#Not to mention how both of them came from shitty households which could just add another parallel to them

[mintytrifecta]

Hi there I personally would love to hear about your Max is a Webby prophet please and thank you

THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN

Okay first of all Max looks at the audience and camera in pretty much every scene he's in at least once I had to make a collage to get these examples in here and I still whittle them down

You know who else explicity looked at and sang at the audience in a metatextual way??

Hannah

Hannah, on some level, knows the narrative. She knows the world's nature and the nature of a musical being a 'time loop' of sorts, which is why she sings of tomorrow never coming. A dawn never breaking.

Webby's the Queen of the White, right? And what is dawn, really, if not bringing in the light of day to the darkness of night?

Both characters seem to share an intrinsic understanding of their world, whether comprehensible or not, and on some level are aware of its function. There's a chaos to their worlds and they always end in an apocalypse, but it's all practiced. It's all a loop. (roz and guil moment tbh)

But what I'm proposing, is that Max is a Hannah gone wrong. He can see the audience, understand the narrative and his place in it ("Don't need no-one to tell me, high school will be my peak, so I'm willing to take advantage" ) (" you can leave, but you won't, stay in your seat") but doesn't have the full scope of awareness that Hannah does. Hannah can see Webby and understand the story straight from the source, while Max pieces it together from the audience. Maybe Webby tried to explain things through them and Max just horribly misinterpreted it. Maybe he knows exactly what he's doing and has given up trying to find another solution. Maybe he never had a chance to escape the web in the first place.

Maybe webby gives him directions, tried to explain things to him, tried to get him to see the order beyond the world like Hannah, but it just never landed as well. What could really have spawned a god complex more than getting a glimpse at the True Nature of The World and knowing you're the one to make it happen. But Webby is the queen of the White, so it only seems to reason she brings Light to Darkness.

So not only am I going to say that Max is a Webby prophet, but also I ask you, where do you think his god complex came from?

(also he like deadass controlled the lights like straight up just made it darker the bitch controlled the lights why does no-one else care about that but me-)

TL;DR: Max is a Webby prophet currently stuck on the recieving end of the world's worst game of Divine Interpretation telephone and is taking it Really Well 👍

[writingsbychlo]

let me down slow (prologue)

word count; 3432

summary; you’re in love with stiles stilinski who will never love you back, and mitch stilinski is freshly heartbrokenand home to try and redeicover himself. after being ditched by stiles, mitch offers you some company.

notes; let me just make it clear that there is no wolves in this, also, she’s 18 and Mitch is 20. OH, and a big thanks to @stylesharrys​ for proof reading this for me. I love her.

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, underage drinking, that’s pretty much it.

Your toes caught on the slightly uneven paving stone on the front garden of the Stilinski household, noting the absence of the cruiser on the driveway, the space beside it clear of the usual powder blue jeep that was never clean, but a black jeep that was clean sat in its place, a precocious vehicle that and you roll your eyes in a heatless judgement.

In some ways, Mitch Stilinski was the opposite of his younger brother.

He excelled at lacrosse, earning himself a scholarship to a college on the other side of the country, and handing down his famous ‘24’ number to his brother, who had finally tried out for the team at the beginning of junior year after his brother left. He was clean, and he worked out and ate healthy foods, and he had a car from this century that he actually respected. There was something under one of the seats of Stiles’ jeep that was unrecognisable at this point, and you didn’t particularly want to question it.

Despite this, there was a lot they both had in common. Their sarcasm, and loyalty, and passion for the things they loved. Not to mention, the spooky similarity between them both.

Though, Mitch possessed the ability for growing facial hair, which had started coming in his sophomore year, and now in his senior year, Stiles still had a baby face that was smooth and soft, and entirely hairless. It was adorable, really.

So, no, the absence of the blue jeep didn’t immediately clue you in to something being off, because you assumed he may have pulled into the driveway to make space for his brother’s car. Instead, you remained positive and sunny, a collection of DVD’s clutched in your arms and a change of clothes in your bag for the sleepover you were intending to have with your best friend, pizza money tucked into your bra for the food you would undoubtedly order and your heart skipping a couple of beats as you waited patiently for your spastic best friend to swing the door open following your series of knocks.

A few beats passed, before the lock was clicking and the door was shifting, and you dragged your eyes up along his chest. It was not the skinny and plaid covered frame you’d anticipated, but that of the messily cut tank top of a broader and more muscled older brother, a piece of candy hanging from his lips as he chewed it slowly, staring at you expectantly with a blank look.

“Mitch. I see you’re home, then.”

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you the observant one?” His words were sneering, and you scowled at him, used to his moody attitudes from over a decade of knowing the Stilinski boys, but not missing the colder than usual undertone to his words. The banter between the three of you had always been playful, somewhat teasing but his lips would always flicker up at the sides and you’d always been able to see the amusement sparkling in his eyes - much like his brother’s - but this version of Mitch just seemed empty and angry. “What do you want?”

“You’re being awfully rude to someone who knows your real name. I’ll post it under your next status update on Facebook. I wonder if the lacrosse team at Syracuse knows how to properly pronounce Polish names.”

Your threats about revealing his name always got a laugh out of him, or at least a fond roll of the eyes, but this time he just grunted at you and pulled a sour face, sighing like he had somewhere else to be, despite the fact that he was standing with bare feet and a pair of sweatpants on, and clearly had no other plans.

“Fine, be moody. Is Stiles here?”

“Do you see his jeep on the driveway?” Your jaw dropped at the tone of his voice, your shoulders slumping as you glanced back for a second, and when you turned back to him, you didn’t let your eyes meet his. Heat was crawling at your cheeks, and you took a few steps back from the doorway, swallowing down the beginnings of the lump forming in embarrassment from your faith and optimism, and Mitch let out a groan, lifting a hand to run through his hair as he swallowed the last of the candy stick he’d been nibbling on. “Wait, wait. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have been so rude to you.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen you in a bad mood, Mitch, it’s alright.”

“I’m still sorry, kiddo.” Once again, you were scowling, the nickname he knew annoyed you so much peeking through, and at your distaste for it, he was grinning at you cheekily, and just like that the tension between you both had been brushed away, no matter how many months passed between seeing on another. “Stiles isn’t in, though. He went out, like, a couple of minutes before you got here, I’m surprised you didn’t catch him before he went.”

“Well, did he say how long he’d be?”

The elder actually cringed, leaning on the doorpost and looking out at the surrounding of the street for a second, before fixing his attention back on you. “He told me not to wait up, so I'm assuming he’s going to be a while.” His eyes then dropped down to the bundle in your arms, and a pitiful look took over his features. “You had plans, didn’t you?”

You simply hummed, feeling your body deflating sadly as your plans fell through, and while you were disappointed, you couldn't exactly say you were surprised. Lately, your plans had been coming second in his eyes a lot, and he let out a sad sound himself. Something between attempting to comfort you, and annoyance at his younger sibling, and your cheeks twitched to show a barely present smile, one shoulder rising and falling as you tried to brush it off. “I bet he said something about Lydia needing him, huh?”

“He did, actually..”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him, before doing your best to perk back up, adjusting the belongings in your arms and trying to mask your disappointment. “Right, well, that’s all good. I can just catch up on some reading, anyway, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, it’s a shitty thing for him to do.” His voice was a little sharper than usual, and you let out a laugh, nodding at his words as he stood up a little further and opened the door for you. “Why don’t you come in, anyway? You can hang out with me?” You paused, eyes narrowing at him for a second as you studied him, and he raised his brows at you in his own silent analysis of your reaction. “You’re in love with Stiles, it’s been written all over your cute little face since you were freshman, and my girlfriend broke up with me, and you’re not the worst of his friends. So, why don’t you bring your broken heart inside, and we’ll order some takeout, and wallow in self-pity and misery together?”

Once again, a blush was covering your face, splotchy patches of warmth that made you uncomfortable. You wanted to get in your sweats, and order food and laugh with your best friend, but now Mitch was holding open the door for you and looking at you with a little grin, and you accepted, taking a few steps forwards and over the threshold and into the house as your emotions bubbled up and over.

Dropping your bag beside the front door and kicking off your shoes, the man plucked the armful of belongings from you and moved away for only a second, placing them down on the table and coming back to stand before you. It was an uncomfortable tension, but it was unusual. You had hung out with Mitch on multiple occasions, but never just the two of you. You sniffed lightly, and he let a rumbling sound out from deep within his chest, before placing an arm around your shoulders stiffly and pulling you into a loose hug. “I’m sorry about my brother, he’s an ass.”

You nodded into his shoulder, before bringing your arms up around him and squeezing him tightly, your hands bunching up in the back of the thin cotton shirt he was wearing. Only a second later, he was wrapping his other arm around your waist, and pressing his nose into your hair, letting out a shaky breath over your skin, and suddenly you were clinging to one another, your sniffling breaths muffled against his body.

You were trembling, you could feel it within yourself, the rush of emotions all making you feel weak, and yet no tears came out, because you weren’t entirely sad. You felt comfort in the arms of your friend, you felt safe, and you felt understood. His own pain made you feel less pathetic, and the way he was holding onto you just as tightly gave you the understanding that you weren’t suffering alone, and so when you were finally ready to pull back, his cheeks were a little damp and you gave him your best smile, bumping your forehead against his chin before stepping back.

“You promised me food, then?”

“That I did. What do you feel like?” He beamed, dragging a hand down his face and walking towards the kitchen letting you follow of your own accord and hop up onto one of the stools at the counter to watch him as he sorted through takeout menus. Passing them over to you, you glanced down at the pile of laminated and colourful leaflets, and you looked back up at him, shrugging.

“Stiles normally just orders us pizza, I brought a twenty because he likes the stuffed crust ones and to put his own toppings on and it adds one hell of a cost.”

He chuckled, rubbing his hands together and leaning his hands on the counter. “Yeah, that does sound like him, but what do you have?” He fixed you with a look when you gaped a little bit, before sighing and spreading out the collection before you. “Next time Stiles goes to just order a pizza, tell him what you want. These places are good if you want Chinese, but the Blue Dragon is my favourite because they do some pretty awesome spring rolls and dumplings. There’s also a Korean place, or an Indian place if you want something spicy but I don’t know if they deliver, we may have to go get it. If you really want pizza, there’s a place in there that’s better than Dominos, they just aren’t as popular so Stiles doesn’t bother with them.”

Upon finishing his spiel, your eyes were wide, and you thumbed through the other booklets, noting the way some of them had meals and dishes circled or highlighted, and the shiny blue of a fold-out menu for the Blue Dragon caught your attention, and you shifted it to the top.

“Do you really want Chinese food, or are you picking this because I said it was my favourite?”

His voice was stern but playful, and you opened it up, waving him off idly as he laughed at you and he circled around to stand beside you, the warmth of his body flushing over your side as he waited patiently. “I do actually want Chinese food, by the way. But since this is your preference, I figured we could order from here. You can tell me what’s good, and you get the stuff you like. Win-win.”

“Alright, I’ll take that deal.”

The two of you debated for a couple of minutes over the choices, before he was pulling out his phone and sitting up on the counter beside you, legs swinging as he orders all the food you both wanted, indulging you each time you poked at his leg and added onto the order when you came across something you liked, and you were sure you’d spent considerably more than you had on an unnecessary amount of food, but if you didn’t have the funds, you could always pay Mitch back.

He was holding up a bottle of whisky, offering you a glass with a few chunks of ice in the bottom, and you accepted it happily, following him through to the living room and collapsing on the couch. It was a little awkward, to begin with, the two of you chatting between yourselves and sipping on the drinks you had, before eventually settling on a movie. When it began, however, you were a few drinks in and suddenly the conversation was flowing smoothly, the dialogue and plot of the film falling away as the two of you inched closer to one another from opposite ends of the couch, more and more enthusiastic about the topics you ricocheted between.

Food had arrived, and you’d eaten, between laughs and jokes and his eyes lingering on you each time you tried new portions of the meal so that he could watch for your reactions. You loved them all, his recommendations panning out, and soon, half of the bottle was gone, and you were laying out across the couch with your legs across his lap and you head in the cloud, warmth filling you from head to toe.

He had a hand on your knee, full-bellied laughs coming from his mouth as he stroked up and down your leg gently, the movie had faded away into the background. He had listened as you poured out your heart to him over his younger brother in your tipsy stupor, and he in return had shared with you the truths of his break up.

You told him about the way you hated that Stiles seemed to never have time for you anymore, and that he continued to chase Lydia years later than his original crush, hopelessly falling at her feet when she’d only just become aware of him and was using him for her own gains. He told you about Katrina, the blonde bombshell whom you remembered. She was a cheerleader at Beacon Hills high and Mitch’s high school sweetheart, and she went to a college in New York like him, but after the first year the spark began to fade, and the distance may as well have been ocean’s wide, because they had drifted. What hurt him the most was change, the nagging feeling that he could have done something different, that she could have been the one if he’d made more visits to her on the weekends and more trips to see her on the holidays.

The confessions had only ever been shared with one another, and suddenly the two of you had a bond that nobody else could touch, because your deepest fears and secrets had been exposed to one another in a night of greasy takeout and almost a full bottle of whiskey, but the absence you’d felt when your best friend wasn’t by your side was filled in an entirely new way by Mitch.

It was playful and refreshing and relaxing, it was everything you didn’t know you were missing. Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the end of the movie and the end of the bottle, the atmosphere between you both had changed. Somewhere between the time his thumb has stopped rubbing at the skin below your knee to move up to his fingers digging into your lower thigh, and when you sat up to talk to him and found yourself almost seated in his lap. After you told him to stop calling you kiddo, and he called you kitten instead, the energy between you both was different.

His eyes were darker and he was licking at his lips and then his mouth was slotted against yours, tongues tangling and hands roaming and the temperature in the room shot up to boiling. You were in his lap, grinding and letting his hands wander, and then he was thumbing at your tits and mouthing at your neck. Somewhere between him moaning kitten into your mouth and sucking on your lower lip to the way he was bucking his hips up into you and suddenly, it was more.

He was dragging your panties to the side and you were tugging down his seats just far enough, and then you were riding him on the couch. Sloppy and messy and a combination of the need for connection and the wish for affection, you were all but sobbing into his mouth as your eyes rolled back and his fingers dug into your bare flesh, and then it was over.

You were sweaty and hot, and you felt boneless as you let him lift you off of his body, pressing one more long kiss to your lips before he was tucking himself into his sweats and laying back on the couch and chuckling at you with a dark smirk when you wobbled on weak legs as you went to clean yourself up. It wasn’t awkward when you returned, it was calming and relaxed and you grabbed yourself a second plate of takeaway food and settled back down onto the couch with your feet in his lap once again, and a new movie on the screen.

The night passed with the rest of your movie collection, and eating a surprising amount of candy, and you inevitably changed into your comfy clothes when the hour passed midnight. You had teased him about his long hair while running your fingers through it, and he had made you flustered in return by speaking through his food and telling you how you weren’t complaining while tugging at it and bouncing on his cock.

It wasn’t until you heard the rumbling of the jeep that you felt that same dread and loneliness slip back into your body, the squeaking of tires on the stones and the slamming of the door one side, and you rolled yourself off of the couch with a groan, a scowl taking over in place of your smile as you scooped up everything you had and tried to shove it haphazardly into your bag, booking a cab in the process and leaving you phone on the side.

He began to grab at the rubbish littering the surfaces with you, the two of you stumbling and scooping up empty food boxes as you crammed them all into the kitchen bin, and did your best to clean up after yourselves, when the door finally opened, the sound of Stiles kicking off his shoes and hanging up his cute, humming happily to himself as he walked through the house.

“Oh my God, it smells like food in here. Did you get takeout? Did you save me any an-” He paused as he saw you, your eyes avoiding his as you grabbed your phone, smiling at the boy you had spent your evening with as he slid it towards you. The easy and lightweight vibe you’d found so easily with Mitch was now thick and tense, and you wanted to leave as soon as possible. “Hey! What are you doing here so late?”

You purse your lips, a tight smile on your face as you pushed past him without a word, and Mitch simply fixed him with a disbelieving look, the hyperactive of the pair of brothers was watching you go curiously, and both followed you to the front door as you pulled on your shoes.

“Are you mad at me, or something?”

“Yes, Stiles, I’m mad at you.” You bit your tongue from saying any more, wanting to let him wallow in it a little longer, and his jaw dropped and brows furrowed as he watched you go. Leaning up to press a kiss to one stubbled cheek, you patted his shoulder as you opened the door and stepped out, pulling out your phone to check on the taxi, only to see it pulling up to the curb, and you flashed him a toothy grin. “Thanks for being such great company while your brother was a jerk.”

He leaned against the door, muffling the sound of protest from Stiles behind, his body filling the doorway as he winked at you cheekily. “No problem, kitten.”

With that, their front door slammed shut, and you were stepping into your cab, tired and buzzed and ready to get into your own bed, and try to forget that the boy you loved had once again forgotten about you to chase after a girl who would never see him as anything more than friends.

[dirtyoatmeall]

All it takes is one moment (Atsumu x reader)

A/N: uhhh sorry for dropping off the face of the earth!! I have a million WIPs I’ll hopefully be posting here shortly! I was reading a bunch of cheesy hurt/comfort fics last night and decided to make my own hehe, tbh it got me thinking of doing another one but no comfort and it turning into a slow burn with another character :0 Please read the warnings, this is Post-Timeskip, so spoilers for occupations. Everyone is probably like 25ish here? Also I apologize in advance for their accents, I tried in a few spots, I’m still getting used to it. (also @spiritofthescarletwoods I know you wanted to be tagged in the midoriya angst I promised a million years ago, but here’s some tsumu angst for now!)

Genre: Hurt/comfort or Angst with a happy ending

Pairing: Miya Atsumu x reader (uhmm pronouns I believe are gn but I do not proof read as we all know)

Word Count: 4.?k

Warnings: Mentions of past abusive relationships, insinuation of cheating, slight misogynistic vibes for a moment, crude language, Atsumu is mean :( (Probably OOC Osamu and Atsumu), Post-time skip ((Let me know if I need to add something!)

_

You and Atsumu have been together for about 3 years now, and it was great. The two of you were very much in love, supported each other, and rarely fought, as you tried to be as open and communicate as much as possible. The last relationship you were in was toxic and abusive, it took a long time for you to be yourself again, and Atsumu had supported you along the way, he knew what had happened, and he swore to never make you feel like that again. And he stuck by that, until today.

Even though you rarely fought, when you did, it was resolved quickly, but this time was not the same. It had started off small. You had an important event coming up for work, you would be presenting on your year long research project, having made big findings in your field work. It was a huge deal for you, but when you brought it up at dinner, Atsumu did not have the same opinion.

“What do you mean you can’t make it? Everything I’ve been working on had led up to this, this is a career changing presentation, and you don’t want to go?” Hurt was clearly evident in your voice, as was frustration. Atsumu sighed, he’d had a horrible week, there was a big game coming up with the Adler’s and he needed to be prepared. “Like I said, I have practice that night, You can tell me all about it when you get home. I don’t see why you’re making a big fuss ‘bout it, ‘s just a presentation babe.” You furrowed your eyebrows looking at him incredulously.

“Did you not listen to anything I just said? It’s not just a presentation, this is my career Atsumu. I consistently put my own work aside to support you, why can’t you do the same for me? It’s not like I’m asking you to miss a game, it’s a practice.”  You could tell he was getting frustrated, but so were you, you made it a point to make every single game of his, missing out on work opportunities to come support him, him refusing to come to something so important was hurtful, and made you feel like you were less important than him, but before you could voice your feelings Atsumu spoke.

“This isn’t jus’ any practice. We have a big game comin’ up, it's important I’m there, ‘m the setter. Let's be real here, we both know which of us is the bread-maker in this household. This is basically a little hobby of yours, you can come back to it at any time. I’m a professional athlete hun, there’s only so much time I have before retirement.” He spoke in a condescending manner that baffled you. He’s never spoken to you like that before, is that how he really felt about your work? You scoffed, rising from the dinner table.

“Are you fucking kidding me, do you know condescending and frankly, misogynistic that was?” He sighed and rolled his eyes as he followed you with his plate, dinner half eaten and cold much like yours. “Here you go again” He muttered, though loud enough for you to hear. You dropped your plate in the sink and you looked at him, eyes wide, and furious.

“What did you just say to me? Here I go again? What the fuck does that mean Atsumu?” He set his plate on the counter, looking at you from across the island as he gripped the countertop. “What I mean is that yer always playing the victim, we get it, you last relationship was shitty, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like this all the time, I thought you got over it?”

You balked at him, was he serious right now? “Oh my god really? Are you seriously asking me if I got over an abusive relationship, after everything I’ve told you about it? After everything I had to do to get where I am now? We are supposed to support each other, I didn’t realize it was one sided.” Atsumu sighed, growing more frustrated, he tried to interrupt you, but you kept going, 

“All I wanted was for you to come to one dinner, after the years we’ve been together I haven’t asked you to miss any games or practices for my work, you know my coworkers have asked if I’m single? They didn’t believe me when I told them I was in a relationship, and you know what? I don’t blame them, I wouldn’t believe me either, since they’ve never seen you, and I take all this time off to travel and support you, all of your team know who I am, why is it so hard for you to do the same?”

As you kept going, his anger only grew, he tried interrupting you again, but it was like you weren’t paying attention to him, just spouting off whatever came to your head, and he was tired of it. 

He slammed his hand on the counter, the sound reverberating throughout the apartment. You flinched, hard, but Atsumu didn’t seem to notice. “Can you just shut up for one moment? God, all you do is go on and on nagging on how what I do isn’t enough, I pay the bills here, why isn’t that enough for you? I could care less about what’s going on at your job, I have absolutely no interest in it at all, when will you get that through your fucking skull? I. don’t. care.” By the time he was done his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the counter, and you had tears in your eyes. You sucked in a breath, steeling yourself.

“Ok, I’m going to remove myself from the situation, I’ll be at your brothers, you can come get me when you pull your head out of your ass.” He rolled his eyes as you strode past him, getting your purse from the hook and going to slip on your shoes. “Yeah go ahead, you gonna wet his dick for ‘im too? ‘m sure he’ll love that.” You stiffened for a moment, putting your shoes on before looking at him, tears making your vision blurry.

“Y’know I tell myself that this isn’t like last time, that you’re not him, but at times like this-“ Your voice cracked as a sob bubbled into your throat and you shook your head, turning and heading out the door. Atsumu flinched at your words and the soft click of the door latching, he would’ve preferred to hear it slam.

Your walk to the elevator was blurry but you knew the way by heart after living there for so long. You wiped at your eyes as you pulled out your phone, tapping on the contact before bringing the phone to your ear. It rang once before it picked up, a tired ��hello?” coming from the other end. You let out a quiet sob as you loaded the elevator, trying to get the words to come out. Upon hearing you, Osamu spoke again, “(Y/N)? Are you crying? What’s wrong.” You cleared your throat and took a deep breath before speaking, your voice tight. “Hey ‘samu, can, can I come to your place? ‘tsumu and I- we-'' you broke out into another sob, and you could hear Osamu close a door.

