak. Peter starts to explain but Derek interrupts with some bullshit about humans and danger. Allison bristles in fury and after checking there’s no one else in the waiting room, she tasers him into kingdom come. Peter looks reluctantly impressed. Everything descends into chaos and Stiles finally reaches his limit. He roars.

He gets his explanation.

The alpha pack are definitely a threat. They have Erica and Boyd and they nearly got Isaac, who escaped thanks to some mystery woman. In the middle of their escape they crossed his father, who was on duty investigating some calls about disturbances. He helped them get to the hospital. That was very early this morning.

Apparently, wounds made by alphas take time to heal, and that’s why Isaac got admitted. He asked to call for Derek, who didn’t answer his phone because he has lost it (Peter's face doesn't even twitch) and hasn’t bothered replacing it yet. Isaac also asked for Scott, but Melissa didn’t want to distract him and it took a while before she relented. This gave the alpha pack enough time to infiltrate the hospital to try to abduct Isaac and the mystery woman again, whom, by the way, has disappeared and not been seen ever since. His father caught them in the act and the only reason he wasn’t killed was because Derek and Peter appeared to save the day. Scott arrived in time to catch the tail end of it and prevent a second alpha from taking a drugged up Isaac with the help of Derek, while Peter gave his father first aid until the nurses and doctors rushed in.

When the explanation is done, Stiles has a moment in which his body and mind want to act in a million different ways. He wants to ragecryscreamhurtkill. His breath gets caught for a second before he deflates, suddenly exhausted. He sags in the chair beside Peter and Allison copies him, taking his hand.

Dad has only a flesh wound and a concussion, the only reason there’s so much blood is because they grazed his scalp, he has to remind himself before he panics one more time. The urge to do something drastic assaults him again with vengeance. Heart in his throat, he settles for squeezing Peter’s knee and Allison’s hand, and kicking everybody else out via implacably cutting barbs. Peter looks fascinated by his abrasive invective and Allison’s lips twitch despite the situation.

“Thanks for calling me,” he chokes out, settling a cold stare on Melissa as she leaves, which makes her flinch, “and for helping my father. That’s three, I suppose.”

“You get a discount just this once for being such a loyal customer. And because that cinnamon muffin was fantastic.” A strangled half-laugh, half-sob escapes Stiles. “Ah, before I forget, hang your phone up, sweetheart.”

“What?” he asks confused, his voice a little tremulous.

“Your phone. You never hung up.”

He fishes out the phone from his back pocket and, sure enough, the call is still active at thirty-four minutes, forty seconds and counting. He bites his lip, feeling ridiculously grateful about what Peter not ending the call implies, and hangs up.

He squeezes the man's knee again, takes a deep breath and waits for the permission to go to see his father.

(He's alive and just a little banged up, he reminds himself again.)

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[sassyshortstack]

I had a random flashback again today. It came out of nowhere. They got better - or rather fewer - this fall, and now it feels like they’re seeping back. They don’t last as long as they used to, but they’re just as real and even more jarring. When they come, my breath stops and I don’t realize it until my brain lands back in the present and I remember to breathe.

So, I’m going to sift through the memories in the hopes that writing about them will help keep the disturbing flashbacks at bay more. TW: cancer, death, grief, suicidal thoughts.

My sister Rebecca died on August 25, 2016. I watched it happen. But in many ways, I still don’t believe it.

On New Year’s Eve 2015, she was diagnosed with Stage IV cervical carcinoma and metastatic lung nodules. Which basically means she had a giant tumor in her uterus, and it had spread enough to cause damage to her lungs before we knew. She underwent chemotherapy and radiation for the following eight months. In the summer of 2016, she had to use an oxygen tank way too fucking often. Then one night in August, a week before she died, she started having sudden chest pain. My mom and I drove her to the ER. When they took her back to one of those terrible half-open ER rooms, with mattresses that are way worse than even the ones in my college dorms, I was with her. The nurse asked what pain level she was feeling on a scale of 1 to 10, and she managed to get out “Eight.” Somebody told my mother that Rebecca had a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in the lung). Later that night, I asked my mom what that meant, and she told me just that - “it’s a blood clot in the lung” - but I didn’t really understand what it meant until days later.

