#I’m a sad beige simmer I think

[mossyrck]

I wish I knew how to make beautiful colorful interiors. I suck at interiors to begin with and then I try to add beautiful colors and I make it look shitty

[goodluckclove]

RANDOM EXCERPT TIME

the cool thing about migration patterns is that ollie exists now, a character who's magic comes from her arfid. so i actually have an entirely new way to conceptualize food and nutrition.

as someone who struggles with disordered eating i really related to writing this sequence between her and tenzin (thanks to @godsmostfuckedupgoblin for inspiring me to set it in my real-life favorite park in portland). i'd love to see if anyone else in a similar place finds some joy in this!

it's not sad by the way it's very cute. i like ollie a lot.

By the time they finished the bag of peas was half defrosted. Ollie tore open the top and was tossing loose handfuls ahead of them, which quickly summoned more ducks than Tenzin was able to fully process.

“Touching peas like that doesn’t bother you?” Tenzin asked, watching form her corner of the bench.

“Hm? Ah. No, why?”

“You used to freak out about eating anything that popped in your mouth. That was probably one of your biggest icks.”

Ollie grinned and shook her head. “No, no. Eggs are my biggest ick. Uh, yeah – I’m not about to eat any of this trash. But it’s better for the birds than bread or crackers. And you gotta be nice to birds,” she leaned down slowly until she was far enough for a larger beige duck to snap some green bulbs from the palm of her outstretched hand. “I am growing, though, Like, as a person. Had a big win the other day.”

“Yeah?”

“Ate an olive.”

She wiped some moisture off her palms, slapping them together in a grandly dramatic fashion before leaning back against the bench and idly rubbing along the edge of her bad knee. Ollie cast Tenzin a look of bemused pride, the type of pride that was an actual sense of accomplishment masked as humor in order to deflect potential mockery.

Tenzin put the groceries back in the bag and set it on the concrete at their feet, where it was quickly inspected by their horde of hungry ducks. She turned on the bench, crossing one leg on the seat of it. “Like, a whole olive?”

“Straight out of the jar,” Ollie smirked.

“On purpose? I mean, did you know –?”

Ollie waggled her brow. “Oh, I knew. Knew the whole time.”

“Holy shit.”

That got a pleased laugh out of Ollie. She made a dismissive, joking gesture, but as the amusement faded Tenzin saw a slight flush simmering along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“An olive,” it’s funny how one small act could take precedence over years of unspoken resentment. “That would’ve killed you when we were kids,” Tenzin leaned forward and lowered her voice. “How’d it happen? What’d you think afterwards?”

At first Ollie said nothing. She broadened her grin slightly, though tinging it with a hint of suspicion. Or maybe embarrassment? It was hard to tell. Finally she broke from her line of sight and snickered sheepishly at their audience of wandering ducks.

“I was in the Mess Hall,” she began. “Renja left a bottle on the counter. I saw it, and – I don’t know – something broke inside of me. I was just like fuck it and I ate one. It really isn’t –”

“Did you like it?” Tenzin cut in.

Ollie looked at her. She scoffed again. “Not really. The texture was fine, and I liked how salty it was, but it kind of tasted like blood.”

Tenzin stared at her friend. Her curls were well maintained. There were strands of silver that now stood out among the occasional ringlet of chestnut brown. She had smile lines starting to form in the corners of her mouth. Because she smiled a lot. Ollie always smiled a lot.

“You ate an olive,” Tenzin whispered in astonishment.

Ollie looked like she was going to laugh, but didn’t. She locked eyes again with Tenzin, searching her face, seeing something in Tenzin the same way she saw something in Ollie. When she smiled again it was surprisingly gentle.

“I ate an olive,” Ollie murmured proudly.

[hansolmates]

here comes the bride, all dressed in pride

summary; You and your cousin Doyeon have had beef with each other since the sandbox. When she plucks the last straw, you decide to end your long-simmering fight by claiming that you and her ex—Jeon Jungkook, are now boyfriend and girlfriend pairing; jungkook x reader (f) genre/warnings; fake dating!au, fluff, crack, mentions of cheating, lang, alcohol, mc eats meat, tw sexual harassment, toxic family, dick talk, making out, if u have that one family member that pulls bs on you constantly this is it, this fic is for all the people who have a huge ass family who wont leave them alone w.c; 17.3k  a/n: my second fic for gcn’s 23 birthday project! the fact that wedding szn zoomed by us like that... and so bc im sad that so many weddings had to be postponed this fic was born! a huge thank u to vivi @eerieedits​ / @chillingtae​​ for creating this BEAUTIFUL fic banner and separator pls check vivi out to make your fics all purty

prompts used: “You’ve always been beautiful to me, don’t you know that?” and “I never knew love could be like this, feel like this.”

if you enjoyed this pls consider giving a like and a share💕💕

Doyeon likes to call Jungkook, “the one who got away.” 

You like to call Doyeon, “the one who drove him away.” 

In secret, of course. In fact, the only person who knows how much you loathe Doyeon and her behavior is your father. And all your co-workers. And your boss. And your boss’ ex-husband. 

And Jeon Jungkook, but of course you haven’t seen the man in two years and back then he was far too polite to address his concerns of your hatred of his then-girlfriend. 

Okay, so everyone and their mother knows how much you don’t like your cousin. Kim Doyeon and you have had beef since the sandbox, and for whatever reason is always out to one-up you. A strange competitive nature in everything, academics, family, and even boys. The sick, twisted part of you has come to enjoy it. While you’re not a fighter as devout as Doyeon is, you have your own callous tendencies farmed from the seeds Doyeon has planted in your brain. She gives you a comment? You can’t help but throw one back. Since you’re a painfully mature soul you don’t have any mortal enemies as far as you know, Doyeon is the perfect amount of hot water to keep you on your toes. 

“I’m really sorry that you couldn’t be a bridesmaid,” Doyeon cooes next to you, swirling her champagne glass with a too-jutted pout, “but if I did there’d be an odd number of pairings and you’re a little too old to be walking as a bridesmaid, am I right?” 

Your nails. Are digging. Through your dress. Alas, you’re in public and you have class. Doyeon smiles at you with all teeth, reminding you of the Beldam from Coraline. Aside from that she looks absolutely stunning in that Lirika Matoshi strawberry dress that has her Instagram aching with likes and love from her baseless followers. 

“I don’t know,” you reply lightly, leaning back in your seat, “I mean, if Yoojung and Rena can be bridesmaids and they’re three years older than me, wouldn’t I make the cut? It’s okay to be honest and say you just didn’t want me in the bridal party.” 

Doyeon laughs, slaps your thigh like you told her the most hilarious joke in the world. Anyone passing by would think you’re best friends. You laugh too, incredulous at the amount of power she thinks she holds. 

“Nice party,” you tack on, surveying the room. It’s filled with pastels and beiges, bright and airy.  It’s Parisian themed, and while you’re not a fan of theming cultures, you can’t deny that you’re loving the infinite supply of macarons. 

“Oh, yes. This is just a taste of the real wedding,” she laces her fingers together, as if she thinks she’s living an Elizibethean love story, “speaking of, you put on your RSVP that you’re bringing a plus one. Am I allowed to know who’s the unlucky date?” 

“As if you care.” 

“I care if you’re bringing Jimin. That tiny thing nearly gave Aunt Lillian a heart attack when he gave a striptease at Yoongi’s graduation party.” 

You smirk softly at the bold memory. That was the plan. 

Doyeon sighs dramatically, crossing her legs and popping out a cherry red heel. She plays with the back on the balls of her feet, letting the little pearly rhinestones glisten in the candlelight, “I should really commend you, cousin,” she drawls, “I mean, how kind of you to be so charitable and give your dopey friends a chance to have fun. After all, I’m sure it is difficult for someone like you to find a date.” 

It’s no surprise as to how you end up with a date at any family formal gathering. You say you bring a plus one, and then between Jimin, Taehyung and Hoseok. The three of them draw straws as to who gets to gorge on free alcohol and food for that night. 

“Difficult?” you arch a brow, “I get plenty of dates.” 

Doyeon giggles. She must be feeling extra vindictive today, high on her impending marriage and the taste of bubbly champagne. “By taking turns with those three? You gotta be kidding me,” she snorts, tipping back her crystal, “please y/n. Don’t get so defensive because I’m getting married first. Your time will come. That is, if you stop dicking around with your friends.” 

Normally you’d smother any attempt at Doyeon to call out your friends, but now she’s just done that and insulted your ability to get some, and you are livid. 

“Actually,” you quip sharply, “I’ve been dating someone. It’s been a couple months, actually.” 

“Oh?” Doyeon’s genuinely interested, face falling slightly, “you’ve never mentioned anyone, I don’t see anyone on your social media.” 

“Yeah well,” you feign sympathy, pressing your lips together and tilting your head accordingly, “I’ve had to keep it private for a couple of reasons.” 

“What, is he ugly or something?” she chuckles, “but really, who’s the person who has the misfortune of being in a committed relationship with you?” 

Maybe it’s because Doyeon’s right, the both of you are too old. The two of you have been running around each other for years, with no end in sight. Maybe, the words that linger on the tip of your tongue will be the final nail in the coffin. 

“Jeon Jungkook,” you state proudly, clear as day. “Jungkook and I have been dating for three months.” 

And you pick up the vanilla macaron that sits innocently on your plate, ravishing it up like it contained all the tension in your table. Between you and Doyeon’s bubble, you could hear a pin drop. 

“Jungkook?” her smile is concrete-solid, “my Jungkook?” 

“My Jungkook,” you correct, giving her a puppy-eyed look, “I’m really sorry I never told you. I mean, is there ever a right time to tell your cousin they’re dating their ex-boyfriend?” you laugh, either to lighten the mood or because you love the way Doyeon pinches her face, you don’t know.

“How did you two even meet?” 

“We reconnected through Seokjin. You know how the two of them play Starcraft together, I just ended up joining the call and he was so funny and nice. We just sorta… felt it.” Doyeon nods like a slow bobblehead, still comprehending in her pea-sized brain, “I just hope it isn’t too awkward. I know it’s been awhile but, if you really don’t want Jungkook to come I can always take Hoseok or something.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Doyeon says a little too quickly, masking on her picture-perfect smile. “I’m with Namjoon now, and I’m totally happy. Water under the bridge, it’ll be totally fine.” 

“Really?” your eyes practically sparkle, thankful for the amount of glitter and highlighter you’ve dumped on your face today, “I really appreciate it, Yeonie.” 

And she quickly downs her champagne glass, and gets up from her seat. It’s haunting, the way she gets up, pink tulle billowing around her ankles. “I have to attend to the other guests,” she says. 

“Of course,” you raise your glass.

“But, be careful,” she gives you a little smile, one filled with a last-ditch attempt at a jab, “Jungkook, he’s a little hard to deal with.” 

“Oh don’t worry. I know how to deal with Jungkook’s hardness,” you wink, and Doyeon’s face falls like a ton of bricks. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know,” you shrug loftily, “that’s what I meant, though.” 

And you don’t bother watching Doyeon stomp off the metaphorical stage, double fisting two new glasses of champagne from an awaiting butler as she finds some other poor guest to pick on. Now, the matter of securing your date. Conveniently so, the most important man in the room is walking your way, and you manage to snag his tie just as he passes your table. 

“Ow—ow! I’m choking!” Seokjin grabs, nearly throwing his tall body onto your lap, hands grappling to release the tension on his neck. “Leave me alone, woman! I just wanted to get some chicken tenders!” 

“Jin,” you say sweetly, opening his blazer to retrieve his phone, “I need Jeon’s number, now.” 

“Jungkook?” your favorite cousin pales, eyes widening as you take out your phone of your own, copying down the digits, “what did you do?” 

“Don’t ask questions.” 

Seokjin says your name again, firmer. “You’re playing with fire.” 

“It’ll be fine, it’s the last time,” you quell, already knowing how much Seokjin hates being in the middle of your fights. Once you’ve secured the phone number, you place Seokjin’s phone back into his pocket, patting his breast. “Thank you. You know you’re my favorite cousin, you know that?” 

He grumbles a “damn right I am” before stomping away, resuming his race for his chicken tenders. 

You: hey jeon it’s y/n. I see you’re doing great, i saw on instagram that you released your first app w/yoongi! Totally amazing, been playing for weeks, really upset that i can’t get past the flaming frog boss :((

You: Feel free to ignore this, i won’t blame you if you do. Im at doyeon’s rehearsal dinner, and she basically snubbed my friends and said i couldn’t get some prime dick even though im?? Me??? Anyway, im tired of her shit so im gonna throw it back at her, one last time before she ties the knot. I told her you and i have been dating, and im bringing you as my date to her wedding. Really sorry, the demons took over my brain and made the worst and best comeback of my life. So… if you’re up for being the hottest couple on the floor in three weeks and showing how madly in love we are, please text me back? Or not. You might think this family is crazy and i accept partial responsibility. 

You: I’ll buy u every meal for every practice date we have if u agree.💕💕💕

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: thanks, i appreciate that. To defeat the frog boss, go back to the coconut cave and find the garnet garter. It absorbs his fire and u can easily defeat froggo w any level 15 weapon

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: and as for the real reason u texted me. Im in. let’s get pork belly tomorrow. 

Two years ago, you were surprised that Doyeon could manage to snag a man as fine as Jeon Jungkook. Also unsurprised, because Doyeon is gorgeous and could snag any man she wanted, and has snagged every man she wanted. 

Jungkook was different though. He had an air of innocence to him. He loved her, a little too much to be safe. Your heart would betray you every time you would find him at a family gathering, making her plate and counting the calories she so meticulously measured. How can someone so sweet be with someone like Doyeon? 

Your heart ached for Jungkook when they broke up a year later. From what you heard, Doyeon was Jungkook’s first serious girlfriend. And then you wanted to rip your heart out a week later when you caught Doyeon smooching with her favorite graduate professor Kim Namjoon, wanting to erase any possibility you’d have at love. At that time, you never wanted to feel the pain you imagined Jungkook was going through. 

“Y/n! Over here!” you’re a little taken aback at how much has not changed in Jungkook. His eyes still sparkle like fresh dew, his smile is still pearly white and infectious. He’s even early, snagging a table at his favorite barbeque place and waiting for you as if he is the one organizing your first date. 

At the same time, there’s so much that’s changed about him. He’s confident, even going so far as to walk over to you and slip your jacket and purse in his grasp like a gentleman. He leads you by putting a hand lightly at the small of your back, making you feel impossibly small in comparison to his Dorito-shaped body, broad shoulders and a deliciously trim waist. 

“How was the walk over?” 

“Not too bad,” the conversation is casual, easy. You wipe the sweat off your forehead with a napkin. “Could use a little exercise now and again. I did eat a whole tray of macarons at that rehearsal dinner.” 

Jungkook laughs from his belly, causing you to smile. “Nonsense. You look great, by the way,” you don’t mind it, actually, you enjoy it when his eyes rake over your body. After all, he’s now your boyfriend and he needs to get familiar with all the important bits. He leans his arms forward, bracing him against the wooden table so his face is closer to yours. 

“You’re not doing too bad yourself,” your eyes gloss over the veins and intricate tattoos that paint his muscled upper half. Your smile morphs into a smirk, letting him know you’re enjoying the view just as well as he is. 

And as soon as the tension sparks, it ends just as fast when your waiter comes up to light your grill. 

“So,” Jungkook wastes no time in decorating your stove, making sure to add all the appropriate aromatics and infusions to season your lunch, “do you know why Doyeon and I broke up?” 

“Cheated on you with Namjoon, I assume,” you keep your eyes trained on the darkening meat. 

Jungkook slips a piece of meat in his mouth. Any expression of pain (whether it be from Doyeon or the barely cooked meat) doesn’t reveal itself as he stops to take a sip of water. “Who else knows?” 

“Just me and Seokjin. The family loved you too much and Doyeon made up some sob story about how you two were going different life paths.” 

He chuckles to himself, taking great care in flipping the meat. “I really was a fool in love, wasn’t I?” 

“It… was mildly cute.” 

“Tell me the truth, you have no reason not to.” 

“Okay, you made me want to vomit rainbows and glitter every time I saw you.”

The two of you laugh, faces crinkling shamelessly as the two of you busy yourselves with setting up the table. Most of the food is done and the aroma of fresh onions wafts around your grill. As you place chopsticks on his side of the table, you think about all the times Jungkook made it abundantly clear how much he loved Doyeon: the love letters tucked into her purse, 100 day anniversaries, even just a simple Americano for her in the morning. 

“Is that why you never hung out with us?” 

“No,” you reply lightly, “Doyeon made it clear that I shouldn’t talk to you.” 

Jungkook frowns, “You really don’t like each other, do you.” 

You shrug, “Just always been like that,” you quirk a smile when Jungkook places the freshly cooked meat on top of your rice before serving himself. 

“So what’s the plan?” 

“We go to the wedding, make out a little, get Doyeon boiling. Even if she’s not interested in you, she’d still be upset knowing we are together.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because it’s me,” you grin into your glass, staring at a water-stained Jungkook through the blue tinted glass. “And all you have to do, is enjoy your night and look pretty.” 

His eyes crinkle, chopsticks pressing between his lips. “You think I look pretty?” 

With a roll of eyes you don’t respond, preferring to dig your chopsticks in your rice. No need to inflate Jungkook’s ego too soon. 

Pinning the main theme of your hangout to the side, the both of you dig into your meal. You throw conversation back and forth like pebbles, grains of sand that build and build until you’re caught up with each other’s lives. It feels so strange to admit it’s been two years since you’ve spoken to the man, and all of a sudden the once luscious meat feels dry in your mouth. 

“Jeon,” you put your chopsticks down, “are you sure you want to do this with me? I mean, I know it’s all my fault and I dragged you into it. Don’t feel obligated to agree to this.” 

“I’m a hundred-percent sure,” he doesn’t stop eating, shoving two spoonfuls of rice in his mouth. His cheeks puff up considerably, and your eyes trail down to his neck as he swallows, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t wanna.” 

“Right,” you don’t need a big explanation or a personal confession from Jungkook, just his consent. “Partners, Jeon?” you hold up your glass. 

“Partners,” he agrees easily. The smile on his face disarms you, a full-fledged grin decked with pearly whites. Clicking his glass to yours he adds, “And it’s Jungkook, babe.” 

