#Indian ivy

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Thursday 25 January 2024

The evergreen shrub Monstera deliciosa (Swiss cheese plant, custard plant, fruit salad plant, Indian ivy, Mexican breadfruit) climbs using aerial roots. This is a commonly grown houseplant with heart-shaped, pinnatisect and often perforated, glossy deep green leaves and there is a variegated form, Monstera deliciosa 'Variegata'.

Jill Raggett

[pariaritzia]

Queerness in Indian Media

↳Film: RRR (2022, Telugu), dir. S.S. RAJAMOULI

RRR is a historical fantasy action drama that follows Bheem (NTR Jr), a Gond warrior who is in search of a Gond girl who was taken away from their home, and Ram (Ram Charan), the British Army officer assigned to catch him. Ram and Bheem meet under false identities and quickly grow closer, but everything is thrown into chaos once the truth is revealed and Ram is forced to choose between his ambitions and his attachment to Bheem.

Long before any white person had ever heard of RRR, queer Indians were cautiously optimistic that there would be something for us in this movie. There was the song Dosti, which felt more romantic than the average song about friendship; Bheem's intense declaration toward Ram in the trailer; Rajamouli explaining that there is no boy-girl romantic song (a staple of masala Indian cinema in any language) because "the romance angle is between these two guys only...bromance...they are the heroes, they are the hero and heroine, and they are the hero and villain"; the lead actors repeatedly questioning interviewers who referred to Jenny and Seetha as Bheem and Ram's love interests; and the writer, V. Vijayendra Prasad, being a huge fan of Salim-Javed movies, particularly Sholay, whose homosocial pairing has been read as queer by queer Indians for decades.

The movie itself gave us more than we could have hoped for from a project made on such a huge scale. Ram and Bheem mimic many of the "hero and heroine" pairings in so many masala movies, doing everything from the "slow-mo staring" for the first meeting, to getting a whole montage song for the progression of their bond, to dressing each other up, to dancing together at a party, to carrying each other, to rescuing each other.

The final rescue scene is perhaps the most telling, as it twists a well-known myth from the Ramayana by putting Ram and Bheem in the position of heroine and hero. It is not Hanuman who tells Rama where to find Sita in Lanka, but instead Seetha who tells Bheem where to find Ram. Bheem, upon finding him, promises to get him out 'even if [he has] to burn this Lanka down to do it'--then promptly carries him on his shoulders the way Hanuman carried Rama, to do away with any suspicions from homophobic audiences.

Those homophobic audiences still made their complaints--a glance at the oldest comments on any clip or behind the scenes video for RRR will make that clear--but they were drowned out by the many fans of the movie. Ultimately, like with any coded movie, the interpretation is up to the individual, but it is undeniable that a number of queer Indians felt that there was a romantic bond between Ram and Bheem. To dismiss that would do a disservice to the many queer people who have, are, and always will work quietly behind the scenes to write our stories, even if they can never say so directly.

[aoioozora]

"Why'd you join the British army?" asked Ghost.

"Just to relive the good old days." Vampire replied.

And now Ghost thinks Vampire is an immortal.

[fiapple]

also i typically don’t have super strong opinions on comic characters’ appearances, i could probably count the ones i have on both hands total, but one of them is that i don’t care if helena is attractive. i don’t. what is very important to me, however, is that there is something haunting & morose about her. she should have eyes like a graveyard & a face that rests like the dead who are waiting to be put to bed.

also dark eye bags & strong eyebrows, but that’s just projection.

[cottageivy]

it was my birthday today and i can now legally drink and i don’t know what to do with myself now 🧍 like why does that not feel real lmao

[larsbeelzebub]

Voodoo Idol, a Lux Interior portrait - Ink on paper - 2023

[morethansalad]

Perfect Kathiyawadi Undhiyu (Vegan Indian 1-Pot Winter Dish)

[exchangell]

i might make a cheeky little self indulgent south asian batman au

[sainurserypendlehill]

Devil's Ivy / Indian Money Plant in Sydney: A Hardy, Beautiful Indoor Companion

The Devil's Ivy, also known as Indian Money Plant (Epipremnum aureum), is a popular choice for plant enthusiasts in Sydney due to its adaptability, vibrant green leaves, and air-purifying qualities. This tropical vine thrives in various indoor environments and is perfect for homes, offices, and even balconies with some protection from the harsh elements. Known for its ability to grow quickly, the Devil's Ivy is an excellent plant for beginners and experienced gardeners alike.

Plant Features and Care Tips

The Devil's Ivy features striking heart-shaped leaves that are often marbled in shades of green and yellow, though some varieties may exhibit hints of white. These leaves can trail gracefully, making the plant a popular choice for hanging baskets, decorative pots, or even climbing trellises. Its low-maintenance nature makes it an ideal addition to your home decor, requiring only occasional attention to thrive.

Light and Temperature Requirements

In Sydney, Devil's Ivy grows best in medium to bright indirect light. While it can tolerate low light conditions, the plant's growth may slow down, and its vibrant foliage may lose some of its color. To ensure your plant remains healthy, try placing it near a window that receives indirect sunlight or in a bright room with filtered light.

The plant is not particularly fussy about temperature but thrives in temperatures between 18°C and 24°C. It should be kept away from cold drafts, air conditioners, or heaters, as extreme temperature fluctuations can cause stress to the plant.

Watering and Humidity

The Indian Money Plant prefers evenly moist soil but can tolerate short periods of drought. Water it thoroughly when the top 2-3 inches of soil feel dry. Overwatering should be avoided, as this can lead to root rot. It’s best to let the soil dry out slightly between waterings to maintain a healthy balance.

Devils Ivy Indian Money plant in sydney enjoys moderate humidity but is relatively tolerant of drier conditions. In Sydney’s climate, which typically offers moderate humidity, it will thrive without needing additional humidity sources. However, during particularly dry spells or winter months, consider misting the plant’s leaves or placing a humidifier nearby to keep it comfortable.

Benefits of Devil’s Ivy / Indian Money Plant

Besides its stunning appearance, Devil's Ivy is a natural air purifier. It helps remove toxins such as formaldehyde, benzene, and xylene from the air, making it an excellent choice for improving indoor air quality. Additionally, it’s believed to bring good luck, making it a popular choice for Feng Shui practitioners.

Conclusion

The Devil's Ivy, or Indian Money Plant, is a versatile and resilient indoor plant that can adapt to various environments and conditions. Its unique foliage, air-purifying properties, and ease of care make it an ideal choice for Sydney residents looking to bring some greenery into their homes. Whether you're a seasoned gardener or just starting out, this plant is sure to add beauty and freshness to your space. Plan your visit to Sai Nursery to find the perfect Devil's Ivy for your home!

