#They have dumb fruit code names for their lovers

[just-a-shark333]

Dazai, Yosano, and Ranpo talk to eachother like schoolgirls gossiping in the bathroom while skipping class

[sugiwa]

so i’m dumb and forgot to write a comment after i read the most recent chapter of CH so please accept the notes app thoughts i jotted down while reading it:

“a man named Byron who wrote a poem for every women he’d met” that’s hilarious lol, i love when you nod to real life poets and playwrights

penny melting into a pile of goo in her despair is so howl coded

“as long as she wanted to, penny could go anywhere she wanted” shivers

penny and luffy are such parallels of each other with their devil fruits, both being stolen from the world government and hidden away under the guise of another name

Smoker <3

“AND HIS SHOES WERE MISSING” CHILLS

Omg, that's never a worry!! I'm always just grateful to have something to share with everyone.

Yeah, Penny's runny through all the major literally figures 😂😂 I was going to an include a flashback of her first kiss and the character was named after Jane Austen, so lets say all of Penny's past lovers have really just been muses/people she inspired and vice versa. Her naming scheme with everyone is literally figures. I once contemplated her having a crew that she left under Shanks' fleet and everyone there was named after literary figures around the world.

Hahahah, funny that you mention Howl--Penny's room on the Red Force basically matches Howl's room.

Oh, it's not the first time we've had this notion of Penny going where she wants without any barriers--the Red Port was basically all about that, but we'll see this come up again later.

I really want to spoil someone with the Devil Fruit Lore, but I will refrain 😭😭

Smoker's finally putting the work in now.

Penny's not a forgive and forget type, so now that she 100% remembers what they did to her parents and their crew, she'll make sure everyone knows about it.

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

A goddamn blaze in the dark

The first time Emily sees Sue, the first thing she does is drop a cup of steaming hot coffee onto the floor, slip on it and land flat on her back behind the counter. And then she thinks — Oh. Found you.

To be fair, even without the pesky niggling at the back of her head, very helpfully pointing out that this was the girl, her soulmate, the love of her life, her forever and beyond, the sight of Sue would have knocked her down anyways. What else are you supposed to do when a pretty girl, dressed in tweed, with her hair tied up in a braid, walks into the coffee shop where you work with that smile on her face? That damned smile that doesn’t ask you so as much as inform you that you’re going to be haunted by it in your dreams tonight? With 10 am sunlight filtering in through the sides, casting half of her features in sharp, glorious light, Emily might as well have just signed away her breath for eternity.

Lavinia bends, looks her right in her eye from above her. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

She wants to open her mouth to say something along the lines of – It's her! It’s her! What comes out, however is a garbled groan.

“Emily, buddy,” Austin rollerblades over to her, bends over her from the other side. “You gotta get up before there are complaints of unprofessionalism in the workplace.”

“Oh, because you’re the pinnacle of workplace niceties, I assume,” Lavinia shoots him a contemptuous look. “Only last week, wasn’t it? Those two young ladies in here fighting over who you were going to take to the mixer—”

“Guys,” she manages, before Austin can respond with something equally snarky, or god forbid, lascivious. “Is anyone minding the counter?”

And for exactly thirty seconds, the amount of time it takes Austin to slide over and ask for the orders of the disgruntled customers, and before she stretches out her arm and lets herself get pulled up to her feet, she hears a sweet voice enquire if everything’s quite alright back there. Emily closes her eyes, breathes it in, and wishes, not for the first time that hour, that she had her notepad near her to scribble a snippet of a poem that is now rapidly forming in her head.

*****

It is only sometimes that Sue looks at Emily and thinks that if Emily were to say the word, she would get down on her knees and hand over the entire world to her. Most of the time what she is thinking is goddamn it, Emily.

That’s what is going through her head as they’re kicked out of the lecture of the old man droning on about volcanoes. She can hear Emily giggling from behind her, and though her heart’s beating loud — the result of embarrassment and pure adrenaline — the sound makes her want to turn around and regard the idiot making it. So she does.

They’re alone in the deserted staircase; all the students, she guesses, are probably in that abysmally monotonous lecture. Emily leans against the banister, bent over at the waist from the sheer force of her mirth, and Sue takes it all in — her laugh, her gentle hands clutching at the wooden surface, and those intense, sparkling eyes looking right into hers. The next Goddamn it, Emily isn’t exasperated. It stays right there in her throat, accompanied by other, tender platitudes she’s never been brave enough to let herself say.

You’re beautiful. You make me ache inside.

(At night, Emily would talk to her about pressure, an acute force that demands to be released within her, and unable to help herself, the words — I think I know what a volcano feels like — would bubble up from her lips. And when Emily moves against her, a writhing mass of soft, bundled up wanting, Sue thinks she understands Pompeii a lot better as well; understands being frozen in time, brought to your knees by the sheer majesty of beauty and violence.)

*****

Listen, Emily has never claimed to be an expert on love.

(Austin has, on several occasions. Sauntered into the café, placed his elbow on the counter, and grinned roguishly. “Emily,” he’d started, once. “You know what the”—

“Is it that time of the month again?” Lavinia, who had been mopping up the floor, drawled. “Too much time since your last breakup but not quite enough that you can start going out with another girl and still maintain that image of the soft, sensitive manchild you’ve carefully cultivated. So you’re stuck in that weird limbo of no dates to go on, and subsequently are here to bore us.”

He’d chucked a tissue in her direction, continued smoothly. “As I was saying, do you, my dear Emily know what girls like best?”

“My sunny disposition?” she’d asked.

“No,” he replied flatly. “What girls want is someone who is cool. Indifferent. Somebody who displays absolutely zero interest in them. In fact—”

“That is horseshit,” Lavinia cut in.

Emily faux-gasped, continued leaning the espresso machine.

“Don’t you listen to him, Em. Girls like sweet, sensitive people who express an interest in wanting to get to know them.”

“I am an expert on women.”

“I am a woman!”

Emily half-listened to the sound of their bickering, and wished that she were a cat)

She considers both approaches briefly as she faces the girl, wondering why time hasn’t at least done them the decency of slowing down. It’s only polite, isn’t it, for the universe to cooperate when two eternal lovers meet. Emily has no justification as to why the universe should be so invested in the meeting of her and this woman who she’d decided was her intended, except it just makes sense.

(Intended. The word feels like it bears the weight of a hundred years. Like a woman back in the 19th century was whispering it to another woman she was in love with, as they lay in bed playing with each other’s hands.)

(It fits. She doesn’t care to find out why)

The girl opens her mouth. Emily holds her breath.

“You’ve got foam in your hair.”

The words — “It makes them bounce” — are out of her mouth before she can think. And then she wishes she’d picked up another cup of coffee in her hand so she could drop it on her head again.  

Thankfully, the girl laughs. Rests both her elbows on the counter and assesses the menu above Emily’s head. Emily doesn’t mind the reprieve from eye-contact. There’s something about looking right at this.... angel, for lack of a better word, that makes breathing cumbersome. And yet there’s another part of her that wants to raise her arms above her head and bounce like a little child, all “Hey! Look at me! It’s me!”.