“Where are you? I’ll pick you up, I’m just leaving the restaurant I’m close.” After telling him where you were, you stayed on the phone, walking in the direction of the restaurant. Not long you see Osamu’s car pull up, he quickly gets out and looks you over and sighed as he brings you in for a hug. You sob into his jacket for a moment while he rubbed your back gently. He knew about your past as well, and figured it must have been bad for you to leave in tears. He leads you to the car and makes sure you’re strapped in before heading to the drivers side and getting in, double checking your seatbelt before driving towards his apartment.

The drive was short, though to you it felt like it lasted hours. You tried to quiet your sobs, not wanting to bother him. He looked over at you every so often, worry evident in his gaze as he tried to figure out just what his stupid brother did.

After arriving at his apartment, he sat you down on the couch, wrapping a blanket around you and giving you a box of tissues before sitting next to you, gently asking what happened. You try not to cry as you retell the events of the evening, though it got harder and harder as you told him what Atsumu said to you. By the time you were finished you were crying again, and Osamu was furious.

“I-I just don’t understand ‘samu, the things he said, did he really m-mean them? And-and when he slammed his hand on the counter, the look on his face, it, it was like I was back there all over again, like I never left. I-I know he’d never hurt me,” You sobbed out, throat getting tighter as you go on, “But at that moment, all I could think was that he was gonna hit me, and I, I had to leave, and what he said before I left,” You hiccupped and cried into your hands, not able to finish.

Osamu rubbed your back as you cried before getting up to make some tea. While the water was boiling he went into the other room, trying to calm himself down before calling his brother. The line rang three times before it was picked up, a frustrated “what do you want?” coming from the other end. It was enough to dwindle Osamu’s patience into nothing. He tried to keep his voice down, not wanting to distress you further.

“What do I want? Do you know how badly you fucked up? (Y/N) is here crying on my couch right now, do you know what she told me ‘tsumu? She told me she thought you were going to hit her. Are you fucking kidding me? Did you even think before you spoke, because from what she told me, it sounds like you didn’t. How dumb are you, after everything she’s gone through, the first big fight you have you send her running? Over a dinner? Really Atsumu?”

Atsumu groaned on the other line, “Exactly ‘samu, it’s a dinner, I have practice for the game against the Adler’s you know how big that is. She’ll have plenty of dinners for me to go to in the future. I don’t see why she got so upset over it. And she knows I didn’t mean the things I said, I was just frustrated.”

Osamu scoffed into the phone, “Did you even hear what I said, are you hearing yourself? She is the best thing that has happened to you, the least you could do is support her, this is a big deal for her Atsumu, even I know that. Honestly I don’t know why she is still with you after the shit you just pulled, did you hear me? She was scared of you, y’know like that last relationship she had? Where she was sent to the hospital multiple times, she thought she was right back there, that you were just like him. Do you know how bad you have to fuck up for that to happen, after all the counseling she’s done? You know how much trust you just broke? I wouldn’t be surprised if she never wanted to hear from you again, and I’d agree with her. God I have half a mind to tell Ma what you did, You need to sit and stew on what you just lost. And I mean it, I don’t want to see you here tonight, she needs a safe space right now. I’ll let her stay for as long as she wants, but I’m not gonna stop her if she leaves so you better get your fucking head on straight and get on your knees begging for forgiveness you don’t deserve.”

With that Osamu hung up the phone, exhaling as he pinched the bridge of his nose, was his brother really that stupid? He shook his head and headed out of his room, only to open the door to see you standing there, eyes holding an emotion he couldn’t quite place. “Is he coming?” Osamu sighed and led you back to the couch before finishing the tea he forgot about. He placed your cup on the end table next to you and took a seat with his own. “No, I told him to stay at your guy’s tonight. You need a safe space right now to calm down and sort your thoughts. You can stay here as long as you’d like, but I don’t want you to feel trapped, you can leave whenever, if you want to go to your folk’s, hell even our Ma’s place, I’ll drive you there. You just need to focus on you right now ya hear me? And if you don’t ever wanna see my ugly brother again, I’ll help you get a new identity.” You giggled slightly at the last part before you took a sip of your tea, shoulders relaxing. You turned to Osamu and smiled.

“Thank you ‘samu, I really appreciate it. I’m a little more calm right now, I think I’ll go home tomorrow, apologize and get us back on track.” You did a little nod as you said it, but Osamu just furrowed his eyebrows. “Apologize? There is nothing you need to apologize for doll, You were completely justified in your frustration, Atsumu is the one who needs to apologize, not you. Don’t settle just so things will go back to normal, because they won’t.” You sighed sadly, he was right and you knew it. You were falling back to old coping tactics. Your therapist would not be happy with you right now.

“Sorry, you’re right. I’m still gonna go back, hopefully after we’ve both had some sleep we can work it out.” You smiled again, feeling more like yourself. Osamu nodded in agreement and helped you set up in the guest bedroom before turning in. You sighed as you laid in the bed, not used to sleeping by yourself, but the events from the night took its toll, and it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

Back in your apartment, Atsumu was having the opposite problem. He laid in your shared bed, staring at the ceiling, did you actually think he was going to hit you, that he meant the things he said? To him, it didn’t seem like a big deal, he was loud when he was angry, and sometimes said things he didn’t mean, which should be obvious, since you knew how much he loved you…right? He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, looking up the museum you worked at. Honestly he wasn’t really paying attention when you told him about the event, he knew it had something to do with your research, which he knew a little about from the nights you’d info dump your findings to him. His eyes widened when he looked at the upcoming events, when he clicked on the date it was scheduled for he winced.

It really was a big deal, curators from all over the country were coming to hear you give a presentation on your recent fieldwork findings, you’d been at this site for the majority, if not all, of your relationship only now having a big discovery others spent their entire lives chasing. There were going to be donors, curators, archaeologists and other anthropologists from all over Japan and other countries as well. You were right, this was a career changer, no, this was a life changing presentation.