My dad came to the hospital from the meeting he’d been at when we first brought my sister to the ER. He called my brother, who was several states away, to book a flight to come home right now, and in the back of the mind I realized that wasn’t a good thing. But I wasn’t scared. I knew my sister was stronger than this disease. I knew she’d make it. I just knew.

I wasn’t really scared until three nights later, when Dad, Andrew, and I were asleep (sort of) at home and Mom was at the hospital overnight. She called my dad at three in the morning to say Rebecca was having trouble breathing and being admitted to the ICU, and we needed to come right away. We all threw on clothes, jumped into the car, and sped off. I could feel my heart thumping so hard it was trying to escape my chest, as if my system beating harder and faster would help keep her alive too. We half ran into the ICU, and I was so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like that. I was standing on a sheer cliff of terror, ringing in my ears, my head spinning, so scared that she would be gone and I wouldn’t be there for her. My sister, my best friend in the whole world, my soulmate and guardian and inspiration and dearest love.

When we finally made it through security and all the fluorescent, sterile-smelling hallways and arrived in her room, I was relieved to see my sister alive - and then I saw our pastor standing there. Anger like I had never known pumped through me. Why the hell is she here? Rebecca isn’t dead. She shouldn’t be here, we don’t need her. I tried to push the fury aside. I played the part when she asked us to pray together, when she blessed my sister, when she read from the Bible. But inside, I was full of rage. Stop treating my sister like she’s dead. She’s right here, and she’s going to be fine. Fuck off.

And in some ways, I was right. Rebecca made it through the night. The scariest night of my life. I hated seeing her with that stupid bag under her oxygen mask, to help her breathe better. Seeing her with the oxygen tube so often earlier in the summer had been bad enough, but the mask was somehow so much worse. But she made it through the night. And the sun rose through the big glass windows by her bed, where I was perched in a chair. It was a stunningly beautiful sunrise - the sky morphed from a deep slate blue to all hues of pink and orange. I was the one sitting in the room with her when the sun came up - we were holding hands and not talking much. She nodded outside the window. “Look.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

At some point, one of the doctors came in to talk about their next steps, and although I don’t remember what exactly he said, he was basically telling us she’d be able to do outpatient radiation again in a couple days. My family kept saying that was good news, but I was confused and had this inexplicable bad, twisted feeling in my gut. I don’t know how I knew, but I just knew that he was wrong. If she was going to be better so soon, why did she still have to use that stupid oxygen mask? Why were we still in the ICU? I still knew deep down she’d make it, but I also knew that it wasn’t going to go the way he said it was. I felt totally spaced out. Looking back, that day - her first day in the ICU - was when the deep shock really started to settle in. We’d had tons of visitors every day she’d been in the hospital, and there were even more that day, including cousins, old teachers, church friends, work friends, and some people I hadn’t seen in years. In retrospect, that really should have been a warning to me. That night, our family friends made my mom leave the hospital instead of spending the night with her, which my brother, dad, and I were incredibly grateful for. They also made my brother and me leave to do something fun that evening.

I still just felt so wrong. I knew my sister would survive this, but I also knew the radiologist was wrong. I was moving and talking and hearing other people talk to me, but I was totally not in my own skin. We’d had tickets to see the Royals game that night, and I didn’t really want to go, but our family friends kept saying we needed to get out and do something, so Andrew, my Aunt Deb, Amanda (my cousin closest to my age, and who I’m closest with in my extended family), and I all went to the game. I was in the backseat behind Andrew, who was driving, and he and Aunt Deb were mainly the ones talking on the long drive to the stadium. I kept hearing their words float by me without totally connecting them. But then my aunt started talking in a way that suggested she was worried, that she was on the verge of tears, that she was scared for my sister. She said she wanted her to sign a fabric square for a quilt she was making my parents just in case. Dimly, I felt annoyed and angry again. Why did people keep doubting my sister? She already battled and overcame so much. She already made it through depression, and she was going to kick cancer in the ass. Why did no one seem to have faith in her but me?