(It’s a very strange day)

“What would you recommend?”

“Me?” Emily startles a little. Turns back to the menu, then back to the girl. Blinks. “That depends on your name.”

“How does my coffee order depend on my name?” the girl sounds amused.

Emily shrugs. “Eh. It’s a process. Can’t give away all my secrets.”

There’s prolonged eye contact, again, before the answer comes. “Sue.”

It rings in her head. Sue. Sue. Sue. There’s no prettier word in the English language. Saying it over and over in her head feels like a prayer. She tells Sue to wait a moment, and then turns to make her a caramel freakshow, all the while acutely aware of eyes on her. Her clothes are drenched in coffee, and she’d picked out the most faded of her t-shirts to wear today. God only knows what she looks like from behind.

The drink is her very best effort, though. Topped with the best slices of fresh fruit, and she’s made the swirls on the cream topping extra carefully. “Coffee for,” she pauses, pushes at the glass gently till it’s on Sue’s side, “Sue.”

“Can I ask what’s in this.... concoction?”

“My hear—” Emily knows she’s turning red, and desperately look away. “Um, coffee?”

Sue fumbles in her bag, and she wrestles with the urge to say — “Nevermind, it’s on me!” — which would not be the wisest. Emily hates the idea of taking money from Sue, that too, for something as measly as a coffee. Probably because she knows that if Sue were only to ask once, she would make her coffee every day, unprompted.

(She cannot reiterate enough – It's a very strange day)

When Sue steps away, Emily feels loss. It’s an unusual nudge to her sternum, a tingle in her hands that wants her to call Sue back. Before she has the time to dwell on it too much, Sue does.

“Do I,” she starts, frowning a little “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Yes.  

Yes.

I can’t explain it but we know each other somehow, the same way artists know their muses, and flowers know their bees, and my hands know how to write poems — and maybe a hundred years ago you and I were neighboring trees in the woods, or two seeds in the same tangerine; I’m pretty sure my knowledge of your existence was probably coded in my blood.

“Do you?”  

Sue seems to consider that for a while before shaking her head, and then walking over to take a seat by the window.

(And if she catches Emily stealing a glance every five minutes, she’s nice enough to not mention it)

*****

The day of her wedding is the happiest day of her life so far, and yet, the wedding has very little to do with it.

It’s a tiny, foolish fact that this is the first smile she sees on Emily after Ben’s tragic death, and yet, it makes her feel unreasonably pleased with herself. If her life were split into days she could see and touch Emily, and dreary days — the former were made significantly better if Emily smiled in them. Not to be dramatic, but the sun shines better, the skies glow prettier, and the ground is a little easier to run on.

Emily points out somewhere in the middle of their frolicking, for back of a better word, in the woods, that her dress is getting ruined. And then flings a flower onto her face. Goddamn it, Emily, she says, and then is struck dumb by the sound of her loud, exuberant laugh.

(And even quieter still when she holds the magnifying glass over the tiny piece of paper Emily had handed her earlier, the words washing over her like some tidal wave, drowning her in emotions too terrifying to admit. I held her hand the tighter, she reads and she smiles; Still in her Eye, the Violets lie, she reads and punctuates with a deep breath and when she reaches the end, the Sue – Forevermore, she’s aware of an awful keening in her throat, of the sob waiting to make its way out. Emily, Emily, her heart sings, and she is sure it will never shut up again)

She thinks of Emily the whole time, through the vows and the subsequent cheers, as they make their way into the house; thinks of her when Austin holds her tight and tells her that he loves her. A quiet voice, the sound of her guilt crawls up from inside her to tell him that she loves him too. She may be his in name, but her heart isn’t hers to give away anymore.

*****

Seven. That’s how many days she steals glances at Sue in the library before they talk again.

Monday, 9 am: The librarian’s just gotten started with her morning coffee, which means that Emily can sneak her own breakfast past her bleary eyes without being detected. She gets the books that she wants off the shelf, makes her way to her usual chair at the very back of the room and settles in. Her bag gets hooked to her chair by the straps, the tiny diary, her faithful companion, finds a place beside the humongous book, and the coffee sits next to her breakfast burrito. After the entire process is done, she stretches her legs, leans back, looks up and freezes.

Sue is seated on a nearby desk, staring at her.

Emily looks away, on reflex. Her heartrate’s up, and her palms suddenly feel clammy. She takes a deep breath, takes in the floor, and tells herself she’s seeing things. Surely, there’s no way the girl of her dreams also goes to her college and it absolutely isn’t possible that she’s sitting in front of her, in the flesh. She readies herself, looks again.

Sue’s still looking at her, now amused as well.

Well. There go her studies.

Tuesday, 8:50 am: Her plan is foolproof. There is no way she will be caught off guard again. She will be first to the library this time, and she will be prepared when Sue walks in, ready to impress her with her overall charm and chill-ness. There will — not — be a repeat of yesterday when she’d spent the better part of two hours hyperventilating, stealing secret looks or straight up going red every time Sue caught her eye and smiled at her.

The librarian hasn’t even started eating yet. Her head’s resting on the desk, and her eyes are tiny slits, when Emily runs in, makes her way to her own seat. Sue’s seat is empty, thankfully.

(Emily totally does not punch the air in celebration, startling a few other sleepy students)

She stretches out her arms, places them behind her head and waits.

And then jumps about a feet in the air when a hand brushes her shoulder.

There are multiple things happening all at once — the gentle hand resting on her shoulder for a moment, a hand whose warmth she instinctively recognizes as being a familiar one, despite never having felt it before (she knows it’s her. There’s no other option. Nothing else could make the skin at the back of her neck prickle in anticipation), a faint, teasing whisper of “I thought we weren’t allowed to eat in here”, and the realization that her plan has woefully failed.

(Why, then, does she feel so happy about it?)

Sue passes by, turning back once to shoot her a quick grin, and then settles into her usual chair, opening the book already present on the desk in front of her.

Emily’s jaw stays on the floor. The state of her heart stays up in the air.

Wednesday, 9:00 am: Sue opens the note Emily’s just chucked her, reads it, and smirks.

Emily waits. It had been an impetuous decision to scribble “Waffle?” onto a scrap of paper she’d torn out of her notebook, when Sue had looked at her earlier, but it’s alright. These are matters of the heart, and matters of the heart require at least 25 percent an attitude of ‘Ah, fuck it’, another 25 percent of run-of-the-mill stupidity, and 45 percent the ability to laugh at your own shenanigans.

Oh, and about 6 percent bad math.

She catches the crumpled-up note that comes sailing through the air in return and opens it up. “I was taught not to accept food from strangers”, is written in beautiful cursive, along with a smiley face.

(A smiley face. A smiley face!)

Thursday, 9:10 am: She writes — “You know, I am named after one of the best American poets, and your name coincides with the name of her ultimate love and muse. Some would say we’ve known each other a long time” — and slides it over to Sue, heart in her throat.

Twenty seconds later, the sound of Sue’s clear laughter rings out in the otherwise quiet place, and Emily is so enchanted she nearly falls off her chair.

