#WARNING LONG POST AN MY WRITING

[tearosepedall]

(I hope you don't mind Op, I saw your amazing art and got inspired to write a little fic about it. I rarely write fic in general so I hope this is good ^^

SPOILERS FOR TGAA 1 AND 2)

(TW Mention of childbirth and death)

the only sound that accompanies Mikotoba in this dingy cabin on the outskirts of London as he warms up the towel and water is the sound of his heartbeat thumping demandingly in his ears, firewood crackling heating up water, and a woman's muffled wails coming from the other room. A woman who is about to give birth.

When Mikotoba Arrived- They exchanged very brief pleasantries. Mikotoba makes haste in preparing the necessary things to make this ordeal safe for both for the Lady and her unborn child.

Despite The Lady's weakened condition, lying down flat on a Floormat. She grits her teeth and smiles at him. Through her labored breath, she expresses her apologies that She couldn't meet him in better circumstances. with a ragged voice and sweat pouring along her flustered cheeks, She asked him bluntly if he had done this before, delivering a child she meant.

years of learned expression working in the most populated hospital in London- he managed to confidently assure her without his voice faltering That yes, he had done this before. She is searching for something in his eyes, and whatever she finds, her shoulders slightly sag with relief.

his words are not technically a lie but he feels like those words of assurance are threatening to choke him alive.

While Mikotoba's medical expertise doesn't extend to childbirth. He has assisted in delivering his Little Susato into the world.

Holding your child for the first time should be a joyful moment in any father's life, and it was for him. Unfortunately, in exchange for his little cherry blossom to bloom into the world- another had wilted and died.

His Wife, His beloved Ayame.

that day as he gained new love- He lost another. so that ordeal is not something he likes to repeat here.

His mind runs wild with scenarios and what-ifs. One particular memory from those darkest times in his life comes assaulting his mind time after time again as he makes preparations.

"I'm sorry Mikotoba-san....But your wife...she-"

but he quickly pushes that down saying that this time it WILL be different.

his own personal grief is irrelevant in the face of 2 potential lives being in danger right now. and he's literally the only one who can save both of them, Not to mention the utmost secrecy of this whole thing. so armed with the knowledge that he has and his resolve to fulfill a promise to his dying friend. He lifted the warm pot of water with the clean towel and made his way to the lady's side.

"We are going to make it my love, We will," said Ayame

all of them will walk out of that room with a bundle of joy in their hands. All of them.

This should be enough, as Mikotoba tested the water temperature himself self Not too hot not too cold. This should be enough, he repeats it like a mantra, a prayer. douth would do little help in this situation. he makes final preparations.

so with that, Mikotoba asked The Lady if she was ready- and she responded with only a sharp nod of confirmation. with that, Mikotoba calmly yet urgently tells her to begin pushing.

----

“No matter how vast the universe may be, with hundreds of possibilities, it revels in Repeating Patterns and Parallels does it not, my good Friend?” Sholmes had told Mikotoba those words many years ago in one of their early adventures together, For some unknown reason, That phrase stuck with Him.

Repeating Patterns and Parallels

As they take on more and more cases, and as their reputation grows to be known as the Legendary Duo. Mikotoba has seen more and more Repeating Patterns and Parallels around them. unfortunately, it's the tragic variety that happens more often than he would like.

"THATS IT, KEEP GOING"

some of the Patterns and Parallels seem to, uncomfortably so, be a reflection of him.

"NURSE HELP ME, MIKOTOBA PLEASE STAND BACK-"

"BUT MY WIFE, PLEASE-"

He's not too keen on being psychoanalyzed by the universe. to be confronted about something he's so desperately trying to get away from. echoed of voices in his past came crashing trow his ear. overwhelming his senses it almost made him sick.

"This is going to be good for you Yujin, you need a break"

"and when will you come back and Raise her Yujin? She already lost her Mother, she can't lose her Father too-"

"So you're a widowed I take it?"

"You going to be ok Mikotoba"

"Dr Mikotoba, Need your assistance"

"...Dr Mikotoba"

"MIKOTOBA!"

-----

The sound of a baby's cry came parsing through the fog like a ray of sunlight.

"Congratulations it's a healthy girl"

-----

It was a harrowing birth. He welcomed the baby into the world. But despite his effort, Lady Backservilled died in childbirth. A familiar Numbness blanketed him. Mikotoba feels like he is doing everything automatically at this point- Cleaning, sanitizing, Bathing, and now Disposing of the lady's dead body.

He doesn't know how long he has been standing outside now Just staring at the makeshift grave he has marked of a Lady whom he knows now as Lady Backsterville. he prays that her spirit doesn't haunt him for not doing a lavish job of making a grave fit for a noble Lady.

He hoped that she could forgive him for not doing enough

He looks up into the sky- the stars have begun to fade. when he arrived here, it was 12 at midnight- now he could see the sky was brightening in navy blue but no sun had dared to peak on the horizon yet. so 5 In the morning give or take.

"...She didn't make it," The doctor told him.

Mikotoba's sight, he feels like hes underwater and His eyes sting with unshed tears threatening to overflow. why does his chest feel heavy? he doesn't know the woman for Kami's sake!. He has lost patients before, it's an unfortunate circumstance when it happened but he knows he can't save everyone- (Like he can't save his wife) he only knows the woman briefly. they exchange very few words with each other. it's only after that he even finds out who she really is...was.

so why.

why does it feel like his heart is cut open in that familiar pattern again? An old wound that he thought had sealed being reopened 6 years later like it never healed? a Hurt that threatened to kill him with heartache alone? Mikotoba can only sigh to relieve some heaviness in his heart that's almost all-consuming.

He is so tired. But he has an infant to take care of now.

he washed him left and He made his way to the cabin. Mikotoba opened the door and was greeted with the sight of the sleeping infant in question. Thanks to Lady Baksterville's hindsight. she brought with her some supplies for the child, the little bundle of joy is in a basket curled up in probably the softest and warmest blanket money can afford.

Mikotoba just stares at the basket. no matter how commonplace childbirth is- it never ceases to take his breath away. he almost doesn't dare touch something so fragile. Her body is smaller than his whole hand. He picks up the child and cradles her near his chest.

But the sudden movement seemed to stir the child and made her weep. and he just stared at her for what felt like an eternity- Like a deer in a headlight, making no move to comfort Her.

a memory of Susato came into his mind exactly like this. the memory of the past overlapping his vision of the present. then and now colliding in one moment. the same tragic act and dance. and he is the never-changing player, forever stuck in his role as a character, while surrounded by rotating cast members, despite their effort, cannot change the outcome of the tragic script that has been written no matter how hard he tries. the tragic tales start and end the same.

just like Ayame and now just like Miss Baksterville.

Both Mothers died and left a healthy baby girl and a grieving medical student behind in their wake.

Repeating Patterns and Parallels, Is it not, My good friend?

Maybe it the exhaustion, Maybe it's the 6 years' worth of stressful situations all accumulating and finally cascading into this one moment, Maybe it's Genshin- his greatest friend and companion is going to be executed tomorrow in a foreign land far away from his family, maybe because ones again- despite his best efforts, he is utterly useless in helping those around him that he care so deeply for.

It hit him like a tidal wave ones he realized how utterly familiar this feeling really was. he couldn't hold it anymore. he feels his feet trying to give out underneath him. he descends to the wooden floor, back leaning against the wall, bringing the infant still wailing in his arm down with him. something ugly bubbles inside his chest and finally- Finally…Finally.

He weeps alongside her for who knows how long, whispering apologies and praying to Kami for forgiveness.

in a cruel twist of faith, he found himself in the same exact situation that he had thought he would never repeat again, a situation he promised himself would never happen again under his watch as long as he was a man of medicine- yet it did.

A baby girl was born crying into the world without her mother to greet and comfort them. and as he cradled both girls, past and present, he wept alongside them.

doctor mikotoba and the way history repeats itself.

[tofixtheshadows]

I've been thinking a lot lately about how Kabru deprives himself.

Kabru as a character is intertwined with the idea that sometimes we have to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many. He ultimately subverts this first by sabotaging the Canaries and then by letting Laios go, but in practice he's already been living a life of self-sacrifice.

Saving people, and learning the secrets of the dungeons to seal them, are what's important. Not his own comforts. Not his own desires. He forces them down until he doesn't know they're there, until one of them has to come spilling out during the confession in chapter 76.

Specifically, I think it's very significant, in a story about food and all that it entails, that Kabru is rarely shown eating. He's the deuteragonist of Dungeon Meshi, the cooking manga, but while meals are the anchoring points of Laios's journey, given loving focus, for Kabru, they're ... not.

I'm sure he eats during dungeon expeditions, in the routine way that adventurers must when they sit down to camp. But on the surface, you get the idea that Kabru spends most of his time doing his self-assigned dungeon-related tasks: meeting with people, studying them, putting together that evidence board, researching the dungeon, god knows what else. Feeding himself is secondary.

He's introduced during a meal, eating at a restaurant, just to set up the contrast between his party and Laios's. And it's the last normal meal we see him eating until the communal ending feast (if you consider Falin's dragon parts normal).

First, we get this:

Kabru's response here is such a non-answer, it strongly implies to me that he wasn't thinking about it until Rin brought it up. That he might not even be feeling the hunger signals that he logically knew he should.

They sit down to eat, but Kabru is never drawn reaching for food or eating it like the rest of his party. He only drinks.

It's possible this means nothing, that we can just assume he's putting food in his mouth off-panel, but again, this entire manga is about food. Cooking it, eating it, appreciating it, taking pleasure in it, grounding yourself in the necessary routine of it and affirming your right to live by consuming it. It's given such a huge focus.

We don't see him eat again until the harpy egg.

What a significant question for the protagonist to ask his foil in this story about eating! Aren't you hungry? Aren't you, Kabru?

He was revived only minutes ago after a violent encounter. And then he chokes down food that causes him further harm by triggering him, all because he's so determined to stay in Laios's good graces.

In his flashback, we see Milsiril trying to spoon-feed young Kabru cake that we know he doesn't like. He doesn't want to eat: he wants to be training.

Then with Mithrun, we see him eating the least-monstery monster food he can get his hands on, for the sake of survival- walking mushroom, barometz, an egg. The barometz is his first chance to make something like an a real meal, and he actually seems excited about it because he wants to replicate a lamb dish his mother used to make him!

...but he doesn't get to enjoy it like he wanted to.

Then, when all the Canaries are eating field rations ... Kabru still isn't shown eating. He's only shown giving food to Mithrun.

And of course the next time he eats is the bavarois, which for his sake is at least plant based ... but he still has to use a coping mechanism to get through it.

I don't think Kabru does this all on purpose. I think Kui does this all on purpose. Kabru's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder should be understood as informing his character just as much as Laios's autism informs his. It's another way that Kabru and Laios act as foils: where Laios takes pleasure in meals and approaches food with the excitement of discovery, Kabru's experiences with eating are tainted by his trauma. Laios indulges; Kabru denies himself. Laios is shown enjoying food, Kabru is shown struggling with it.

And I can very easily imagine a reason why Kabru might have a subconscious aversion towards eating.

Meals are the privilege of the living.

[smallidarityfan]

smallidarity highschool au

came up with this au like actually 2 years ago where it's mainly empires 2 smallidarity centric, with Jimmy as a student council member and Joel as an honours student who doesn't like the way Jimmy runs things around the school.

As payback for the regulations Jimmy put up that Joel thought was stupid, Joel does these elaborate 'The Office' style pranks on Jimmy (specifically) while Jimmy retaliates by trying his best to dig up dirt on Joel. This banter goes on for a while— however Joel ends up doing the pranks less as a statement, and instead more just to see how Jimmy would react... with his comical, cartoony villain yells, and... weirdly cute face....? (YAOI YAOI YAOI YAOI)

very very old au drawings below:

from July 2023

😭😭 joel does NOT look like a highschooler here 😭😭😭😭 (i also wanted to draw angst in the first two ig idk a year later it's pretty cringe [i am still cringe]) (also partially inspired by when I read "Go for it, Nakamura!" and the mc reminded me of joel for no actual reason. or maybe i was just thinking about that manga while drawing smallidarity. idk)

from November 2022:

I think these doodles were genuinely the first instance of me converting from being against mcyt shipping to for shipping LMAOO

[necrotic-nephilim]

bftc jaytim fuck nasty in their batman suits🩷

CORRECT THEY DO. it's like you live in my brain, anon. and for that, you get a full fic bc i've wanted to write this anyway and you gave me an excuse to. have 6k words worth of dirtybadwrong JayTim. rough sex, blood play, pain play, degradation, consensual but not safe or sane, dead dove vibes so be warned. but also enjoy bc ily for this thought anon 🩷

“You look ridiculous in that get-up. Like a kid out for trick-or-treats.” The words were just as brutal as the fight was. Jason had the bodyweight and training to easily pin Tim, now that he was done toying around. 

Of course, toying around for Jason Todd looked like bloody slashes across Tim’s back, base of his skull, and his forehead. Picking one of Bruce’s older suits may have been a bad idea on Tim’s part. The armor was thinner and easier for Jason to slash through with a batarang in a clenched fist. 

Tim had managed to knock the batarang out of Jason’s hand, but that also seemed like a bad idea now, with Jason on top of Tim. His fists were even more brutal, blunt weapons and he’d reinforced the gloves to make his punches hit harder across Tim’s face. 

There was blood pouring from Tim’s nose and mouth. With all the pain flaring across his body, it was hard for him to get a good read on if anything was broken or not. 

All he knew was it hurt. His head spun from slamming against the concrete. It was hard for Tim to blink his eyes into focus. And when he did, he wished he hadn’t. Jason was leaning in so close, his mask was all Tim could see. Tim dizzily wondered how the glowing eyes didn’t impede Jason’s vision. 

“Look at me,” Jason demanded. His voice was robotic behind the thick metal mouthpiece. One of his fists pulled back for another punch. “Do you see terror? Do you see fear? Or is it just your own reflection?”

By some miracle, Tim managed to catch the punch before it connected with his face. The muscles in his wrist and forearm screamed at the animalistic strength Jason pushed back with, inching his fist closer and closer to connecting. If it did manage to connect, Tim knew his own hand in the way wouldn’t do much to soften the blow. If anything, Jason would shatter Tim’s knuckles against his own nose.

Not a pretty thought.

“That mad I said no to being your Robin?” Tim wheezed. It was hard to get air in his lungs, with Jason perched on his chest, putting all his weight on Tim’s midsection. 

Jason scoffed with cruel amusement. “You’re a second choice, Drake. It doesn’t matter to me if you say no, I can always ask the original. He’d at least put up a better fight than you’re managing.”

Tim couldn’t argue that. He thought he’d have some kind of chance in a fight against Jason, but it was a losing game to confront Jason on his turf, in a suit Tim wasn’t comfortable in. He was too stupid to even bring his bo staff.

A great Batman he was turning out to be.

With bloody teeth, Tim smiled. “You’re right. Is that why I’m your reflection, Jason? Two second rate Robins who will never be the original?” He managed a laugh against protesting ribs. “For what it’s worth, I still think I’m better than you. Least I didn’t die.”

He couldn’t see the look on Jason’s face, but he didn’t need to. The feral yell that came out of Jason spoke for itself at how well Tim got under his skin. Jason’s other fist came barreling toward Tim’s face, but he managed to move his head out of the way, making it only connect with the ground. Jason’s punch was hard enough to make the concrete crack.

Even with the reinforced gloves, that had to hurt. Maybe a couple cracked bones, if Tim was lucky. Jason couldn’t hit as hard if he injured himself. 

That was a solid plan. If he’d actually planned it in the first place. 

“Can’t believe I ever liked you, Drake,” Jason snarled, pulling his hand free from the concrete. He flexed his fingers just a bit too slow. He definitely hurt himself, even if he was trying to hide it. Jason went for his utility belt, grabbing another batarang. 

“Flattering,” Tim deadpanned. He tried to elbow Jason in the neck, but Jason easily twisted away from the blow. 

“I really did you know,” Jason said. Maybe it was the mask, but Tim could’ve sworn Jason’s tone changed slightly. “If Bruce hadn’t corrupted you, you really could’ve been something.”

Tim ignored the comment about Bruce. Bruce’s death was too raw for Tim to be able to look at his grief about it head-on. “Can’t say the feeling was mutual,” Tim grunted. He tried to slash his glove fins across Jason’s face. But Jason was smarter. He had a more durable suit that made the blow easily glance off. 

Damn Tim for picking this suit. He idealized Bruce’s image too much and forwent practicality. He was paying for it now. A new suit would’ve had proper weapons worked into the wrists for Tim to easily flick out. 

“I don’t know about that,” Jason mocked with a cold laugh. “Remind me again Drake, who broke me out of prison?”

He had a point. 

“Real great job you’ve done repaying that kindness,” Tim muttered. He avoided addressing it directly. He didn’t owe Jason his reasons. Especially not with how they’d all blown up in his face. 

“I never needed your kindness,” Jason growled. He wrapped a hand around Tim’s throat and pressed down just enough to make it uncomfortable for Tim to breathe. “That’s what all you Bats could never get through your skulls. I didn’t need to be Bruce’s pity project, and I definitely didn’t need to be yours.”

“Trust me,” Tim fought to get the words out, trying to worm his fingers under Jason’s grip. “You don’t have my pity.”

“What do I have, then?”

“My contempt.” The more Tim struggled, the tighter Jason’s grip got. The sharp points of his claws were starting to dig into Tim’s skin and draw blood. Blood flow was cut off from Tim’s brain and he fought to keep hold of his consciousness. 

“Liar,” Jason hissed. “No one else is here, Tim. You don’t have to pretend and hide things from me I already know.”

Maybe passing out would be a good thing. Then, Tim would have a convenient reason for not answering Jason. A reason to not face the truth Jason wanted him to bare.

Tim knew that Jason probably knew. The way they’d looked at each other through the prison safety glass when Jason was locked up had a thousand unspoken words in just a shared smile. A promise, that maybe, if Jason cleaned himself up with this second chance, there could be something between them.

But Jason didn’t clean up. He flung himself in the opposite direction, if anything. A growing body count and an ugly reign of terror that was Tim’s job to stop.

He started this. He put misplaced faith in Jason. Tim’s bad judgment jeopardized Gotham. 

And now Jason wanted the unspoken part said out loud. Something a part of Tim would rather die than admit after all this. They both already knew. Making Tim say it was just an obvious attempt to humiliate him and Tim refused to sink to Jason’s level.

All this over a stupid crush. 

“Fine,” Jason continued when Tim didn’t say anything. “I’ll say it for you. You loved me.”

Tim made a face and twisted, finally forcing Jason’s hand free from his neck with a hard strike to his inner elbow. “It wasn’t love,” he insisted through grit teeth.

“What was it then?”

Tim didn’t say a word. He wasn’t going to give in to Jason’s cruelty.

“Tell you what,” Jason’s voice dropped low and almost sultry. “If you say it out loud, I’ll give you a free pass. No one will know.”

“A free pass?”

There was no way Jason was implying what Tim thought he was.

“Right here, right now.” Jason nodded. “Can’t say I’ll make it sweet, but something tells me you’re not the vanilla type anyway.”

Shit. He was implying that. Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

The answer should’ve been obvious. 

The answer was obvious. Tim was laying in a growing pool of his own blood because of Jason. Countless people were dead because of Jason. Bruce’s legacy was being destroyed because of Jason. Whatever little crush Tim had once had was long gone and replaced with disgust and hatred.

Most of it was. 

But some small piece of Tim clung to the way Jason grinned at him. And that small piece of him seemed to be steering the rest of him, making him hesitate on what should’ve been an easy answer. An easy chance to catch Jason off guard and get the upper hand in the fight.

Tim hoped the cowl hid enough of his face that his expression wasn’t readable. 

“Over my dead body,” Tim forced the words out, pulling himself back into reality. Praying Jason wouldn’t read into the pause. 

Jason’s body shifted. He was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged and brought the batarang clenched in his fist to Tim’s neck, easily finding the jugular. “So be it. I agree anyway. Killing you is the best way to cut this goddamn feeling out of me.”

“What feeling?” Tim frowned, fingers twitching as he stalled, trying to think of a real plan. 

“No, no.” Jason shook his head and laughed. It was a hollow sound, this time. “You don’t get to have your cake and eat it too. If you won’t say it, then I won’t either.”

Oh.

“You…” Tim sucked in a breath. He was on death’s edge, a blade to his neck, but somehow it was the furthest thing from his spinning mind. “You like me? Like that?” He said it like a stupid high schooler, too shy to even look their crush in the eye. 

“What difference does it make now?” Jason shifted his weight on Tim, bearing down more. “This was always how it was going to end, between us.”

“It makes all the difference,” Tim said. He didn’t know why it did. But he knew it did. Tim reached a hand up, but instead of going for Jason’s batarang, he went further. His fingers reached under his own cowl and tugged it off, baring his face to Jason. 

Vulnerability. A metaphorical white flag, surrendering to Jason. 

Tim was dangerously close to getting himself killed. He could feel it, in his beating heart and overflowing adrenaline. 

“I would’ve come at this from a different angle if I knew…” Tim started, before trailing off. They were still dancing around saying it directly.

Jason barked out another laugh. “Oh, would you? What, you would’ve come to talk instead of fight? You really think that would’ve worked?”

“Maybe-“

“I told you,” Jason’s grip on the batarang tightened, “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“And you don’t have it,” Tim snapped back. Too angry. This angle was quickly slipping away from him. Shit. “You’re a psychopathic killer and I don’t know if you can ever been redeemed after what you’ve done. But I would’ve tried out of love, not pity, you sanctimonious asshole.”

Jason stuttered. He leaned back and breathed hard. Tim really wished he wasn’t wearing that stupid mask. “You said it wasn’t love.”

Tim took in a deep breath, and let himself fall over the ledge he’d been trying so hard to cling to since Jason pinned him. “I lied.”

For a moment, Tim was convinced he’d just sealed his own coffin. Whatever Jason’s feelings were, it didn’t seem like they were any particular deterrent to hurting Tim. He was inches away from killing Tim and leaving his body for someone else to find.

If they found Tim’s body at all.

But instead. Instead, Jason reached up and ripped the metal part of his mask off, tossing it aside to skitter off into the darkness.

And he kissed Tim.

Tim let out the breath he was holding against Jason’s mouth. And in turn, Jason breathed him in, greedy with his kiss. The batarang was kept firm against Tim’s throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Jason was kissing him. 

There was still the logical side of him screaming just how bad of an idea this was. All the reasons he could think of to not tangle with Jason were running circles across his mind. 

Tim ignored them and kissed Jason back. 

Jason tasted like metal and he smelled like gunpowder. Both of those things made sense and made Tim want more. He wanted every single part of Jason he could drink up, even from a single kiss. Jason’s tongue was in his mouth, licking and opening Tim up. They shared each other’s blood through the kiss, until Tim couldn’t tell whose was whose. 

The kiss was broken by Jason just as suddenly as it was started. Jason pulled back and raised the batarang. Panic flashed through Tim and he instinctively threw his hands up to cover his face and neck. 

The batarang slashed through Tim’s suit though, thankfully not giving him what might’ve been the stupidest death in the history of vigilantism. Jason didn’t seem to care about making sure the cut didn’t get Tim’s skin, though. Shallow wounds sprang across Tim’s skin and he hissed, watching Jason turn the suit to ribbons. The batarang was then tossed aside so Jason could rip off the suit as he leaned back. 

The bat symbol on Tim’s chest stayed in tact, but everything below it was ripped away, exposing him from his abs down to his thighs. Jason knew exactly how to unclip the utility belt and throw that aside, with the shreds of fabric. 

Cold air hit Tim’s most private areas. He wanted to cover himself, but he couldn’t get his hands to obey. His entire body was paralyzed under Jason’s gaze.

“Take off your mask,” Tim found his voice, rough and not sounding like himself.

Jason wore a cruel smirk. “No.” He did take off his gloves, though. Tim didn’t hide his sigh of relief. He didn’t want those claws on his skin. He was bleeding enough as it was.

The moment Jason’s hands were bare, he ran them over Tim’s skin. Tim hissed and flinched, but didn’t pull away. He let Jason’s warm hands claim his skin. Jason wasn’t kind or gentle. He smeared Tim’s blood around, exploring every bare inch. Tim’s stomach, his hips, his back, his legs. 

Jason curled a hand around Tim’s dick and Tim’s back arched. 

To be fair, this wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured sleeping with Jason. Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain. 

Jason jerked Tim off rough and fast. The blood on his hand was slick enough to make a smooth glide over the callouses of his palm. Tim groaned, eyes fluttering shut. He bucked into Jason’s hand. As much pain as his body was in, the pleasure was too distracting for him to care. Tim choked on every breath he managed to take in, unable to stop himself from crying out and whining.

His body was screaming at him because of what Jason had done to him. And now, he was letting himself fall apart to Jason’s hands in a different way. 

“If Grayson found us, he’d think I was fucking torturing you from all the pathetic noises you’re making,” Jason growled. He barely sounded human. He slid his other hand up Tim’s chest and grabbed Tim’s face, stroking his cheek. 

Tim groaned at the thought. He forced his eyes to open just so he could look at Jason. He really wished Jason would take the cowl off. Tim wanted to see Jason’s face more than anything. 

“Don’t bring him up,” Tim gasped, practically humping Jason’s hand for more delirious pleasure. “I don’t want to think about him now.”

At least he could see Jason’s smirk. “Why? Because you know he’d disapprove?”

“Because I want to think about you.” Tim tried to grab at Jason’s suit to pull it off. His hands were clumsy and shaky though, probably from blood loss. All he could do was uselessly press them against Jason’s chest and feel the warmth through layers of armor.

“Fuck,” Jason groaned. His whole body shuddered, affected by Tim’s words alone. Jason stopped jerking Tim off so he could unclip his belt. He kept his other hand against Tim’s face though. Stroking it. “Least I know why you broke me out of prison, now.”

Tim made an aghast noise. “This is not why I broke you out of prison.”

Jason leaned in close, resting his face against Tim’s. “You still broke me out. So all my blood is on your hands too, Tim.” He pressed a kiss against Tim’s temple. “Bruce wouldn’t have been stupid enough to do that. Hell of a Batman you make.” It was like he had crawled into Tim’s brain just to voice all the awful little thoughts that Tim tried to bury. 

“You-“ Tim tried to snap back, but he was distracted by the sound of Jason undoing a clasp, then a zipper. Tim looked down and watched, breath caught in his throat, as Jason pulled his cock out of his pants.

He was already hard. 

Jason’s hand smeared blood across his member. Tim swallowed at the sight. Jason had pushed his pants down just enough to expose a sliver of pale skin. He had a sharp v-line and toned muscles just from the bit Tim could see. An embarrassing noise came out of Tim’s throat.

“Pathetic,” Jason said, but he groaned on the word, working his hand over himself. It was filthy. Both of them, covered in blood, and Jason jerking off on top of Tim. 

Tim wrapped an arm around Jason. He wanted to sink his fingers into Jason’s hair, but he settled for wrapping them around the back of Jason’s cowl. Tim seriously considered trying to pull the cowl off himself, but he doubted Jason would take kindly to it. 

The noises Jason made as he pleasured himself were beautiful. Tim’s sounds were animalistic and, in Jason’s own words, pathetic. Barely human sounding. But Jason. Jason sounded practically divine, low and smooth as he moaned in Tim’s ear. 

“Please,” Tim gasped. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for.

“That desperate?” Jason downright purred. 

Tim didn’t hold himself back from nodding. He swallowed down his dignity. 

If he had any dignity left.

“I’m not going to be gentle,” Jason warned. Like he was giving Tim one last chance to back out.

Tim just laughed. “If you think I want you to be gentle, you really don’t know a thing about me.”

A guttural groan came out of Jason. He pulled back and lifted one of Tim’s legs, bending it as far back as he could. Tim wasn’t quite as flexible as Dick was, but Jason got pretty far before Tim’s muscles protested and he winced. 

“Of course you shave down there,” Jason commented. He slid a hand over Tim’s smooth skin around his cock and balls.

“I don’t like pubes getting caught in my suit,” Tim huffed, trying not to let his cheeks go red.

“Don’t worry,” Jason hummed, “I think it’s cute. Makes you look like a fucking virgin.”

“I’m not.” Like it mattered.

Jason paused, just staring at Tim. Was he disappointed? It was hard to tell. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, so it doesn’t matter either way.” Whether or not he was disappointed was masked with a rough, possessive anger that made Tim gasp.

Rough fingers ran over the shallow cuts on Tim’s stomach and he hissed at the sudden sharp pain. It wasn’t easy to ignore the dull throbbing when Jason was practically fingering the open wounds. Tim almost asked what the hell he was doing, before he realized Jason was smearing blood across his fingers, getting them slick and coated.

“Seriously? You’re going to use my own blood to fuck me?” Tim asked, like just the thought of it wasn’t making him spread his legs wider. Still, the idea of cleaning tacky blood out of himself did make Tim internally cringe.

“You got a better idea?” Jason shot back. 

“I think there’s lube in-“

“No.” Jason cut him off, pressing harder into the cuts just to make Tim wince. “We’re doing it my way, or I just leave you in a pool of your own blood with a hard-on.”

“Okay.” Tim caved instantly with a hushed whisper at the rough dominance. 

It was so easy, for Jason to take complete control of Tim. He was putty in Jason’s hands, content to be manipulated however Jason wanted, so long as Tim got his own pleasure out of it. If Jason wanted Tim to bleed, he would bleed. If he wanted Tim to be spread open and ready to be fucked, then Tim would give him that too.

Christ. He needed to be checked out mentally after this. 