And then one phrase in particular stuck out to me. “If indeed Rebecca does pass away.”

My breath seized up. It felt like iron weights were crashing around my ears and weighing down my chest, creating a racket and suppressing my airstream all at once. The world was disappearing. All that existed was the terrible noise and the horrible weight and the sickeningly blurred trees and buildings outside my window.

No one had told me.

No one had told me my sister was in danger of dying.

And that’s how I found out. Through an aside, in a car, on the way to a fucking baseball game.

And I still haven’t been able to forgive my parents for that.

The next day, everything got worse - but I somehow didn’t feel worse. I just felt empty. Dazed. I remember my aunt and uncle making my brother and me gluten free funfetti pancakes (my aunt had amusingly but very unintentionally bought the funfetti rather than regular box at the store without realizing) with big, ripe blueberries. I remember my sister’s regular doctor coming to talk to us. I couldn’t process what she was saying. It was like I could see her mouth moving, hear that there were words spilling out, but I couldn’t understand her. Like she was speaking another language I used to know, but I just couldn’t remember a lot of the words anymore. She sounded almost angry. I was confused. I think she was pissed at the radiologist who had been there the day before and told us a plan that would never come to fruition. My mother looked scared, but I was just lost. I had known, I had felt yesterday, that the other doctor was wrong, and it seemed like that was what Rebecca’s primary doctor was saying now. But I still knew she’d be fine.

Then the word “hospice” made it through the fog in my brain.

I didn’t understand at first, but gradually I realized. She was going to be transferred to a hospice house. Later that day, at home, I asked my mom what that meant. She said with tears in her eyes that they take people there who they think have less than a week to live. I think I cried a little with her, but deep down, I was still hopeful. I still knew she’d make it. She always had, after all. The hospice house was for old people who have lived their lives, not twenty-five-year-olds with so much left. She still had a chance.

That night, my other aunt - the one who got the funfetti pancakes - was taking her daughter Amanda and my brother and me to their house for the night. On the way there, it was suggested we get ice cream, so we stopped at a Freddy’s Frozen Custard. We all ordered ice cream, and laughed together about how this was the most productive feelings-eating session there had ever been. It’s amazing what good food and good family can do for the soul. I didn’t feel so alone all of a sudden. About two bites into our ice cream, Amanda started making a big production of wanting fries too to really complete the whole eat-our-feelings thing. She was being her funniest, Amanda-est best, standing up and running to the counter to get a large order of fries. The half hour or so we spent there, laughing and talking over the saddest fries and ice cream in the world, was oddly perfect. It was the most I’d felt like me all week.

The next morning, they moved her to the hospice house. It was a Wednesday. And since it was August in Kansas City, it was hot and humid and disgusting. I’ve never liked summer, but the summer of 2016 has given me eternal fuel for hatred for the season.

The hospice house was cozy and filled with love and prayers from many volunteers and former visitors. And I hated it. I hated the word “hospice,” which I hadn’t really heard or read since my grandpa died years ago. I hated the butterfly logo, the ornate carpet, the dimly lit rooms. More than anything in the world, I hated the smell. I can’t describe it, but it still fills my nostrils whenever I have panic attacks or flashbacks. It was totally different from the terrible sterility of the hospital, and different from any smell of any other house or home I’ve ever set foot in. It was all wrong, and strange.

Rebecca had so many visitors that day. We gave her a quilt square and a Sharpie to write her name, or to draw something. She was such a good artist. But she kept falling asleep. Why is she falling asleep? She kept starting to write something, and managed to get out a block letter A and little else. A? Why A? She kept falling asleep trying to write even one word. And I still don’t know what it was going to be.