(She hands off half of the breakfast burrito to Sue when she passes by to grab another book, and Sue’s grateful smile just about makes her day)

Friday, 9:00 am: The book she usually grabs to pore over is already sitting on the desk in front of her usual chair. After Emily’s done waving hi to Sue, and has settled down, she notices the tiny flap of paper poking out of the first page. Tucked in the corner is a tiny note.

“As an English major, this is your game, isn’t it? Using words to impress people? :P”

It doesn’t take her long to compose a reply.  

“First of all, how dare you? Second, is it working?”

Sue covers her face with her hands when she opens it. Emily counts it as a win.

Saturday, 8:50 am: The poor boy who has been sitting in the next row all week finally loses it after they’ve exchanged their fifteenth et of notes for the day.

“Can you people, like, just text like the rest of us, for fuck’s sake?”

When the rest of the people surrounding them nod in agreement, Emily sinks into her chair, catches Sue’s equally embarrassed gaze from across the room, and resists the urge to laugh like an idiot.

Sunday, 10 am: The morning’s been hell.

Austin had been panicking about some test he had on Monday, and so she’d come in to help out at the café, early morning. Between quizzing him on his flashcards and making sure every customer had a full cup in front of them, Emily completely lost track of time until Lavinia dragged her apron off her.

“What?” she’d asked, bewildered.

The clock was pointed out to her.

(No, she does not leave an outline of her body behind when she dashes out of the café. There is, however, a mad moment when she’s pretty sure her legs are scrambling with her body still at rest. It is pretty comical nonetheless)

From the entrance she sees a couple of things on her desk, and is a little miffed. Clearly, somebody else has claimed this prime spot with a vantage point from where she could stare at the most interesting woman in the world all day. And yet, she approaches it, because the chair is empty.

The book catches her eye first. It’s a copy of Hope is the thing with feathers by her namesake, and it’s got a note with a familiar handwriting peeking out of the top. She reads, delighted, a haiku about fruit and tenderness that’s been scribbled on it. And then she gets to what’s lying next to the book — what seems to be a sandwich, wrapped carefully in foil. She touches it. It’s cold, as though it’s been waiting there a while.

The smile on her face is definitely a permanent fixture now, she decides, as she walks over to where Sue is sitting and pretending to not look over. Her heart’s tripping over with delight, with gratitude with something tender that she’s absolutely sure she hasn’t felt before. Hope is the thing with feathers, indeed and it is perched in her soul. She pulls out the chair next to hers, and sits down.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly, and swears to god she can hear the entire table go Fucking finally — before Sue shoots her a small smile.

*****

“Only you would show up at a party looking like a raccoon,” she tells Emily, exasperated.

(And enamored. And besotted. Emily makes an adorable raccoon)

“I’m not here for the party — I’m here for you,” Emily shoots back, defiant. “As long as I can still see, I wanna look at you.”

And oh, there it is. There’s the Emily she knows, saying words that slide into her chest as easily as their hands go together. Words are Emily’s deadliest weapons, and she wields them to inflict sheer havoc.

Isn’t that just it, though? Emily has no idea. No idea what it does to her to have her this close — with their foreheads pressed to each other’s, their noses a whisper away, with Emily surrounding her, taking every one of her senses and carving her name on them. Sue feels a hand on her hair, then on her cheek, and knows she’s this close to losing any bit of self-control she might have had.

She steps away, composes herself, and thinks, Shakespeare was right. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

*****

“You might as well have ditched us,” Lavinia grumps.

“What?” Emily blinks, momentarily distracted from whatever text she was in the middle of shooting off to Sue. “Oh.”

“Not cool, dude,” Austin chimes in from the other side. They’re smushed into the couch together, planted in front of the screen where some 80s movie is on. It’s a weekend, which means movie nights filled with chicken wings and some dreadful drink that Austin’s invented that he calls the Faustinator, because.... reasons, apparently. And Emily’s just now realizing that she has no idea what the movie even is because she’s spent most of her time texting Sue. “You’re texting your sweetheart lameass cringy shit.”

“How do you know what I’m texti— Austin, stop reading over my shoulder!”

(She conveniently ignores the sweetheart thing. It’s easier than the alternative, which would be to dwell too much on the possibility of Sue being her sweetheart, and Emily being Sue’s and oh — she can feel herself smiling again.)

“Believe me, it isn’t easy on me,” he snarks. “Two months of talking our heads off about Sue, Sue, Sue and free drinks for Sue, Sue, Sue and pining over—”

“It has not been that long!”

“Lavinia?” he asks.

“Two months, two weeks and four days,” Lavinia tells her, flatly. “That’s how long we’ve had to hear about how you know her and that you’re convinced she is the love of your life.”

“I do.... know her,” she trails off, uncertain. It’s one matter to think it and feel it, like she’s felt the absurd familiarity in her bones every time she hears Sue’s voice, or Sue touches her skin, and sets it on fire. Another matter entirely to set about explaining it. Plus, other, unrelated things, like how reading Emily Dickinson’s poems feel like a friendly little nudge someone’s giving her, an inside joke, or why sometimes she feels so, so much that she would burst if she didn’t write that very moment.

“She walks you to class most days from the library.”

“And she’s been coming to the café every other day, and listening to you rant about random things,” Austin chimes in.

“Didn’t she write Emily a couple of poems as well?”

“Hey, that’s,” she starts, pauses, smiles. “Yeah. I, uh, told her nobody had ever written me anything before, and she — she’s really sweet.”

“Honey,” Lavinia says, gently, “the woman’s in love with you.”

“Oh-kay!” Emily jumps up from the couch and announces her intention to get more popcorn. And the pokes her head out from around the corner, and asks, in the tiniest voice.

“Really?”

Two chips come flying in her direction, and then they can’t stop laughing.

*****

There’s a kind of truth in the life she lives when she’s alone; no one to defer to, no one to explain to why she doesn’t want children or why, even after a couple of months of a blissful wedlock with Amherst’s most eligible ex-bachelor, the smile slides off her face as easily as the fruit punch in her parties off the plates. And then there’s the second kind that has to be dragged out of her — with heaving breath and shaking hands and salt dripped out of her eyes. Honesty that scalds and tears up her inside as it makes its way out of her.

(It’s a particular bit of irony in the fact that Emily is both the cause, and the only one who ever gets to witness the fallout, of the second one)

“Emily, I love you.” she says, like Emily’s put her arms down her throat and is ripping the words out of her. “I love you, and, and I felt you in the library — because you’re always with me.”

There’s a moment of complete, utter silence, when she stares at Emily and Emily stares back at her and the space between them is filled with the distance of lies and fury — and then they crash together. It’s an impossible push and pull, and Sue feels, for the first time in weeks, this complete surrender, abandon of all inhibition. Love tastes like Emily, and it feels like drowning and sounds like the tiny noise Emily makes when they part, like she can’t stand to be away even a second longer. All of what she knows about love is Emily.

If Sue could write, this is what she’d put down on paper: the feel of Emily’s neck beneath her hand, the way she melts when Sue wraps an arm around her. This yearning to be closer, the hunger to consume and the reluctance towards stopping. She wants, so badly to do Emily the same honor of immortalizing her in the form of words — she deserves it. The world deserves to know how she felt about this.... miracle, this angel in her arms. More than anything else, Emily deserves to know how Sue feels about her.