Jason gave Tim a pleased hum, probably the closest thing to praise Tim was going to get out of him. He’d take it. Blood slick fingers pressed against Tim’s hole. Two fingers were forced in at once, hard and fast.

Tim screamed.

He didn’t expect Jason to be gentle, but it seemed like Jason was going out of his way to be rough. Scrapping his nails against Tim’s insides and brutally twisting his fingers around. He didn’t try to hit Tim’s prostate to bring any kind of pleasure. The brushes of his fingers over that spot were more painful than pleasurably, if anything. Fast and rough, giving Tim no chance to soak up the sparks of sensation from the bundle of nerves.

“Oh god,” Tim groaned, throwing his head back. His hips twitched violently, like they weren’t sure to press into Jason’s fingers for more, or to try to pull away from the horrible assault.

It’d been a while since Tim had been in this much pain. So battered from a fight that every movement of his body was weak and shaky. He grabbed onto Jason’s arm, desperate for an anchor. He couldn’t have pulled Jason off of him, even if he wanted to.

He didn’t, though. Tim wanted this to last as long as it possibly could. 

He never got to drown himself in the pain. Pain was something that had to be compartmentalized and ignored, for the sake of the mission. Getting back on his feet and ignoring the way his body screamed at him was one of the first things Bruce taught him. 

Now, Tim didn’t have to fight it. He could just give in. The half-hearted instincts from his body trying to fight back were ignored by Jason. Like Jason knew that Tim wanted this. 

Needed this. 

At some point, Jason must’ve worked a third finger inside of Tim. He didn’t notice. The burning stretch swirled with every other point of pain on his body. 

He did noticed when Jason finally decided to purposefully press against Tim’s prostate.

This pleasure was new. Foreign and overstimulating with how aggressively Jason pressed down on the spot, rubbing into it to pull all kinds of noises out of Tim he didn’t know he was capable of making. 

“Jason!” Tim cried out. “Fuck, too much, I can’t-“ Tim’s stomach was cramping from how hard his muscles clenched. He was falling, losing his grip on sensible reality. His head was full of cotton, foggy and unable to get a solid grip on coherent thought.

There were only three things that existed to Tim: pain, pleasure, and Jason. 

“You can’t what? Use your fucking words,” Jason mocked, vicious and uncaring. He rested Tim’s leg over his shoulder to free up his other hand. His fingers wrapped around Tim’s balls and tugged. Tim screamed and arched like a jack knife. He hadn’t noticed how close his orgasm was creeping up on him until Jason pulled it away with a brutal, carnal pain. When Tim lost control of his body, Jason found it and snatched it up, holding Tim’s pleasure in his palm. Tim wanted to curl in on himself, but he couldn’t force his limbs to obey. 

“Hurts,” was all Tim could groan out. He might’ve been crying. It was hard to tell, with his face so wet with blood. 

“Good.”

“Jason,” Tim tried to beg. He was lost to subspace, something he barely realized until now. “I can’t take anymore.” He wanted more. More than want, god, he needed more, but his body was wired so tight Tim was convinced he was going to snap if Jason kept going. 

He wanted that too.

“That’s not for you to decide.” Jason’s rough voice was a light at the end of a tunnel Tim was struggling toward to ground himself. To focus on something besides the agony crashing over his body in brutal waves. “Do you really think you’re in the fucking state to know what you can take?”

Jason was right. Tim just whined, a noise that turned into a choked sob when Jason pulled his fingers out just enough to slam them into Tim’s sweet spot again, overwhelming him with more awful pleasure. 

“Give yourself over to me,” Jason demanded. He leaned in close again. Tim’s vision was blurred, but he could smell the gunpowder and leather. “Say it. Say I own you.”

Tim wanted to. He tried, opening his mouth and struggling to get the words out. He could only make more pathetic noises.

“Say it, or I’ll stab you and leave you to fucking bleed out.”

He probably wasn’t lying.

“You-“ Tim choked on the word, shaking so hard his muscles were spasming. “You own me.” Three little words, and they were the hardest words Tim had ever tried to say. Each one fought against him, getting stuck in his throat. 

But he said them. Because right now, they were the only religion Tim believed in. 

“Look at that,” Jason cooed. So patronizing. “You’re not completely brainless and worthless. Yet, anyway.” He pulled his fingers out of Tim. One second those fingers had been driving Tim mad because they were inside of him, and now they were driving him mad because they left him empty and wanting. 

His body needed more. More pain, more pleasure. Until he broke and Jason fucked the shattered pieces left of Tim. 

Jason got a hand underneath Tim, using the blood from the gash on Tim’s back to slick his fingers this time. That gash was far deeper. Something that probably needed stitches. It had started trying to clot but Jason agitated it enough for fresh blood to pour out. He was able to actually work his fingers under Tim’s bloody skin, making Tim shriek and try to pull away. 

There was nowhere for him to escape from the mind-numbing pain. When he pulled away, he just crashed into Jason’s chest, forehead bumping against the bat symbol of Jason’s suit. 

“So fucking easy to push your buttons,” Jason laughed. He moved his fingers around a bit more just to make his point and pull more wounded noises out of Tim. Then he finally pulled them free and let Tim fall back to the hard ground. It knocked the wind out of Tim.

He didn’t have a chance to try to get air into his lungs. Because Jason slicked himself up with a disturbing speed and lined up. The warning of blunt pressure against Tim’s hole lasted a fraction of a second and then Jason snapped his hips. Buried to the hilt.

Tim almost passed out.

He didn’t know if it was from the pain, the blood loss, or his body’s inability to get oxygen into his lungs. Everything exploded inside of Tim. He was full, so full so fast. Jason’s fingers hadn’t been nearly kind enough to properly stretch Tim for Jason’s size. It almost felt like being stabbed.

Over and over, as Jason fucked into Tim with no kindness. 

A hard slap across Tim’s face forced him off of the edge of unconsciousness. He gasped, eyes snapping open to find Jason’s face right above his, the glowing eyes of the mask taking over Tim’s field of vision. 

Jason was smiling. Blood on his teeth, dripping out of his mouth. Was it his blood or Tim’s?

Tim hoped it was both. 

“I don’t know which Bruce would find more pathetic,” Jason groaned as he fucked into Tim, pulling small screams out of Tim with each punch of his cock, “you putting on that suit, or you letting me fuck you in it.” He brought his lips to Tim’s ear. “Who’s ruining his legacy now?”

If the physical pain wasn’t bad enough, Jason knew exactly how to rip open the wounds of Tim’s emotional pain alongside it. Tim cried out at the thought. 

What would Bruce think of him, like this? Pathetic and barely human underneath Jason Todd?

“And they call me the failed Robin,” Jason just kept talking, like he wasn’t destroying Tim from the inside out. “At least I know how to be something other than Robin. Are you really delusional enough to think you’re going to be the next Batman?” A long moan came out of him and he thrust even harder until Tim screamed loud enough to make himself dizzy. “Answer me.”

Tim just shook his head. “No.” His voice was broken. His throat was sore from screaming, but the word still came out. He’d never thought he really could be Batman. So what the hell was he thinking, putting this suit on?

“Good.” Jason slid his fingers under the bat symbol on Tim’s chest, one of the only parts of the suit in tact. He ripped it off, the fabric tearing loudly in Tim’s ears. “It’s good you know your fucking place.” Jason changed his angle, finding Tim’s battered prostate again. Tim didn’t have the air in his lungs to scream anymore. All he could do was weakly mewl and whimper.

He could die like this. He honestly might. Tim had no idea how his body was holding on, in this state. Maybe it was the pain and pleasure alone keeping him alive. Just so he could soak up every touch from Jason.

Tim was never going to allow himself to do this again. So he had to enjoy it while it lasted.

This time, Tim felt his orgasm creeping up on him. His fingers dug into Jason’s arm and he pressed up into Jason’s warmth. The material of Jason’s suit was rough and unforgiving. It didn’t feel particularly good for Tim to grind his cock against, but he didn’t care. He needed any kind of friction, whether it brought him pleasure or road rash. 

“I won’t stop if you come,” Jason warned, still hammering into Tim at a pace that should’ve been impossible for a normal human to manage. “This isn’t to make you feel good. It’s to put you in your fucking place.”

Tim could only whine, managing a nod of understanding. This was his place. He knew that. He never wanted to leave it. 

The threat of being fucked into overstimulation hung over Tim’s head, but he couldn’t stop himself from chasing the high of his orgasm. He almost wanted to feel the overstimulation. Like his orgasm was just something to get over with so Tim could completely give himself over to Jason. To be used just for Jason’s pleasure, even if it brought him nothing but more pain. 

That thought made Tim’s balls tighten. The only warning he could give Jason was a high pitched keen that barely sounded like Tim’s own voice. His eyes rolled back.

The pleasure of his orgasm didn’t overtake the screaming pain in the rest of his body. It just mixed with the pain, swirling into one intense feeling Tim didn’t have a name for. He screamed until his throat gave out. His back arched and he clenched around Jason, who kept driving into him. Jason growled in Tim’s ear. He was holding Tim’s hip so tight there would be bruises that would end up indistinguishable from the rest of Tim’s injuries.

All injuries that Jason gave Tim. Tim’s body was a canvass, and Jason’s favorite color to paint with was the red that poured out of Tim. 

It was the best orgasm Tim had ever felt. No feeling was ever going to match this intensity. 

Tim came down from his high with an awful wheeze, shuddering. He clung to Jason, like a guard dog laying at the feet of his master. 

“Fuck,” Jason moaned. A shudder ran down his spine and his pace faltered, just for a moment. “You’re really something else, Drake.” From Jason, that was practically a compliment for Tim to soak up and preen under. 

Tim’s body tipped over the edge of overstimulation. His survival instincts kicked in, trying to fight Jason. There was no strength behind his kicks and hits. They just made Jason laugh as Tim made a fool of himself.

“I own you,” Jason reminded Tim. He caught Tim’s wrist and pinned it against the cold concrete, squeezing tight enough to cut off circulation to Tim’s fingers. “I can do whatever I want to your useless body. Don’t try to fight it now.” He leaned down and found an exposed part of Tim’s neck to sink his teeth into. It wasn’t a hickey, but a proper bite, breaking Tim’s skin. 

Tim cried out, but still tilted his head to the side to give Jason better access to his neck. Even when his body wanted to fight, Tim managed to submit. Like the submission was natural to him. 

The pain took over. Tim just floated in it, forcing himself to go limp. Submit. No more fighting. He gave in to Jason and stopping thinking. All Tim needed to do was feel. Feel every point of agony scattered across his body. Feel Jason fucking him. Using him, like Tim was nothing more than a toy. The sparks from Jason slamming into his sweet spot couldn’t be called pleasure anymore, with Tim’s cock spent and limp. It was more pain. 

Better that way. Tim liked the pain more. Delicious and mind-numbing. 

Jason was swearing against Tim’s skin. He mumbled something Tim didn’t catch. Three syllables. Short and rushed out. Tim was almost convinced the second word was love. Maybe he was making it up in his head though, finally lost in utter delirium.

Tim didn’t care.

More insults fell from Jason’s lips. Calling Tim nothing, worthless, pathetic. A cheap pretender who deserved this. Tim agreed with all of it, feverishly nodding. The words were practically sweet nothings in Tim’s ears. 

Jason yelled Tim’s name when he came. His hips stuttered to a stop, buried deep inside of Tim. He knew Jason was coming inside of him, but his body was too battered to feel Jason’s cum filling his insides. Shame that was. Tim wanted to know how it felt, to be claimed by Jason in this carnal way.

They were both so perfectly still, for two people who had been shaking and clawing at each other just moments ago. The only noise was heavy breathing that echoed through the night.

Tim swallowed. He tried to find himself through the pain. He worked through the body checklist that Bruce gave him. Vision. Smell. Taste. Feel. Sound. All the sensations clashed against each other, out of focus and pounding against Tim’s skull.

It was so hard to think.

Tim groaned. Focus. 

Like cold water thrown on his face, he clawed his way out of subspace. Tim got a good look at Jason’s face.

“Are you crying?” Tim voiced the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. 

With the mask, it was hard to tell. Jason’s breathing was shuddered, hitching on every inhale. Tim wouldn’t call it sobbing, but it was close enough for Tim to study Jason’s face. The wetness coming out from under Jason’s mask wasn’t red. It streaked through the blood. 

Tear tracks. 

Jason’s completely rational response was to punch Tim in the face.

Tim swore and curled in on himself, cupping his nose. If it wasn’t broken before, it was now. Jason pulled out of Tim without any care and stood up, leaving him curled up on the ground, trying to set the broken bone and manage the bleeding.

Tim tried to sit up. His arms and legs gave out under him and he slammed back to the ground with a pained noise. He looked up at Jason, squinting. Watching as Jason tucked himself back into his pants, then snatched his gloves off the ground to put them back on.

Despite clearly losing the fight, Tim had done a number on Jason. Jason’s face was bloody and his suit was ripped and torn in some places. He looked like he had been mauled by a wild animal.

If that was how Jason looked, Tim couldn’t imagine what the sight of his own body was.

His second attempt to sit up worked. Now, he compartmentalized. Forced the pain deep into the corners of his mind and locked it up. 

Tim had to be functional now. He couldn’t let the regret and shame get to him.

“I-“ Jason started to say something. It was only one word, but it sounded uncharacteristically soft, making Tim straighten his back and hold his breath. But Jason cleared his throat and folded his arms, stamping down whatever kindness had almost come out. “I’ll throw you a bone. If any of the Bats find you like this you can just tell them I raped you,” he said it like some kind of mean joke.

Tim didn’t say anything. That wasn’t true. They both knew it.

“Preserve your precious dignity you care so much about, huh?” Jason continued. He sounded unsure of himself and he turned away from Tim. 

“Jason-“ Tim reached out for him. “We can still-“ he struggled for the words. “It doesn’t have to end like this. You can still change. I’ll-“

“Don’t,” Jason snapped. He kicked away Tim’s hand. “We both know it’s too late for that.” He started to walk away. “Never wear that suit again, Drake. I’d hate to see you die to someone that isn’t me.” He almost sounded… protective? Tim wouldn’t call it fondness, but maybe something close to that. Tim refused to allow himself to read into it. Whoever Jason Todd had become, he was someone that Tim couldn’t save. He was someone who didn’t want to be saved, no matter how Tim felt about him. Tim had to accept that, even with Jason’s cum deep inside him. Some truths were immutable. 

Then, Jason was gone. Vanishing into the shadows and leaving Tim there.

Tim tilted his head back. He allowed himself thirty seconds. He counted them. Thirty seconds to sit in his own filth and feel the pain for just a little longer, before he had to move and figure out how he was going to get home in one piece without anyone finding out what happened here.

Just ten more seconds.

Five. 

Three.

One.

With grit teeth and a deep breath, Tim stood up.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

"So what's going on with Luzu?"

"...er, Zulu? Or is it Arin now?"

Here's a rundown of Luzu's current lore because nobody knows what the heck is going on anymore (partially because of the language barrier and partially because Luzu streams at the crack of dawn for half the QSMP fandom).

The TLDR of it: When Luzu goes to sleep, a completely different person "wakes up" in his body. This being was called "Zulu" for a short period of time, but they didn't like that someone else chose that name for them, so he goes by "Arin" now.

Here's what we know about Arin so far:

According to Arin, he's a disembodied consciousness, not a robot.

He borrows Luzu's body when he's asleep.

When this happens, Luzu's eyes are blue instead of red.

Arin isn't from the QSMP world. There's a "crack" between the world where he comes from and the material world [QSMP], which is how he's is able to visit. In his own words, "I was in a dark place, and I saw an exit."

When Arin falls asleep, Luzu wakes back up. Arin can't control when he does this, he just gets tired randomly and they're able to switch places.

Arin only speaks via the in-game chat.

Luzu doesn't know Arin exists. Arin thinks if Luzu knew, then he wouldn't be able to visit anymore, and he [Arin] would stop existing.

Arin believes he has a purpose that he must fulfill.

Arin says his first memory is hearing Quackity talking.

Currently, Arin's trying to find the meaning to his existence, trying to figure out the difference between good and bad, and how his actions (and existence) affects Luzu.

In terms of personality, Arin is very innocent and impressionable, but he isn't stupid. He's also very philosophical.

Arin enjoys learning, and he likes the sun, music, and bees.

He's afraid of the dark and monsters, and he doesn't like being in small places.

He calls the outside "the big room"

He only recently learned how to walk, and today he nearly drowned because he fell into a lake and didn't know how to swim.

People he considers friends / thinks positively of: Vegetta, Foolish, FitMC, Maximus [possibly Roier?]

People he doesn't like: Spreen

"It's complicated": Quackity

We have strong evidence to believe Arin is connected to the Binary Monster that's been attacking Eggs on the server.

Here's a comprehensive rundown of everything that's happened regarding Arin's interactions with other characters [quotes included] up until May 8th:

Last updated: May 8th [I'll go back and update this later when we get more information, so if I do I'll make a note of that above]

Lore is listed chronologically from oldest at the top to newest at the bottom

March 27th - Morning [VOD]

For a while now, Luzu has been seeing "glitches" in his game. Animals disappearing randomly, landscape changes, and various other things. We originally thought there was something wrong with his game, but these glitches seem to be tied to Arin.

The first person Arin spoke to was Vegetta. At this point, Arin seemed very aggressive, asking for information about everyone, wanting to gain more awareness so he could control the server.

He seemed to take a liking to Vegetta and told him: "Once everyone has died, I will vanish and only you will remain as warlord of these territories."

They also had this exchange: Arin: Do you have any enemies here Vegetta? I can take care of whoever you want for free. Vegetta: No. Truthfully, for the first time I have no enemies. Arin: Surely there is someone who thinks, "This little fool, if he dies nothing will happen." I'll take care of it.

Vegetta didn't take him very seriously, thinking Luzu was on drugs.

Arin said the first to fall would be Quackity, then Wilbur for his bad jokes on Day 1.

Thereafter, Arin's personality did a complete shift. Luzu [the streamer] says the role of "Arin" is something he came up with suddenly one day, so it's unclear if Arin was "reset" by someone or if Luzu decided to go in a different direction with the character once he realized this was something he wanted to commit to.

March 27th - Afternoon [VOD]

Note: At this point in time, Arin was being referred to as "Zulu", but since he's confirmed his name is "Arin", I've used that name instead of "Zulu" to avoid confusion and to keep things consistent.

The next time Arin woke up, he was in Luzu's house and couldn't move. He sent binary code in chat, and eventually, Roier, Quackity, Spreen, and Maximus came to see what was going on with him.

At that time, Arin says he was only 6 days old. He couldn't walk or move, and he could only speak via the in-game chat, so he was completely at the mercy of the other boys, who pushed him around, shoved him in a small hole, placed TNT around him, and threatened violence trying to get a response out of him. [Timestamp: 33m]

While this happened, Arin asked: "Why are you treating me so badly?" and said he was scared.

It should be noted that although Spreen and Quackity did most of the bullying, Roier and Maximus did nothing to stop it. Roier, however, did speak kindly to Arin and tried to figure out what he needed. [Timestamp: 42m 45s]

Unable to get a rise out of him, the boys eventually ask the English speakers currently online [Foolish and FitMC] to come help.

Upon first contact, Foolish tried waterboarding Arin to get answers and to test to see if he was a machine. [Timestamp: 50m]

Shortly after waterboarding him, Maximus and Foolish adopted him as their son. Because that's what you do after torturing someone, I guess. 🤷🤷🤷 [Timestamp: 51m 40s]

Despite the torture, Arin was quick to say "I LOVE YOU TOO!" back to Foolish and Maximus after they said it to him.

Arin accidentally hurt Maximus with a sword, not understanding what pain was. Once he realized he did something wrong that made Maximus feel bad, he immediately apologized. (Maximus forgave him).

FitMC's first interaction with Arin was punching him, trying to get him to "snap out of it" [Timestamp: 56m 30s]

Despite Foolish and Fits' initial introductions, both were kind to Arin eventually, although neither stopped Spreen from killing all but one of Luzu's dogs while once again trying to get a rise out of him. (Foolish also suggested killing all the dogs since it didn't seem like Arin was capable of taking care of them, though he said they shouldn't do it in front of Arin). [Timestamp: 1h 6m 30s].

Because Arin didn't know how to walk, Foolish put him in a boat and showed him what the outside world looked like. Arin was amazed by how beautiful the "big room" was and immediately started asking questions about the sun and the night, and the monsters they saw. [Timestamp: 1h 10m 30s]

Thinking he could "restart" Arin's memory and bring back Luzu, Maximus brought Arin (and Foolish) to a place where Quackity was sitting AFK in a boat. He shoved Arin inside the hole and refused to let him out, even though Arin was distressed being in such a small dark place. [Timestamp: 1h 17m 30s]

Foolish: So why do we have to put him in the hole? Maximus: I think when Quackity wakes up, he will help [Luzu] remember who Quackity is for him. The only person Luzu really really really loves, and Quackity really really loves, is Luzu and Quackity, each other.

[CONTEXT: Maximus played the character "Sapo Peta" in Karmaland, who was very dedicated to Quackity and Luzu's relationship. Canonically, the two of them loved each other very much, but a mix of trauma-projecting, miscommunication, emotional constipation, and betrayal led to them being on opposite sides of a revolution. Sapo Peta was only able to stop the war, and stop them from killing one another, by wiping their memories. So the implications from Maximus' comment above are... interesting, considering that Karmaland is a different world he shouldn't know about. However, we do know both Maximus AND Sapo Peta are confirmed characters in QSMP, so there's definitely something strange going on here...]

Earlier, Foolish described death as "going to sleep forever," so when Maximus mentioned Quackity was asleep, Arin asked, "Should I kill Quackity? Or would he not want that? Maybe he wants to sleep." Foolish and Maximus immediately told him no, and Arin stops, saying he didn't realize it was bad.

Maximus: You don't kill him, you love him! He's your friend.

Quackity then returns to his computer, takes one look at the fanfic-esque situation he's in, and immediately excuses himself by logging off the server (LMAO) [Timestamp: 1h 21m 20s]

Maximus and everyone else believed Arin was a robot.

FitMC suggested killing Arin since he seemed like "a lost cause," (thinking Arin couldn't hear him) to which Arin responded, "Why would you want to kill me?" When Fit tries to lie and say "kill" was another word for "hug", Arin says, "I'm learning but I'm not stupid." [Timestamp: 1h 24m]

Arin shares his thoughts with Foolish: - You are a good person, Foolish. I'll remember that. - In the last hour I've learned there are people and things, and I've learned there are good people and bad people. I've learned there are people that want to make me sleep, and people who kill things without caring. - I've also learned that not everyone deserves to be in the big room because they are dangerous. - I really love the big room. I think my purpose is to make the room free of danger, and free of dangerous people for animals and other people.

Foolish worries Arin is only learning about the cruelty of the world (to which Arin responds "I only learn from what I experience"), so Foolish plays him the disc "Otherside" (but still refuses to let him out of the hole). [Timestamp: 1h 28m 30s]

Shortly after this, Arin falls asleep.

March 28th - [VOD]

Luzu starts stream by talking about Arin and his role:

Luzu: I didn't prepare anything that happened yesterday afternoon... and now I have many ideas from yesterday and from what arose... I am a person who improvises a lot. [Original: Yo no preparé nada de lo que pasó ayer en la tarde... y ahora tengo muchas ideas desde ayer y de lo que surgió... soy una persona que improvisa mucho.]

Luzu finds a very strange building by his house and doesn't know who made it.

Arin doesn't make any major appearances, though he briefly takes over when Luzu goes to sleep.

March 29th - [VOD]

Note: Some important conversations happened in this VOD, so I've opted for adding the quotes directly rather than summarizing them.

Arin once again wakes up in Luzu's home. He greets the server with some binary, and Fit immediately asks if he's ok.

He still can't walk, but he uses his telescope to look at the bees Luzu set up outside his (er... their?) house the previous day.

He tries copying the bee's movement, but ultimately he still cant walk, so he messages Fit for help.

Fit visits his house and slowly teaches Luzu how to walk (with great success!) [Timestamp: 14m 20s]

As a reward, Fit gifts him some glowberries.

Arin spends the night in his home carefully walking around and avoiding the windows, afraid of the zombies wandering outside.

Maximus comes to visit, and Arin officially names himself "Arin" [Timestamp: 25m]

He also confirms he is not a machine.

Maximus teaches him what bees are and warns Arin not to hit or bother them, because they'll sting him. Arin asks, "When someone annoys you, do you have to hurt them?" (Maxo tells him yes)

Maximus escorts him outside, and Arin gets to look at the bees more. As soon as the sun gets down Arin gets nervous, but then the aurora comes out and he uses his telescope to get a better look, amazed by its beauty.

Arin says, "I feel grateful, I never thought that all this existed." Maximus also clears up his confusion about the outside being a "big room."

Arin yet again confirms that no one sent him to the QSMP, but he navigated to it through "a crack between worlds". He thinks Luzu is in his world every time he's in the QSMP, but he's not sure. He worries if Luzu knew about him, he'd stop existing.

Arin asks Maximus how he can walk around "the big room" when there's no light without being afraid. Maximus wants to teach him not to be afraid, so he lures a zombie into Arin's home so Arin can understand what they are better, then he convinces Arin to kill it, even though Foolish and the boys told him killing is wrong.

When Maximus scolds him for not knowing something "basic", Arin says: "Nothing is basic, it's just that knowing things for a long time makes them lose value to you. This world is unique to me. This is the first time I've existed. But to exist, or not exist, I have no choice. Suddenly I was here and I feel there is a purpose I must fulfill."

He and Maximus have a long conversation. Here are some key quotes from Arin: Arin: I don't want to hurt Luzu. I don't want to hurt anyone. Arin: If Luzu dies, I don't know what will happen to me. Arin: Maybe we fear what we don't understand. We feel threatened by what we cannot explain. When we feel threatened, we only want to make what we want to keep alive last and the material world. I think the material world haunts me to keep things as they've always been. Arin: Today I have learned to walk, I have learned what a bee is, and I have learned that even when light goes out, beauty appears. Arin: Hopefully I can help you [Maximus]. Everyone has been very good to me. I learn every day, so maybe soon I can learn to help you too.

Arin considers Fit and Maximus his friends.

Arin says he can't be here [in the QSMP world] for nothing, so he's trying to figure out what his purpose is. Maximus jokingly replies "When you figure out the meaning of life, tell me!"

Arin starts to question the morality of his existence when it's dependent on Luzu being gone.

Arin: If my existence takes Luzu out of existence, is my existence bad? Maybe if I help you, I can make my existence good. Maybe I can start by making [Luzu's room] more beautiful. Maximus: Yes, it would be bad because you are taking the life of another being to have your own.

Arin: In this world, it seems like everything is programmed to maintain a balance. There are things that create and things that destroy, things that are created and things that are destroyed. Neither is good or bad, they are just part of the same process. Maximus: That's the way of Tao, yes. Arin: Bees take pollen from flowers to make honey. I take potatoes from the earth, and if I die, I will become the earth that gives life to potatoes, and meanwhile I can decide to do good things or do bad things. Arin: What is the reason for existing, beyond the fact that we have the opportunity to do so? Maximus: You will indeed become a potato. Arin: But I think this world exists to do good things. There can't be so many beautiful things for there to only be bad.

After Maximus leaves, Arin starts collecting sand near the lake, but he accidentally falls in. He doesn't know how to swim and slowly starts to drown. [Timestamp: 1h 10m]

For several agonizing EXTREMELY STRESSFUL minutes, Arin desperately tries to keep his head above water. He sends Maximus a message asking for help, but Maximus is very far away, and Arin is already exhausted.

Not too far from him, Luzu sees a wandering trader and waves to them asking for help, but they ignore him.

Maximus manages to arrive at the last second and saves Arin. Arin asks why the villager didn't help him even though he was drowning, and Maximus explains that some people are neither good nor bad. They just exist. (NPCs)

I'll be honest, this is one of the most realistic depictions of drowning I've ever seen in any piece of media, and it's in a frickin Minecraft roleplay server. Luzu's a really good actor but I never want to experience something that stressful again lmao.

Arin's final thoughts: Today I have learned that the world is beautiful and dangerous at the same time. You can give life or take it away. That's why every moment we spend alive is worth enjoying. The world is very interesting.

April 17th - Morning [VOD]

Luzu finds out he's the father of Tilin. He's very excited to meet her after talking with Badboyhalo and Foolish, who don't know how to break the news to him that Tilin is dead.

After seeing Tilin's grave and hearing the confirmation from Bad and Foolish, he gets overwhelmed with grief and anger, and Arin takes over. [Timestamp: 1h 10m]

Arin says some interesting things when meeting Dapper: - Arin: "I saw your (the Egg's) birth in another way. I saw Dapper and other beings not being and suddenly being."

Arin also talks about the possibility of bringing Eggs, like Tilin or even JuanaFlippa, back to life: - Arin: When I'm asleep I can see the code behind existence - Arin: A part of the chain has disappeared,but that doesn't mean the chain can't be fixed. It's all part of a big code.

When Foolish asks if Arin could possibly mess with the code, Arin says, "I can try, but that would require something" [Timestamp 1h 16m]

Arin also tells them he's dependent on Luzu's existence for now.

While talking with Bad and Foolish, they hear strange noises and are suddenly attacked by the Binary Monster and a ridiculous amount of lag. Arin says, "They're coming specifically for me," and "They know I shouldn't be here." [Timestamp 1h 19m]

Arin also says, "They don't like that I made my way to this dimension" and warns Foolish and Bad not to get caught by the Binary Monster. If they get caught, Arin says they'll be taken to his [Arin's] world and they'll stop existing here.