[booksteacupandreviews]

Lady of Steel and Straw by Erica Ivy Rodgers - Three Musketeers inspired fantasy

Lady of Steel and Straw is a gripping and heartbreaking Three Musketeers inspired fantasy with strong world-building and character development. Lady of Steel and StrawSynopsisReviewYou might enjoy Lady of Steel and Straw if you like,Book Links Lady of Steel and Straw by Erica Ivy Rodgers Publication Date : June 4, 2024 Publisher : Peachtree Teen Read Date : September 14, 2024 Genre :…

[houseofthree123]

COTTON POPLIN Ivy mini dress

Ivy mini dress is made from airy COTTON POPLIN, it has flouncy ruffles tracing the sleeves in chanderi and flare at the bottom is to give a fun flirtatious look. Use the detachable belt to cinch your waist. Cotton Poplin 100%

Cotton Dry clean only Made in India. Ivy Dress – www.houseofthreestudio.com

[hornyforpoetry]

... Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne, And over whimpering tigers shake the spear ...

... With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone, While at his side the wanton Bassarid Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! ...

”Bacchus” // Michelangelo // Bargello Museum // Florence, Italy ”The Burden of Itys” // Oscar Wilde

[welldonekhushi]

Oh, a Call of Duty OC! I should che— *sees their ethnicity is Indian*

WOAH, HOLD ON. HOLD ON. RUKO ZARA, SABAR KARO?!

AN INDIAN CALL OF DUTY OC??!! HOW DIDN'T I REALISE IT BEFORE??!!

Now I'm fully interested to see what you have in store for Ivy! She looks so amazing! 🎀✨

Retouching and developing my Call of Duty OC Ivy! I'm pretty satisfied with how she looks now and this could be her final look 👀.

You can see her previous version on the tag (#ivy vampire salvador) below uwu.

I'm thinking of making her a Drill Sergeant, but I still have to figure that out along with her lore and all that jazz ✨

Anyway, her basic deets so far:

Name: Ivy Valentina Salvador de Almeida Nickname: Vampire Age: 26 years old Citizenship/Nationality: English Ethnicity: Indian (Goan) Hair colour: Black Eye colour: Brown Skin colour: Tan Height: 170 cm/ 5'7"

I'm so excited to develop her some more! <3

[libraryofgage]

Harlequin Prince (2)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three Harley Quinn One | Two (you're here!) 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (on the way!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz) Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One Queen ClarisseRenaldi One | Two

This part was line-jumped on Ko-Fi, which means y'all got it sooner than I originally planned!

If you want to line jump your favorite series, you can learn more here

Ironically, even tho the post says about a week of turn around, I get so excited that somebody wants to line jump that I just write it immediately lmao

Steve finally gets a good fight in this one, but it ends way too soon the poor boy. Either way, he also gets to meet some of the party!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

-------

Steve knew his dad wasn't in the picture, but he never knew why. He never asked, but he started to get this horrible feeling after a while. Harley Quinn's past was well known to Steve, her previous...associate and her relationship with him isn't exactly a secret, no matter how much his mother tried to keep them from him. She couldn't protect him at school, and she couldn't protect him from hearing people talking on the streets.

So, yeah, from the age of nine, Steve walked around with this horrendous knowledge in his gut, a knowledge that he wanted to think was just him being paranoid. But it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. He just couldn't admit that to himself, and he couldn't ask his mother because he didn't want to send her down that particular lane of memories. So it festered, and Steve pretended it didn't exist at all.

Until, that is, his 13th birthday. It was held at Uncle Bruce's mansion because his mother wanted to go all out. It was as much a celebration for her (a full three years without getting sent to Arkham!) as it was for him (managing to stay alive for 13 years in Gotham with Harley Quinn for a mother). Steve hadn't minded, either, especially when he saw the absolute joy she had when picking out the hugest bounce-house she could find with Uncle Bruce's sleek black credit card.

The party was catered by Steve's favorite Indian restaurant, the guests were limited to immediate friends and family, the bounce-house was extra bouncy, and a table was practically buckling under the weight of the gifts piled on top of it. It was, by far, Steve's best birthday, surpassing even the one he spent in Arkham after letting Poison Ivy out of her cell.

"Hey, Dumplin'!" his mother shouted, waving at him from the top of the bounce house she'd managed to climb. When Steve looked at her, she grinned even brighter and jumped, launching off turrets and rolling down sloped walls before landing on her feet on the ground. "Let's get to them presents!"

Steve laughed, looked at the table eagerly, and nodded. Her grin somehow getting wider, Harley turned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, "GET YOUR ASSES IN GEAR, EVERYONE! STEVIE'S OPENIN' PRESENTS!"

Soon enough, Steve was standing in front of the table, surrounded by everyone, and not at all sure where to start with the mountain of presents. "You should open mine first," Jason said, grinning as he gestured to a bike-shaped package.

It was, in fact, a bike. A motorcycle, specifically, with a red and black helmet and the promise of lessons from Jason whenever he wanted. Steve loved it immediately and ignored Uncle Bruce muttering about driving laws and how Steve couldn't operate any motorized vehicle until he was fifteen. "Well," he said, "as long as I don't get caught by Batman, who's gonna know?"

That had earned him a laugh and his mother's hand ruffling his hair. "Go on, Dumplin', choose another."

Dick got him a literal outfit's worth of Wonder Woman merch, accessories included, that made Bruce look ready to pop a blood vessel. Tim gave him small tracking pins and a hacked handheld game console to watch the trackers with the promise of free upgrades anytime he wanted. Damien gave him daggers since he "wasn't good enough for real swords, but everyone should have a blade" on them, just in case. Cass, Steph, and Barbara pooled their skills together (and Alfred, they borrowed Alfred a lot) to make him an Unofficial Robin costume, complete with shorts only slightly less scandalous than Dick's original costume.

Bruce, when he finally stopped glaring at the three of them, gave Steve a fingerprint panic button shaped like a bat and easily attached to a key ring. "For emergencies, Steve," he said, "Just hold your thumb to it for three seconds."

"This is perfect for the next time we run out of ice cream," Steve said, grinning as he attached it to his key chain.

"Emergencies."

"Oh. So if we run out of mint chip, specifically. Got it."

Bruce merely sighed and let him return to opening gifts.

Alfred gave him a tin of homemade cookies that Steve immediately had to protect from the others. Poison Ivy gave him a Venus flytrap and the promise to help him grow it properly. Selina couldn't be there, but Bruce passed along her gift: a pair of goggles Bruce had handed over with a sigh and quiet request for him to use them responsibly.

Steve opened Duke's present last, eyes widening at the red leather jacket. "Wait, seriously?" he asked, holding it up as he looked at Duke.

"You're gonna be a troublemaker, Steve," Duke said. "Might as well make sure you're bulletproof for it."

Steve grinned wider and pulled on the jacket, swimming in the leather but eager to grow into it all the same.

There was nothing from his mother in the pile, but Steve figured the party itself was his present since she'd done all the planning. When she pulled him away to a secluded room in the manor after they'd all had cake, Steve realized it was just because she didn't want to share this moment with anyone.

She smiled at him, reaching up and gently tucking a few strands of hair behind Steve's ears. "You grew up so fast, Dumplin'," she said, sighing softly.

"Ivy says I'm like a weed."

"Ives is right," Harley said, nodding once before looking away. "Okay, ready for your present?"

"Wasn't the party my present?"