Oh, this is going to be interesting. 

Seokjin thinks the two of you are the most boring fake-couple. 

His eyes dart back and forth between your spot on the couch and his desk, where Jungkook is currently seated. Seokjin is hovered over Jungkook, who’s typing and clicking furiously over his PC game. You’re on your phone, feet pulled up to the coffee table while some old Netflix movie plays in the background. To top it all off both of you didn’t even try to dress like it’s daytime, nearly matching in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. It doesn’t look like a couple coming to visit Seokin, it looks like Jungkook is playing video games with Seokjin while his cousin hangs around like she owns the place. 

“Shouldn’t you guys like, I don’t know, go on dates or something?” Seokjin feels like he’s talking to the air. “Maybe get to know each other before the big day?” 

Pulling your phone down to your lap and Jungkook taking off his headphones, the two of you shrug at each other, “No, we’re good.” Jungkook says. 

“We know enough,” you agree cooly, “Jungkook likes Valorant.” 

“I do like Valorant.” 

“He likes pork belly.”

“I do like pork belly.” 

“He’s ripped as hell.” 

“I am ripped as hell.” 

“Okay but have you guys kissed yet?” Seokjin interjects, probably compensating for the nonchalance in the room with his own brand of freaking out. You two only see each other when you’re hanging out at Seokjin’s apartment, and while he’s happy that you two aren’t doing the whole 9-yards and creating an elaborate scheme, the both of you are almost too relaxed. His anxiety is spiking.

“Yes,” Jungkook answers, “at the barbeque place we went to.” 

“It was nice," you tack on, "Jin, we got this. Don't worry." 

"How can I not worry when you're trying to upset our cousin on her wedding day?" he's sweating in his fully air-conditioned apartment. “I get that she’s the devil’s spawn and everything, but she’s still a human being.” 

“In second grade she pushed me on the treadmill because I was going too slow. I got caught on the roller and got a bald spot for two months.” 

“Okay yes one bad example—” 

“And in senior year she accused me of plagiarizing her essay just because we chose the same topic. I almost didn’t get into college!” Seokjin sighs, crossing his arms. All valid points, and arguing with you isn’t a route he wants to take. “Jin, the point is that she’s constantly pushing my buttons. I’ve always been the bigger person and now that I’m old and confident I just want one jab.”

“That’s valid,” Jungkook pipes up, pressing the spacebar a few times, “I want a jab too, she cheated on me.” 

“See? It’s a mutual decision.” 

Seokjin asks, “Why aren’t you more worried about this?”

"Because Doyeon isn't going to chew me out on her wedding day," you checked your aunt's seating chart last week and you are far, far away from the bridal table. "We're just going to show off a little bit. Get drunk, eat some bomb steak. Break up in three months or less.”

"You don't have to just convince Doyeon, it's your entire family! Not to mention you also have to go to the bachelor party!" 

"Oh I almost forgot," you reach under the couch for your laptop, "Jungkook, in two weekends from now we're flying to Las Vegas for the bachelor party and wedding. I'll buy your ticket now." 

"Thanks, babe!” Jungkook sends a cheeky grin to Seokjin, who is unimpressed. “See? I remember to call her babe.” 

“Alright, get out of my house,” Seokjin tugs Jungkook away from his computer, causing the younger man to swivel around in his plush gaming chair. 

Jungkook frowns at the monitor, “But I’m still bronze one. I’m aiming for silver one by this weekend.” 

“Don’t care. As much as I don’t like this plan, I’m not letting you two slip-up.” Seokjin pulls out his phone, revealing Doyeon’s Instagram story, “Doyeon and Namjoon are at the mall buying swimsuits for Vegas. Go to the mall and ‘accidentally’ run into them.”

You sit up straight, tilting your head to the side. “That’s not a bad idea, actually,” you bound over to grab your jacket, giving Seokjin a big fat kiss on his cheek, “Thanks Jinnie, do you know you’re—”

“I’m your favorite cousin. Yeah whatever, bye.” He waves you off, plopping in his own chair so he can enjoy his games in peace. 

“I’m driving,” Jungkook declares, swiping your keys from Seokjin’s opal dish. 

“Oh, hell no,” you jump on your tippy toes to reach Jungkook’s grasp on your keys, but he’s so freakishly tall there’s no way you can reach. “I drive my car!” 

“I’ve always wanted to drive your car back then,” Jungkook cooes, leaning in so your noses touch. “C’mon, you can trust me.” 

“You two are gross already,” Seokjin admonishes from the other side of the room, “see, it’s working!” 

Poking his cheek so he gives you some space, you whip your head to hide the flush that burns on your cheeks. “Fine, but if you crash you’re buying me a new one.” 

“They’re over there,” you hiss between the racks, shuffling between the plastic hangers to point to Doyeon and Namjoon at the women’s section of the store. They look disgustingly adorable together, with Doyeon pointedly telling Namjoon which swimsuit suits his stature better while Namjoon nods along and goes with whatever she says. You crouch down lower, fearing Namjoon’s tall frame would catch you. “Now we just gotta act all couple-y and they’ll notice us. Or maybe we can walk over to them? What do you wanna do?” 

“Do you think we should get matching swimsuits?” Jungkook pays no mind to your sleuthing, holding up a red pair of swim trunks to his thighs, “we could pretend to be sexy lifeguards.” 

You tilt your head away from the pair, only because Jungkook has been genuinely interested in this store since you’ve arrived. Putting a hand under your chin, you scrutinize the dark red cutoff shorts. “They’re cute,” you nod appreciatively, “It’ll make your thighs look thick.” 

Jungkook’s grip on his hanger lowers, and he regards you with dark eyes. “You think my thighs look thick?” he asks, leaning in and putting one hand on the curve of your waist. His fingers dance on the surface of bare skin between your top and jeans, and while you’ve agreed beforehand that you two could touch each other wherever in public, it still surprises you when gooseflesh rises to the surface.

“Easy there, tiger,” you chuckle, putting a hand on his chest to stop his sudden bout of flirting. “I’m just stating the facts, we get it. You lift.” 

“You’re so cute when you try to put your guard up,” he’s brushing noses with you now, and you feel the plastic of the hanger crumple pathetically between you two as the gap closes further. “But you can’t hide from me.”

And just as his lips move to press against yours, a shrill “Jungkook!” echoes throughout the large store.

You nearly flop over the boardshorts rack if not for Jungkook’s arms secured around your waist. Oh right, you think dumbly, this is all for show. Doyeon and Namjoon are right in front of you, purchases already made and looking at you two in curiosity. Well, Namjoon is definitely curious, because you know for a fact that Doyeon speaks very little of you to him and you’ve only conversed with him a handful of times. Doyeon on the other hand, looks a little stiff in the grin. 

“Hello to you too,” you remark to Doyeon, who’s barely acknowledged you. You reach over to squeeze Namjoon’s arm, “Hi Joonie,” you crinkle your eyes, and you fight back a squeal when he smiles back with dimples. Doyeon has such a cute fiancé, and if you’re keeping score he’s way too good for her. 

Doyeon’s eyes glaze over to where you’ve touched Namjoon, and she links her arms with his. “What a coincidence, you two are buying swimsuits where we’re buying swimsuits.” 

“Well, there’s only one mall in this town and we’re going on the same trip in two weeks,” you reply blandly, and you feel Jungkook pinch your side. “Oh, Namjoon. Have you met my boyfriend Jungkook?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Namjoon reaches over to clasp Jungkook’s hand, “nice to meet you, man.” 

While Namjoon and Jungkook exchange small talk, you pointedly ignore the waves of negativity Doyeon sends your way in favor of observing the two large men. Namjoon just said it was nice to meet him, therefore he has no clue who Jungkook is. Interesting, considering Doyeon two-timed in favor of Namjoon. It gets you a little antsy, and you wonder if Namjoon is faking this whole interaction or if Doyeon is hiding something. 

“Baby,” Jungkook rests a hand on your shoulder, regarding you with concern, “you spaced out there, are you okay?” 

“She’s like that, Jungkookie,” Jungkook gently presses your shoulders down, blocking your view of Doyeon as she regards your not-boyfriend as Jungkookie. “My cousin’s a bit of an airhead,” her tone is sweet and jesting, the backhanded jab going right above Namjoon’s head. 

“I’m just hungry,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile. 

“Well, that’s perfect,” Namjoon clasps his hands together, “Yeonie and I were just about to go grab some dinner. Why don’t you join us?”

Doyeon and you both reply immediately, “That really isn’t necessary—” 

“Nonsense,” you don’t even have the heart to be upset at Namjoon because he looks so damn genuine, “It’s been two years and I haven’t even bought you a meal, y/n. After all, we’re going to be family at the end of the month.” 

“Right,” you answer reluctantly. 

“We’re gonna make reservations at the Cheesecake Factory,” he pulls out his phone, ready to make a call, “but you and Jungkook can finish shopping, okay? The wait will be a little long but by the time you’re done our table should be ready.” 

You and Jungkook wave off Doyeon and Namjoon as they make their way to the restaurant. Your hand is caught in the air by Jungkook, who regards you with worry in his eyes. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you looked spaced out,” he says, “tell me what you were really thinking.” 

Subconsciously, you squeeze his palm for comfort. “I don’t know, it just feels weird knowing Namjoon doesn’t seem to know you at all. Normally Doyeon loves to talk shit about her exes.” 

Jungkook scoffs easily, “I mean, if she’s marrying the guy I’m sure she doesn’t want to let him know the details of how they ended up together.” 

“True,” you decide to let it go, and follow Jungkook to the register to pay for his swim trunks. 

“So,” the little ‘ding’ of the register opens up the money box, and Jungkook quickly hands the clerk his cash, “we’re having dinner with them after this?” 

“Only if you want to.”

“We need to, right?” Jungkook thanks the clerk, holding the bag in one hand and threading his fingers through yours as you head out the store. 

“Well, do you want to?” you ask again. Jungkook stops the two of you on the sidewalk. It isn’t a fast stop, but a slow down that makes his walk a little more thicker, more deliberate as he trudges you down the lane. You move in front of him, clutching your hands between his. “Are you okay? You barely even acknowledged Doyeon.” 

“I’m fine,” you flinch at his harsh tone, and he immediately moves to remedy it by squeezing your hand back. “I’m sorry. It’s just been awhile and I’m definitely over her but,” he bows his head, feeling embarrassed, “she hurt me, you know?” 

Going into this is definitely one of the more selfish plans you’ve put your mind to. Your heart pangs thinking about what must be going through everytime he sees her. If he’s reminded about all the good times they shared, or how much he’s over thought every single conversation he’s had with her up until this point.

“Of course,” you completely understand, knowing from the beginning that this whole mess would end up with some dicey feelings someway or another. “I’m just thankful you chose to stick by me. And we can talk about it if you’re comfortable,” both of you being victims of Doyeon’s brand of torture, you hope the two of you can at least be friends after all of this is over, “we don’t have to go have dinner with them.” 

“But, Namjoon got us a table—” 

“Namjoon will be fine. We can always have dinner with him another time,” you smile softly, “what matters is that you’re okay.” 

His gaze melts, and you feel his grip loosen in your hold. He regards you with weak eyes, betraying the confidence he held himself to moments before. “Thanks, y/n,” he says, “I really appreciate that.” 

“Anytime,” you reply honestly. “We can go to Cheesecake and order to-go. I can make some excuse about how my stomach hurts and that we should do a raincheck.” 

“Sounds good.” 

“Do you wanna eat at one of our places or eat at the park or something?” you’re already pulling up your phone, checking out the menu. “We could invite Jin too.” 

“The park sounds nice,” neither of you acknowledge the fact that you’re not inviting Seokjin, and for some reason that’s okay.

“Yeah,” you agree simply, “the weather’s beautiful.” 

Under any normal circumstances, you would’ve been friends with someone like Jeon Jungkook, easily. A little part of you wishes that you could’ve met Jungkook first, but Doyeon has better connections than you and always had a good crowd around despite her inner motivations. No awkward exchange happens when you suggest to Jungkook to eat together. Even though you’re not technically dating, the two of you know that eating together is better than eating alone.

And you have to admit Jungkook’s great company. The two of you drive to a reserve nearby, overlooking a tiny lake. Instead of a fancy Italian tablecloth the two of you move your car seats down and set a spare picnic blanket in the trunk. Instead of a candlelit dinner the two of you find some emergency electric tealights in the glove compartment, lighting it up between you two as you dig into your to-go boxes. 

You’re a little envious that so much time has passed by. You could’ve been a little sneakier and made a better effort to communicate with Jungkook when you saw him regularly at family parties, and maybe you two would have a better friendship today. Nevertheless, the two of you mesh like peanut butter and jelly, exchanging conversation that has your cheeks sore from smiling too hard. 

By the time you get to dessert, the moon is out and the stars are floating above your heads. The two of you are at war, fighting with your forks over the last strawberry in your cheesecake slice. After some careful stabbing Jungkook manages to nab it with his fork. 

He almost puts it in his mouth, but instead swipes up some whipped cream to press the last strawberry to your lips. 

“I think it’s working,” Jungkook says randomly as you chew the sweet fruit, “you could see it on Doyeon’s face today. She’s unsettled.” 

“Yeah,” you agree, lying down on the lavender gingham picnic blanket. 

“Do you know why she fights with you all the time?” 

“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the dawn of time.”

“I think I know why.” Jungkook looks down at you with his large doe eyes, licking innocently on a spoon of whipped cream. 

“Pray tell.” 

“She’s jealous of you.” 

“No,” you disagree easily, “she’s jealous that I have you.” 

“Bzzt! Wrong,” Jungkook puts his empty container in your makeshift trash can, falling beside you and knitting his hands under his head. You have a little window on the roof of your car, so both of you are able to stare at the navy sky, “she’s always been jealous of you. Think about it. The two of you have similar lifestyles: same career path, confidence, taste, education. But even after all of that? People still like you more.” 

You scoff, hands immediately reaching to fiddle with the frayed corner of fabric next to your fingers. “I don’t think so.” 

“I’ve met all of Doyeon’s friends,” he informs you, “they’re weird. Like yeah, they care about each other on the surface level. But they’re nothing of substance. They’re not like your friends.” 

“Please, Doyeon has everything she could ever want,” you don’t know what kind of complex you have supporting Doyeon’s life, but something deep and insecure wants to separate you two as far away from each other as possible. “Like… she’s Malibu Barbie and I’m Polly Pocket.” 

Jungkook turns to face you, resting his head between his palm and leaning on his elbow. “Do you not think you’re beautiful?” 

“Yeah, but compared to Doyeon—” 

“You’ve always been beautiful to me, don’t you know that?”

You choke on your saliva, feeling small and skittish at the implication behind his words. It’s been two years. You’ve only been friends for two weeks. How can he possibly say that? 

“I uh, saw you once,” Jungkook coughs, and you watch the way his pale cheeks unmatch the moon and instead flit to a crimson hue, “we were at some party and you were wearing this really cute black dress with a white bow in the middle. Doesn’t even matter what party because it was random, y’know? I was gonna go talk to you but Doyeon got to me first and well, the rest is history.” He breaks eye contact with you, unable to handle it. 

You remember that party, vaguely. It was random, some sort of poetry slam in a shady part of town. Doyeon and you didn’t even go with each other, you were with Taehyung and she just happened to stumble in there from another nearby party. You didn’t even know Jungkook was there that night, or how you were a hair's breadth away from meeting him before Doyeon. 

“Don’t ever think you’re lesser than her just because out of all the people she chose to pick on, she chose you. It’s why she never lets you get to know her boyfriends. She’s threatened by you because you’re just as special,” something low sparks in your chest at his words,  “and now that you’ve finally decided to stoop to her level and fight back with a taste of her own medicine, she doesn’t know what to do.” 

Feeling like your body is on a beach and you’re sinking in sand, you soften over your picnic blanket, mulling it over. “Did I make the right choice? Stooping down to her level.” Your voice is quiet, comparable to the chirping birds and buzzing gnats outside. 

“We won’t know until after the wedding,” Jungkook answers honestly, “but I do know I’m sticking with you until the end. We’re friends now, got that? You have no excuse to ignore me anymore.” 

You don’t want to ignore Jungkook, never in a million years. Now you know that you are envious of Doyeon, for having an opportunity to love and care for an amazing person like him. So in a sudden bout of emotion, you roll over to straddle Jungkook’s waist. 

He’s shocked, hands flying to your waist to make sure you don’t wobble off. But you’re determined, and lean down to press your lips against his. He tastes like cheesecake and strawberries, the taste melding with your own as you relish in the feeling of his soft lips against yours. You melt a little when he squeaks, breaking into a soft moan as he reciprocates the gesture. He’s warm and large and he makes you feel safe. Once your brain returns to your body, you break for air. You only pull back a few centimeters, and there’s no way for you to get off because Jungkook has locked you in place. 

“What was that for?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Don’t know,” you’re whispering against his lips, unable to pull away, “just felt like we needed a little more practice.” 

He blinks, before relaxing in a silly smile. “I agree,” he says simply, dipping you on your back so he can be on top the second time around. 

“We’re in Vegas, baby!” 

Every single terrible comedy movie set in Las Vegas has brought you to this very moment. You’ve always wanted to say that line. Dumping your luggage next to Jungkook’s, you flop on the nearest mattress. Thank goodness you only wore leggings and a t-shirt on the flight, it’s the optimal sleeping outfit after a long day. Feeling something hard and plastic dig into your brain, you hold up the culprit and squeal excitedly. “Look, Kook!” you wave the crinkly confection in your hands, “they put mints on the pillows!” 

Despite your room being a square with two queen beds, the hotel does not skimp on quality. The decor is ornate, the white and gold trim on the doorknobs and metal appliances shimmering beautifully. The beds feel like clouds, as you try to imagine what a cloud could possibly feel like, this is it. 

Jungkook immediately follows suit, ripping off his outer clothes until he’s left in his undershirt and boxers, flopping next to you on the mattress. He immediately opens his mouth when you shoot a mint, catching it easily. “I feel like we’re in a deleted scene of Crazy Rich Asians,” he says, letting the hard mint clink around his teeth, “is this the part where you tell me your family comes from old money and I’m gonna be your sugar baby?” 