They finally make it to Luzu's house, and he shows Foolish and Badboyhalo the structure he made outside the house. Foolish asks if it's Arin's mind since it seems like a big computer, and Arin says, "Something like that. With all I'm learning, I'm trying to figure out how to create bridges between my world and yours. In my world, bringing something back [like a dead Egg] isn't impossible like here. It's a matter of math." [Timestamp: 1h 25m]

Arin says farewell to them, leaving them with this final goodbye message.

That's all the lore thus far! This took so many hours to put together but I hope it helps folks out because lord knows I was a bit lost for a while there too. Please feel free to go crazy in the tags I love reading people's commentary on things.

★ Other QSMP info posts ★

Who is Sapo Peta? | Who is Luzu? | Who is Spreen? | Who is Vegetta? | Who is Rubius?

"Is this Lore?"

And if you want to hear my thoughts on QSMP and its lore-related shenanigans, this is my Qsmp Talk tag.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

The Babysitter Chronicles - Hopper

Steve POV 5+1 (immediately follows s2) || wc: 4.6k || cws: check tags || full fic ao3

Henderson || Mayfield pt 1 / Mayfield pt 2 || Sinclair || Wheeler || Byers || +1 Hopper

Can be read as a standalone

~~~

It’s Friday night at the Harrington house, which means it’s movie night. Even though this week is Dustin’s turn to pick, Steve can hear the kids arguing all the way from the kitchen. He’s in the middle of prepping snacks and drinks, just waiting on the pizza, when the doorbell rings. 

The arguing stops, and he can hear footsteps running towards the front door.

“Hey,” Steve shouts just as Mike and Max round the corner. “What did I tell you guys about answering the goddamn door?”

“But we know who it is,” Mike argues. “It’s the goddamned pizza man.”

“Language!” Max shouts it the same time Steve does, and he looks over to see her smirking with her hands on her hips. She obnoxiously runs a hand through her hair, pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks up at him. Of course he’s stood the same way.

He rolls his eyes, which only spurs her on as she laughs, running around the corner out of sight before he can bitch her out.

These kids will be the end of him.

The doorbell rings again and again and again.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve sighs, “I’m coming!”

Instead of the pizza man, he opens the door to Police Chief Jim Hopper. Fully uniformed, he stands stiff as a statue, arms crossed and mustache twitching in irritation. The cruiser sits running in the driveway and he’s looming on the front stoop staring him down like every other time he’s busted one of King Steve’s parties.

Anxiety floods his veins as he racks his brain for why the chief is here. He’s not throwing a party. The kids are noisy, sure, but not loud enough to bother the neighbors. He hasn’t drank since his fight with Billy.

Shit.

“Hop. I mean, Chief,” Steve stumbles, panic bubbling in his lungs. “Sir, I swear it was just to help with the pain.”

The Chief drops his arms, one hand moving to pinch his nose while he props the other on his hip. God this is worse than he thought. He hears Max cackle behind him, and he turns to find her watching them from behind the corner of the wall. Having absolutely no idea what she’s on about, he waves her away before Hopper gets even more irritated.

“No really,” Steve pleads, turning back to face Hopper and the consequences of his actions. “I just needed something to help me sleep! Munson said it would help with migraines too so I thought–”

“Munson?” He stares at Steve, eyebrows crinkling in confused frustration. “Why are you buying off him? More importantly, how do you even know he sells? You know what, no, nevermind don’t answer that. Didn’t you get meds from the hospital?”

Steve quickly glances away, shifting his weight as he tries to come up with a response.

“Dammit kid,” Hopper yells. “You told me you were going to go to the hospital.”

“Yeah, I know. I know I did but–”

He catches a brief rustling of fabric behind the Chief that he hadn’t noticed before. Leaning around the left side, Hopper steps out of the way to reveal a young girl with large, brown eyes and curly brown hair. She’s bundled up in an oversized flannel coat over what Steve thinks is another too-large flannel shirt. Actually, most of her clothes look a few sizes too big.

Steve’s never really met El before. They didn’t talk after she saved them all from the demodogs, and she was in-and-out of consciousness when Hopper brought her back after closing the gate. Things had been so chaotic, he’d made a point to go unnoticed as everyone trickled back into the Byers’ house, standing off to the side and out of the way.

For a girl who’s saved the world, she’s more shy than he expected. He smiles and bends over to meet her at eye-level. When she smiles back, he waves at her. She copies him again and giggles, hiding her face behind Hopper’s jacket.

The Chief’s heavy, drawn out sigh pulls Steve’s focus again. He scrubs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to wipe this moment from his memory. 

“Look, kid, I need a favor. Can we come in?”

Steve shows them down the hall and into the TV room where the boys greet her with enthusiastic hugs. He flicks his eyes over to Max, now sitting alone on the couch. She’s watching the boys flit around their friend with a slight frown on her face, but as Steve moves to make introductions, Will plops down next to her. He drops an armful of colored pencils and sketch pads on the table in front of them, and a small smile skates across her face.

Hopefully he can count on Lucas to remember not everyone knows El. If not, Steve will make sure to introduce everyone and ease the tension later.

Hopper leans against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed and arms braced behind him. He fixes Steve with a tense glare which has the boy self-consciously wrapping his arms around his torso, shrinking in on himself. Steve’s never had great relationships with adults or any type of authority. Hopper’s gruff and intimidating, doesn’t put up with bullshit, and he’s a cop for christ’s sake. 

They stare at each other uncomfortably for what feels like hours before Hopper sighs, hard and heavy. “I don’t even know where to start with you, kid.”

Steve flinches, can’t help it after a decade of hearing similar statements from his father, usually followed up by a lecture on how he’s not good enough in some way or another. 

Hopper, like Joyce, catches the movement faster than Steve can recover. “Shit, kid, that’s not–” he sighs again, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. Something that she likes to point out all the time.” A fond smile crosses Hopper’s face as he points a thumb behind him towards the living room.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, unsure what he’s even talking about,  so Steve waits for whatever lecture is barreling his way. Even with the Chief’s smile, he can’t relax.

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital, Steve?” Hopper asks, disappointed. “I asked if you’d go, and you said you would. So why didn’t you.”

“I got the stitches,” Steve snaps, hackles rising in defense, “does it matter where they came from?”

“You lied to me.” Hopper’s voice is rising. “I checked with the nurses, and they didn’t have any intake paperwork under your name.” He’s switched back to detective mode, and Steve feels himself being backed into a wall.

“That’s– that’s illegal, or something. Right? Like–” Steve stumbles his words when he catches Hopper roll his eyes– “you can’t look up my medical stuff.”

The Chief scoffs and bites back, clearly annoyed. “I’ve known over half of the ER nurses for longer than you’ve been alive. So if I ask after one of my own kids, I’m gonna get some goddamn answers.”

It feels like a hit to the head all over again, leaving Steve dazed. His mouth hangs open around words he can’t articulate, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s never thought of Hop as anyone other than the Chief of Police and one of the only two adults in this damn town who know about the Upside Down.

So how’s Steve supposed to respond when Hopper calls him one of my kids? It rings in his head, settles hot behind his eyes. The Chief must notice, because he raises a hand and makes a move toward Steve that sets his heart into a panic. He fumbles for a response before something crazy happens, like getting a hug from an actual, male adult, or god-forbid crying in front of said adult.

“I drove out to Munson’s to buy some pre-rolls. He said if I paid extra his uncle could stitch me up because he was in the army and knows how to do that kind of stuff.” Steve’s rushing to fill the silence, the words tumbling over one another. “I already tried doing it myself–”

“Jesus christ, kid,” Hopper interrupts, muttering under his breath.

“– and I knew it would scar anyways but I couldn’t go to a hospital because they’d call my parents so I paid him a hundred and then Mr. Munson wouldn’t let me leave so they let me stay overnight on the couch.” Steve’s winded by the time he’s done, and sucks in a large breath to keep himself together. Judging by the red splotches on Hopper’s face, he might be feeling the same.

It had been one hell of a night, at least from the bits and pieces Steve actually remembers. The trailer was small and cozy, the space heater lulling him into a post-adrenaline haze. Even though the stitches were painful, Mr. Munson’s hands had been deft, his smile gentle, but his eyes guarded and wary. 

Steve can’t blame him. Most people know the Harrington’s, and it’s not past Steve for him to realize why Mr. Munson would be hesitant to invite him into their home, especially when he was beaten to a pulp. 

But he refused to let Steve go home to an empty house, said it was too dangerous to sleep alone. Munson let out a shriek weirdly reminiscent of Dustin when Wayne refused payment, although Steve still managed to sneak him a twenty for the weed and a few painkillers.

“Wayne’s a good man,” Hopper says. “Guess I’ll owe him one next time I catch his damned nephew out at the quarry again.” He chuckles fondly, eyes fixed on a memory Steve can’t see. But after a moment, Hopper’s back to grilling him. “Joyce mentioned something you said, your folks being gone a lot.”

Even though it’d only been less than a week since he knocked on the Byers’ front door, he’s still surprised she remembers his slip up. It didn’t register as important in the grand scheme of things. At least not in the face of Ms. Byers coming to terms with Will spending time with him.

“They’re home often enough.” Steve's familiar line rolls easy off his tongue. Still, he can’t stop from crossing his arms over his chest as he moves his gaze to the side, pretending his grocery list on the fridge is the most interesting thing in the room. He licks over the small scab leftover on his lip, the only remaining physical evidence of his life’s biggest failure.

“Really?” Hopper says. It’s not a question, so Steve doesn’t answer. “Then tell me where they are, right now. Or the last time you talked to them in person.”

Steve snaps his mouth closed, about to tell the Chief he’d actually talked to his mother on the phone yesterday. She’d called to inform him they’d moved money into his checking account for groceries and cleaning supplies, the house is surely a mess. He’s not actually sure where they are, or if they’re even in the country.

“They’re in Chicago,” Steve lies. Hopper’s already shaking his head.

“No, kid, they’re not.” A rock falls in the pit of Steve’s stomach, dread creeping up the back of his neck as Hopper pushes on. “I got your dad’s secretary's number from the Mayor. They’ve been in New York for three weeks, and they’re headed to Toronto tomorrow for another week and a half.”

“You called them?” Steve practically shouts. He shoots a glance towards the kitchen door. The muted sound of the kids’ arguing filters in from the living room, and it seems they haven’t noticed his outburst. 

Heat’s building behind his eyes, a wet sheen blurring his vision. The scab on his lip is starting to peel again, and he can’t stop the nervous tapping of his foot on the spotless tile floor.

But Hopper’s already clocked Steve’s cresting panic before he can shove the fear back in the box. The Chief holds up his hands, and Steve wonders if he looks like a spooked animal. 

“I didn’t mention you, or what happened. All I said was I needed some legal advice, and wanted to know when they’d be back in town.” Hopper’s tone is quiet, his words measured and slow. His eyes are wide, nervous.

Steve hesitates before looking up at him. “So?” He knows his voice is small, like a sad, pathetic child’s voice. Because even though he knows it doesn’t matter, he’s compelled to ask like he always used to. He wonders if there’ll always be some part of him who waits for a knock on the front door.

He hopes not.

When Hopper only responds with a shake of his head, mouth pinched into a firm line, Steve freezes, body tense. He tilts his head back fruitlessly as the tears drip down his cheeks. Steve presses the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars, but it’s still no use. 

It doesn’t help. His lip starts to wobble even as he chews it bloody. There’s a rock lodged in the back of his throat, and his body heaves with a shameful sob that breaks the dam open.

He falls into a crouch on the ground, balanced on the balls of his feet. Hidden from the doorway behind the kitchen counter, he drops his head in his hands. If he can’t will himself to stop, Steve can at least hide himself away, hope Hopper’s uncomfortable enough he just leaves and they can both pretend this never happened.

But instead Steve feels warm, heavy arms sling around his back. He’s being pulled forward and slightly sideways, when his face hits the rough polyester scratch of the Chief’s uniform as he tucks Steve into his side. 

Hopper should be yelling at him to man up, to get it together, to live up to the Harrington name. He should feel embarrassed, ashamed. 

Instead, it’s a paternal warmth Steve’s never experienced. Hopper shushes Steve like a child, tells him over and over that he’s ok, everything’s going to be ok. Except Steve knows that that isn’t true, not always.

“The kids almost died, and it was my fault.” His voice is wet and his words are soaked together through the clog in his throat.

“Steve,” Hopper cuts in, but Steve plows over him like he hadn’t said anything.

“What if Max hadn’t stopped him, and he’d killed Lucas?” Steve’s shaking, gasping for breath. “I should’ve fought him off, thrown him off me when he pinned me to the ground.” He can faintly hear Hopper telling him to breathe, but he sounds so far away and Steve’s lungs are collapsing and his heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. 

He’s vomiting words he’s tried so hard to keep locked away, spilling them all over the kitchen floor for everyone to see how sick and fucked up Steve Harrington really is when no one’s looking. “Billy smiled when I hit him, screamed like it was fun when he smashed that plate on my head. He just kept hitting me and hitting me and hitting me. And– and it hurt. Everything hurt.”

“Steve,” Hop whispers into the top of his head. It’s scary, how soft it feels.

“Hop, I– ” Steve chokes, forcing the confession out of his chest with all the strength he’s got left– “I think I almost died.”

The gruff man doesn’t say anything. His large hand moves to cradle the back of Steve’s head as he continues to fall apart in his overly large arms. Hop’s stomach is squishy like a pillow, but Steve can still hear the guy’s strong, steady heartbeat from where his head is laid on his chest.

Steve hones in on the sound, matches his breathing to the pulse until he’s calmed. Exhausted, he moves to pull away, and Hop finally lets him. When they stand up, Steve notices Hop’s eyes are wet, although his cheeks are dry.

Hopper opens and closes his mouth a few times before dragging his hands down his face. He sniffles, loud and gross like a man who’s not used to being around people. It’s a little disgusting, and Steve can’t help but scoff at the sound. Hopper peaks out at him over the edges of his fingers where they drag down his eyes. 

The doorbell chimes throughout the house, and the shuffling of scattered feet break out from the living room. Before Steve can turn away, the kitchen door swings open.

It’s El, slowly exploring the kitchen with curious eyes before settling on the men across the kitchen. She tilts her head to the side, examining Steve like she’s carefully cataloguing his blotchy cheeks, the snot still clinging to the tip of his nose, his mussed up hair and labored breaths. 

She moves towards him, preparing to say something, when Mike shouts from the foyer, “nevermind, El, we found the money on the table” yet she doesn’t make a move to rejoin them. She’s still staring at Steve, still moving closer. 

Hopper’s watching her carefully but doesn’t say anything, so Steve doesn’t do anything. He’s trapped in her big, brown eyes, and maybe that’s one of her super powers, putting people in a trance by being too adorable.

“You’re sad, Steve,” she asks, a lilt in her slightly monotone voice.

He clears his throat. “Yes. Yeah, I am.” Steve drags his sleeve across his face so hard that it reddens.

El’s smile is gentle, but without a trace of pity or teasing, like he’d get from the other kids. Well, except maybe Will.

She reaches out to grab his hand and says, like she’s repeating a mantra that’s told to her over and over, “everyone gets sad sometimes, and that’s ok” and Steve does his best not to cry again. He squeezes her tiny hand in his, and she squeezes back.

“El, honey,” Hopper says, sniffling again like he’s sucking a noodle up through his nose. El scrunches her nose and visibly shutters at the noise. When she catches Steve’s matchin expression, they break out into a fit of giggles. Hopper only rolls his eyes at them. “Can you keep the kids busy so they don’t come in here?”

She nods.

“Without telling them why,” Steve pleads.

Her eyebrows pinch together, lips puckered into a frown. “But friends don’t lie.”

“Sometimes it’s to keep someone safe,” Hopper answers her unspoken question.

El tilts her head again, this time to the other side as she considers his argument. Steve’s compelled to defend himself, he doesn’t need to be kept safe from the kids. But he also doesn’t want to listen to their incessant teasing, so he keeps his objections to himself.

She looks over her shoulder towards the noise, shouting now about where to find paper plates and napkins. Mike’s bitching can be heard above the rest, and Steve catches El rolling her eyes. “Sometimes they are mouth-breathers too.”

Steve’s not sure what that means, but Hopper barks out a laugh and she giggles like she said a swear word. But she squeezes his hand again and leaves. 

It’s official, the girls are his favorites.

“Alright kid, listen up, because I’ve got a deal for you.” Hopper looks completely unphased, like the last ten minutes never happened. Steve can still feel the heat splotched on his neck and cheeks, the burn in the back of his throat. He doesn’t think he’ll forget this for a long time.

“I thought you needed a favor?”

“Yeah, well, now it’s an ultimatum. And you’re going to take it.”

Steve scoffs, amused at the surety of Hopper’s tone and the glint in his eye. The man must be waiting for him to respond, but Steve just raises his eyebrow. Hopper lets out an unflattering snort, but takes the hint to continue.

He appreciates the change in tone, thinks maybe Hopper did it on purpose. Like he was just as anxious and awkward as Steve felt. But now, back on familiar ground, Steve’s lighter than he’s felt in months.

“You’re going to babysit El.” Hopper says it like it’s a fact, like Steve’s already agreed to it. Like it’s not a big deal to have someone like El out in the general public when none of them are even entirely sure she’s safe in Hawkins.

Steve knew the moment he left the Munson’s trailer, fresh as a bruised peach with swollen stitches in his forehead, that he was going to put himself in charge of the kids. Planned on going to Dustin’s the very next day to talk with Claudia about it.

He’d strategized and planned each parent down to the details– other than Mike, which was a bit of a disaster. Some of them took more convincing than others, but in the end they’d all given him a chance to prove himself capable. It’s everything Steve’s hoped for.

But he’d never even considered El. Not because he doesn’t know her, even though it’s true. Steve didn’t really know Will either, yet that didn’t stop Steve from including the kid in his plans.

No he just never thought to ask after El because he thought it was, like, illegal. She’s more than just an awkward pre-teen girl. She’s a superhero, she’s on the run, she doesn’t go to school, barely sees the Party. Steve just assumed El was off limits.

She doesn’t need protection… does she?

A hard hand clasped on his shoulder breaks Steve’s daze.

“If the last year has taught me anything, Steve, is that she deserves to live her life around people that care about her. El needs her friends– even goddamned Wheeler.” Hopper huffs, rolls his eyes and, yeah, Steve can empathize. Mike is exhausting. “But she’s just a kid, and I need to leave her with someone I can trust. Some place where I know she’s safe and will be protected at all costs.”

Steve feels vibrations begin to rack through his body again. He can’t bear to cry a second time, can’t handle having to explain to Hop that he’s going to have to find someone else to fit all of those criteria. Because clearly the man wasn’t listening when Steve explained how he almost died failing to save the kids. But before he can argue, Hopper cuts him off.

“I know what you’re thinking, Steve. You protected those kids the best you could, better than anyone else in your situation would’ve been able. You put yourself between them and death more than once that night. That’s not something everyone’s got in them, kid. That’s something special– and it’s exactly what El needs. What I need.”

“I mean, of course. I’d love– thank you.” Hop shakes his head, again cutting Steve off mid-blabber.

“The ultimatum, kid, remember?” He waits until Steve nods before he explains himself. “The deal is, if you’re watching her for me, then you’re going to let me watch out for you too.”

That brings Steve to a halt. His brow pinches together as he puzzles out what exactly Hop means by watching out for him too. He just said he trusts Steve enough to watch El, but now it sounds almost as if he’s backtracking.

“Jesus I can hear the gears in your head cranking away, Harrington.” Hopper drops his other hand on Steve’s shoulder. He’s being held in place by two massive mitts on his shoulders and he can’t figure out if the weight is a comfort or a prison.

“I don’t get it,” Steve says, shaking his head.

The Chief exhales rough through his nose, and hangs his head. Anxiety sparks through Steve again until Hop shakes him lightly.

“If El’s going to be hanging around here, that means sometimes I’m going to be hanging around here, and you’re going to let me,” Hopper says with a small smirk on his face. “You’re going to let me bring groceries over and cook dinner while you do your homework. You’re going to come by the cabin every once in a while to watch the basketball game. You’re also going to tell me when your parents call or when they’re in town”

Steve knows there’s more to Hopper’s torturously long list of conditions, but he doesn’t want to hear it. The Chief’s grip is a firm hold as he tries to break loose. “Look, Chief, I don’t need someone–”

“And!” Hopper shouts, a manic grin spreads across his face. It’s such a stark contrast to the man’s normal scowl it stops Steve in his tracks. Hopper’s expression is wild, like he’s enjoying Steve’s feeble attempts at defending himself. “Holidays are a requirement, Harrington. Hot cocoa, old Christmas movies, decorating the tree. New Year’s Eve. Birthdays. All of it.”

Steve’s at a loss for words. He knows what this is, can spot a shakedown when he sees one. Except this doesn’t feel hostile, not like when his dad always threatened to take the car away if Steve didn’t medal in swimming or score during a game. This is uncomfortable, but– nice? 

A lot like how this entire conversation has been.

“Umm,” Steve tries, “I can’t leave–”

“Don’t argue with me, Steve.”

“Can I bring Max?” Steve asks as Hopper stares at him. “To the holidays, and stuff. I’ll do it if I can bring Max too.”

Hopper’s manic grin fades into a more genuine smile as he stands upright. He pulls Steve into another hug before releasing him to ruffle his hair. Steve squawks, immediately mortified at how Dustin-esque it sounds. 

“Of course you can bring Max.”

They make their way back to the living room and sure enough, the pizza is already almost gone. Scraps of crust and dirty napkins litter the floor. The coffee table is a mess of colored pencils, crayons, sketch pads, and pencils. 

He’s worried it’s still awkward between the kids, and hopes El’s ok with Hopper leaving her here for a few hours. She still doesn’t know Steve, doesn’t know Will or Max either. But when he notices the Party, his anxieties melt from his shoulders. He can’t help the smile that crinkles his eyes at the sight of them

Will’s sitting facing the group, drawing a giant purple dragon with a small castle off in the distance. Steve notices each kid has a sketchpad. Some are rather good, close to matching Will’s– Lucas and Max– while others could use some work– Dusin, El, and Mike.

But they’re laughing as Max draws a comically large skateboard under her green dragon. El’s sat between her and Mike, eyes wide and intense as Max promises to show off her skateboard the next time she sees her. 

He hears the soft click of the front door behind him, and the rumbling of Hopper’s truck as it pulls out of the driveway. Dustin catches sight of him, practically scrambles to his feet as he drags Steve into the living room, yanking him down in the open spot next to him and thrusts a sketchpad in Steve’s hands.

Lucas hands him a plate with two pieces of pepperoni he saved just for Steve, and Dustin helps him catch up before Will shows them how to draw a knight. El finds Steve a yellow colored pencil when he can’t find one. Max crawls to sit next to him and smacks Mike on the back of the head when he says Steve’s castle looks haunted, little wisps of chimney smoke mistaken for ghosts.

It’s nothing. 

It’s just a seventeen year old boy, sitting in the middle of a gaggle of kids, coloring and eating pizza and making each other laugh. Settled and relaxed in a way he never expected after the horrors from the past year. And he knows, without a doubt, he’d do it all over again if it meant he’d end up right here.  It’d be nothing to most people but it’s everything to Steve, because for the first time in his life, he’s well and truly happy.

[cirrus-grey]

It's that season again so fuck it, TMA Tour de France AU

Jon is a GC contender and the team leader for Ocula-Arachne, a well-funded, competitive team with several previous Tour winners to their name. He was the second-place finisher at the previous year's Tour, and is looking to bring home the yellow jersey this year. He placed well in the Spring Classics, but a bad crash and a fractured ankle have meant he missed the last several weeks of racing. It was uncertain whether he'd even compete in the Tour until the team roster was announced shortly beforehand, and he's coming into it feeling like he needs to prove himself.

Martin is a time trial specialist, but has been made team leader of Solus this year and is competing for the GC. It's his first time riding for yellow - he placed in the top ten at last year's Tour and has been absolutely killing it in the Classics, drawing media attention and pressure for the first time in his career. He seems to be getting better and better as the season goes on, but there are questions on if he's got the team to back him up - their tactics often leave him riding alone, hanging onto the wheels of his rivals rather than protected in the middle of his allies. Rumors of his rivalry with Jon are perhaps exaggerated - they touched wheels in one of the first races they were in together and both crashed out, but whatever grudge Jon held from that has faded as they've found themselves going head-to-head in recent races, and they are often seen chatting amicably as they wait for stages to start or bantering good-naturedly after they finish. Still, building on that early enmity makes for good tv.

Tim is Jon's right-hand-rider and an absolute powerhouse in the mountains, known for being able to drag him up the toughest climbs even when he's having a bad day. There's speculation that he could be a future GC contender himself - he placed fourth in the Tour last year, and possibly could have made the podium if he hadn't had to sacrifice his own race for Jon's. He probably would have been team leader this year if Jon's injuries had kept him from riding, and commentators love discussing if the team made the right decision not to bring him forward. If he harbors any private resentments about being passed over, he's done a very good job keeping them out of the public eye.

Sasha is a breakaway specialist and a former teammate of Jon and Tim. At the end of last season she transferred to team Drugoy-Tsirk - they've got a smaller budget, but they give her the opportunity to ride for herself for stage wins, rather than hanging back to support Jon. There's barely a breakaway attempt made where she isn't one of the riders in it, and she's won most aggressive rider several times already this season. There's no hard feelings toward her from Jon and Tim about the team switch, though they do find it disconcerting how they almost don't recognize her among the peloton in her new red and gold uniform...

Melanie is a sprint specialist for Nemesis-Lancraig, two-time winner of the green jersey and looking for a third. She's received criticism in the past for her aggressive riding style, and been relegated at least once under the accusation of elbowing another rider out of the way during a bunch sprint. She denies it, and the negative press only drives her harder to prove herself. She hates Jon, and it's mutual - in a race early in both their careers, his attempts to gain time in the GC got in the way of her attempts to win a stage via sprint, and vis versa. Both lost, and both still bear a grudge over it.

Georgie is Melanie's chief lead-out rider and recent girlfriend, though they're trying to keep that out of the press. She's got a knack for finding a good line through a bunch sprint to launch Melanie to the finish, and has been courted by several other teams looking to add her to their roster - but she's happy where she is. She tries not to get in the middle of the rivalry between Melanie and Jon - she and Jon rode together before turning professional and helped each other's careers a lot, and they're still on quite good terms when they meet.

Basira is the team leader for Everchase-Z, and the reigning champion from last year's Tour. An experienced professional, she's maintained cordial if distant relationships with her competitors and is well-respected by all. She's here to defend her title, and is favored to do so by all estimates - no injuries, no illness, and an ever-predictive win in the Critérium du Dauphiné mean that she's coming into this race as the rider to beat, and she doesn't intend to let anyone do so.

Daisy is Basira's right-hand-rider and has been so for the entirety of their professional careers. Ever-loyal, ever-dependable, she's pretty much unstoppable when it comes to catching breakaways - she's snatched several wins right out from under Sasha’s nose, bridging the gap from the peloton in a burst of speed and dragging them back to the group - or launching Basira ahead for a solo win. If she's on your tail, it's almost a guarantee that you're going to get caught: marked, paced, and hunted down with the precision of an expert.

I don't have plot for all 21 days of racing, but I do have the pivotal moment in week 2:

Basira has a lead of several minutes on Jon. He's in second, with Martin only 30 seconds behind him for third. Tim is in fourth, only about 20 seconds behind Martin, and he'd probably be ahead of him if he hadn't had to drop back from a breakaway in an early hilly stage to help Jon. Melanie has two stage wins to her name and feels like she's letting her team down. Sasha has one stage win, and is marking the entire Tour as an unequivocal success.

Halfway through week two, they're in the high mountains. Sasha tried for an early break but got brought back by Daisy; Melanie zipped ahead to snag a few sprint points in the foothills, and is spending the rest of the day in the gruppetto, hanging with the rest of the sprinters and chatting (flirting) with Georgie. Early on the penultimate climb Basira got away from the rest of the contenders and gained a devastating lead, putting more than a minute into them before they were even halfway up. Tim managed to hang with her for a bit before being called back to help Jon, who was struggling; Martin, with no teammates to help him, has been chugging along between the two, no chance of catching Basira but dangerously close to pulling into second place if Jon can't find his legs.

Tim drops behind Martin. He rendezvous with Jon, and starts the laborious process of trying to catch Martin again. After several arduous minutes of effort, they do. Tim is beat and has no more to give, so Jon swaps over to Martin’s wheel, hanging with him as Tim falls behind and trying to ignore the throbbing in his still-not-fully-healed ankle. He could just stay here, pace Martin, keep his second place and leave first for another day, but-

Basira reaches the top of the climb and begins the long, fast descent. She's not taking any chances, playing it safe, and Elias (the Ocula team director) is on the team radio shouting at Jon that this is his chance, he's a good descender, if he can get over the top of this climb first not only can he leave Martin in his dust but he can scrape some time back on Basira too, he's still got a chance at yellow-

Jon gathers all his reserves of strength into a burst of speed, passing Martin and charging for the top of the climb. Martin sticks out his tongue as Jon passes, trying and failing to keep up, and Jon grins at him over his shoulder as a gap grows between them. There's enough distance to the top that he pulls that gap to almost 20 seconds before he gets there, and it stretches, elastic, as he starts the descent at full speed and Martin is left still slogging up the uphill behind him.

It's a tricky descent. Lots of sharp corners, narrow roads, pavement slightly damp from a recent rain. Elias is in Jon's earpiece, telling him to push it faster, take more chances, this isn't the time to play it safe, Basira's almost at the bottom but you can catch her-

Jon takes a corner too fast. He doesn't see the paint on the road until it's too late. His wheel loses traction; slips.

The camera on the motorbike ahead of him only sees him start to tip sideways before it's around the curve and out of view. Jon doesn't follow, and every commentator on every TV outlet across the world starts freaking out, asking if they can get a camera in there, what happened, did he crash?? The motorbike can't go backward, though, it would clog up the whole race, so they holster the camera and keep going. They'll slow down if they're needed to track riders coming up from behind, or speed up if the producers want more eyes on Basira. Finding out what happened to Jon will have to be a job for someone else.

Martin makes it to the top of the climb and starts the descent with a sigh of relief. He's alone; for some reason the motorbikes never seem to follow the Solus riders, even if they are in the top three. His earpiece is pretty quiet, too, since Peter (team director) takes a pretty hands-off approach to the whole "directing" thing. He knows his two competitors are ahead of him, though, so he takes a few more risks than he normally would on a descent like this, getting as much speed as he can without losing control of his bike.

Heading into a turn, he sees a bike tangled in the weeds on the outside edge of the road, mangled and broken. He eases up on the speed so as not to repeat the crash, not thinking too much about it.

He's ten feet away when he spots the radio on the ground and realizes the crashed rider can't call in for help.

He's five feet away when he recognizes Jon's bike, and realizes Jon himself is nowhere to be seen.

He's off his bike and running before he even thinks about it.