"No, no, Dumplin'. The party was for fun," she said, grinning as she reached behind her and pulled a comically-large mallet from seemingly nowhere. "This is your present."

Steve blinked, leaning over to look around Harley. "Where'd that even come from?" he asked.

"Jester Logic, Dumplin'. Don't worry about it. I'll teach you the trick later," she promised, holding the mallet out to Steve with an expectant expression.

When Steve took it, the weight threw him off. He frowned, shifted his grip, and suddenly had no problem holding it up. He took a closer look, noting the scratches and marks on the mallet and the faded paint. "This was yours," he said.

"Yeah, it was."

"I've never seen it before."

Harley sighed, tugging on one of her pigtails with a slight frown. "Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly a great person when I used it, Dumplin'. Tried to forget about that Harley and all," she explained.

"Then why give it to me?"

Harley looked back at Steve and smiled, reaching out to cup his cheek. "Cuz you're so much better than me," she said. "I think you'll do some great things, Dumplin', and maybe all the good you do will erase most of the bad this mallet's got."

Her words were so serious, her smile was so bittersweet, and she looked ready to cry and deny it. This was the closest he'd ever gotten to learning about her past straight from the source, a past he knew about it, a past that involved a certain person that haunts Steve's mind with terrifying potential. Suddenly, he had to know.

Steve didn't really think before blurting out, "Is the Joker my father?"

Harley froze, her shoulders tensing and her eyes widening as she stared at Steve. "You don't got a father, Dumplin'," she finally said, her voice quiet and her expression conflicted.

"Fine. Was he the sperm donor?"

With a sigh, Harley stepped closer and placed her hands on Steve's shoulders. "I won't lie," she said. "He is, but that don't mean a thing. His crazy ain't hereditary, Dumplin', and he's never gettin' anywhere near you."

"Does...does he know?" Steve whispered, "About me, I mean."

"It don't matter," Harley said, her voice firm and her eyes more serious than Steve had ever seen them. "I'll kill him before he gets near ya. Ives will kill him. Hell, Brucie wil---no, wait, he's got those pesky morals. Fine, Jason will kill him before he gets near ya. Actually, Jason'd kill him anyway, but the excuse will be good if Brucie scolds him for it."

Steve couldn't help laughing at that, feeling a little lighter when his mother smiled back at him. When his laughter trickled to nothing more than a smile, he asked, "Then, was I the reason you left?"

Harley nodded and gently tugged Steve into her arms, holding him to her and cradling the back of his head. "Yeah, you were," she said, her voice soft and soothing. "I was excited to tell 'im when I learned about you, but then I heard him talking to some goons. He was laughin' about running a kid over, breakin' their legs, and I realized...you wouldn't be special to him. You'd've been like his goons, all expendable and not even worth a glance. I couldn't put you through that, and I couldn't put me through it, either. So, I got us out the only way I knew how."

"By finding Uncle Bruce," Steve said.

He felt her nod. "By finding Brucie," she agreed. "He tried to deny bein' the Bat and all, but your mama ain't dumb, Dumplin'. I'd done my homework, and the butts matched. Once I explained it all, once I told him about you, he agreed to help."

Steve nodded, listening to his mother's heart beating against his ear. He glances down at the mallet again, tightens his grip, and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, "for the gift and for telling me. I'll do good with it, I promise."

"That's my boy," Harley said, pulling back and ruffling his hair. "Now, lemme explain that Jester Logic to ya."

----------

Hawkins remains boring even after meeting Eddie. After all, Eddie's in high school (his second attempt at senior year, apparently), and Steve...isn't. He should be, probably, but there's no way he's stepping one foot in that suburban nightmare of a building. He can feel the normalcy, the utter boredom, oozing from the place, and he'd rather not subject himself to that.

So, he spends his day wandering around Hawkins, getting a feel for the little town until he could navigate the place blindfolded. He can do the same in Gotham, but it's more impressive there with the winding streets and sprawling sidewalks. Here, it's nothing special.

The most interesting part of his day is when he's sitting on the roof of a video store, one leg dangling over the edge with the other pulled to his chest so he can rest his arm on his knee. He's about halfway through a cigarette when a cop car pulls into the lot and a middle-aged man steps out.

He looks up at Steve, frowning as he calls up, "You shouldn't be there, son."

"I ain't your son," he calls back, grinning as he takes another drag and blows smoke out as the guy rests his hands on his belt. It reminds him so much of Gotham PD rookies trying to posture that Steve can't help laughing. "Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

"I'm serious, kid," the cop says, apparently ignoring Steve's question. "It's dangerous up there. If you don't come down, I'm gonna have to call the Fire Department to bring the ladder."

Steve sighs and puts his cigarette out on the roof. He gets up, stretches his arms above his head, and stands on the ledge of the roof. He grins at the cop, casually stepping into empty air and hearing the guy shout as he falls. He lands in a crouch on the awning over the door, swings to hang from it, and lands on his feet on the sidewalk.

It wasn't even much of a fall, but the cop looks like he's about to have a heart attack. Steve glances at the badge on his chest. "We done now, Officer Hopper?" he asks.

"Don't do that again," Hopper says, pointing a finger at Steve, "Or I will drag your ass to the station and call your parents."

Steve snorts, doing his best to hold his smile back. "I'll keep that in mind, sir," he says, giving a mocking two-finger salute before turning on his heels and walking down the street.

After a few blocks, he veers off into the forest, figuring he'll wander around the trees for a while before going to the Hideout to bother Bev and stare at Eddie and quietly pray someone else is gonna look for a fight.

Did he mention Hawkins is boring? Because it's fucking boring.

Steve sighs, kicking a stick as he shoves his hands into his jacket. He idly notes the forest is healthy. Sure, a few pieces of litter are strewn around, but it's not as bad as the parks in Gotham can get. Poison Ivy would find this place barely passable, which is hard to manage, and he's tempted to call her when he gets home to tell her about it.

He hums softly as he walks, enjoying the sounds of the forest until they just...stop.

The entire forest falls silent, which is weird; forests are too full of life to go silent. Even the bugs seem to have frozen in place, too scared to risk making a sound by moving. Steve stops, looking around him with a frown and trying to figure out what's caused this.

He gets the answer a second later when he hears a scream. The voice sounds young and cracks slightly, so it definitely belongs to a child. Despite himself, Steve can't help grinning as he takes off in the direction of the scream.

This is the most exciting thing to happen in the four weeks he's been stuck in Hawkins. As he runs through trees and easily jumps over bushes to take the shortest path, he makes guesses on what he'll find. Maybe Hawkins has a villain that's only now showing up. Maybe the town has a secret alligator or something that's decided to have a midday snack. Hell, maybe someone just decided to be a dick today.

He realizes every guess is wrong when he slides into a clearing to see a few kids (two boys, one girl) surrounded by some weird dog-looking...things. They have heads but no faces, crouched low to the ground and growling at the kids they've cornered. There's around ten of them, which would normally make Steve hesitate, but he's so desperate at this point for a real fight that he doesn't care.