Guilt started to seep into his bones as he thought again about what he had said, how he had brushed you off and then got mad at you for voicing your feelings, something that took months for you to be able to do with him. He thought back to when he slammed his hand on the table, the way you flinched, the look in your eyes right before you left. His stomach felt like it dropped out of his body, chest constricting as the guilt flooded him as he kept thinking back to every expression you made, how you were crying when you left, that you were scared of him. He pushed his palms against his eyes as he groaned, how could he be so horrible to you? Osamu was right, about everything. You were the best thing that’s happened to him, and he broke your trust, trust that took so long to build, over missing a practice. He rolled onto his side, pulling one of your pillows against his chest. He inhaled, the scent of your conditioner still lingering, as he tried to think of how he could possibly make it right.

```

The next morning, after a relaxing shower and breakfast, you were ready. Osamu grabbed his keys, ready to drive you back, when there was a knock at the door. You had a feeling on who it was, so you set down your purse and went to sit on the couch, taking a deep breath. After a few moments Osamu came to the doorway, followed by Atsumu, who stood awkwardly for a moment before Osamu spoke to you.

“I need to be at the restaurant, there’s a key on the counter, if you could lock up if you leave that’d be great. Call me if you need anything.” He turned and left, and when you heard the door close you finally met Atsumu’s gaze, smiling slightly in greeting. Neither of you were sure what to say, but after a minute of silence he comes over and sits on the other end of the couch, obviously trying to gauge your reaction to his proximity.

You sighed through your nose, gaze turned to the floor as you fiddled with your hands, trying to sort out your thoughts. You wanted to just apologize and move on, but you knew you had to talk it out, this wasn’t something you could just pretend didn’t happen. You needed to work through this if you wanted this to work. You bit your lip, thoughts running a mile a minute. You were so deep in thought you didn’t realize Atsumu had moved until you felt his hand rest on your forearm. You jumped slightly, startled at the sudden touch and when you looked at Atsumu, who had moved to the place next to you and hovered his hand over you before bringing it back to his lap, guilt evident in his features, eyes raw with emotion.

“(Y/N), I don’t even know where to begin, I fucked everything up and I am so sorry. Sorry for not listening, for brushing you and your achievements off, for making you feel lesser and unimportant, for scaring you, please, you have to know, I would never lay a hand on you, I never meant a single thing I said last night, I was frustrated and let the week get to me, which is no excuse for the way I treated you. I broke your trust, and I’ll spend forever and a month trying to earn it back. You are without a doubt the best thing that has happened to me, and the way I treated you after everything that’s happened, it- it makes me sick. I love you so much, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you. But I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore, I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want, I-I just- I need you to know that I love you, and that I never meant it, I’d never mean it.” His voice cracked at the end,  and he wiped his eyes before looking up to meet your gaze. You were crying, biting your lip to keep it in but failing as you took a shuddering breath that turned into a half-sob. His heart broke even more seeing you like this, and he reached out to comfort you before stopping, hand curling back into his chest.

“Can, Can I touch you?” He asked shakily, scared of the answer, shoulders slumping with relief when you nodded and he quickly gathered you into his arms, pulling you into his lap and holding you tight, like if he let you go you’d disappear. You were crying louder now, hands fisted into his sweatshirt. He nuzzled his face into your hair, quietly apologizing over and over, tears starting to fall from his eyes as well, kissing the side of your head.

The two of you stayed like that for what seemed like hours, though in reality it was about 10 minutes. Your sobs had died down, you were just sniffing occasionally, and Atsumu’s eyes had cleared, no longer obstructed by the water wall of tears. He pulled you away from his chest slightly, cupping your cheeks, wiping at the tear tracks staining your face.

“’M sorry, ‘m so sorry. I’ll say it for the rest of my life darlin’, I love you so much and I am so proud of everything you do. I hope that one day you can forgive me, but I understand if you can’t, if you won’t. You mean th’ world t’ me angel, I want nothing more than for you to be happy, for you to feel safe and loved. I promise I will support you better from now on, no matter what. I’ll make good on my promises from all those years ago, I swear.” You nodded at his words, hands coming up to cup his own before one of his moved to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss, stopping right before your lips met, breath mixing as he looked at you for signs of hesitance, of fear.

“Is this okay?” Instead of verbally confirming you closed the short distance, hands gripping his shoulders as your lips moved against his slowly, taking time to enjoy each other. He pulled away after a few moments before kissing your forehead, hugging you tightly once again. “Let’s go home.” You said quietly into his shirt, squeezing his shoulders before standing on shaky legs. He nodded, getting up after you, lacing your fingers together.

Weeks later~~

 You smiled nervously at Atsumu as you rose out of your chair, giving him a quick kiss before heading to the stage. You squinted briefly at the bright lights, exhaling and smoothing out your clothes before smiling at the audience as you introduced yourself. You tried to keep your gaze evenly over the crowd, but your eyes kept finding themselves locked with Atsumu, who grinned brightly and gave a thumbs up whenever you did. Your smile grew, nerves slowly dissipating as you lost yourself in your presentation.

Afterwards you answered a few questions from the crowd, thanking them again before heading back to your table. You shook hands with the host as they walked past to continue to the next topic and thanked your tablemates who congratulated you. You snorted at Tsukishima, who said it was a little boring, like he didn’t have a page of notes from the presentation in front of him.

You turned to your boyfriend, smiling as you laced your fingers together. “Wow babe that was amazing! I don’t know what half those words meant but you did great, I’m so proud of you.” You flushed at his praise, squeezing his hand while you kissed his cheek before turning back to the host, who was announcing the next speaker. You don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t work things out, and frankly you don’t want to think about it, the two of you are slowly building this back to where they were, but this time your relationship is stronger. You’re happier than you’ve ever been, and that’s what matters.

[offbeatpride61]

My Perfect Supernatural Ending

Okay. So, like most of the fandom, I was not satisfied with the series finale. I am not going to get into what Jensen, Misha, and Jared said or what the rest of the cast said. This is purely what I would have liked to have seen. I think I also need to state that COVID has probably made things difficult for the ending and that’s partially why something happened in the ending and other things didn’t (that doesn’t excuse shitty writing though). BUT I am not taking COVID into account with my personal headcanon/rewrite/whatever of the ending I was hoping for. Also, I am not a very active member of the fandom; I like and reblog some posts, talk to friends about it, but that is usually the limit of what I do, but I really wanted to share this because Supernatural has been a big part of my life.

TLDR, here are my two cents on how I would have liked things to have gone. 

So pretty much everything that happens in 15x18 stays the same. Jack blows up in the Empty and returns, everyone besides the boys gets Thanos-snapped, and Cas confesses his love for Dean and gets taken by the Empty to save Dean from Billie. Dean still is in emotional shock before he can say anything back to Cas before he’s gone. The whole gig still happens. 

The next episode, 15x19, pretty much stays the same. Dean, Sam, and Jack meet up, Dean finds the dog, the dog gets dusted, we know the drill. At the same time as this, Cas and Billie are together in the empty, because they got brought in together. Billie still has the scythe and even inside the empty, she is slowly beginning to die and degrade. Cas tries calling out inside the Empty, but nothing happens, they are just greeted with silence. With Billie beginning to crumble away, she laughs and tells Cas that, “this was all part of the plan.” Or something like that. She begins to tell Cas about what she read that was so interesting, but we the audience are taken away before we can hear her speak. 

The rest continues on as shown in the episode, they meet Michale, Dean gets a phone call from Cas, Lucifer shows up, Lucifer dies. The trio along with Michale perform the spell and Michael still pleads for his life, and predictably still ends up dying. The brothers go with their ultimate plan to use Jack and his absorption of power to beat Chuck. Here, however, it’s not enough. Jack is only able to wound Chuck before he is blasted away. The group is heartbroken, this was their big last-ditch effort and it didn’t work. Chuck begins his monologue of douchery about how he had won and there’s nothing left that they can do. The sky begins to change, lightning crackles, clouds darken but at the same time remain a bright white. Chuck, in his narcissistic rant, doesn’t notice. The boys begin taking steps back, thinking this is Chucks doing. When suddenly, Chuck stops, looks up, and is immediately greeted with a blast of power from the sky. He is being smited by heaven. 

Here, Jack is able to shield Sam and Dean with what remaining power he has. The light gives way, Chuck is there and still standing, but not as proudly as before. It’s obvious that blast has done something, though nowhere near enough to mortally wound him. Everyone present is confused, staring in bewilderment at one another. Chuck looks up in disbelief, stating that heaven should be empty of angels. Smoke begins to appear in streaks across the sky; Demons are here. Parallel to the fight against Amara, Demons begin to attack Chuck. They aren’t doing much, taking potshots when they can. Finally, Chuck has had enough and blasts everything away. Sam, Dean, and Jack are blown backward a couple of feet. Both Sam and Chuck ask what is going on. Demons still circle the area, but at a distance. Heaven rumbles above them. 

Chuck demands to know what is going on, what have the Winchesters done this time. The boys are just as confused. Then, at the shore, all four of them see it at the same time. A black mass, no bigger than a car is hovering there. It’s the Empty. Suddenly, more back masses begin to appear all around. After a few seconds of silence, nobody moves. Then the pieces of the Empty begin to reach out (much like how it reached how to take Billie and Cas), but it is not taking anyone or anything. The appendages reaching out slowly begin to take on human forms. Then we see, the Empty is bringing out every Angel and Demon that ever died. The realization begins to hit everyone, this is how Heaven was able to bring together its power and how the Demons could coordinate and attack. Dean begins to look around, then he sees Cas emerge from a portion of the Empty. Castiel looks the same, but now either his tie or trench coat is black, and he is wielding Death’s Scythe. Castiel is now the Angel of Death. 

 Everyone’s fan-favorite Angels and Demons are back. Crowley is there with an entourage of other Demons and Rowena. Actual Meg is back and looking around along with Ruby. Uriel is back and leading a group of Angels. Of course, all of the Archangels are back and are ready to fight. (Here I was thinking that Michael and Gabriel maybe convinced Lucifer that their dad wasn’t going to let them live even if they helped him, especially after Michael got dusted.) Here I won’t get into much detail, mostly because I don’t know how to write an action scene. It really boils down to that Heaven and Hell are working together to stop Chuck. It’s a chaotic battle, Angels and Demons are dying left and right, everyone is doing their best to end Chuck’s tyranny. Sam, Dean, and Jack are doing their best to remain out of the crossfire and not die. Through the chaos, Sam sees Azazel wink at him before he’s lost in the shuffle. 

Castiel reaches his new family’s side. Cas briefly explains what’s going on, that Empty released them because through a combination of Jack’s explosion and Billie handing her power to Castiel, they were able to make quite some noise and wake up everyone in the Empty. This causes even more noise, so the Empty can’t sleep, and expels all that are awake. The fight continues, but cuts to Jack as he begins to absorb power from the conflict. The ending here is much the same, in that Jack is then able to finally absorb all of Chuck’s power because he was weakened by the onslaught of Angels and Demons. A lot of Demons and Angels are dead, but the main cast is still alive. The Winchesters tell Chuck that he is going to live out the rest of his life as a human and die; no one will remember him. Here I would add that a final completion to Castiel’s arc of being a soldier that only follows his father’s command (much like Dean) to a being with free will. Cas would tell Chuck that it was said that “one day Death will reap God” and that it will be Castiel waiting for him. 

At this point I’m not quite sure what to do with the now revived Angels and Demons, like Azazel. I came up with two options. The first one being, Jack does right be the Winchesters and gets rid of Azazel and the like to honor what the Winchesters did in the past and puts Lucifer back into the cage. The second option being Jack lets all the remaining Angels and Demons go free to have their own free will, which I like, but that then brings up the problem of the Winchesters not being able to settle down and they have to continue hunting all the bad that was brought back. Or maybe Lucifer decides not to be a dick and work with his brothers in Heaven. Regardless of which option, Jack brings back all life on Earth that was dusted just like the show. Amara is able to become her own being again, but works with Jack in harmony. Sam is reunited with Eileen and they have a heartfelt reunion. Cas and Dean have their moment and Dean is finally able to say “I love you” back. The group are also reunited with everyone from the Apocalypse World. 

The group would head back to the Bunker, Jack included. Jack would do his speech of being handsfree and finally letting humanity and the world have free will. The group would celebrate and have a nice dinner. Going along with everyone left alive after the final battle (option 2) scenario, the boys begin to wonder what to do next. Do they continue hunting or not? Eventually they would say that they deserve to have a life outside of the one that was preordained for them. They leave the hunting to the next generation, but are willing to help with information and research, they are Men of Letters after all. 

There would be a little bit of a time jump, Sam and Eileen are able to have their white picket fence lives that they deserve. They would have some kids, Sam probably went to Stanford and is actually a lawyer now. He is able to have his happy ending with his brother still in his life. Dean and Cas stay at the Bunker, making it their permanent home. Dean becomes a mechanic for a shop in the area, Cas staying by his side (though invisible to everyone else). Dean adopts Miracle the Dog and Cas occasionally allows the dog to ride shotgun. Cas adopts a cat and starts a vegetable garden (in contrast to his new position as Death). Dean and Cas have their own white picket fence life with the occasional dip into the pool of hunting. Not to mention Cas’ new responsibilities. Jack would visit both households, and the entire group would come together on special occasions like birthdays and holidays. 

Eventually the brothers get old and pass on after living their lives how they wanted. Not sure which brother dies first, maybe Dean, but the brothers are reunited in Heaven. Jack watches over them and Castiel joins them when he is able to (which is most of the time tbh). The brothers are reunited with their mom and dad (they are acting like specially before the death of Mary, basically John isn’t an abuser). Bobby is there too along with all their friends whose lives ended too soon. The final scene of the series ends with a “you, me, Cas, toes in the sand, couple of them little umbrella drinks. Matching hawaiian shirts, obviously.” They can rest and relax, because they earned it.

[laruna]

— interloper.

characters. lim yuri, min yoongi, kim namjoon.

word count. 21.1k

genre. angst, fluff, friendship, romance, slow burn

warnings. underage drinking, hospitals, car accidents, mentions of family issues

summary. when yoongi feels like an interloper, yuri reminds him that he belongs.

November 7, 2011. Big Hit Entertainment Building, Seoul.

While Namjoon signed his contract until earlier that year, he still had to wait until the dorms were built to move in. Yuri gave Hitman Bang an earful when she found out he had signed him as a trainee when the company didn’t even have fucking dorms yet, but Namjoon fully assured her that it was okay and quelled her rage long enough to stop her from biting the poor old man’s head off.

But it all worked out eventually. Namjoon moved in when the dorms were built back in August, and without the awkwardness that parental presence at his house entailed, Yuri invited herself over as often as possible, practically making the dorms her second home. 

It’s almost a kind of domestic bliss, the way her and Namjoon lived before, cooking for each other and cleaning up the shitty company building until they get so tired they fall asleep on the floor. Sometimes, if she’s really lucky, he’ll offer to let her share his bed. You know, since all the empty beds are going to be occupied by other trainees eventually, and it’d be rude to give someone a used bed, right? Of course.

It’s a Monday when they go to the dorm and actually find the bed across from Namjoon’s occupied.

“...hi.”

The new trainee’s name is Min Yoongi. He’s only a year Namjoon’s senior, but despite the closeness in age, he doesn’t seem willing to bond with them at all. If anything, he barely talks to either of them. According to Hitman Bang, Yoongi is from Daegu, and the only speaks so little because he’s still trying to get used to Seoul’s dialect and is embarrassed that his satoori keeps slipping out.

Yoongi only talks when necessary, like a coworker. They spend the first week or so not talking about anything but work—music, in their case—but even that they can’t be friendly about. Despite their similar interest in hip-hop, Yoongi and Namjoon have very different approaches to rap music. To music in general, really.

Yuri can’t help but feel as if Yoongi has kind of an edge over them. On top of being a year older, he’s also both a producer and a rapper. Yuri is only the former and Namjoon is only the latter, so it’s like he’s got the force of them both combined. She can’t help but feel a little bit small, next to him. 

When they argue about something in the studio, he tends to use this as leverage, telling them to just listen to him because he knows better about this kind of thing. That escalates into arguing, which usually consists of Namjoon and Yoongi yelling at each other while Yuri desperately tries to mediate the situation. The current tally she’s been keeping in her journal shows that Namjoon having won two arguments, Yoongi having won six, and Yuri having successfully distracted them from finishing eleven. She likes to believe that means she’s winning.

Hitman Bang begs to disagree.

He finds out about it one day when he comes to visit her when she’s alone in the studio. The old man never knocks before entering, Yuri notes the invasion of privacy with annoyance. Even so, he kicks it up a notch by glancing over at the journal she’s left open on the corner of her desk. He laughs when he sees the page headed argument wins, pointing to the to the tallies by her name.

“I’m not surprised you’re in the lead,” he laughs. “You’re a menace.” She cringes when she remembers his first impression of her. She wasn’t exactly… tactful about it, but it got the point across well enough. Now that he’s her boss, though, she worries it’ll give him more reason to check up on her, and she would rather selfishly indulge in having some alone time with Namjoon.

“I’m not!” she defends herself, flustered. “I just know better than to waste my time arguing with boys. My points are for when I stop them from arguing, okay? Not having to hear them try to bite each other’s heads off is a win for me.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips at that, regarding her with a look she can’t quite read. She hates how unreadable he is. Her instincts have rarely failed her, but the old man is one of the few people whose energy has yet to come to her.

“Don’t be afraid of fighting,” he tells her after a bout of silence. “They should be able to fight if they’re angry. You should let them fight, let them yell if they’re angry. Even fist fights are fine. It’s okay to fight. Fearing fights only makes conflicts grow bigger.” Yuri shifts uneasily in her seat.

“I don’t like fighting. I don’t like yelling. I don’t like fists,” she says. “I get enough of that at home.” She doesn’t mean for it to slip out, doesn’t even realize that it does until the old man makes that face.

“Oh, Yuri.” He says it more sincerely than she’s ever heard from anyone at the dad age.

“Oh my God, no,” her voice cracks as she speaks. “We’re not doing that. We’re not having, like, a moment. I’m not emotionally prepared for that. I’ll cry and I’ll hate you.” He just nods at that, before awkwardly clapping a hand down onto her shoulder.

“Just remember that you can’t solve everything between them,” he says. “Let them resolve some of that on their own. You won’t be around to resolve things forever.” It feels like a jinx, the way he says it, but she still nods along.

“Okay,” she says. Sounds like simple enough advice to follow.

“And try to befriend Yoongi, okay?” he adds. She wrinkles her nose. That one seems a little harder.

“Okay,” she says anyways. She’ll definitely try.

Namjoon wrinkles his nose when Yuri proposes inviting Yoongi to the Lim household.

“He doesn’t really know anyone else,” Namjoon rationalizes. “Wouldn’t it be a bit awkward for him?”

“That’s the point, dummy,” she says, “I think it’d help him learn to get along with everyone, is all. Including us, hopefully. I don’t know.” Namjoon sighs, if only because she’s been getting harder and harder to say no to these days. He’s not sure why.

“Alright,” he agrees.

Unexpectedly, it’s significantly harder to get Yoongi to agree.

“I barely know you guys,” he deadpans, and Yuri winces. The I told you so look that Namjoon shoots her doesn’t help, and only reminds her of how much she’s always struggled with making friends. 

Hoping to spare her pride, she persists. This is the only opportunity she has to have everybody over in a while—she doesn’t know the next time her father’s going to be working overtime and they’ll have the house to themselves. Knowing him, the old man would probably bite her and Kyunghee’s head off if he came home from work and saw everybody over on a daily basis.

“You can,” she offers softly. “Get to know us, I mean. Please?” 

Yoongi only raises a brow, seemingly unconvinced.

“We have alcohol?” she offers, but the inflection makes it sound more like a question. Namjoon smacks her arm at that, only for her to shoot him a look that says, What? It’s true! Awkwardly, she adds, “Also, um, free food.”

And that’s enough to convince him, apparently.

Yoongi looks starstruck when he first enters the Lim household, suddenly feeling very small. Or at the very least, smaller than usual. He was easily the shortest of the company’s trainees, second-shortest of everybody in the building, towering over only the perpetually tiny Lim Yuri. He almost has a heart attack when said tiny girl takes his shoes from him to put in the garage. It’s her big-ass house, after all. Shit, just being here makes him feel like he should be the one serving her.

Yuri and Kyunghee explain that their father is out working overtime and... doesn’t really say anything about their mom, but the others know better than to bring something like that up unprompted, so they don’t.

The alcohol is present as promised, provided by none other than resident adult, Ikje. Was it illegal? Yes. Was that going to stop any of them? In the words of Donghyuk, ‘hell nah!’

What terrible, terrible influences, Yuri thinks.

She’s never had alcohol before, nor does she plan to have it anytime soon. Not for any legal or moral reasons, mind you—with the amount of alcohol so freely available in her household, she could probably sneak as much as she wanted whenever she wanted. Personally, she just thinks it smells weird and makes her dad act like a crazy person.

She’s only fifteen, but they make it seem fun. They take the thin metal tail of the soju bottle’s metal cap and tighten it into a straight, brittle line. Everyone takes turns flicking it until Kyunghee’s fingers finally break it off. He makes a face when Ikje fills the shot glass in front of him with soju as punishment.  

Yuri doesn’t miss the way he side-eyes Donghyuk before downing it, like he’s trying to make sure that he’s watching. Like he’s looking for approval. She wonders if that’s how she looks at Namjoon. She wonders if that’s how Namjoon looks at her. He’s on her brain too often, these days. Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon. 

They’ve gotten even closer since they made up, and she’s learned a lot more about him since then. He’s still the stickler that refuses to drink in public where he could get in trouble, but he still still laughs and encourages the others’ antics in private, maybe even allowing himself a shot or two. He is also more than the sexless smart dude that she stereotyped him as when they first met, as she has come to learn through his awful, nasty jokes. 

She really was right when she said that he had a whole solar system in his head. Whenever he seems like he could fit into some mold, he immediately proves her wrong. Kim Namjoon is everything.

In contrast, Min Yoongi isn’t much to her at the moment.

When she turns over to look at him, she immediately feels bad for not really paying attention to him the whole night, especially when she was the one to have invited him. The only reason she’s even paying him any mind right now is because he’s just situated himself next to her at the table, as a now drunken Ikje has thoughtlessly occupied his previously-claimed spot. 

Yuri isn’t sure if it’s because he’s not comfortable enough to drink around them yet, but she finds the way he innocently refuses to drink is a little endearing in the same way she found endearing when Namjoon refused to do so back in Hongdae. Instead, Yoongi opts to eat his entire body weight in meat, and is on what she believes is his third plate of fried chicken wings. Respect.

It’s a nice environment, and Yuri really is still adjusting to the fact that this is actually her life. She has a solid friend group that eats and drinks and laughs and plays stupid games together in her house. It’s relaxing. It’s safe. It feels like home. They feel like home.

It’s when they hear her dad’s car pull into the driveway a couple hours earlier than anticipated that makes Yuri remember, oh yeah, home kind of sucks.

In the next few minutes, their living room descends into absolute chaos. Kyunghee moves to swipe all the food and shot glasses off the table and into the sink, Yuri helps load them all into the dishwasher, Ikje is scooping all the soju bottles up into his arms, and everyone else is drunkenly scrambling out the back door. Once they’re all collected, Ikje climbs out the back window, for whatever reason. She blames it on his batshit drunkenness.

Everything is in the clear by the time their dad steps in. The entire scene is inconspicuous enough, Kyunghee passing Yuri plates from the sink to load into the dishwasher like they just ate a nice dinner. They even go so far as to force awkward smiles for their father, but he simply nods at them in acknowledgement before rubbing at his temples and makes his way upstairs, clearly still stressed from work. Kyunghee breathes a sigh of relief when he hears his father’s bedroom door click shut.

“We’re good,” he says, clasping a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Go lock the back. I’ll finish up the dishes.” Yuri nods, before making her merry way off to follow her brother’s orders. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she’s about to lock the back door and sees a male figure standing ominously in the shadows instead.

She turns on the back light, and lo and behold, there stands Min Yoongi, eating a fucking chicken wing on her back porch. And he has the audacity to look surprised, like she’s the one who shouldn’t be there on her own porch. Heaving a sigh, she steps outside, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible.

“What are you doing here?!” she whisper-yells. “Why didn’t you go with the others?!” It comes off as more aggressive than she intended, but the last thing she wants is for him to get caught and in trouble when she’s the one that invited him over in the first place.

“Namjoon went to sleep over at Donghyuk’s place,” he explains awkwardly. “Ikje went to sleep over at Hunchul’s place and, uh. I wasn’t invited to either. Ikje dropped me off here from the dorms, so… I don’t really know how to get back to the dorms from here.” 

Yuri heaves a sigh. She’s going to have to give everyone a stern talk about the importance of camaraderie and the no-man-left-behind policy. After shooting a quick text to her brother, she uses the house key hanging off of her lanyard to lock the back door.

“I know Seoul like the back of my hand,” she says. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.” 

“I don’t know how I feel about you walking back home alone so late at night,” he says. “It doesn’t sound very safe for you.” His genuine worry makes her heart warm. Those unexpected moments of sweetness he has always throw her off. Not in a bad way, though. It’s nice.

Unfortunately, the rest of the walk is significantly less nice. They spend the first ten minutes arguing over whether or not it really is safe for her to be walking back home alone so late. He feels bad that she’s out because of him, but she insists that it’s fine as she’s done so many times before. 

“Taking the subway home and walking home are two very different things,” he admonishes her. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at his patronizing tone.

“Relaaaax. I’ve got pepper spray,” she justifies herself. “Also, I hold my keys between my fingers.” She even holds up her hands for emphasis.

“I’m sure you could give a good stabbing if you wanted to,” he snarks. He doubts the tiny girl before him is capable of causing any physical damage, even with a deadly weapon in hand.

“Are you making fun of me?” she whines, and he snorts, because it really should be obvious. “I’m just trying to make sure you get home safely, and this is the thanks I get?”