Not long after that, she started to sleep. And not long after that, she was slipping out of consciousness. Visitor after visitor came to sit by her, talk to her, but she was fast asleep. At some point, I took a break to walk around the hospice house garden. My aunt gently suggested calling a friend from St. Olaf. So I asked Ellen if we could talk, and she was happy to help. I paced around the garden, restlessly going by flower after flower, for once not scared of the bees. It was sunny and bright, and thanks to a breeze, not excessively warm in the shade of the trees. There were spinning wind sculptures amidst all the plants. I paused in front of a clump of yellow roses. Ellen had given me a yellow rose when my grandfather died. I stared at them as I told her what was happening. She just kept saying how sorry she was, and how it sucked, and how she wanted to help me any way she could. I told her, truthfully, that she was helping. (Side note: And she still does, every day. We are roommates. On the one year anniversary of my sister’s death, she kept me company half the night when I couldn’t sleep.)

I went back inside. I talked with people. Lots of them. They all looked at me like it was hard to face me. I couldn’t fully understand why. If anyone could make it through this, it was my sister. And no one seemed to know it but me. One of the hospice house nurses came to tell us they thought it would be soon now. But I just didn’t understand.

Evening came, and so did a storm. Rain started pattering against the windows at about the same time darkness fell. Late in the evening, at around nine o’clock, it turned into a real thunderstorm. Lightning was crashing outside, and inside, dozens of our friends and family - at least thirty people - were crowded inside the room. I don’t remember who first suggested it, but somehow, it came up that we should sing. My family - and many of our friends - are very musical, especially my parents, brother, sister, and me, and many of us were raised in the Lutheran church. So somehow, someone suggested we sing a hymn, and my brother started us off. A few of us looked up the lyrics on our phones, and within a few bars, the singing was full and strong. And then someone suggested another song. And another. And another. Sometimes, there would be a pause in between, and other times someone would just start singing a new hymn right away after the last one. I preferred no silence, because my sister was having more and more trouble breathing, and it was agonizing listening to her. So I was singing and singing, full and rich, not even having to hold back tears, overflowing with the music, helping lead the song. After a while, in the back of my mind, I wished we could do a Christmas song, but I was worried people would think it odd if I brought it up. But not a minute after this wish popped into my head, one of my little cousins asked my brother if we could sing “Silent Night.” It made me really and truly happy - and not just because I have the mind of an eight-year-old. We kept singing and singing (including a couple more Christmas carols, but mostly other hymns), and strange as it seems now, it felt totally natural. 

All in all, we sang for two hours. And we only really stopped because a nurse came by shortly after eleven to tell us that there was going to be a tornado warning in the county, and now might be a good time for visitors who needed to return home to do so before the storm got worse. So, most people left. Only my aunt and uncle, and three of our really close friends who might as well be related to us by now, stayed. They all went with the nurses to a chapel inside the hospice house, which had more cover from a potential tornado than my sister’s room. The nurses told my parents, Andrew, and me that we were welcome to stay with Rebecca unless there was a tornado coming our way, at which point they would come get us.

So we stayed. We decided each of us would be by her side in shifts while the others slept still in the room. My parents were with her first; I planted myself on the couch and Andrew took the rollaway cot. I couldn’t sleep anyway - not that he really could either. When my parents were ready to trade, he told me quietly to try and sleep. I nodded. I rummaged through my bag to see if I had brought my iPod, and was hugely relieved to see I had. With a blanket wrapped around me in a chair near Andrew, I put the headphones in my ears and sifted through songs to make a playlist, trying to bring some semblance of comfort or sleep. I was looking through music for quite a while, partially because I was half listening to Andrew reading my sister books - Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. She was a preschool teacher, and those were two of her favorite books in the whole wide world. I loved and hated seeing him read to her like that. Then he told me he was going to try and find our family friends. I said okay, and moved into the chair beside her. My parents were asleep. It was just her and me.

I moved the chair closer, so that I could hold her hand. We held hands all the time, so I knew the shape and warmth of her hands well. So it frightened me out of my wits when I took her hand and this time, it was icy cold. I felt a shock of panic course its way through me, but shook it off. I had to be with her. She needed me. I swallowed and took a deep breath. Then I took out my phone and started to read. An Awesome Book of Love.

The words fell from my mouth, staggering a little at first, but gradually with a rhythm.

...But we aren’t all of those things - you’re you and I’m me. And we’re as together as together can be. And you know I’m aglow with a smile on my face When I wonder what magic you’ll make of this place - Of this town, of this world. You’ll transform your surroundings! That spirit inside you is truly astounding...