She turns to her side, kisses Emily’s hand once, twice. “I will never let go of you again.”

*****

Life is an endless sea of pain.

“Emily, she’s just a girl,” Austin tells her, then immediately flinches as Lavinia whacks him on the head.

Emily wipes away the moisture from her face with the sleeve of her favorite oversized hoodie, sniffles, and sticks her spoon in the tub of ice-cream again.

“Not to pry,” Lavinia starts, hesitantly, “but we still have no idea what happened. You came running into my room a week ago and haven’t stopped crying since. I guess — I guess we just want to know what’s up.”

Emily sighs. “It’s Sue.”

Austin blinks at her. “Yeah I — I mean, we know that.”

She thinks back to Sunday morning when she’d come upon her favorite restaurant while out on a run. The sight of Sue, sitting there with some.... dude. It was a cozy booth, and the way the guy seemed to be smiling in Sue’s direction couldn’t be construed as anything but romantic.  

“A date?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re telling us this is because you thought Sue was on a date?”

What wasn’t clicking? “Sue was on a date. There were flowers on the table and everything.”

“And that’s why you haven’t been returning her calls or texts? And have expressly forbidden us to tell her where you are when she comes into the café, like, everyday?”

Emily shifts. “Yes?”

Lavinia whacks her on the head.  

“Ow,” Emily groans. “What’s with all the violence?”

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Now,” she took a deep breath, and Emily knew instinctively a huge lecture was incoming, “let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Is there any point in refus—”

“No. So, you like this girl, and it seems like she likes you too. But you refuse to do anything about it, like, you know, maybe admitting it to her. Then, you come upon her having lunch with some random dude and you assume it’s a date, and then freak out about it and cut her off.”

“But I’m pretty sure it was a date!”

“Fine! Okay! It was a date! So what? You expect her to hang around waiting for you to get your shit together, what, forever? And what if she doesn’t like you, god, Emily! I—”

“Okay, okay, wait!” she cuts in, holds up a hand to gather her thoughts. “I — I get what you’re saying, okay? I really do.”

“I know I have no right to be angry. She doesn’t owe me anything — I just. I dunno. I thought we had something. But even if that wasn’t the case,” she scrambles to add, “I guess I’m just taking pre-emptive action. To not get hurt. I can’t stick around and watch her fall in love with someone else, okay? I just. I can’t.”

Austin pats her on the back, and she sinks into his arm. This, of all things, is true. There are a multitude of things in life she has had to bear, and that she has borne, but this — watching Sue slowly fall in love with someone else, would be unbearable.  

She has another spoonful of ice cream. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Lavinia agrees. “But give yourself a break — you’re in love. It turns everyone a little bonkers.”

“It’s fucked.”

“No!” Austin and Lavinia tell her, together, before Lavinia continues, “Listen, I think you should talk to Sue.”

“Pretty sure she hates me now.”

“If she does, then go and face it. Honestly, though, I think you owe it to her, and also to yourself, to explain your side of things.”

“I’d literally rather die.”

“Then go do your dying in the fucking library. It’s almost ten, anyways.”

*****

She can still feel Emily’s teeth on her collarbone, can still wrap an arm around herself and trace the marks Emily’s fingers have left on her, when Sue announces that she’s trying to write a poem.

Emily throws off the sheets from her body, and turns so their heads are close. Sue’s sitting at the end of the bed, wrapped in sheets herself, eyes closed. She opens them when Emily’s nose nudges against her cheek.

“You are?” she asks, hand already playing with Sue’s hair, and Sue nods. “What’s it about?”

Sue cannot stop herself rolling her eyes. “Guess.”

“Is it,” Emily asks, teasingly, “about me?”

“Maybe.”

There’s a delighted gasp from her paramour, and she can feel a small kiss pressed to her temple. “I want to read it.”

“Only when it’s done.”

“And when will it be done?”

She turns to look right at Emily now. “I’m not sure it ever will.”

When Emily kisses her — every time Emily kisses her, Sue adds a line to the poem in her head. She’s running out of words to express joy, passion and beauty, at this point.

“The romance of it all,” Emily remarks, pretending to swoon. “This way I will live on through your words as well, after I die.”

Sue frowns, feels her lips automatically pull down at the corners. “No talking about death.”

“But we will die, darling,” Emily explains, patiently. “I can only hope that I die first.”

“How — how dare you?” she asks, indignant. “I’m going to try my very best to be the one to go.”

(That one spurs an argument that goes on four rounds before either of the participants admit defeat)

“How about,” Emily starts, ponderously. “Whoever dies first comes back around the next time and finds the other?”

Sue can’t stop the smile. The thought is so whimsical, it drives their previous non-argument right out of her head.

“You think we’ll come back someday, years after our deaths?”

“Try and stop me,” Emily declares, fondly. “Susan Gilbert, I will always — always find you.”

Sue closes her eyes, feels Emily’s lips ghost over her cheek and tries to imagine the thought of the two of them, years from now, sitting side by side, hand in hand. Breathes deeply to stop the sudden onslaught of tears the image evokes.

“My foolish sweetheart,” she says, after she’s composed herself. “I love you.”

This is what she’ll put in words — Emily next to her, head tilted downwards, turned towards her. In about a minute, she’ll start complaining of the blood rushing to her brain, and Sue, exasperated, will tell her to sit straight. She’ll write about the light that falls on the edge of Emily’s nose, the one crooked tooth all the way in the corner, the tiny scar on her brow. About the way their hands lock into each other’s, how there’s a space on her neck made perfectly in the mould of Emily’s head — two girls, sitting next to each other, together into an eternity, and beyond.

*****

The first time Emily sees Sue after a week-long absence, she’s just run into the library and crashed into a nearby bench, thus bringing down a student, two books, and herself. She gets up almost immediately, sees Sue staring at the sight of her, wide-eyed, and thinks — Oh. Found you.

There’s an empty seat next to Sue, and on the desk lies an apple. Emily approaches her, and touches the back of her shoulder lightly.

“Can I sit here?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” Sue answers, not looking at her. “Can you?”

Emily has to bite at her lip to keep in the wild laughter that threatens to erupt. It’s not just the quip, either. It’s Sue — seeing her after these many days of zero contact feels like a drug, and she breathes it in, greedily. She pulls the chair out, and sits down on it.

“So,” she starts, then trails off.

“So,” Sue mimics, not unkindly.

“It may have been brought to my attention that I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”

“Only a bit?” Sue raises an eyebrow, leans back where she’s sitting.

Well. “More than a bit,” she amends. “I’ve been an idiot. A dumbass. An utter fool. A rake. A rogue of the highest order.”

Sue tells her she agrees. Then — “You wanna tell me why?”

“I saw you and, um, some guy. On your date that day over at the Plantain Leaf?”

Sue stares. For the longest time. “You ghosted me for a week because you saw me out to lunch with a guy? Emily that is so—”

“I know!” she says, then gets shushed by the people sitting around them. She consciously lowers her voice when she speaks next. “I know, Sue. I was being an asshole, I just — felt complicated about.... things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Like — feelings. And stuff.”