Yoongi stops in his tracks to think about it for a moment, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he does so. She obviously means well, as annoying as she may be. She’s also his junior, and when he thinks about it, he’s just being mean to her for no good reason.

“Fine. I’m sorry for being an ass,” he relents with flushed cheeks, more for his conscience than anything else. “It’s just that—I just like being alone with my thoughts when I walk, that’s all. You’re not annoying.” 

Or at least, not that annoying, he doesn’t say.

“I know I can be annoying,” she says so matter-of-factly that it makes him feel even worse. “And my brother can be the same way. He likes just thinking, too, so I can just be quiet if that’s what you want. I just want you to get home alive, that’s all.” His eyes soften.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “I can defend myself if I really need to. I was on my school basketball team, you know. Boxing, too.”

“With these noodles?” she says bluntly, reaching over and taking hold of his arm. “And how did you get into the basketball team? Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall?”

“You don’t have any right to talk about height,” he says, staring down all 150 centimeters of her frame as he snatches his arm back from her. “And my arms are not noodles just because I’m not built like The Hulk.”

“We can’t all be Kim Namjoons, I guess. He’s got biceps for days.” Yoongi gives her an amused look at that, and she flushes uncharacteristically. “Sorry. That was weird. Just don’t—nevermind. I’ll stop talking now.”

“No, by all means, keep going,” he teases. “As long as you don’t mind me telling him about it later.” She gasps at that, smacking him in the arm.

“Oh, so now you want me to talk!” she huffs, smacking his arm. “You will be telling him no such thing, Min Yoongi! You don’t even talk to him about that kinda stuff, anyway!” He laughs as he jumps ahead to get away from her playful smacking, smiling so wide that Yuri can see his gums showing. They’re cute. She decides that she likes them.

“You really like him, don’t you? Namjoon?” he chuckles, far too blunt for her liking. It’s a special kind of adorable the way that she so visibly shrinks at his words, he thinks.

“We’re not dating, I, um—” she sputters. “Is it obvious? That I like him, I mean.”

“Relax,” he says. “It’s not. Really, I don’t think he knows. I don’t think anyone knows except Kyunghee, and I only know because of him.”

“My brother knows?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck that guy.”

Yoongi laughs at her sudden vulgarity. She really got really blunt and fiery when she wasn’t thinking, even with her seniors like him. It makes things feel a little bit more comfortable.

“Relax,” he repeats. “I think he just knows you? Because he’s your brother, I mean. He was like, ‘I just have to tell someone and nobody talks to you so it’s okay.’ So I doubt he’s told anyone else.”

Yuri nods, inclined to agree. She’d never tell Namjoon about Kyunghee’s crush on Donghyuk, and she has enough trust in her brother to know that trust goes both ways. Still, she feels bad that the exclusion Yoongi goes through on the daily is so obvious, even to her socially-awkward brother. But she has her own relationships to worry about.

“Just don’t, like. I don’t know. Interfere in whatever is happening, okay?” she huffs. “You’re the only one who knows, as far as I know. I just… don’t try to plant any thoughts in his head, okay? I want whatever happens to happen naturally. Because he likes me for me, or something.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” he says sarcastically.

“Oh, stop it,” she whines. Yoongi laughs.

“I won’t,” he assures her.

He doesn’t know when they started walking again, but it feels just a bit less awkward and stilted now. Yuri’s just a couple steps ahead of him, guiding the way. Wrinkling his brows, he stops dead in his tracks.

“This isn’t the right way,” he says. “You take a left here.”

“No?” she says. “The subway pickup is right here.”

“I’m not taking the subway, I’m walking, remember?” he says.

“What?!” she says. She didn’t mind the fifteen minute walk to the subway, but this was too much. “The whole way? The whole walk back to the dorms is like, an hour, Yoongi! Jesus, if I knew we were gonna be walking the whole way, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Well, you don’t have to walk me home if you didn’t want to,” he says. “You’re the one who offered.”

“I didn’t think you were a crazy person!” she huffs. “Why don’t you just take the subway?”

“I spent all my money on chipping in for dinner, how the hell am I gonna afford a subway ticket?” he snorts. “Look, I can walk however long it takes, but I can’t spawn food out of thin air like you guys can.” He tries to say it as casually as he can possibly manage, but the venom still leaks through. Her face visibly drops when he says it.

“Oh,” she says, her voice tiny. “I didn’t… sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stop that. You’re being weird,” Yoongi says. 

He hates this part. He hates the pity looks he gets from rich people like the Lims who have year-long subway passes their father bought—who, by the way, probably gets to sit pretty in a big office telling other people what to do while overworked laborers like his parents carry the South Korean economy on their backs.

But he digresses. He doubts she’s the kind of person who’d want to listen to his long-winded spiels on the economy or the government or the Gwangju democratization movement, anyway. Really, he doubts she’s type to need or think about funds at all.

Much to his surprise, she does.

“Okay, but like—just to make sure—money for that kinda stuff isn’t an issue for you guys, right?” she asks. “Like, Hitman Bang is feeding you guys?” There’s a level of threat to her voice that reminds him of the story Bang PD told him when he first joined the company, of her marching into his office to make demands for her friend’s safety. Loathe as he is to admit it, the image of it is equal parts genuine and endearing of her.

And maybe that’s why he feels the urge to spill his guts to her so suddenly, then. Maybe it’s also the warm, almost disarming energy in the way she talks to him now that they’re finally speaking one-on-one, despite his previous assumptions. Maybe it’s how innocent her eyes look when they shine under the Seoul streetlights.

“You know, I… I used to make beats out of a studio in Daegu,” he confesses. “Most of the time, I’d get scammed out of them, though. The guys who went in and out of the building would rip my shit off or use them but never pay me back, so like… I didn’t make much. But I stayed there because I still wanted to make music and using the studio was cheaper than buying equipment on my own.”

“Oh,” is all she says, pressing her lips together in a thin line. It’s definitely not the kind of thing Yuri and her brother ever had to worry about, seeing as they were so well-off. Hell, they were giving away the shit that Yoongi was slaving his life away over for free.

“So I couldn’t really pay for food or transport that easy, you know?” he continues, against his better judgement. It’s the first time he’s ever talked to anyone about this, and fuck, it feels so good. He can’t stop himself. “In front of the studio, there was this Chinese restaurant that sold jajangmyeon for 2000 won, and down the street, there was this place that sold janchi guksu for 1000 won, and like… I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but I had to worry about that shit everyday. If I ate the janchi guksu, I’d be able to get the bus and if I ate the jajangmyeon, I’d have to walk 2 hours to get home. So. I don’t know. I’m just stuck thinking like that, I guess. I know it’s not like… a thing anymore, but I feel using public transport still makes me feel guilty.”

“Mm.”

“Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t,” she reassures him. “I’ve just, um, never had to think about stuff like that. I’m sorry you had to, though. It sounds shitty.”

“Not your fault. Don’t apologize for something like that.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling up at him. “Thank you for telling me, Yoongi.”

“Uh. Yeah. No prob,” he says, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. His flush only darkens when she shoves a couple of won in his hand, and he realizes she’s been slowly guiding him in the direction of the subway station this whole time. “Wait, h-hey—”

“No, no, I don’t need it,” she says when he shoves the money back into her hands.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” she assures him, soft smile still gracing her features. “I’d rather not walk all the way back to the dorms. Just take it, you’ll be doing me a favor. You don’t have to pay me back or anything, either. It’s not that much, anyway.”

Yoongi frowns. As much as he wants to argue with her, he’s tired enough as it is, and he has no doubt she’d stay up all night just to stay here and debate this with him. 

“Okay,” he relents. She grins in what he believes to be triumph before gently taking hold of his hand in one of hers and placing the money back into his grasp with the other. She waits outside for the subway take off, like she’s afraid he won’t do as she says unless she sees it happen. When the train lurches to a start, he watches her figure retreat through the glass windows. 

There’s a stark contrast to her soft hands and the fussy way she thrust her money at him, he thinks. 

Lim Yuri is a strange, strange girl.

Namjoon jumps in his seat, startled when Yuri suddenly marches in, plops in to the studio chair next to him, and looks up at him with crossed arms and a very non-threatening scowl on her face.

“I have a bone to pick,” she says, and his brain immediately kicks it into panic mode as he rakes through his mind for anything that he could have possibly done to upset her within the past week.

Namjoon likes to consider himself a considerate person who wouldn’t want to upset anyone, but for some reason this feels different from pure consideration. At the beginning, Yuri was just Kyunghee’s kid sister who happened to help make good music. These days, though, she feels more like a peer than a junior, more like a friend than a dongsaeng. 

For whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint, her opinion of him has become quite important to him as of late. The idea that he’s done something she disapproves of makes his hands sweat. Even so, he manages to keep his composure, nodding as calmly as he can manage.

“What’s up?” he asks, cringing at the way his voice cracks. The way she sighs as she scoots her chair closer to his amps his anxiety up to eleven.

“You guys need to be nicer to Yoongi,” she says sternly, “You all really excluded him last week. He said you guys all went to each other’s houses after bouncing out last week and he just had nowhere to go. Why didn’t you guys plan for that or something?” Namjoon droops inward, like a kicked dog.

“Sorry,” he says, face hot with embarrassment despite immediately trying to justify himself. “It’s just—it was just kind of weird because nobody is really close to him or anything. The only person he really talks to is Ikje, and they’re not really even friends. We didn’t know how to broach the subject with him, or if he already had plans or anything, you know?”

“You could’ve asked,” she huffs, “I mean, I walked him to the subway station so he could ride back to the dorms, so everything turned out okay in the end. But—”

“By yourself?” Namjoon cuts her off. “That’s dangerous. Did you walk back by yourself, too? That late at night? Something could’ve happened. Why didn’t you ask Kyunghee to do it?” Yuri shakes her head fondly at his worrywart antics, and he sighs in relief when she smiles. It’s a warm reminder that she’s really not that mad at him.

“You sound like my dad,” she giggles, gently shoving at his arm. “Stop that. I’m trying to be mad at you.” He can’t resist cracking a smile back at her.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound apologetic.

“Anyway,” she continues, her tone considerably lighter, “Yoongi and I talked a bit when we were walking to the station, and like… I don’t know. It just made me realize how excluded he really was from everyone else. So can you just talk to him more, or something? And please try to get the other guys to talk to him more, too?”

“Yeah, of course. But for future reference, you could’ve called for a group discussion for this,” he chides, playfully adding, “I thought you were just mad at me for something. I really thought I did something wrong and didn’t know about it. You gave me a heart attack for no reason.”

“Sorry.” She laughs shyly now that it’s her turn to apologize. “It’s just—you’re the only one who really listens to me, you know? I feel like the rest of the guys kinda just see me as a little kid. I mean, I get it, because Kyunghee is my brother and Donghyuk is his best friend and Ikje is old, but like. I don’t know. I don’t feel like they respect me like you do, sometimes.”

Everything she says comes out in that nervous, rambly tone that she uses when she wants to keep things light, no matter how serious it actually is to her. Namjoon frowns.

“Sorry,” he says again. She shrugs.

“Not your fault,” she says, “I think things are gonna get better with Yoongi around, anyway.” Namjoon raises a curious brow at that.

“Oh?” is all he says. Yuri nods, like that’s an answer.

“He’s cool,” she says. “He was a little rude at first, but he got really shy and apologized when I pointed it out. Can you believe it? A man! Apologizing! Men never apologize, Namjoon!”

“I resent that statement.”

“Shut up, man,” she teases. They both chuckle at that. “Anyway. I think that you should try to talk to him, if anyone. I can’t tell you everything he said ‘cause that’s his business, but I will say that you’re both really passionate about music, so I think you’d get along really well.” Namjoon wrinkles his nose at her idealism, not quite sure about that one. 

He supposes she’s sort of right, seeing as music is probably the only thing he and Yoongi can agree on. Even saying that is a stretch, because their very different methods of music-making lent cause to many studio debates. It’d probably be more accurate to say that music was the one field in which they respected each other enough to discuss things amicably. If the conversation wasn’t about music, they spent more time throwing passive-aggressive one-liners at one another than talking about anything else.

“I don’t know about that,” is all he decides to say.

“It can’t be that hard,” she says, pouting. “Yoongi is a nice person. And even if there are things you don’t agree on, you can’t deny that he works really hard. So at least try? For me?”

“That walk to the subway really changed you, huh?” he jokes. He’s expecting her to laugh or roll her eyes or smack him or something, but she nods sheepishly instead.

“He gives me good vibes,” she says like it’s an explanation.

“There you go with your vibes again,” he says. It comes out a bit more passive-aggressive than he’d have liked. 

The atmosphere is a bit too fragile for him to start another debate, but it bothered him that she could dislike people like Hunchul because of the bad vibes she got from him, yet expect everyone to drop everything and befriend Yoongi because he gave her good vibes. She says that it’s just her intuition, but he thinks it’s just an excuse. Even without him saying all this, though, she rolls her eyes when she picks up on his implications.

“Yoongi really is a good guy, okay? I can feel it,” she tries convincing him. “I actually saw him smile, Namjoon. And he never smiles! And it was all cute and gummy! I know he comes off as kinda cold, but he just seems soft underneath it all. I just think he’s a person who’s been through a lot.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on him,” he teases. For whatever, the prospect of that makes him more uneasy than it should.

“I’m being serious!” she whines, smacking his arm. “I’m not asking you to stop fighting or arguing with him or whatever if that’s what you want. Just… try to make up after you fight.”

“It’s just weird,” Namjoon admits sheepishly. “It’s not like I want to fight, so I don’t. Especially if it’s over something stupid. I just try to ignore the little things. But then all those little things pile up into one big pile of resentment until I get mad at him for something stupid and he thinks I’m crazy and I’m still mad at him and it’s weird.”

It sounds stupid when he says it out loud, but the way that Yuri purses her lips and nods in understanding as he speaks makes him feel a little less crazy about it all. She’s always been someone that people just feel comfortable around, and Namjoon himself is no exception.

“It’s not weird,” she reassures him. “Fighting isn’t bad, I don’t think. I don’t love it, obviously, but Hitman Bang said the other week that being afraid of fights is only gonna let stuff like that and make the conflict big and worse. All I’m asking is that you at least talk to Yoongi.”

She looks up at him with those doe eyes when she says it, big and hopeful and pleading, and he can’t possibly bring himself to say no.

“Alright.”

Ever since his talk with Yuri last week, Yoongi has been finding instant ramyeon cups in his desk.

At first, he thinks it’s a one-off thing, maybe Yuri’s apology for saying something she thought was insensitive because he made her feel bad and she needs to soothe her conscience. But once he’s run out, they quickly get restocked when he’s not looking, and he has to admit that it warms his heart. He didn’t expect his words to affect her nearly as much as they currently seem to. 

He appreciates that she doesn’t give him the noodles directly or even say anything about it. It lessens the guilt he already feels from receiving free food from his junior. Yuri doesn’t ask for any thanks or even any acknowledgement, not breaching the topic beyond asking if he’s eaten yet.

Lim Yuri, he’s come to find, is not as bad as he thought. A little naive, to be sure, but nothing like the selfish, spoiled little girl he’d conjured up in his head when he first met her. He feels bad for the image he’d once conjured up of her in his head, the little brat surrounded by shiny, foreign production equipment who was no doubt born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

Lim Yuri is kind and generous and even thoughtful when she wants to be. She feels too hard, so sentimental that she cries when a beat she’d been working on for the past six hours fails to save before her computer shuts off. He tells her she can just remake it, but she sniffles and shakes her head, saying that it just won’t be the same as the last one.

“That beat was, like, my baby, Yoongi,” she explained to him that day. “I can’t just replace it, you know?” He doesn’t quite get what she’s getting at, but nods anyways. Over time, he comes to find those weird antics of hers he once found annoying to be kind of… cute? Even if he doesn’t get them. Even now, as she whines cutely, all he can offer is a couple of comforting pats atop her head. He wishes he had more to give.

Maybe that’s the worst part of being the poor kid, he decides. Everyone is impossibly kind here, and he’s probably making an ass of himself by meeting that kindness with a cold distrust. So he brushes off their niceties knowing that he has nothing to give back in return, and thus is seen in a doubly awful light. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that at the very least, that prickly demeanor means that nobody is expecting anything of him.

After all, Yoongi doesn’t do well with expectations. He’s not the son his parents expected him to be, who’d get good grades and go to university in pursuit of a business degree or something before slaving away at a desk from nine-to-five everyday for the rest of his life, nor does he want to be. 

But he has to be something.

Hence why he’s in need of a job. Not one of the office jobs that his parents suggested, mind you, but a simple part-time job to hold him over on top of being a trainee so that he doesn’t feel like a useless moocher. Thankfully, he’s already got it in the bag. As expected, they can’t just hire anyone, so they’ve just got one little test for him before they can officially put him on the employee roster.

What he doesn’t expect is to run into Lim Yuri, numerous plastic bags in hand.

“Yoongi!” she shouts when they make eye contact, running up to him excitedly. He’s never seen anybody that excited to see him, even back home in Daegu. It makes his heart feel a little funny.

“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t expect to run into you. What are you doing? Are you alone?” As annoyed as she wants to be, she can’t help but be endeared by the concern she shows her, the same kind that he showed her back when she walked him to the subway.

“Well… yes. But it’s fine. I’m not a kid, you know? Don’t worry about me so much! Really, you just sound like a grandpa when you talk like that,” she teases, “I bet one of these days I’ll come into your studio and you’ll be sprawled over the floor because your back gave out or something.”

“Hey, Hitman Bang says I’m an old soul,” he jokes, a wry grin on his face. She rolls her eyes.

“That’s just a polite way of saying he’s surprised that you’re this young and already depressed,” she snorts, but he can tell that there’s no malice to it. Still, it’s so unexpected of her that he has to do a double-take before bursting out laughing. 

He doesn’t even notice the pedestrian light flash on until she links her pinky with his and walks him across the street. Surprising even himself, he can’t bring himself to really mind that much. In due time, he’s found himself growing adjusted to her touchiness. It’s kind of nice, when he thinks about it. It makes him feel a little less like an interloper. Makes him feel like he belongs where he is.

“It’s fine!” she assures him. He doesn’t look very convinced. “We’re in broad daylight, Yoongi. I just finished grocery shopping.” She lifts her bag-lined arms up for emphasis. “It was my turn this week. Kyunghee and I take turns with groceries since our mom isn’t around.”

“Makes sense,” Yoongi says. Now that she mentions it, they’d only ever mentioned having to avoid their father whenever everyone came over to the Lim household. He’d always just assumed their mom was out or at work or upstairs—never that she wasn’t around at all. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about it, but it seems too heavy of a topic to pry about right now, especially when he already has somewhere to be.

“What about you?” she asks. “Where’d you come from? Or are you headed somewhere?”

“Work,” he explains. “Sort of. It’s just a part-time job. I haven’t technically started yet, but I’m going to. It’s a delivery thing, so I’m just going to test the delivery bike so that they can see that I actually know how to drive and won’t ride around like a crazy person.”

“Like a motorcycle?” she asks enthusiastically. “A real one? You know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, secretly revelling in how much it impresses her. It’s cute of her, he thinks, the way she’s so wowed by the little things. It’s like every conversation with her is an ego boost.

“Can I come watch?” she asks hopefully, eyes glittering with excitement.

And how could he possibly say no to that?

It’s a little silly, how bouncing-off-the-walls excited she is when they get there. Even the old couple who own the restaurant he’s supposed to be delivering for are enamored with her, wrapped up in conversation about meat buns or something. She really is genuinely sweet with them, so much so that they barely take notice when Yoongi mounts the bike they’ve prepared for him to test-ride.

It’s an older Yamaha model, the ‘YD250’ on the scratched up by what he assumes can only be years of wear and tear. He thinks nothing of it as he revs the bike up to life, but before he can take off and begin driving, he’s cut off by Yuri’s voice.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she calls out. “You should be wearing a helmet!”

“It’s in the box,” the old man explains. 

“I’ve ridden without one before,” Yoongi mutters, resisting to roll his eyes at their safety concerns. And Yuri calls him the old person. Even so, he opens the delivery bike box mounted on the back of and reaches in to grab hold of the big black helmet so that he can put it on. “Happy?”

“Very,” Yuri says, sounding far too pleased for his liking. The old woman chuckles at their banter.

Yoongi takes off in a flash after that, quickly riding around the busiest blocks and most bustling streets a couple times, the image of Yuri’s enthusiastic eyes as he rode away on the motorcycle burned into his mind. It’s nice to be admired so deeply. It’s the only reason he’s still on board with the whole idol thing, after all. He doesn’t want to rely on his parents and their money for everything, though, so right now he just needs this job to help support his training. 

He’s officially got the job, they inform him when he gets back. They also tell him that Yuri has been vouching for him in the mere minutes that he was gone. She ducks her head to hide her blush at that, and he finds her shyness in the moment impossibly cute. It only intensifies when she pipes up.

“Can I join you? On the back, I mean?” she asks bashfully. “I’ve, um, never ridden one before. I just think it’d be neat. You can just take me home, if you want. It’s not super far from here, I think.” In any other circumstance, he’d say yes in a heartbeat, but she’s asking him this question in front of his employers. Thankfully, the two nod when he looks to them for permission.

He can’t but feel kind of mortified by the way the old couple coos at him when he takes off his helmet off and places it atop her head, taking extra care to fasten the buckle tight. 

“Cute,” she says. “But what about you?” It’s the little things like these that remind her how thoughtful and softhearted he is, even if he doesn’t really care to show it.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve ridden without one before,” he echoes his earlier sentiment. She doesn’t look convinced, but the old man speaks up before she can get a word in.

“Get your girlfriend home safe, alright?” he says, clapping his hand down onto Yoongi’s shoulder a little too forcefully. Both him and Yuri send each other an embarrassed glance at his assumption, but neither can find it in them to correct the old man.

“Yes, sir,” is all Yoongi says.

The ride back home is a lot less nerve-wracking than he had expected. Yuri’s soft from head to toe, he notes, like a little human pillow. Against his expectations, the feeling of her form pressed against his back throughout their ride in the city feels more comforting than restricting. So much so that he actually feels a little bit disappointed when they get to her house and she has to let go.

He helps her unload her groceries from the delivery bike box, watching as she takes every bag but one. He reaches in to grab it until he sees what’s inside—ramyeon. The exact kind that spawns in his desk every week. At that moment, he realizes that she left that specific bag inside on purpose.

“This is for me,” he says. It's a statement, not a question.

“Mmhm,” she replies. “It’s my favorite brand. It’s got that little egg brick in there, you know the one? These things are mostly carbs, so I think it’s a good source of protein. Good for building muscles.” He frowns, baffled as to how she can be so nonchalant about all this.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he says. “I have a job now, so I can buy my own food if I’m ever craving anything beyond those cardboard chicken breasts Hitman Bang gives us.” Yuri giggles at that. “I’m serious. I’ve already gotta pay you back for the last couple of weeks. I’m not sure if my salary is gonna be able to keep up.”

“Hey,” she says gently, staring him down a bit more earnestly now. “You don’t have to pay me back for anything, okay? The ones I get for you are only, like, 1200 won per little cup.”

“Isn’t 1200 won kind of a lot?”

“It’s not,” she assures him. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s fine. It’s really fine. It doesn’t hurt me at all. If it did, I wouldn’t keep doing it.” Yoongi pulls a face, not entirely convinced.

“You may not feel bad, but like—I feel bad.”

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” he says. Yuri sighs.

“Yoongi—”

“It’s not just the ramyeon, you know?” he says, staring mindlessly at some spot on the ground. Anywhere but her face. It’s a daunting task when he speaks so earnestly. “It’s just—you do so much for everyone all the time. And I’m just—I don’t even talk to anybody.”

“Hey.” Yuri speaks softly, taking one of his hands between both of hers in what he thinks is an attempt to comfort him. Her hands are just as soft as they were that night by the subway, he muses. “You can’t blame all that on yourself, you know? I know the other guys aren’t the best at being friendly and inclusive and all that, but that’s not your fault. It’s more of a time thing.”

“A time thing?” he asks.

“We’ve all known each other for, like, two or three years before you came here,” she explains. “ So I think they’re just trying to get used to you? But they don’t dislike you! If anything, I’m sure they’ll like you soon. I mean, I already like you, so it shouldn’t be too hard for them to follow suit.”

“Okay,” he says, thinking nothing of the flush that spreads up to the tips of his ears.

Namjoon supposes that now is as good a time as any when Yoongi steps into his studio.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. After all, Yuri points out, Yoongi is the one alone in Seoul with nobody to talk to. When she puts it like that, it makes them all sound like assholes. Maybe they are. But it’s fine, because Namjoon is finally going to be nice and converse with him about something not music-related. The bar is on the floor. All he needs to do is open his mouth and say something.

“We need to talk,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing when Yoongi’s eyes widen like saucers, anxiously backing up until his back hits the door like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “Oh God, no, not like that. You’re okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh. Alright,” Yoongi says, visibly relaxing.

“I just, um. I wanted to talk,” he repeats. “I feel like I’ve been… mean? But I’m not trying to be. It’s just that I’m supposed to be the leader, but you’re the hyung. “And you also produce a lot of our songs—which I’m really, really grateful for, of course. I just don’t know how to talk about things as a leader without seeming disrespectful. I try to keep my mouth shut about it, but I guess that’s how things like that build up, you know?”

“My mom gave birth to me,” Yoongi says, seemingly out of the blue, and Namjoon laughs. It’s that loud, booming laugh of his that always fills up the whole room.

“What—?!” he laughs incredulously.

“Let me finish,” Yoongi says, hopelessly fighting to the smile off of his face. “My mom gave birth to me. My mom is older to me, obviously, and she’s done a lot for me, too. And of course I’m grateful for that, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight her on some things. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything she says, because I haven’t. Neither have you—if we did, neither of us would be here right now. We’d be like, I don’t know, doing cram school or preparing for university shit or something like that. I think I’d resent her if that’s what I was doing right now just because I wanted to please her. That’s why it’s okay to fight. If we don’t, then all that resentment just grows.” Namjoon smiles fondly at him.