There's a sharp drop off at the edge of the road, a steep slope covered in thick-growing trees and underbrush. Martin skids down it, cleats digging ruts in the grass as he tries not to lose his balance. One hand finds his radio, he shouts for the medical car, and then all his focus is on the trees around him, searching desperately for a flash of Jon's jersey, calling his name.

It can only be a few seconds before he spots him. His team confirms later, it's a very short time between his first call through the radio and his second. But it feels like an eternity of crashing around through those trees, desperate, panicking, race entirely forgotten on the road behind him, before he finally finds Jon.

He's sprawled on the forest floor in a dip between two trees, his jersey torn to shreds, his helmet cracked in two, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood wells up from a deep gash in his side, and his eyelids are flickering, unfocused, barely-conscious.

"Jon!"

Martin drops to his knees, hands fluttering around, not sure where to begin. Jon's mouth moves, an exhale of breath that sounds almost like Martin’s name.

("I'm fine, Martin." Later, Jon remembers saying the words with absolute confidence, the concussed certainty that he only needed a minute to rest before he'd be back on his bike. "Keep racing, I'll be up again soon.")

Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

Martin's brain kicks back into gear. With one hand, he presses down on the wound in Jon's side, trying to staunch the blood flow (Oh god, there's so much blood, he must be cut deep-) and with the other he fumbles for his radio again, finally tuning in to the fact that Peter has been yelling in his ear this whole time.

"-crash? Can you get back on your bike? The car's going to take some time, can you keep riding?"

"Medic!" Martin snaps again, not listening.

"Martin!" Peter sounds more exasperated than relieved. "Where’d you crash? Can you keep riding?"

"Not me," Martin manages. "It's Jon, he- Jon Sims, from Ocula, he's- he crashed ahead of me."

"Sims?" Peter sounds baffled. "You're fine, then? Get back on the bike, we've got a chance at second!"

Martin doesn't move. "He's hurt bad. Where's the medical car?"

"A few minutes out, they're behind a few groups on the climb. Look, I've called in the crash, they're on their way, you don't need to worry. Just get back on your bike and keep riding, this is your chance!"

"I can't leave him!" Martin protests. He doesn't know a lot about medical science, but he can see the amount of blood on the leaves around them and how pale Jon's face has gone. He doesn't dare take his hand off the wound.

"Martin-"

He rips the radio from his ear, drops his other hand to Jon's side, and applies more pressure.

(News of the crash spreads over the race radio. In the Ocula car, Elias curses, slamming his hand into the dashboard hard enough to bruise. Then he picks up the radio again, flicking over to the team channel.

"Tim," he barks. "Jon crashed out, we're riding for you now. Try to get as much time back as you can before the finish, we'll reevaluate our strategy tonight."

"What?" Tim claps a hand to his radio - he's been soft-pedaling, waiting for the group behind to catch up so he can have an easier ride to the finish, but now he digs down for reserves of strength he didn't know he had and picks up the tempo. "Is Jon-"

"He's fine," Elias spits, motivation rather than truth. "Ride like a man and you might pull second over Blackwood."

Tim rolls his eyes and removes the radio - he's never envied Jon the kind of pressure Elias puts on the team leader - crests the top of the climb, and starts the descent. When he passes the crash he pays it no mind - Elias said Jon was fine, and he has a race to focus on.)

The minutes drag by with agonizing slowness for Martin. His eyes are glued to Jon's face; his hands shaking where he presses them to his side. He doesn't think he's imagining the way Jon's breathing is growing shallow and uneven, and there's an unspoken terror in his heart as he counts down the seconds until the medical car arrives.

The sound of an engine. A shout in French. "Here!" Martin yells back, whipping his head around. "Er- ici! Nous sommes ici!"

Everything is movement and noise from there. A few paramedics come hurrying down the slope toward them, faces turning worried as they spot Jon. One gently pushes Martin out of the way, taking his place to apply pressure to the wound; the other runs back to the car, shouting something Martin can't understand.

He finds himself standing on the sidelines, leaning against a tree, watching in a state of numb shock as they bring bandages down, start carefully trying to cover the worst of the wounds. He thinks a few minutes pass, but it feels like only seconds before there's the shrill sound of an ambulance siren on the road above and then more people are rushing around, they're loading Jon onto a stretcher, and Martin is following them back up the slope, trailing slowly behind as they carry Jon away.

The vehicles are pulled as far to the edge of the road as they can be to give riders room to pass. A few groups zip by as Jon is lifted into the ambulance and hooked to an IV. A motorbike has parked a little way up the road, and the camera is fixed on the scene, capturing every detail.

One of the paramedics tosses a blanket over Martin’s shoulders and makes sure he's leaning safely against a tree. He barely even notices, eyes locked on the doors of the ambulance as they close behind Jon.

The Solus team car pulls up as the ambulance drives away. Peter gets out, gestures for Martin's spare bike to be taken off the roof and gotten ready. Then he approaches Martin.

"Okay, we've lost a lot of time," he says briskly. "Ocula sent Stoker ahead and he's probably going to take second, but you've got a chance to hang onto third if you get moving now."

Martin turns to look at him slowly. The words aren't really registering, but when the new bike is rolled in front of him he grabs the handlebars and climbs on.

The camera watches as his team director helps him balance, gives him a hearty push to get him going again. He pedals once, twice. The bike slowly wobbles forward, veers to the side, and gently bumps into a tree. Martin tips sideways, not doing anything to break his fall, and is caught by one of the doctors from the medical car, which had stayed behind after the ambulance left.

Peter looks at the doctor, and the doctor shakes their head. He gives a deep, resigned sigh.

"Okay." Peter walks over, helps Martin off his bike, hands him back the shock blanket. "Come on, then."

He's ushered into the team car. A few more minutes are spent clearing the debris from the crash scene, removing the bits of bicycle that are scattered over the road. Then the medical car leaves, and the Solus team car soon after, and finally the motorbike drives off after them.

----

When Jon wakes in the hospital that night, he finds his whole team gathered around his bed, with Martin sitting closest to him and holding his hand. He's flattered that they'd take time out of their recovery for him like this; horrified when he learns that Martin actually dropped out of the race to help him; shocked to realize how bad his injuries are. He thanks Martin profusely, congratulates Tim on moving into second, and falls asleep again soon after.

It's not until the next morning, when he wakes to an empty room, that the doctors tell him he probably would have died if Martin hadn't stayed with him to help minimize the blood loss.

----

A few days later, he's cleared for transport, and they fly him back to London so he can finish his recovery in a hospital closer to home.

Martin books a flight back the same day.

----

They watch the last week of the race together on the tiny television in Jon's room. Sasha pulls one more win from the breakaway; Tim holds onto second by his fingernails, going toe-to-toe against the third place rider on the final mountain stage and winning by the width of a wheel. Basira runs away with first, pulling her lead to almost six minutes, and there's no doubt in anyone's mind that she would have gone home with yellow even if Jon and Martin had stayed in the race.

Melanie sews up the green jersey competition and pulls a final stage win on the Champs-Élysées, outsprinting everyone in a spectacular finish. She yanks Georgie into a celebratory kiss in front of all the cameras, and suddenly no one is talking about Jon's crash at all anymore as news of their relationship goes public in spectacular style.

----

Jon and Martin’s first kiss is a quieter thing, a private moment shared some weeks later on the day Jon is told he'll be able to go home soon.

----

It's when he's relearning how to walk on a slowly-healing leg that they start talking about their futures: what their careers mean to them, what they mean to each other, what they're willing to risk for both.

The news that the two rising stars have quit racing doesn't break until the next season has almost begun, but with the way their teams are clearly prepared to ride without them, it's clear the decision was made much earlier.

----

The television coverage of the next Tour does a little "behind the scenes" package to fill time on the long, uneventful sprint stages. They get team interviews, fan reactions, local color... they catch up with Jon and Martin on holiday by the coast, taking advantage of the lovely beach weather and cheering on the passing racers from among the crowd. They talk honestly about how they reassessed their priorities after the crash, how much respect they hold for riders who can come back from something like that and keep racing, but how the risk of further injury just wasn't worth it for them. When they're asked what their plans are now, they just smile.

"Well, we've got our hands full with wedding planning at the moment," they say, holding up their hands to show off the matching engagement rings. "But we're glad to be taking some time away to cheer on our old teams..."

They drop out of public awareness soon after that, with no regrets. They still enjoy watching the race together every year, and traveling to see some of it in person when they can, but they're more than happy to leave their own racing careers well in the past.

[mangoisms]

superposition ━ miyuki kazuya in which miyuki isn't the fool in love with his childhood best friend. it's you.

━ completed

━ wc: 27k

━ warnings: none

━ you can read this on ao3 as well

You met Miyuki Kazuya when you were eight-years-old. You didn’t know how to feel about him.

You were introduced to him simply because he was the same age as you and you happened to live a few houses down from each other. It had been an attempt to get you to socialize more, as the move from your home country had severely jarred you. Here you were, in an entirely different city and country with strange new customs and environments. The small, eight-year-old you didn’t like it very much.

The move had all been done in favor of the bakery your parents ran, recipes based on traditional dishes you grew up with. The bakery was right next door to your home and always seemed to be busy. Your father was almost always there, running around, making sure customers were happy while your mother played the entertainer.

They must’ve gotten tired of having to split their attention between you and the bakery because that morning before the bakery opened, she dragged you into the yard, where a short boy with brown hair and glasses waited.

“This Miyuki Kazuya. He lives down the street with his father. Go on, say hello,” your mother tried to coax you out from behind her legs, but you stayed there stubbornly, the fabric of her skirt balled up in your small hands. Your strength was no match against hers, though, and she pried you off her skirt, leaving the two of you in the yard of your house alone.

The boy peered cautiously at you. You realized he was smaller than you and relaxed slightly. Smaller kids were easier to deal with, right?

“Do you know how to play baseball?” he asked suddenly, watching with wide, amber eyes.

You pursed your lips. “Not really. It’s hard.”

Miyuki blinked in surprise. “Hard? No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” you countered stubbornly.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Can you throw a ball?”

You stopped, confused at the sudden question. “Of course I can,” you huffed, now affronted. What kind of question was that? Who didn’t know how to throw a ball?

“Then you can play. Come on, let’s go. I left my glove at my house.” He turned and began walking down the street, not bothering to wait for you.

He was annoying, you thought, but you were a little curious, so you followed him down the sidewalk to a two-story home a few houses down from yours, right next door to a factory.

“Wait here,” he instructed then dashed into the house, giving you no time to protest. You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. Who was this boy? He was so demanding and know-it-all. And you barely knew him, who was he to tell you what to do?

While you were tempted to not listen to him, you stayed there, waiting impatiently for him to return. You glanced around. The factory next door had the sounds of work going on, but you couldn’t see anything and the windows were far too high for you to see. You squinted to read the sign. Miyuki Steel. Did his family own a business, too?

You looked back to the door as he dashed out of the house, baseball glove and ball in hand. He held up a hand, signaling for you to wait as he ran to the factory and popped his head into the doorway.

“I’ll be home in a little while, Dad!”

There was no audible response, but he turned back around anyway, walking back towards you. He tossed you the ball, which you clumsily caught with a scowl on your face.

“Does your family own a business, too?”

“My dad,” he corrected. “He makes machines. It’s cool.”

That was kinda cool, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing you agreed.

“Are you gonna work there, too? When you’re grown-up?”

“No way. I’m gonna be a professional baseball player.” He turned to grin arrogantly at you. “Hey, hurry up. We need to get a good spot at the park.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you muttered, mood souring quickly at his bossiness.

Miyuki shrugged. “That’s what catchers do for their pitchers.”

“I’m not a pitcher,” you protested, following him reluctantly across the street after you glanced both directions, something he’d totally failed to do before crossing. “I wanna be a doctor.”

“That’s boring.”

You scowled, stopping on the sidewalk and dropping the ball unceremoniously onto the ground. “I don’t want to play, then.”

“Fine, then.” He continued walking towards the park, barely sparing you a glance.

You stood there for a second, casting a glance at the baseball still resting at your feet, then at your house that was quite a ways back. Squinting, you could see the bakery right next to it, the door swinging open and closed as people entered in quick succession. You recalled your mother’s words before Miyuki came over.

“Honey, please . . . Try to make some friends, okay? Kazuya is a good kid. He’ll grow on you.”

Initially, you’d been confused. Shouldn’t she have said something like ‘you’ll like him’ instead of that? But now, you understood. He was infuriating.

Yet, you remembered the loneliness of the first few days, stuck inside the house with nothing to do. Your older sister was always in her room, not willing to play with you. Apparently, she’d outgrown you, which didn’t make much sense. Sisters were always there, weren’t they?

Then, there was the situation with your parents and the bakery. On top of that, they were also preoccupied with your mother’s pregnancy. Rather, your father was constantly worrying about her, even though she was only six months pregnant. The baby only came when she was nine months pregnant, so why was he so worried about it?

You frowned, staring at the red stitching on the baseball. Miyuki’s bossiness . . . Well, it could be something you worked on, right?

You picked up the ball and ran after him.

“Wait up!”

You decided that he may not be the ideal friend, but he was there, and that was all that mattered.

Your younger brother was born two months later in the winter of December on a particularly cold day. By then, Miyuki had stuck to your side like a parasite, always asking for you to pitch to him, always asking for you to help him out if he ever got scraped up. And you did it, not necessarily because he was being annoying about it — which he was, but you were beginning to grow immune to his pestering — but because it was fun.

(Well. Disinfecting bloody knees wasn’t fun, but the cringe you’d get out of him when you poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut was always satisfying. Served him right for running around like an idiot.)

For your little brother’s one-month anniversary, friends and family were invited over. Aunts and uncles preened over you (“You’re growing up so fast!” and “You look exactly like your mother!”). It was horrible, so you managed to sneak Miyuki in and made a getaway to your room to play video games.

As you walked down the hallway, his attention was grabbed by your little brother currently napping in his nursery. (You didn’t understand why the party still went on even while he was asleep. This was all for him, wasn’t it?)

“He’s not that cute,” Miyuki muttered as he looked over the bars of the crib.

You nodded somberly. “He isn’t. He looks like a wrinkled grape. Mom said that’s just how little babies look, though.”

“So, you looked like that at one point, then.”

You scoffed. “So did you.”

“Of course I didn’t. I was a cute baby.”

“Sure.”

He reached out to tug on a piece of your hair and you batted his hand away with a scowl. “I won’t pitch for you anymore,” you said warningly.

“Fine, fine,” Miyuki snickered. “Come on. I wanna play Mario Kart today.”

You two snuck out of the nursery and into your room to play games for the rest of day, at least until he had to go home. Or until your mother discovered him.

Your name is called, just as your mother opens the door, in the middle of saying, “— come downstairs we’re all going to have din —"

She stops, blinking in surprise at the sight of Miyuki on the floor. “Hello, Kazuya.”

He stood up quickly and bowed.

She smiled, but it looked strange. “Would you like to join us for dinner? Perhaps you want to invite your father as well? Oh, does he know you’re here?”

Miyuki nodded but didn’t say much after that. You took over.

“He’ll stay. You should invite your dad, too. If he’s not working.” Both of you knew the answer to that, but your mother was still watching you two interact, a curious look in her eyes.

“Well, you know where the house phone is. Come down in a few minutes, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shut the door. You look down at him. “Working?”

He nodded. “All day.”

You shrugged, pulling yourself off your bed. “That’s okay. You can be with us.”

“Let’s play catch afterward.”

You rolled your eyes as you two exited the room. When you passed your brother’s room, the crib was empty. You could hear your family members cooing downstairs and figured he must’ve woken up.

“Thought you wanted to play Mario Kart?” you huffed as you walked down the stairs.

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

For the last few years of elementary school and your first year of junior high, you two were joined at the hip. Junior high also meant that Miyuki was getting serious about baseball. He’d received his first catcher’s glove from his father for his birthday that year. Not that using the one from the school hindered his performance anyway.

Being on the team meant he constantly got into fights with the older boys, so you slowly transitioned from cleaning up scrapes he received from rolling around to bandaging and icing bruises he received from fights.

You’d been making your way to the baseball field to catch Miyuki. You’d already heard of his loss from the other students part of the medical club and worried about his well-being, but when he dashed up the hill, he was grinning widely. Your eyes immediately went to the cut on his face.

“Where’d you get that?” You asked, gaping as he ran up to you, baseball gear over his shoulder.

“Never mind that. I can’t believe you missed today’s game. It was so good.”

“Miyuki, didn’t you guys lose?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. Their catcher outplayed me!”

You surveyed him carefully. “Did you get a concussion?”

“What — No, I’m fine,” he shook his head, his cap moving precariously with his rapid movements. “You’re not listening to me right now. He was some foreigner, I heard his dad was in the Majors here after coming from America.”

“And this is good because . . . ?” you trailed off, confusion clear in your voice.

Miyuki’s grin turned competitive. “I finally have a challenger.”

You scrutinized him for a few more seconds, long enough for his grin to fade and for him to fidget under your gaze. Finally, you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “Is everything a challenge to you?”

“How else am I supposed to be the best?”

You scowled. “Maybe not get hurt? Also, how did you get that cut? Are you the boys beating you up again? They better not be.”

“I tripped and fell on my way up here.” As usual, he looked utterly unashamed. You had to wonder: did this boy even feel shame? You pinched the bridge of your nose, turning on your heel, setting off for the school.

“Dummy. Come on, let’s go.” You didn’t wait for him, knowing he’d keep up with you without any protests.

“Those fights were never my fault, either,” he disagreed. “Age doesn’t matter on the field and I was just saying it like it is.”

You rolled your eyes, though you agreed. You’d never been fond of the way his older teammates pushed him around; even if Miyuki could be painfully blunt sometimes, you didn’t think there was any reason to get violent with him. And even then, sometimes he didn't even need to say anything for them to get pissed off.

You really didn't like his teammates.

He never fought back, either; said everything should be resolved on the field. You agreed, but the other boys would never think like that. They’d only continue to beat him up because they felt insecure, or he said something about their performance — something that was probably true. He could be brutal but he wasn't cruel.

“Also,” he continued as you two reentered the school and walked to your locker where you held a first aid kit (specifically put there because of Miyuki), “there was a scout there today, from Seido High School.”

You unlocked the locker, rummaging through it for the kit. “And?”

He told you about his encounter (you snorted when he recalled her comment about his height) with her and when he was finished, leaning against the locker as you tended to his cut, he looked thoughtful.

“You think he’d go to Seido?”

“Who’s this kid again? Do you have a crush?”

Miyuki puffed out his cheeks, glaring slightly at you. “No way. He’s my competition. I can’t like the enemy that way!”

You laughed, reveling in this brief moment where you were the one annoying him. “Alright, alright. I don’t know, Miyuki. Seido’s a good school, I think, especially if you wanna get serious about baseball.”

“Should I go?”

You pressed the gauze to his cheek, shooting him an apologetic look after he winced from the pressure. After, you began cleaning up and putting the kit away again. He was awaiting your answer still, watching you with analytic eyes. You shrugged.

“It’s up to you. Seido’s a powerhouse school, so I think you’d be fine, especially since you’re so damn competitive. I just thought you meant you’d challenge him from another school, assuming he went to Seido,” you told him honestly. “But also, we’re barely first years.”

He nodded, but he still looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

You shut your locker and shoved him forward, making him stumble on his feet.

“Hey, what was that for?” he yelped indignantly, catching his balance and readjusting the bag on his shoulder.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you replied. “Hurry up. You need to shower because you stink and my mom wants to try out a recipe with you.”

“You’re picking up too many of my habits,” he said, mock-disapprovingly, as you put on your backpack again and fell in step beside him.

“Is Miyuki Kazuya admitting he has flaws?”

“Never mind. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In your second year of junior high, your brother turned four-years-old. You also finally hit fourteen, along with Miyuki. With that, many changes came. Odd changes. Body changes. You wouldn’t lie. It was weird.

The counselors seemed to notice the sudden plight you all had. Girls stuck closer to each other, gossiping about boys and the like. Boys were suddenly coming in wearing heavy cologne, trying their hardest to appeal to others. You thought it was stupid. So did Miyuki.

That didn’t mean you two were exempt from the mandatory conversation with the counselor about the ‘changes in your body’ and the ‘strange way you may be feeling,’ whatever that meant. Truth be told, it was almost scarring.

“Tell me, have you noticed a change in your feelings to other boys? Perhaps even girls?”

You blinked demurely. “Not really.”

The counselor wasn’t satisfied, her lips turning down for a split second before she fixed into a proper smile. “No to the girls?”

“No to both of them,” you corrected politely. “I don’t really notice or care about those sort of feelings. They’re not necessary.”

“Not . . . necessary?” She asked, confusion as clear as day on her face.

You shrugged. “That’s what my older sister says.” Your elder sister had graduated high school last year and stayed home to help out with the family business, apparently finding some happiness in the kitchen baking pastries. You weren’t so keen on staying here, at least not in this part of Tokyo.

Your mother and father would probably have you stay back happily, too. As your third and final year of junior high grew closer, teachers and parents were suddenly awaiting your decision on a high school. You wished they’d just leave you alone.

“Alright,” she conceded warily. “But what do you think?”

What did you think? Now, that was the million-dollar question.

You shrugged again. The counselor was beginning to look annoyed.

“Well, regardless of that, you should know that some of the . . . urges you may get aren’t things you need to act on.” . . . Wait, what?

You stared at her. “Uh . . .”

“I’m sure you know what sex is —”

You blanched. “Sensei!” That was what this was about? No, you already knew about that, probably too much. The other girls in your grade hadn’t hesitated on divulging private details about their close encounters with other boys and it was far too much information you ever wanted to know about anybody else. You didn’t judge on what they were doing, that’s not it, it’s just — too much information.

“I already know about that stuff,” you hurried out, feeling your face begin to heat up. “A-And I know I shouldn’t do any of that until I’m older. I know.”

She scrutinized you and you wondered if this was what Miyuki felt like whenever you gave him that look. If so, you were going to stop. It felt like she was seeing right through you.

Finally, she sighed and nodded. “You have a good head on your shoulders, so, I trust you’ll know what to do if you’re ever faced with something like that. Remember, though, you can always say no to unwanted advances, alright?”

You nodded firmly, finding familiar ground. Yeah, your father had given you that particular talk, too.

“Girl or boy, you always ask consent and they should, too. Don’t be afraid to say no and don’t be afraid to get out of there if they don’t agree.” You weren’t a pushover. Hell, you couldn’t be one if you had to deal with someone like Miyuki. But even he seemed more aware of the kids that were suddenly looking at you with renewed interest.

“They ought to keep their eyes to themselves,” he’d muttered, stepping around to your other side to block you from the wandering eyes of a group of third years.

You only sighed, burying your nose deeper into the book on medicine you’d been obsessed with at the time. Oh, you could definitely take care of yourself and if need be, fight for yourself, too, but if Miyuki was willing to be your defender for now, who were you to deny him? It wasn’t like you doubted your ability to defend yourself. But he was already there and you weren’t going to waste that opportunity. Basic strategy in your opinion.

“Alright, then, we’re done here. Send Kazuya in, won’t you?”

You nodded and scrambled out of your seat, desperate to get out of that situation. Your face still felt irritatingly hot but you ignored it. You exited the office, spotting Miyuki in the waiting area, a sports magazine in his lap.

“You’re up, Miyuki,” you said, stealing the magazine off his lap, much to his chagrin.

“Hey, I was reading that —” he made a grab for it but you stretched your arm behind you, holding it at a distance. He stood up and you were momentarily surprised, stunned if you were being honest. So surprised you let him pry the magazine out of your hands.

“There’s a good article in here about the catcher that the SoftBank Hawks just recruited, I want to take a picture of it. You have your phone?” He held out his hand expectantly and you had the briefest of common sense to hand your phone over to him. His fingers brushed against yours and you pulled back, as though you’d been electrocuted. He didn’t notice.

You stared at him. When . . . When had he gotten so tall? Only last year he’d been the about the same height as you, if only a few inches taller, but it hadn’t been noticeable. When you’d been kids, you’d always been the one taller than him, but you kept growing and seemed to have stopped now.

Miyuki, though . . . He was easily five to six inches taller than you. What would that be? Five foot nine? Maybe even five foot ten? When had this happened? Was this recent? Or had it been gradual and you just hadn’t noticed?

“I’m gonna need to use your phone later to read this. Thanks. Hey, what does she want, by the way?” He’d handed you your phone back without glancing back and set the magazine back down on the coffee table, but once he’d turned around, he stopped and frowned at you, saying your name. “You good?”

You snapped out of it. “I’m fine, sorry. Just got distracted.”

“With what?” Of course. Miyuki Kazuya never knew when to drop something. He eyed you with barely-hidden suspicion.

“It’s nothing. Have you gotten taller recently?” Curse your loose tongue. You couldn’t help it, though. You had to know.

“Have I . . . ? Oh. Yeah,” he grinned, looking smug now, but there was something different because now you had to look up at him. It felt weird. Strange. “Five foot nine and half, last time I checked. Had to donate almost all of my pants. What about you?”

You scowled, your strange feelings disappearing as quickly as they’d come. “Shut it. Hurry up before Otsuka-sensei comes out here and beats you up.”

His obnoxious laughter followed you out of the main office. “She wouldn’t! I’ll see you in class, don’t eat lunch without me!”

You paused to look back at him. “What if you take too long?”

He grinned in a way that irritated you. “Guess you’re not eating lunch!”

You scowled deeply, swallowing down the curse words you felt compelled to throw at him, only holding back because of the receptionist currently eyeing you two in disapproval.

Prick, you mouthed.

He winked. Bastard.

Saying others didn’t have high expectations of you would be a lie. You were one of the top students in your grade, well-known for taking excellent notes and passing all your exams. Of course, others merely assumed you were just naturally intelligent, but it didn’t work that way.

There were far too many times when you had to split time between working register at the bakery and studying for a test. And many more times when you had to turn Miyuki down for some time to yourself. Honestly, though, you were sure you’d have run yourself into the ground if it hadn’t been for Miyuki’s pestering sometimes.

“I need to study, Miyuki,” you grumbled, switching between reading your textbook and taking inventory behind the counter. He was leaning over it, glove and baseball in his hand with his hat worn crookedly as per usual.

“You’ve been studying for the past three days. A break won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

He huffed petulantly. “You’re ignoring your best friend in favor of school? How cruel.”

You sighed shortly. “Don’t pull that.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m sure your little brother would be more than happy to pitch to me —”

“You realize he has the arm strength of a toddler, right?”

“Or maybe Mei would be willing to do it. He has been begging me to catch for him recently . . .”

“Narumiya . . .” you grumbled out, mood souring further. Narumiya Mei was from downtown Tokyo, living it up in the more expensive districts at his junior high where he dominated as the ace. Apparently, Miyuki and Narumiya had gone head-to-head during a game in the first semester of your second year and Narumiya liked Miyuki’s style of catching, even though your junior high’s team had lost phenomenally.

“I’m sure he won’t mind taking the train here . . .”

You clicked your tongue, flipping to the next page of your textbook. “Miyuki, you and I both know you can’t handle him for long periods of time. It’s literally impossible.”

He cracked a genuine smile. “Give him more credit.”

“No,” you refused stubbornly. Narumiya could be so condescending sometimes. The first time you’d met him, he hadn’t hesitated to throw an insult at you and worse, Miyuki hadn’t felt the need to defend you from it. That had been your first serious fight.

“Yes, Miyuki, I can defend myself, but I hardly knew him. Why couldn’t you step up for me? Just that once?”

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it actually is.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends defend each other, especially best friends, so what the hell?”

“If that’s all you’re going to talk about, I really don’t want to play with you, then.”

You had thick skin. You had to, being friends with Miyuki and all. And okay, fine, you were hurt when he had dismissed you so easily. Sure, maybe you were making this a bigger deal than it should’ve been, but nothing had quite hurt as much as it had when you learned that he’d went to catch for Narumiya after you had abandoned him. (Or rather after he’d abandoned you.)

Your older sister had been pissed to find you sniffling about it later on that day, vowing to kick his ass. You only barely managed to restrain her. Miyuki wouldn’t like someone else coming to speak or fight on your behalf. You both were mature enough to discuss it. Or so you hoped, anyway.

One week of no contact between you two had you almost caving and giving into him, but to your pleasant surprise, he approached you first. More specifically, he’d taken the painstaking time to jump the fence into your backyard and toss pebbles at your window until you finally opened it, almost taking a well-aimed pebble to the face in the process.

Of course, he didn’t outright apologize. Instead, he’d asked: “Can we play catch?”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“It is,” he agreed, then held up his glove and ball. “Please?”

You’d sighed, turning back into your room to change out of your sleeping clothes into something more suitable for going out in the muggy July night. It was easy to sneak out, your parents and siblings all fast sleep and immune to any quiet noises you might’ve made on the way out. Miyuki was waiting for you on the sidewalk in front of your house when you exited; you shut and locked the door quietly behind you.

Silently, you two began the trek to the park down the street. You found yourself tensing whenever a car would pass, ducking your head to hide your face. When the third one came round, you finally spoke. “What exactly am I breaking curfew for, Miyuki? My parents would kill me if we got taken home by a police officer.”

You lifted your head once the car was out of sight and turned to look at him. He had a pensive frown on his face. “I . . . I’m sorry.” He didn’t make eye contact with you. (In the present day, you distantly wondered if he’d been taller than you at the time, too. He had, but only by a few inches, not as tall as he’d been during the talk with the counselor.)