“Don’t be so hopeful,” you narrow your eyes, booping his button nose with your finger. 

“I’m just saying, the first class flight threw me off.” 

You giggle, slapping his chest, “No. If that was true, we wouldn’t be sharing a room with my cousin. Sorry you have to share the bed with me, I got the hotel with Jin and he doesn’t want to sleep with you.”

“S’okay,” Jungkook replies softly, leaning closer to make grabby hands at you, “you’re softer.” 

Tentatively, you scooch over so you can lean on Jungkook’s chest. You two have a little time before Doyeon and Namjoon’s combined bachelor and bachelorette party. The past two weeks have been nice—scratch that, the past two weeks with Jungkook have been wonderful. You never cared to measure how much time passed before meeting him, but now that you’ve begun fake-dating, time is the only thing you regard. You’re already beginning to miss him, knowing that in a week, this whole arrangement will be over.

Well, not exactly over. Jungkook says you’ll remain friends after this, but you don’t really want that. You want more, and it scares you to think he may not feel the same. 

But right now you’re snuggling like an old couple, sleeping comfortably between pillow-like sheets and minty breath. Your pretend boyfriend, now your pretend boyfriend with benefits, looks soft and huggable and you want to bottle up this moment forever. You say benefits because, well, the cuddling is an added bonus. Practice practice practice, Jungkook sing songs the words you used that one night under the stars, excuses to seal his lips to your lips. You’ll never argue with that. So when Jungkook’s hand tightens around your waist and pulls you closer, you relent. 

One second, you’re closing your eyes and the next, you’re waking up to Seokin’s wide eyes staring back at you. 

“Eep, you creepo!” you shriek, scrambling away from him. That’s when you realize Jungkook’s missing from bed, the scent of his laundry detergent lingering between the eggshell Egyptian cotton. 

“Jungkook’s in the shower,” Seokjin immediately reads your mind, pulling away so he can unpack his luggage. “My flight just got in two hours ago, you both were out like a light when I arrived.”

“Ugh, I’m really not ready to party.” 

“Doyeon just texted the family group chat. She reserved the rooftop, the party starts in an hour,” he talks mindlessly, rifling through his stuff. Seokjin is fiddling with his clothes, despite the fact that you know Seokjin prepares his outfits days in advance so he doesn’t have to choose. He looks concerned, pulling out a flamingo pink boardshort and setting it down on his mattress. Finally he says, “I’m worried about you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because. It’s clear that you’re starting to fall for Jungkook.” 

The words strike you straight in the place you’re trying to avoid. You’ve been living in a fantasy these past two weeks, thinly veiled by the whole reason you two are together in the first place. Doyeon’s wedding is just around the corner, and what then? 

“I’m not saying that he doesn’t feel anything for you either,” that gets your heart skipping a beat, and you secretly hold a hand to your chest under the blankets, “but do you really want to start off a relationship like this? A relationship all messy and morally objective because it’s built on revenge?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” the words easily fall from your lips, “I can take care of this.” 

“I hate it when you say that,” the words are curt and harsh against Seokjin’s plush lips, “I’m allowed to worry about you, y/n. You know why? Because, because you’re my favorite cousin too,” he bites his lip, walking over so he sits on your side of the bed. “So don’t tell me what I can and can’t worry about. I want you to be happy, I want you to stop holding in this anger you have for Doyeon and move on.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning over to press your cheek against Seokjin’s shoulder. “You’re right.” 

“For the first time in a long time, you’ve finally decided to lean on someone,” and both of you know who that someone is. “I don’t want you to lose him over some petty family issue. You should tell him how you feel.” 

“I will,” you wrap your arms around your cousin’s slim waist in a silent thanks. 

“Am I interrupting a tender family moment?” 

The two of you pull away to stare at Jungkook, leaning against the doorframe that leads to the bathroom. He’s in a plain white t-shirt and the red board shorts that you bought at the mall, cutting off mid-thigh and revealing the bulky muscle underneath. You were right, the shorts do make his thighs look thick. 

Seokjin groans exaggeratedly. “Yes, yes you did.” 

Jungkook immediately goes to replace Seokjin’s spot, and some stray droplets fall fresh from the shower due to his slicked-back hair. “Do you wanna get ready? First party’s soon.” 

“Not really,” you admit, “you’re gonna meet the family all over again.” 

“Second time’s the charm,” he winked, “I’ve already met your parents and everything. Not feeling nervous at all.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“Really,” and the facade cools down a little, “well, maybe a little nervous for your Aunt Lillian. Her stares give me the heebie-jeebies.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from Aunt Lillian.” 

“God the two of you get worse every day,” Seokjin has magically changed into his shorts, tucking himself into the bed, “don’t wake me up until we pre-game.” 

Doyeon and Namjoon don’t skimp on the festivities, although in taste the ideas are Doyeon’s in its entirety. It’s lavish and colorful, with a beautiful infinity pool in the middle decorated with lavender and pink headlights. There’s a buffet table overflowing with tasty food. There’s petal pink champagne overflowing from fountains, decorated with fresh strawberries bobbing around the fizzy drink. 

“I don’t know,” Namjoon and Jungkook have been talking for well over an hour, and it’s clear how well they mesh together. Heck, you’ve accepted that Jungkook may like Namjoon more than he likes you. Jungkook’s eyes sparkle as Namjoon discusses the various genres of rap and hip-hop music, explaining the potency of mature themes in a young community, “but I will say music is like another language, knows no boundaries when it comes to sending their messages to others.” 

You fight the urge to chuckle when Jungkook sighs dreamily at the music theory professor. “Wow, that’s so deep.” 

Getting up from your cabana, you nudge Seokjin, who’s currently flirting it up with one of Doyeon’s bridesmaids. “Hey, wanna get a drink?” you ask, throwing your wrap on the cushions to reveal your strappy red bikini. 

“And chicken tenders,” Seokjin presses a kiss to the bridesmaid’s cheek, bidding her goodbye as he follows you out of the shaded area. 

“Do you two lovebirds want anything?” you stare pointedly at Namjoon and Jungkook. While Namjoon’s eyes stay in contact with you, you can’t help but smile a little more when Jungkook has a hard time keeping his gaze in one place. 

“I think we’re fine,” Namjoon answers for both of them, swirling his beer bottle. “I’ll meet you two at the bar once I’m done.” 

“Sure thing,” Seokjin puts a hand on your back to lead you to one of the open bars. As much as you like being in a handsome hotel with money to burn, nothing beats the fact that your entire family is here to celebrate. The elders have corroborated two cabanas for poker and other games, while your younger cousins are playing ping pong and air hockey on the other side. 

“Namjoon sure is a dreamboat,” Seokjin bemoans, handing you an electric orange drink. You take a sip of it, and bug out when you realize it tastes nothing like alcohol. You’re definitely in for a night. “Like I can hear him wax music thingamajib any day.” 

“I thought you were into that bridesmaid.” 

“A mere diversion,” he sighs, leaning his tanned arms against the bar, “can’t ignore the deep voice Namjoon has, it’s intoxicating.” 

“I’m sure Jungkook would agree,” you egg on. 

“What are you two talking about?” you straighten up when the man of the hour shows up at the bar, absolutely glowing under the sunset. He orders a round for the three of you, and you immediately chug your own drink to get to the next one. 

“Talking about how you’re stealing Jungkook away from me,” you joke, accepting another fruity drink from Namjoon. Damn, this stuff tastes like candy. 

“Oh, never,” Namjoon replies brightly, waving the thought away, “do you see the way he looks at you? Hopelessly in love.” 

Maybe it’s the copious amounts of alcohol, but you feel your stomach flip-flop at the thought of love. You’ve always known what love felt like, the warmth of Namjoon’s cheeks whenever he sees Doyeon, when your mom takes care of you when you’re sick, when Seokjin makes sure you’re not emotionally constipated 24/7. But the thought of Jungkook and you in love? It’s a feeling you secretly yearn for. 

“Right? It’s disgusting,” Seokjin groans with an eye roll, “like, Jungkook wasn’t like that with Doyeon at all when they were together.” 

The slip up has the three of you choking on your own thoughts, staring at each other like the three have just been told you’re on a prank show. But it is no prank, and you look at Seokjin who’s absolutely horrified. 

“Oh shit,” he squeaks, looking at Namjoon guiltily, “did I say something I shouldn’t have said?” 

“I don’t know,” Namjoon replies coolly, “did you?” 

The ominous response gets you going, and you quickly place a hand on Namjoon’s arm, placating him. “They dated, yes. But it was only for a short time and we’ve sorted everything out. Nothing for you to worry about.” 

“Oh,” Namjoon quirks his head, and regards you two with pursed lips. “I’m not one of those guys who freak out over other people’s exes. I’m just surprised that I’ve only heard this now,” Namjoon takes a slow sip of his drink, and despite your drink also being cold and refreshing, you’re absolutely sweating. 

“Well, I’m sure Doyeon didn’t want to worry you.”

At the mention of his future wife, he beams. “You’re right, she’s considerate like that,” and the conversation ends just like that. He holds up his drink to the two of you, and you and Seokjin do the same. With a sharp clink he leaves you two to mull, happily conversing with the next round of guests he needs to entertain for the week. 

“That guy is too nice for his own good,” you shake your head, asking the bartender for your third drink within ten minutes. 

Seokjin leans over you and warbles, “So you’re telling me that Namjoon has no idea that Doyeon cheated on Jungkook in order to date him?” he’s sweating just like you are, following suit to your actions and asking to make his drink a double. 

“I don’t know,” you bite your lip, your teeth worrying the dark skin, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while though. I just don’t want to get involved, you know?” 

“But this is different!” 

“But Doyeon’s family!” 

“And all of a sudden you care about Doyeon’s feelings?” Seokjin gripes back, “it’s not about Doyeon, it’s about the both of them. And if we know something that Namjoon doesn’t, wouldn’t it be in our best interests to warn him before he seals a marriage deal that costs him over a zillion dollars?” he gestures to the extravagant wedding party. 

“But we don’t even have any proof that’s the case,” you frown, “Doyeon could have changed—a little, not a lot—since meeting Namjoon, maybe she thinks it’s best to reveal as little as possible.” 

Seokjin wonders what kind of family he has. One as chaotic as his takes a lot to stomach, and Seokjin likes to pride himself in his strong appetite. “Fine, let’s just keep a close eye on both of them this week. And if anything remotely fishy happens, we strike.” 

“Deal.” 

You return to the cabana alone, with a plate of fries for both you and Jungkook. Jungkook is also alone, laying on the lounge chair with his eyes closed. It gives you a chance to ogle your fake-boyfriend a little bit, reveling in the sight of his toned body. 

Setting down your plate with a sharp rap of the glass, Jungkook opens one eye. “Hey,” he smiles, drinking in your muted expression, “you okay?”

Damn Jungkook for being able to read you so well. “I think so. It’s nothing, really.” 

“Well, will you tell me if it’s something?” 

“Yeah, I will.” 

“So, I do have something to tell you though.” Jungkook sits up, regarding you wearily. “Can you… stand in front of me?” Confused, you shove a fry in your mouth and walk up to him as directed, your back blocking the entrance as you stand in front of him. “Okay, come closer. Now bend down,” you bend your back 90 degrees, and he presses a hand to your shoulder to stop you, “no, no. With your breasts out, just a little—there! Arch your back. Like you’re doing the Sorority Squat.” 

“Excuse me—” 

“The music isn’t even that loud,” he mutters to himself, “no one would need to push their boobs in my face to hear me.” 

“Jungkook, is someone pressing boobs to your face?” 

“Why,” he breaks into a playful grin, “jealous?”

“Not if it’s Aunt Lillian.” 

“Unfortunately it wasn’t,” he twiddles with the drawstrings of his shorts. “It was Doyeon.” 

Doyeon? She didn’t walk by your cabana all day. Heck, she barely greeted you when you arrived with Jungkook. But when Jungkook’s alone is when she decides to pounce? And with what motive? 

“I don’t know,” he’s rambling to himself, “maybe I’m overthinking it. It was only half a second.” 

“Jungkook, I have something to tell you,” you say instead, panic in your features. 

“Is it something urgent?” 

“Well, no but—” 

“Then tell me when we get back to the room,” Jungkook easily pulls you onto his lap, and you instantly heat up when you feel your bare butt press against Jungkook’s golden thighs. “Like you said, we’re in Vegas. Let’s have fun while we can.” 

“Okay,” you tuck your head between his neck and collarbone, reaching to press a kiss to his smooth jawline. 

Relaxing against the plush lounge chair Jungkook feeds you fries while talking about the things he wants to do this week. It’s his first time in Vegas and he wants to make the most of it. He wants to visit all the buffets he sees on Buzzfeed compilations, relax at the pool, maybe catch a show. The thought of spending all week with him and your family is nice, and suddenly you don’t feel so awkward sitting on his lap, and eventually he pulls you between his thighs so you can lay on his chest. 

“And between you and me,” he fake whispers against the shell of your ear, as if he’s telling you the biggest secret, “we’re the hottest couple here.” 

The next three days leading up to the wedding are relatively uninteresting. 

Uninteresting in the best way possible. On Monday you and Jungkook spend time with your little cousins, taking them to The Adventuredome, one of the resort's indoor theme parks. On Tuesday you and Jungkook go shopping at the outlet malls with your parents, blowing hundreds of dollars on cheap Levis that have your luggage bursting with a new wardrobe. In between all of that Seokjin and occasionally Namjoon joins you two in your buffet journey, hitting up the top spots and filling your tummies to the brim with delicious food. 

On Wednesday, Jungkook brandishes two gold-foiled tickets in front of you, waving them around like a fan. With one finger, he pushes away your Pokémon battle, “I got us tickets to Cirque du Soleil,” he announces proudly, “waited in line for an hour.”

You gape, scrambling off of your bed and throwing your Nintendo Switch to the side. “Jungkook,” you marvel, “these are so expensive. How’d you manage to get a show for tonight?” 

He shrugs, “Looked around.” 

“You’ve been impulse buying a lot this week,” you tease, “like really, you don’t need three pairs of the same ripped jeans.”

“This wasn’t an impulse buy,” he says, “I’ve been looking around for shows. Just managed to pick them up today, so go get dressed for our date.”

Did Jungkook just call it a date? Giddy with excitement you throw the covers off, running into the bathroom to get ready. What a surprise, you didn’t think Jungkook would be into spontaneous things like this. 

Seokjin left the bathroom open, so when you walk in the room it is steamy and warm. Your dear cousin is still in the shower, probably waiting for his conditioner to pass three minutes of set-in time. 

“What are you getting ready for?” Seokjin asks over the rain shower.

“Kook got us tickets to Cirque du Soleil,” you chirp happily, looking through your skin care products. 

“I wanna come!” 

“Nope! Jungkook called it a date.” 

“Oh, a date,” Seokjin drawls, putting his head under the water to rinse his hair clean. “Well then, should I vacate the room for tonight?” 

“What, no!” you’ve closed the door, so thankfully Jungkook can’t hear you talking about him. “We’re not doing anything. We’re just two friends who are fake-dating going on a date.” 

“Sounds like a real date, though,” Seokjin wraps a towel around himself to cover all his important bits before getting out of the shower, bumping elbows with you so he can brush his teeth. “Either way, I’ll be gone tonight. It’s my turn to watch the baby cousins. Don’t have too much fun while I'm in their room watching Despicable Me for the millionth time.” 

“We’ll be sure to stop by with some pizza or something,” you tease, a little wiggle in your hips when you vacate the bathroom. 

By the time you and Jungkook are ready, you two are dressed impeccably. Jungkook is wearing one of the ripped black jeans he bought on Tuesday, combined with a white button up and black blazer. A classic outfit with a little bit of Jungkook-themed flair. And to Jungkook’s surprise, you’re wearing the dress that he first saw you in, all those years ago. You’ve gained a little weight since college, but you still fill out the little black dress beautifully, the little white bow in the middle adding a simple yet adorable touch. It took a little sleuthing and searching through your old college clothes, but you were determined to find it when Jungkook reminded you how much you love the design. 

Clearly from the way Jungkook is currently gaping at you like a bloated fish, he loves it too. 

The show is beautiful and colorful, leaving you speechless and in tears by the end of it. Jungkook lets you hold his hand the entire time, feeling a bout of anxiety anytime the acrobats fall gracefully despite the large height. 

Overall, it was a wonderful show, paired with your equally enamouring date. It’s getting harder and harder to distinguish what’s fake and what’s real in your heart, and throughout the night you’re sorely reminded that you should tell Jungkook how you feel. 

But by the time you get to the room your parents are calling you, asking to get their suit and dresses out of the car so hotel service can do a last minute press and dry clean. 

“I’ll be back,” you say to Jungkook, “I need to go get their clothes out of the car. They’re always so forgetful.” 

“Want me to come?” he offers, hand shying away from inserting the keycard in. 

“No, I’ll only be fifteen minutes, tops.”

“So I guess this is this the part where I get a goodnight kiss?” he asks cheekily, leaning on his heels so his tall frame reaches yours. You don’t hesitate to give a short peck to his pretty pink lips. He pouts at the brevity, “that was too quick.” 

“Go inside,” you insist, “the sooner you get ready for bed the sooner I can get ready for bed.” 

“Then more kisses?” 

“Then more kisses.” 

Jungkook breaks into an all-teeth smile, unable to control himself when he dips down and steals a longer, more lingering kiss to your lips. “I had a great time tonight,” he says, mimicking every single teenage rom-com protagonist who’s deeply in love with the popular jock. “Don’t take too long, okay?” 

You nod, pushing him inside, “C’mon, if you stopped talking I’d be back by now!” 

Once the door closes shut, you let yourself do a little dance in the hallway, wiggling your butt and giving yourself a mini-celebration. You quickly text your group chat that you just came back from the Cirque show.

Jimin: what, a date with your fake date?

Hobi: jeon jungcock? 👀👀

Jimin: whaaaaaattttt. U’ve gotta have sat in his lap at least. 3 times since you’ve started this ting

Hobi: i’ve heard things in college… 

Taehyung: u are all gross and i hate u 

Taehyung: but so am i bc im very curious 

Just as you’re about to send a heated reply, the elevator dings, revealing a pissed off Doyeon. She’s bare-faced, in a fluffy lilac bath robe and matching puff ball slippers. You slip in right beside her, making sure there’s a comfortable amount of space between you two. 