I started to crumble a little. The words came slower and slower. But I had to keep going. I squeezed her hand tighter, willing warmth to flow it, willing her breathing to ease. Her breaths were coming too slowly, and it terrified me to my core. I’d never heard anyone breathe like that. I wanted her to feel better. I continued on.

...I love you! I love you! In so many ways - Over thousands of years, over billions of days...

Tears were falling rapidly. This book meant so much to me, and the words were so perfect for how I felt about her, Rebecca, my sister, my sunshine. Dimly, I realized a nurse had quietly walked in. I kept reading. It was one o’clock in the morning, and I was tired and scared and confused and crying a little, but I kept reading. I glanced at the words, but mostly I looked at her face, her long eyelashes - which had managed to grown back even longer than they had been before all that chemo - resting on her cheek.

...I love you! When I’m holding your hand, When you’re making a plan, When you’re thinking a thought, When you’re dancing a dance.

And then...I stopped. Because the world had stopped.

She was gone.

I had watched her last breath. I had held her hand for the last time. I was the last one to see her alive. I saw her die.

I fell apart.

I started crying like I’d never cried before. My parents woke up, realizing what had happened. My brother came back, and I remember us all hugging. I couldn’t stop crying. I was splitting at the seams. I was going to die. I wanted to die. I didn’t want to be in a world that my sister wasn’t a tangible, living part of. Andrew took me out to the living room, guided me to a surprisingly comfortable couch. I curled up on one end of it, just like I do at home, while he went to get the rest of our family. I cried like I’d never cried before.

After a few moments, I pulled out my phone and texted my St. Olaf friends. It was the middle of the night, so I was surprised to get a reply from my close friend Brenna. She had been sending me links to songs throughout the week as I updated her on everything going on. That night, she sent me “No One is Alone” from Into the Woods. It was beautiful and sad and perfect.

A little while later - I have only some dim memories of my family friends coming back from the chapel - Andrew and I ended up on the couch together, with all the adults in the room. We talked. And it occurred to me that this was the last day the three of us would ever be together. Now it would just be Andrew and me. We hugged for a long, long time, and I cried and got snot all over his shirt. Eventually, he got up gently to make us both green tea and get out a box of gluten free crackers. I hadn’t even realized I was hungry or thirsty until he did that. It was still raining outside, but it wasn’t storming so hard anymore.

At around half past three, we all left. Andrew and I went back to my aunt and uncle’s once more, and although I tried to be quiet, I woke up my cousin when I climbed into her bed. She looked at her phone, saw the texts from her parents, and wrapped me in a warm, comforting hug. So many people held me while I cried that night, but she was the one who made me laugh. The storm had picked back up by the time we got to their house, and when a huge streak of lightning, followed quickly by a loud crack of thunder, split the air, we both laughed a little.

“Rebecca must be throwing a party up there,” she said hoarsely.

I laughed. “Yeah.”

That week, and especially the night Rebecca died, has changed me forever, but I’ve grown enough to know now that this shitty experience hasn’t ruined me. It’s not the ending of my story, even though I still sometimes wish it was - and it’s sure as hell not the end of her story either. She lives on in me, and in so many other people - our family and friends, her music, even her preschool students. And even though I still find myself, like that night, sobbing in agony, or feeling empty and lonely and totally wrung out, or wishing the world would end or at least go away...I also find myself, like that night, surrounded by love more times than I can count.

She was always so full of love. Overbrimming. And I have been, too.

I still am.

- - -

I’d still love you no matter what sense it would make. I’d love you whenever, whatever it takes. I’d love you no matter, cause you’re you and I’m me - Together forever, in love as can be. - An Awesome Book of Love, Dallas Clayton

[bathvanity]

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The Headphones Are Removable, As Long As You Just Wish To Utilize It For The Sound Isolation

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from Mohammad Warren Batserve http://batserve.com/the-headphones-are-removable-as-long-as-you-just-wish-to-utilize-it-for-the-sound-isolation/