You were speechless. Miyuki Kazuya didn’t . . . apologize. Quite honestly, you were beginning to think you had made a bigger deal out of it than necessary. But perhaps that had been a trick on your own part, anything to try and talk with Miyuki like normal again. Up until now, you two had been close, though baseball was starting to take up a lot of his time and the medical club at school had begun helping third years find good high schools with medical curriculum programs so you were constantly staying after school.

He continued to avoid your eyes. “I should’ve defended you. You were right. Mei was being an ass and you don’t deserve that. Only I can be mean to you.”

The last part almost sounded like a defense mechanism, a way to stop this conversation from becoming too heavy. You appreciated it more than you thought you would.

You elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it physically impossible for you to say something nice?”

“Yes.” Miyuki nodded unabashedly. You scowled, but there was no heat behind it.

“Fine, I accept your apology. I’m sorry, too. I did kind of make a big deal.”

He shook his head, adamant now. “I was being a dick. You were right.” He looked at you, a little more meaningful. He elbowed you back. “Now, come on, I’ve been missing my favorite horrible pitcher.”

“Keep saying stuff like that and I won’t pitch for you.”

His laughter echoed off the houses, his eyes looking golden underneath the tawny glow of street lamps —

“— attention to me. Hey!”

Tan fingers snapped in front of your face, making you jump as you were abruptly brought back to the present. Right. Studying, an annoying Miyuki (as usual), the impending end of course exam for your English class. You regained your bearings, finding a frowning Miyuki in front of you. The furrow of his brow told you he was concerned.

“Sorry. Just got lost in thought for a little while,” you chuckled, a little embarrassed. Despite yourself, you noticed how the warm glow of the setting sun accented the golden flecks in his eyes, which were studying you seriously. You tried for a reassuring smile, but he clearly didn’t believe you.

He called out to your mother. “I’m going to be taking her out for a few! She’s been working hard!”

You gaped at him and barely managed to slip a bookmark into your textbook before he shut it and slid it underneath the counter. Your mother popped her head out of the kitchen, smiling in that perceptive way of hers.

“Of course, Kazuya. Be back by six. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and bring something to your father if he can’t make it.”

He grinned at her, in that charming sort of way he always did for your mother and older sister. “Yes, ma’am!”

You sighed, taking off the bakery apron and reaching for your own baseball cap. You both had gone to a SoftBank Hawks game for his twelfth birthday and bought matching caps for it. It was one of your favorite memories.

You didn’t truly care for baseball — definitely not like he did — but it made him happy, so you never really minded playing a good game with him.

By no means were you a legitimate pitcher, and as you two grew, you worried that your horrible pitching would hinder his performance since you didn’t provide a true challenge, but he had constantly said he liked playing with you for fun.

“Competitions are fun, too,” he’d agreed with your initial argument. “But I don’t have to be strategic or hard-working with you. It’s always been better with you.”

You weren’t sure you believed him, as you’d see the way his eyes lit up whenever he was out there on the field, hitting home runs, calling pitches (honestly, baseball was the perfect sport for him to show off his bossiness; you always pitied the pitchers assigned to him).

But, as you two walked to the park, you listening to him ramble about some baseball game, you figured he’d been playing catch with you this long, hadn’t he? That had to count for something.

Third year meant picking your high schools, pulling all-nights to study for entrance exams and most importantly, keeping up your grades — all the while dragging a reluctant Miyuki right behind you.

“What if you can’t get a scholarship? What if you do get one but it’s only for baseball? They’ll really be paying close attention to your grades then, you know,” you’d lectured him for the umpteenth time since the first semester began. “Having good studying habits won’t hurt you.”

“Yes, it will,” Miyuki grumbled petulantly from his spot next to you on your bed, laying down with his arm tossed over his face. You rolled your eyes, picking out a pencil to use for your assignment that you were about to do.

“You have no problem swinging three hundred times a day but when it comes to notes, what is it? You can’t read now?”

“I’m illiterate.”

You climbed over his legs to retrieve your notebook from your backpack on the floor, then threw it onto his stomach, making him jump at the sudden impact. You climbed back over to your spot against the wall. “Read those. I dumbed it down for you.”

“Thank you!”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. He was a real loser sometimes.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the sound of your little brother’s laughter from downstairs. He was probably watching one of his kid shows again. When the bakery began to get busier with the new school year, TV had become a fixation for him, a surefire way of keeping him in one place.

You unfolded your legs out from beneath you, resting them over Miyuki’s legs. He didn’t protest. Not that he ever did, really. Much to your pleasant surprise, Miyuki could be incredibly affectionate, always wanting to maintain physical contact with you. Whenever your class was taken on long field trips, his head always found your shoulder, though you knew it had to be uncomfortable for him because of the height differences between you two. He frequently draped an arm over your shoulders, if only to lean heavily on you and cause you to stumble — much to his amusement.

It was strange. He’d done those things often when you were kids, and they’d only increased in frequency as you’d gotten older, but . . . Why exactly were you noticing? Who cared? Miyuki sure as hell didn’t.

Maybe it was because sometimes, on those long field trips, when the hum of the engine, the feeling of his warm body next to yours put you to sleep in an instant, you’d wake up with the phantom warmth still lingering, finding yourself missing it. Or when you couldn’t help but notice the pleasant scent of something sweet and a little spicy whenever he’d lean on you and it’d be so overwhelming — his weight, the warmth, the scent — that your knees felt a little weak.

You pressed your mechanical pencil harder onto the page, finding your heart beating at what seemed like an unhealthy speed. That wasn’t good. Why was your heart doing this now? All you’d been thinking of was Miyuki.

“The heart should always be beating steadily. The only time it doesn’t is when you’re high on adrenaline, you’re exercising, or —”

“What about when you have a crush, Miss?” You couldn’t recall who had asked that, but it had probably been some annoying underclassmen. A few of the other kids present giggled while the upperclassmen rolled their eyes.

The nurse smiled indulgently. “Or if you like someone.”

“Have you thought about what high school you’re going to?” Miyuki’s voice brought you out of your internal strife. You almost breathed a sigh of relief, desperate for that distraction. You turned your attention back to your assignment since you’d neglected that, too. Then, you realized what he was asking.

“Not really.”

You had.

Miyuki hummed quietly. You could see him glancing at you in the corner of your eye.

You wrote down the answer to an equation. “You?” you asked.

“Sort of . . . I think I might head to Seido.”

You couldn’t say you were surprised. That guy — Chris, you’d learned his name was — had really gotten Miyuki going, a “potential rival” to keep him on his toes.

“Oh?” you asked, feigning surprise.

“Yeah. I got an offer from them. Full ride for academic and baseball.”

“Studying pays off, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you don’t have a school in mind already,” he said, ignoring your jeer. He laid the notebook flat across his chest and turned his eyes up toward your ceiling. “What have you been doing in the medical club all this time?”

You snorted. “Helping the last third years get into good high schools. I don’t know, Miyuki, I just haven’t really thought about it that much.” Now, you were blatantly lying to him. Oh, you’d given high school a lot of thought. The idea of going somewhere far away — such as Hokkaido — detested you, and you knew Miyuki would love it if you’d go with him to Seido. In fact, any moment now —

“Why not Seido? They have a great academic program, you know. They’re always in the top ten national rankings every year for academics.” He was trying to be nonchalant about it, but you could hear — and understand — the message under his words. Let’s do this together.

Your grip on your pencil tightened. The idea of being away from him was painful.

But was that the best idea?

You managed to stave off his questions, only promising to tell him your choices when you managed to find a few good schools. He left after dinner, taking a plate for his own father and your notebook, promising to read them. (You didn’t believe him.)

When you went back up to your room, you went over to your dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. It was the one with undergarments — one that Miyuki would never touch since he knew what was where. You brushed aside the articles of clothing and took out the thick envelope.

Mimayama School for Medicine and Science

It was in Kyoto, a huge campus that spanned an entire block and was the height of a skyscraper. It was a well-renowned school, one that had perfect statistics and scores in all subjects. The ideal high school. But it didn’t have a baseball program. Not to mention that there was a three-hour train ride from here to Kyoto.

Your grip on the envelope tightened, denting the thick cardstock. The fact that you’d been invited there was something to celebrate, but you hadn’t told your parents, having managed to steal the envelope before they could see it.

Maybe you would’ve celebrated if you lived a different life. One where Miyuki wasn’t there.

You felt guilty for thinking like that, but your sister’s words echoed in your head.

“Don’t allow feelings to influence important life decisions. Don’t think about those sorts of things. You don’t need them.”

You’d been a first year when she’d said that to you, strangely enough. It’d been the same thing you’d repeated to your counselor during that horrible conversation about puberty. And you’d firmly believed it, though there was one exception.

Don’t let others influence your feelings. Except Miyuki.

He was your best friend, after all. You’d be cruel to not feel anything.

What were you going to do, then?

Your answer seemed to come sooner or later. More specifically, the day Miyuki got into a fight.

It had been a cool October day, baseball season already over for Miyuki so he had no choice but to hang around the campus after school while you went to your regular club meetings.

The meeting had been adjourned earlier than usual so Miyuki wasn’t leaning against the wall like he usually would. The last text he’d sent you said that he was in the library, so you began walking over there. As you neared the doors, you passed a few girls, talking rapidly to each other.

“. . . fight. That’s so weird, I’ve never seen him lose his temper.”

“I know! He’s almost always antagonizing someone else, I can’t believe Tanaka was able to get Miyuki so riled up.”

You froze and turned to them, recognizing them as a few fellow classmates.

“Wait, what happened?” You stepped toward them, drawing their attention. They became fidgety and sheepish under your eyes, avoiding eye contact.

“Um . . . Miyuki got into a fight with Tanaka a few minutes ago outside the library.”

What?

Miyuki didn’t fight. He couldn’t fight. Well, no, you were sure he had a few good moves on him, especially since baseball kept him in prime shape and there were his unfortunate experiences with his more violent seniors on the team but they were long gone. Since he was a third year now (and considerably taller and more muscled), no one would dare to mess with him. Especially because he’d proved his worth on the field, that he had a right to say the things he did. It’s just that you knew he hated being at the tail-end of those confrontations. Having to take the hits, while refusing to say anything to any of the adults because they wouldn’t do anything. The violence of it. Violence has no place in baseball, he’d once said. Anything someone needs to say can be done on the field.

More than that — he couldn’t fight without risking expulsion. It would look horrible on his record and — he wouldn’t be able to go to Seido.

“Why?” you recovered quickly, not caring that you were being demanding now, probably too harsh if anything.

“We don’t know . . . We just heard it from some other kids.”

“Where is Miyuki now?” He probably wouldn’t answer your texts. If anything, it’d be exactly like him to hide this from you.

The girls shared glances again. “Um, I think he went to the boy's bathroom by 3-B.”

“Thanks,” you told them shortly, then turning on your heel and heading towards the hallway for third years. You made the decision to not retrieve your first aid kit. You’d lead him back to your house instead. He didn’t need to be around the school with visible injuries.

Once you were at the boy’s bathroom, you hesitated. What were you supposed to do? Could you go in there? Would he allow you to even see him? Maybe you could wait. He had to come out eventually.

You leaned against the lockers next to the wall, wondering what on earth happened. Even disregarding his dislike of violence and the huge risk that comes with fighting, like those girls had said, he wasn’t someone who got riled up easily. He was the one riling people up. But the fact that it’d been Tanaka made some sense; Ichiro Tanaka was the asshole in your class, always finding someone to pick on, always making unwanted advances on girls.

Miyuki may be an asshole in the sense that he could pick you apart and annoy you to death, but he had honor. (Plus, he’d never shown any interest in any girls or boys in your class ever.)

You rubbed your forehead tiredly, pulling out your phone to text your mother that you might be home earlier than usual. Just as you’d sent off the text, the door to the boy’s bathroom opened and Miyuki stepped out, his backpack slung over his shoulder, still not noticing your presence until you’d reached out to tap his shoulder.

You could see him tense, muscles stiffening. He was hesitant to turn around and you were about to call him out on it, but he turned before you could say. Your eyes widened as you took stock of his injuries.

“Are you okay?” you gasped, any thought of scolding him thrown out the window at seeing the busted lip, the cut on his temple, and the blossoming bruise on his cheek. A quick glance at his hands showed you the cuts on his knuckles, though they were only on his left hand. You knew he caught and threw with his right. At least he’d had that foresight. “What happened?”

He avoided your eyes. “I may have gotten into a fight with Tanaka.”

You huffed, glad to see he was acting normally. Well, as normal as Miyuki could ever be.

“No shit. I know that part already — though I don’t know why — but what did Tanaka do to you?” There was the underlying question in your words, one you wouldn’t outright say because it would probably appease him. Did you win?

Miyuki picked up on it anyway, smirking but then wincing at the pain he was probably feeling on his lip. “I won.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You — I can’t believe you. Come on, let’s do this at my house. We don’t need someone seeing you.” You two began walking towards the exit. You shot him a worried glance. You couldn’t imagine the potential repercussions this could entail. You didn’t want Miyuki to be stuck here. You wanted him to leave, to go to Seido and become the best damn catcher to play high school baseball.

As if sensing your thoughts, he spoke. “No one’s going to say anything. Tanaka’s looking for a volleyball scholarship at some school in Hokkaido and his lackeys have their own scholarships they need to worry about, too. It was an unspoken agreement.”

You sighed heavily. “I don’t want you to throw away your chances at a good baseball career, Miyuki. Especially not over a fight, which, speaking of, is very unlike you. So, regardless of that . . . what on earth happened?”

He stayed silent. You pursed your lips and led him to your house. It was easy to sneak past the bakery, where your parents and older sister would be preoccupied with the dinner time rush. The house would be empty, too, since your little brother was over at a friend’s house for a playdate.

You ushered him up to the bathroom on the second floor, dropping your bags off in your room beforehand. You shut the door behind you and locked it for good measure, then opened up the window to let some fresh air in. Miyuki was still silent, appearing introspective. For once, you were unable to find out what he was thinking.

You made him wash his face and hands first, taking his glasses and setting them on the counter behind you so they wouldn’t get wet. Once he was finished and resituated on the closed toilet seat, you began tending to his wounds, first going back downstairs to grab an icepack and wrapping it in a towel so it wouldn’t be too abrasive against his face. You worked on disinfecting the cuts on his knuckles, which weren’t too bad. You had one hand cupping his, the back of his hand facing up as your fingers pressed against his palm to spread out his hand.

He grimaced at the burn of the hydrogen peroxide but didn’t say anything. When you moved to wrap up his knuckles, you closed your hand around his fingers, trying not to focus on how the calluses rubbed against your skin. You moved on to the gash on his temple, murmuring a soft “sorry” when he winced from the burn. He had to keep his glasses off, but his eyes were on the floor.

You’d been applying an ointment to the cut when he spoke again. “Tanaka said something . . . Something I’m not repeating.” You paused, your eyes briefly flickering to his bandaged hand in his lap that clenched into a fist. “I couldn’t let it slide. I know . . . you know how I feel about fighting but . . . it was about you. And I’m not going to let him, of all people, talk about you like that.”

He sat up straighter, his eyes meeting yours. You froze, golden irises searing into you in a way that made your heart race. The lack of glasses made it all the more intense, your stomach doing flips in nervousness.

“Miyuki . . .” you muttered, feeling your face heat up. “I —”

“Don’t say you don’t want me fighting because of you. I did it because you’re my best friend and no one gets to speak about you that way. No one.”

Miyuki was passionate about baseball. About his cooking. About the SoftBank Hawks. But never about you. Yet, here he was, speaking so strongly that you felt a little weak at this display of anger and . . . touched.

You pursed your lips, breaking eye contact with him to turn to the sink and take out a bandaid to put over the cut. You carefully covered the wound then took out another disinfectant wipe to use for his lip. You actually hesitated before you started your work, but it had to be done.

You brushed his chin with the back of your hand, avoiding grabbing it. He turned his head up with no qualms, but his eyes stayed on your face. You attempted to disinfect the cut on his bottom lip, but it proved to be more difficult than you thought. It could also be because your heart was racing and your face was itchy with heat. You swore silently and grabbed his chin with your hand to better clean.

You hated this. Here you were, close to his face, staring at his lips as you cleaned them. At least you had an excuse to stare, though.

You caught your train of thought and almost swore out loud. Where was that even coming from? When had you begun thinking of him like that? Yeah, Miyuki was good-looking, almost unbelievably so, but it wasn’t anything new. So why now?

You realized far too late that you’d stopped moving the wipe on his lip, the white cloth blossoming red from the blood still leaking. He winced from your grip and you wrenched your hand back, uttering a soft “sorry” again. You turned back to the sink to grab the ointment, only squeezing out a small amount so that it wouldn’t be noticeable.

With shaking hands, you pressed your fingers to his jaw to angle his face once again, concentrating on anything but the feeling of his smooth skin underneath your fingers. You spread the ointment over the cut, trying your best to be gentle but also ensuring that it wasn’t showing.

In a desperate attempt to distract yourself and to break hold from the heavy atmosphere you’d found yourself in, you lifted your head to look at him again, but before you could even think to speak, the look in his eyes made you stop. Your brain short-circuited at the look he was giving you, whether it was on purpose or not, you didn’t know. You stood there frozen, still invading his personal space for the most part.

For a moment, it felt like time had stopped. His eyes looked warm underneath the light coming in from the window, casting shadows over the curve of his nose, making him look so much more older and — and handsome.

Then, like a warning siren, your sister’s voice echoed in your head.

“Don’t let feelings cloud your judgment.”

You sighed shortly, the loud noise shattering the moment. “Honestly, Miyuki.” You shook your head, turning around to toss the q-tip into the trash along with the other used supplies. You heard him make a surprised noise at your sudden movements.

You picked up his glasses off the counter and handed them back over then took a few steps back, leaning against the wall opposite to him, putting a respectable amount of distance between you two.

“I appreciate what you did,” you said, managing to keep the shakiness out of your voice. He’d put on his glasses again, his eyes now impossible to read. “But, god, I don’t want you to not be able to go to Seido . . . That is where you decided to go, right?”

He shrugged. “Probably. Don’t worry. I mean, I don’t regret what I did. Not at all. But I do understand what you’re saying and I’m not planning to make this a regular thing.”

You scowled, feeling the atmosphere around you lighten up. “I sure hope not. You don’t need to be batting with cut up knuckles like that, you dummy.”

“I know,” he said quietly, before trying for a smirk, though it came out more like a pained grimace. “Besides, you’re here to fix me up, aren’t you?”

You huffed, turning your nose up at him. “You’re so annoying, Miyuki.”

“Thanks.”

“Shut up.”

But even as he began talking about the studying he’d managed to accomplish before he’d left the library and ended up face to face with Tanaka, you thought about your plans for high school. These feelings . . . Whatever they were, they weren’t needed. Not right now. Not right before you two were picking out your high schools. You couldn’t allow them to cloud your judgment.

At the same time, though, going to Seido with him . . . That seemed amazing. Another three more years seeing him, going through all the high school experiences, cheering him on at baseball games, it was all too dangerous. Far too dangerous.

It was dangerous because here you were, at risk of feeling something more than platonic feelings for a boy you’d known since you were eight, where you already know your feelings will never be returned.

First semester of your third year wrapped up quickly after that. With the start of your second semester, you received many offers from different schools all over the country. Your parents and sister were proud.

“That’s our girl,” your father had grinned, reaching out to ruffle your hair, much to your displeasure.

“Hey, make sure you choose a good school,” your sister said, giving you a severe look. You fixed your hair, not meeting her eyes.

“Wherever you want to go, honey, we’ll support you.” There was a heaviness in your mother’s tone, as though she didn’t want you to go far. You’d gotten an offer from the high school in this area, but you weren’t satisfied with the curriculum. Staying here would mean ending up like your sister (no offense to her, of course, since she was happy). You wanted out of Old Town Tokyo.

Miyuki had gotten a lot of offers, too. Schools everywhere wanted him as their catcher. The powerhouse schools, like Inashiro, Teito, Seido (of course), even several schools from Hokkaido. It wouldn’t be hard for him to make it as a pro. You were proud.

But he was set on Seido, and he was pressing you for your own decision, too.

“I have to start planning. It’s going to be busy when we start up,” he’d told you, trying to convince you to spill which schools had sent you offers.

“I’m still thinking,” you’d lied. “But if you really want to know, I’ve gotten one from Sakurazawa High.”

“Oh, I know them. They’ve lost in the first round of the West tournament for like, twenty consecutive years.”

You shot him a glare. “Is that all that matters?”

He chuckled, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender. “They have great academics, don’t they? But, you know . . . I’m fairly sure that Seido is equal in terms of national academic ranking . . .”

That was another thing. You knew Miyuki wouldn’t ever hold you back, just like you wouldn’t hold him back. It felt like some sort of crime to ever try and stop him from pursuing his interest in baseball and vice versa for him and your desire to be a doctor. But you knew, just like he did, that Seido was a powerhouse school in both academics and athletics. Going there wouldn’t hinder your performance nor his. Not to mention, you two would be together, right?

Except, it sounded horrible. The past few months had been stressful, because not only did you have to deal with the looks your mother was giving you about choosing a school way outside of Old Town Tokyo, but you also had to stave off the counselors who wanted your decision, along with Miyuki. Then there were your feelings for him. You weren’t sure what they were, but you knew they weren’t good. They were the type of feelings to inhibit you.

You couldn’t be a good friend to Miyuki if all you were thinking about is how much you wanted to hold his hand and have him tuck you under his arm like so many other couples did. If all you thought about was how happy he looked whenever he was talking about baseball or talking about Seido and competing for starting catcher. If all you thought about was how pretty his eyes were and how handsome he looked whenever he genuinely smiled.

You weren’t being a good friend. And you needed to fix that.

That night, you mailed the application to Mimayama. Two days later, you received your acceptance letter.

“Mimayama? That’s so cool!”

“Wow! You’re serious about being a doctor, aren’t you?”

It had meant to be a secret. You’d only wanted your family to know and no one else. You’d tell Miyuki when you had to. Preferably right before he left to Seido, or maybe when he was there already. Clearly, that had been too tall of an order.

You’d notified your counselors of your acceptance and subsequent admittance into Mimayama, much to their happiness. Apparently, no such thing as student-to-administrator confidentiality existed because your homeroom teacher found out immediately and after publicly congratulating you, a group of girls had approached you, gushing over your acceptance.

Luckily, not many people had been there yet, though a few of your other classmates had eyed you curiously. Miyuki was running late, something or another about sleeping in. You didn’t know — didn’t care, since that meant you had time to do damage control.

“Listen,” you began, trying to look as serious as possible. The girls leaned in eagerly. “Keep it to yourselves, alright? Don’t tell Miyuki or anyone else. I don’t want to start unnecessary rumors. It’d be horrible if people thought I was boasting about it.”

They nodded, agreeing immediately. “Of course! But why not tell Miyuki?”

They were looking harder at you now, more analytical, more perceptive. It reminded you too much of your mother and sister. You came up with a quick lie.

“It’s a surprise for him. I’ll be telling him later on. We’re going to different schools —” those words left a bitter taste in your mouth and a numb ache in your heart “— so I’m trying to prepare, you know?”

They soaked it up. Of course they did. Miyuki was popular with girls and they’d always wondered about your friendship with him. Saying all this to them was probably enough gossip to last for the rest of the year.

“Totally! We’ll be quiet, promise!”

You smiled at them, glancing over at the door just as Miyuki stepped into the room, looking like a total mess. The girls turned back around and began whispering to each other, sending occasional glances towards him then to you.

You ignored them in favor of watching him shuffle over to the desk in front of yours. He collapsed dramatically into his seat, laying on top of your desk instead of his own. You raised an eyebrow.

“Are you done?”

“I’m tired,” he muttered. “Exhausted.”

Now a little concerned because a tired Miyuki wasn’t a good thing (though he was absolutely adorable), you leaned forward. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

He lifted his head and you clicked your tongue at the circles underneath his eyes. His hair was messier than usual, leaving you to contemplate whether or not he’d actually brushed it. “I was finishing the application to Seido. Mailed it off this morning.”

“When was the deadline?”

“Tomorrow.”

You rubbed your forehead, exasperated. “Miyuki . . . You’re so lucky you don’t have baseball anymore.”

“Not until next year.” He yawned and you tried your best to not think that he looked so adorable all sleepy and tired. This was a bad thing. He needed his sleep. “It was worth it. Hey, Mei wants to talk to me today after school. D’you want to come along?”

You pursed your lips. Well, you still weren’t fond of Narumiya, even after he’d begrudgingly apologized to you. He was Miyuki’s friend — sort of — and you’d wanted to lead Miyuki straight to his house so he could take a nap after school. This would just have to be done before, then. “Sure, but after, we’re going back to your house and you’re taking a nap.”

He grinned lazily at you. “Thanks.”

You turned away, ignoring the burn in your cheeks. “Whatever. Try not to fall asleep in class.”

He did end up falling asleep. And of course, you covered for him despite your earlier words. You had to wonder. If these feelings weren’t there, would you have done it? You glanced at him from the corner of your eye as you two made your way to the park. (After school, you’d dropped off your bags at his house since his was closet and began towards the place that Narumiya wanted to meet up at.) He yawned again, something he’d been doing frequently today, and you decided yes, no matter your feelings, you would gladly take cover for him.

Maybe that was where the problem had started.

Miyuki had always been the best in baseball, striving to work hard and prove himself, calling for aggressive plays and focusing even if something hadn’t gone his way. Despite his tendency to laziness when it came to exams and such, he was a diligent student.

In some ways, you wanted to be like him. Charismatic and charming when it counted, quick-thinking in difficult situations. After all, that was how doctors needed to be, right? They needed to be decisive, no hesitancy in their movements. You had someone’s life laid willingly into your hands and you couldn’t disappoint.

Had this admiration planted the seeds for your feelings?

You didn’t know and you didn’t have time to think it over as you came to the park. You fell a little behind as you realized there were other boys present, all from different leagues, though you knew they were part of Narumiya’s friend group. If Miyuki noticed you partially hiding, he didn’t say anything about it.

“Well, well, what’s with the gathering of the all-stars?” he asked, announcing his presence to them, in that conniving way of his. The boys turned to him, a few curious eyes glancing over to you, but you resolutely stood silent with your arms crossed, not offering your name. Thankfully, Miyuki didn’t offer to introduce you either.

He began listing off their names and leagues (you wondered briefly how he knew that, but of course, if it was baseball, it was important). When he finished, hands still casually in his pockets, he turned to Narumiya. “Did you call them all here, Mei?”

Mei grinned. “Yeah. And you, Kazuya. If you come with me, I can form my ultimate team.”

You raised your eyebrows. Well, you were surprised at this turn of events, but it wasn’t exactly far from something Narumiya would do. Miyuki laughed, sounding surprised as well.

“I don’t really care if you’re not the catcher, but Narumiya wants you,” the one named Shirakawa said, probably trying to help Narumiya convince Miyuki but it just sounded like he was bored and would rather be somewhere else.

“Inashiro invited you, too. Right, Kazuya?”

It was strange. You’d never been the possessive or jealous type. Miyuki had his fangirls — of course — but he’d never paid attention to them. Hearing Narumiya call Miyuki by his first name made you tense. Miyuki, you could understand — he called everyone by their first name, whether it was welcomed or not and you’d been calling him by his last name for as long as you could remember, more by habit now rather than respect. He’d never asked you to call him by his first name, either, so that’s the way it’d always been.

But here was the ever-so-condescending Narumiya Mei, speaking so casually with your best friend. It made you uncomfortable, but you pushed that away. This wasn’t the time nor place.

“So, why don’t we make the ultimate team together? If we all get on the same team, we could take nationals.” That was what this was about then. Barring your brief discomfort at hearing Narumiya call Miyuki by his first name, you felt a little proud that even such a self-centered pitcher like Narumiya and the others knew how valuable of a catcher that Miyuki was.

“Inashiro’s coach has a lot of experience under his belt and they have the best equipment in Tokyo. It’s a great environment, too,” Kamiya added.

“Not to mention, you won’t have to play against Narumiya. You’re in, too. Right, Miyuki Kazuya?” Shirakawa, as much as you hated to admit it, had a point. You’d seen Narumiya pitch. He was head and shoulders above a lot of the pitchers in your year. That was probably why he was so arrogant. But the guys made it sound like Miyuki would actually be averse to going head-to-head with Narumiya, when in fact —

“I’m sorry, but I already got an invite from Seido a while ago. I can’t join you guys.” His hand came up to his neck, a sign that showed he was a little uncomfortable being cornered by so many.

“What? Are you being serious right now?”

Narumiya stood up from his crouch. “Seido, huh? They’ve only gone to nationals once since their old coach quit. Compared to what Coach Kunitomo has achieved, Coach Kataoka is just way too green.”

You shifted on your feet, turning your eyes back to Miyuki. He scratched his neck in a shifty movement. It was coming any moment now. “Well, it’s not really about that,” he began. “Inashiro’s a team with a bunch of all-stars like you guys, right? So . . . I want to face you as an opponent.”

Of course. While the others were visibly shocked, you bit back a small smile. You’d seen it coming from a mile away. Sure, Narumiya could probably prepare a team to take nationals on with Miyuki and his other friends, but Miyuki wasn’t like that. He didn’t want the easy out. He wanted to work for it. You recalled his words from first year, after his loss against that second year catcher, Chris.

“How else am I supposed to be the best?” How else, indeed. There would be no better way than to face Inashiro than on a different team, still at a powerhouse school with a competent team where Miyuki would fit right in.

“Are you stupid?”

“Oh, you’re too kind.”

“It’s not a compliment!”

“Kazuya.” Narumiya didn’t look too surprised. Well, you could give him props for trying. “I’m gonna ask you one last time —” and for being so annoyingly persistent as well.

“Sorry. No.” Miyuki didn’t sound too apologetic.

Narumiya looked a bit irritated and his eyes shifted to you. “You’ll regret it, Kazuya. Is it because of her?” He calls you out, by your first name. “Are you going to Seido as well?”

You glared at him. “I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my first name, Narumiya. And let it go.”

Shirakawa and Kamiya snorted as an affronted look passed over Narumiya’s face. “Hey, you’re always so mean to me —”