“You’re going to the parking garage too?” you ask, eyes lingering on the lit button. 

“Yeah,” she’s looking at her phone, a few stray hairs from her mahogany bun falling onto her forehead, “Aunt Lillian left her medication in the car. I don’t know why she has to send me, I’m busy getting married.” 

“My parents left their formal clothes in the car,” you shrug, “you know, my parents and Aunt Lillian share the same brain cell. Gotta help them out once in a while.”  

The icy silence in the elevator is probably the calmest you and Doyeon have been since you’ve announced your relationship status with Jungkook. You fight the sigh, opting to take out your phone and open some unread messages. 

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: hurry up, the bed’s cold without u 

You: lool, why do u look constipated 

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: because i am, hurry up. Im bringing ur switch to the toilet and playing on your profile 

You: JEON WAIT YAMPERS AT 5HP GO TO THE POKEMON CENTER U HEATHEN

You tilt your head a centimeter, feeling Doyeon breathing down your neck like Puff the Magic Dragon. You look at her with wide eyes. Her long, slender neck manages to snake its way next to your head, “Can I help you?” you ask amusedly, clutching your phone to your chest. 

“Are you two really together?” she asks, batting her lashes. All this week she’s left you alone, and you’ve been wondering when she’s going to make herself known. It’s a little self-absorbed you have to admit, but ever since Namjoon’s ignorance to Doyeon’s previous relationship, you’ve been on edge. 

“Of course we are,” you spit back, “I love him.” 

And you must be very convincing, because Doyeon’s gaze falters just a fraction. You glare at her, staking your claim. Ever since Jungkook told you the reason Doyeon hates you is because she’s jealous, you’ve started to feel a bit of sympathy for her. Doyeon is beautiful and smart, she has no reason to feel this way. But the brain holds fickle thoughts sometimes, bringing darkness to the mind. 

“He loved me first,” she bites back, lifting her chin. 

“And why do you care?” you laugh tonelessly. The elevator dings open, and you’re met with the open air and concrete of the parking garage. “He may have loved you first, but he’ll love me last.” 

You leave the elevator first, a little pep in your step as you make your way to the rental car to gather your parent’s things. While the words you uttered are white in nature and may not hold any sort of weight to them, it manages to bring Doyeon to her knees, absolutely quaking in the elevator. 

You’re tasting revenge, and it’s sweet. 

“Okay, you need to leave,” Seokjin pulls away the shot glass from your lips, “I didn’t spend days planning the itinerary for you to mess it up. Bridal party in Doyeon’s suite and the groom’s party in Namjoon’s parents suite.” 

“That’s dumb,” you chastise, crossing your arms, “we’re all meeting at the same club at 10. Why can’t we pre-party together?” 

“Because it’s tradition!” 

“Screw tradition,” you stumble on your heels as you purse your lips at Jungkook, “Kook, when we get married I don’t wanna do a whole boy-and-girl party. We’re equals, right?” 

“Of course, baby,” he cooes, being careful not to smudge your makeup when he presses his lips to the crown of your head. “But for the sake of Seokjin’s sanity, you should probably go to Doyeon’s. It’ll only be an hour or two.” 

You gasp exaggeratedly at the blatant betrayal. He only grins cheekily in response, dipping down to press a wet kiss to your cheek. “Fine,” you cross your arms, snatching back your drink from Seokjin’s grasp to knock it down. 

Leaving the bachelor pre-party pains you considerably. They’re having such a good time joking around the suite, telling each other fun stories and relaxing in chairs as they watch TV. This is your kind of crowd, not to mention that you can peacefully check out Jungkook’s ass in those tight dress pants without any crazy club lights distorting your vision.

From past family party experience you already have a feeling what’s coming for you in the ladies’ suite. 

Loud music pours from Doyeon’s suite, and it’s completely unlocked. The bridal party is raving, ten seconds away from being completely drunk and immobile. The lights are being manually shut on and off like some sort of cheap rager, and you have to tell Yoojung to tone it down before you get a seizure. 

The stench of acidic drinks and the tang of alcoholic air is palpable, and instead of a shot you opt for a glass of peach champagne to slow you down. 

As you walk deeper into the suite, you notice a crowd forming by the balcony. Tapping your cousin Nari on the shoulder, you regard her with a hug and kiss. “What’s going on over there?” you ask, heels not helping you see any better. 

Nari’s all blushy and pink, hiccuping as she gestures to the balcony. “Her maid of honor got Doyeon a very special gift!” 

Managing to weave through the women blocking your view, you fight the urge to gag when you have a clear view of the scene in front of you.

You really don’t understand the purpose of bachelor and bachelorette parties. “One night to be single all over again!” they all say, even though they’re not actually single? Like why does the couple suddenly get one night of forgiveness when you’ve already spent years being in a committed relationship? 

Why is it okay that Doyeon’s dry humping a stripper on the balcony? Her white silk dress is ruched dangerously high, soon close to flashing her family. Aunties and friends and the like are cheering her on, and she flips her head perfectly to all the phones shoved in their faces, making sure to get the perfect angle. 

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you turn back in the hopes that your other family members would be willing to have a good old-fashioned tip back with you. 

You squeal when your hands accidentally land on a bare, oiled chest. You look up, mortified at the large man covered in black harnesses. “Hey babe, I’m Wonho,” he says, faking a sultry gaze as he looks at you up and down, “you’re part of the bridal party too? Wanna dance?” 

Feeling naked, you push past him, careful not to get anything on your dress. Wonho? Wonno.

Jungkook loves your family. 

(Except Doyeon.)

As much as he told you not to worry about him, and he’ll be completely fine when he meets your family, he couldn’t help be a little wary on the flight over. After all, it’s been two years and he didn’t know how things would be different. 

Chaoticism and all, your family is a thing to be cherished. Even though Yoongi has been on mood swings that make Jungkook question his sanity from time to time, and Seokjin is secretly breathing down Jungkook’s back every time he so glances at you, he thinks things are right where they should be.  

But despite all that they regarded him with familiarity, hugged and kissed him like old friends, something is different. They’ve turned over a new page for him. They don’t bring up Doyeon. They ask about his family, his job, his life in the city. They ask about how you and Jungkook met, and how happy they are for you. How happy they are for him.

Oh, how he wishes everything could be different. In another world, you two would already be together. 

He wasn’t lying back at the cabana when he said you two are the hottest couple at the resort, including the bridal party (but don’t tell Namjoon). You look absolutely stunning in your sparkly red dress, accentuating all the right parts and lighting up the whole room. 

When he finds you in the club you’re sitting down with your Aunties, keeping the elders company while the younger ones are flagging down the bartenders. He thinks it’s cute, how well you fit in between them, coddling you like you’re still a child in their eyes. 

“Dear, your boyfriend is here!” your one Aunt yells over the loud EDM.

You lift your head up quickly, giving him the prettiest smile. Your teeth glow purple under the neon lights, and he fights the urge to laugh when he holds out a hand. “Mind if I steal her from you?” 

“Of course, she’s gotta live a little!” 

You pout, a little wobbly but nevertheless still in the right mind as you shuffle out of the booth to meet his awaiting arms. “Hey handsome,” your voice is thick and sweet-smelling, “come here often?” 

“Only when my girlfriend does,” he replies cheekily, hands immediately coming to your butt to smooth out your dress. He shys a bit when your Aunties hoot and holler at his public display of affection, but all he wants to do was pull the hem down a little bit. No way is he going to let anyone get a flash of your goods. 

“Let’s dance!” you take your hand in his, leading him to a comfortable corner of the dance floor. 

Clubs aren’t really your scene, aligning with Jungkook’s sentiments towards the loud generic music and terrible smell. But you’re in Vegas, and he feels that it’s all part of the package to experience the nightlife at least once. He puts his hands on your waist and you giggle like you’re in prom, hands coming to rest on the collar of his button down. 

“Hey,” he says with a lopsided smirk, “wanna make out?” 

 “Sure,” he notices that you don’t even check if anyone’s seeing, and it makes his heart flutter when you don’t hesitate to get on your tiptoes to meet him halfway. 

He’s always hoped for a moment like this, a moment where the room stops spinning and both your minds click into place. It’s almost comical, how he distinctly notes that the music fades once his lips touch yours. The kiss is hot, yet intimate. Even though he makes excuses to kiss you all the time because of practice, it goes to show that you two definitely never needed it. Your tiny hands grip the collar of his button down, bringing you two impossibly close despite the hot air. His larger hands grip at the strings that hold your measly dress together, grappling at any excuse to get to your soft skin. The two of you are a natural when it comes to each other’s intimacy. 

The two of you pull away, mesmerized. You haven’t kissed like that before. He melts under your stare, his thumb reaching to nick off any lip gloss that’s moved in the process. 

Seokjin comes down the floor to haul you both by the shoulders, “C’mon lovebirds, they’re taking wedding shots!” 

The two of you follow your cousin to the crowd of people that is your family, already with their own drinks in hand. Doyeon and Namjoon are sitting atop the bar, making a very loud toast that consisted of a quick “thank you!” and “we love you!” before downing their drinks with their arms linked together. The room is thrumming with excitement for tomorrow’s festivities, and surprisingly, you and Jungkook included. He tucks himself in your body like a puzzle piece, hugging you from behind while he watches Namjoon’s eyes sparkle with love under the neons. 

The nightclub gets a little blurry after that, with the copious amounts of alcohol and shameless actions from your family and friends. By the time it’s twelve Jungkook notices you swaying at a rate that you can’t handle. He knows your limits and knows when you have to urge to pee every five minutes, it’s time to go. With a chaste kiss you leave him at the bar, deciding to make a pitstop to the bathroom before telling Jungkook you want to head up.

You’re locked in a stall when you hear Yoojung’s voice. 

“Ugh,” she groans, voice echoing through the tiny room. “Jungkook is so sexy. Do you see the way he’s dancing out there? He’s a literal babe magnet, I can’t believe he ended up with someone like y/n.” 

You don’t move a muscle, pressing your ear against the door that hides you. The silly slander isn’t news to you, Doyeon has been feeding her friends all sorts of bullcrap so they wouldn’t bother talking to you. 

“Yeah, Jungkook’s a real treat but he dated Doyeon first. Sounds like she’s into sloppy seconds,” Elly replies, another bridesmaid you’ve met in passing. “But I don’t know, they do look happy together.”

“Please, I’m sure Jungkook’s just using her so he can get one more chance at Doyeon before she ties the knot,” you bristle, the thought of Jungkook still having feelings for Doyeon makes your heart thud painfully against your chest, “like, what a downgrade. Namjoon and Doyeon do not deserve this drama. If Jungkook ever liked Doyeon at all, he wouldn’t have come. Period.” 

You slam the door open, causing Elly to squeal and Yoojung’s YSL lipstick to fall onto the sink. You’re the epitome of relaxation, walking towards the sink to wash your hands. The bridesmaids simply stare at you, unable to formulate a comeback. When you finally dry your hands, you say your next words. 

“Jungkook is here because he loves me,” an act act act. This is all an act. You shouldn’t be this offended because you know it’s all false. “And you’re wrong. It’s not Jungkook that doesn’t deserve Doyeon. Jungkook was too good for Doyeon.” 

And you slam your heels against the tile, stilettos pounding to the beat of the music. Your exit is full of anger and frustration as you ignore the burn in your step and the ache in your heart, flagging the first bartender you see to get you a double. 

Shot for shot, that anger soon melts into guilt as Yoojung’s words sink in. The thought of Jungkook using you to get to Doyeon is terrible, you can barely stomach the thought. But that’s exactly what you’re doing, right? You’re using Jungkook to get back at Doyeon. 

Why did you even want to get back at Doyeon anymore? Why do you have to prove anything to her? If she just continues to push you around, isn’t that more on her than it is on you? 

Jungkook soon finds you after you’ve nursed a few drinks, leaning unceremoniously against a barstool. His eyes widen at your state, and he immediately sheds his jacket to wrap it around your waist. 

“Why did you drink so much?” he chastises, “it’s the night before the wedding.” 

“Jungkookie,” you warble, clutching your stomach, “I don’t feel so good.” 

He sighs, bending down. “Get on my back. Make sure the jacket covers you up, okay?” 

He doesn’t even grunt when you put all your weight on him, feeling like a ragdoll as he hoists you up. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, letting him carry you to your room. Most of the older family already went upstairs to sleep, so none of your cousins could care less when they see you get hauled away by Jungkook. 

You inhale, he smells like sweat and cologne. “I like putting my head between your neck,” you babble, and you feel Jungkook chuckle through his chest, “you smell so nice there. It’s the bestset! Comfiest place ever, ‘specially when m’sleepy.” 

“Are you sleepy now, baby?” You love how smooth the petname falls from his lips. 

“I will be when we get upstairs,” you reply, happy to see the elevator is empty. “I’m just all up in my head.” 

“Is that why you were drinking so much? You said you were gonna stop earlier.” 

“Yeah, but,” you shamefully tuck your head in his shoulder, “I was frustrated.” 

“Frustrated? At who?” concern laces his tone as he struggles to hold you with one hand and fumble for his key in the other. You tighten your legs around his slim waist until the door clicks open, and he immediately walks over to your bed to plop you down. “Babe, are you crying?” he finally has a good look at your face, horrified to see the streaks of tears mixed with mascara running down your face. 

“I wa-was jealous,” you confess tearily, clutching your face in your hands,  “some girls in the bathroom were calling you sexy and that you were only here so you could try to win over Doyeon. I know it sounds ridiculous and you would never do that but. The thought of you getting back with her makes me so jealous and I hate it! I’m starting to feel so guilty about this, all of this. I put all of this on ourselves and I’m ruining it.” 

“Ruining what? You’re not making any sense.” Jungkook places a hand on your knee, crouching down so he can look up at you. 

“I’m ruining us,” you gush despondently, “I’m ruining any potential of us before we even start.” 

Jungkook freezes, hand clutching your knee like a lifeline. The potential of you two together? You’ve thought of that? Jungkook didn’t drink much tonight, so his mind is definitely running on all cogs. 

Coming to a conclusion, he rubs slow, soothing circles on your knee, his other hand reaching up to wipe the tears from your face. “You’re not ruining anything,” he declares firmly, “that’s impossible. I may have agreed to fake-date you because of Doyeon, but I stayed because of you.” 

His heart aches seeing you so upset, and he decides to take initiative to get you out of your clothing and ready for bed. You don’t have any words, opting to let Jungkook take care of you as you try to calm yourself down. He finds a spare t-shirt,  a long one so you’ll be comfortable. He doesn’t bat an eye when he unzips your dress, in favor of balling up the shirt and getting you clothed as fast as possible. He rifles through the bathroom to find your makeup wipes, and he’s gentle when he scrubs up the once pretty makeup you spent half an hour doing. Barefaced and fresh, you look sleepy and ready to crash. 

But before Jungkook can tuck you in, you clutch his arm.

“Jungkook,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I lo—” 

“I know, baby,” he doesn’t want a confession like this, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want it either. You still look a little green and you’re not sober, so he makes the executive decision to pin these feelings for later. “I’m not trying to invalidate you, I promise. I want you to tell me this, all of this in the morning. We’ll talk then.”

“Okay,” you melt in the sheets, pulling the blankets up to your chest. When you see Jungkook move away from the bed, you jolt, “Where are you going?” 

Jungkook smiles, reaching over to tuck you back in, “I left my blazer in Namjoon’s room. I’ll be right back, okay?” 

He walks out of your room as quietly as he can, making sure to close the door slowly. Once it’s sealed shut, he leaps up, giving himself a silent cheer as he bounds down the hall. You like him back! 

The smile on his face is tired but full of fervor as he makes his way to Namjoon and Doyeon’s suite. He doesn’t even care that he probably has to talk to Doyeon to get his jacket back, thoughts filled with the excitement of his requited feelings and going back to his room to cuddle up with you. 

He doesn’t even have to knock when the large double doors swing open. Dumbfounded, he looks down at Doyeon, wearing a tiny black nightie and dangling his jacket with one finger. It’s an outfit that leaves nothing to the imagination, and he feels his neck heat up at the feeling he’s encroaching on an intimate moment. 

“You left this,” she says slowly, a tiny smirk on her lips. 

“Uh, thanks,” he says, making sure not to touch her when he grabs his blazer. 

In her other hand she holds up her room’s designated ice bucket. “Could you also get me some ice, please? Namjoon’s fast asleep and I really don’t want to walk out all… exposed.” 

He swallows his sigh, knowing it’s going to take significantly longer to get back to you when Doyeon drawls like this. “Of course,” he replies tersely, “after all, you are the bride.” 

“Thanks, Jungkookie.” 

He makes quick work of getting Doyeon the ice, pumping his long legs down the hall. The ice room is cold and cramped, barely enough for his tall frame to fit in. He jabs the container in the holder, pressing the button ten times per second to get as much ice out as possible. 

As soon as he turns around with the ice, he drops the whole bucket. 

Like glass, it shatters onto the ground, hundreds of little clear pebbles skimming across the floor like marbles. Doyeon’s pushing Jungkook against the ice machine, freshly manicured hands splayed across his chest. Her body is flush against his, making sure that he feels all of her with her thin silk gown. 

“What the fuck, Doyeon get off of me!” a little part of him hopes she’ll come to her senses on her own so he doesn’t have to put his hands on her. 

“C’mon, Kookie,” her voice is a sickly candy sweet, her eyes wide with hunger as she takes in his form, “just one more night, you and me. Like old times. One more night before I tie the knot.” 

“You’re crazy,” he balks, running his hand through his hair, “this is sexual harassment, do you know that?” 

“You don’t mean that, Kookie,” Doyeon dips a red-tipped nail down his chest, “why settle for someone like y/n when I’m right here?” 

He grabs her wrists, firm. She winces at the contact, but doesn’t say anything when Jungkook delivers her a scary glare. It gets her quiet, fearful of this version of Jungkook. Doyeon’s never seen Jungkook like this before, so unwilling to bend at her whim and emanating all his power against her. 

“Why settle for your cousin?” he whispers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “because, I love her.” 