“You really are an old man,” he chuckles, prompting Yoongi to raise a brow at him. “Hitman Bang said the same thing, you know? About fighting being good, since conflicts just get bigger if you don’t fight.”

“Well… he’s right.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” Namjoon replies.

“So no more not-fighting?” Yoongi asks. It’s so ridiculous, the way he has to phrase it—but Namjoon nods, so he supposes that it gets the point across well enough. “We’ll try to resolve problems instead of avoiding them completely.”

“No more not-fighting,” he agrees. “Resolving things. Not avoiding them.” He holds out a pinky.

It’s a ridiculously silly sight, Yoongi thinks, the way Namjoon’s large hand offers out a pinky for what he thinks must be a pinky promise. Seeing someone as big as Namjoon do something so childish is unfairly endearing. He must’ve picked up from Yuri, he muses. Yoongi can’t help but laugh.

“Did you just giggle?”

“Huh?”

“That was kind of cute, hyung.” Yoongi flushes a dusky pink.

“…shut up.”

Yuri doesn’t come in late on Sundays anymore, Yoongi muses.

She always used to come in late on Sundays, which was a stark contrast to her appearances right after school on weekdays and her early morning entrances on Saturdays. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before, but he supposes it’s a good thing that he does now. It means that at the very least, they’re taking note of each other’s presence. 

Yoongi does think it’s weird, but for as curious as he is, he is not nosy enough to ask about it. Normally, it wouldn’t even cross his mind to do so, but with the talk he had with Hitman Bang last week about getting along better with everyone, he’s having second thoughts.

Yuri may not be a fellow trainee, but she’s still a member of their team. He only just started talking easily to Namjoon, so Yuri is easily the most comfortable person to talk to. After a rather heated internal battle, he gives in and brings it up to her.

“I’m glad you come in on Sundays, now,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “What cleared your schedule up?”

“Oh!” she says, pleasantly surprised that Yoongi is taking the first step in making conversation. “My mama worked as a vocal teacher before she divorced my dad and moved away, so my little brother Daniel and I would go over there to help her, especially with translating stuff since her Korean wasn’t very good. I used to go over to help the other lady who works there on Sundays since she’s nice and I liked singing!  But Daniel handles all that now, so I’m free to work here with you guys.”

That’s certainly a can of worms. He’s learned more about her and her home life from this single conversation than he did from the night he was over at her house, but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable by pressing further about the deep shit, so he keeps his digging as shallow as he can.

“You sing?” he says, and she flushes.

“Yes,” she admits. “But like. Not in front of other people. That’s scary.”

“Like stage fright?”

“Sort of,” she says. “It’s different. More like, scary in the sense that you have to share your art that you’ve poured all your heart and soul into for so long. Because then when people reject it or don’t like it, you feel like they don’t like you. On top of that, people also care about visuals and dancing and aegyo, and like… how am I supposed to fulfill all those categories?”

“I get that,” he says. He always knew that music would be a big part of his life, but he never imagined he’d be performing for other people. The thought of scrutiny had always made his stomach churn, but that’s basically all that idol life was. He’s not sure how he’ll handle it. “You don’t think you’ll ever be singing on a stage one day?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. Maybe one day,” she says. “Maybe if I was more… you know.” She grimaces as she makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Mm-hm.” Really, he doesn’t know, but it seems like a touchy subject. 

He deems it better not to pry.

Big Hit and Source Music are due to debut a girl group soon, Hitman Bang says.

Unlike the boys, they’ve even got a name—GLAM. Yoongi, however, has yet to know the group’s trainees beyond seeing them in passing. After all, Source is the one handling all the management and promotion and all that fancy stuff. 

(Hitman Bang says he’d never be able to manage a girl group because he doesn’t understand women. It takes all of Yoongi’s willpower to stifle a laugh when Yuri says she’s not surprised.)

Meanwhile, all Big Hit has to do is help make their music. 

Yoongi feels a bit of pressure when faced with the prospect of making music for somebody else. Music has always been a very personal process for him. The thought of someone else interpreting his work was both exciting and overwhelming. While the prospect of someone interpreting his work or liking his work enough to perform it piqued his interest, the idea of someone either fucking up something he made or pitching his work to someone who’d only reject it was anxiety-inducing.

To his relief, that is not what he is currently doing.

At the moment, he’s currently mixing a demo for one of GLAM’s future songs, touching up the vocals so that they stand out above the instrumental’s bouncy synths. It has a nice vibe to it, he muses. It’s in English, but he understands enough of it to make out that it’s about getting ‘too close’ to somebody who’s supposed to be a friend. Hitman Bang must’ve purchased it from some overseas songwriter. He’s not sure why. It seems like it’d be an expensive process, and even after buying it they’ll have to translate it back into Korean. What was the point of all that hassle?

At least it sounds nice, Yoongi supposes. It’s a cute, pop-based little R&B track with airy vocals. The high notes are clear and smooth, with a distinct little squeak at the end of the high notes. It’s almost familiar, he muses, but he’s listened to a lot of music in his lifetime, so—wait a minute.

Yuri. That’s Yuri’s voice.

He recognizes those little squeaks anywhere, reminiscent of the whiny tones she makes whenever she’s being stubborn about something. It’s harder to pick up on when she speaks in English, which he supposes he should’ve assumed she’d know how to speak. He recalls Namjoon offhandedly mentioning that she was his English tutor a couple of times, as well as Yuri mentioning translating for her mom. Still, he’s never actually heard it come out of her mouth. It’s kind of jarring.

Against his better judgement, he asks her about it.

“Oh! Um, yeah, that’s me,” she admits, laughing sheepishly. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s good,” he assures her. “Your voice is pretty. The lyrics you wrote are catchy. I bet you could be an idol, if you wanted to.”

“Uh-uh. I don’t think so,” she says just a bit too forcefully, “I’m perfectly content just producing for you guys. Seriously.”

“That’s selfless of you,” he says. She shakes her head.

“It’s actually a little selfish, when I think about it,” she laughs nervously. “To be honest, I think a big part of my support comes from living vicariously through you guys. Saying it out loud makes it sound kind of awful, but you guys are doing things I could only ever dream of doing. I’m just here to make sure you guys are as successful as possible at all the things you’re doing, you know? Even though I’m not actually, like, putting in all the work and being on stage and all that.”

“You could, if you really wanted to,” he says encouragingly. She shakes her head.

“I mean, I don’t think I look very idol-like,” Yoongi muses. 

“You do!” she argues. Poking at his pale cheek to emphasize her next point, she says, “White as sugar, just like old man Bang said. You’ve got that glass skin, you know?” 

“That’s because I don’t go outside,” he says, self-deprecating as ever as he swats her hand away.

“Oppa,” she whines in a way he thinks is unfairly cute of her. “Just accept the compliment, okay?” He rolls his eyes, but relents to her wishes anyway.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re very welcome,” she says, sounding far too pleased with herself. “Don’t be like that, okay?”

“Like what?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Well… you know. Mean to yourself about how you look,” she explains. “Namjoon is the same, which is sad. And also just not great for an idol, you know? You have to be at least a little confident in your looks, or you’re gonna be miserable every time the stylists dress you. It takes them longer than you’d think. Or so I’ve heard.”

“There’s not much to be proud of,” he deflects, not missing the way that Yuri rolls her eyes like that. 

When she raises her hand, he thinks she’s gonna flick his forehead or prod at his face again or something, but instead she places a finger on the tip of his nose. He furrows his brows together.

“What—”

“Your nose is cute,” she says matter-of-factly. He can’t help the strangled noise of surprise that escapes him at that, face growing hot as he flusters. “And your pale skin makes it easier to see when you blush, too. That’s a strong charm point as well, I think. You’ve got lots of charms.” He turns away, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Still, it’s nice to know that somebody thinks so.

Yoongi presses the end call button on his phone just a little too forcefully.

Another phone call, another argument with his parents. It was instances like these that made him not want to call them at all. He’s always in this limbo of guilt, grateful that they paid for his trainee contract while also being angry at the way they constantly voice their disapproval. He slams his phone down onto his desk in frustration. 

Apparently, it was louder than he thought. His studio door opens up a sliver, just enough for Yuri to peek her head in.

“Hey,” she calls softly. “Everything alright in there?” Yoongi pulls a face that makes it obvious that no, he is not alright. “Can I come in, then?” 

Upon his nod of approval, she files into the room, gently closing the door shut behind her. She walks over and settles into the seat across from his, sliding it over next to his so she can lay her head on his shoulder. Her touch is comforting, he thinks.

“Talk to me,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Sometimes, I think I should just… I don’t know. Anything to stop shit like that from happening,” he sighs. “My parents nagging me, I guess. Just go back home. Go to college. Get a nine-to-five. Have a nice family, or something.” And Yuri frowns, because she gets it.

It’s something she’s spent many days and nights comforting Namjoon over when he’s just had another argument with his parents over the same exact thing. She wishes she could relate or understand, or anything to comfort him—but she can’t. 

She’s glad the two can talk to each other about it now, but she can’t help but feel a little jealous that she can’t be a part of the conversation and can help them. She almost scoffs at herself for envying them being able to bond over their unsupportive parents. How fucked up was that?

Heaving a sigh, she hops up and takes a seat on the edge of his desk, careful to mind his production equipment. She swings her feet up into his lap, in that very casually touchy Yuri-esque way of hers. Impulsively, he brings a hand up to gently tap at her shin. She tries not to giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“Yoongi,” she starts, as seriously as she can manage. “Not to be, like. A downer or anything. But when your parents are gone, where would that put you? Stuck in a job you hate for no reason?”

“Six feet under,” he snorts, and she gasps.

“Not funny!” she whines, kicking at his hand. Her assault on his poor palm only gets worse when he bursts out laughing. “So not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing.

“I really am trying to be supportive,” she huffs, a bit less childishly, now. “But I can’t like. Get it, get it, you know? The only reason I have any idea what to say here is ‘cause I’ve had this talk before. You know, if you two tried talking to each other more about personal stuff, I think you’d see that you and Namjoon are more alike than you might think. I’m not going to spill his business, but. I’ll just say that I think if anyone were to get it, it’d be him. It took some coaxing from my dad, but both my parents are okay with me pursuing music, now. As long as I took the producer route and not the idol route, at least. But still. It’s a good start. I’m lucky. I’ve got it better than a lot of people do, I think.”

“Would you?”

“Hm?”

“Take the idol route,” he clarifies, looking down at her shoes. “If you were given the choice.”

Sometimes, Yoongi feels like he’s never been given a choice. It feels like he’s been given every setback in the world. He’s never had the support or the funds or the hunger for fame that so often accompanied those pursuing music. He can barely remember why or when or what began his relationship with music, but he so vividly remembers feeling it, feeling like music chose him rather than the other way around. He can’t help but wonder what someone who seems to have been given almost all the choice in the world has to say about the only restrictions she’s been given.

Not much, it seems.

“Oh, um, nah. I don’t think so,” she laughs nervously. “I’m just—I’m not really pretty enough?”

“You are pretty,” he says, too quickly and too naturally to be insincere. He doesn’t miss the way that she ducks her head to hide the flush flooding into her cheeks.

This must be the vague ‘you know’ thing she was always talking about, Yoongi muses. He really should’ve picked up on it from the moment she said she didn’t look very idol-like. He’s never been the type to kiss up, so he hopes she knows that he means it. 

“You’re so—stop that,” she whines, embarrassed. She half-heartedly attempts to kick at his hand again, but makes no move to try again when she misses. “You’re too much.”

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know,” she squeaks, hands flying up to cover her flushed cheeks up in embarrassment. “That’s the embarrassing part. Get some taste or something.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Yuri,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You always tell Namjoon and I not to be insecure about appearances, but you act the same when it comes to yours.”

“That’s different,” she whines, “You and Namjoon are gonna be in front of the cameras. I’m gonna be behind them. I don’t need to muster up any kind of confidence for that. Which is good. Because I don’t have it.”

“Looks don’t matter to me,” he says flatly. “But confidence does. I’m not gonna hold your hand and tell you that you’re pretty all day, even if I think it’s true, ‘cause you’re not gonna believe it no matter how many times I say it.”

“Ouch.”

“Let me finish,” he continues, “Even if it isn’t your looks, you deserve to at least be confident in something. Your music, your grades, your music, whatever. You’re generous and thoughtful. Don’t let society make you miserable just because all they care about is appearances.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, her face still buried in her hands. More than a little bit concerned at this point, Yoongi flicks her forehead through her bangs. 

“Hey, you good in there?” he asks. She doesn’t reply. Just sniffles. Oh, fuck. “Uh, sorry, I—” Yuri shakes her head, finally lowering her hands.

“Don’t be,” she laughs nervously, still teary-eyed. “That was one of the nicest things a boy ever said to me. You should be, like, a motivational speaker or something.” He snorts.

“I can’t give advice to like. People I don’t care about,” he says, grinning awkwardly, “I’d just tell them to get their shit together and I’d get fired.” Yuri can’t fight the smile off of her cheeks at that.

She’s sure she’d know that he cares through his Yoongi-isms alone, but it’s nice to hear it from the man himself. He wouldn’t be giving this advice if he didn’t care. 

Min Yoongi cares about her, and it makes her heart feel warm.

Lim Yuri has become an unexpected addition to Yoongi’s delivery sprees.

Yuri’s arms, small and gentle, have become a comforting presence as they wrap around his waist. The old couple doesn’t seem to mind the extra person joining him on his trips, content with her politeness and the fact that she isn’t demanding any money despite providing help. They coo about the highs and lows of young love whenever Yuri arrives to join him on his trips, and Yoongi can’t find the energy within himself to correct them.

Things go on like this for a long time, hours, days, weeks, of this halcyon. Her arms keep him warm in the winter and her cold hands keep him refreshed in the late months of spring. The old husband hands them a bag of leftover food for them to eat together, an wistful smile on his face. 

They eat in the midst of impromptu therapy sessions, which usually consist of Yuri comforting Yoongi as he complains about his problems. It’s okay, though, because she likes to give advice and she likes how deep his voice is when he talks and she doesn’t have many problems of her own to complain about, anyway. When she does talk, it’s always lighthearted, talking about a song she wrote or something dumb Kyunghee and Daniel did or how cute Namjoon’s dimples were on that particular day. 

One day, curiosity kills the cat, and Yoongi asks a question that’s been killing him from the start.

“Why do you like Namjoon so much, anyway?” It’s something Yoongi asks out of the blue, so much so that he doesn’t even realize he’s asking it until it slips out. He’s not sure what he’s expecting until she answers, and when he does, he realizes that his expectation was literally anything but what she says next.

“No reason,” she says, and he’s so thrown for a loop by the words that leave her that he practically stumbles over his feet when he hears them.

“Wait, seriously?” he says. “I’ve read your lyrics, you know. You’re good with words.”

“I am?” she says, sounding far too surprised for his liking.

“Yeah. Which is why I thought you’d have a way better answer than that,” he says. “I expected you to talk about…” He pauses as he sifts through his brain for all the things that he personally finds attractive about Namjoon. “…I don’t know, his dimples or his height or his good grades or something.” All things that he lacks, Yoongi muses with insecurity.

“Oh my God. Those are all, like, great and all, but they’re not like… why I like him,” Yuri giggles. “He’s just—I don’t know. There’s a lot of things about him that make me like him, but I can’t, like, come up with an itemized list. It’s not like one day he reached a quota in traits I liked and suddenly I liked him. I just realized I did. I just… felt it. It felt right. He felt right.”

“Oh.” Yoongi feels a pang of jealousy at that, like an itch he can’t scratch. Maybe it’s because a tender part of him can only dream of being loved so dearly.

He silently wonders what it would be like to be loved by a person like Lim Yuri.

Namjoon has been feeling himself growing fonder and fonder of Yoongi in these past months.

Finally learning to talk to him without being all weird has helped with that. Without the formalities, they’re both able to speak a lot more freely. In the time that they’ve done so, the two have been able to talk about and bond over their rocky family situations and their choice to pursue music.

What’s fueled his fondness more than anything, though, is Yoongi’s little habits—the way he runs a hand through his jet black hair as he shyly recommends jazz and art study because they seem like the type of thing you’d like, Namjoonie, the way he always wears those grey jacket and sweats because they’re warm and winter is starting to trickle in, the way he smiles with his gums just like Yuri said he would.

Those two have gotten impossibly close lately, Namjoon notes. Now, he doesn’t think he’s the most perceptive person in the world, but it’s hard to miss the tenderness in their actions. Every time he steals a glance in their direction, they’re exchanging knowing glances or whispering softly to each other or linking pinkies in the way that Yuri loves to do so much.

It’s only natural to conclude that Min Yoongi and Lim Yuri are involved.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. It has no reason to, right? But it does. He combs through his mind for any possible reason that it should. Maybe it’s because Yoongi, who’s agreed to be more honest with him, hasn’t told him about it. Maybe it’s because Yuri, ever perceptive, has been one of his closest friends for years and yet seems to have no intentions in telling him about it despite how painfully obvious their interactions make things.

The familiar sting of loneliness rises sharply in his chest when he sees them interact, like they’re in their own little world, with seemingly no room for him. He feels like he’s spying on their relationship when he shouldn’t be. He feels like a voyeur. He feels like an interloper.

Maybe this is how Yoongi felt when he first came to Big Hit, he muses. If this is how he feels just watching him and Yuri, he can’t imagine having to watch everyone who’s known each other for years talk and laugh together from the outside. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels selfish and ridiculous for being so bothered by it. After all, who was he to meddle in their affairs?

Maybe it’s high time he finds one of his own.

Yuri’s sheets are soft, Yoongi thinks.

They’re at her house today, Yuri not feeling very keen on having this conversation in the Big Hit building for fear that Namjoon might walk in on them while they’re talking about him. Right now, she’s half-heartedly producing something on her bedroom computer and venting to Yoongi as he lies on her bed.

She rants about how Namjoon has been talking a lot about girls lately, clearly bothered. She especially seems bothered by the fact that Namjoon won’t let her be as touchy with him as she used to be. Normally, Yoongi wouldn’t give a damn about other people’s affairs, but things are different, this time. While he’s not personally bothered by it, he doesn’t like the fact that it bothers her so much, for whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint. 

Dear Lord, she even goes into detail, describing each and every pretty girl in a way that is far less flowery than he believes Namjoon would speak about a girl.

“And then there’s Jieun, who they all say is a good kisser. What does that even mean? Like, what the hell makes someone a good kisser? You just jam your lips together, right?”

“You’ve never been kissed,” he says, more a statement than a question.

“Yes?”

“Kinda late, don’t you think?” he says. Yuri gasps as she smacks at his arm, clearly mortified.

“No it’s not! Shut up!” she says indignantly. He’s trying to take her seriously, but her squeaky little whines make that hard.

“Sorry—” he tries apologizing through his laughter.

“You don’t sound sorry at all!” she whines. “It’s not funny, okay? It’s fine! I’m still young!”

“You’re sixteen already!”

“I’m only sixteen!” she huffs, crossing her arms and turning away from him. “I-I have time, okay? We can’t all be heartbreakers, Min Yoongi.”

“Heartbreaker?” he repeats. “I haven’t had a girlfriend since middle school.”

“I never said you were one,” she defends herself.

“You implied it.”

“I—whatever!” she huffs. “I’m saving my first kiss for someone special. And it’s gonna be somewhere magical, like under the cherry blossoms at the Goyang Flower Festival or on a picnic blanket under the stars on New Year’s or something.”

Oh my God. He’s trying so hard to stop his laughter. 

“Did you swallow a fucking romance novel?” he laughs. “My first kiss took place in the hallway after gym class, so like. Don’t be surprised if it sucks and you mess up and slobber all over them or something like that.”

When he turns to look at Yuri, she looks incredibly nervous. She’s come to a still in her spinny chair, nervously pulling her hair over her face as she ponders his words with utmost seriousness.

“Do you think that?” she asks, voice small.

“What?” he asks. Wordlessly, she sighs, wheeling her chair backwards over to where he’s lying on her bed. She cranes her neck back onto her bed, coming face-to-face with him.

“Do you think I’ll mess up my first kiss?” she says softly. Not that she needs to speak anything but—she’s so close he can feel her breath against his nose. He pulls away, face aflush.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, voice cracking. 

Yuri gives a huff, seemingly dissatisfied with his answer. She hops down from her chair—there’s an inherent cuteness in the fact that her feet don’t touch the ground when she sits on it, Yoongi muses—and up onto the bed, right next to him. He rolls his eyes when she settles onto her knees and urges him to sit up, too. He obliges, in spite of his annoyance.

“What was your first kiss like? Aside from the whole being in the hallway thing?” she whispers, like they’re telling secrets. There’s nobody else in the house but Daniel (who’s probably got his headphones cranked up to a hundred percent), so Yoongi can’t help but find her antics endearing.

“My first kiss was just a kiss. Nothing bad. Nothing mind-blowing,” he says with a shrug.

Even that’s a bit of a stretch. They were both gross and sweaty and their teeth clacked together. But he already feels kinda bad for making her doubt herself so much, and he doesn’t want to aggravate her worries.

“So how did… did you just…” she gestures awkwardly with her friends as she trails off, unable to articulate whatever she wants to say. He gets it, though. He always does.

“You just go for it,” he says, “It’s the kinda thing you just feel your way through. Just don’t think too hard about it. You’re good at doing things without thinking, so it should go well for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, rolling her eyes at the back-handed compliment. “It’s just—I don’t wanna mess up in the future if I ever… you know.”

“Just say kiss,” he teases. “It’s not as sacred as you’re making it out to be. It’s just lips-on-lips. If humans never decided it was a thing to kiss people you liked, it wouldn’t be important at all. It’d just be an exchange of germs.”

“It’s important to me!” she bristles, so aggressively that it throws him for a loop. She takes note of her overreaction, coughing awkwardly before returning to her normal volume. She repeats, “I-It’s important to me. I just want it to be nice. I don’t wanna be disappointed. And I don’t wanna be someone else’s disappointment. That’s why I’m asking you this.”

“What are you asking?” he says, raising a brow.

“Augh!” She buries her face into her hands, miserably failing an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks. Peeking through her fingertips, she gently continues, “Just… hypothetically… purely for practice reasons… it wouldn’t count as my first kiss if you could, um. Help me. Try. Practice. I don’t know.”

The room goes impossibly quiet. She can’t say a word after that, the pair just staring at each other in awkward silence, him impossibly floored at the suggestion. Their faces go blank as Yuri processes what the hell she just did and Yoongi processes what the hell just happened.

When it all finally clicks, Min Yoongi has the audacity to fucking smirk, gums showing and all.

“Practice,” he repeats, no lilt to it, no bite. His attempts to remain straight-faced are to no avail, because her pouting up at him is all it takes for him to burst out laughing.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she yells, pushing him back down onto the bed. “Just forget it! Forget I said anything!” She hooks a leg over his waist, pinning him down before grabbing a pillow and smacking him as hard as she can with it. The pain does little to quell his laughter.

“Get off!” he laughs in-between smacks. “You’re too much!”

“Are you calling me heavy?!” she asks, more fake-offended than anything.

“What—no! What the fuck made you think that?!” he tries to sound indignant, but he’s still laughing, and before he knows it, she’s laughing too. When the laughter subsides and the room goes quiet, they both realize what kind of situation they’re in. Yuri’s still got him pinned down, having just talked about first kisses. Kisses in general. Having just proposed that they kiss. The air goes tense.

“So,” Yoongi says, cutting through the silence.

“So.”

“I didn’t. Uh. I didn’t say no.” He has the decency to look embarrassed, now, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide. “Unless you don’t want to.”

The two stare at each other for a moment after that, like they’re waiting for the other to back down. A Clint Eastwood-style duel of the eyes, so to speak.

“I won’t start something I can’t finish,” she says decidedly.

She leans in as promised,

presses her nose against his—

“I’m sorry!”

—and promptly places both hands over his mouth.

The motion isn’t harsh enough to hurt too bad—only a light sting—but it is very sudden. Yoongi blinks up at her a couple of times in surprise just to reassure himself that whatever that was actually just happened.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “For um—yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this? Because, um, you know. If someone asks me when my first kiss was, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, it was on my bed at like, 11PM when I was in high school. A-And that already makes me sound terrible! And then when they ask with who, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, just with my friend that I work with so I could practice kissing for the future since I was in love with our friend!’ And that’ll be my stupid goddamn answer! And that’s… that’s, um… that’s kind of not very romantic…”

Her voice tapers off towards the end, quieting in what Yoongi thinks is embarrassment as she takes his hands off of his mouth. It really does sound kind of ridiculous when she says it out loud. Maybe Yoongi was onto something when he laughed at her for sounding like she ‘swallowed a romance novel.’ To her relief, his next response is anything but patronizing.

“Hey,” he says, “Relax. Don’t apologize for changing your mind, that’s just—that’s just weird. Don’t force yourself to do shit you don’t want to. That’s weird.”

She’s so close. They’re still nose-to-nose, breath tickling each other’s lips every time the other speaks. He awkwardly pats the back of her thigh a couple of times, which she reads as a signal to roll off of him. She obliges. Even though she knows he doesn’t mean much by that little touch, the intimacy of it still makes her blush. Thankfully, he can’t see it with the both of them laying back down onto the bed and staring awkwardly at the ceiling above them. Yoongi pretends to find interest in the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on her bedroom ceiling.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he repeats.

“Sorry,” she says again.

“It’s fine,” he reassures her, because as mortifying as the situation is for them both, it really is fine.

She blindly reaches her hand out to find his, feeling around until their fingers meet. When he fondly links his pinky in hers, the way she always does with him, she decides that a kiss isn’t the kind of thing she should be rushing into, anyways.

Yoongi just assumes it isn’t weird.

After all, Yuri settles against him so naturally, her face buried into his neck and her studio chair sidled next to his as he sits at his desk and works on mixing what he hopes will end up being a song on their first album, whenever that comes out. Were it not for the way that her breath hit the sensitive skin of his neck, he would barely even register that she was there.

Well. Maybe not barely.

She’s so warm, the way she presses against him. She’s always warm, except in her hands, but it’s fine because his hands are always colder. Her cold fingers thread through his hair, and it reminds him of how accustomed he’s become to her touchiness. It’s just a habit of hers, he’s since learned. She has a lot of little habits he once found weird, but now only sees those habits as things that make her Yuri. 