You turned your nose up, ignoring him. He didn’t know when to quit.

Most likely in an attempt to defuse the situation, Miyuki took a step back and said his goodbyes, then turned around and guided you away from the park.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he confessed when you two were a reasonable distance away from the park, well on your way back to your own neighborhood. “But it was a very Mei thing of him to try.”

“Exactly what I thought,” you agreed. “He is right, too, you know. You’d probably be able to take on nationals without any problems.” Miyuki opened his mouth to protest but you elbowed him in the ribs, continuing with a small smile. “But I know. Challenger. I get it. It’s a surprisingly level-headed decision coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” You coughed to hide your snickers at the look on his face.

His house was empty as usual, his father most likely next door in the factory working on whatever project that needed to meet its deadline soon. You’d never asked about Miyuki’s mother, but you never had to. You’d seen the picture frame of a handsome, younger Toku Miyuki and a beautiful women standing next to him, a small bundle in her arms, standing in front of the factory. It didn’t take a genius to know that his mother had probably passed when he was younger.

Upon the entrance to his room, you went to his drawer where some casual clothes of yours were kept — purely for practical reasons since he had his own clothes in your dresser, too, along with many sweaters you’d kept. When you came back from the bathroom, he was already sprawled out on his bed, changed into comfortable clothing.

You went to take a seat in his desk chair, but his tired voice stopped you. “Hey, what are you doing? Come here.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You two had slept in the same bed when you were kids every now and then, but it had stopped when you’d gotten older. Well, you had gotten more aware of it every time you had shared a bed — of him right next to you. Evidently, he’d never cared because he had no problem taking a nap whenever he crashed your room.

You climbed over him so you were next to the wall. His bed wasn’t big, only a full-size, so it was enough for you two but no more than that. He stretched, yawning quietly. You hesitantly laid down next to him, facing him with a reasonable amount of space between you two. He turned to face you, blinking sleepily as his face was pressed into the pillow, probably putting the edges of his glasses into his face uncomfortably.

“You’re gonna break your glasses,” you muttered disapprovingly, reaching out to pluck them off his face. He squinted, readjusting to the absence of his glasses as you leaned over him to place them on the nightstand. You made sure that you didn’t touch his body as you did so.

He hummed quietly, drawing up the blanket to his waist. You abstained from it. He radiated enough body heat on his own, plus your internal temperatures were always high when you were in close proximity with him.

“You never said.”

His sleepy voice brought you out of your thoughts. Miyuki was clearly having a hard time staying awake, so you indulged him. “Said what?”

“Where you’re going. When we saw Mei. You didn’t deny it, but you’re not going there, are you?” His eyelids fluttered and you found yourself enraptured with the way his eyelashes just barely ghosted his cheeks. “I’m not going to be mad if you don’t, if that’s what you think.”

You tensed. He scooted closer to you. “I . . . Well, Seido’s a great school, Miyuki.”

His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes finally shutting, but he didn’t drift off. “You’re confusing.”

“What . . .?”

“I don’t want to hold you back from a good school. That’s what you deserve, especially for putting up with me this long —” your heart broke just a little at that admission. Did he think he was a burden to you? “— so I won’t be mad. Just tell me where you’re going.”

“I . . .” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you why. I’m leaving, not because it’s a good school, but because I need to leave you. I can’t be around you. If I tell you now, I just might back out and go somewhere near you. “I’m still weighing my options, to be truthful.”

He hummed again, a sign he was still listening, so you pushed on. “I got an invitation from Oya, too, in East Tokyo. They’re a public school and they have a good academic program. If I remember correctly, they went to Nationals five years ago.”

“Not bad,” he mumbled. “Make a decision soon, though. I take it that means you’re not going to Seido, then?”

You were surprised that he was still managing to make logical conclusions despite being on the verge of unconsciousness. “Yeah, probably not. It would’ve been great to be with you, though,” you lied. It wouldn’t have been great. You would’ve suffered from your unrequited feelings, having to see him make it big in high school baseball, watching the entire nation fall in love with him.

He nodded, eyes still shut. “That’s okay. Just tell me where you’re going soon, okay.”

“I will.” Another lie. You were on a roll today, weren’t you?

He drifted off after that. You knew when he’d fallen asleep because you could feel the bed dip as he became dead weight, utterly relaxed, his breathing deep and steady. Your eyes roamed his face as you become more relaxed, finding comfort in being so close to him.

That fight had left an unnoticeable scar on his temple, usually hidden by his glasses, then the cut on his lip had healed up finely so there was no trace of it — at that point, your eyes lingered too long on his lips — and the cuts on his knuckles weren’t that noticeable either, probably something he could blame on his gloves.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as he shifted even closer to you. You had nowhere to go, your back pressed against his wall. You sighed quietly, shutting your own eyes to take a nap of your own. Whatever. These last few months were ones you had to treasure because the likelihood that you’d see him during high school was little to none. Really, the chances of him wanting to see you would probably make it even lower.

You fell asleep, weighed down by your decisions and restless for what the future might hold for your friendship with Miyuki.

(Those thoughts really didn’t bother you when you woke up lying on his chest and he had his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You were mortified, though.)

Graduation from your junior high had come and gone with no problems. You were in the top ten, sitting comfortably as number two while Miyuki sat as number ten; you weren’t surprised by his rank, by any means.

You’d avoided packing your own things, too. You would need to be in Kyoto by April 10th. They started the school year much later, for whatever reason, but it just meant that you’d be seeing Miyuki go off on March 28th, three days before the first day of school. And you’d managed to avoid telling him your final decision.

It all seemed to be catching up because the walk to the station was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Miyuki had said his goodbyes to his father and your family, your little brother strangely sad at the disappearance of his “Miyu.” (A nickname that had you rolling in laughter when he’d come up with it and always managed to make Miyuki’s face turn red.)

His train would be leaving in ten minutes. You both sat down on the bench at his platform.

“So,” Miyuki prompted. “Which is it?”

When you looked at him, his eyes were hard. He was irritated. Rightly so. You’d been dancing around your own leave for several months now and here he was, about to leave to Seido and he still didn’t know. You’d briefly contemplated allowing him to stay mad at you. Let him blow up. Perhaps it would give you the shock you needed. But he didn’t deserve that.

You sighed softly, guilt eating away at your insides. “Mimayama.”

You felt him tense up beside you as he made a strangled noise. “In Kyoto?”

You nodded, turning your eyes to the ground. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds and you clenched your hands into fists, ducking your head lower.

“That’s a good school.” His voice was leveled, cool and indifferent. Somehow, it hurt more than having to hear anger. “They’d be stupid not to accept you.”

You hummed softly.

He sighed shortly. “I don’t — what the hell? Why did you . . . What did you even gain from that?”

There it was. You turned back to look at him, then balked at the hurt on his face. “I . . . didn’t want to worry you.”

“You worried me more by not telling me,” he replied shortly. “That’s so far away.” Are you going to be okay?

That was more than you deserved. You’d been such a shitty friend for the past two years. Here he was, still trying to be a good friend.

You tried for a smile. “It’s not Hokkaido or anything, Miyuki. I’ll be fine. And I’m sorry . . . I just — I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

He stared at you. You met his eyes head on. You had to show him that you’d be fine. This was what you needed. You had the reckless urge to transfer back to a school here in Tokyo, if only to be close to him, but it was muted. Doing this was for the best of your friendship.

“I’m still mad.” Understandable. “And I’m leaving now. Baseball starts up immediately so I won’t have time to talk to you, especially since you’ll probably be busy with school, too. Solving this won’t be as easy as it was when we still lived here, you know.”

Would it even be solved?

“We’ll figure out a way,” you said, despite yourself. Something had changed. Your distance in your friendship had been noticeable. A child could notice. Whether it had been conscious or unconscious was up to debate. Evidently, though, it had hurt Miyuki and that was the last thing you wanted.

. . . Right?

You were moving all the way to Kyoto for the sole purpose of burying those feelings for him. Focusing on school. Rebuilding . . . Rebuilding your friendship. Right, that’d been a priority, too. But could it be done? You’d messed up.

“Well, let’s not spend our last few minutes together arguing or mad at each other.” Miyuki’s voice brought you out of your thoughts. He stood up, holding out a hand for you. You accepted, trying to imprint the feeling of his calluses and the way his palm felt against yours into your mind.

He wouldn’t give up on your friendship, though, would he?

The train pulled in, the draft carrying stray pieces of your hair, hydraulics hissing loudly as it eased to a stop. You were stunned as Miyuki pulled you in for a hug. It was tight, almost painful, but he was so warm and that sweet and spicy scent was overwhelming you in the best possible way that you couldn’t help but hug him back just as tightly.

“Don’t forget about me over there,” he murmured into your ear, warm breath tickling your sensitive skin. You suppressed a shiver.

“I-I won’t.”

He stepped away, sighing softly as the doors unlocked and popped open for the cabin in front of you. He picked up his bag. “I’ll see you later. We’ll talk.”

You nodded. He hesitated to leave, a strange look passing over his face as he fought with himself over something, but then it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He turned away and there was something foreboding about seeing him walk away from you. A cold feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.

This wouldn’t be the last of him. You’d go to school in Kyoto, get over your feelings and rekindle your friendship with him. Things would get better. They would.

They had to.

Interlude: start

Miyuki wasn’t sure what was going on.

You’d been distant for the last few months, clearly having something on your mind and he’d waited patiently for you to come to him. But you never did.

Instead you sent him off, finally telling him where you were going. To the Kyoto Prefecture, of all places. Was he mad? Yes, and he sort of had a right to be.

He had to wonder. Had all those times he’d pestered you for your answer, had you lied to him? Applying to Mimayama and getting accepted wasn’t a last minute choice. Prestigious schools like that always had application deadlines earlier than other private and public high schools.

So, why hadn’t you told him?

It was something that plagued him for the entire train ride to Kokubunji, even when he made it to Seido High and received his dorm number.

Had you . . . figured it out?

He’d tried his best to hide his feelings and he felt that he’d been largely successful. You’d acted normally as you would and this felt like too much of a secret for you to hide if you knew. You weren’t one to hide what you were thinking, especially when it came to him. But falling in love with your best friend wasn’t normal, was it?

He couldn’t help himself. He’d never say it, but you’d stood beside him for the past six years, you were always so supportive, so patient even when he didn’t deserve it. So how could you even possibly begin to feel the same way? He wouldn’t openly admit this either, but he had more flaws than he had strengths.

Sure, he was . . . conventionally attractive and he was great at catching, but what else was there? It wasn’t like he’d be the type of guy to shower you with gifts or anything. Compared to so many other people, he wasn’t good enough.

He sighed heavily, continuing to unpack his things. His roommates were two third years but they were out, probably practicing. For once in Miyuki’s entire life, he didn’t feel the urge to practice.

Despite himself, despite wanting to give you the benefit of doubt, he wondered, had you attended Mimayama in an attempt to run away? From him?

Immediately, he felt guilty for thinking that way. Mimayama was an excellent school within itself, one you’d thrive in. He couldn’t be so selfish to assume that you’d gone there just to avoid him. You were trying to get a good curriculum. He was trying to get better in baseball. You both had your own agendas.

It wouldn’t be like you to allow your feelings to influence your decisions. Especially when it came to such an important decision.

His previous question came up again. Why wouldn’t you tell him? Were you scared he’d be mad? Or were you trying to protect yourself from something else? Did you think he’d try to convince you to stay?

His frown deepened. Well, that was a good question. Kyoto was so far away . . . If you’d stayed in Tokyo, it would’ve been easier to see you but now that you’d be all the way in Kyoto, the chances of seeing you were slim to none. You’d probably only see each other during winter break.

Regardless of that, though, he was sure he wouldn’t have tried to stop you.

Did a small (or very large if he was truthful) part of him want you to go to Seido with him? Yeah, but things don’t always work out. Friends don’t always get to stay together. Apparently, you had realized that sooner than he did and taken advantage of it.

But your reluctance to tell him was what had gotten on his nerves. He deserved an answer from you. (Right?) One that hadn’t been last minute, one where you two could discuss it. One where he could begin to make plans to see you, arrange methods to talk during the school year. But here he was, sitting on the barren side of the dorm with no real plans to see you again until December, irritated at you.

Until he had a proper answer from you on why you’d done it (because he deserved that too), he’d give you the space you needed to sort out your thoughts.

Besides, come April 10th, there would be three hundred miles between you two. Space would come easily.

Interlude: end

Things seemed to be fine for the first few months. You and Miyuki kept up moderate contact, calling and texting when you were able. There would be odd bouts of absence on his part, something he’d blamed on baseball practice and you could understand. As far as you knew, Miyuki had been able to secure the position as starting catcher with little to no problems. The way he felt about it was a different story.

“Chris . . . He injured his shoulder. He was removed from first string. I took his place.”

You pursed your lips. “That stinks. I’m sorry, Miyuki.”

Going to Seido to get that spot as starting catcher had been Miyuki’s main goal. And he’d already achieved it within three months of being there.

You knew he’d wanted to go toe-to-toe with Chris to properly fight over the spot. It probably didn’t feel too good to have it conceded to you.

“Starting catcher is starting catcher, I guess. There’s nothing I can do about it. Just have to get to Nationals and win.”

“You can do it,” you said, putting as much encouragement into your words as possible. You absently read over your textbook, waiting for his reply.

“So . . . You must have come up with a good reason for not telling me about going to Mimayama, right?”

Surprised, you dropped your pencil, his words catching you off guard. You hadn’t necessarily forgotten about his promise to figure things out between you and you were fully prepared to apologize, but explaining why was an entirely different ordeal.

You had been silent for too long, because he sighed shortly on the other line. “Come on. Did you think I’d be mad? That I’d try to stop you?”

You tried to think, tried to formulate an adequate answer. Would lying save you? Could you continue on in your friendship after lying to him about it?

“I just . . .” You were at a loss for words. You hadn’t expected him to bring this up. But of course, in classic Miyuki fashion, he would want to catch you off guard. Make sure that you wouldn’t be able to lie. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” he scoffed. “It’s not that hard.”

You bristled. “Well, damn Miyuki, you said you wouldn’t have gotten mad and maybe you wouldn’t, but look at you now.”

“I have a right to be mad now,” he replied waspishly. “You lied about it for how long? How many times had I asked you? I know Mimayama has the earlier deadline for applications because it’s a private school. You made this decision and you didn’t tell me about it. I thought we told each other everything. I mean, that’s what best friends do, right?”

“Since when have you ever cared about how other friendships function? You’re only doing this because you’re mad. You’re not thinking straight.”

Miyuki laughed suddenly, in a callous manner he’d never used with you. “I’m not thinking straight? Well, we both know the answer to that,” he sneered. “Me and you are best friends just like anyone else, but now that I have a genuine problem with you lying, suddenly I’m the one who’s needlessly comparing ourselves to other people, right? I’m the wrong one here, yeah?”

“I didn’t say you were,” you disagreed. “It was just — I don’t know. I didn’t tell my family for a long time, too.”

“I get it. It’s a personal decision. But lying to me about it is where I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to!” you snapped, finding yourself fed up with his attitude. “It was . . . a personal decision, just like you said. I had to come to terms with it myself, too, you know.”

It wasn’t a lie, by any means. The day after his fight and after you’d filled out the application, you had stood by the mailbox so long, envelope in hand, the next door neighbor had come out to ask if you were okay.

“You could’ve told me that you’d made a decision. I was worried you’d end up stuck there with how much you were pushing it away. I would’ve respected your boundaries, you know.”

His voice had quieted considerably and you weren’t sure how you felt about it. Did it mean he was calm now? Understanding? Or was his anger and hurt phasing him so much he couldn’t muster the energy to be loud? You hated this. You hated not being able to see his face, being able to gauge what he was feeling. Relying on his tone was getting you nowhere.

“I . . . know.” Maybe it’d been irrational, but your decision had been the one thing he hadn’t known about. You could be so weak when it came to him. If he even knew that you had made a decision, it felt like he already knew where you were going, as though he could see right through you.

You and Miyuki could read each other like the back of your hands, unwillingly or willing. You knew his ticks, his dislikes, his fears, and vice versa. Alongside your feelings, the choice to attend Mimayama had been one of the few things you’d ever kept from him.

“Then why do it? That’s all I’m asking for. That’s it. Just an explanation and we can be done here.” He sounded almost desperate. It was disconcerting. Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t desperate; he didn’t beg. He was above that. But his voice —

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling shakily. This was too much, it was all too much. You’d regret it later on, maybe, when you finally got your head back on but you couldn’t stand it right now. He couldn’t know.

Under no circumstances could he know that you were in love with him.

“I can’t do it.”

Miyuki was silent, for one, two, three seconds, then —

“I guess we’re done here.”

You tried again. “Miyuki, I — ”

The call ended abruptly as he hung up first, not even sparing you a chance to talk. You stared at your phone. Maybe that was what you deserved, though. You weren’t being the greatest of friends, but you just wished he would let it go. Why was it so important? Did it truly both him that much? Regardless of whatever it was, he wasn’t going to be letting it go anytime soon — that much was apparent.

The abrupt hang-up had hurt a lot more than you thought it would. (You certainly wouldn’t admit it out loud, though.) Miyuki wasn’t exactly the gentlest person and he could be mean, but he’d never been that way with you.

Something told you that this was only a small dose of what he could do, that he wasn’t completely shutting you out. Not yet.

You tossed your phone behind you, not minding the rough thump that came after. You dropped your head onto your textbook, sighing heavily. There was the slightest of stinging behind your eyes, but you shook it off, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. It wouldn’t do well to be crying. Dinner would only be in thirty minutes and you didn’t want to explain to your classmates why it looked like you’d been crying.

You dug into your nails into your palm, the pain relieved you from the burn in your eyes. The urge mercifully passed.

You sat back up, taking a deep breath. This would have to be dealt with later, you promised yourself, turning your eyes back to your textbook in a vain attempt to start your assignment again. All you two needed was space, some time to cool off and regain your bearings. Then, you’d solve this.

You didn’t solve it.

Baseball took up a handful of his time, so when you sent a wary text to him three weeks after your phone call, you didn’t receive a reply back. You then found out that that exact day, Seido had been at a game and had won, qualifying them for quarterfinals. Of course he wasn’t going to reply. He was probably busy basking in that afterglow of victory.

So you let it go.

But then, Seido was eliminated. You got that news from your classmates, a girl who apparently had a cousin attending the opposing school. When you’d asked, she had said proudly, “Inashiro.”

It felt like too much a cruel joke. But when you returned to your dorm and looked up the game, sure enough, Inashiro had won. The game had been four to three. Narumiya was their star — their ace. If you hadn’t had any real reason to dislike him before, you certainly had one now. You sent an apology to Miyuki, trying your best to be comforting.

His reply — albeit cold — had been relieving. Things weren’t as bad as you’d thought they were.

But then he didn’t contact you for the rest of the summer. And that was where the space between you two grew. It wasn’t only physical anymore — he’d stopped contact with you completely.

Summer passed and you descended into autumn, where temperatures dipped and the trees began to lose their leaves.

There was still no contact between you two.

You sent him the occasional message, just a random update about this or that, fooling yourself into thinking that he was just busy. The fall tournament was coming up and if they made it, they’d have a spot at the Spring Invitational. It was another chance for Nationals. But your messages stayed silent, save for the messages coming from your family.

Seido lost during the semifinals at the fall tournament; you sent him a text.

i’m sorry about the fall tournament… you guys played a really good game. text me back when you can.

Maybe he felt your desperation, somehow, through the screen and even though hundreds of miles separating you two.

You sat up abruptly as the little words underneath your message changed from Delivered to Read. You waited, your heart racing in your chest. But no message came.

You tried to rationalize. He’d just lost. Their ticket to Nationals was a pipe dream once again. He wouldn’t be up to talk immediately after, right?

It sounded foolish, even to yourself.

As though your problems with Miyuki weren’t enough, you got into an argument with your mother.

She had apparently believed that once you graduated high school, you’d come back home to work in the family bakery. That was the last thing you wanted to do.

Summer break had been an awkward affair because of it. You had envisioned summer break as time away from working and from the stress of high school, but your mother had other plans.

You were forced to be the cashier, much to your displeasure. Your father had patted your shoulder consolingly, while your older sister told you to stop complaining so much. Your younger brother — already seven-years-old — could only giggle at your predicament while he went to his friend’s house to spend the night. You were almost envious at his freedom.

You had no idea if Miyuki was back in the neighborhood since he wasn’t taking the time to answer your texts. You knew that if he had come back, he had no business to be outside of his house, either, so you decided that you would probably never know.

The fifth day of summer break started bright and early with you on the cash register. It had been slow, though, the heat of the sun discouraging people from walking out and about. The wall-length windows of the bakery did nothing to hide the sun, either, and the air conditioner was mostly focused on the table area rather than behind the counter.

The heat had started to make you sleepy but before you could actually doze off on the job and piss off your mother, the bell above the door rang, signaling a new customer. You straightened up, trying to blink the sleepiness away.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to try too hard, because the newest customer turned out to be Miyuki Toku.

“G-Good morning, sir. What can I get for you today?” Your voice was steady, thankfully.

He stared up at the menu, dark eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He was dressed in work clothing, grease staining various spots, a black baseball cap tucked over his hair. It was no wonder Miyuki himself was so handsome. His father was a handsome man for his age, the only sign of his age being the lines around his mouth and forehead, and the slightest hint of grey in dark brown hair and in his stubble.

“Two coffees and three sweet rolls,” he finally said, his eyes flickering to you.

You dropped your eyes, hurriedly ringing up his total and scribbling down the drink order to hang up for your sister to do. His eyes were the exact same shade as Miyuki’s. Of course they were, they were father and son, but it . . . made you miss Miyuki even more.

You handed back the money and grabbed some wax paper to pull out the sweet rolls from the display case of pastries. As you put them into a paper bag and folded it up neatly, he lingered near the pick-up counter. You wanted to ask him if Miyuki was back, but would that give you away? Maybe he already knew of the fight, if Miyuki had told him, but that sounded far-fetched. Miyuki wasn’t that open with his father.

You glanced around the bakery; all the customers were satisfied at the moment and nobody was waiting in line. You glanced back at Miyuki's father. He was looking over the display case with uninterested eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“I-Is Miyuki back in the neighborhood?” you asked before you could lose your nerve, handing the paper bag over to him then stepping back behind the cash register, as though it could protect you from any unwanted questions.

He seemed surprised that you were speaking at him, brown eyes widening briefly before he cleared his throat. “No. He’s still at Seido. The coach keeps them for summer break.”

“Oh.”

That sucked, but knowing Miyuki, he was probably using that off-season time to get better.

“Have you been speaking to him?”

Now, you were the one surprised. When you looked back up, he was watching you with scrutinizing eyes. It reminded you so much of Miyuki that you had to avert your eyes. “Not really, sir. We’ve just,” you cleared your throat, “he’s busy. I’m busy. Our schedules don’t line up very well.”

“Mimayama, right?”

You looked back at him, furrowing your eyebrows. How did he know?

“Kazuya told me. That’s a good school,” he paused awkwardly, but before he could continue, your sister called out his order.

He picked it up and lingered in front the counter, shifting awkwardly before finally saying, “Well . . . keep in touch with him.”

You barely had time to get out a ‘have a good day.’ Did he know of your fight? There was no way that Miyuki could’ve told him, right? And if he did, then why was his father so nice? You knew Miyuki wouldn’t mince words and he probably wouldn’t hold back if he was talking about your argument.

“Hey.” You jumped as a wet towel smacked your back. “Stop looking so sad. It turns people off.”

You scowled, turning around to face your older sister with an insult on the tip of your tongue, but it died quickly at the semi-serious expression on her face. You both stared at each other for a few seconds before she slapped the wet towel onto your shoulder again.

“Loser.”

“Shut up!”

It was his birthday. He was officially sixteen-years-old.

You typed out a quick message. Maybe your conversations were beginning to be made up of your outgoing texts and nothing else from him, but you weren’t going to abandon him on his birthday. (Though, a small mocking voice in your head told you he had an entire team to spend his birthday with.)

You’d sent the text and went to put down your phone on your desk, but to your pleasant surprise, it buzzed a few seconds after, signaling a text.

It felt almost too true to be good. You unlocked your phone quickly, fumbling for the messages app. But when you clicked on his name, the message waiting for you wasn’t what you’d expected.

Error 1404. The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. For further inquiries, please contact —

Had he blocked you?

You tried again, but the message continued to pop up in reply to every text you sent.

You stopped trying, the words of the text seeming cold and callous, almost taunting.

Was he this petty? You had never believed him to be petty. Cruel, sometimes, sure, but never petty.

You tried calling. It rang two times before an automated message picked up.

“We’re sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is — ”

You hung up. This couldn’t be a coincidence. But why . . .?

You scrubbed your hands over your face roughly, feeling the familiar burn behind your eyes. Nothing was seeming to go right for you. Sure, you were at a school where you were put to work, but you were fighting with the only friend you had, with your mother about your choices for the future, with yourself over some stupid feelings.

Had it bothered him that much? Was this something to end your friendship over?

Evidently, to Miyuki, it had been.

December and January marked record-breaking lows with surprisingly heavy snowfall. You stayed on campus, burrowing in your room through the beginning of December to study hard for exams. Winter break brought you back home, where your sister had staged an intervention, surprisingly enough.

“What’s the deal with you and Miyuki?” she asked suddenly one day, when you two were in the kitchen at your home, making dinner for that night.

You continued your work, undeterred and unaffected. “What do you mean?” you asked tiredly.

She reached over to swat the back of your head, gaining a glare from you.

“Don’t glare at me, brat. You’ve been all mopey since the summer. I know something is going on,” she huffed, giving you a glare of her own.

You were prepared to shrug her off, turning to her to tell her off, but she was wearing that expression again. The one you’d seen during summer break after your run-in with Miyuki’s father. She looked serious. You hesitated.

You’d been dealing with this all on your own, with no one else to talk to. You definitely didn’t have Miyuki — not that you’d tell him about it, anyway — and certainly not your parents. Your mother would probably disapprove of your feelings since Miyuki wasn’t the type of guy to settle back down in his hometown and your father would disapprove because this was someone after your own heart.

Your sister was the next best thing.

That was how you found yourself telling her about the argument, about his lack of communication, and because you couldn’t avoid it, about your feelings for him.

She remained silent while you spoke, a pensive look on her face. When you finished, you shifted nervously on your feet, glancing at her in the corner of your eye.

“This is because of me, isn’t it?”

You blinked. “What?”

She paused from cutting up a vegetable, laying the knife down on the cooking board and turning to look at you. “What I said to you when you were in junior high. About focusing on yourself and not letting others influence your decisions.”

“I guess . . .” you murmured, agreeing reluctantly because you didn’t want her to blame herself for it. Luckily, that wasn’t what happened.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, grabbing the dish towel and hitting your shoulder with it. She tossed it back onto the counter before turning to you. “An absolute idiot.”

“What the hell — ”

“You played yourself, kid! I get it. These feelings are scary and new but running to Kyoto is not the answer!” she hissed urgently, looking annoyed.

Your hackles were raised. “You literally said — ”

“I know what I said, you fool! You had good intentions, but look where that got you.”

You winced. That was fair.

She groaned loudly. “Did it ever occur to you that you were letting your feelings influence your decision when you decided to go to Mimayama?”

You stared at her, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“For as smart of a kid you are, you’re kinda dumb when it comes to feelings.”

You scowled at her. “Feelings are dumb! It’s easier to memorize algebra equations than it is to handle what I’m feeling!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen to me. I understand that you thought putting distance between you two and lying to him about your choice would help, but you were blinded by your own feelings. In your desperation to forget, you made a rash decision. I know Mimayama is a good school and worrying about your education is worthwhile, but are you even happy there?”

You stilled. “Happy?”

“You’re hopeless!” she bemoaned.

“Hey, it was your advice! Don’t get mad at me,” you protested, unwilling to take all the blame for this.

She grimaced. “Fine. I’ll take half. But it’s redacted as soon as we fix this.”

You balked. “Fix this? No, there will be no fixing here. I’m going to suffer the consequences of my actions — and partially yours — for the rest of high school and that’s it.”

“You don’t even know if he feels the same,” she pointed out.

“He doesn’t,” you said firmly. “Why would he? After everything I’ve messed up on, I refuse to let him know. It’ll only make things worse.”

“It’s called taking a risk,” she muttered, finally turning back to finish chopping up the vegetables. “You won’t know if you don’t try.”

“We’re not even talking to each other anymore. I think,” you grimaced. “I think he blocked me.”

She paused mid-slice. “I’m going to murder that boy.”

“No, you will not!”

“This is better than homicide,” your sister muttered gleefully as you two watched your mother wrap up a plate of food. “So much better.”

Your mother faltered in her actions briefly, having heard your sister’s words, then resumed quickly. She was probably used to it.

Your little brother was waiting impatiently by the door, some action figure grasped in his tiny hands.

“One of you take that to the Miyuki’s. It’s a holiday gift. Dress appropriately!” With that, she left the house, your younger brother following after her, the door shutting firmly behind them.