Her lip curls in disgust, nails digging into the palm of his hand. “But you loved me first.”

“And I’ll love her last,” he spits pack, letting go of her. His anger splits for a brief second, regarding Doyeon with sorrow, “this is low, even for you.”

Jungkook pushes past the ice, wobbling out of the ice room. He doesn’t look back, he just knows that he needs you right now. He needs to tell you everything, figure out a plan to cancel the wedding or something. 

But when he crashes inside the room, you’re dead asleep. He can’t find the courage to wake up Seokjin as well, who returned and is sleeping in his club outfit. He groans, feeling useless as he stares at the two of you, ignorant of what just conspired ten minutes ago. 

And Namjoon, what is he going to tell Namjoon? Poor guy doesn’t deserve any of this. 

Walking up to your side of the bed, he tucks your loose hair behind your ear. You look so peaceful now, so beautiful. 

It’s just going to have to wait until the morning. 

The morning of the wedding, you wake up alone. 

The first thought that runs through your head is that Jungkook has rejected you. The little, insecure bug that will never go away in your brain fills you with rash thoughts. He’s on a flight half way back home and he regrets this whole week. 

But after that exaggeration, you notice two aspirin and a bottle of water on your nightstand, along with your phone that’s fully charged. 

You pull up the screen to check the dozens of messages that flood your app. 

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: morning babe, im sorry i had to leave early. Namjoon showed up at our door freaking out that his suit is the wrong fit and shade. Now im running around vegas trying to find a replacement that doesn’t look like an elvis presley extra

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: but i didn’t forget what you said last night, i promise! Just go get ready and i’ll meet u at the chapel outside the resort. 

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: i also have something to say to you

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: wow i didn’t realize how ominous that sounds. Dw, everything will be fine

When someone tells you something will be fine, it’s a universal agreement that no, things will not be fine. 

So you get dressed, and put on your makeup mindlessly. You don’t really know what to make of Jungkook’s cryptic message, but you decide to leave those thoughts in the back of your mind as you go to the other rooms to help your family get ready. 

Seokjin is busy tying the ring bearer’s tie, looking handsome with his slicked back hair and polished grey suit. “Morning, cousin,” he sing-songs, “you look beautiful today!”

You smooth out your dress, a cascading silver number with starry sparkles. You feel like you’re living out your magical girl fantasies, wrapped up in layers of tulle and a sparkly sweetheart bodice.

“Right back at you. Say, you didn’t see Jungkook this morning, did you?” 

“No, but I heard he’s with Namjoon hunting for a new suit. Why?” 

“Nothing,” you lean against the guest table, “he just said something really ominous over text.” 

“I will never get a peaceful day so long as I’m in this family,” he says this directly to the ring bearer, a toddler who’s obviously confused at his uncle’s weird sayings. 

Your phone beeps conveniently, displaying Jungkook’s name. 

Jeon Jung-boo-thang: just got his suit. We’ll be there in fifteen. Meet me at the garden behind the chapel, please. It’s urgent 

Now you’re just worried. So you tell Seokjin your sentiments, and that he should have his phone on hand in case you needed him. With a confused nod, you leave him to go down to the garden.  

The groomsmen and bridesmaids are already at the chapel taking pictures. Only the wedding party is really allowed at this time, but you manage your way through the gardens virtually undetected. Jungkook’s already waiting for you, hiding under a white gazebo overlooking the hotel’s fountain. 

He looks gorgeous in his all black pinstripe suit, hair pushed back and pants fitted perfectly around his waist and thighs. When he sees you he gets up, full of skittish energy. You note that his hair isn’t even styled, only washed and curling slightly at the ends, as if he’s in a rush.

“W-wow,” he marvels when you rush up to him, “you look gorgeous.” 

You drop the handful of silver tulle, letting it fall to the floor. “Jungkook,” you clasp his hand in both of his, guilt flooding your eyes. You’ve been thinking about this all morning, and you need to cut to the chase. Jungkook tries to open his mouth but you silence him with a finger on his lips. “I can’t—I can’t do this. I know this sounds really stupid and you probably don’t want anything to do with me after this, but I shouldn’t have made this elaborate scheme,” you bite your lip, feeling even more antsy as Jungkook squirms in his grip. He however, is trying very hard to focus with his eyes, confused at your sudden confession. “I like you, Jungkook. I don’t want to parade you around like a revenge plot anymore, it isn’t fair and it’s wrong in so many ways—” 

“That’s great,” he says simply, brown eyes swirling with thoughts, “um, ditto. But—”

“Wow,” you frown, “I pour my heart out to you and this is what I get?” 

“It’s great that you want to be selfless right now,” Jungkook takes your hand, firm and tight, “but without this elaborate scheme, we wouldn’t be saving asses like we are right now.”

“What are you talking about?” You thought Jungkook rushed you down here so you could talk about each other’s feelings before the wedding. 

“Doyeon just threw herself on me last night. I got her ice and she took that as an invitation to seduce me like an episode of Sex and the City. Namjoon needs to divorce her, like yesterday.” 

Your face then morphs into something dark and ugly, and you fling your whole confession out the window. The thought of Doyeon going as far as throwing herself on Jungkook as a last ditch attempt to get back at you, has you seeing blood red. “What? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner!”

“You were asleep!” he shoots back, putting his hands on your shoulders. He rubs warm strokes up and down your bare arms, “please relax. You’re shaking.” 

“And why didn’t you tell Namjoon when you were driving around all morning?”

“I tried to!” he retorts, hands swinging in the air. You huff when his hands land back on your shoulders, preventing you from running to the chapel to extract Doyeon out yourself, “but he just kept talking shit about how much he loves Doyeon and he can’t imagine being together with anyone but her and I felt so bad! I’m sorry I chickened out. I really don’t wanna be the one to break Namjoon’s heart. I’m just the plus one!” 

You pinch your brows, mulling it over. “Fuck it, let’s crash a wedding,” you declare, “where’s Namjoon and how can we get him alone?” 

Jungkook exhales, a hand carding up to loosen his thin silver tie. “He’s taking pictures with the groomsmen right now. It’s gonna be awhile before we get a chance to talk.” 

“Fuck,” you curse, sitting down on the white bench. Jungkook presses soothing circles on your back. “We have no choice, we have to get to him before the ceremony starts.” 

“You’ll have to get through me, first.” 

Doyeon’s not even in her wedding dress when she strides up to the two of you. She’s in ballet flats with her hair and makeup done, but the only thing she’s wearing is the thin underdress of her actual ball gown, a simple silk negligee that reaches her ankles. You don’t even know how she’s managed to escape the bridal party, especially without her dress. 

Feeling protective, you step in front of Jungkook. “Before you say anything,” you murmur, “I’m not ruining your wedding, and I never wanted to. You’re ruining it because of your mistakes.” 

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Doyeon rolls her eyes, playing with her nails, “I didn’t even do anything wrong, everyone knows that on the bachelorette’s night she can do whatever she wants. Namjoon could’ve fucked whoever too if he wasn’t so faithful.” 

“Namjoon is ten times the partner you are and would never do that,” You’re seeing red, unable to comprehend the complete garbage spilling from Doyeon’s lips. “You touched my boyfriend without his consent, and I will never forgive you for that,” your voice is scarlet, angry and thin. 

“It’s not like he isn’t used to it, I—”

“NO!” the sound that comes out of your mouth has all three of you flinching, and you’re thankful the gazebo is far enough so that the rest of the wedding party is oblivious to your actions. “You’re not allowed to justify yourself anymore, Doyeon. What you did was fucked up, what you’ve done to all of us is fucked up!” You realize now that you didn’t need to get back at Doyeon with a fake date, what you needed was this. You needed a reprieve, a chance to lay down your law. “Jungkook was right all along. You are jealous. You’re jealous and selfish and have no shame. You think you own whatever you set your eyes on, but you’re wrong. We’re not objects, we’re people.” 

You walk up to Doyeon, eye to eye. You jab a hand at her chest, pushing her back slightly. You soak up your cousin’s expression, and you watch as Doyeon’s eyes pop out in surprise at your act of boldness. “So you have a choice here. You can either swallow your pride and leave Namjoon at the aisle quietly and save whatever dignity you have left. Take your pathetic ass on the next flight back home and pack up your apartment. Or, we can start a big scene at your ceremony,” you probably look manic, filled with freshly injected power, “I know Seokin’s always wanted to yell ‘I object!’ at a wedding.” 

“You have no proof,” Doyeon glares right back, taking a step closer to you. Your noses are practically touching, but you dig your heels in the white-stained wood, puffing up your chest and standing your ground. 

“Doesn’t matter,” you bite back, “what matters is that Namjoon will doubt you. Namjoon knows we’d never do anything to sabotage a wedding without a valid reason. Even if you do get married tonight, we have Jungkook’s word and proof of a relationship that overlaps with his. I find this option to be far worse because it’s prolonging the inevitable,” you shrug, “I hope you two didn’t sign a prenup.”  

Hot, angry tears mess up her meticulously done makeup. Black rivers carve through her porcelain skin, showing the feelings that have been dormant since been hidden under a facade. Doyeon’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of you. She’s practically vibrating in combined fear and rage, seeing blurry images and memories and regrets of what could’ve been if not for her self-absorption. And finally, your cousin comes to a decision. 

“I hate you,” she emphasizes each word with the most concentrated of venoms in her tone. WIth one last look at the two of you, she stomps away. Instead of going to the direction of the chapel however, she takes the shortcut back to the hotel. 

Her grave words are unsurprising, but nevertheless disappointing. A thinly veiled smile grazes your lips, sadder than ever as you watch your cousin go. “And I pity you.” 

As soon as she’s gone Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up, hugging you tightly as you fight the urge to cry again. “Oh babe, that was really hot. The way you stood your ground? That was amazing!” Jungkook takes out his silver pocket square to wipe the stray tears that threaten to ruin your makeup. “You’re so strong, don’t you know that? You did it and I’m so proud of you.” 

As much as you want to revel in the affection, go back and bed and fall asleep until noon, you can’t.  Grasping Jungkook by the hand, you tug him to the chapel. “C’mon,” you say, “we have to corner Namjoon.”

The groomsmen photos are done by the time you get there. Thankfully, the to-be-groom doesn’t look too occupied. His eyes widen upon seeing you two stumble from the garden of all places.

“Oh, y/n. Jungkook,” Namjoon tilts his head curiously at how winded you two look, equally flushed and out of breath. From your state, Namjoon muses that it must've taken a lot of effort to finally get to the groom unattended, save for a few random family members he’s making small talk with, “The wedding isn’t for another hour but I must say, you two look radiant together. Doyeon always thought you’d end up an old spinster-catlady, but I always told her that you’re too beautiful to be single for long,” he pauses to send the aforementioned man a wink, “Jungkook’s a lucky guy. What were you two doing back there?”

“Uh, things?” Jungkook scratches the back of his head, not wanting to reiterate the fiasco between Doyeon moments before.

Namjoon smirks at the ebony-haired man, “Couple things?”  

You can’t take this needless small talk anymore. With a teary groan, you throw yourself at Namjoon. You hug him tight, and you don’t even care when you feel a slosh of his water bottle sprinkle your hairstyle. 

“Joonie,” you bemoan, “please, please don’t leave me. You’re the best not-cousin ever. I know it’ll be a pain to face Doyeon after today but you’re a strong independent man and when you’re ready Jin is single and ready to mingle—ow! Jungkook! Did you just pinch my ass?” 

“Do you really think setting him up with the next cousin is the best idea right now?”

“I figured a little humor would lighten the blow,” you sulk.

“I’m sorry what—what blow?” Namjoon frowns, pushing you away from him. “Y/n, have you been crying?” 

The tears resurface at that moment, like a kettle on overboil. Namjoon’s face is knitted together, unable to grasp at any conclusion. Namjoon feels something grave is upon the sky as he tenderly brushes away your tears with his thumbs before releasing you. Instantly Jungkook pulls you to his chest, patting you soothingly. As much as you two do not want to be the bearer of bad news, the time is now. 

“Namjoon,” Jungkook says, finding the strength that was previously stuck in his throat, “we have to tell you something.” 

Needless to say, Las Vegas is very forgiving when it comes to last minute wedding cancellations. 

The whole wedding party, both Namjoon and yours, collectively feels like a whole ice bucket has been dumped upon your families. You would like to say that the whole issue was handled mess free, but that would be a bald-faced lie. 

There was screaming, crying, hysterical laughter from all sides. Doyeon’s parents were of course furious, embarrassed, unable to calm down a hysterical Doyeon as they haul her on the next flight home. You have a feeling they won’t be showing up to family events anytime soon. 

Namjoon’s family leaves quietly, frustrated, but classy. After all, they know at the back of their heads they dodged a bullet. Everyone leaves except Namjoon however, who isn’t quite ready to go back to his and Doyeon’s apartment. Namjoon invites Seokjin and some other close cousins to stay in his suite until their flight tomorrow afternoon, wanting to be surrounded by close friends and (almost) family. 

As for your family, they decide to find the silver lining. While the chapel was able to cancel the wedding, the reception wasn’t as easy to sway. At the very last second, your grandparents decided to make use of the reception and renew their Golden Anniversary vows instead. The ceremony will be a quick, sweet affair. At this very moment, your cousin Yoongi is getting officiated online. 

And for you? You’re in the place where you’ve wanted to remain all week. A fluffy hotel bed wrapped up with your not-boyfriend. 

Or? 

Would a not-boyfriend be snuggling against your chest like you’re the softest teddy bear in the toy shop? Would a not-boyfriend be hooking your leg atop his lap, forcing you to latch onto him so his hands can roam freely against your soft thighs? 

“We have to get ready for the wedding,” you whine against his hold, to no avail when he only holds you tighter. 

“But your grandparents are already married,” Jungkook whines right back, nuzzling his nose in your head. “This is like an afterparty fifty years later.” 

“I wanna get dressed,” you insist, pushing yourself up, “and we still need to talk.” 

Without Seokjin staying with you, the hotel room feels much bigger and freer for the two of you. Your clothes are scattered on the floor, uncaring of any wrinkles or smears that would get on the delicate fabric. 

All that matters is that Jungkook is still here with you. Doyeon’s wedding is called off, but he’s still lying in bed with you. You want to burn this image to memory, and keep it forever. Jungkook laying in only his white undershirt and boxers, looking at you dreamily as if he’s still in nap-mode. Hair that was previously windswept and exposing his forehead is now out of place, fluffy and sticking out in all directions. His cheeks are flushed with coral-colored warmth, and a little puffy because you two have been sleeping most of the afternoon. 

“Right, talk,” he repeats, letting you hand him his black button up so he can clothe himself. 

You throw off your shirt somewhere behind you, not wanting to face him as you walk to the full-length mirror. “So, I think my feelings for you are pretty clear and out in the open…” 

“Same, I think I made it pretty clear as well.” 

“What? You turn around, looking at where he’s still half-covered in bed. “You did not. I distinctly remember almost confessing my love to you last night. And then this morning, only for you to cut me off and say ‘that’s great’.” 

“Oh,” he stares at the white sheets that cover his lower half. “I guess I didn’t then.” 

You smile wryly, turning back to face the mirror so you can slip into your dress that’s been pooled around your ankles like a silver halo. “Maybe you thought it in your mind and forgot to tell me.” 

That seems about right. Jungkook has a tendency to be a little too passionate for his own good, windswept in thoughts and feelings until they consume him. He hops out of bed, walking only in his dress shirt and socks as he makes his way to the mirror. “Then let me do all the talking,” he says softly against your neck, hands on your hips. 

You shiver when you feel the cold silver of the zipper whirr up your body, Jungkook’s large hands splaying across your back to smooth out the waistline. 

“You of all people would know that being with Doyeon is a trip,” he chuckles into the crook of your neck, “I thought that was what love felt like. Being codependent, jumping through hurdles, trying so hard to please someone who can’t be pleased.” 

Jungkook’s hands wrap around your waist, hugging you tightly. He squeezes you and holds you like the most precious thing in the entire world. Through the mirror, you two are quite a pair. 

“But with you, I never knew love could be like this, feel like this.” 

“So… are you saying you love me?” you fight the urge to bounce around in his grip, the biggest smile on your face.  

“You really just want me to say ‘I love you’ and be done with it, huh?” 

Within seconds he’s pulling you from behind, whirling you around to the edge of the bed. He manages to flouce up your skirts to billow around his lap, sitting you down on his bare thighs. 

“You look like a cupcake, all sprawled up like this,” Jungkook says cutely, peppering kisses in a trail from your chest all the way to your lips. “You look like a huge, silvery cupcake and I love you. It’s so easy to love you.” 

Maybe it was kismet that Jungkook didn’t get to you first all those years ago. Maybe the right time is right here, right now. 

“I love you, too,” you say happily, dipping down to press a long, passionate kiss to his lips. He tastes like love and a happy future. When you pull away, you encapsulate his face in both your palms, regarding him like the sun and stars. “But you know, if we date you’ll never get away from my crazy family.” 

Jungkook snorts, pressing his forehead to yours, “And miss Yoongi re-marrying off your grandparents tonight, the next year of Seokjin and Namjoon running circles around each other, and a lifetime of happiness?” his hands snake under your dress, finding purchase in your soft skin, “not a chance.” 

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter x. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2000

chapter 10.  Nothing Like Us

"What if I'm not good enough?  What if this happens again and there's nothing I can do to stop it because it's not what I'm doing but what I'm not?  I can fix my mistakes but I can't change who I am."

"You redecorated," you muse once you've stepped into his studio, still speaking in English.  It's nice to practice even if you never use it anymore.  You never really found the need to after your few years abroad.  The most often was with Jungkook when he'd time to call you and practice, but now those days were few and far between.

Slipping the door shut behind you, you scrutinise the room curiously.  It's shades of white and cream, beige upholstery and inviting grey cushions that beckon you to sink your aching bones into them.  A little plant is nestled beside the door, planted neatly in a little black pot.  Two sweaters are folded on a seat, tags displaying exorbitant prices still attached.  There's a row of shelves against the closest wall that houses various books and figures, including a particular Bearbrick that catches your attention.  It's about six inches tall, as big as your palm, and decorated in a mosaic of orange.

"You still have it!"