She sees Sue stifle a smile, and feels a little bit of life come back into her hands.

“What about your feelings?”

“Well,” Emily says, pauses, then comes out with a masterpiece of an explanation, “I have them.”  

Then covers her face with her hands, because why? It hasn’t even been ten minutes, and she’s already started messing things up.

“I mean — I have feelings. For you.”

She chances a look up at Sue, after a minute of that incredibly earth-shattering revelation, and stays held in place by the intensity of her gaze. Sue’s eyes are soft, large, and Emily wants to do something stupid, like bury her face in her hands again.

“You do?” Sue asks her, in the tiniest voice possible. Like she can’t believe it. Like Emily has done an awful job of wearing her whole heart out on her sleeve the past couple of months.

“Yeah,” she replies, and finds her voice is equally tiny. “Good ones.” The kind that have me convinced we knew each other a couple decades ago, that I have heard your voice in my dreams all my life, that I’ve been waiting for you for turn a corner and walk into my life this whole while. And if not this time, I’ll wait a couple decades more for you to love me back. “And it’s okay if you’re dating that guy, I just — I thought you should know. That’s all.”

Sue lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m not dating Sam.”

Oh.

So turns out Emily had been holding her breath.

Ants are crawling all over her body. To combat them, Emily picks up the object nearest to her, which happens to be the apple.

“Is that for me?”

Sue nods. “You owe me the six sandwiches I got you this entire week,” she adds, teasingly.

Elation fills Emily until she imagines she’s probably floating a few inches above the ground, buoyed by this tiny admission of caring on Sue’s part. Whoever had said all those things about love had been right. It really was.... something different altogether.

“You’re telling me you sat here and read Emily Dickinson all week, waiting for a girl to show up?”

A light blush lights up Sue, and she leans forward a little bit. “Not just a girl,” she tells her, seriously. “I waited for Emily, who was named after this poet whose work I’ve really come to like. Emily, who I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with.”

Oh dear God.

They’re closer together now, their heads almost touching; Emily imagines them in a world of their own, separate from the rest of this library. She pretends to scoff.

“What? You don’t think a lot of Emily?”

“I think I can write better,” she declares.

“You think you can—” Sue starts, then lets out a laugh. “Emily, shut up.”

And then they’re suddenly kissing, and each and every cell in Emily gathers somewhere near her chest to rejoice together, every beat of her heart falls and arranges in the shape of a song, and time just kind of. Slows down. Pauses. Stops.

Emily thinks she knows what a volcano feels like, now. When she’ll go home, later, she’ll sit at her writing desk, pen down a poem about lovers and hands and two women sitting with their heads close together; maybe put in a fruit or two. And tiny pieces will come together in her head, just like the ones in her chest that crumble every time Sue looks at her.  

But right now, she closes her eyes, feels poetry on her lips, and it is good enough.

[georgescatcafe]

motion sickness — 1

rating: t warning/s: none pairing/s: dreamnotfound genres/tags: friends to lovers, fluff and angst, pining, flirting, friendship, misunderstandings word count: 1304 summary: No. No, no, no, no. George pushes himself away from the desk, rising up out of his chair to go to the other side of his room. No. There's no way. No way at all.

Except there is. Except he is.

George collapses onto his bed with a groan. He's in love with Dream.

Great.

+ao3 +masterpost

;;

It's 10am and Dream is streaming. George sighs, resting his chin on his palm as he opens the stream and joins TeamSpeak. He won't comment on how it's 5am for Dream, won't comment on any of his friends' sleeping schedules. Though he's joined, Dream is still talking to those that have shown up, telling them what he wants to do. Meanwhile, George scrolls lazily through some of the chat, most of the messages just being his and hellos. 

"George?"

George drags his foot across the floor, swiveling his chair. "Yeah?"

"Are you—never mind."

George laughs. "I'll just be here. Didn't realize you need me so much."

"You're such an idiot." Dream's laughing too, though, and George smiles as he grips the edge of his desk, pulling himself closer to it. Eventually, the stream gets properly going, but even then, George remains mostly silent, content to watch the stream, replying to the occasional donation that comes through asking for him to say "hello" and the like.

With Dream so focused on the game, the stream is calmer than usual, some of the donations not even being read—though Dream apologizes, saying he'll get to them later—and nothing but the sound of keys on a keyboard, the click of a mouse. Every once in awhile, Dream'll narrate what he's doing or react to something that happened within the game, leaving not much room for conversation unless George has something to talk about, which he doesn't, so George mostly leans back and listens to his friend.

Sometime between hour one and two George must've drifted off because when he wakes, the stream has ended, though he still hears Dream narrating.

George sits there another couple of seconds, letting the gentle timbre of Dream's voice settle over him like a warm blanket on a cold day. His eyes begin to flutter shut again as Dream talks about finding a quicker trade strategy. Everything feels light, soft and slow as Dream moves on to talking about a seed he once got, the biomes in it all types of messed up. When Dream starts to laugh, butter and honey, George can't help but think he could listen to the other forever.

And then George is jerking upright in his chair, eyes going wide at his thought.

"George?" Dream's voice cuts through George's panic.

George takes a breath, hands scrambling across his desk to grab at his mouse and splay across his keyboard. Dream calls his name again and George spits out some lame excuse, exiting the call. When George looks at the screen, he's grateful to see the stream really had ended an hour ago, none of his freak out having ended up forever immortalized on the Internet.

And then his relief is cut in two when he remembers why he was panicking.

No. No, no, no, no. George pushes himself away from the desk, rising up out of his chair to go to the other side of his room. No. There's no way. No way at all.

Except there is. Except he is.

George collapses onto his bed with a groan. He's in love with Dream.

Great.

;;

He spends most of the day rolled up in a cocoon on his bed, blanket tucked under his chin while he stares blankly at the wall. Any thoughts he has of Dream are purely unintentional and entirely unwanted. It's the reason he isn't playing Minecraft or coding to take his mind off things. Because those remind him of Dream. In fact..., George's eyes flit over to his set-up, just about everything in the corner there reminds him of Dream.

George gives another groan, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow.

He doesn't even know when it happened. He just knows when he realized. Not that he wanted to realize. He wishes he hadn't. He's never even thought about his friend like that before! Or... perhaps he has once. Or twice. But only because it's always brought up. By fans, by Bad and Sap, by Dream himself. So he can't be blamed for that. But to actually fall for Dream?

George wonders if his brain would let him suffocate himself.

It's all just so ridiculous. Especially when he thinks about how he and Dream were planning to record a video later today. Ugh. Recording a video. George rolls onto his back, staring up at his ceiling. Out of the two of them, Dream is the one who throws in the fanservice. And he'll do it this video, too, he knows.

George wonders if he could ask for another day or two before they record. Say he's got a new idea that he wants to work out before they record, that way... that way... he'll figure out his excuse when he talks to Dream.

If he talks to Dream. Because he'll have to do that again.

George's stomach rumbles. Ugh. When it gives another growl, George heaves a sigh, unrolling himself out of his blankets and rising, wondering what snacks he has in the kitchen. It's dumb, but he really is planning to spend the whole day in bed. This situation just calls for that.