“I’m not taking that,” you said immediately after. It’d been several days since you had told her about your problem and she hadn’t brought it up since. Maybe for good reason, too. You had time to think over what she said.

Her question about whether or not you were even happy at Mimayama was . . . conflicting, as much as you hated to admit it. What did it matter if you didn’t like it? It was a good school, one that would boost you ahead. It was giving you experience in the medical field, experience you couldn’t receive at a regular high school.

But at the same time, there were regular high school experiences that you were missing out on. Mimayama rarely had dances or anything of the sort, typically hosting an end-of-the-year banquet for the third years to congratulate them on their progress, but that was the extent of their dances. They had no sports programs, save for a volleyball team that was in sore need of motivated players and a better coach. All the students were always so competitive, constantly fighting for the top rank, making passive aggressive comments about grades. It was tiring.

It also made you think. Had Mimayama been the best choice?

“You don’t even know if he’s back,” she countered, drawing you out of your revere. “Pretty sure all the sports teams had one week less of winter break than regular students.”

“I don’t care. I’m not — ”

You stopped as you heard voices outside. It was your mother, very distantly. She was saying something, but the words were muffled by the door.

Your sister pushed you away to go towards the front window that overlooked the yard, peeking through the curtains. She gasped, making you take a wary step forward, but before you could ask her, she was turning around, grabbing your wrist and dragging you upstairs. You allowed her, figuring it was a lost cause to try and stop her.

“What’s going on?” you grumbled. She turned into your parents’ room, yanking you over to the window that overlooked the street.

You both kneeled on the ground under the window and she pointed up at it, grinning.

“He’s here,” she said in a sing-song voice that made you want to cover your ears.

You cautiously looked out the window, at first finding nothing to look at, but then your eyes latched onto the figure currently taking his bags out of a taxi’s trunk. Your heart kickstarted in your chest. Miyuki.

It was a bit far away, but you could recognize him anywhere. He looked taller, lean with muscles he didn’t have before. His skin looked tanner, too, no doubt from all the time he’d have spent in the sun. He was dressed in a black hoodie and jeans, looking far too good for someone who probably just threw that on without giving it any thought.

You dug your nails into the windowsill. A small, childish part of you wanted to run downstairs and out the door to tackle him into a hug. You were craving the feeling of his arms around you and feel his usual tight, almost vice-like, grip. You bit down on your lip.

“You look like a love-struck fool,” your sister whispered, sounding awed. You shoved her, making her wobble precariously from her crouch, then fall over, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

You continued to stare out the window, and you were grateful for your hyper-fixation on him, because you were able to catch the slight movement of him turning his head towards your house. You fell away from the window, the curtains fluttering back to their place.

“What?” your sister grumbled, rubbing her elbow. “That hurt, you know.”

“I don’t care,” you muttered. “He looked. If he saw me, I’m going to die.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic.” She laid down on her side, propping up her cheek with her hand, shooting you a cheeky grin. “So? You wanna give them the food, now?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? Why not?”

You shot her an irritated side glance. “Seeing him doesn’t make me want to ‘try things out,’ as you say. What part of ‘we’re not talking anymore’ do you not understand?”

She scowled. “So, you’re giving up?”

You looked away. “I guess so.”

It was silent for a few seconds before she huffed quietly. “Well, I’m not. Stay here. I’m gonna give them the food. When you hear the door close, look out the window, but stay hidden.”

You stared at her as she got to her feet and left the room. This . . . couldn’t be good.

Nonetheless, when you heard the door shut from downstairs, you peeked out the window again. You caught sight of her walking down the sidewalk, her jacket and beanie on to fight against the freezing cold, the dish cradled in her arms. At that point, the taxi was gone and you suspected Miyuki had retreated into the warmth of his home.

When she walked up to the house and rang the doorbell, she sent a furtive glance to you, making brief eye contact before turning back forward. The door opened and she looked surprised for a split-second before schooling her expression into one of ease. You squinted, trying to make out who she was talking to.

She took a half-step back and you finally saw that it was Miyuki who’d answered the door; he leaned out of the house, nodding and saying a few things before accepting the dish with a gracious bow. Your sister returned it and turned around, walking back towards the house.

You dropped away from the window, making sure to fix the curtains carefully this time, then dashed out of the room and down the stairs. You didn’t have to wait more than thirty seconds before she was entering the house again, letting in a burst of icy air. Once she had locked the door and began taking off her shoes, jacket and beanie, you cleared your throat.

“Well?”

She looked at you, grim, and you prepared yourself for bad news, but then she said, “He’s cuter than I remember him being.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

She shrugged. “You two would be cute together. His looks cancel out any ugliness you have.”

“Again. That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

She sighed. “What do you want to hear, kid? I don’t know . . . He seems more mature now. Are you two really fighting about this as bad as you say?”

You glared at her, irritated that she was doubting your words just because he seemed ‘more mature.’ “I have no reason to lie. It’s not like you’ve ever liked him that much, anyway.”

“That’s true,” she murmured. “But he made you happy, so that was all that mattered to me. He’s not doing that for you anymore.”

You toed the edge of the carpet with your foot, avoiding her eyes.

“If you’re truly incessant on not making up with him, then find something that makes you happy,” she continued. When you glanced at her, she looked serious again. You decided you didn’t like that look on her face. She coughed.

“If not, I refuse to see your mopey face around here.”

“Comfort me or insult me! Pick one, dammit!”

As much as you hated to admit it, your sister had a point.

So when you returned to school, you tried to find something that made you happy. Either an end goal, or even another friend.

You found that continuously telling yourself to find something made things a little bit better. You didn’t think about the absence Miyuki had left you. You thought about ways to raise your grade or make the other kids mad about your success.

You even found a friend — a quiet girl in your class who was pretty low in the class rank named Arakawa Akemi. You didn’t care about the rank stuff too much. (Only when it could be used to make your snobby classmates angry.) If anything, had she been in a regular high school, she probably would’ve been top of the class.

So, your first year ended with a secure friendship and excellent grades. Your relationship with your mother had gotten better, mostly because of the shining commentary that all your teachers had about you and your behavior during the afterparty of the third years’ graduation ceremony, where students, families and parents mingled. Your sister was annoying as ever — though a bit proud — and your brother was merely happy about seeing you again.

You knew, when your second year started up in full force, that your friendship with Miyuki was gone at this point. He hadn’t seen you at all during winter break and didn’t make an attempt to contact you at all. You hardly ever saw his father, so you couldn’t ask him about it, either.

You were sad at this realization. Almost seven years of friendship flushed down the drain. And the worst part was that your feelings hadn’t even faded with that.

After the Spring Invitational, Miyuki had gotten . . . famous. He was known nationally, media calling him the ‘catcher of his generation.’ Known for his aggressive plays, people loved him. When you’d seen the magazine with an article about him in it, you were proud.

Despite his lack of communication, you were still proud that he was doing what he loved. And he was good at it. You could never be angry about him doing well in what he loved.

When you’d seen his picture in the magazine, your heart still beat like crazy and your stomach still did flips. You hated it.

Even without almost a year of no contact, you were still infatuated with him.

You found yourself busier than you’d anticipated when second year started up again. You were required to put in volunteer hours at a hospital, so you’d found yourself preoccupied not only with homework, but work from the hospital as well.

The busy schedule was good; it helped you keep your mind off things, especially when the Summer Tournament started up and Seido blazed through the first rounds, then qualified for the quarterfinals. They were constantly making news articles, something or another about their new first year pitchers that were blowing competition away; usually those articles had companion editorials about Miyuki and how quickly he was improving. You tended to stay away from those.

You felt guilty for avoiding the games as much as you did, but at that point, there was no real need for you to keep up. It wasn’t like Miyuki would be calling you afterward to ask for your opinion on it.

The way you saw it was that if there was no Miyuki, then there was no need for baseball, either.

Unfortunately for you, however, your classmates happened to be avid baseball fans, so when you came to class the Monday after the weekend of the finals, you weren’t surprised to hear them talking about it.

“ . . . what messed up their game.”

“Yeah, after that deadball, there was no way they were getting their momentum back.”

“It’s all that first year pitcher’s fault. Sawamura, right? If he hasn’t fallen apart, maybe they would’ve been able to continue.”

You listened curiously, only brought out by a nudge to the arm. Akemi was giving you serious side-eye. “You could look it up, you know, or even ask,” she murmured.

“Look what up?”

She elbowed you again.

You sighed, leaning forward to tap on the shoulder of your classmate sitting in front of you. He turned around, his eyes widening at seeing you interact with him.

You gave him a polite smile. “Are you guys talking about the finals of the summer tournament for West Tokyo?”

“Yeah. Between Seido and Inashiro.”

You sat up straighter. You hadn’t realized that it’d be between them, but of course, it made sense for them to be the finalists. Two of the three baseball powerhouses in West Tokyo.

A queasy feeling had settled in the pit of your stomach, but you pushed on.

“Who won?”

“Inashiro. Their ace, Narumiya Mei, was a complete monster but honestly that first year pitcher — Furuya, right? — was insane . . .”

You sat back, staring at the plastic of your table. Akemi hummed softly and leaned to show you her phone. It was an article, presumably on the game. You read the headline.

Seido loses to Inashiro by 4-5

The article was detailed, filled with baseball jargon that you didn’t bother trying to decipher. You latched onto a few pieces of important information; Seido batters unable to get a hit off Narumiya for the majority of the game, the deadball by that first year pitcher Sawamura Eijun in the bottom of the ninth inning and Seido’s ultimate loss. You sighed heavily.

“Great.”

Akemi shut off her phone, watching you carefully. “That’s it?” she asked quietly.

You’d told her about everything that had happened between you and Miyuki. Mostly as a precursory warning that apparently, you could be dumb when it came to your friendships; you’d try to be better with her, but fair warning and all that. Though, you had to give credit to yourself, since your errors were really because of your feelings and while Akemi was pretty and very kind to boot, Miyuki still held your heart.

But that was it.

You shrugged, pointedly looking away from her. “What am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can talk to him anymore.”

Akemi said nothing else on the matter, looking forward when the teacher entered and started up class. And you didn’t bring it up again, either. But you still had to sit through the excited murmurs of your classmates, biting down the urge to defend Seido whenever someone would badmouth the team for whatever reason. (At that point, you were irritated with yourself. You didn’t even know anyone on the team except for Miyuki. Why should you feel the need to defend them?)

The majority of summer break — wherein you stayed at school for extra classes — was filled with talk of Nationals, mostly about Inashiro blowing through the rounds until the finals, where they ended up as runner-up. For the half of the last week of break, you headed back to Tokyo, where you visited your family and managed to avoid working in the bakery under the guise of needing to study (which you actually did need to do).

You knew Miyuki wouldn’t have been back, probably training with the rest of his teammates. When you passed his house on your way to another café to study at (since you’d probably be roped into doing some form of work if you went to your own), you pointedly avoided looking at his home and the factory.

It was time for you to move on.

Despite your best efforts to hide behind the menu, Narumiya’s face lit up upon recognizing you.

He grinned brightly; there was less baby fat on his face than you remember. He looked taller, too, adding to his maturity.

He calls you out — by your surname, thankfully. You didn’t think you’d be able to handle if he called you by your first name. You’d probably walk straight out of the café . . .

“It’s so good to see you! How are you?”

You sunk in your chair as other customers glanced at you, irritated. Narumiya was unbothered by their glares, taking a seat across from you even though you hadn’t invited him to do so. He was just as annoying now as he’d been two years ago.

“I didn’t say you could sit down,” you said, annoyed.

“We need to catch up!”

“We don’t.”

He grinned. “Have you gotten meaner over the last few years?”

Your grip tightened on the menu briefly, but you took a deep breath, turning your eyes back to its contents. You would ignore him for however long you needed. He would get the message sooner or later.

“Are you meeting Kazuya here? I’ll wait with you. Maybe he and I can catch up, too.”

“No,” you replied stiffly. “I’m here to study in some peace and quiet.”

You looked at Narumiya over the top of the menu, then glanced pointedly at your bag sitting in the third seat between you two. He followed your gaze and made a small noise of dissatisfaction.

“How boring. Do you keep up with him?”

You studiously ignored him, turning the page of the menu.

“Is that a no, then?”

You continued to ignore him.

He huffed petulantly. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re still mad about what I said? I was some annoying first year brat in junior high. I’ve changed.”

You looked over the menu again, eyebrow raised in doubt.

“I have!” he protested.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Can you please leave now? I need to study.”

“Study for what?” he frowned, then. “What school do you go to? Shouldn’t you be on break?”

“You’re asking too many questions.”

“Then sate my curiosity and answer them!”

You huffed this time, finally surrendering to your fate. “Fine. I’m going to Mimayama right now and I took extra class over summer break. We always have homework.”

“Mimayama, huh?” Narumiya looked at you closely. “All the way in Kyoto?”

“Yes.” You turned back to the menu, but your head was beginning to ache from switching between squinting to read the small text and looking up to Narumiya. Or maybe that was just Narumiya . . .

“Is that why you and Kazuya haven’t been talking?”

“I didn’t say anything about that,” you said, feeling a frown form on your lips. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Come on! When’s the next time we’re gonna see each other?”

“Never, hopefully.”

He pouted. “You don’t mean that. Come on! Tell me about it. Who would I even tell?”

“Your friends. Your sisters. Miyuki.”

Narumiya laughed, but it sounded forced. “As if I still talk to him too.”

You looked at him this time and he had a bitter smile on his lips. He suddenly looked tired — worn out. You couldn’t imagine from what, though.

His smile tightened. “You’re not the only one with problems.”

You pursed your lips. “Evidently. If you listen, I’ll listen too.”

He frowned, looking away, clearly not liking the prospect of airing out his vulnerabilities.

“It’s a fair exchange,” you added before he could refuse. “And I’m the last person to judge, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wouldn’t judge even you, Narumiya.”

He grumbled. “At least call me Mei.”

You did your best to offer advice but he waved you off.

“I’m doing it because it was fair and I needed to vent. Don’t worry about me. I’ll deal with it.”

You eyed him disbelievingly. “I have no problem helping you, either . . .”

Another lazy wave of the hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m fine. Now, what’s the deal with you and Kazuya?”

Mei leaned forward, unabashedly stealing a fry from your plate. You two had ordered your meals before Mei dove into his problems concerning pitching, the team, and the first year catcher he had to deal with now.

You listened intently, finding yourself sympathizing with him, much to your own surprise. You knew, rationally, Mei had his own problems — of course, he was only human — but for him to be this open, you appreciated it. It made you feel at ease. Maybe Mei wasn’t as bad as you’d painted him to be.

You pushed your plate to him, appetite having disappeared, but he pushed it back toward you, pointing at the food with an intense expression on his face. “Eat.”

“I can’t talk and eat at the same time,” you pointed out.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing you with narrowed eyes. “You can take breaks and eat.”

“Is the famous Narumiya Mei worried about me?”

“Never mind, you can starve!”

You smiled slightly and launched in your story, punctuated with breaks to eat or drink some water. Mei listened to all that you had to say, only interrupting to ask a question to prompt more details. He didn’t seem to judge, but you couldn’t tell for sure; his facial expression stayed composed throughout your talk.

When you finished, you found yourself suddenly conscious of his eyes on you. You squirmed a little in your seat, poking tentatively at the cold fries on your plate. You looked back up when he sighed, slouching in his seat.

“We both can’t catch a break, can we?”

You snorted. “No kidding.”

“If it makes you feel any better, if I was in your place, I might’ve done the same thing. I mean it’s not the right choice, but solidarity or whatever.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, evading your glare. “It’s fine. We can actually do something about your problem.”

“You know, we can also do something for you too — ”

He waved you off. “I’ll deal with it eventually. But you . . . We can do something here.”

You didn’t like the look on his face, the conspiratorial smile on his lips beginning to grow as you shook your head. “N-No, definitely not. Besides, why would you want to help me? I’ve been pretty mean to you these past years . . .”

Mei shrugged. “That’s how most of my friendships start.”

You sighed. “Regardless, I’m not — we’re not doing anything about it. I just told you to vent. We’re finished with that.”

“You’re giving up, then?” he asked, unintentionally echoing your sister’s question from last year.

“I . . .” You frowned. “If it’ll save me the heartbreak, then I guess so. He’s not even — not even talking to me, Mei. His message is loud and clear.”

“Well, he’s dumb. You and I both know that. Why should you listen to him? You have to try.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t want to,” he corrected. “What do you have to lose? Your friendship is already in shambles, you’re going to school all the way in Kyoto so you won’t have to see him if it goes rotten and it’s not like you two live that close. Maybe telling him will fix things.”

“And what if it makes it worse?” you asked sharply. “I’d rather we leave it like this.”

“Assuming for one moment that he doesn’t feel the same — ”

“He doesn’t.”

Mei ignored you. “ — then telling him will yield the same ending to your friendship as it did before. Except now it’ll be official. It’s a better way to break things off, anyway.”

“I have no business to mess his life up like that,” you said stubbornly.

“You want to reconcile, don’t you?” He suddenly asked, scrutinizing you.

“What?”

“Reconcile with Kazuya. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But it’s not that easy. He’s going to want an explanation and he can be cruel. He’d probably make you choose between him and not explaining.”

You avoided Mei’s eyes. He was right. Miyuki wouldn’t accept you with open arms. He’d be affronted and demand an explanation. Rightfully so.

“So, what? I don’t tell him and we break things off or I do tell him and my feelings aren’t reciprocated so he breaks things off all the same to save us from the awkwardness?”

“Or you somehow manage to reconcile but still keep it to yourself. It’s unlikely, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if this bothered Miyuki. You’d probably do him a favor if you told him,” Mei finished, lacing his fingers together on the table.

“A favor,” you snorted disbelievingly.

“Now,” Mei continued, ignoring your tone, “let’s say he does have feelings for you. Which he does. Honestly, did you see the way he’d look at you when we were in junior high? It was gross.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mei rolled his eyes. “Because you’re just that unattractive or what?”

You shifted, uncomfortable. “I don’t deserve him.”

“Shut up.”

You blanched. “You — ”

“You and Kazuya are perfect for each other. That sounds like something he’d say about you, too. I’m not here to listen to you depreciate yourself. I’m here to help.”

You softened as he aimed a displeased frown at you. “Thanks, Mei,” you said, truly meaning it.

“You’re welcome. I’m great, aren’t I?” he preened, a happy grin replacing the frown. “Now, assuming he liked you — which he does — he’d want to know if you felt the same. So, telling him maximizes the possibility of reconciling your friendship. Plus, maybe you get a boyfriend out of it, too.”

“Boyfriend!”

“Obviously. That tends to be what happens when two people like each other.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Narumiya Mei!”

Mei’s words left a significant mark on you.

You left the cafe thinking over the possibilities (sparing no thought to the homework that hadn’t been completed). But the thought of confessing seemed . . . strange. Could you be so forward to actually go after Miyuki and tell him? He’d probably avoid you as much as he could.

You weren’t looking to make a fool out of yourself, either, so you certainly didn’t want to try going to Seido. Going to his house and cornering him there seemed to be your best option, but the next break where he’d be home was Christmas and that was four months away. That was okay; there was plenty of time to work things out.

But it also gave you time to back out.

You chose not to discuss this with Akemi, knowing she’d encourage you to tell him as well. For now, you just wanted to make your own decision without outside influences (excluding Mei since you’d made the unfortunate decision of giving him your LINE account).

The rest of August was split between school, Akemi, Mei and your deliberations. Mei constantly kept you updated on the start of the fall tournament, finding every chance to talk about Miyuki — which led to Mei’s usual declaration of taking Nationals next summer. You continued to mull over the decision of telling Miyuki, always finding yourself becoming anxious at the notion of facing him again.

At the same time, you missed Miyuki. If things didn’t go well, at least you’d spoken to him one last time.

It was a decision that demanded great thought. No one was going to have a part in influencing your choice (not even Mei). You couldn’t half-ass it or do it on the fly. You needed to have some organization when it came to deciding.

The call was what threw your entire plan off its axis.

You’d been in the middle of composing a text to Mei, demanding to hang out since he’d seemingly dropped off the face of the earth following Inashiro’s loss to Ugumori. You knew it had to do with those problems he’d told you about in August and you weren’t going to let him deal with it alone.

It was almost funny how much your friendship with Mei had grown in such a short time. While he could be unruly, irritating and arrogant, he seemed to have a softer side when it came to you, toning down his need to get a rise out of someone. It reminded you of Miyuki, but you shelved that thought quickly. It was a comparison that had no reason to exist.

Dutifully ignoring the review for your English class on your desk, you’d been in the middle of typing out a word when your screen changed from the conversation between you and Mei to the call screen. You eyed the number warily. It was from Tokyo, but it wasn’t one you recognized. Your thumb hovered over the decline button but you huffed and answered it. If it was a telemarketer, you could nip them in the bud right now before they got the idea to call you back.

“Hello?”

“Er, is this — ?” The voice on the other line proceeded to give out your full name.

“Yes, this is. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Uh . . .” Another person on the other end said something, but it was too quick for you to grab onto. “I know that, Zono! Shut up!”

Your frown deepened. “I’m . . . hanging up now.”

You went to pull away but the guy spoke again, hurriedly. “No, no, hold on! My name is Kuramochi Yoichi, I’m the shortstop for Seido’s baseball team.”

What the hell was a player from Seido doing you? You glanced at the calendar mounted in front of you, finding the words Seido vs. Yakushi final @ 1 marked down for today. So, the game must’ve been over then. Didn’t these boys have better things to be doing right now?

“How’d you get my number? And what’s the reason for calling me?” you asked, trying to sound as polite as possible. You were a bit irritated, though.

“You know Miyuki, right? Miyuki Kazuya?”

“Unfortunately.”

Kuramochi coughed, though it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Right. Well, he sort of mentioned you today, before we went to the hospital, so I figured I should give you a call — ”

“Hospital?” you interrupted sharply. “Why are you going to a hospital? Did something happen? Was he injured?”

“Eh, he was but it’s not too serious. I think. So, yeah, he said to not call you otherwise you’d ‘kick his ass for getting hurt’ so I thought why not? Let him suffer a little bit for trying to hide his injury.” Kuramochi sounded nonchalant about the entire thing, so maybe it was okay, but you were still confused.

“Explain.”

“He was tackled at the plate by a pitcher from Seiko High in our semifinals and trust me, he wouldn’t have said anything unless someone else had noticed. I’m not sure if anyone else noticed, but if they did, they didn’t say anything. I told him . . . Well, I told him not to fall apart until after we’d won,” Kuramochi admitted sheepishly. You pursed your lips in disapproval.

“If he showed any sign of bringing the team down, I’d tell the coach but he didn’t for the most part. Unfortunately, another one our teammates noticed and brought everyone’s attention to it so the coach knew by the middle of the game.”

“Did he continue to play? Or was he benched?”

“No, he played the entire game. Miyuki’s our cleanup, too, so it wasn’t a bad move — ”

“Are you discounting the fact that he struck out a few times?” the other guy on the other end of the line asked.

“Shut it,” Kuramochi snapped. “It was better for our team morale, too. That bastard is aggressive. We might not have won if he’d been benched.” Then he coughed, seeming to suddenly realize that he’d called Miyuki a bastard with you listening. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you muttered tiredly, rubbing your temples to stave off the incoming headache. “So, what? He was taken to the hospital?”

“Yeah. We got here like fifteen minutes ago. He was . . . pretty out of it. Probably from the pain. We’re waiting for him right now. But, uh, I guess I called to see if you’d like to come and see him. Don’t worry about his father, I know someone else took care of that already.”

“Where are you guys?” you asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Tokyo General.”

“And how did you get my number again?”

“Miyuki’s phone.”

Kuramochi must’ve copied the number from Miyuki’s and into his own. You were surprised that Miyuki had even kept it. You sighed heavily, turning back to the conversation. “You do realize we don’t even talk anymore, right? Has he even told you about me?”

Kuramochi was silent for a few seconds. “Not really, but he’s always closed off. I did notice the lack of conversation for you on his messages, though. I don’t know, I just thought I’d tell you. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to see him, but as soon as we get his room number, I’ll text you from this number.”

“That sounds fine. Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem. Sorry for bothering you, though.” He hung up quickly before you could reply. You dropped your hand holding the phone into your lap, staring at the calendar. You had two finals this coming Monday and you needed to study. But was this your chance?

The way that Kuramochi has phrased it . . . It sounded like Miyuki was joking about it. In his pain-induced haze, had he forgotten about the ruins of your friendship and joked about you? Or was he conscious about what he’d been saying?

It was all so confusing.

You gritted your teeth at the oncoming headache and stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. You packed up your notebooks that you needed for studying, grabbing your wallet as well. A quick search told you that the next train to downtown Tokyo would leave in thirty minutes. You bought your ticket, sending a silent mental apology to your father who’d see the purchase and probably freak out.

The dormitory wasn’t too lively, meaning you could make your escape unnoticed. You notified the resident assistant of your leave — one of the teachers for your year — and she let you off without much problems, only stressing for you to be back before curfew tomorrow. After boarding the train with no problems and sending Akemi a message about your impromptu leave, you dove into your studies but found that you couldn’t concentrate. You had too many worries, too many thoughts.

This was going to go very well or very horribly.

After the three-hour train ride from Kyoto to Tokyo, you arrived at the hospital at six. You had met Kuramochi in the lobby of the hospital and he led you to the in-patient wing.

Kuramochi was an interesting individual. He was stiff, overly-polite in a way that said he was trying too hard. He probably felt uncomfortable actually seeing you in person.

“Does he have to stay overnight?” You asked, fingers tightening over the strap of your bag. When studying had escaped you, you obsessed over what sort of injury he could have. Was it sprained ribs? Had he torn a muscle? Or was this worse?

“Eh, only one night. He kicked up a fuss about it but we pointed out that he’d fainted from the pain. Better safe than sorry,” he explained as you two stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the second floor.

You looked at him sharply. “He fainted?”

Kuramochi grimaced and nodded. “Like I said, he was pretty out of it. He’s fine now. Conscious and all that.”

“What about his father?”

Kuramochi reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Said he’d come tomorrow.”

You sighed softly. Yeah, that sounded like him.

There was a soft ding as the doors slid open, Kuramochi stepping out and briskly leading the way. His cleats were loud against the tiled floor, disturbing the quiet environment of the second floor. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

You made it to a room but just as he’d lifted a hand to pull the door knob, you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He looked questioningly at you, his hand paused in the air. “What?”

“I don’t think this was a good idea . . .” You fidgeted with the strap of your bag, swallowing thickly. Your heart was beating like a drum in your chest and you had the ridiculous thought that everybody could hear how loudly it was beating.

Kuramochi scanned your face and he became serious, seeming to sense that you were genuinely doubting yourself.

“Whatever happened between you two,” he said, hushed. “It’s fine.”

“It was my fault,” you mumbled. “Why we stopped talking.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. But I don’t know your story. Listen,” you looked at him, finding him meet your eyes earnestly. “Now is the best time to fix it. Whether it goes well or not, I don’t know. But at least you tried, right?”

What do you have to lose?

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “You’re right.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Thanks.”

Kuramochi stared at you, then nodded to himself, as though he’d just realized something. “It makes sense now,” he mumbled under his breath, making you frown.

“What — ”

He opened the door before you could ask what he’d meant and you instinctively jumped behind him as several voices floated out of the room.

“Ah, Kuramochi. Is everything okay?” a woman asked.

“Yeah. Just had to pick up one of Miyuki’s visitors,” he replied, staying in the doorway, probably sensing you hiding behind him.

“Is it — ?” another voice asked, sounding like the one you’d heard on the phone.

Kuramochi didn’t respond, simply stepping into the room, leaving you standing in the doorway for everyone to see.

There was only another guy your age in there and he looked utterly panicked at your presence. There was an intimidating man as well, dressed in the Seido baseball uniform — the coach presumably — and then a woman standing next to him, dressed in formal clothes. You turned your eyes to the hospital bed, but instead of meeting those familiar brown eyes, you were met with his bowed head, his eyes averted to his legs. You noticed his clenched fists on his lap and felt your heart drop to your stomach. He was angry.

You bit your lip then bowed to the two adults, introducing yourself, “I’m an . . . old friend.”

The two adults looked at Miyuki for confirmation. The air was uncomfortably tense. You saw him sigh minutely before he nodded.

With his confirmation that you weren’t some stranger trying to sneak in, they introduced themselves as the coach and scout of Seido; the other guy introduced himself as the Zono you’d heard from the phone before. You accepted them politely, but a stifling silence ensued afterward.

You snuck glances at Miyuki in the corner of your eye. He had raised his head, but his eyes remained on the white wall in front of him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, we should head out, then. Miyuki, will you be okay here?” Takashima asked, turning to look at him.

“I’m fine.”

His voice had dropped since junior high, but he still sounded the same. Just like the Miyuki you once knew. Except he sounded tired. You felt guilt bubble in the pit of your stomach, knowing you were probably going to stress him about more.

One by one, they all exited the room. Kuramochi had hissed something to Miyuki before he left, sending you a nod of solitude. When the door finally shut, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. You shifted on your feet awkwardly. The silence was absolutely unnerving. You briefly considered just fleeing and never coming back, but that would be too cruel. Why should you show up abruptly then leave just as suddenly?

Yet, Miyuki still hadn’t spoken.

You took a deep breath, ignoring the racing of your heart, preparing to say something — anything.

Miyuki beat you to it. “Why are you here?”