The look Namjoon gives you is as if you'd grown a second head, sprouted the the appendage right from the base of your neck.  Why were you so surprised?  "Of course.  You designed it."  Reason enough because he's a sentimentalist as much as you are, holding onto knickknacks he's had for far too long.

You study the figurine closely, admiring your handiwork.  The swirls of colour form pieces of fruit, tiny oranges and peaches painted across the surface  joined by scrawled characters.  They were the lyrics to one of your favourite songs of theirs - Outro: Tear.  You'd cried the first time you'd heard it, brought to tears by words you hadn't expected.  The rap line always surprised you.

"Thank you, oppa."  You wonder if all of your gratitude could ever be conveyed in three simple words.  

He doesn't answer, simply dropping into his chair.  It's high-backed and black - you imagine one of the best money can be, considering how much time he must spend in it.  

"So, let's talk."  The words float over his head and back to you as he taps out his credentials, fingers flying across the sleek keyboard with ease.  Long fingers guide his mouse and he's scouring his library for something to put on the background.  He knows how music soothes you.  That's why you were so close.  Since the beginning, you'd spent hours listening to his demos, lending your voice to the symphony in his head. 

You both found reprieve in the melodies, drowning your sorrows in heavy beats.  Whereas music was his passion, his lifeblood, it guided yours - helped the creativity flow from your finger tips like water from a well. Music couldn't hurt you.  You could get lost in it for hours.

"Where do I start?"  You say derisively, without laughter or mirth.  You don't like how the question rolls of your tongue, acidic and frustrated.  You know it's your own emotions, ones that stir from their slumber at the first sound of piano keys.  You meet his open stare when he turns back to face you, hands clasped in his lap and expression intent.  He's like a doctor studying his patient.  "Really, Joonie?  Fools?"

The chuckle is indication enough that you don't get a say in songs tonight.  He wants you to feel something when Jungkook's dulcet tones join the harmony.

Before you begin, your legs are drawing to your chest, socked feet joining you on the couch.  It's like you're creating a physical wall when your arms wrap around your knees.  Your chin drops, bone digging into the soft muscle of your forearm.  You hum once or three times and exhale a sigh.  It's a stalling tactic but your companion isn't in a rush, your little movements only earning him a subtle shake of his head.

"You know we broke up."  There's no point clarifying who he is, because everyone knows.  And truthfully, you don't think you can speak his name, the mere thought of it a sinking stone in the pit of your stomach.  "I'm sad.  I'm really, really sad."  You don't realize you've transitioned back into Korean before you're spilling the entirety of your lovesick heart into your proverbial hands - or in this case, the cavern of your arms.  "And I'm scared, too.  Because I don't know what I did wrong or what I can do to keep the next person I fall in love with."  There's emotion welling behind your eyes before you can stop it.

It's such a silly thing.  Love. 

And yet it has you breaking beneath its weight, sobbing quietly for what seems like the hundredth time in not very long at all.

"What if I'm not good enough?  What if this happens again and there's nothing I can do to stop it because it's not what I'm doing but what I'm not?  I can fix my mistakes but I can't change who I am."  You're not entirely sure your words are intelligible due to the way they're streaming into your skin, caught in the current of your tears.  "I'm so scared I'll let him down."

"Who's 'him'?" 

The question catches you off guard, head whipping up with such speed that you grimace.  

"What?"  Leave it to Kim Namjoon to pick up on something you hadn't even meant to say.  Why couldn't he just be pretending to pay attention, like most people would?  Why did he have to be such a good person?

"You said you don't want to let him down.  Soomi-ya, who's 'him'?"  There's no demand for an answer, no intolerance or force in his reiterated words.  He's genuinely curious because he wants to work through this with you, no matter how awkward you suddenly feel.  He knows, if the roles were reversed, you'd be doing the same.  That's just who he was - a leader.

You're chewing on the inside of your cheek again, twisting your fingers until your knuckles are stark white and straining. 

Did you tell him? Would he tell Jungkook? 

If you were to stop and really think about it, you know the answer would be no.  Namjoon was like a vault - any secret you swore him to would go with him to his grave.  He'd have rather died before he betrayed the trust of someone who cared about.  But in the moment, you're second guessing, the silence stretching on longer than either of you expected.

He relents first, though only in part.  "You don't have to tell me," he begins, carefully, choosing his words like the fate of the world rests with him.  "But if he's a good guy, if he's anything like Jungkook--"  

What?

"--then it won't matter.  You'll be everything and more to him, I promise you that."  A hand has breached the divide, smooth warm palm resting heavily over yours.  It's a surprising act of skinship that has you leaning in, wholly focused on the words spilling from his lips.  "He'll always pick you.  You'll never have a doubt in your mind."

You're not sure whether he means your potential future soulmate or your best friend.  You don't dare ask for fear of breaking the illusion.  Because right now, it feels like Namjoon's speaking on the maknae's behalf. 

You know it isn't true but god, you wish it were.

"Okay," you finally breathe. 

"Where'd Soomi go?" 

The realization you aren't there comes like a freight train, catching him off-guard once he's dropped his headset onto the chair.  Had you left when he'd been engulfed in the high stress fantasy world?  He was sure you would've said goodbye.

Had he done something to mess up?

"I think she and Namjoon-hyung went to talk."  Jungkook's surprised by Taehyung's response.  They'd been playing together, lost in the chaos of Overwatch - or so he'd thought.  Why did it bother him that his hyung knew where you'd gone but he didn't?  Was that something he wanted to think about or would it have him locked in his own head, thinking about things he shouldn't be?

"I'll go get her," he states, about to move down the hall and only stopping when a hand catches his arm, fingers locking around the bones of his wrist and gently urging him back.  

"I think they need time."

Time?  For what?

He's frowning almost immediately, brows knitting together just as his hands do, socking together within the pouch of his hoodie.  With a huff, Jungkook drops unceremoniously into the nearest seat, nearly knocking the mouse from Taehyung's hand with the force of his movement.  He's suddenly uncharacteristically pouty - despite the fact that he'd just wrecked some strangers for the third time in a row.  The discontent radiates off him in waves, manifesting itself in the bouncing of his leg and the fisting of his tongue against his cheek. 

It's only when his foot kicks the other's chair for the third time that Taehyung reacts, tearing his headset off in annoyance.  He'd been thisclose to winning the last match, all his hopes going up in smoke when the younger's incessant movement had nudged his Mei into the line of fire.  

"Stop."  A command more than anything, baritone carrying with it reproach and disapproval.  He knew how complicated things were between you two but hell if it wasn't frustrating.  Truthfully, it had been nice when you'd been in a relationship, because there were no what-ifs, no potential for tension.  Things were normal, if not a little melancholy.

(Though, if they weren't like brothers and he was into smackdowns, Taehyung would've already asked you out - if only to force Jungkook into action.)

Displeasure simmers just before the surface, reflected in the depths of his stare, and the younger makes a concentrated effort not to scoff.  "I'm not doing anything," he grumbles as if he believes it, shoulders squaring beneath his baggy clothes.  Fingers flex against the swell of his biceps, digging into the muscle there as if that'll  sooth the resentment that courses through his veins.  He doesn't like this any more than Taehyung does - he's just bad at controlling his emotions.

"When are you going to tell her?"  Taehyung's settled back into his chair, back to the other as he speaks, already queueing up for another match without his DPS partner.  "The sooner you do it, the less time you'll spend feeling like this." 

The words are not unkind, but Jungkook bristles, pointedly turning his attention to his phone.  "I know that."  

"Then what are you waiting for?"  

"She just got out of a relationship."  It isn't the entire truth but it's close enough that he can speak the words without hesitation.  And I don't even know if she feels the same way. 

"So what?  You've known each other forever.  You don't think that trumps the ex-boyfriend thing?"

Jungkook hates the points that are being made, because they're the same ones he's pondered himself, in the quiet of his bedroom where he's safe from your infectious smile and intoxicating laughter.  He's mulled the possibility over time and time again, having nearly taken the plunge at least half a dozen times.  He could just never push himself off that ledge.  

If he lost you, he wasn't sure what he'd do.  It just wasn't worth it.  (Or so he'd say, before winding back up in this exact same spot.)

"Risk it for the biscuit."  The phrase sounds awkward coming from Taehyung, the strange English idiom having been stuck in his head since he'd heard it a few nights ago in-game.  He'd asked Namjoon about it, playing with the sound of the consonants and vowels before deciding it was his new favourite phrase.  "You can't be scared forever."

"I'm not scared!"  Now, Jungkook's just offended.  He'd weather storms with you - for you.  He wasn't a coward.  There were just so many variables to consider.  It didn't help he was, as his hyungs would put it, a sore loser.  Would he able to swallow his pride if you rejected him, whether kindly or without regard?  Would he resent you? 

God, he couldn't imagine that.  He'd hated your fights enough growing up, the spats stemming from two kids that grew up too fast and thought they knew everything.  When you'd had your first big blowout, he'd nearly driven himself sick with sadness.  You hadn't talked for nearly six weeks - the worst silence he'd ever experienced, so hollow it felt like his heart had been torn clean out of his chest by some sort of super massive blackhole.

"Then tell her."  And as if to bring the conversation to an end, Taehyung drags his headset over his ears, effectively blocking out the groan he knows is coming.  

notes.  i'm trying to expand my chapters a bit more by giving more detail where it's needed and painting clearer pictures.  please let me know what you think (or don't).  if you're reading this, I love you anyways.  <3

[empathicstars]

if i killed someone for you

what: an unedited drabble of Aella dying to save Linus, who’s been turned into a morph when: an AU in my Fire Emblem verse, sometime after Linus is turned into a morph why: I had it as a vivid dream and of course I had to torture Kristopher despite my lack of FE knowledge  for: @herousanimarum

   She sees the pain on Lloyd’s face, and it is nearly unbearable. Perhaps she senses it more keenly than she would sense another’s pain, due to having linked her mind with his prior ( there appears to be an unrelenting joining between the two of them, now, due solely to recalling each other’s memories in their heads ), but perhaps it is the severity of his agony that keeps calling her attention to him. They are on their way to find where Linus has been taken, where he’s stationed along with many of the other morphs. They are there to fight as many as they can, but Aella knows that as far as Lloyd is concerned, they are primarily going for Linus.

   There is little to no way to save him. They don’t have the necessary information. They all know that. Lloyd does not live under any illusion that anything can be different. The hopelessness in his form nearly crushes her.

   ( After all, humans were made and meant to have hope. What would a human be without it? )

   He’s staring emptily at a campfire they’ve made on their way to battle one night, and something about his gaze is what sets her mind on it. She pulls a book from her satchel and begins to write. It is not an unusual sight, her bent over a book, writing utensil moving, and she is grateful that no one questions her.

   She’s unsure what she would have said, anyway.

   She puts a leather bookmark in where she’d written, closes it carefully and returns it to her bag.

   She knows what she ought to do.

   From that moment on, her fate is more or less sealed, despite the fact that they have not even seen Linus yet. Aella has often been seen as relenting and obedient, and that she is, but in the rare times her mind is set, it is ironclad. Nothing and no one can sway the assuredness in her soul. It is not a difficult potion to swallow, the idea that her death is just around the corner. Somehow, it is relaxing. Somehow, it is freeing. Lloyd’s depression serves only to strengthen her.

   Soon, he will be better.

   Soon, it will all be the way it should be.

   She’s armed and has trained long and hard, so when Aella insists on following Lloyd into battle, he has to relent. Perhaps it is the fog of sadness that makes him not question it more severely. Perhaps he truly trusts her bravery, her strength. Perhaps he now counts her among the Black Fang, and would find it hypocritical to doubt her when she pledged her allegiance to him and his fight. Either way, the pair of them make their way through rooms and ruins, caves beige and dripping from upwards with water. She senses in many of these people, these other assailants, what she’d sensed in Sonia, what she’d desperately whispered to to Lloyd in the doorway of a small room in Bern. It was too little too late, it seemed, to save Linus.

   But she would, now. She would, now.

   They find him as they believe he will be -- skin yellowed, eyes the same, hair dark. She feels the pain in Lloyd, feels him tighten his grip on his weapon. She breathes, steps forward, between them.

   “Do you trust me?”

   He’s confused, but it’s not as visible on his face as it may be on another one. Aella has only asked that question a few other times -- when she is about to do something that extends into her powers. He answers then as he’d answered always.

   “Yes.”

   “Then stay here and do not move. All will be well.”

   There’s something like dissent in his body, but he’s already pledged to her that he’d trust her. Now he must follow through. She steps forward towards Linus, armed and ready, and holds her own dagger tightly in her hands.

   Of course, she’s not planning on using it. She does not need to. The point is for him to hit her.

   And hit her he does -- much to the dissent and call of Lloyd. Metal collides with skin, slides deep within her with ease that only comes from tremendous strength. Momentum pins her against a cave wall, his taller form slumping, pure anger, pure energy above her. The hand closest to Lloyd curls against rock, tightens into a fist as if that will suppress the pain of being torn open. Mouth gapes as if to scream, but nothing comes from her lips.

   Her other hand shakes as it raises, goes to press against his face, line his eyebrows with two fingers, press two others against his cheek. She does not close her eyes, but she no longer sees.

   Her world is champagne colored, now, within the meld, as though her brain had been dipped into such, and she wades -- wades away from the pain of her own corporeal form, unmoving, and into his mind. It is a mess, unkempt at the edges, pages torn, clothes rugged with seams ripped at, but she gives him a backdrop to help find himself, formulate enough for communication. He will not understand the shifting messages of the mind as easily as some others may -- and there is no cruelness of that thought, just stark reality. She pictures the world in which they are in now. Cave walls, her with her dagger still in its hilt. When he appears across from her, paled as he should be and orange-haired, he stares down at his hands as though he is looking for his weapon. As though this reality is made weaker without the inclusion of him stabbing her through.

   ( It’s, of course, on one of his hundreds of belts, at his side. She is nothing if not detail-focused. )

   He’s confused, for the briefest of seconds, and she cannot help the automatic telepathy of answering, before he can fully get the hang of an imagined form crouched within his own mind next to her. How is she doing this, what happened to him, what is she doing, why, why, oh God, why is she doing this. I’m not worth this, she hears, and though he may feel the emotional horror those words elicits, he’ll never allow her to respond.

   “You’re an idiot,” he says, as he would if they were both across from each other. Ah, yes, this idea of a backdrop to center himself was much more helpful. He could play at an illusion that their thoughts were separate, even while hearing her contemplation on the fact that they were not.

   “I never claimed otherwise,” she says, while I know beats in response. Something about this is near-dizzying, near-impossible, slipping beneath the weight of a hold over his mind, finding him intact and dragging him free of it, shifting her to it. She’s weak with it. She has to find her strength.

   Lloyd.

   Her memories are as clear for him as though projected behind her on the wall, as though part of his own history, own memory. Waking up to see him above her, blurried. Cold fingertips finding one another. Her smudging blood from the crease of his face. The two of them leaned against each other, books open in their laps, fast asleep. His smiling behind a mug of tea she’d made him. The two of them standing near each other, protectively, sides overlapping. Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd.

   This was all for him. To save Linus.

   So many responses swirl through him -- to poke fun at them, an ache for something similar, an anger for her doing this to him, a surprise that she could even care this much. He stares at her, unspeaking.

   She’s pushing the hold over him, the hold that turns bones to concrete, blood to ice. That makes nothing matter anymore.

   “Stop it.” He sounds annoyed.

   Part of her wishes to do as ordered. To release herself this pain and sink into nothing. But she is too far back to stop.

   She thinks of his melancholy, his emptiness, his heartbreak these past few days. How listless and numb he has appeared. How broken he has been.

   She compares it with him by his brother’s side. Begrudging smiles as Linus knocks into him. Tsks that sound more friendly than chastising. A sharp laugh.

   Linus watches it all, simmers with horror at the knowledge of what she’s doing it. “Stop it! Goddammit, fuck, I told you to stop!”

   “He needs you.” A flicker back to him at their campsite, days ago. Head hanging. Haloed in gloom.

   “He needs you!” A flicker now, forward, to the memory of his voice ringing out in terror as she’d been run through with his weapon, but it is almost immediately overridden with overwhelming self-loathing, written on every wall.

   Children’s disapproving faces, saying she is not good enough.

   Her mentor, saying she will never be enough like her mother.

   Her, in the ashes of the Nova, knowing she will never be strong enough.

   “He will forget me,” she says, to drown out him listening to her pain, to drown out his shock at how overcoming her feelings truly run, how deep her shame lives. “You are his brother. The two of you have an unbreakable, unchangeable bond. One I will never fully understand. He needs you.”

   Linus is furious, and she feels it as though lava seeps up from the floor, as though the anger and his mess of thoughts are there to flood her, distract her totally from the careful work of taking the morph mind from his. He tries to move for his sword, but she is faster -- she pulls out her dagger and closes steps between them, presses the blade of her weapon to his throat.

   He stares at her, a mixture of total confusion and shock.

   “I am sorry,” she says, gentle as though it is true. “Here, I have the advantage.”

   He doesn’t quite like that. Of course he would not. He trained long to be physically strong, long as she spent to be mentally strong. He thrashes, but inside the world of the mind, he does not move.

   Outside, however, he is beginning to be freed from the hold of the morph, beginning to be given feeling back -- arms, legs, hands, all his own, and he pulls his weapon from her, stabs it forward again, once, twice, three times, desperately, over and over, four, five, stabbing her as though that will stop it, stabbing her as though it will save her, stabbing her without real meaning to his actions.

   “Linus, stop! No!” Not her voice, outside of them.

   As though he’ll feel something, as though it’ll be okay, as though he can save the girl his brother loves by doing this, he can’t be all, he’s not enough, Lloyd would never forgive him, never, not ever, stabbing over, and over --

   “LINUS!” Ringing against the walls.

   But it does not matter. It is done. The mind is slid into her, and she retreats before she can hear any further of his thoughts, steal any more of him.

   “My book,” she says to him, stepping backwards, sinking into cavern. “I wrote to him. See that he gets it.”

   And then he is gone -- or rather, she is. She slips from his mind and slumps against the cave, gasping at the darkness, the brightness, the feel of a mind holding over her that is not her own, beginning to release her as they feel her fade away, feel her die. Shadows shift before her -- one retreating, one growing closer -- as she begins to slide towards the ground.