Instead, he reaches over his shoulder, thinks about how fucking hilarious it's gonna be to jump out of nowhere with a giant mallet, and grips the handle as he swings it over his shoulder. "Hey, monster mutts!" he shouts, grinning when all the monsters and the kids finally notice him. "Let's play."

Pure, unfiltered joy rushes through him when the first monster-dog jumps at him. Steve's eyes are bright and his grin is positively feral as he swings the mallet and sends it flying into a tree. He roundhouse kicks another dog, using the momentum to bring his foot down on the head of a third before smashing its body with the mallet.

"Are you insane?!" one of the kids shouts.

"Certifiably!" he shouts back, watching as another monster-dog jumps at him. He waits for the perfect moment to back flip, bringing his feet under the dog to send it flying. He brings the mallet up as he lands, clocking another monster under the jaw. It yelps, crashing into another dog.

"Where'd this guy even come from?" the girl asks, turning to look at the boys with her.

"I don't know, but I'm happy to let him deal with the demodogs."

Oh. That's what they're called. Steve hums softly at the name, grinning as he twirls the mallet and swings with all his strength at one of the demodog. He rests the mallet on his shoulder like a baseball bat, watching the demodog arch in the air with an appreciative whistle. "Solid air," he says, nodding once before looking at the remaining demodogs.

There's only three, the others scattered in the clearing. He can't tell if they're dead or not, but he could always smash them to mush when he's done. Steve grins at the remaining dogs. "C'mon, then," he says, only to be filled with disappointment when they creep back, turn heel, and run.

"Damn, that's no fun," Steve says, sighing as he rests the mallet on the ground and leans on the handle. He looks at the kids. "You guys okay?"

The girl has orange hair pulled back into a messy braid. She's staring at him like he's got two heads but is kind of impressed by it. One of the boys has curly hair being smothered by his hat, and the other is wearing a basketball jersey. They're also staring at Steve like he's crazy. "Dude," the curly-haired one says, "that was awesome!"

"Where'd you get that mallet from?" the girl asks.

"Jester Logic," Steve explains, shrugging as he picks the mallet up and walks over. "Wanna hold it?"

When the girl lights up, he passes the mallet to her, snorting when she immediately staggers under its weight. "How do you hold this so easily?"

"Jester Logic. Again. It's funnier when other people find it heavy."

"That makes no sense," basketball jersey says.

"Who are you?" curly hair asks.

"Steve. Moved here recently. What about y'all?"

"Dustin," curly hair says.

"Lucas," basketball jersey says.

"Max," the girl says, her voice strained until Steve takes the mallet back, twirling it like it weighs nothing.

"Great. Nice to meet y'all. Now, what the fuck were those?"

"How much time you got?" Dustin asks.

Steve grins, thinking he's finally found something that can keep him entertained when he's not hanging around Eddie. "Plenty."

---------

Tag list (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

@nectandra, @y4r3luv, @just-a-tiny-void,

[crepesuzette2023]

Ivan Vaughan writes about John and Paul

This is just a relatively brief excerpt from Ivan Vaughan's book, which, for the most part, focuses on his life with Parkinson's disease. (From what I can tell so far, it's absolutely fascinating: far more than 'simply' a memoir, it's a reflection on illness, the mind-body connection, science, psychotropic drugs, patients' autonomy...and much more.)

But since this blog is climbing the drainpipe to the John & Paul business, and there's been some recent discussion of Mark Lewisohn's claim that John was such a bad boy Ivan's mother sent her son to a different grammar school to separate the two, I thought the following might be interesting.

And the ending of this chapter also gives some context to Paul's reaction to John's murder—another topic about which ML has interesting opinions.

This isn't to pile on ML, but more...as words from someone who was there.

(CC: @mythserene, @anotherkindofmindpod) I met John when I was three or four years old. One wet morning there was a knock at the front door. My mother opened it, and looking down, found a boy a bit older than me, smiling, but preoccupied with the effort of remembering what he had been rehearsed to say.

‘I believe a little boy lives here. I wondered if you might like to come out and play.’ He stood there in the porch, rain pouring down behind him, with a pair of slippers under his arm.

‘Come on in. What’s your name? You live round the corner don’t you?’

Next day I went around to the house where he lived with his aunt and uncle. We played with Dinky cars. I was surprised by his generosity and willingness to share his toys; he was happy even for me to take some of them home. When his Uncle George came home with some sweets John readily shared them. There was an immediate bond between us. He was older, read books, and his great intelligence and experience were apparent. I accepted his leadership but I was determined to preserve my independence. From the warm security of Aunt Mimi’s control, John accepted me into his life.

John was a member of his local library and immersed himself in books so that by the age of five he was already a fluent reader. I was still in the infant school when he started at Dovedale Road Primary School, but we played together after school and weekends. There were numerous parks, a golf course, and fields full of tangled growth and trees — just right for playing cowboys and Indians. In one barren area with large lumps of hard earth we played football and cricket. We spent hours digging all tracks to race our Dinky cars. Our most exciting game, though, was ‘fires’. We would go to a large area of waste ground and simply set fire to the straw and watch the place. I have never understood why nobody stopped us.

John’s gang comprised, besides himself, Pete Shotton, Nigel Wally and me. I was the youngest and was constantly having to prove my worth. I feel privileged to be John’s friend since he was nearly two years older. He protected me against Timmy Tarbuck and his gang on the rare occasions when I made the mistake of confronting one of them.

John and I went to different grammar schools, but I used to hear about the chaos and riots that seem to be a daily feature of his schooling. I’d rather lost touch with him when I went to university, and did not see him again until sometime after I was married. Then one day, as I was playing with my little boy Jus on the steps of our house in London, white Rolls Royce turned into the road. John jumped out followed by a woman I have not met before.

‘Hello, Ivy! This is Yoko.’ (…)

My attachment to both John and Paul ran deep and occasionally I would go to great lengths in order to see them at a moment’s notice. Maybe Paul saw our continuing friendship as a way of maintaining simple values he held dear. Jan liked Paul, though she did not see much of John. She was not the least bit mesmerized by their fame. She enjoyed eating at expensive restaurants in sampling London’s nightlife, into which Paul took us from time to time. But, should the effort to come to great, she was willing to let the relationship fade.

A month after telephoning John in New York [with the news of the Parkinson’s diagnosis; their first conversation in years], a heavy parcel was delivered. It was not until I was reading the titles of the books it contained that I realized they had been sent by John and Yoko. There was one by Arthur Janov, author of the Primal Scream, and one entitled Mind Magic. How to Get Well had on the fly-leaf a message from John that read ‘to start looking’, and The Snow Leopard had a note saying ‘to relax’. This last book gave me the greatest pleasure and I frequently re-read passages from it. Its author, Peter Matthiesen, lost his son through illness and journeyed in Nepal and in Inner Dolpo on a completely pointless journey to catch sight of a snow leopard. The peace he found travels across to the reader from each page.

John’s accompanying letter urged me, in punning language, to keep my spirits high and strongly suggested that it was up to me whether I sank or swam. I must not lose faith in myself.