The thing is, George gives another sigh as he cuts up some fruit and grabs a bag of pretzels, that he's known he's gay. He's known that for years. It's just that... it's Dream. His friend. Best friend. And also... they're sort of co-workers. Technically, okay, technically, they aren't. Their agreement isn't particularly professional. They work together. But they don't work together. Sort of. So that's whatever. But still. Their careers do benefit from their friendship.

And here's George's heart holding a bat, ready to wreck it all.

George grumbles as he munches aggressively on a pretzel stick. It's all so stupid.

He's holding an apple slice to the light, watching the way it glistens, when a memory resurfaces in his mind. It's of a younger Dream and a younger George (though, he supposes, not that much younger, not for him). He had just come out to the other, holding his breath, wondering what he'll say.

"Cool," is what he had said. George's knuckles had turned white from how tightly he had been gripping the wires of his headset.

"Cool."

And then—

"Why'd you tell me?"

George had paused, blinking at his computer screen, not that there was really anything to look at. He hadn't known how to respond, not really. And then. "I just wanted you to know. You're my friend. You deserve to know. It feels important."

Dream had hummed, the single note ringing through George's ears. "Alright," he said. "If it's important. Thanks." And then there was a pause, one that George knew he wasn't supposed to fill.

But then the pause kept going. And George started to wonder if maybe he was supposed to fill it. "Dre—"

"I thi—"

"What?" George's fingers had gotten tangled in the cord. He tried to get them out as Dream replied.

"Nothing. Thanks for telling me."

And then they had moved on.

George takes a bite out of his apple slice. It was both the most awkward and least awkward coming out experience he's had to date. Dream's easy acceptance, then the pause, the unspoken words. George can't help but wonder what Dream had wanted to say. He finishes off his apple slice. Despite the peculiarity of the conversation, he's never thought much about it since. George wonders why he's thought of it now. A way of predicting how Dream'll react when George tells him?

No. George sits up, the bag of pretzels shifting, falling onto the bed next to him. No. He's not going to tell him.

They tell each other a lot. George looks to his desk, thinks about the impending call he's to have with the other. But not this. He'll never tell him this.

;;

next

[rock-speaks]

OKAY OKAY RANDOM HEADCANON TIME!!!

Louie

- autistic with ADHD overlap

- Inattentive

- the longest he’s slept for was 25 hours

- Deep as hell sleeper takes him at least and hour or two to come to full control

- Has 0 filter will literally say whatever comes to his mind regardless of how mean it may be or how crazy it might sound

- Talks to himself a crazy amount

- Louie has a banging TikTok where he just flexes and makes fun of Scrooge

- Louie has a huge social media presence in general he keeps it on the down low nobody knows about it and Louie would like to keep it that way

- Louie is a picky eater but eats all the time constantly snacking if the pantry is empty it was probably Louies doing

- He probably watches shitty movies and claims it’s too make fun of them but he really just likes them

- Probably really good at impressions his favorite person too make fun of is Huey

- Definitely needs therapy

- Secretly a big sap for romance those cliche movies where lovers embrace in the rain? Louies weakness

- Him and Lena are definitely super close not as close as Lena is too Webby but they’re still besties

- Prank king

- Sometimes just too “see what will happen” he tells people fake facts they almost always believe him (except for Huey) because why would they not? He has no idea why he does this but he hasn’t shown any signs of stopping

- Whenever he’s alone with Scrooge he says oddly cryptic and strange things no body knows why, sometimes not even Louie

- I imagine all the nephews have really curly hair Louies the only one who doesn’t straighten his hair

- Excellent judge of character

- Wise ass

Huey

- autistic!!!

- Will bring up the fact that he’s the oldest sibling in conversations that have nothing to do with it

- He’s probably a big saver and is definitely a person who has a penny collection

- Big collector!!! I swear he probably uses one of Scrooge’s unused rooms too keep foliage and rocks that he found

- He’s definitely got great posture

- Huey will randomly bring up a random memory if it somehow resurfaces to his mind no one knows how he remembers half this stuff and sometimes he brings up stuff they’d wish he’d forgotten

- Has definitely never said anything he didn’t mean

- Never says “I promise” if he knows he can’t do it

- Huey really just wants to be good at everything he tries so when he isn’t he just kinda gives up on it

- So obviously Huey isn’t a “practice makes perfect” kind of kid he’s more the “if it’s not right the first time scrap it and never try again”

- Huey probably holds himself to such a high standard and puts so much stress on himself to always be perfect

- Loyalty to the fuckin end

- Him and Lena get into “fights” all the time Lena is constantly trying to fuck with Huey and he’s just not here for it (yet another reason why her and Louie make such an insufferable team)

- Bad at video games

- Definitely takes the most after Donald in the sense that he’s so fucking rage full and I mean full Donald rage like fists flying in the air shouting with a red face type angry

- Needs fucking therapy and definitely has anxiety

- Has a bad sense of humor and laughs at everything part of the reason Dewey and Louie think they’re so funny

- Only has his one iPad and really only uses it for planning and other nerd stuff

- All fruits are Hueys favorite fruits but his favorites are blue berries

- Has a celebrity crush on Gizmoduck

Dewey

- This was pretty much confirmed murder on killmotor hill but he’s bisexual

- Long Huey shows up in his nightmares

- Always the first to start a pillow fight

- Has abandonment issues needs therapy

- Secretly listens to punk music and only Donald knows and he couldn’t be more proud (I wrote this before Louies eleven came out!! Lmao canon!!!)

- Loves to draw even though he probably sucks at it

- Dewey is totally the kid that will literally do anything for validation jump off the roof too seem cool? He’d do it in a heart beat

- Pretends not too care but he totally does

- Dewey is ADHD personalized never stops moving never stops talking something is seriously wrong when he’s quiet

- This is technically canon but he’s so petty

- Dewey is the type of guy who would NEVER ask for directions no matter how lost

- Speaking of he was probably the triplet to get lost the most

- Dewey loves robots like loves loves LOVES robots his dream is to learn to code and learn mechanics and build one him and Huey and him used to do those little “build your own robot kits” when they were younger

- Dewey has like 50 different dream jobs

- Launchpad has turned him into a hardcore darkwing duck fan

- THEATER KID

- Sort of forces himself to be an extrovert

Webby

- Webby loves to draw

- Has definitely cosplayed

- Knows about Louies secret social media accounts but he doesn’t need to know that

- You’re trying to keep something from Webby? What a joke

- Webby knows pretty much every ancient language

- Webby doesn’t know what a joke is and takes everything literally

- Definitely writes fan fictions

- Autistic

- Stims with her whole body excited jumping and screaming constantly

- Probably orally fixated out everything in her mouth

- Sometimes forgets things she literally just did or said often she asks “wait what did I just say?”