Yuri who hides behind her hair when she’s shy or nervous. Yuri who only wears half her jacket and leaves the other half hanging off for no reason. Yuri who wordlessly leaves ramen cups on his desk. Yuri who has to link her pinky with someone else’s when she’s nervous. Yuri who awkwardly bends her hands to link both of hers together when she doesn’t want to be a bother.

But it’s come to the point where she’s never a bother anymore. If she were, he wouldn’t have situated himself in her life as the outlier, the one person who coaxes her to talk about all of her problems because she’s the one resolving everyone else’s. Yuri taking always feels like giving, because he takes in her little habits and private thoughts that she shares with him and nobody else. It makes him feel more important than it makes him feel annoyed.

She has a special bond with everyone at Big Hit, and even with the Source Music and JYP trainees they practice with—she wouldn’t be going out of her way to force them all to resolve their conflicts, otherwise, even if they see her as nosy and meddling because of it.

In everyone being special, he supposes, he has gone full circle in no longer being special. Maybe he is, but he’s not as important to her as say, Kyunghee, her own damn brother, or Namjoon, who she stares at like he holds all the world’s answers. With that, Yoongi takes his place in her heart at a solid bronze (at the very most), which stings a little more than he’d like to admit. 

He hasn’t had much opportunity to grow as close to anyone at Big Hit—hell, anyone in Seoul—yet. Maybe that’s why he’s grown so attached to her like this. As sad as it is, she is quite literally the one person in the whole city that he’s close to. Listening to all her problems like this makes him feel like he’s just as important to her, so he can feel a little bit less pathetic about holding her so close to his heart. Even if the problems that she tells him reveal anything but.

“I’m so stupid,” she whines against his neck. Her warm breath gives him goosebumps.

“Jeez, you’re not. How many times do we have to go over this?” He’s been comforting her over this for the past half-hour now.

Namjoon has a girlfriend now. A tall girl from his advanced algebra class with great math skills and pale skin and sharp eyes—everything that Yuri does not have. He knows she’s insecure about it from the way she wrinkles her nose when she sees her reflection in the mirrors of the practice rooms. It makes him want to throttle Namjoon, despite him probably not having a clue.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice small, “For dumping all this on you, you know? I don’t wanna be that friend who only ever talks to you when I have problems. I kinda feel like I’m using you.”

“Hey, hey. It’s fine. Relax,” he says, feeling her nod softly into his neck as he continues, “It doesn’t bother me.” In fact, he prefers it, is what he doesn’t tell her. Humiliating as it is, he revels in feeling like he’s giving something, when he always feels like he’s taking from her. Like everyone is taking from her.

He knows what it’s like to be a producer, always behind the scenes of it all. She says she’s perfectly content with it, but he once said the same thing back in Daegu. But even when he chose to do things and make things for other people like this, there was always that underlying feeling of feeling like something has been taken from you. Sometimes it was just wanting the same amount of recognition as the people singing the songs you made.

Being young in society meant a desire for acceptance, and what bigger acceptance was there than fame? He recognizes the stars in her eyes whenever they practice with the other trainees in JYP’s big, shiny entertainment building because his own eyes held them once, too.

He’s still a trainee, so maybe they still do.

But for now, he’s letting himself dream small, living in the studio whenever he doesn’t have to practice those stupid dances Hitman Bang has them do. For now, music comes first, especially with his current job as one of the company’s main producers.

Producing is a lot harder with one hand, he muses, noting that she has at some point monopolized his left one when he wasn’t paying attention. He interlocks their fingers in spite of it all. With his ability to perform keyboard shortcuts impaired, he delegates the task of manually clicking things to his free hand. It’s annoying, but the feeling of her hand fit so snugly in his makes the inconvenience feel worth it. They sit like that for a while, quiet as one of her hands threads through his hair and the other softly strokes at his hand with her thumb.

“I like your hands,” she says. “They’re nice to hold.” Yoongi swallows. She’s so close to him that he’s scared she’ll hear how fast his heart is beating. To his relief, she says nothing of it.

“They’re just hands,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Cold hands.”

“Usually when you hold someone’s hand they get all hot and sweaty and clammy and gross, which is why I do the pinky-linking thing,” she muses, “Yours don’t do that, so they’re nice to hold. And they’re honestly not even that cold.”

“They are,” he argues.

“I don’t think your hands are ever that cold,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt. “I think you just keep saying that so you have an excuse to have your hands held. I bet you secretly love skinship.” He rolls his eyes, tightening an arm around her tiny frame.

“Watch it. Your life is in my hands,” he says, as flatly as he can manage for maximum ominosity.

With a squeak, she flies off of him like he’s on fire. He can’t help but smile, wide and gummy, at her Yuri-esque antics. Even when she turns away, shaking her head fondly, he can feel his heart swell in his chest as he looks at her. It reminds him why she’s the first one at Big Hit he was able to really talk to. Everything feels easy and comfortable with her, the way he felt back in Daegu.

His reverie is interrupted by Namjoon’s voice booming from the studio next to his.

“Yuri!” he calls. “Can you look at this for me?”

Hearing this, she does a little happy dance with her feet. It’s a habit he usually finds endearing, but right now it just makes his stomach twist. She waves him off, dropping everything—she even forgets her water bottle on his desk—to run off and attend to whatever Namjoon needs her for.

“I’ll be back,” she says in a sing-song voice as she’s out the door. 

He knows she will. She always comes back to him whenever Namjoon isn’t available.

Yoongi runs a frustrated hand through his hair, not sure why it bothers him so much. The fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much bothers him more than anything else.

Yuri is awake at the Big Hit dorms at two in the morning.

This is nothing out of the ordinary, though. Whenever their dad was out of the country on a business trip, she always took the opportunity to stay out past curfew as a chance to spend her nights at the Big Hit studio while Kyunghee played video games with Donghyuk in the dorms. She always had to hide in the studio until early dawn so as to not get caught by Hitman Bang, who made it clear that he detested the idea of someone so young being out late just to work for him.

Today is different, though. Today, she’s in the dorms, taking a well-deserved break from work as she lays on her stomach next to Yoongi and watches a movie with him. She brought the DVD over from her house, thinking nothing of the way her father’s old American movies lined the TV stand until the day Yoongi bashfully mentioned wanting to watch it.

So here they are, watching a Korean-subbed version of Scarface on the tiny screen of his laptop. Yuri can’t enjoy the movie very much, finding it a bit too bleak and violent for her liking. And it just never gets better. It’s just hit after hit, one bad thing happening after another. She’s sure that if she squinted hard enough, she would be able to appreciate the cinematography and whatever deeper meaning the film holds, but that sounds like too much brainpower to be using at two in the morning.

Yoongi seems to find it interesting, though. He’s enraptured by every word that leaves the main character’s mouth, so much so that Yuri would be surprised if he forgot she was there. It really seems like he’s in his own little world. Instead, she finds her entertainment in his little gasps of delight, the innocent widening of his eyes, the way his grins of anticipation look as they’re illuminated by the dim light of his laptop screen.

It’s unfair, she thinks, how pretty Yoongi is. Perfect skin and catlike eyes and gummy smiles and he’s not even trying—hell, he doesn’t even have a skincare routine! God really does pick favorites. Yuri absentmindedly brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes, one he’s probably too entranced by the movie to notice. She hums softly at the way he leans into her touch without thinking.

She wonders if anyone is ever going to look at her this way.

There’s no time for her musings to continue when she hears what sounds like someone throwing their guts up in the bathroom. It stops for a moment before continuing, and Jesus, that sounds pretty brutal. She nudges Yoongi with her arm.

“Sounds like someone’s dying in there,” she says. He furrows his brows together in concern.

“Huh?”

“Someone’s not having a good time in the bathroom,” she says. “Did Namjoon undercook the chicken breasts again or what?” As if on cue, the poor guy is retching again, and Yoongi shakes his head.

“Jihoon,” he says, pausing the movie before he stands up and dusts himself off. “He hasn’t been feeling well for a while, now.” Yuri gets up and follows Yoongi when he makes his way towards said bathroom, cringing at the distinct sound of dry heaving as they draw closer. Yoongi knocks on the door before entering, his frown deep-set when he sees Jihoon hunched over the toilet.

“Hey,” Yuri says softly, stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. “Are you okay, buddy?” Yuri and Jihoon aren’t exactly the closest—of all the Big Hit trainees, Namjoon and Yoongi nabbed that spot—but he’s still nice to talk to, always offering to walk her home when it got too late like a good oppa. Seeing him like this breaks her heart.

“‘M fine,” he rasps, despite the pain in his voice telling them all that he is anything but. “Probably just food poisoning. No big deal.”

“Food poisoning for three days?” Yoongi says, obviously in disbelief. “It could be a stomach bug. Or God forbid, appendicitis. You really need to get yourself checked out.”

“It’s fine, hyung. I—” he begins, but the need to heave again cuts him off. Yuri rubs comforting circles into his back some more, unsure of what else to do. She sends a questioning glance Yoongi’s way, who looks just as concerned as she does.

“We’re taking you to the hospital,” he says. Jihoon groans, but doesn’t have the energy to resist.

The drive to the hospital is tense, Yuri filing in the back before Jihoon so he can lay his head against her shoulder and she can make sure he doesn’t throw up anymore. Meanwhile, Yoongi pushing is the edge of the speed limit, eyes darting back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror to make sure that they’re holding up okay in the back. Yuri sends him a reluctant thumbs up.

Yoongi insists that they take Jihoon to the emergency room, where they take Jihoon to the back. As soon as he’s out of eyeshot, Yuri watches with wide eyes as Yoongi takes out his wallet and puts down a hefty payment for the walk-in fee.

“I can pay for it,” she says, shaking her head as she fishes for her wallet in her own jacket pocket. Yoongi smiles, a bittersweet thing, at the unspoken words—she knows how much he’s struggled with money in the past. Even so, he shakes his head, reaching out to tenderly fit his hand into hers.

“There are worse things to spend my money on,” he says. “You can’t really put a price on anyone.”

Something in the way that she sees Yoongi snaps, then, but she has no clue as to what it is. She’s not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the lateness of the night that makes her think this, but something about him reminds her of the moon, at that moment.

They stay like that the rest of the night, side-by-side in the seats of the hospital waiting room. Yoongi’s lashes flutter dreamily at the way a sleep-deprived Yuri noses against him, softly muttering sweet things against the sensitive skin of his neck and meaning every word.

“Your heart is warm, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi can’t help but notice the way that Yuri’s wrap around him a little bit tighter during their deliveries, these days. More than that, he can’t help but notice how much he likes it.

He’s slowly accepting the fact that this might be a thing that he will have to address in both himself and with the rest of the Big Hit team later. Yuri being her normal touchy self was one thing, but him finding himself enjoying her touch rather than just allowing it was… new. It’s scary and exciting all at once, but mostly the former. For now, while it isn’t a problem, he chooses to ignore it.

He still puts the helmet on her head himself, pulling the buckles tight and making sure it’s fully secure before anything else. He takes extra care with it these days, tender in the way he always does it for her like it’s the first time. He feels like a little kid all over again, the way he cares like this.

It’s easy for him to psyche himself out of things, convincing himself that she’s just being all touchy because that’s how she is, but then she does little things that make him think it isn’t all in his head. Just last month, she gifted him with a black Yamaha helmet, covered with stickers of Kumamon and logos of brands he likes and Scarface, even though he remembers her having a pointed disinterest in the film while they watched it on his bedroom floor.

He never anticipated that he’d actually need it one day.

He doesn’t know how it happens, who went too fast or too slow or turned when they weren’t supposed to. All he remembers is tightening his arms around Yuri as they tumbled off the bike and onto the ground, hoping that she’d be okay. 

She always kicked in his protective instinct, being so small and so delicate. The thought of her getting hurt because she wanted to help him out makes him feel impossibly guilty.

Yoongi’s fading in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering Yuri’s voice sobbing into her phone on what seems to be a 1339 call.

“He’s—he’s unconscious,” he hears her sniffle, “Oh my God, he—um, no, no, he has a helmet on. His head is under the car. His body’s sticking out from under it. I just—I don’t wanna move him, ‘cause, oh my God, what if I hurt him? Oh God, what do I do? I don’t know what to—no, ma’am, the street is—um...”

When he wakes up, he’s lying in a hospital bed, groggy and miserable and aching to the joints. He’s in the emergency room, he realizes, the same one he drove Jihoon to only weeks ago. His heart sinks when the doctor informs him that he’s got an incredibly bad shoulder injury—no more boxing, no more basketball, he tells him. It was nearly dislocated, he says, so don’t move too much. Don’t put too much pressure on it. Just relax for a month or so.

This sends him into a full-blown panic. He doesn’t have a month. He’s never been much of a dancer—of everyone, she should probably be practicing the most. This sets him back far behind the others. How is he gonna catch up? How is he gonna make up for that?

As soon as the doctor leaves, the weight of the whole world hits him all at once. He can even feel himself hyperventilating, but is halted by the shock of a gentle hand reaching out to grasp his. When he turns, he sees Yuri sitting on the hospital chair next to him. Lord, he was so out of it he didn’t even realize she was there. She’s got bandages on her legs, but other than that, no major injuries. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he says, slowly blinking up at her.

“Why did you do that?” she says, voice cracking.

“Huh?”

“You, um, kind of,” she begins, “…broke my fall? You held me. I don’t know. I crushed your shoulder. That’s why it’s all fucked up. Why would you do that?”

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking. I just felt like it was the thing to do at that moment.” She whines pitifully at his answer, squeezing his hand as tight as she can.

“I just feel like I owe you one,” she says. “Something. Anything. I don’t know.”

The tender part of him tells him to assure her that she has no need to do any such thing. After all, nothing was more important than other people—especially Lim Yuri—but the scared part of him takes over.

“Make me a promise,” he says softly. She leans in to hear him better, nodding as she does so.

“Anything,” she says.

“Promise me you won’t tell the others about this injury. Please.” Yuri furrows her brows and widens her eyes upon hearing this, obviously not expecting that answer. She practically rips her hand from his at that, pulling back from him as if appalled.

“What?!” she says. “Yoongi, no! They have to know about this!”

“They’ll worry. They’ll bench me. They’ll pull me out,” he says. “I promise you, it’s better if they don’t know.”

“What, so they can make you dance and exercise and all that shit with your injured shoulder? If it was sprained, that’d be one thing, but this is a serious problem! You’re only gonna hurt yourself further by not telling them.”

“I don’t care. It’s fine.” Yuri shakes her head.

“I just don’t get it,” she says, sniffling. “How you can care so little about yourself when I—when everyone—cares about you so much.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “It’ll heal. Everything will, alright? I just need you not to tell anyone about it.”

“Of course,” she says, as flatly as she can manage. “I owe you one, after all.” Yoongi knows her well enough to sense the bite in her tone. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon,” he clicks his tongue. “Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like that, then,” she says, pressing her back to the opposite wall of his little hospital room. “It’s just—it’s just so stupid, Yoongi.” She slides down against the wall and onto the floor, looking impossibly small and hopeless in a way that only makes him feel guiltier. “You don’t have to pay anyone back for any of the nice things we do. You think we do all that just to kiss ass, or what?”

“What—no! Of course not.”

“Then why am I keeping this a secret, huh? Tell me that,” she says. 

Yoongi pauses for a moment, deep in thought. Every single thought falls upon him, all at once. He thinks of the evaluations next weekend and he thinks about his family back home. He thinks about the money they spent on his trainee contract and he thinks about the amount they’ll have to pay off, regardless of whether or not he debuts. His heart beats wildly in his chest. His head pounds away.  His lips press together into a thin line.

“There’s so much at stake,” is all he can offer as an explanation. What else can he say?

“All the more reason to trust us, then, isn’t it?” she says desperately. “Come on. No way anyone would let the company drop you. I’d fight for you, you know that! We’d fight for you. No one else can rap and produce like you. Don’t you remember what Namjoon said? You can debut before him, or he can debut before you, but it’s important that everyone supports each other, always. He’d be here for you, if he knew. He wants to be there for you. We all want to be there for you. You’re so loved. You just have to trust us. You just have to let us in.”

“Sorry I don’t remember every little thing Namjoon says,” he scoffs. “I’m not you.”

“Are you really talking about that right now?!” she bristles. “This is serious, Yoongi!”

“I’m being serious,” he says firmly. “You’re the one bringing up Namjoon while I’m lying in a hospital bed. He’s the leader. He’s the one I’m worried most about. The whole group is built around him. I don’t know if I can trust him not to tell any of the staff about this. If he does—, if anyone does—they have a reason to drop me as a trainee. I can’t let that happen, Yuri.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying these things. He’s talking out of his ass right now. After all, he trusts Namjoon. He likes Namjoon. But the pain in his shoulder and the claustrophobia of the tight little hospital room makes him feel anxious, restless, paranoid. He wants to get up and move and run or do something. But he can’t, so all he can do is project every negative feeling bogging down on him onto other people.

“If you can’t trust Namjoon,” she says softly. “Can’t you at least trust me?”

A beat of silence is her only answer, Yoongi’s lips pressed together into a thin line as he looks away.

“I can’t believe you,” she says, voice cracking. When he hears her begin to sniffle and sob, he has to force himself not to look back at her, guilt and shame bubbling up in his stomach.

He doesn’t even get to see her as she storms out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Yoongi feels incredibly alone.

He really shouldn’t, though—after all, his family comes all the way down from Daegu just to visit him while he’s in the hospital. They bring him all sorts of different foods, agreeing with his complaints that hospital food really, really sucks. After repeated assurances that he’ll heal just fine, they ask him about trainee life, about his food, about his friends. On the third day, they ask why nobody else has visited him. He lies and says that they’re all too busy training, when in reality they don’t even know that he’s here. 

The insecure, self-loathing part of himself wonders if they’re even worried.

Rationally, he knows they are, because he misses them, too. They’ve been in such close proximity that it’d be impossible for them not to grow as close as they have in these past months. He chuckles softly whenever he thinks about the way they were so rarely separated, bonding and laughing over situations where Hoseok was using the shower while Donghyuk used the toilet and Namjoon brushed his teeth, all at the same time.

It only makes Yoongi feel worse about the last conversation he had with Yuri, making an ass out of himself over Namjoon of all people. Namjoon who he’s lived with the longest. Namjoon who he gives his shirts to when they come in two sizes too big. Namjoon who he holds so dearly. 

He wishes he didn’t have to be apart from everyone for so long to realize what an ass he was being.

It hits him the worst on the sixth day his family visits him and they bring him a cup of a very familiar brand of ₩1200 ramyeon. He saves the little egg brick for last. It tastes bitter in his mouth. 

As he reluctantly finishes his water, listening to his brother, Geumjae, and his parents chatter about their dog and their work and the weather in Daegu. Usually, catching up with them felt like a much-needed break, but right now he just feels restless. 

He’s been lying in this hospital bed for too long. Listening to nothing but their idle chat for too long. He’s been drifting in and out of sleep so much that he probably wouldn’t even know how many days he’d been in the hospital if his phone didn’t tell him. The repetition of it all ends one day when the nurse informs him that somebody’s coming up to visit, even though his family is already there in the room with him.

After a set of gentle knocks, Lim Yuri appears from behind the hospital door like an angel.

She introduces herself to his family a bit too formally, bowing more than she needs to, like she’s trying to impress them. It’s cute of her. What’s even cuter is the way she blushes and flusters in surprise when they ask if she’s a Big Hit trainee and she waves her arms around as she explains that she’s a producer. She looks nothing like an idol, she says. Geumjae jokes that Yoongi doesn’t look anything like one either. He glares at his brother from the hospital bed.

Yuri looks shy as she tells them something too softly for him to hear, but they nod in understanding and send Yoongi a knowing look as they file out of the door with promises to visit tomorrow. His cheeks flush in embarrassment as he realizes he’s going to have a lot to clarify for them then.

His flush deepens when she sets the plastic bag in her hands on his side table, clambering up the bedside to take a seat beside him. He moves to make space for her, revelling in the way the warm skin of her thigh presses against his arm. 

“Did you eat?” she says softly. “I brought you food.”

“Yeah, I ate,” he says. “Thanks, though.”

A beat of silence. She reaches down to grasp his hand, which fits so perfectly into hers. When he squeezes it, she squeezes back. Everything feels like it’s falling back into place where it belongs.

“I didn’t tell anyone, like you said. I told them all that you went back to see your family in Daegu. Said it was a family emergency that you didn’t really wanna talk about,” she says softly. “Told Hitman Bang, too. I think you should be okay if you want to stay here for the next week or so.” He shakes his head.

“It’s okay. I’ll be discharged soon,” he assures her. “Next two days, maybe. It won’t be completely healed, but I’ll just tell them that I fell down the stairs back home or something. I don’t know. Gonna try to play it off as nothing major.” 

She hums in reply, squeezing his hand again. He can tell she still disapproves of his secrets, but is willing to keep them if that’s what makes him comfortable. She slides down so she’s laying next to him, legs slotted nicely next to his. He feels a wave of comfort wash over him as she gets touchy with him, like nothing has changed.

Seeing as Yoongi has never been the touchy-feely type, one would think that this would annoy him. To his own surprise, it doesn’t. If anything, he finds himself reveling in her affections. It’s weird even to him, the way he likes her touch so much.

Wordlessly, she starts playing with his hair. She’s always liked his hair, she’s said before, all sleek and smooth—she doesn’t like her own hair and the way they curl at the ends. And he’d frown every time she talked about herself like that because he thinks she’s one of the cutest people he knows.

Not that he could ever tell her that without shrivelling up and dying of embarrassment.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by her wandering fingers, which have moved on from playing with his hair to prod at his ears. The sensitivity makes him cringe, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant thing. He gasps sharply when her fingernails nip at the shell of his ear in a way that feels like the sensitive skin is being bitten. Mortifying as it is to admit, the goosebumps that rise on his skin stem from a sensation more pleasurable than it is uncomfortable. It feels good. Suddenly, the touches that he once found curious and innocent—childish, even—make his face go hot.

“You have something you’re not saying,” she chides. “You can tell me, you know, if it’ll make you feel better.” He turns in closer to her, close enough that her breath tickles him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For saying stupid shit that I didn’t mean. I was jealous and stupid and angry.”

“Apology accepted,” she says immediately, trailing her finger back down from his ear to prod at his bready cheeks. “I’d forgive you even if you didn’t apologize, you know. I missed you too much.”

“I missed you, too.” 

She freezes, then. They both do. Yoongi doesn’t even realize what he says until it’s slipped out—it’s probably the most intimate thing he’s said out loud. The closest thing he’s ever said to I love you.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks suddenly. “I just—I know it’s not super romantic to ask, but I don’t just wanna do it without your permission, so—” Yoongi’s face burns a dark crimson as he cuts her off.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Go ahead. Please.” He can’t trust his voice to say much else. His hands are shaking.

When she presses her lips against his, everything feels different. 

It’s like every shitty romance movie he’s ever watched has come to life in his bones. Every cheesy metaphor—the sparks flying, the angels singing, the flowers blooming. It’s the way he finally understands why wars have been waged and empires have fallen for a single heart. It’s the way Yuri smells like cherry blossoms and whatever else is in her girly lotions. It’s the way he’s never felt like this before.

It’s different from his first kiss. It feels exactly like Yuri said it should feel. Maybe because it’s her. 

And Min Yoongi finally understands why Lim Yuri put so much importance into a single kiss.

Yoongi doesn’t know how long he’s been avoiding her.

It’s not like he immediately iced her out after the kiss. It was a gradual thing, each interaction slowly becoming more and more unbearable. The first time he can recall feeling things start to fall apart was when he made some rude joke that he can’t even remember now. All he can remember is the way she laughed afterwards, so naturally and so easily that he couldn’t help but to think about how everything with her was just easy. Easy to tease, easy to joke with, easy to share secrets with.

That’s how things should be, right?

And then it spirals. Makes him think about his girlfriend from middle school, a smart girl with pretty hair that sat in front of him in class, who began going out with him when he shyly asked her out via letter. He could talk to her normally before, could ask her for pencils and for homework help, but once they began dating he couldn’t even do that much.

It’s weird, the way he acted so differently once romantic expectations were set up. There’d always been this tense aura of awkwardness around them, and he could vaguely tell that it annoyed her, but he was too chicken to do anything about it. He never thought it could happen with Yuri, who he always felt so comfortable, but here he was now.

He feels pathetic, agonizing over this when she’s probably thinking about Namjoon. Even if she does like him back, there’s a clawning fear in his gut that tells him that he’s never going to compare. He wonders how long she’d do that, seesaw herself over to him whenever Namjoon was unavailable. Moreover, he wonders how long he’d let her.

Everytime her little hands found themselves laced in his, the rate at which his thoughts dissipated and his heart melted became laughable. If she asked, he’d probably let her do whatever she wanted with him forever.

The tiny, selfish little devil on his shoulder whispers to Yoongi that he would possibly-maybe-kind-of be more compatible with her than Namjoon. Even without thinking too hard about it, he knows it’s a terrible thought just from the way it makes his stomach churn with guilt.

Namjoon and Yuri have known each other for several years longer than he’s known either of them. He’s nothing more than an interloper in this relationship, and it’s conceited of him to even think he has any kind of chance when he probably isn’t even in the running. The possibility of being in the running scares him more than it excites him, at this point.

So he ices her out.

With how frigid he’s gotten, it should come as no surprise that she wants to hang out more with the trainees at JYP and Source. These days, she’s been over in their dorms more often than she’s been in theirs. He only ever sees her in the studio. Even then, he only speaks to her indifferently, replying to her when it has to do with music and brushing off her attempts at small talk. It reminds him of his interactions with Namjoon back when they first met, tense and awkward and professional.

And speak of the devil.