Ten weeks later he was shot dead. Paul and I did not contact each other about it; in fact, we never brought it up in conversation. I hardly reacted outwardly at all. The day after John’s death, however, a colleague said that he supposed I was very upset at what it happened. I heard myself say: ‘I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know that I feel much at all’. As soon as he had gone, I instinctively made my way to a room where I knew I could be alone, and I wept profusely.

-- from Ivan-Living with Parkinson's Disease by Ivan Vaughan. 1986.

[spiderhanzzz]

"WORST REGARDS, YOUR KARMIC RETRIBUTION" — yang jeongin.

they say success is the best revenge, but sabotage feels better.

word count: 5.8k

pairings: jock!jeongin x nerd!reader

genre: fluff, humour, high school au, one sided enemies to lovers, slow burn, loosely inspired by i hope this doesn't find you by ann liang

warnings: swearing, partying, kissing, biblically accurate (religious) jeongin, everyone is the same age except chan, no use of y/n + gn reader, reader is literally evil incarnate plz dont do this irl ;;

playlist: ivy frank ocean, sexy to someone clairo, everybody talks neon trees, i can't radiohead

a/n: dedicated to @allforhee & all the other i.n stans out there :3 enjoy!!!

You know a lot of things. You know that the idea of zero was invented by an Indian mathematician and astronomer named Brahmagupta. You know how to recite your future Valedictorian speech in Latin. However besides these things, you also know that most things in life are pretty much uncertain.

Except your hatred for Yang Jeongin. That is your probability of 1.

Although your best friend Kim Seungmin says that your probability of 1 should probably be the fact that you’re a damn sore loser.

So when classes started to end and your school’s sports day rolled around, everyone knew not to cross your path. Either they would be on your team, or they wouldn’t even get near you. You’re not even that athletic; in fact, you can barely work out to save your life. But you’re the brains, the mastermind, of your team’s strategies. It’s like that saying, if you can’t beat ‘em, outsmart ‘em, or something like that.

You knew you were winning, or at least you thought you knew. Because just when you were about to cross your final lap of the track and field match, the corner of your eye caught a glimpse of Yang Jeongin’s infamously cordial grin. Disturbed by the audacity, you stop in your tracks to look at his friends sitting on the bleachers and feel a rush of satisfaction rush back in when you see them petrified for their friend’s questionable actions.

He won, of course. And though you took home five more gold medals than him that day, something about the utter disrespect of stealing the spotlight from somebody so clearly feared for a reason unsettles you.

Which is why you’re currently writing a letter to him threatening to take away his position in the basketball team if he doesn’t earn back your respect that he lost from a sports day event three years ago.

It’s less of a letter and more of a drafted email, since you’re not writing it by hand; he doesn’t get to have that sort of power over you. You’re not sending it either. God, no. You’re not that insane.

It’s simply a form of coping, nothing more. You’d reckon if you were to ask a therapist about this method, they would think it’s stellar. It’s like journaling… except instead of self-reflection, the end goal is to live in the delusional cloud where your nemesis knows and fears how much you hate them.

Do whatever your wretched soul can manage to revert back to the regular human state— that is, being absolutely petrified of my existence. Otherwise, say goodbye to that pretty “varsity basketball” title you adore so much.

A smirk twists upon the edges of your lips as your gaze fixes on the words you’ve just typed out. What’s the word for when you gain pleasure from the idea of torturing somebody else? You’re sure ‘sadist’ doesn’t apply when you only crave the suffering of one specific person.

You consider rewriting the entire letter on paper, for the sole purpose of leaving a crimson lipstick stain on the envelope for him to unseal. You don’t even use red lipstick, but perhaps the Irene Adler-ness of it all might subconsciously trigger a flight or fight response from him, as most stupid teenage boys do when faced with distinct power.

When other people fall asleep to daydreams about their crushes, you often drift away to slumber through the relaxation brought upon you from fantasizing about Yang Jeongin on his knees, begging for your forgiveness.

You would have fallen asleep to that dream for yet another night, but your best friend Kim Seungmin rang your phone. Now, if it was any other night, you would have sent him death threats and went back to your fantasies. However you had just asked Seungmin for a very special favor, so you decide to pick up.

“This better be about what I think it is,” you start. “I won’t put up with your post-exam depression bullshit tonight.”

“Don’t worry about that, I managed to get extra credits for everything.” Thuds and crackles fill the audio from the other side of the phone, and you can practically smell Seungmin’s bag of chips and old dusty laptop opening on his desk. “I got what you asked for.”

“Good, just forward it to my email.”

“I don’t understand why you would need it, though,” Seungmin’s voice is muffled by the chips in his mouth. “I mean, the team’s orders at Lucy’s Diner? Seriously? If you had a crush on one of them, you know I could just set you up, right?”

“Ew, I would never!” You fake gag, earning a chuckle from the boy on the other line. “C’mon, you know I have too much self respect for that.” “I think you mispronounced blatant narcissism and self obsession.”

The two of you go back and forth teasing one another for another moment until you urge Seungmin to send the list to your email. He inquires once again but you only brush him off, coming up with something about helping out at Lucy’s for the summer. Which wouldn’t be a complete lie, technically, if all went well.

You know you can’t tell Seungmin about your plan. Not right now. He’s reached that stage of being a teenage boy where he started developing attachment and empathy towards others, and now he’s practically attached at the hip with the rest of the basketball team. All he knows is that you hate Jeongin, and that’s enough for now.

And sure, this whole situation has made you question if you were actually a sociopath, but it needs to be done. You consider it a fair service to the community for taking down another straight male with no brains and a huge ego. They don’t know it yet, but he’s the common enemy.

Soon enough after the sports day incident you had come to the conclusion that if nobody could hate Yang Jeongin, you would make him hate you so much until a primal, animalistic desire to destroy you would take over his spirit. You assume he’d do something so utterly terrible, as men do, then afterwards everyone would finally see with their own two eyes that he is just like every other man in this cruel world. If anything, you’re volunteering as a sacrifice!

So as you zone out on Seungmin’s newfound amusement in the way Mr Marks’ glasses make him look like Chicken Little, you switch your tabs to open the sacred document.

In big, bold letters it reads OPERATION 143: 1 ENEMY, 4 PHASES, 3 YEARS.

The document itself already has over 25 pages, written in detail about your genius ideas to slowly infiltrate your enemy base from the inside out— most worked, but some of them just ended in your loss of dignity. You had even taken ideas from books and films like Parasite to further enhance its artistic integrity. These last three years were a performance, and Jeongin’s life is your stage. You have now entered phase four, and this is your closing act; nobody can steal your spotlight.

Contrary to the precise executions of your past eras, phase four is abstract. Its main goals are to disrupt Yang Jeongin’s peace as directly as possible, whilst leaving as little trail as possible. This, paired with the built up tension from the previous phases, is going to set in motion a domino effect, leading to the collapse of your greatest enemy’s social stature.

Accidentally letting a particularly mischievous giggle slip under your breath, you look back at the email you were drafting to him. You know exactly how to end it.

Careful where you run, Yang Jeongin.

Worst regards,

your karmic retribution.