- Favorite movie? Men in black for sure

- Has always secretly wanted to be in a play

- If Scrooge says anything nice to her she thinks about it weeks after even if it’s something as small as “thank you”

- Feels really bad for glomgold and just really wants him to be happy

- Webby is cuddle central doesn’t matter when or where or who

- It kind of bothers her that Lena seems to always take Louies side

- HATES CONFRONTATION will console a friend in a heart beat but never NEVER EVER wants to fight

- Bad with social cues due to her ASD luckily she has the triplets and Lena and Violet to help her out in bad situations

- If no one stops her will talk about one thing for hours Lena always lets her

- Probably knows how to play like a shit ton of instruments

- Really likes cooking but she sucks at it Scrooge ate her cooking once to make her happy but promptly through it up when she left

- Was definitely a lego kid

Lena

- If any elderly woman tries to touch her she flips due to magicas abuse good thing she’s got two gay dads now

- Loves Violet so much and thanks her every night before bed

- After extensive therapy that was suggested by Violet had the rest of her friends she’s able to look at her own shadow again even if sometimes it really freaks her out

- Lena is a lesbian 100% open about it

- Wishes she were a vampire and definitely reads those dumb vampire/werewolf stories

- Really likes that she’s taller than all her friends uses that against her Huey fucking hates her for it

- Her favorite crime is arson

- Because she’s a rebellious teen her and officer M’ma have had a few run ins

- Shes probably never actually been to Paris but rather said that to impress Webby

- Lenas the type of emo to cover her face in every picture of her

- Has always cut her hair herself and when her friends talk about wanting to cut their hair she does it for them trying to convince them to let her dye it the whole time

- Lenas is responsible for most of the graffiti in duckburg

- Loves Launchpad she thinks it’s really fun to tell him stuff that isn’t true and he’s cool when she tells him she was just joking

- Has always secretly wanted to be a florist

- Loves licorice

- Magica probably didn’t intend for her to have a personality or a life at all really so Lena definitely picked the name herself

- Magicas not really controlling her nightmares anymore but she’s still very much in them they’ve gotten better but they still happen every so often

- Sometimes if she’s sitting on the couch and someone’s sitting right in front of her she kicks them in the head not hard but enough to bother them

- Probably can’t read

- She probably doesn’t have an official birthday so she doesn’t really understand the celebration of one one day Webby the triplets and Violet surprised her with a birthday

Violet

- in my head Duckula and Von goosewing will always be her parents

- Violets favorite thing to research is definitely trees

- Weak ass immune system probably gets sick all the time

- Definitely dresses however see feels on her off days she throws people off when she shows up ripped jeans and leather jackets

- Her biggest pet peeve is when anyone does anything loud

- Violet has been teaching things that Lena wasn’t taught since she never got a traditional education

- Violet is still a hard core skeptic despite having a sister made of shadows and a father who is a vampire

- Her hair is always a frizzy mess so she chooses never to do anything with it and just keeps it in a bun

- Really doesn’t get any memes ever

- Violet is probably a very low key germaphobe

- Pokemon is her favorite game and she knows all the originals and is a pro at all the games

-Huey and her do that thing we’re neither of you are fighting but rather both talking loudly that makes people think “oh it’s getting pretty heated over there”

[peachmused]

READ ON AO3 // SUMMARY // CHAPTER ONE / CHAPTER TWO

cg credit - i wanted to write a fic where the mc doesn’t wake up in a life-threatening situation for once (see: the entirety of the diabolik lovers series), so here’s a lighter fic! i’m not sure if i’ll name mc just yet or keep her as the reader (if that makes any sense), but she’s definitely got her own personality and life that’s entirely different from yui’s. anyways, i started writing this fic for fun but now it’s really growing onto me. hope you enjoy reading, and feel free to leave comments! please be nice 

Tulip bulbs, daffodil seeds, orchid seeds, and gloves.

Four, simple items. Yet within seconds, I found myself undoubtedly lost among the endless rows of plastic packets and multitude of fragrances. Appliances of various shapes and sizes lined the aisle just opposite the flower, fruit, and vegetable seeds. My hand would wander to one pair of gloves, then immediately reach for another. Which one did Grandma use, again? The ones that had little rubber stubs, or the ones that were completely smooth? The larger ones, or the more fitted ones?

Eventually, I grabbed what I thought best and turned to the countless seed packets and bulbs. There were so many brands to choose from within the selection that I decided to stick with “Easy Greens” and move on from there. Brushing my finger against each row as I searched for the items felt both unfamiliar and increasingly awkward. Of course, there was no legitimate reason to be so conscious of how supposedly dumb I appeared, my mouth ajar and my eyes blinking at the labels. But as soon as another body stepped into the same aisle, my shoulders tensed and I shifted in place.

I’m not a plant expert, okay? I justified inwardly to the supposed disapproving stranger.

Briskly, I tossed the orchid seeds and tulip bulbs into the cart. That only left…

“Daffodil seeds!” I gasped, a wave of relief swelling up within me. Normally I couldn���t shop in the Gardening section for the life of me, but this time, the daffodil seeds were hanging conveniently above me. It was the last packet in the shelf, so I made haste in reaching for it.

Just as my fingers grazed the plastic packaging, another (immensely larger) hand gripped the other end of the bag. I raised my head to face my opponent, then… tilted my head further upwards. A broad-shouldered man loomed above me, his tousled mane tied back in a half-ponytail. The sleeves of his sweater had slid down to reveal brawny arms, ones at least twice the size of mine.

Although his narrowed, angular eyes should have made me stumble backwards, my grip only tightened on the packet. Grandma’s garden was just ready to be planted, and if I missed the opportunity to snag these now, I would either have to run to another grocer or return tomorrow. With my school transfer just around the corner, I hadn’t the time nor the energy to make a second trip.

Resolute, I titled my chin upwards, and stared the stranger down. The corner of his lips twitched slightly, his body inching towards mine.

“I’d let go if I were you, kid,” he advised, his gaze unwavering.

‘Kid?’ You don’t look all that old either, Mister! I wanted to holler, but immediately suppressed the urge. Instead, I relaxed into the most artificial smile of the century, and yanked the packet towards me.

“Excuse me,” I retorted, “but I’ve had my eye on this for a while. And I’m pretty sure I grabbed it first.”

A scoff. Then, the man wrenched the packet towards himself. Holding onto the packet as best as I could, I attempted to dig my feet into the smooth flooring to prevent any stumbling.

“And I’m sure I grabbed it first, lady.” he growled. Although he was a giant compared to me, the brunet was slowly revealing a boyish, competitive nature. Tension grappled the two of us as we fought over the packet, with him yanking the packet in all directions and my body soon following.  

In a matter of minutes, the hushed argument became a turbulent one. “Let… go…!” I demanded through breaths. Teeth clenched, the man only persisted in his attempts to snatch the package.

“Tch… this… woman!” he yelled back, struggling to push my arms away.

At this point, our scuffle had gotten the attention of the store clerk, who was bouncing in between us with his sweaty forehead. The clerk mumbled something along the lines of “Please, don’t fight in here…”, but with our glares stuck on one another, we only shouted, “Shut up!” right back.

“Ohhh my God…” the clerk fumbled about, his circular glasses nearly dropping off the edge of his nose. “This is my first time dealing with a Code Red… Oh wow…”

We were so caught up in our tussle that the presence of another being didn’t occur to either of us.