“Hey,” he hears Namjoon say, his voice deep and distant at his studio door. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” he says thoughtlessly, not even bothering to look up from the song he’s producing on his computer. That changes when Namjoon seats himself on the seat next to his and he can practically feel the air go tense, forcing him to turn and give Namjoon his full attention. The way that his leader, who was a year younger than he was, could command so much authority with his presence alone was both admirable and terrifying.

“You’ve been avoiding Yuri,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows there’s no beating around the bush with this one. Regardless, he pushes his luck.

“I haven’t,” he lies through his teeth. Yoongi has never liked lying about matters of the heart. If it were anybody but Namjoon, he wouldn’t have, but he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. Namjoon sighs, obviously in disbelief of the lie. Yoongi doesn’t blame him.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not asking you to tell me what’s wrong, or what happened between you two or whatever. If it was between two members of this group, then I would have to. It’s my job as leader to be responsible for you guys. But whatever is going on between you and Yuri? That’s your business. It’s not my job to keep up with our producers, no matter how much I might want to.”

“But you do want to,” Yoongi clarifies.

“Of course,” he says. “I mean, she’s not just a producer to me. She’s my friend. And so are you. So I’m asking you this as a friend, and not a leader.” Yoongi raises a brow.

“What are you asking?” he says.

“I don’t know. Just don’t be mad at each other anymore. Please.” Namjoon sounds impossibly desperate, hopeless in a way that feels incredibly out of character for him. “I don’t like seeing you guys mad at each other. Remember what Hitman Bang said? It’s okay if you wanna fight or yell or whatever. Just sort it out. I don’t know what she did, or what happened between you, but everyone seems pretty miserable without her around, including you. So please make up soon. Please don’t be mad at her anymore.”

“I’m not mad at her,” he says, and it’s the truth. If anything, he’s mad at himself—but not at her. Never at her. “It’s just… weird. I don’t know. But I’m not mad at her.”

“You think she knows that?” he says, and Yoongi’s heart immediately sinks.

“Probably not,” he admits, suddenly feeling a large wave of guilt wash over him. Now that he thinks about it, she’s probably been blaming herself this whole time. Yoongi’s face burns hot with shame.

“Then you should let her know.”

“Hey, can we talk?”

Yuri practically jumps in her seat, eyes widening like saucers as she whips around upon hearing the voice of Yoongi of all people at the studio door. She hesitates for a moment, but it’s not long before she gets up to let him in. Over the months, he’d gotten harder and harder for her to refuse.

“Okay,” she says as she unlocks the door, letting him into the studio. They’re face to face now, so much so that his incredible closeness reminds her just how much he towers over her. He always said that he was short, but he’s pretty tall to her. It only makes her all the more nervous.

She hasn’t had the opportunity to talk to Yoongi alone like this about something non-music related in months. She can’t beat around the bush with this one—she doesn’t know the next chance she’s going to get to say what she wants, so she has no choice but to say it outright.

“Let’s not fight anymore,” she says, gently dropping her head against his chest. It comes out soft and sad and a thousand times more pathetic-sounding than she’d originally intended. “I won’t kiss you anymore. We can pretend it never happened. Just talk to me again. I miss you.” The way her voice cracks breaks his heart into little pieces.

“We’re not—we’re not fighting, Yuri,” he assures her, stern and gentle all at once. Hesitantly, he brings an arm up around her to rub gentle circles into the small of her back. “We’re… disagreeing.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be because you kissed me. Why would I be avoiding you because of that? I said that you could, didn’t I?”

“But you are mad,” she says.

“At me,” he clarifies. “Not at you.”

“Why?” she asks. “Yoongi, tell me.” He flushes, feeling incredibly trapped by the way her doe eyes look up at him. Refusing her wishes feels impossible, these days, so he supposes that honesty is the best policy in this case.

“Because I wanted you to kiss me again,” he admits, cheeks burning hot with shame. “Even though everything was fine as it already was.” Yuri blinks slowly at him upon his admission.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I get it,” she says, and despite being forgiven, he can’t help but frown at how understanding she’s being—it’s more than he deserves at this point, if he’s being honest.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s scary.” Words are hard right now.

“I think it’s why I could never say anything,” she continues. “It’s so easy to love someone without them knowing, because you get to live off these happy little fantasies of being together and everything being perfect in your head. I think that’s why being loved back is scary. Because then anything is a possibility. It’s kind of like—it���s kind of like finishing a really good webtoon.” He chuckles softly at the comparison, fondly bumping his nose against hers. “It is! Because then you have nothing left and you’re hit with that post-webtoon depression, because the fun and the fantasies and the excitement are over and then you’re left to deal with the real world. And sometimes the real world means that everything changes, or that even if the person you want loves you back right now, they might change their mind later on. And that’s scary.”

“I still want to be able to talk to you like we used to,” he says. “But I also still want to kiss you. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Kiss me, then,” she says. “We don’t—we don’t have to think about it or talk about it or decide anything. Just kiss me. Please.”

And so he does.

It makes him shiver, the way she seems to shrink when her back presses against the wall, the way she feels so small when he cages her between his arms, the way her tiny hands find purchase against his chest before travelling up to wind behind his neck.

Yoongi can’t find it in himself to be afraid at that moment. He’d kiss Lim Yuri forever, if she let him.

[purplesurveys]

932

What's your favourite sport? Do you prefer to watch it or play it?: I love pro wrestling, if you count that as a sport. I definitely prefer to just stay in front of a TV – I have never been in a ring, nor am I physically fit to even give it a shot without getting harshly injured. Conversely, I love table tennis but I’d rather play it than watch a game.

Who was the last person to send you a friend request on Facebook?: It was a stranger who, upon checking, seems to be some sort of spam account promoting a pyramid scheme. Happy to nope the fuck out of there.

Have you ever been to that person's house?: Definitely not. I don’t add people I didn’t know on any level, anyway.

How recently did you wash your hands?: This morning when I cleaned up after Cooper.

How many girls do you know named Emma?: Not a common name here, so I don’t know any Emmas.

[trigger warning under this I guess. Lots of angst going on at the moment.]

Are you upset, for any reason at all?: Yeah. I’ve been feeling very upset and under stress lately...to give you an idea, I find it a personal achievement to have gotten up and taken this survey. I’m at least self-aware that this is a temporary slump, but while it’s here hanging around, it really sucks to be in it.

How did you feel when you woke up today?: Shitty. The only reason I got up at all was to feed my dogs but otherwise I’ve been glued to either the couch or my bed.

When you're stressed, what helps you to relax or calm down?: Lately, it’s episodes of Good Mythical Morning. Rhett, Link, and their crew will never have any idea just how much they’ve helped this 22 year old, now-wondering-what-her-purpose-is-in-life fresh college graduate keep sane, but I’m glad they have hours upon hours of content and podcasts lying around to keep me company while no one else can.

What were you doing before you started this survey?: I finished another survey that I abandoned yesterday, and was watching GMM to fill up the silence in my room.

Is there something else you should be doing, that's more important?: I’ve been job-hunting 24/7 but lately I’ve been giving myself a break on weekends since no one will be processing applications or booking interviews on a Saturday anyway.

When was the last time you neglected to do something that you'd planned?: Around noon today.

Is there someone that can always make you smile no matter how bad you feel?: Apparently not. I’ve been a wreck all month so far and nothing has worked. Before September, I certainly thought animals or certain humans worked as cures for me.

Do you have any friends that you feel don't fully appreciate you?: I don’t feel that way about them. I think my friends care for me a whole lot, which I appreciate. I’ve had friends come to my DMs quite a few times in the last few days with messages of support since I’ve been a little vocal about how sad I’ve been feeling these days, so I for sure don’t feel invisible. Making me feel present is the best gift anyone could give me.

When was the last time someone told you that you were beautiful?: Last week when Gab came over.

Who was the last person that apologised to you?: Myself.

What were they apologising for?: Haven’t been looking out for myself recently.

Do you think they meant it?: I guess not, because I still haven’t stopped being destructive towards myself.

Would you be embarrassed if your parents looked at your Facebook?: I have them as my friends so they see everything. But I’m 22, so while they can complain about some of my posts (and it’s usually the political ones lol), they can’t tell me to take anything down anymore the same way they were able to do so when I was younger.

Describe the personality of the person you have feelings for.: She’s very warm, understanding, generous, and immeasurably protective of the people she loves.

What does your pencil case look like? What's in it?: I have a plush dog pencilcase that I use for my pens and pencils (given by my sister) and a pink pencilcase with a floral design that holds my highlighters (given by Jane).

In your Facebook friends list, who is the first person listed under 'D'?: Some girl named Abby whose surname begins with D. She was someone from my high school and we mutually know each other, but we’re not friends and we’ve never even talked.

How did you meet him/her?: I’ve never talked to her but I’ve known of her since grade school I guess? since she’s my sister’s batchmate.

Did the last person you kissed have facial hair?: No.

You're locked in a room with your ex. Any problems?: It would just be my girlfriend too so there wouldn’t be any problems, except that I’d probably break down crying upon seeing her again because I’ve barely pulled myself together over the last week and have had to go through it alone.

Be honest. What are you most afraid of?: These days I’m definitely doubting my capabilities and achievements and all the shit I’ve put on my resumé and portfolio, and now I’m scared if any company will even give me a chance. I’m honestly holding a little bit of resentment for every employed person right now because I have seen absolutely no one talk about how brutal this whole process/waiting game is, lol. This is so SHITTY, is it just difficult for me or what???? I’m so baffled.

In the last 24 hours, have you seen or spoken to anyone you dislike?: I’ve dealt with myself, but that’s it.

What colour are the eyes of the last person that told you they loved you?: Dark brown. 

What is a word or phrase that you say often?: I like saying “I guess” because it makes me sound unsure about most things and thus makes me not 100% accountable if things go wrong hah. I do have another answer that’s more in line with the angst and depression I’ve been going through recently, and it’s that I’ve repeating BoJack Horseman’s ‘piece of shit’ monologue to himself, but this time saying it to myself.

Name 3 songs that remind you of someone special.: Sparks by Coldplay; anything by Mitski; and anything by St. Vincent.

How much chocolate do you have in your house atm, if any?: We have...a lot. We still have the chocolate cake from Nina’s birthday and we recently received an entire pack of various fun-size chocolate bars like Twix, Three Musketeers, etc. from my aunt. We also have chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I normally would finish up in a day, but I’ve been saving it for every future job rejection I receive. 

Who is the most intelligent person you know?: Chesca.

Do you have younger siblings? If you do, are you protective of them?: Yes. I’m protective of my sister but I don’t show it lol. We are not showy in this family.

Who was the last person you insulted?: Idk probably a politician on social media.

What are the other members of your household doing at this moment?: I have not gone out of my room all day...I did not miss this sensation. It’s been a while since I’ve locked myself up for this long.

Do you have any neighbours that you don't get along with?: There’s a house behind ours that loudly plays 80s and 90s power ballads and love songs and it gets insanely irritating and makes the neighborhood feel cheap, but I keep my feelings to myself and I’ve never actually confronted them about it and asked them to stop or decrease their speaker’s volume.

How recently did you speak to the last person you kissed?: Like 30 minutes ago. I’m not very talkative these days and it was actually just the second time today that I initiated a bried conversation. I feel bad for her, and I can’t wait to get better so I can start treating her right again.

Who was the last person you told to get lost, or something similar?: I don’t usually tell this to people.

Give me a random line from the last song you listened to.: “We know better so we’d both better go.”

Have you ever had an argument with the last person you Facebook messaged?: Lots. She’s my girlfriend lol.

Do you have any plans for tonight?: I don’t know. If I feel any better, I’d practice and review for my upcoming interview this Tuesday, but if I’m not okay by then...I don’t know. I’ve stopped planning my days out recently and just go where my legs take me.

Where were you at 9 o'clock last night?: I was at the dining table trying to take a survey, but I quickly lost interest in it.

In the past week, have you slept past midday?: Kind of. Like I mentioned, Gabie’s on the night shift so I’ve been keeping her company, which means I occasionally take naps in the afternoon.

Is there anything happening tomorrow, that you're looking forward to?: No. I’m so scared of tomorrows now.

Is there anyone you used to be friends with, that you now dislike?: I dislike Athenna only because of her attitude and the way she treated Angela during the last few days of their friendship. I don’t have any personal beef with her, at least I don’t think I have. She likes stirring up shit though and I won’t be surprised if she was able to make up a story about me to get our other friends to dislike me.

What is your least favourite chocolate bar?: Eh, I’m pretty picky about chocolate bars so I have more brands that I dislike than the ones I do enjoy. I only like Reese’s, Butterfinger, Twix, and Whittaker’s. 

Do any of your friends or relatives have the same birthday as you?: Just this girl I went to grade school with named Mitch. Otherwise, April 21 babies are a rare breed apparently.

Name the last song that made you cry.: O by Coldplay.

Who do you miss at this moment?: The me from like two weeks ago lol. How far I’ve fallen.

Where is that person?: Stuck in August, I guess.

Have you ever dyed your hair an unnatural colour?: No.

Have you had any deep conversations today?: No.

Is your television on atm?: It’s not, but I have my phone playing GMM videos on YouTube to keep me company.

If it is, what are you watching?: It’s one of their product test videos.

Are you wearing anything blue?: My shirt is blue, actually.

Who were the last 5 people to make you smile?: Rhett and Link, and that’s pretty much it.

Do you use Twitter?: Sure.

Tell me about the last YouTube video you watched. They’re pitting brand name cleaning products and natural cleaning products against each other and seeing which one is more effective. I love these videos of theirs, hahaha.

Is there anything else you'd like to say?: No, I feel like I’ve grilled myself enough in this survey.

[team-shithead]

november 24

"I only ask for one thing, Philip, just this one thing!"

"I'm not a little kid anymore! God, it's just one night!"

At the foot of the stairs, Alex and Ella are leaning against the wall, peering up into the hallway with morbid curiosity.

"Pip's gonna win," Ella says.

"Your brother definitely gets his temper from Daddy, but I've known him for twice as long as you've been alive and I'm pretty sure he'd got this in the bag," Alex says.

"Okay, it's a bet, then."

"You have no idea what you're doing!" John shouts.

"Because you don't trust me with anything!" Philip shouts back.

"What's your wager?" Alex asks. Not that it matters--John will win handily, if only because John is competitive as shit and has the power to end this argument by asserting his authority and moving on.

"If I win, I get to come with you to work Friday night," Ella says.

"Okay," he says. "If I win, you have to clean your room."

She wrinkles her nose--she looks just like John when she does it--and offers her hand. They shake just as the voices from upstairs peak again.

"This is stupid!" Philip shouts. "Why the hell should I listen to you anyway?"

Ella raises her eyebrows."Pip said 'hell.'"

"Because I'm your fucking father and I said so!"

Ouch. In the fourteen years that they've been parents, John, Eliza, and Alex had gone out of their way to avoid vague and meaningless orders like that, John most of all.

Ella is torn between being scandalized and delighted. "Daddy said the F-word."

"Oh, baby, your dad's got the absolute worst mouth of almost anyone I've ever known," Alex says. They're both still looking up the stairs at Philip's closed door. "Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Dad and I were in school, he could construct entire sentences using only the F-word." He does not tell her how weirdly sexy he found that--finds that--because she's his daughter and he'd rather save those mortification points for when she's older and they'll be even more embarrassing.

Eliza appears behind them, frowning, summoned by John's shitty parenting.

"Did he just--"

"Yep," Alex says.

"I told him--"

"I know," Alex says. "I did too. Like, twenty times. But he's John and he's my husband and I love him to the ends of the earth, but I've literally spent over two decades trying to get him to talk about this shit and I've made about three inches of progress."

Ella's attention has turned from Philip's door to her parents, her eyes sharp with keen interest. She doesn't even mention the swear word that accidentally slipped from Alex's mouth. It's getting harder and harder to remember he's not supposed to talk like that in front of the kids now that their kids are older and smarter and easier to talk to about real world issues.

"El, why don't you go see what your sister is up to?" he suggests.

"She's coloring or something," Ella says dismissively.

"Well, why don't you join her?"

"Because I'm not a baby?" Goddammit, who would have guessed that their kids would grow up imitating their smartass parents?

Everyone. Everyone guessed that.

"Eleanora, don't call your sister a baby," Eliza says.

"And," Alex adds, "instead of talking back, scram."

"But how am I gonna find out who won the bet?" she asks.

"Bet?" Eliza's eyes narrow.

Ella tries to look innocent, but she looks too much like John to pull it off.

"Scram, kid," Alex says, just as the voices from upstairs start to rise again.

"--like this?!"

"Don't test me, Philip James Hamilton!"

"UGH!"

The door to Philip's room slams open and El goes wide-eyed, then disappears down to the playroom in the basement. Philip marches towards the stairs, John standing in the doorway to his room, shaking. Eliza looks between the two of them and apparently decides that John is the one most in need of compassion just now. She swoops up the stairs and grabs John's hands, pulling him up to the third floor, to his and Alex's bedroom, without another word.

Which means Alex is left with the shitty job. He grabs Pip's shoulder as he tries to storm by.

"Not so fast, bud," he says. "Come on."

Philip wants to argue, but he closes his mouth when he looks at Alex's face. Instead, he sighs and lets himself be dragged to the dining room table, then pushed into a chair. Alex walks around the table and sits across from him, leaning forward on his forearms. He looks at Philip for a moment and is bowled over by how much of John is in him. It's the great mystery of their family--how Philip, conceived with Eliza and Alex's genetic material, looks so much like John so frequently. His freckles are confined to an even spray across his nose and cheeks and his face is rounder and his eyes skew more towards the brown end of hazel where John's are more green-hazel, but it's still there--the curly hair, the way his ears stick out a little, the way he flashes all his teeth when he smiles.

And, even more so than the physical characteristics there is, of course, the attitude. Fuck, but petulant Philip puts him in mind of petulant John, of the way John used to get when he was depressed and hurting and didn't know how to channel it except through anger and shitty remarks.

"It's one week a year, Pip," Alex finally says. "One night, even. Why do you have to give your dad such a hard time?"

"Because it makes no sense!" Philip explodes.

"As much as you don't want to believe it, there are reasons we do these things, okay?" Alex takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dad and Mom and I have always tried to be as honest and open with you as we can be, and I'm sorry that we can't say more about this, but you have to trust us, Pip."

"Why, though?" Philip asks. The anger is morphing into something else, something closer to frustration than true anger. "I wasn't doing anything dangerous! I was just going to stay over Devin's--she's got a new game and we were gonna do an online match with Georges and one of his friends."

"I know," Alex says, and he searches for words, for how to articulate it in a way that will get through to him. "But you have to...sometimes, you do things that don't seem important because they're important to someone else, okay? You being home tonight is important to Dad, and I really don't think we ask so much of you that you can't do this one thing for him."

Alex must have hit the right combination of honesty and reproach, because Philip looks down at his hands, his shoulders hunched.

"I just don't get why it's so important," he mutters. "I'm practically an adult what's he gonna be like when I go off to college? Will I have to go home then, too? What about when I get married and have kids?"

"Oh, right, I forgot that at the advanced age of fourteen you're now an adult," Alex says. "How you have time for high school with your fulltime job and mortgage and running a household, I'll never understand, but good on you."

"Ugh, Dad." Philip rolls his eyes spectacularly. Another thing that makes him look like John.

"Anyway," Alex says. "It's...complicated. And, it's not my story to tell."

"Why?"

"Because I promised your dad I wouldn't, for one, but also...I don't know all the details myself." He hopes he doesn't let on how much he hates that fact, how much it kills him that John won't share all of this with him. How badly he wants to shake John after he wakes up from these nightmares, beg him to share the burden. But John's still holding back, after over two decades together, after being married for one of them. They don't fight like they used to, but when they do, it's still about John's secrets. "But, hey, if you're so keen on being an adult, I'll sketch the shape of it for you."

For the first time, Philip looks hesitant. Still, he nods slowly, squaring his shoulders to look taller or more mature or who knows what.

"Okay." Alex exhales. "Okay. So. This started back when Dad and I were in grad school, when we were working for Grunkle George. We had a case--actually, it was one of the first cases your mom came on with us. God, I forgot that. But, shit, that's not important. What's important is that some things happened and the result is that Dad has...Dad has these dreams, sometimes."

"I know about Dad's dreams," Philip interrupts.

Alex shoots him a look. "Not those. These are different. Or the same. Or...something. They come from the same place, probably, but they're not the same thing. These are recurring. The same ones, every year. You know how he gets so weird in July, sometimes? How he gets so weird about me?"

"Clingy," Philip says.

"Yeah," Alex says. "And how he gets weird in August? In a different way?" Philip nods. "Those things and this...." He can't give away John's confidences, but there has to be a way to talk around this. "It's hard to explain and, like I said, it's not actually my story--he's gotta be the one to tell you. And, to be honest, there are a lot of things he hasn't told me. Mommy might know a little more, I think, but I can tell you that they're about us. They're about me in July and they're about you now. The same dream for almost a week, and then they stop and they don't come back until the next year. Detailed dreams. Not the sort of thing that fades when you wake up, something clear and real and lasting that sticks with him. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the same thing and it's something bad and it's something about us. About you, Pip. Every time he's tried to sleep for the past week, he's seen something awful happening to his baby. And it's scary. It scares him. It scares me, if I'm being honest."

Philip is quiet. His attention is focused on Alex, still, his eyes alert, his mouth curved downward. He wants more information. Alex wishes he had more information to give.

"Imagine," Alex says softly, "every time you try to go to sleep, you see something terrible happening to one of us. And it feels real and it doesn't go away. And imagine you're Daddy, and you know that sometimes there's a reason your dreams feel real."

Philip shifts, pulling one of his legs up underneath him, something that he's technically not supposed to do on the dining room furniture if he's wearing shoes, but that's always been Eliza and John's hill to die on more than his, so he lets it go. He leans on his elbows, staring  off to the right, and chews on his lip. When he finally turns back to Alex, he's serious and a little ashamed.

"It would suck," he says, and Alex laughs, unexpectedly. Philip smiles a little.

"Yeah," Alex says. "Yeah, it would suck. And it does suck for him. That's all I want you to think about, okay? That we ask very little from you, when it comes down to it, and we let you get away with far more than you'll ever know we know about, but this is important. This is important to your father, but to me and Mom, too. So, please. One week a year, at most, but at least this one night, help us out and stay close to home."

"Yeah," Philip says. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

The set of his shoulders, the begrudging expression on his face, the curve of his mouth...Alex just shakes his head.

"What?" Philip asks.

"Nothing," Alex says. "Just...." He tilts his head to the side and looks at Philip again. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. "Just, sometimes I look at you and you remind me so much of Daddy."

"I know," Philip says, ducking his head. "The weird genetic lottery thing."

"Not even that," Alex says. Then amends, "Not just that. You do look like him sometimes, somehow. More so when you were younger and your hair was longer. Back in the day, Dad wore his hair long too. Curly, just like yours."

"I remember."

"His is short now too, and greyer, and it's hot, but--"

"Ew, Pops."

Alex grins. "Hey, one day you're gonna be happy and grateful your parents are still madly in love with each other. But that's not the point. The point is, it's not how you look that reminds me of Dad sometimes, it's how you act. You act just like him, just like he was when he was younger, when I first met him. As much as we call El his mini-me, her temperament is much slyer than his was. He was much more like you."

"Mom says that, sometimes," Philip says.

"Mom doesn't know the half of it," Alex admits. "Your mom centered us both a lot. Before we met her, we were both a little wilder, and even after we met her, we just did our best to hide the wild parts from her. But, you know, the more time we spent with her, the less we let those parts get the better of us, until eventually the compulsion was gone entirely. Mommy made us better people because we were both kind of assholes, but this goes beyond that. Dad was...Dad was...."

He doesn't know how to explain it without airing more of John's dirty laundry. For one thing, while they've been fairly open with the kids about the realities of the depression, PTSD, and three different types of anxiety that color their family, there's a difference between explaining that Daddy takes a pill every morning so he doesn't have to be sad all the time and revealing the realities of those fraught years of depressive episodes and suicidal ideation and lingering trauma that shaped John's personality into what it was when Alex met him. For another, though Henry Laurens might not be as much of a fixture in the Schuyler-Hamilton-Laurens house as the Washingtons and the Schuylers, the birth of his grandchildren led to a lot of hatchet-burying that Alex maybe did not entirely agree with. The kids know that John and his father aren't close, but they don't need to know the gory details. Besides, he's confident that while John's attitude was the result of acting out against his family, Philip's like this because he's imitating his family, because he was raised by John and Alex and Eliza, with frequent interjections from Angelica and Peggy and Molly and Herc and the Manning-Lawrences.

"Dad was a lot like you," he settles on. "Which is probably why he dotes on you so much."

Philip actually blushes. "He doesn't dote."

"He does," Alex says. "Which is, I imagine, why you're so mad that he's not letting you get away with something."

Philip frowns, but doesn't refute it. From the dining room, they can hear footsteps on the stairs. Philip releases a long breath.

"You've gotta apologize to your dad," Alex tells him.

"I know," Philip mutters.

"Tell him you love him," Alex continues.

"I know," Philip insists, and pushes himself up from the table, sighing like he's headed to his execution. Alex joins him, putting an arm around his shoulders and leading him out into the living room as Eliza and John cross it. John looks old and it breaks Alex's heart all over again. His instinct is always, always to go to John when he's upset, but he knows he's not what John needs right now. Instead, he nudges Philip forward. Philip's shoulders are slumped and he's wringing his hands, not quite looking at John.

"I'm sorry, Papa," he says. Alex and Eliza exchange a look--Philip hasn't called John that in almost a decade, the parental nomenclature shifting as the kids grew up and simply began to use 'Dad' for both of them.

"I know, baby," John says. He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, then opens his arms. Philip walks right into his embrace and they hug, tight and fierce. "I should tell you some things. I should tell you some things because they're about you, so you should know parts of it, at the very least. You're right--you're not a baby anymore, and I need to trust you with this." He opens his eyes and looks right at Alex. "I need to trust all of you with this."