This is your least favorite time of the year: the period just before summer break. Exams are over, so most teachers let students roam free during their lessons. But not going to school at all can take away from your total attendance, which then goes on your report card, so most students spend their school days sitting around in boredom and watching the sports teams play.

seungmo: Do u wanna come to practice

seungmo: Jisung bought cheesecake for everyone and I don’t want mine

seungmo: I don’t want him to take mine tho lol

That was fifteen minutes ago, and now you’re sitting on the bleachers on a date with a delicious slice of blueberry cheesecake and iced coffee, absentmindedly watching your best friend practice. Despite your close ties with Seungmin, you’ve never really been interested in the other team members— except for the occasional trading of homework answers with Jisung. Ever since middle school, you’ve sort of established that you want nothing to do with people like them: rowdy, sporty, and popular. Seungmin once noted that you say “popular” like it’s a slur. You couldn’t disagree.

“So… Karmic retribution, huh?”

You freeze.

“Pardon?” You turn around, only to be faced with the one and only Yang Jeongin.

“Karmic retribution?” He inquires further, expecting you to get the hint. “Y’know, what you called yourself in your… email? Death threat? Not sure what to call it, actually.”

Oh shit. Oh fuck.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude,” you laugh off the question. “I don’t even know your name, let alone your email.”

“Well, that’s clearly a lie, since your name is on your email address. And my name was in your… Seriously, what should I call this thing?”

Fuck fuck fuck. You must have accidentally hit ‘send’ when you fell asleep on the phone with Seungmin. That prick; he always manages to embarrass you somehow.

“Listen, I didn’t even know you go here. I had to ask Chris if he knows which one you are, and you just happened to be here right now.” Jeongin rakes his fingers through his stupid gross sweaty damp hair, then dragging his palm across his face in exasperation. “Whatever I did to you, I’m really sorry.”

“What do you mean you didn’t know I go here?” You’re baffled, truly baffled, and you basically lost control of your body when you heard those words. Suddenly your voice can be heard by anyone within a ten foot radius, and if it weren’t for that they would have thought you were about to smother him with kisses by the lack of distance between your bodies. “I’ve been here since fucking middle school! I sit behind you in Spanish— I ask you for a pen every two and a half weeks only to lose it every single time. You’re saying you don't remember me?”

“Oh, that’s you? My bad. You sit behind me, so I didn’t really get to see your face up close.” Jeongin doesn’t even flinch at the proximity of your faces. He simply gives you a brief look up and down and goes, “Now that I am seeing you up close, you’re the one that always hangs out with Seungmin, right?”

Then it hits you: this is the universe sending you a signal to initiate phase four. Sure, him not remembering who you are might have set you back by a few milestones, but who’s counting? (You are. You always are.) 

If anything, you’re grateful for the redirection, because now you know that before you can ruin him, you must first build him up.

“Alright, look,” you begin, taking a step back to put some inches between the two of you. He reeks of rubber and soda, the stench makes you ill. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

“‘Kay, cool,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “See you around, I guess…?”

“Wait, that’s it? You’re not even gonna ask why I hated you in the first place?”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re already starting over.” The genuine lack of irritation in his face makes you curl your fists and fight the urge to give him a black eye. “Plus, you’re one of those nice smart kids. I don’t have beef with your kind.”

And for the first time in your life you wanted desperately to become popular, because maybe then Jeongin would take you seriously.

But it’s fine. You’re going to destroy him regardless.

“Yo, not to interrupt this whole bonding thing we have going on, but I kinda need to head back to practice.” His voice snaps you back to reality. “Is that chill with you?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s chill.” You muster up your most convincing smile for him. One time in fifth grade your drama teacher told you you’re a natural actor, and you pray to God those innate talents are still there. Now that you think about it, she may have just been calling you a liar.

For good measure, you give him an awkward thumbs up before walking away. When you make eye contact with Seungmin, he raises his eyebrow as if to ask what the fuck was that? You can only shrug in response. You have no idea either.

You sit back down on the bleachers, occasionally eyeing your target, feasting your eyes on the way his muscles flex under his baggy Radiohead t-shirt when he dribbles the ball around the court and the sweat that drips from his hair. You’re used to your own deranged behavior, but this feels almost perverse. Maybe it’s because you’re basically acquaintances with him now (the word makes you want to spit your cheesecake back up), or maybe it’s because you can’t help but let your stare linger on the cross dangling from his chain.

Gross, you think to yourself, as you keep your eyes on him for the rest of the day.

On the last day of school before summer break, the unexpected happens: the basketball team invites you to their party. Well, technically, they invited everyone. It’s supposed to be Bang Chan’s last party before he graduates, and he just so happens to be friends with every single student. Thus, you and Seungmin are now situated in front of his front door, waiting for him to welcome you in.

You don’t usually go to parties, and to be very honest nobody really expects you to. The reasoning is a bit pretentious, you suppose, but you truly just don’t believe in the necessity of rebellion in leading to better adulthood. However you do believe in yourself and your incredibly sexy intellectual prowess, and you have an operation to carry out, so tonight you let yourself let loose just a bit.

“Ah, there you guys are!” Chan greets you and Seungmin, ushering you inside his… house is an understatement, honestly, it’s a mansion. “Mingle around!”

You’re still out of place, you notice. Since you didn’t plan on actually drinking or dancing, you decided to come in your usual get-up of your dream university’s merch sweater and a pair of baggy jeans. You mentally cursed yourself for not realizing that all of Chan’s friends would be the cool, charismatic type.

Suddenly wishing you had stayed home instead, you excuse yourself to the bathroom, which was (fortunately for you) on the second floor, away from most of the crowds. When you get there, however, you’re met with Jeongin’s sharp gaze in front of the door.

“Been a while,” he states, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Could I get you anything? A drink, maybe?”

“I don’t drink. At least not tonight,” you respond. Then you notice that his hands are also empty. “What about you?”

“Nah, I don’t do that stuff.” He shakes his head to enunciate his disapproval. “I don’t mind that the other guys do it, but I’m pretty religious, so…”

The devil perched upon your shoulder whispers hot but the angel on the other side exclaims what the fuck?

“Cool.” You stare at your shoes, thinking about how to turn this exchange into yet another round of revenge. When you get an idea, you beam up at him. “Wanna walk and talk with me?”

The moment he verbalizes his agreement, you grab him by the arm and rush downstairs. There, you do as you had suggested: walk and talk. Turns out Chan’s first floor is big enough for about thirty minutes of conversation.

When you get to the outdoor pool, you take off your shoes and dip your toes in the water with Jeongin following suit, sitting right beside you. Your conversation drifts to so many different topics— music, childhood TV shows, dating— you almost forget the reason why you brought him here. He’s observant, you notice, and he has thoughts on a lot of different things, something you didn’t think was possible. You always thought he was just dumb.

“Y’know, I was kinda flattered by your email, I’m not gonna lie,” he admits sheepishly.

“Pardon?” You look at him, puzzled. “Did you say flattered?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, no one really notices me like that.”