“What’s going on here?” a gentle, feminine voice inquired. I, of course, was desperately biting on the packet and barely noticed the girl peeking into the aisle.

“Miss, you don’t want to go in there—It’s a real World War situation down in Aisle Four…”

“Yuma!” she interjected, the items in her hand falling, one by one. The larger man paused mid-headlock, his eyes widening as soon as they landed on the petite figure. He glanced down at me, then at the girl, then back down at me again. I, too, gaped at the girl before us.

With soft, golden curls and doll-like features, she was absolutely stunning. I felt the grip around my head loosen, and I quickly took the packet out of my mouth. ‘Yuma’, as he was called, had his brows knitted, his stare fixated on the packet of seeds.

“Let’s go, Yuma, we don’t have time for this,” she urged, approaching the two of us. Her gaze flitted to me. “You can have the packet, Miss… I’m so sorry for the trouble he caused!”

I only nodded, heat rising up my neck at the thought of my feral appearance just seconds ago. Yet there she stood, graceful, collected, and calm. In this moment, she was everything I was not, yet looked around the same age as me. To think that I had to be seen… like that…

Despite the rouge entering my cheeks, I broke into as best of a smile as I could. As soon as she turned to leave, however, most of the embarrassment evaporated. It was just me and the beast once more, but this time, I’d emerged victorious. With overflowing triumph, I watched as Yuma glowered down at me one last time.

“If you ever show up in front of me again,” he warned, his face edging close to mine, “You’re really going to pay.”

Shoulders relaxing, I broke into a grin, and nodded cheekily. He ended the conversation with the click of his tongue, stuffing his hands into his pockets before stomping away. Just as his back faced me, I wagged my own tongue, relishing the moment. I then lifted the prize in my hands to examine it. Fortunately, the package was still intact, save for the few teeth marks I’d punctured into the plastic. If it weren’t for the girl’s intervention, the packet would have ripped open and all would have been for naught.

This girl obviously had some sort of influence on him, and I thanked the heavens that she had appeared when she did. I couldn’t help but assume that she was his girlfriend; the way he listened to her so obediently… that had to be it, right? Regardless, it was a wonder that such a soft-spoken person even affiliated herself with him. From his grizzly appearance to his uncouth mannerisms, he was the exact opposite of everything sugary sweet. In fact, Yuma was much like a grumpy bear, storming about and creating messes.

An image of a Grizzly head on top of Yuma’s body entered my mind as I made my way to the cashier. I couldn’t help but snort.

Definitely a bear.

“Love Fortune Cookie! The future ain't that bad... Hey! Hey! Hey!” I hummed, an extra bounce in my step as I made my way down the paved streets. The air around me was honeysuckle sweet, its warmth hugging my body. Fellow pedestrians scattered throughout the wide road left me with a sense of comfort and security, the sun slowly slipping below the horizon. Splashes of tangerine, rose, and dandelion hues blanketed the sky, turning shades darker the closer I got to home.

Juggling bags of groceries in my hands, I poked my head up behind the bundle and spotted the familiar enclosure. It wasn’t long after I passed through the door and placed the bags down that my grandmother emerged from the living room.

“I’m back,” I announced, dusting my hands off. Grandma gifted me one of her tender smiles, and welcomed me back home. Simply the curl of her lips could make me feel ease; she had a healing presence, much like a guardian. That day she wore another knitted cardigan atop a flowery dress, the signature look for most gentlewomen her age. When she came closer to help with organizing the groceries, I could smell the light lavender from her grey and brown hairs. As expected, she was working outside again.

I raised my brows and verified, “Grandma, you were in the garden again, weren’t you?”

Eyes lighting up, she nodded. “I was making space for the new plants you brought me.” she explained, lifting up the punctured bag of daffodil seeds and blinking at it seconds later.

“What happened here?”

“Ah… that’s…” I mumbled. My lips scrunched in thought, when it finally hit me, “A bear! Right, a nasty bear was trying to take your daffodil seeds, but I managed to save them just in time. Aren’t I amazing?”

Seeing me wiggle my brows at her, my grandmother broke into a hearty laugh. “Of course you are. Now, if you’re done fighting off bears, will you please help me plant the seeds?”

After burying the seeds in dirt (as well as learning that the gloves I bought were the wrong brand), I headed inside to prepare tea for the two of us. She liked hers herbal and sugar-free, while I enjoyed Earl Grey with just the right touch of sugar and milk. Seated on the veranda, we sipped our drinks in the cool night air. The singing of crickets kept us company as we lounged under the moonlight.

“They’ll look so beautiful when they blossom…” I murmured, already picturing the flowery scape. Though I had no interest in gardening and only helped for Grandma’s sake, witnessing the flowers and fruits paint the tiny yard was a magical experience.

“I think so too,” Grandma chimed, sipping her tea.   

She then turned to look at me. “Ah, what about school?”

Nodding, I lowered the cup in my hands. “Everything’s been processed, so I can start attending tomorrow.”

“That’s a relief.” she relaxed, then just as quickly tensed, “Oh, what about your uniform? And your lunch?”

My hands rested atop hers as I assured that I was all set for my first day at Ryoutei Academy. It was a night school, which was a huge change for us, but a necessary one.

Classes were from five to ten to accommodate those working during the daytime, and I happened to be one of those people. I was set to learn management as a supervisor for Kanna Inn—my grandpa’s inn—during regular school hours. My father never showed an interest in taking over the place, but I found management to be my strong point and accepted the proposition. Evidently, the inn was closest to my grandparents’ house, and I volunteered to stay there for the remainder of my school life.

Considering that this town was only a bus ride away from my old home, paired with the fact that I only had one year left of high school, I decided that focusing on my career from now wasn’t going to hurt anybody. My hometown friends and parents were only forty-five minutes away, and the area itself was just the quaint space I adored. The only thing troubling me was my nine p.m. class. By nine and onward, my concentration dwindled, and I could already picture myself nodding off instead of taking notes.

Whatever my worries were, the fact that I was going to be sporting a new uniform and attending evening classes was inevitable. A small smile crept its way up my face at the thought of a new school life. New faces to befriend, new halls to explore, new teachers to learn from... Everything would be unfamiliar. Yet, that very fact was what made my heart race, what made me want to shout out in joy. Perhaps it was the surge of caffeine from the tea, perhaps it was simply excitement; whatever the reason, my thoughts of Ryoutei High shined brighter than the star-speckled sky above us.  

Later that night, Grandpa arrived home with goodies in his arms. He prepared meat for us, claiming that tonight we’d celebrate my acceptance into Ryoutei. I, of course, made no complaints. Once our bellies were filled to the brim, I wished my grandparents a good night, video chatted with my parents, and washed up for the evening.

I curled into the blankets, realizing that this bed would come to be my new hideout. The pillows felt just like I remembered them: pleasant and comforting, much like the owners of this house. My eyes flitted across the moderately decorated room, envisioning all the cute additions I would add to make it feel like my own. Although there wasn’t much as of that night, the space felt familiar—like it was waiting for my presence.

As the hours passed and my eyelids fluttered shut, I fell asleep knowing that, for once, I’d made the right decision.