Alex holds his gaze and nods. John offers him a weak smile.

"It's okay," Philip says. "You were right--I knew you didn't want me to go out, I shouldn't have tried to sneak out. It's only one night. I won't do it again."

Alex can hear John's sigh from across the room, relief pouring out of him. "Thank you," he whispers.

“I love you,” Philip says quietly.

“I love you too, kiddo,” John says.

They break apart and John holds Philip by the shoulders, smiling crookedly. Philip smiles back and through some weird twist of the universe, it's exactly the same smile. Alex thinks his heart might burst.

"Go and help your mom with dinner," John tells him. "And tonight, after the girls go to bed, you and me and Dad and Mommy are going to have a talk, okay?"

Philip nods. "Yeah. Thanks, Dad."

John releases him and Eliza steps up to nudge his shoulder. "Go into the kitchen and start washing the potatoes off, okay? I'll be in in a minute."

Once he's gone, John's entire body seems to slump forward. Alex crosses to him quickly, wrapping him up in a hug.

"Gumdrop," he murmurs. John's fingertips dig into his shoulders as he returns the hug so hard all the air seems to whoosh out of Alex's chest.

"Fuck," John says. He tries to laugh, but it doesn't come out--his voice is too tremulous for the sound to catch.

"Mon coeur, mon étoile," Alex says. "You're shaking."

"I just kept thinking, what if this is it? What if we have this fight and this is what makes him go out and do whatever it is that...that...." He breathes out, rough and heavy, into the crook of Alex's neck.

"You've gotta stop it with this magical thinking bullshit, John," Alex says. He presses the heel of his palm into John's back, running it up and down his spine, hoping to soothe the last of his lingering anxieties. "No one can predict the future, not even you. Take a breath. Clear your mind."

"Never been good at that."

Alex wishes he could offer the thing that makes his own head quiet down, but as that's John, he's not sure how helpful it would be.

"What needs to stop," Eliza says from behind them, "is the secrets."

Alex and John break apart just enough to turn so they can both look at her. Her voice is soft and quiet, but her face is determined. Alex knows this conversation--it's not the first time they're having it.

"I know," she continues before either of them can protest, "'Secrets and lies aren't the same thing.' I get it. But to cling to this determination not to lie to each other, but to hold onto these secrets for so long...I don't want to say 'I told you so,' but...."

John sighs and tucks his head under Alex's chin. Eliza's not wrong; they're clinging to a pact they made when they were twenty-three and stupid. Years have passed, decades, and they have a family and lives they never could have predicted back then. John's resistance to talking about his feelings may have been cute when they were in grad school, but at this point, it's pathological and Alex is nothing if not an enabler. They've made strides on so many other things, mostly thanks to Eliza--John's mental health, Alex's anxieties, their future, the lines between their business and their personal life, their fears, their hopes--but this topic has always stayed off the table, the things that John sees that aren't the future or the past or the present, but some other thing that's all of that and none of it simultaneously. The only people who know the gory details of all of that are Herc and Washington, and it's driven Alex crazy since they were twenty-three.

"After Pip is in bed," John says, surprising Alex. He was sure John would put up more of a fight. "We'll talk to Pip about the broad strokes, about the dreams, and then we'll talk about the rest."

All these years of secrets, who knew it would be this easy to crack them open?

Before Alex can express as much, there's a low rumble of voices from downstairs that breaks into shouting a moment later.

"Ellie, stop it!" Angie shrieks.

"Don't be such a baby!" Ella snaps back, "I'm not even doing anything!"

Then, as Alex is about to call noses on not cleaning up the pre-pubescent bloodbath in the basement, there's an ominous thunk from the kitchen.

"Uh, Mom?" Philip calls out. "Um...I think I made a mistake."

The shrieking downstairs intensifies. God forbid they ever have a moment of silence in this house.

"I'm going to go see how our supposed genius son complicated cleaning potatoes," Eliza says. "You two go pull the girls apart."

Eliza disappears into the kitchen and Alex and John head towards the stairs. John stops Alex, right at the top, grabbing his wrist and squeezing it.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hi," Alex replies automatically, and John grins.

"I just want you to know--I just want to say...." He frowns. "I don't know. I don't know what I want to say. Except that I'm sorry. That this has gone on for so long and I haven't let you in. Kids aside, you're the person I love most in the world and I wasn't--I wanted to--I never meant--"

"It's okay," Alex says.

"It's not," John insists. "It never has been. I wish I told you all of it at the start. I wish I told you how tangled up it all is. But I didn't want you to worry and then it just...it got...I don't know. It got more complicated."

"Should we schedule a third talk after the one with Pip and the one with Eliza?" Alex means it as a joke, but John shrugs.

"Maybe," he says. "We used to have those check-ins every six months. We haven't had one in a while."

It's been a few years since the last time they took an afternoon off of work to sit down and have a discussion about the trajectory of their relationship, their family, their lives. They started back when Alex began seeing Eliza, but it was such a good habit that they kept it up for years. Then the kids started to get bigger, started to load up on sports and clubs and lessons, and their own schedules were packed even tighter as demands for their professional time continued to rise...Alex thinks Pip was still in elementary school the last time he and John had a check-in.

"Maybe we should," Alex agrees, and John shifts his grip so they're holding hands. They smile at each other, and Alex feels twenty-three all over again.

"ELLIE, STOP!" Angie screams below them and then bursts into tears.

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" Ella shouts up the stairs in anticipation of the punishment to come.

The moment passes and Alex feels every one of his years as he looks at John and sighs. There will be time to talk later. For now, they need to go back to pretending they have all the answers for at least as long as it takes to pull Ella and Angie off of each other.

It's going to be a long night.

[audiodiaryofasuperhero]

About that Unannounced Hiatus...

Hi, y'all. Remember us? We took a pretty long unannounced break from… well, just about everything to do with the public side of this show.

While we can’t go back & make this hiatus have never happened, or hell, even go back and handle it better, we can explain how & why it happened. If we can’t fix it, we can be honest about it. Maybe we can even bring about a little awareness in the process.

Note: This post is almost entirely about the past year & a half. We will write a separate post covering what’s going on now & what’s next for ADoS. We don’t want to cram those things onto the end of this long post when those are the things worth getting excited about!

Now, to do this, I need to address you as Laura Henderson, the writer/producer/nearly everything on this show. Because the reasons behind the Unannounced Hiatus of Suffering pretty much all have to do with things that were going on in my life.

Hang with me - this is a long explanation.

Some content warnings before proceeding. This explanation includes anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, mania, hypomania, dislocations, & doctors being shitty people who are bad at their jobs.

I made an announcement right before the hiatus, publicizing what was meant to be a small break in production while my household dealt with a clusterfuck of a moving process. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I was struggling with some worsening anxiety & depression issues as well.

As soon as we’d moved, when I was meant to be finishing episode six, three different things happened. 1) I got caught in one of the worst depression spirals of my life. Like, I hadn’t felt so terrible since middle school. I struggled with awful focus issues, self-harm, & suicidal ideation. 2) I got a promotion to sales lead at work. This sounds fancy, but it functionally means that I became the lowest tier of management at my store. With our staff numbers dropping post-Holidays, my hours ratcheted up to 35 hours a week. Plus school. Plus chronic illness. Plus mental health issues. Which all feeds into - 3) I wasn’t happy with the draft of episode 6. I needed that script to do five different vital things, & at the time, it did maybe two of them. I recorded that draft, but ended up deleting it out of frustration at what it didn’t set up for later plot. With everything else going on, it was easiest just to… put it down.

Spring came & my depression receded, although my focus issues increased. This was just in time for me to dislocate my knee pretty majorly. With EDS (an illness I share with Adira), dislocations are pretty commonplace. But most of them are small, slide back in nearly immediately with little to no intervention, & do very little damage to the tissue surrounding the joints. Others are major, where the joint slides farther out of place than usual & stays out of socket until manipulated back into place, doing a fair bit of damage to the surrounding tissues. This was definitely the latter. I was in pain for weeks, & all my spoons were spent trying to get through my shifts at work.

The knee eventually healed. My first night out dancing after it healed, some asshole stepped on my ankle & dislocated it. Not my foot, mind you - my ankle. (I am still very salty about it.) Wash, rinse, repeat from above.

Then things really started to go to hell.

In late June, I started seeing a psychiatrist for my focus issues. My dad has ADHD, & we’d begun to wonder if I may have inherited. The psychiatrist, understandably, chose to start by treating my depression and anxiety instead. She also indicated that she suspected I may have a bipolar disorder. She prescribed me Zoloft, & told me I should call her immediately if I started experiencing suicidal ideation or mania.

Lucky me, I got both.

By week two, I was drifting into a mixed affective state, where I’d be slightly uncomfortably energetic but also a bit depressed. By week four, I was on a little carnival rollercoaster. I was energetic, anxious, depressed, & had a very small voice in my head suggesting awful but non-fatal things I should do to myself. By week six, I was riding a Six Flags thrills rollercoaster, with celestial highs & infernal lows. I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin, I went from aggressive cheer to rage at minor provocations, and the voice in my head was nearly indistinguishable from my regular thoughts, telling me all the different ways I could & should kill my self. I was manic. I would have been suicidal if my friends hadn't been acting as voices of reason. I called my psychiatrist in tears & left a message with her receptionist. She never called me back. I stopped taking the pills.

Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist, an awesome guy who believes in evidence-based practice. We started experimenting to find a good balance of meds. We started with the assumption that there was a low but substantial probability that I had a bipolar disorder, but that it was more likely that Zoloft was responsible for most of the mania symptoms. As the milder medicines mostly failed to stabilize me, we adjusted the probabilities of bipolar upwards, eventually concluding with a diagnosis of bipolar 2. 

While we were still in the early stages of medication experimentation, & I was mentally stable enough to sort of function & get a bit optimistic, my body decided it was its turn to be a melodramatic little bitch. 

Everything started dislocating. Everything. 

My knees, normally prone to minor dislocations around 4 times a week or so, started going out constantly. And then my hips got in on it. And then my ankles. And my ribs. And my shoulders. I went from using a cane, to using crutches, to using a rolling walker. I usually had more joints out than in.

I tried to work through all of this, but it was a nightmare. At one point, I was sitting in my walker at the cash wrap, twisted around to grab something from behind me, and both my hips popped out with an audible “snap.” I tearfully handed the guest what I’d been grabbing for them, then backed myself away from the register to cry for a moment.

Right at the end of October, I asked for a medical leave of absence from my job, with the intention of seeing my rheumatologist to update her on the situation and see what could be done.

When I went to see her, I had a list of ten things that needed to be accomplished. I managed none of them.

When she arrived in the little room, I started explaining what had been going on with my joints for the past two months. She cut me off.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said impatiently. “I can’t help you.”

She went on to add, “But I see you’ve been losing weight - that’s excellent.” (I’d been in too much pain to eat.) “And I’m glad that you went dancing,” (referring to the ankle dislocation from June that had been giving me so much trouble since). “You should exercise as much as possible.” (Ignoring that I’d been trying to tell her I could barely move.)

At this point, I was very teary. My joint doctor was telling me that she could not help me with my joint condition.

“You should look into being treated for depression. You seem very upset.”

To say I left her office devastated is a bit of an understatement. I sobbed in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

I called my auxiliary brain, my most rational, anti-suicide friend. 

“Please, come keep me company. Make sure that I don’t do anything stupid,” I pleaded.

He had some errands to run, but I sat in the car with him. On the interstate, I had to fight the urge to open the car door and throw myself into traffic.

But he got me through that awful day. The next month and a half was a long, drawn-out depression swing.

At the beginning of December, my manager called me. 

“Are you coming back?” she asked.

“I - I don’t think I can,” I admitted.

“I’ll consider this your notice, effective immediately,” she said. “Get better, Laura.”

Things slowly got better. My body calmed down. One of my psych meds was able to pull double-duty as a joint pain medication. I could walk again, even if I wasn’t quite comfortable dancing. I became happier, and if I was hypomanic or in a mixed affective state more so than even-keeled, it was better than being manic or depressed.

I withdrew from my college program, and applied to an online program. While the new program was not my beloved data science, combining information technology with mathematics was close enough.

I was accepted too late to start spring classes.

In early February, I managed to find a new rheumatologist, after calling four offices who explicitly said they weren’t comfortable treating me. She didn’t do terribly much for me, but she explained what she was going to watch for. She referred me to an orthopedist.

By this point, I was thoroughly bored of sitting around the house. I re-applied at my old work place, and was welcomed back with great enthusiasm.

Then my psychiatrist cancelled an appointment. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of his office to reschedule over the phone. Every time I went in person to reschedule, there was no one at the desk. I started rationing my medication, and then I ran out. Things, rather predictably, went pear-shaped.

A few weeks ago, summer classes started for me. I finally got back on medication. My work place started a big hiring push, which reduced my hours to my betterment.

After all that shit, I’ve finally begun to feel like a person again. It was rough and it tested me in ways I hadn’t been tested before. It made social media seem like an overwhelming prospect. I couldn’t manage a huge undertaking like my beloved podcast. But now....

Audio Diary of a Superhero never once left my mind, and now I’m ready to get it up and running again, better than ever before. I’m healthier, happier, and very motivated.

I’m not going to talk about what comes next in this post. But it’s coming. Look out.

[thesassysausage]

Toxic friends leave scars

So I had a situation were I was friends with people that were super chummy to each other and very supportive of each other but not so much with me. Like they were encouraging about superficial things like my drag make up but real problems eventually got ignored. Like at first they were great, my mom hurt herself and after things were settled with getting her to the hospital (she’s fine btw, she injured her knee again...and this was about 2 years ago too so she fine) I mentioned I wouldn’t be in class and why and a couple offered to skip class and drive us to the hospital. Like good friendship. I don’t know if I did anything that caused the shift, my inner demons like to say I did, but I slowly got the feeling I was being distanced from the group without any explaination. I also noticed that without the presense of one person outside the group that we all collectively complained about (to be fair this person had actually pissed us all off with a shitty attitude and a ‘better than you’ mentality) didn’t come to class for ‘medical’ reasons (saw her later one, she had been super sick so this isnt a bullying situation...we generally avoided her because of her shitty attitude so it wasnt a case of us harassing her). I seemed to get the brunt of their ire with out this other person being in class. I then did a presentation for one of my major classes and I worked my ass off for this project. I was happy with the results but still nervous because it was basically my undergraduate thesis. SO  it was the end of the school year and I was stressed but suppressing the stress. In fairness I left out an aspect that could have came from the research which was the role of women, It wasnt malicious, or even intentional, I was just focused on food culture and the food itself...I only mentioned people in a throw away comment as I was rambling but those in my friend group questioned me on our group chat. I was kind of taken aback because they both knew my research and because there was a period after my presentation that allowed for questions but they chose to ask in an online chat. I did say I didn’t even think of it after I misremembered an article I had read for the presentation that I had misread to say that we didnt really know who was cooking in roman households (women mostly, the article said we assume to much when we find cooking tools). Friends who were in the class immediately went off on how anti-feminist points are so hazardous in our field and I apologized multiple times because it wasnt my intention, but they continued to kind of shut down my entire presentation and talk amongst themselves about how bad anti-feminism is in archaeology. I apologized a final time and told them that I was starting to feel attack and all I got back was “Well get used to things like this because if it had been a thesis defense you cant just apologize”. To be fair, thats true but this was NOT a thesis defense and I had not prepared for a thesis defense. I would have accepted my mistake and gone to the drawing board to incorporate women into my presentation had it been a thesis defense. I left the group chat feeling like everyone hated me. I sent the one who brough up that I hadn’t mentioned women an apology afterwards because I thought “oh shit, what if she thinks I left because of her?” because I left during a depressive burst that made me impulsive. I got kind of a half assed response of not to worry but thats it. I wasnt going to ask to be apart of the group chat again, i figured if they wanted me back then they could add me but I was fine if they didnt. Then I worked with the one I apologized to and another from the group chat over the summer and I was literally ostracized to the point that the students (it was a field school, we were student teacher type people) noticed. I tried working with them, I offered multiple times to do certain things and I got shut down. They discussed the running of the field school with a friend of their that was also a student more than me. It got to the point that I had to go on stress leave because I felt like I wasn’t apart of the team. I then spent the next school semester (last semester) constantly questioning whether I could actually continue in my field, wondering if I was inherently bad, and just having an overall bad time with school.

To clarify, my research didnt EXCLUDE the role of women in Roman cuisine. I was focused on the recreation of it, I was narrowly focused on remaking Roman foods in order to create a sensory simulation of tourists in Italy but I made they off hand comment that it could tell us about the day to day lives of Romans. I know now that I should have a) avoided that comment and just stuck with the sensory experience that could come with the research, or b) talked about what it could tell us about that aspect of Roman life for women who would have been cooking in households with out slaves. 

To this day I am still very paranoid about my research now and I am literally taking a year off after I get my BA to relax from research because I’m constantly worried I’m going to fuck up again or something. Im also back to be super worried about my depression because they kind of responded like they thought I was faking or using it as a scapegoat. I made no secret about being on two different medications for my depression but I still get the sense that they think I’m making it up. I also mentioned MANY times that I was both non-binary and also use both he/him and she/her but they still constantly talked about me being a cis dude (not using those words but lumping me with them). So because of my depression I am constantly wondering if I was in the wrong still and question what I could have done to make things right...like I really did make an effort even as we started working together over the summer to clear the air and make things comfortable but they still pushed me aside and treated me like garbage (I actually had to tell students that I can’t talk about things with students when asked why I was being excluded from the other student teachers or what their problem was with me).

Probably gunna get hate when people read this because I cant word things for shit, but I needed to vent because everything I do now (research wise) fills me with anxiety because I don’t want people to think I’m being sexist, racist, phobic, in any ways because I seriously believe in the stuff I post about equity and equality and do argue with people about making the world more inclusive...does one mistake define me? I should stop before I spiral

[xottzot]

2018-03(MAR)-11th--Sunday--once again typical hell & violence of this hellhole area--AND-- NEWS bits.

2018-03(MAR)-11th--Sunday--once again typical hell & violence of this hellhole area--AND-- NEWS bits.

I told you in my last post it was windy. - How windy? - VERY VERY windy. This hellhole here is in the foothills just nestled against the Darling Range hills, where all my life I have seen this stuff go on so many times as I was growing up here. But it's STILL not as bad as I have seen it growing up with trees torn down in the sheep paddocks at the end of the street. Those paddocks no longer exist and are just houses where crime comes out of.

But you'll never know about all that because I'll be dead without being able to tell my story about it all, of life growing up here at this pleasant place only for it to then become this utter hellhole in the last 10 years of so. And that happend AFTER dear Fliss arrived here. Of which I've been unfairly blamed for her mental breakdowns from the hell that evolved with the later coming and infestations of the criminals of the Kalara Way and Road streets....AND all about....from nearby Bellevue through the criminals conduits...the pedestrian walkways...and on and on and on....

In the NEWS there has been widespread power outages from power-lines brought down etc., and they're saying rather flippantly that' it's: "8000 homes without power after 'once every two, three year' winds rip through Perth"

http://www.watoday.com.au/wa-news/8000-homes-without-power-after-once-every-two-three-year-winds-rip-through-perth-20180311-h0xb6n.html

And it states......

Why so windy in Perth? Similar to water flowing over a dam wall, strong easterly winds spill over the Hills. Under certain conditions an atmospheric 'lid' traps wind energy and concentrates it, causing the wind to accelerate as it rushes downhill. We call these 'downslope winds'.

pic.twitter.com/CCzxR7MKT1

— Bureau of Meteorology, Western Australia (@BOM_WA) March 10, 2018

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And below is by the ABC about the weather NEWS incidents......read the complete NEWS story with several NEWS photos there.....

WA NEWS:--------------- Damaging winds and bushfire cut power to 10,000 WA homes

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-03-11/damaging-winds-cut-power-in-perth/9536404

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And so this morning, sometime around 11pm, whilst the high winds were finally dying down, I was out picking up the masses of small debris scattered all over the place. Like a tree has been put through a rough shredder, together with all the debris from the rampant black cockatoos. Countless dead branches shattered all over the place like smashed glass that can go straight through car tyres unless I pick it all up.

And so I'm in a LOT of physical pain now. - I've, as always, responsibly taken painkillers (pain maskers) but they won't do too much and won't last long. - I'm in pain writing this and I know I'll be shrieking out in agony with every movement later on and so will be unable to write any blog entries, so I'm doing it now and then I'm going to collapse on the bed.

But I now I will be denied rest and peace as always....

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The shitty hellhole that is this area explodes again.

Whilst I was spending ages cleaning up all that damn debris, there was a VERY LOUD violent incident in the Kalara Way street that should have been attended to by Police.

In the unfenced brick house next door to the criminal aboriginals of Kalara Way, a man there was shouting and swearing and threatening VERY VERY LOUDLY.

There was movements about the yard of the place as people were 'circling' the house itself, loud bangs, threats, more VERY VERY LOUD MALE YELLING.

"Let me in!!!" (amidst countless swearing and unintelligble yelling)

At one point there was a womans voice saying, "I can't stand this anymore here!"

More movements all about the place which is heavily obscured by foliage etc. not to mention vehicles parked right up against the house.

There was other voices too as others became involved from the aboriginal main criminal household that is next door there. MORE LOUD YELLINGS AND THREATS.

The innocent resident of 'Ms New Ages' place came outside into his own secluded yard to see what the hell was going on, because he too is suffering from all this constant hell of criminal aborigials and other criminals of this hellhole area.

And others ALSO became involved in the huge verbal 'riot',......criminal abo's from the main abo criminal household were yelling out violentally. (to them it's normal and everyday 'fun').

Still OTHER more neighbours became involved, perhaps from the newest residents freshly moved-in in Kalara Way next to the other side of the main abo criminal household..... - There was a calm womans voice saying clearly, "Why are you talking to me that way?", (resulting in her being verbally abused), then she added, "I've done nothing to you.", (resulting in her being even MORE venomously verbally abused and sworn at). -- This is a typical example of how the criminal deranged abo's of Kalara Way act verbally.

More furtive rushing running's about at the brick house yard, more bangs and thumps, more male yellings and swearings..........

And on and on all this went for a solid 1/2 hour without pause.

Other neighburs seem to become involved. I don't know who or whereabouts initially, but it may have been the newest neighbours who have only just recently moved-in the other day into Kalara Way NEXT TO the main abo criminal household. But nobody dared to go out and confront anyone for their own safety. I was expecting the Police to arrive at any moment....but they did not at all, not even unmarked cars.

Innocent people and children from Bellevue as family units, and parents with toddlers hand-held as they were walking to and from the Koongamia shops through the criminal pedestrian walkway at the end of Kalara Road came along now & then and they looked but could not see anything and nor did they dare to slow down, pause or stop to see. Their talking was muted as they did not want to attract any of the violent attention at all that was so rampant going on in Kalara Way street.

On and on and on it went for almost a solid half hour. - Then it became quiet. And of course nobody was game enough to find out why. A dead body could have been the result, and not only would nobody not know about it, nobody would care at this hellhole area.

Then from out of the main abo criminal household came abo women and they wandered down Kalara Way street and went around the corner onto Clayton Street westwards. They were only gone for a few minutes then they slowly returned.

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Not long afterwards, a male abo man carrying a backpack was seen slinking into the brick houshold that had been the scene of the very loud violent yellings and everything. He had come out of the criminal pedestrian walkway at the end of Kalara Road.........

More illegal drugs delivery?

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You dear reader may think all this today is 'of nothing'...but it's been typically like this and ever-worsening for the past 3 or more years SOLID, and was one of the main things that caused dear Fliss (Felicity Anne Carthew of Tamworth, New South Wales, Australia) who was my partner (and were going to husbnd & wife together), but dear Fliss had a major mental breakdown (again) and she fled from this hellhole here in Western Australia back to her parents in New South Wales which left me abandoned in this utter hellhole in hell itself to be alone withut her and suffer so terribly.

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In too much pain now to go on with this blog entry.......

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I love to dear Fliss and want to be with YOU just as you promised us both, to be away from all this utter hell, as you put it, "The hate on all sides...". - Poor Max got VERY upset and vicious again today early this morning. Poor Sam got very scared. - It's HOT, airless, and VERY dusty with microdust at this hellhole to add to the misery and hell. - I love to dear Fliss and want to be with YOU just as you promised us both. - I fully expect there wll be terrible nightmares for me again as always since late 2015 just as there is EVERY night at this hellhole.