You stare at him, eyes blank and mouth agape. Surely this guy has gone insane, right? He’s one of the school’s most beloved students, by other students and faculty members alike.

“Like, I know they like me, but I don’t really stand out amongst the others. Chris is the friendly one, Minho is the mysterious one, Changbin is the strong one, Hyunjin is the artistic one, Jisung is the funny one, Felix is the kind one, Seungmin is the smart one, and what am I? I have all those qualities too, but they pale in comparison. People don’t have enough reason to hate me, but I know they think I’m boring. So being hated so passionately was kind of a big thing for me… I’m sorry, is that weird?”

If you didn’t want to slap him before, you sure as hell do now. How blindly privileged is this guy that his problem in life is not being the coolest guy on the varsity basketball team? You puff out your cheeks to hold back an exasperated sigh, and pull out a gentle smile instead.

“Jeongin, I don’t think people see you that way at all.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Have you ever considered that maybe they might just be a bit intimidated by you?”

This is exactly how your mother talks to you when you start crying about how nobody ever has a crush on you on a random Thursday night. God bless that woman for gaslighting you into a positive attitude.

“You really think so?” He looks at you with these wide puppy-like eyes and you finally understand what the girls on Instagram mean when they talk about ‘getting the ick.’

“Really,” you affirm with a bright smile.

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Just as he pulls you into a warm embrace, you push him just subtly enough that he wouldn’t notice it until he’s falling into the pool. With a large splash, all eyes turn to the two of you. He comes up from the water, clothes and hair drenched, and you feel a sense of satisfaction wash over you when you finally see a distressed expression etch itself onto his features.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” You lie, faking your concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… I’m fine.” He climbs out of the pool, and you curse yourself for staring a little too long at his defined muscles under his wet shirt. Then, he turns to you and says, “Needed to cool off anyways.”

And he laughs. Laughs at himself and laughs at your befuddled face and laughs when Chan asks if he’s alright, shooting him a quick thumbs up before grabbing the nearest beach towel. When his other friends crowd around him, he laughs and laughs and laughs and it drives you fucking insane. The resonating sound of his laughter surrounds the backyard in an instant, and for a moment you wish you had drowned yourself in that pool instead.

“I will shove my middle fingers in your dimples,” you mutter under your breath, and you consider it a promise.

“Be right back,” he tells you before rushing to the nearest bathroom to change his clothes, playfully flicking droplets of water onto your face and ruffling your hair, dampening it.

You watch as he walks away, feeling a strange pang of guilt in your chest when you notice his smile faltering as people start to focus amongst themselves again. Now it’s your turn to laugh, half out of disbelief and half out of pure glee.

Everything is going according to plan.

“I didn’t push him.”

Lie.

“We were just talking.” Lie.

“I still hate him.”

Lie?

Wow, three lies in a row. And to your best friend, of all people. This Operation 143 has really tested your moral compass, and it’s not looking great for you. No wonder why Seungmin is calling you at 3 AM, interrogating you about what the hell happened tonight.

“See, now, some of those statements kind of contradict each other,” he states. “I have no doubt that you still hate him, but I also don’t doubt the pure evil in your heart. You would have pushed him, and you wouldn't even be sorry about it.”

“Uh, well, you’re wrong,” you tell him. “Clearly you don’t know me that well then.”

“Whatever you say, but if one day you decide to come clean of your crimes, you owe me something. Something very very dear to me.”

At first you were nervous, because it’s obvious your best friend is on to you (note to self: be less evil on a day to day basis). But then you remember it’s your best friend, there’s only one thing he would want from you in this situation.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take you out for a fancy dinner,” you sigh. “That’s only if I confess my sins to you, Father Seungmin, and it’s not happening because I’m completely innocent.”

“Please never call me that again.”

“Noted.”

At that, your phone buzzes with a new notification. It’s from an unknown number, but you can see a display name. Jeongin.

~Jeongin: u up?

God, could this guy act more like a fuckboy? Somehow noticing the tension in the air despite your physical distance, Seungmin questions your mood.

“Jeongin just texted me.”

“Oh, so that’s what he wanted your number for.”

“Are you dumb?” You ask, but it feels more like an accusation. “Why the fuck else would he ask for my number, idiot?”

Seungmin makes a noise equivalent to a shrug, and you let it pass. You were just about to question him further about Jeongin asking for your number, but the man himself texts once again.

~Jeongin: wanna hang tmr?

“Ew,” you mutter quietly. “I think he thinks we’re friends or something.”

“Oh, right, I remember you don’t do those.” You can almost hear his eyes rolling at your annoyance at Jeongin. He’s expressed his disapproval for your one-sided rivalry many times, but you always bite back with words too vulgar to write down here.

“Yeah, you know you’re only my close acquaintance, right?” You turn your attention back to your phone, biting your thumb in deep thought. “I’ll be mean to him. Should send the right message.”

You need to change your technique anyway. Befriending him only to be annoying is only going to make him like you more, and betraying him out of the blue takes too much commitment. This is phase four, after all— you have such little time to get the job done. If you manage to succeed during senior year, people aren’t gonna care anymore because everybody is leaving anyway.

You won’t shy away from it anymore; it’s time to be direct. It’s time to be evil.

You: no.

Seungmin sputters out a laugh once you send the screenshot of your texts to him. “You couldn’t have even given him a reason why? God, you’re crueler than I thought.”

“Why can’t he just hate me back?” You whine, slumping your shoulders defeatedly. “Why is he so… So nice? What’s wrong with him?”

“Maybe he likes you,” Seungmin teases. “I kinda see the vision, actually. The nerd and the jock… Classic perfection.”

“You mean cliché,” you groan. “His type is probably other athletes or something. Popular people date popular people, Seungmo.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Seungmin continues in a sing-song tone, so you close your ears and make weird noises, a signal that it’s time for him to shut the fuck up.

jeongin (DONT RESPOND): oh

jeongin (DONT RESPOND): ok :[

A week later you’re sitting in front of the bus station, waiting for Seungmin to arrive. He had promised to take you to the new coffee shop that just opened up to get some work done as a means to get ahead of other students. Nerdy as it may be, this is your summer ritual with your best friend, and if you didn’t fulfill it by the beginning of the summer, the guilt is going to eat you alive until you won’t be able to properly enjoy your holiday.

The summer breeze (or lack thereof) feels like it’s burning you alive, so you pull off your usual sweater to reveal a tank top underneath. Huffing out in irritation, you send a quick text to Seungmin.

You: wru

You: why take so long

You: ur so not a gentleman this is why ur single

Instead of an answer, you receive a phone call in return. You pick it up. “Yo, where are you? I’ve been waiting here for fifteen fucking minutes, dude, I’m parched.”

“I brought a friend,” said Seungmin, completely disregarding your complaints. “Look in front of you.”

And there he is, walking towards you with none other than Yang Jeongin beside him, waving at you like a stray puppy. You close your eyes, trying to pretend for as long as possible that none of it is real. This is probably what I get for trying to sabotage someone out of the basketball team, you think to yourself, deciding to surrender to your fate and greet them with as much kindness as you can muster for the time being.