   Knees weak. All body weak. Lips pouring blood as freely as one may cry.

   It hurt. It hurt so much. She felt cold and alone and small.

   She closed her eyes.

   It would be good. This death. She was saving someone. More than one person. She was doing her duty.

   It was more penance than for which she could have hoped.

[ikonislife]

Complex

-Bobby x Reader

-Fluff

-I know the title is lame but i seriously ran out of idea on this one. If anyone got a better name, PLEASE, let me know. I don’t know if I like the title all too much so give me suggestion. I am sorry that this is super late, as I am with everything but it’s finally here!!! 

“For the love of God, baby… Are you done yet?” Jiwon huffs, body sprawls out across the beige suede couch of your living room, eyes still glue to the bright screen of his phone.

“Five more minutes…” You sigh softly, hoping to buy just a little more time from the impatient man. The night had started out so splendidly well with music and wine, Jiwon waltzing in the front door impeccable in a simple black suit adorning raven hue heavenly soft velvet lapels. He twirled then tripped, as expected of your clumsy Jiwon, then laugh when you jumped into his arms near spilling the flutes of liquor still in his hands. Once laughters had simmered and mood settled, a fervid kiss ensued like the first spark of summer vibrant firework. He whispered words of love then words of lust softly in your ear, giving you a taste of what to come for the rest of the night. It wasn’t a birthday nor anniversary, neither was it a holiday but that’s just how your relationship works. Getting dressed up and having a fancy dinner aren’t just saved for special dates because honestly, why do you need for it to be some special day to celebrate love. Love should be celebrated any time as Jiwon had so casually whispered the first time he swept you off your feet for a mini vacation that soon started this tradition of unscheduled festivity. And so you were whisked away by your lovely man holding a large shopping bag filled with your outfit for the night. 

That brings the story back to why you were now standing in front of the mirror in the beautiful white satin dress Jiwon had picked out with a frown on your lips. Jiwon had a nasty habit of letting his hands wander, not matter the time or place. He especially loves the summer months when you bare more for the world to see even if it’s out of necessity to combat the sweltering heat. There is almost next to nothing in comparison to the way your skin feels under his fingertips. It’d just start out as a casual protective draping of the arm over your shoulders but soon his fingers begin their dance down your arm. He’d then so cheekily slipping his hand under the strap of your top before letting it graze the curve of your bare back, occasionally even sneaking a feel under your shirt if he feels particularly bold that day. And so surprise, surprise - the back of the back of the dress dips low, it would’ve make everyone blush had it not for the strategic excess of the velvety soft fabric pooling at the bottom hiding just enough. The front low enough to entice but as always, keeping it classy by leaving it up to imagination. Like a waterfall, the satin falls off your body accentuating curves but forgiving enough for any food babies you might gain later in the night. The floor length gown makes you feel like a million dollar princess yet you couldn’t shake the anxiety bitting at your soul. You love your body, and so does Jiwon. You had learned very earlier on to accept everything about yourself because your dear boyfriend would have no part of you comparing yourself to anyone. “You’re the most perfect girl in this world, don’t you ever forget that”, his words echoing in your mind yet you still couldn’t get yourself to slip into yet another pair of ridiculous high heels he had bought. 

That was it, you love yourself, you do but there’s one thing in this world that not even Jiwon could make you accept - you fucking hate how tall you are. Most your friends, even strangers go on and on about how blessed you were with the height department, how convenient it must be but you just don’t see it. Before you had become Kim Jiwon’s other half, when you were just the best friend with the monumental crush that was obvious to everyone except one person, you had watched as he filmed videos, then shows, then skits with girls after girls after girls. All of them gorgeous and of course, all of them dainty and petite like a daffodil dancing softly in the light breeze of spring while you’re like a giant sunflower that just towers over everything. You tried on flat, even the tiniest heels you had and nothing could save the ridiculous amount of left over fabric dragging on the floor. Your eyes meet the pair of nude heels sitting pretty on the plush softness of your vanity chair warily, almost fearful to put them on. Against your better judgement, you slip them on anyways, how could you not when he had put so much effort in picking out the perfect shoes with your perfect dress. With a sadden sigh, you stare at your giant reflection, twirling then gazing from back to front. Although you couldn’t deny that the shoes were made for this dress, your coward heart couldn’t bear the thought of everyone staring, the whispers as you pass by even if the rational side of yourself know they could just be talking about any mundane thing in the world… You couldn’t let yourself face the world, you just weren’t brave enough so off the shoes go and so is the dress.

Jiwon couldn’t understand what in the world could his girl still be doing after nearly two hours of getting ready. It’s not like he doesn’t know make up, he himself has to go through the whole process every single shoot. Not just so but every time he gets the chance to laze around the house, he’d be right there by your side, watching as you carefully pat in layers that he honestly feels like you don’t need. Yet he never say a thing because he loves the effort you put in, even if he thinks you’re already the most beautiful person in the world without the extra helps. Patient running low, Jiwon pulls himself off the couch he nearly fell asleep on 3 different times, wincing that the crisp white shirt was now sporting lines like a well seasoned old timer. 

You were so enthrall in your world of self pity that the creak of the door completely misses your ears. Jiwon crept in, lightest steps he could with a smirk on his face, it’s time for payback for the whole hidden wasabi fiasco a few weeks ago. There’s no way he could bring himself to feed you something so caustic even if you did just that, ruining a perfectly good piece of sushi but never mind that he spent the rest of the night groaning and dying, he will be the bigger man so a scare will have to do. Snickering a bit, he pokes his head in preparing to jump onto you but the second his eyes met with your figure, his smile dropped. 

There you stand so beautiful and sweet yet your features, solemn and tormented. Your hand smoothing over your hips then with a quick grasp, your hand pulls the dress up just enough to review the pair of heels he had spent hours on picking. A gentle smile graces Jiwon’s lips at the sight of how perfect you made the dress look but once again, his smile falls when you frustratingly kicks off your heels, eyes glisten no doubt on the brink of tear. Your fingers carding through your hair before they move onto unzipping the dress, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Baby girl, what do you think you’re doing?”

Your soul nearly jumps out of your body when those familiar hands clasp tight around yours, guiding the small zipper back up. 

“Ji-Jiwon. I- nothing…”

You lie even though you knew there was no point, he had already seen through your curtain of deception and truthfully, if anyone could read you like the back of his hand, it’d be Jiwon. 

“Baby… why are you taking off the dress? Do you not like it?” His arms found purchase around your waist, tightening you in a soul crushing hug as he rest his chin gently on your shoulder. 

“I love the dress…” You pause for a second. How could you lie to him yet at the same time, how could you trouble him with something so stupid. 

“But?” curiosity at the tip of his tongue, anxious to know why you can’t see yourself the way he sees you. 

“I just wanted to wear the black pair of heels and it didn’t go together, you know. Just, girl stuff.” a chuckle left your lips but his eyes train on your eyes, plague with sadness… Something he never, ever wants to see.  

“Come on, love. We’ve been together long enough… Tell me…” His face snuggles into the crook of your neck, nosing at that soft scent that brings him so much comfort because it means home, it means you. Soft kisses sprinkle the way down your shoulder before finding their way up to your cheeks. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, eyes squeezing shut at the thought of keeping this stupid insecurity from him.

“Is there anything you’d want to change about me?” Your voice frail and whispery, barely audible, at the edge of your seat for a reply.

“Uhm…” He pauses and your eyes shut, waves of despair hitting you like a freight train, you knew it… “You know when you sleep, sometimes you hit me in the face. I know you don’t mean it but it still hurt, babe. But it’s okay, I love you regardless.” A sweet kiss chases your confusion, what in the world is he going on about.

“I mean, you know, physical aspect… not that.” You honestly lost all your words at this point, Jiwon had always been strange to say the least but that was such a random answer that you were completely thrown off.

“No, I don’t know. Our sex life is beyond great… I mean, look at you, look at me. How could we not have great sex… I could show you right now if you’re still doubting.” That grease ball, honestly, you have no word at how often he could get it on. With a few sly winks, his hands snake their way up to your chest, no shame on his face as he gives them a few squeeze all the while littering kisses all over your shoulder. “Hmm, no bra huh... Looks like i picked the right dress” He near moans and any other day, you’d already be on your knees but not right now, not today.

“Not that. Stop it. I’m serious, babe~” He earned quite a few slaps on the hand from you before one more lingering kiss meets your neck, halting his fun to a stop.

"alright. Well you're obviously have something very specific in mind so why don't you just tell me... that way we can solve it together." Spinning you to face him, his lips find their way back to yours, hand gently cupping your cheeks.

“I- Don’t you think I’m too tall?” You exhale against his lips, only to be push off from a very shock Jiwon.

“Why would your height matter. Baby, what?!”

“I know it’s silly but don’t you think I’m too tall for you? I just think we don’t match... when I watch you film with other girls, they looks so cute and delicate under your arms... Me? I’m like an ugly giant. I’m already near your height, plus the 10 million pairs of heels you keep buying me aren’t exactly helping the case. I don’t kno-”  You words like vomit, ugly and spewing without care of where it hit but it wasn’t long before Jiwon shut you off, upset lacing in his every word. Jiwon loves to listen to you vent, no matter the topic but this is one thing he couldn’t bear listening to.

“No. Shut it, Y/n. I will not allow for my girl to be bad mouthed even if she’s the one doing it, especially if she’s the one doing it. God, Y/n... how long have you been keeping this in? It’s not silly if you’re worrying sick about it. You can tell me anything, love.  Baby, I told you, I will love you no matter what. You’re the fucking most beautiful girl in my eyes, why, why won’t you see that? Even if your boobies sag and your butt wrinkly in the future, I will still love you and think you’re the best person in this world.” Forever mischievous, his words always find a way to lift a smile onto your lips. “Beside, I didn’t get with you because you’re beautiful. I fell for you because of your kind soul and eccentric self that match me so well. Even if you weren’t pretty, I’d still fall for you.” His eyes frantic, searching for any sign of doubt still left over in yours but all he sees was tears. “No, don’t cry. Listen to me, not the world. Who care what the lame ass media say, you’re my girl and I won’t have you any other way... Slapping me in the face in your sleep or not, you’re still my girl, don’t you dare change yourself.” He finishes his speech with a big grin, thumbs working overtime to wipe away whatever tears ruining your make up. 

“You make me the happiest woman everyday, you know that? I love you so much. I-Thank you.” Diving into his arms, you snuggle close to his chest feeling your worries smoothing away with each pass of his hand over your back. 

“So, what do you say... Put them heels on, then we can have another best night of our lives?” With a fleeting kiss to your cheek, he proposes an offer you could never turn down. With a soft nod, the bright bunny smile was back on his lips as he bends over, slipping those shoes that you’re no longer dreading on as if you’re Cinderella before pulling you in for one last hug. Insecurity isn’t something you’re going to fix overnight nor is Jiwon a fairy godmother that can fixes it with a flash of his handsome smile and a wave of a wand. It’ll be awhile before you can forgo all your anxiety and proudly stand next to him, heels and all, but at least for tonight, you’ll be okay. At least for tonight, you’re taking one step forward in the long journey of learning how to embrace yourself and the best part of all, Jiwon will be there every step of the way.

[emmakillianfan]

Music of the Heart Chapter 46 of ?

Previous Chapters: FF.net and AO3

So a week from now I’m going to see A&E, JMo, and Colin talk about the new episode and I get to watch a screening of it. I’m so excited for that. But meanwhile he’s another chapter. Loving the theories of who Elsa’s stalker might be. This chapter looks at two theories. Thanks for all the feedback and comments!

Elsa peered out the window of her former townhome and winced at the sight of the beige car across the street. There was nothing that noticeable about the vehicle or the man. Neighbors probably thought he was simply waiting on someone. However, she knew the truth. He was a last minute add from Regina to her security detail, a former police officer who did freelance work for entertainers. Tall and rather unassuming with his barely moving facial features, he had introduced himself and then asked her if she had any special requests or plans.

“It’s creepy,” Anna said from her spot at the kitchen island, a plate of freshly baked cookies sitting before her. “Not having a bodyguard. I think that’s kind of neat, actually. It’s certainly a sign that you’ve made it big. But you looking out the window at him looking for danger against you? That’s creepy.”

Elsa let the floral curtain drop back into place and spun back to face her sister. “You’re welcome to have your own 24/7 guard. I’m not sure that I understand the theory of having a man sitting outside like a stalker to protect me from another stalker. That’s what’s creepy.”

Anna had unwound her hair from her usual plaited style, the amber tresses flowing in a subtle waving pattern down her back. While some liked to tease her about the sometimes childish fascination with braids, she actually looked younger with the thick mane framing her lightly freckled face. Cookie and a glass of milk in hand didn’t help her maturity.

“He’s here to protect you. I for one am grateful for that. I mean could you imagine if something happened to you? I wouldn’t be okay, Elsa. I can’t be an only child. Who would I talk to? Sing with? Enjoy eating cookies with? You’re not actually eating the cookies, but you understand my point. We’re sisters. We have to look out for each other. Do you not like these cookies? You helped make them. If you wanted something different, you should have said.”

Resisting the natural tendency to roll her eyes, Elsa reached over and grabbed a cookie, taking a dramatic bite of it before swallowing. “See. I like the cookies.”

“He seems nice. Your bodyguard. Maybe we should invite him.” While the sisters had first gathered to talk about the security concerns, go through the playlist for possible songs that Elsa could cover alone during Anna’s self-imposed pregnancy break, and just enjoy some time together, it had turned more domestic. Conversation was about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday that Mary Margaret and David were hosting. The sisters had been tasked with helping with the menu planning, something they were discussing in earnest.

“To Thanksgiving?”

Anna gave her sister an annoyed glare. “Of course. Even if they have caught your stalker by then. It’s a nice gesture, right? He doesn’t have good taste in car colors, but he’s good otherwise. I have been thinking about colors a lot lately for the baby’s room. I was thinking to go with gender neutral. No pinks or blues, but then what if the baby really likes pinks or blues. Do you know if this bodyguard guy has a family? I could ask him. You know get a guy’s opinion other than Kristoff’s.”

“He’s probably got family. I’m sure he has other plans.”

If Elsa expected an argument to her theory, she didn’t get one as Anna moved on to the next topic of menu etiquette and whether Liam and Killian might be offended by the holiday’s traditions. Elsa provided few suggestions, but was not fully engaged in the conversation. For a while Anna pretended she was getting more than monosyllabic answers.

“Do you want to trash this and try something else?” Anna asked about one of the recipes she was pondering online. “I think I saw a similar one that didn’t include nuts. Maybe that would be better? Is anyone allergic?”

Elsa peeked through the crack in the curtains, straining her long neck to see. “Do you think I know this person? Or is he a fan?”

Anna lowered her pen slowly, thoughtfully running her perfectly white teeth over her bottom lip. “I have a theory about that, but you probably don’t want to hear it.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?” Elsa bit into another cookie, her ice blue eyes studying her sister carefully. They had always been opposites in most regards. Elsa, an introvert and reserved leader, had their mother’s fair skin and hair. Anna’s rambunctiousness was just like their father, as were her wide set eyes and rust colored hair. Both had secretly envied the beauty of the other growing up, wondering how they could be related and yet so different.

“You remember that man I dated before Kristoff?” she asked, her voice sounding timid rather than confident. “Hans?”

“Hard to forget a guy so crazy he tried to kill us,” Elsa said sourly, biting again at the mint chocolate chip creation. “You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

“No, no, no,” Anna insisted, shaking her head violently at the idea. “He’s probably still lying on a psychiatrist’s couch recounting his childhood. But then I thought maybe not. Could he be the one stalking you? He didn’t really like you very much.”

***AAA***

Emma managed to drive Henry home unscathed, her anger simmering below the surface as he chatted over the events of the day and how Violet had kissed his cheek. Try as she might, she was struggling to come up with anything motherly to say about that display of affection. Thankfully he was not too aware of her distraction, his words falling out as fast as anything she had seen or heard.

“You’re not coming in?” He asked, hoisting the backpack over his shoulder and peering back into the car. “Do you have to work?”

“Not exactly. I just need to do something. Tell Killian I’m going to be late,” she said, leaning forward so she could meet his eyes. “And get your homework done before any screen time, okay?”

His lips were parted to argue, give some sort of snide reply to the idea of not being able to at least watch one television show or play one level of his latest video game obsession before tackling the history of Maine. He must have thought better of it, readjusting his bag on his shoulder. “See ya. Love ya.” It was their familiar refrain that she repeated back to him, only adding the word more to the end of it. He echoed it too, changing more to most before waving and darting up the couple of steps into the house.

He was growing up into what she hoped was a fine young man. He still believed in magic and hope, despite having been disappointed by people. It was a wonder, she thought, noting that she was the most cynical of all. He had a good heart and a friendly personality that won him lots of friends. And he was smarter than she could even imagine, having no problems in school at all. She and Neal were lucky. She hoped Neal realized that.

Making a wide turn with her small car, she drove back the few blocks to the center of town where Gold’s Pawn Broker and Rare Antiquities was still open at the corner just two streets from the library. Neal seemed to think that his time and energy were best served at the dusty old shop where his father’s hoarding obsession turned profitable on the rare occasion someone bought something. Most people treated the shop like some sort of museum, marveling over collections of outdated useless technology as art rather than for purchase.

She was not even sure what Neal did there all day other than dust and sweep an occasional trail through the room. So she was not surprised to find him absently running a cloth over the smudged glass of a display case full of antique costume jewelry. Finger prints and the ring of a cold drink had marred the surface, but his lazy strokes would not do much good.

“Neal!” she shouted over the guitar strums of an 80s rock tune playing loudly. “I want to talk to you.”

He rose from his stooped position, giving her that lopsided and yet coy smile that seemed to scream that he was ready to give as good as he got. “Ems, nice to see you. Is Henry with you?”

Her eyes narrowed over him, the pressed jacket and pants that while neat seemed too big for his frame. His stubble was more like a shadow on his jaw that an attempt at true facial hair. “No, he’s not. I didn’t want him to know about the conversation I had with Tamara today, Neal. I wanted to give you the opportunity to fix this situation.”

Neal was not known for his reactions or emotions, preferring to remain stoic or as Ruby described him – disinterested to the point of nearly being catatonic. “She said something, right? About the wedding and Henry?”

“You’re not even surprised,” Emma said with a sad shake of her head. “I doubt she’s self aware enough to come over here and tell you herself. I don’t think she even realizes how vapid and cruel she sounds when she says that he won’t look good with the other groomsmen for the pictures. Neal, I know we both agreed to move on from each other a long time ago. And I’m not trying to judge, but seriously? This is the woman you want to be Henry’s stepmother. I’m surprised she even knows his name.”

He exhaled loudly, his hands going up in front of him to ward off the tirade. “Whoa, Ems. Tamara is not like saint Killian, but she’s not the devil either. She’s just not the mothering type. Were you when you first had Henry? I get that. I accept that. Henry’s got a mother – you. At least she respects you enough not to try to compete. It hurts to see me with her. I get that. But Ems, we’re both trying to move on here. So she’s not super-mom. Henry likes her better now. It’s going to be fine.”

She could not even look at him, focusing her green eyes on the old typewriter in the corner. It was missing a few keys, but one could picture great writers pounding out their souls and life’s works onto it. There was something sad and yet proud about the machine that it seemed time had forgotten there on a shelf in the shop. “You know this isn’t about my opinion on her. It’s about her saying the wrong thing to my kid. It’s about her destroying him with some comment about how his suit doesn’t match the rest of you. It’s about her making him feel unwelcome in what should be his second home.” She rocked back, eyes narrow and daring him to challenge her. “He’s a kid. Your son. And while he is loving and sweet now, he won’t always forgive us, Neal. He’s going to remember these days. And when he’s in a relationship or having children of his own, he’s going to remember how it felt to watch his parents navigate through being single parents and dating and now marriage. I don’t’ know about you, but I want my son to remember that I never for one second made him doubt that he comes first in my life. Can you say the same?”

“Ems…”

“God, I hate that name,” she said, softening a bit as she saw his brown eyes squeeze shut in that way he had about him. For a moment she was 17 again and listening to him explain how they could have the world if she would only just trust him. With that memory came

“Emma,” he enunciated carefully. “Emma, I love Henry. And I love…It’s just hard, you know? Tamara and I both come from money. There’s expectations with that. All this pressure. It’s not easy to fit Henry into that. Her parents are not thrilled that I have a son. These are things you don’t…”

“I don’t understand, right? The little lost girl doesn’t know what it’s like to have family breathing down your neck. You know what, I don’t want to hear how her family and your father are taking over your wedding plans. I don’t care. What I do care about is how you’re going to explain to your son that you chose a wedding over him. Not a wife but a wedding.” She waited a beat for him to stop her, explain why she was wrong. “Fine. You have Henry for dinner on Wednesday. You can explain to him then why he’s not welcome at your wedding. Make it a good excuse, Neal. He’s growing up and can spot a lie just like I can these days.”

***AAA***

With Henry tucked under a blanket on the couch and surrounded by three textbooks about American History, Killian gave a nod to his soon to be stepson and stepped out through the side door onto the deck where his brother was waiting. The two brothers had spent very little time together lately, as both busily planned tours, weddings, and weekend getaways between hurried texts and dropped phone calls.

“I’ve always admired the view here, brother,” Liam said, leaning on his elbows over the railing toward the muted gray sky and water. “You did quite well for yourself to find this lovely house.”

Killian took the spot beside him, staring toward the shore lights that blinked back at him. “You know, Emma has been talking of finishing that space above the garage. She was thinking a music space. However, we could convert it to a small flat for you should Elsa ever kick your arse out.”

“I suppose if Elsa wasn’t with me that’s where you would have shoved me, right?” The older of the two accepted the extra bottle of beer from his brother and held it firmly without taking a single sip. “I don’t mean that. You and Emma have been gracious. I knew that she is a lovely lass both inside and out, but you are a lucky bloke, brother. You have a nice little family here with her and with Henry. I hope you know that.”

Lips still pressed together, Killian grinned out toward the lights. “That I do, but I wouldn’t say you were down on your luck either. Elsa is brilliant and seems to adore you for whatever reason.” His grin widened. “She is coming back tonight, right?”

Liam’s laugh was tight as he finally turned up the bottle briefly. “Aye, she seemed so happy to see Anna that I suggested they spend some more time together while Kris is off working or some such. She promised to call so I can escort her back. I don’t feel that comfortable with the idea of her out alone.”

“Perhaps we should consider similar precautions for you?” Killian turned his back to the expansive view and settled onto the built-in bench with his head cocked to look directly at his brother’s profile. “So tell me about this trip to the flower shop. Any clue as to who could be causing all this?”

“That Graham chap has theories, but no solid leads. I can’t quit thinking about it. Why would someone do this? What would they have to gain by attempting to woo her and hurt me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer, mate. While I frequently imagined pummeling you as a child, I can’t quite fathom that much hate in your regard now. Didn’t Graham ask you to come up with some possible suspects of your own? Some people you may have pissed off over the years? Even some of those sailors who may have been passed up for promotion in turn for you? As much as I love you, I’m sure there are no shortage of possibilities.” He noted the sour look on Liam’s face with his own chuckle. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Liam said, softer than either expected. “Killian, I have been thinking and wondering. I don’t want to bring this to the attention of our local sheriff, but…”

“Sounds as though you have a conspiracy theory.”

“Of sorts. I was thinking about father.”

Killian had been about to take a sip of his own beer when he sputtered at his brother’s revelation. Still holding the bottle, he frowned. “What the bloody hell for? I assure you that he’s not thinking of us.”

“Perhaps not,” Liam agreed, still staring into the distance and not at Killian. His sweater rode up a bit as he stooped more against the rails. “That son he has now. He’s what 16? 17?”

“I think it’s more like 19. He met that lass about 20 years ago and married her about 19. I think she was expecting at the time.” Realization hit Killian boldly. “You don’t think?”

“Aye, I was just considering the possibility. That flower bloke did say the man said his name was Liam and spoke with an accent. Mighty big coincidence, don’t you think? Perhaps it wasn’t one though.”

“And what reason would this half-brother of ours have in causing you harm? We’ve never so much as laid eyes on the lad except in that bloody prep school graduation announcement that was sent to us. Looks more like his mum if I recall correctly. I’d be more likely to believe old Brennan himself was behind it before his son.” It was somewhat of an understanding that both Liam and Killian avoided their younger brother’s name, as it seemed too much like their father was replacing them. Killian had little doubt that had the new Mrs. Jones had another child his name would have been Killian.

“Father doesn’t match the description of the flower store. But our younger brother just might.”

“But what would be the reason? If any of us have an issue with the whole family it should be us. That man abandoned us when we were vulnerable. He married another woman and attempted to paint himself as a family man after that. His son is the golden child, gifted and probably spoiled.”

Liam said nothing as he drank from the bottle again, turning his gaze back to the house and through the glass doors toward Henry. The 13-year-old was settled on the couch with one leg sticking out from the knitted throw. His sock covered foot was on the stack of bridal magazines that Mary Margaret had left and Emma had yet to read. “Did you know I heard from father about two years ago? I was still in the navy.”

“Did you answer him?” Killian asked, sounding accusatory with his angry eyes narrowing at his brother. Liam had always been so against contact with their father, even after the man had made a half hearted attempt years before to reconcile. “Did you?”

“He was ill,” Liam said vaguely, his pale blue eyes closing. “I think the booze and hard living finally was too much for the gaffer. Seems his liver was shot. Needed part of mine.”

“And you…”

“I ignored the email. Who the bloody hell asks for such a thing over email? He barely even asked after me, never even mentioned you at all. Then he asks for a part of my body. I deleted it. I couldn’t…I couldn’t face it.” Turning back toward Killian, his features were turned down in a sad state of confused agony. “He should have died, but I suppose they found the git a donor because he’s still alive.”

“And our brother…”

“Wasn’t a match,” Liam concluded, looking for all the world like the 15-year-old explaining life to his younger brother. “He wrote not long after, called me all sorts of names for not wanting to help. Said I was not his brother and never would be.”

“And you never told me this before?”

Liam seemed to snort as he buried his chin against his own chest. “I don’t know, Killian. I suppose I thought it best to ignore it. I didn’t want to think about how we should have done more to save our brother from Brennan Jones. We ignored the warning signs and left the lad to be raised by a man who abandoned us. Or perhaps I was jealous. Wondered what it was that made the second Liam so special as to keep our father around. But we weren’t. Were we honestly that flawed?”

***AAA***

When Emma was first promoted at work, friends had encouraged her to find a new car. Something more reliable, safer, fuel efficient, and more luxurious would be better suited for the single mother and music industry executive. However, she had resisted, citing her car’s long history and her love of the little yellow compact that had seen her through every rough moment in her life. After an unfortunate stay in jail as a juvenile it was her sole possession, along with a newborn son and freshly printed GED. She didn’t like to admit to having slept in the seats, eaten more meals than she could count, and even falling in love with Neal as they drove aimlessly and determinedly away from what both had deemed crappy childhoods.

It had driven her from a barely there existence back toward Neal and the promise that he could and would be a father for Henry. And just as she was doing now, she had sat in it and stared at the weather worn façade of Gold’s shop and waited on divine intervention years before. Smoothing down an errant cowlick on her son’s head, she had trooped him into the shop under the guise of building bridges toward family. The man had taken it as a sign of weakness, of her crawling back in search of money for her son. She had fought that assumption as best she could.

“Okay so this is creepy,” Ruby said, sliding into the seat next to her. “Are you stalking Neal or are we just having a good pout?”

“Neither,” Emma said, accepting the throw away cup of hot chocolate from her friend. “Just thinking.”

“Do I want to know? I mean I am here for you and love you as a sister, Emma, but Neal is not my favorite person or topic of conversation. I have such respect for you, but seriously. That was an odd combination.” Ruby flipped down the visor on the passenger side and ran her pinky around her lips to check her lipstick. “It was the sex, right? It had to be the sex because the guy’s not exactly the most intellectual, a good conversationalist, and he was running away from his daddy’s money at that point. So it was good sex. That’s why you hooked up with him.”

“I think 14 years is a bit too long ago to kiss and tell.”

“Fine, so the guy’s a dud. So why are you looking like this. You didn’t kill him did you? I mean I would totally go help you hide the body, but I need details.”

“He’s still around, but I basically just told him that he sucks as a father,” Emma said, her eyes falling to the steering wheel. “I mean who am I to do that?”

“You’re Henry’s mother, that’s who,” Ruby exclaimed boldly. “You have been with that boy since day one. And you have seen Henry with his so called father.”

“I’m not perfect. I make mistakes too. I’m pretty much the model for absentee mothering lately with my fiancé helping to raise my child. That’s not good parenting or even normal. My kid is in therapy fears and anxieties about me being around and what do I do? I go on weeks long road trips to book semi-talented musical groups. They should lock me up for that.”

Ruby twisted in the cramped seat, facing her friend the best she could and crossing her bare arms over her tightly covered chest. “Is that what that jerk said to you? Emma, you are a single mother. You have a job that requires a lot, but you manage to do it and raise your son. Do you honestly think anyone could do better?” One hand flew out and hovered a few inches from Emma’s parted lips to stop her. “Wait! Before you answer that, tell me something. Is Henry having nightmares about losing Neal? No, he’s having them about you. Because you are his mother. You are his one true parent here in this situation. And who is the one dealing with those nightmares?”

Despite the close quarters Emma flopped back against the seat covering. “Me. And Killian’s been pretty great about it too. Neal’s not been bad exactly…”

“Just distracted, right? Isn’t that the excuse you used for him before? He’s distracted by his wedding. He’s distracted by the pressure his father puts on him. He’s distracted by running a shop that barely has enough business to stay open in a normal town. When is he going to be distracted by being a father?”

“Fair questions,” Emma admitted. “I guess I don’t have the answers.”

Ruby nodded, shifting her gaze out the windshield at the darkened shop. “So we’re watching what exactly? Is he in there?”

“Yeah, I guess I was trying to make myself feel better that I confronted him tonight. Maybe if I saw him upset or looking at a picture of Henry or something. But that’s what you see in the movies, not in real life.”

“I agree that’s a tall order, but Emma, you can’t put that on yourself. Henry’s fine. He’s a good kid with a mother who loves him and would fight dragons to protect him. And if I have any of my grandmother’s sense people then I will say that he’s got a future stepfather who is almost equally as devoted to your son. Maybe your confrontation will kick some sense into Neal or maybe it won’t. But what matters is that you are trying to make things better for that kid. You and I both know what it’s like to grow up without parents. Henry’s got so many of us pulling for him that he’s never going to want for love.”

Leaves scattered on the pavement, a sign that fall was in full swing with the brisk air blustering in from the west. Emma and Ruby both watched silently for a moment. “You’re a good friend, Ruby. Especially for bringing me hot chocolate.”

Rolling her eyes upward and flipping her thick dark hair over her shoulder, Ruby sighed. “I know. I know. I’m a freaking saint. So let me offer one more piece of advice. Go home. Get in bed with that fiancé of yours after hugging your son goodnight. Forget about Neal. He’ll be a good father or he won’t. You can’t force people to do the right thing.”

Emma handed her friend back the empty cup with a wry smile and a mocking salute. “Got it, boss,” she said. “You really do sound like your grandmother sometimes.”

***AAA***

Henry skimmed the paragraph again, hoping the words would find their way into his brain with minimal effort. While he loved most all his classes, he was not in the mood to read about the advancing British army during the Revolutionary War. Killian often called him perceptive, noting that he picked up on things around him way too easily and tended to internalize them. The drive home was a prime example, his mother’s tense and yet concerned tone giving credence to his worries. And now Killian and Liam whispering on the deck seemed to indicate more secrets in the household.

“Anything the matter?” Liam asked, the first to enter back into the expansive living space. He rubbed his hands together swiftly after dropping the empty beer bottle into the recycling. “You look as though you ate something that disagreed with you, mate.”

“I’m fine,” he lied, ignoring the vibration of his phone on the table. Violet had a tendency to text when she was done with her homework. And while it shouldn’t, the notice that she was done ahead of him seemed to bring out a competitive nature. “Just doing homework. Where’s Killian?”

There was a flash of something in the older brother’s eyes, guilt maybe. “He’s finishing his beer out there. Should be in soon. He tells me that you went horseback riding today with that young lass. The one with the flower name. Must have been a fun time. I took a lass I was courting out for a ride once. She was quite impressed with my skills.”

Henry’s face flushed. “She’s better at riding than I am. It was kind of scary to be honest. They are pretty tall animals. And they go really fast.”

“Aye, but you need to appreciate the freedom of them. And I’m sure she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.” Liam dropped into the chair next to the sofa, his long limbs sinking into the stuffed cushions. “So if it is not woman trouble that has you so anxious, what is it? Your mum’s back in town. I haven’t heard a word about any academic difficulties.”

“It’s nothing,” Henry insisted, readjusting the book on his bent leg. “Is Elsa coming back tonight?”

“Aye, she’s having a bit of sisterly bonding right now. She’s planning to come back with that new bodyguard of hers in tow. Is that the problem, mate? Are you feeling a bit crowded here?”

“No, that’s not it. I guess I’m just in a mood.”

“Ahhhh,” Liam said, sneaking a peek out the door where his brother was clearly brooding over news of their father and younger sibling. “That does happen from time to time. If you care to wag your chin at it, I’m all ears.” He crossed his right leg over his left, ankle resting on the opposite knee.

“Wag my chin?”

Liam chuckled and mumbled something about language barriers with Americans. “I think you probably refer to it as chatting. Or something of that sort. Fine, I’ll clarify. If you wish to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

“Just never heard that expression before,” Henry said, trying it out for himself. “I like it.” He gave a sort of half smile. “What else have you got?”

It might not have been the conversation Liam anticipated, but he enjoyed himself as they both threw out colloquialisms and slang the other was completely unfamiliar with. When Killian joined them a few minutes later, they were both laughing hysterically and trying to string as many together as possible. Even Emma joined in on the fun when she came inside, her eyes still puffy from the tears she had shed but laughing as she sat between her son and future husband on the couch.

“I don’t think it sounds the same with our American accents,” she said after Henry tried to say something about dinner options. He could barely get through the phrase without laughing so hard that his breath came in short spurts and he was reflexively hitting the arm of the sofa.

“It does sound rather flat, but lovely nonetheless.” Killian bopped her nose playfully, which combined groans, guffaws, and giggles in the group.

Eventually Emma called a halt to the shenanigans, sending Henry to ready himself for bed and eyeing Liam’s ability to drive himself to the Rabbit Hole. Deeming him safe, she sent him off on his way too, rolling her eyes when he kissed her cheek and called her mom.

“Call us when you get there, mate,” Killian called out, winking back at the man’s scowl. “Have fun and be careful.”

Emma placed her hand on Killian’s bicep, her face a bit more gentle and understanding. “The label arranged for someone to monitor the parking lot at the Rabbit Hole. Similar to the guy watching out for Elsa. I can arrange for him to…”

“No,” Liam said firmly, offering no more argument before disappearing into the night. Killian looked both mildly amused and a bit annoyed by his brother’s lack of concern on his own safety. It was not unexpected at all, but still stung a bit in the faces of those who cared about him.

“You didn’t really think he was going to take me up on that, right?” Emma asked, dropped her head to Killian’s shoulder as they both stared at the closed door. “You’re the one who often refers to him as a stubborn arse.”

“Such an American accent, love,” he chuckled. “No, I expected his reaction. I hoped for better, but often expect obstinacy in my brother’s foul-mouthed wake.” He drew in a breath. “You are quite like him in that way. Both hard headed and stubborn.”

Turning in his loose embrace, she craned her neck back as if inspecting him for signs of regret in his statement. Finding none, she pursed her lips into a frown. “I’m not sure I enjoy being compared to your brother. Don’t want you confusing us or picturing him when we…”

He crushed his mouth against hers quickly to silence her, harsh and bruising against him. When he did pull away, he smoothed down a bit of her hair that had escaped from behind her ear. “I assure you that I’ve never confused the two of you.”

[deborahaphillips54303]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[cyberpoetryballoon]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[carolrhackett85282]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[melodymgill49801]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[carolinechanson97838]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[latoyajkelson70506]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network