After approximately thirty minutes of sitting down and discussing the next academic year’s syllabus, you decide that that was the last bit of kindness in your heart. So when Jeongin leaves to go to the restroom, you waste no time catching Seungmin up on what you’ve actually been doing. The letter, the operation— everything.

“25 pages?” Seungmin asks you in disbelief. “My god, that’s a thesis.”

“It might as well be, at this point.” You nod solemnly at his comment. There’s no use denying anything; at your core, you’re just pure cruel and sadistic. At the very least you know your best friend will love you regardless, even if nobody else will.

“Listen, I love you, truly I do. But you’ve got to stop,” Seungmin grabs your shoulders and looks you dead in the eye. He has never looked this serious before and meant it. “He’s, like, falling in love with you.”

“Pardon me?”

“I know, I know, it’s your worst nightmare, and I know you don’t like him like that, which is why I’m telling you this. Stop now or you will break his heart even more.”

Just as you were about to respond, Jeongin comes back to the table. If he hadn’t, you’re not sure what you would have had to say. Would you disagree with even the thought of it, telling Seungmin he’s a liar? Would you have argued that if your plan were to work, Jeongin would hate you in the end anyway? Or would you have asked him how to make those feelings grow?

But no, no. He doesn’t like you, not like that. He’s just kind, that’s all. He can’t.

And the next hour passes by like torture, with both boys having to snap you back to the present moment about five times each. You couldn’t care less about the syllabus or the coffee or the new inside jokes you all made that day. All you could think about was how Jeongin’s hand would brush against yours when he borrowed a pencil, or the way his eyes would lock with yours when he laughed at Seungmin’s sarcastic remarks.

The entire time, your mind was calculating the probability of Jeongin actually being in love with you. Each answer was always too close to 1 for your liking.

You couldn’t get him out of your head.

To be fair, you never could. But it used to be about hatred. You used to find joy in boring two-hour classes because you knew you could just spend those two hours daydreaming about what Jeongin would look like with real tears in his eyes, with a scowl on his lips, with anything other than that damned smile.

You told your boss you’d be taking the night shift at Lucy’s for a while, because your days would be spent hanging out with friends on the holidays. This isn’t true at all, of course, you just found it more difficult to escape those Jeongin-plagued thoughts when you were about to drift to slumber. Unfortunately, this didn’t work the way you had hoped, because it turns out the diner basically doesn’t have any customers after 8 PM.

It’s almost 10 PM now, the hour when you’ll have to close up the diner. Nobody has come inside in the last forty-five minutes, so you figure it’s best to close up early. That way, you’ll get more time to scroll on your phone or read a book.

You should have seen it coming, really. You know you could never escape him. There, standing in front of the doors of Lucy’s diner, is your haunting, your shadow, your karmic retribution.

“I keep thinking about you,” he says, almost breathless, as he steps into the diner.

“How long have you been standing there?” “Like, five seconds,” he answers. Then, as if to emphasize his previous statement, he says, “You owe me sleep.”

“You don’t think that goes both ways?” You turn away from him, placing all the cleaning supplies on the bar counter. When you look back, he’s already eagerly striding towards you.

“What are you saying? That you want me?”

“I… I don’t know,” you mutter. You can’t look at him, not right now, not like this. You would break not just his heart, but yours as well. “I don’t know how I feel. I need a… an experiment or an investigation or something that I know is going to tell me if this is actually real, because I have no fucking clue what’s real anymore.”

Without another word, he places both palms on the counter behind you, trapping your body between his, and kisses you.

It knocks the breath right out of your soul. Every vessel in your brain is screaming at you, reminding you that it’s wrong and he’s not supposed to like you and you’re not supposed to like him back and that you sure as hell shouldn’t be kissing him at all, let alone your workplace.

Nevertheless, you can’t help it. Everything you knew has been proven wrong. Everything you have questioned has proven themselves to be true. You know nothing at all. You kiss him back.

Acknowledging your reciprocation, he lifts a hand to cradle your face, gently brushing his thumb over your cheekbone down to your jaw. He takes a step closer, pressing your body flush against his. You haven’t closed the diner; somebody could walk in at any moment.

Running your fingers through his soft locks, he takes the opportunity to trail his lips to your neck. It’s at this moment that you begin to feel everything, and it’s all too real too quick. You push him away, taking one brief glance at his disheveled hair and swollen, rose-tinted lips.

You know you shouldn’t. You know you’re being a coward. You know the answer.

Be that as it may, you still run.

seungmo: Bball game @ school tonight

seungmo: Idk what happened w u and jeongin but pls come to the game

seungmo: U know how much ive been looking forward to this

seungmo: I'll keep him away, i promise

You shouldn’t have gone. You should have stayed home, rotting in your room for yet another night, catching up on all the studying you missed out on when you went to that coffee shop with Seungmin, finding yourself tracing the shape of your lips when you’re deep in thought, recalling the way Jeongin’s felt on yours.

The truth is, you do know how much Seungmin has been looking forward to this match. He had realized long ago that you couldn’t care less about sports, but still he found your face amongst the crowd every single time. Even though you had such a deep scowl it made him chuckle every time he saw you, he felt his chest warm with affection at the act of being present.

This is one of those unconditional, unspoken rules you’ve established in your friendship. You would support him, and he would support you. You couldn’t have ditched this.

But as you approach closer and closer to the basketball court, you notice something amiss. By now, you should have been able to hear the rowdy chanting of other students. You should have already been blinded by the lights surrounding the court, considering it’s already 6 PM. You should have seen Seungmin waiting for you, but he’s not there.

Nothing’s there. Nothing but Yang Jeongin, standing in the middle of the court.

“I’m starting to think Seungmin is playing matchmaker,” you say as you walk towards him.

His face cracks into a fit of laughter, and it lights up the whole area. “You think?”

You’re close enough to him to see how puffy his eyes are— is he just exhausted or has he been crying? He’s silent for a second, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, before opening his mouth to finally speak.

“Listen, I—”

“No, no,” you interrupt him. “Let me speak first.”

“I used to despise you, as you already know. For a reason that is so stupid that if I said it out loud right now I’d pee myself laughing, probably. And I guess that hatred helped me cover up my insecurities, and that I couldn’t believe someone like me and someone like you could be with anything more than enemies.” At some point, you started looking into his eyes, and now you can’t seem to pull away. “You’re not boring, Yang Jeongin, not at all. You’re certain. You’re my probability of 1.”

“So… Moral of the story, I’m different from all the other boys, yes?” He teases, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer inch by inch.

“You think that’s the moral of the story?” “Hell, no,” he chuckles. “The moral of the story is that sometimes you need to ditch that whole superiority complex and realize that you’re exactly like everybody else. You’re smart, yes, but you’re also stupid and naive and clumsy. And that’s completely alright. That doesn’t make you any less deserving of anything, it just makes you human.”

And as he tugs you into a kiss, you realize he’s right. It doesn’t matter what you know. Life is still uncertain, anyway, and the probabilities of most things are far less than 1. All you know is that whatever happens, you’ll be loved in the process.