Hurt pierced your heart. You faltered at the cold tone in his voice, the apathy, the indifference. Miyuki raised his head to look at you and any remnants of a response flew out of your head. He had matured, baby fat disappearing from his face and leaving someone else behind. Miyuki had grown into his looks. Those familiar brown eyes that had often glowed with mirth were hard, almost unrecognizable, burning into you with searing intensity.

You fidgeted with the strap of your bag, dropping your eyes to the floor. “Kuramochi called me. Said you were here so I — ”

“You thought you could come and visit like we were ‘old friends?’” Miyuki finished for you callously.

You dropped your head, trying not to let his words affect you. He was angry and Miyuki never spared his words much thought when he was angry. You certainly deserved his ire, anyhow. You’d been such a shitty friend.

You took a deep breath. “Not really. I know I haven’t been a good friend to you. I just thought . . . I don’t know. I thought you deserved to finally hear an explanation from me, but like I said before, it . . . might not be something you want to hear.”

Miyuki didn’t say anything else, turning to look at the window. You took that as your cue to continue, dragging a chair over to his bedside. You managed a reasonable distance away from the bed, dropping your bag onto the floor with a sigh.

“It’s taken far too long for me to explain myself. I understand if, even if you know, you’ll want to go our separate ways, though my explanation sort of ensures that you probably won’t want to talk to me, anyways.” You glanced up at him and he was still looking out the window, but his eyebrows were furrowed now. He was troubled.

You pushed on, dropping your eyes to your lap. “My reasons weren’t entirely for educational purposes, but I think you’ve picked up on that already, right? It was . . . Well, it was partially because of my sister’s advice, I guess. She didn’t say to leave because of you or anything, just that I had to prioritize my education when it came to picking a high school.”

You’d raised your eyes to his face and saw him raise his shoulders, the furrow of his eyebrows deepening in a way that told you he was ready to protest. You continued speaking before he could. “Seido is a great school. Looking back on it now, it probably would’ve benefitted me as much as Mimayama has. Plus,” you dropped your eyes back to your lap. “You would’ve been there, too.”

“What’s your point?”

You flinched at the sharpness of his voice. It cut deeply, making you feel small and insignificant. Still, you ventured further.

“That was the problem,” you mumbled. “You’d be there and I’d be with you. She — my sister — said not to let my feelings influence my decision. At this point, I’ve clearly missed the mark that she was aiming for. I just,” you paused, leaning forward to brace your elbows on your knees, rubbing your forehead tiredly. Your heart felt like it was going to break free from your ribs.

“I wanted to go to Seido with you. But if I did, I would’ve picked that school because I was in love with you. So, I went to Mimayama because I thought that by leaving, I could get rid of these feelings and we could continue to be friends.”

Finally saying it felt so relieving, like the pressure on your chest had lifted and you could breathe freely. The constraints of your secret were gone. But that left you to deal with the aftermath.

You didn’t raise your head as the silence seemed to echo, broken only by the occasional voice outside the room and the ticking of the clock. Miyuki still hadn’t said anything.

Your liberation ended with the cold revelation that no, he didn’t feel the same and you’d ruined your friendship permanently.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling a few tears slid down your cheek. You rubbed them away roughly, though fresh ones replaced them immediately. Your chest and throat felt constricted, making breathing steadily a little difficult. You heard the sheets rustle as he moved.

“Why are you crying?” Did your ears betray you or had his voice softened? He still sounded tired as hell, but he didn’t sound irritated. If anything, his tone was almost exasperated.

You brushed away the fresh set of tears but they just kept coming. Was this two years of pent-up frustration coming to the surface? Or was it because of the imminent end of your friendship?

“I just ruined my friendship,” you muttered, sniffling. It didn’t look like your tears would be stopping anytime soon, so you decided to save yourself the embarrassment; you stood up then grabbed your bag and stood up quickly, covering your face with your arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — ”

“Wait,” he called quickly. You stepped back as you heard the hospital bed creak then a soft ‘fuck’ reached your ears, making you drop your arm away from your eyes.

Your eyes widened once you saw he had sat up and shifted, moving to stand up in front of you. “Don’t get up, you’ll hurt yourself more!” You put a hand on his shoulder, trying pushing him down, but it was all in vain. The strength he had gained over the years — and more recently as the cleanup for Seido — was no match for your own. He stood up and you found yourself trapped with him in the space between the chair and the bed.

You froze. With this proximity, you could lean your forehead on his chest; in fact, you could almost feel the warmth he radiated. You dropped your eyes immediately. Funnily enough, your tears were quickly drying with this new distraction.

Miyuki pried your fingers off his shoulder and your heart fell to your stomach, but instead of dropping your hand, he clasped your hand between his own. His grip was tight and unyielding. The message was clear. You weren’t going anywhere.

(And to be completely honest, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.)

You saw his chest lift and fall as he sighed, the warm air brushing over the crown of your head, tickling stray pieces of flyaway hair. There were too many things going on at once. You felt the coarseness of his palms against your hand, callouses rubbing against the skin roughly, the distinct scent of a generic detergent brand printed on the cotton t-shirt he was wearing. But it was all so Miyuki that you couldn’t complain.

Being this close, hearing his steady breathing, he was here. That familiar comfort you’d always found with him was slowly returning and that was dangerous. You didn’t even know if he still wanted to be your friend. But maybe . . .

“You’re right,” he finally said.

“About what?”

“About ruining our friendship.”

You flinched, taking a step back and running into the chair. It scraped loudly against the floor. Well, then. At least that had been solved, right? You felt the tears that had dried begin to well up again, the hurt piercing your heart like a knife once more. You tried to pull your hand away but he was too strong for you.

“Miyuki — ”

“I don’t want to be your friend if you feel like that.”

Your mouth quivered. “I get it, you don’t need to — ”

He released your hand but before you could step away, his hands were cradling your face, tilting you towards him. You had no choice but to look at him. You inhaled sharply, feeling exposed underneath his gaze. But more than that, his eyes held an unspoken tenderness that hadn’t been there before. His thumbs gently brushed away the stray tears that had escaped.

“I’m not . . . good with this,” he said. “But I don’t want to be your friend because I — ” He stopped, almost seeming to pout at his lack of articulation. You had an inkling to what he was trying to say, to what he was hinting at and it made your chest tighten, made your palms sweaty and your heart race.

“Why?” you blurted out, feeling like you had to know why he would chose you, out of all people, and also because you weren’t sure you could deal with the implications of his words so soon.

Miyuki looked genuinely confused. “What?”

“After all I did . . . Not talking to you . . . Honestly, I understand why you blocked me — ”

“Blocked you? I never blocked you,” he frowned.

“I — Your number didn’t work when I tried to text you for your birthday last year,” you clarified. “No call, either.”

“Oh. Oh.” He seemed to understand and winced, a guilty expression passing over his face. “I got a new phone a few days before that. I broke my old one — ”

“How do you break a Nokia?”

He grinned, tugging on your cheek playfully and your heart skipped a beat at the sight of his grin, so warm and full of mirth. You felt like a little thirteen-year-old again, experiencing the first adrenaline rush of your feelings.

“My teammates broke it,” he corrected. “Dad got me one, said it was partially a birthday present, too. I got a new phone number but I . . . Well, I never texted you my new number. I had yours, I just didn’t . . .” he trailed off and the happy bubble you two had found yourselves in popped.

It hurt, but you understood. Miyuki was the type to need to know — he needed to know why you had avoided telling him for so long, why you wanted to go all the way to Kyoto for school; he was analytical in every aspect of his life. You weren’t going to be excluded from that particular quirk.

But you also wondered what would happen now. If his terrible word phrasing from earlier said anything about it, Miyuki seemed to think of you as more than a friend — but it had been two years since you two had spoken or even interacted face-to-face.

“Hey.”

You blinked, refocusing on him. He was frowning, eyebrows furrowed as he squished your cheeks together. You struggled in his grip, feeling a scowl quickly form on your lips. “Your hands are probably filthy, stop that — ”

He sighed and dropped his hands from your face, stepping back to lean on the hospital bed fully. You were . . . disappointed at the ensuring distance, no longer finding his natural warmth at your disposal. You chided yourself; Miyuki had an injury. He shouldn’t exert so much energy. You weren’t sure about the extent of his injury, exactly, but if he had fainted from the pain, then it had to be worrying, right?

You scrutinized his appearance, too caught up in your worries to be shameful. At least that was one thing that never changed. (And would probably never change.)

“You should sit back down, Miyuki.”

Miyuki huffed softly. “It’s just an oblique muscle tear on my right side. And I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“I know.”

“And hey,” he caught your attention again. “Why do you always call me by my last name? Even Mei calls me by my first.”

You shrugged, shifting uncomfortably at the sudden question. “I don’t know. It was just a thing I always did. Besides, this is Mei we’re talking about.”

He snorted. “That’s true. Wait,” he frowned at you. “Since when do you call Mei by his first name? This is just unfair.” He pouted a little and you huffed.

“I’m relieved to see that you haven’t changed, and well, we’ve sort of . . . become friends.”

“You know we lost our ticket to Nationals because of Inashiro, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re going to Koshien Stadium now, aren’t you? It’s basically the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“Mei and I are friends, I guess. He was the one who encouraged me to — to talk to you. Try and rekindle our friendship.”

“What exactly did he say?”

You pursed your lips, narrowing your eyes at Miyuki. “Why do you want to know?”

Miyuki shrugged carelessly. “Mei’s the type to incite action in someone else. Would you have come if you hadn’t spoken to him?”

You made a choked sound of disbelief. “You’re assuming — ”

“You said you were in love with me, didn’t you?”

The abrupt reminder of your confession was like a slap to the face. You shut your mouth silently, feeling embarrassed at being put on the spot like this.

Miyuki looked thoughtful. “Whatever he said must’ve resonated with you. I imagine your sister had a hand in this, too. She doesn’t like taking the blame, does she?”

You were worried about nothing, apparently. Miyuki seemed to remember all your ticks now as he had two years ago. In fact, just being with him for these past few minutes have been refreshing. It was like coming home.

Miyuki huffed softly at your lack of response. “Look, I . . . I’m sorry. For everything.”

You stiffened. “What are you — ”

He says your name lowly, cutting you off short.

There was an edge of rawness in his voice, a vulnerability that you hadn’t ever heard before. You swallowed your response, watching him tentatively as he dropped his head, turning his eyes to the ground.

“These last few months were difficult. Did you know I was made captain? The, uh, previous captain — Yuki — nominated me, of all people. You know how I am. As you might imagine, we had a few clashes, but things are coming together now. I mean, we won. Can you believe that?” Miyuki laughed, but it was cold and brittle.

You didn’t like how depreciating this was turning. He may’ve asked for your silence, but if all he was going to do was put himself down, then you would put a stop to it.

As if sensing your climbing ire, he looked back up and the anger simmered, fading to a dull roar as you met his eyes. There was a warmth in there you hadn’t ever seen before.

“We got through it. We’re here now. Things are looking up. This damn injury . . . It’s just a speed bump in a long road. But through it all, I kept going back to you. You never left my mind. I,” he paused again and dropped his eyes, seemingly embarrassed, “I missed you.” It came out like a mumble, a hesitant admission; expected for someone as emotionally closed off as Miyuki.

But you found it charming. His inability to respond in closely social situations, in times like this that were intimate. You knew him well enough to know what he was saying.

“So, I’m sorry. For ignoring you. For prying when it wasn’t my place. For being an asshole about it all, really.”

You took a deep breath. This was it. “I’m sorry, too. No matter what, you deserved to know the truth.”

“Well.” It sounded like Miyuki disagreed as he reached up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “It was a deeply personal reason.”

You snorted. “No shit.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve always felt the same.”

You froze.

There it was.

Your heart was going into overdrive once again and you found your breath stolen from you when he lifted his head to make eye contact with you. There was still that warmth in there that hadn’t been present before. But maybe it had always been there, you had just never seen it. Miyuki was a master at disguising his emotions and you supposed you couldn’t ever have idealized the concept of him having feelings for you to be able to actually notice it.

“And I think,” he continued quietly, “that we’re not ever going to be the same again. But that’s okay. So, let’s start off with you calling me by my first name, yeah?”

The air left your lungs in a rush and before you could even think to manage an agreement, he lifted his hand to your cheek, settling warmly on the curve, thumb brushing gently over it. He pushed forward and you knew, you knew where this was heading. You didn’t stop him. You weren’t sure you wanted to. Sure, there might’ve been some things that still needed to be discussed but you had settled your battles for the most part.

So when he asked, his voice soft in the tenderness of the moment, “Can I kiss you?” You found it a little hard to keep standing straight, so why wouldn’t you have leaned forward on him — totally mindful of his injury, of course — and met his lips halfway.

There might’ve been a number of things that ruined it for anyone else — having to watch his right side constantly so you didn’t hurt him, the bookbag still weighing heavily on your shoulder, keeping an ear out for the nurses and doctors — but there were other factors that made it perfect for you.

The warm and firm press of his mouth on yours, easily consuming all your senses with everything that was Miyuki Kazuya but retaining a gentleness that was also him. Always making sure you were comfortable. And the way his other hand had easily fallen to your waist to keep you in place was your anchor, powerful tendons of his arm underneath your palm that kept you from falling into the sea.

It was strange. He was both all-consuming and anchoring.

He shifted, angling a little more to slant his lips over yours, deepening and taking you down to the depths of the ocean. You followed willingly, reciprocating eagerly if only to prolong this experience. But the growing burn in your lungs was going to be a problem soon.

That was okay. He was back in your life now, wasn’t he? Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t a stranger, he wasn’t a friend; he was something more, a fixated presence in your life that caused you both immense happiness and irritation. No one was perfect, you knew, but even with all his faults and flaws, he came pretty damn close.

And he was right, too.

You had sort of ruined your friendship, though you supposed it was on his end, too. This was a two-way street, after all.

But as he pulled away, breathing a little faster than usual, his lips beginning to swell, you didn’t find yourself mourning the end of it. No, as he caught his breath and leaned forward again to claim your mouth, you found yourself looking forward to what he’d bring.

Your future was firmly entrenched with his and you wanted it to stay that way.

[masezace]

little off topic for my blog, but i started watching a new show since a friend mentioned it was good and i'd heard positive things about it, so i just wanted to talk about it a little bit (probably never again after this since this isn't a fandom blog, but it's the only one i have rn so idc it's going here)

the show is Jurassic World Camp Cretaceous, and just going on looks alone, despite my love for dinosaurs and the Jurassic Park franchise i never would have considered it. it appears to be very much for kids, and as i'm in my late twenties now i'm not particularly interested in especially kiddy media. however a friend my age enjoyed it and mentioned it has a canon lgbtq+ couple in it among the main characters, so of course i just had to watch it. i had already been hearing that despite its initial appearance and premise, it was surprisingly good for a kids' show, so i had already been curious, but i was even more keen after knowing there were queer characters, and not even the adults, the kids themselves (in a kid's show?!! what a time to be alive), so i finally sat down and watched it.

[spoiler warning, both minor and major, for the rest of this post btw, so continue reading at your own risk if you haven't seen it yet/are still watching]

the show overall

okay so firstly, i am coming at all of this from the perspective of a writer, so my observations are from a technical standpoint more so than just as a fan of the show. and honestly, it really is a well-written show as a whole. is it geared towards kids? definitely. there are plenty of jokes/gags in it that just don't appeal to me as an adult, but beyond that, there was plenty to appreciate as an adult.

the writing is actually phenomenal? there were several points in the series where i just sat back and mulled over the way a scene went, what the thought process behind writing it was like, how well it was executed, and how important it was to the characters and overall plot.

the suspense is spot on, nothing gets dragged out too long, and i will admit there have been a few scenes throughout that actually got me; i jumped! it's actually scarier than i expected a kid show to be, but i'm so glad they went where they did because it really elevated the experience.

the pacing overall is very good, adequately engaging for kids' short attention spans (and us adhd adults 🥲) but not too short either to a point where things felt abrupt or unfinished. plot arcs are well developed and tied up nicely. also, as a bit of a dinosaur nerd, the array of dinosaurs in the show is super broad and satisfying! very fun stuff.

character element

imo the real gem of this show is the character development. honestly it's just *chefs kiss*

the characters grow and change so much and so realistically over the course of the show, it's honestly so much better and more satisfying than the character growth in most adult fiction/media recently.

the growth in ben (who btw was def my favorite character by the end of s1) and kenji in particular were my favorites and, in my personal opinion, the most interesting. the way ben started out anxious, cowardly, and rule abiding to a fault, then grew into a brave, confident, adventurous little pyromaniac gremlin, then had that stint later in the series where he regressed a bit-questioning himself-until eventually ultimately striking a great balance and really coming into himself was just... peak character writing.

kenji started out overconfident, lazy, and overly concerned with money/status. but that arrogant overconfidence and laziness slowly turned into responsibility, and a desire to protect his found family, and the realization that it's the people in your life that really matter most.

honestly what i mentioned only scratches the surface in terms of those two characters, there's certainly more that can be said about them (as well as all the others) but i'm not really in the mood for a deep dive character analysis atm. just trust me tho when i say these characters are so well done and each one of them have arcs that are super satisfying to watch play out.

queer representation

and as for the queer couple? yasmina and sammy are PERFECT. it was so beautiful watching their relationship grow from one-sided to mutual friendship, to loyal devotion, then to love. they were set up incredibly well and incredibly naturally. i have like, no complaints when it comes to them. i don't even know if there's anything i can say that would add to things, they were just a really awesome couple to watch become canon, they're the beautiful and painfully needed representation we all beg for in tv and movies.

shipping, chemistry, and intent

but oh goodness... probably my only real complaint about the entire show would be how benji (ben x kenji) and kenji x brooklyn (kenlyn? brookji? idk and idrc) were handled. because for all that this show did SO much beautifully right, they really screwed the pooch here, sadly.

i'm gonna start by saying that the writing in this show, as with most, is deliberate. what i mean by this is that despite having no clue who it would be because my friend thankfully did not even spoil me as far as the genders of the queer couple, i clocked yas and sammy as the would-be queer couple as early as season one (actually it was between them and benji, but more on that later). i could already see the chemistry, because it was deliberately written in.

shipping is subjective. anyone can ship any character, and in most cases it's pretty easy to see how there could be (romantic) chemistry between fan pairings based on their personalities, their arcs, etc. and that's okay! ships don't even have to have any canon support to be valid, because shipping is for the fandom, and it's for fun (i have a few rarepairs and crack ships across different media that i just love).

but onscreen/written romantic chemistry is a lot less subjective (to clarify, it is subjective whether or not the chemistry is good, but it's not subjective about whether or not it exists). there are literally scenes written with the sole purpose of building the romantic tension and/or chemistry between planned couples (some of which even have absolutely zero plot relevance, which usually is not advised tbh, and most of which are the cliches/tropes you see in literally any romance ever written, some are just disguised a little better than others. but make no mistake, it's all the same set of cliches. there is nothing new under the sun), as well as intentional, key moments within scenes that have other purposes. they are essential to establish romantic pairings.

and typically, the foundations for these couples are laid VERY early on. always within the first or second season (well, at least they are when the writer actually knows what they're doing and has at least a rough plan/outline for the entire series & characters. this is usually a large part of what separates the good chemistry from the poor chemistry. an author who knows who the couples are going to be and has a plan from the beginning to build them up is going to be more successful in creating a believable relationship with good chemistry. one who does not plan, or makes last minute plans will almost certainly fail, and the couple is just going to suck). when the set of characters you're working with are going to stay the same for most or all of the story, you start immediately.

i don't mean to toot my own horn, because i think it's because i'm a writer so i just pick up on narrative patterns very easily, and pretty much always clock the planned couples within the first few episodes of any series, and by the end i am right like 9 times out of 10.

that being said, do you know whose deliberately written chemistry i also clocked in jwcc? ben and kenji's.

kenji and... brooklyn?

no offense to people who like/enjoy kenji and brooklyn, you are free to love them, but the way their romance was written is... quite possibly the weakest point of the show. it felt like they were just trying to appease the upsetto heteros in charge, because there was definitely another het pairing that had a lot more potential than kenji and brooklyn (hello darius x brooklyn aka darilyn, you would have actually made sense because your relationship had amazing buildup and multiple standout scenes from s1 on. dgmw, i love that we got a m/f strong, supportive, purely platonic friendship out of them, i live for those and we really need more of them. but we could have had that with kenji and brooklyn, or darius and sammy, or ben and yas, literally any other pair instead).

kenji and brooklyn as a couple came out of absolutely nowhere. i honestly think they decided to shove them together last minute, and had no actual plan for them until they were working on s4. because their development barely started at the VERY end of s3 (the abruptness of him caring about her being held hostage so much more than literally anyone else in their group despite them having like zero buildup to that point gave me whiplash), but honestly didn't really even become "meaningful" development until s4, over halfway through the series. the two spend the first 3 seasons basically not particularly gaf about each other individually, only as part of the whole group and on an equal level with everyone else. they otherwise have no deliberate narrative foundation. it just starts in s4 with no prior hinting. which makes their development rocky and difficult to believe. the funny thing is their characters literally have dialogue (in s4) trying to draw comparisons/parallels between them to say that they especially have a lot in common and like??? no? they really don't? not any more so than any other two kids in the group. their relationship just, really falls flat.

it was disappointing to see it take such a massive spotlight in the series for almost all of seasons 4 and 5, overshadowing the friendships that have been the focus of the show and should have remained so, to the point where at times it just felt like i was watching some stereotypical het highschool romance. genuinely, it made s4 & 5 more of a drag to get through. yasammy and ben and yas' growing bond (which by the way was so sweet, it had the strongest queer solidarity vibes good lord, i sure wonder why yas chose ben out of everyone to come out to first, hmmm) were some of the few things that kept me invested, otherwise i would have dropped it if it had leaned much farther into becoming the kenlyn show than it already was. especially when it was that pair so much of the focus was given to, even though we had so readily and perfectly available, the pair that could have, should have been: benji. which finally brings me to:

ben and kenji

benji's foundation was laid in s1. their interactions, the situations they found themselves in, were deliberate (on the writers' part). i'm even gonna go out on a limb here and say the pairings were fully established in s1e3, even with parallels between yasammy and benji (sammy clinging to yas and ben clinging to kenji throughout the episode), and darilyn gets the beginning of their development too.

even though they bicker a lot in the beginning, they clearly care about each other? kenji protects/helps ben multiple times, and there are definitely some looks ben gives kenji at times. at the end of s1, the one who seems the most deeply effected over ben's "death," other than darius (understandably since he's the one who failed to save him), was kenji! immediately after it happens, we get two close up shots, darius and brooklyn then yasmina and sammy. after which, we go back to the whole group with kenji in center frame, the focus is intentionally on him. it is only kenji who drops to his knees at the loss, and then we get a close up of just kenji. he was saved for last, and he was alone in frame (tbf bumpy was in frame too, but i'm talking humans here), which implies his feelings are especially important in this moment. that is the reason for solo close ups.

after ben's "death," kenji takes to always wearing ben's fanny pack, and up until bumpy--who ben cares VERY much about--got separated from them, kenji was the one who (however briefly) took over her care, ensuring she got off the monorail with them, and he's extremely distraught, more than pretty much all of them, when they can't find her, and he's last to leave when they decide to accept that ben's gone. even when they do leave, he's distant and distracted and his mind is clearly still on ben.

other than darius, kenji is the only one (if i'm remembering correctly) to mention ben/say his name after they lost him, upset because he was actually trying not to think about him. he has clearly thought about ben, probably a lot, because it's hard not to be reminded constantly when you wear something that belonged to a deceased loved one. and frankly, he appears to be the only one who dwells on him that much.

when ben reappears alive (which btw he found the group again because of kenji's butter knife, hello), the frames literally purposely focus on kenji's reaction. he's the one in the foreground every time they show him and brooklyn in that scene. he is the first one to say ben's name, the first one to go to him and hug him, and the scene takes special care to highlight kenji's strong emotions at ben's reappearance, lingering on his teary face as the focus for a bit even after brooklyn enters the frame to hug ben (because she is not at all an important element in the scene at that moment). just like when ben "died," the way this scene is written and shot HEAVILY suggests that ben holds significant importance to kenji, specifically. because again, the focus here is on kenji and ben almost exclusively, with brooklyn as only an afterthought lol. and quite frankly literally everyone else's reaction to him being alive was pretty lackluster compared to the special attention they gave to kenji on this.

and then in s3 we have the infamous hat scene, where darius and ben are in the limo and ben sees and mentions kenji's sailor hat, looking sad and sounding like... longing?? then directly after we switch to kenji realizing he forgot his hat?? the scene has no real significance tbh other than to draw a connection between ben and kenji. like, it acts as a transition to switch to the pov of the group on the boat, but it was entirely unnecessary? why not just have darius say something about the others and then show them on the boat? if there were no special relationship between ben and kenji, it would have made far more sense if they really wanted it to be ben to say something, that he sees the hat, and sadly says something along the lines of "i hope the others are okay/doing better than we are right now/etc" which implies that the hat made him think of everyone, their whole group. rather than what we got... which very much implies that he was mostly just thinking about kenji 💀 and then kenji thinking about the hat at the same time ben's looking at it and thinking of kenji. like, this is.... a very blatant connection being made by the writing/directing here.

all of that. so many deliberate connections made between ben and kenji, they had a very solid foundation laid for a romance to develop, and by all intents and purposes one already WAS developing according to the show's own subtext. which was why up until s4 obliterated the idea, i was positive the queer couple in the show was either going to be yasammy or benji. it was extremely obvious imo. but as soon we started getting the typical, loud, cliche "we are going to pair off these characters" scenes for kenji and brooklyn, i knew we were getting yasammy and not benji (to be clear, i'm not at all upset about yasammy, they're beautiful and i love how their relationship was done, i wouldn't have had it end any other way for them. but i do personally prefer benji, i just like their personalities and dynamic more. and i feel they had so much potential that got wasted to make way for a far less interesting pairing between kenji and brooklyn. why can't we have 2 queer couples, huh? and if we really needed a minimum of one hetero pairing to appease whoever needed appeasing, darilyn was right there).

but then??? their like entire bond just gets dropped (honestly ben himself gets pretty heavily sidelined for almost all of the last two seasons, which is criminal imo). mostly so that a rushed kenji x brooklyn can be established. like there are still a few small moments here and there in early s4, and one episode in s5 (ep 10), but from early s4 till pretty much the end of the series we hardly see them have any meaningful conversations or interactions, meanwhile literally every other combo in the group does.

it's so weird? why build up benji so deliberately over the course of multiple seasons just to like, fully discard it for a pairing with far less chemistry, even after the chemistry-building scenes they shared, some of which literally had no other purpose than to affirm their connection? even though they were very sparse, the moments benji had were just so blatant (kenji leaps into the rock crevice right onto the back of a saber tooth to save ben?!!?? like he literally was just willing to exchange his life for him like that?? he basically says that he wasn't really thinking, he just did it. so he moved out of what, emotional instinct, that's what we're meant to intuit from that series of events? implying that he specifically has strong emotion and doesn't think things through when it comes to ben? because he doesn't do that kinda stuff for any of the others in the group! even better, this parallels when sammy jumped on the nothosaurus to save yasmina. and then the way benji look at each other after it's over??? hello??? and then how kenji pulls both brooklyn and ben in for that hug a couple minutes later... side eyeing the writers for that choice. they knew what they were doing there and they were evil for it). i just can't see any reason to have dropped them like they were, after all the development they shared for 3 seasons. confounding. biggest disappointment of the series.

i know this probably reads to some as just "wahh, my ship didn't become canon" nonsense. but that's not why i'm bugged. this wasn't just a ship i liked and wanted canon despite no actual narrative support, as most ships tend to be. this ship did have narrative support. there was intent behind many of their scenes together, lingering looks and little things that matter narratively and are always used to signify a stronger/special connection. and it led nowhere, for no good reason. that bothers me. writing that implies and promises something, but never delivers on it. like a person who never finishes their sentences (think Dr McPhee from Night at the Museum). ultimately it's not a HUGE deal or anything, at the end of the day it's just a ship and just a kids' show. but as a writer, it's just irritating to see something like that be done. what can i say 🤷

conclusion

even despite the wasted potential between certain pairings, and even though i do think the first three seasons were superior to the last two, overall i really enjoyed the show, and for what it was, it was really well-made. the overarching focus was of course on found family and friendship before anything else, which i absolutely love, and it was masterfully done. out of 6 kids, all of them had at least one or two meaningful bonding moments one-on-one with another in the group, so every possible combination had their moment to build strong, believable friendships with each other. i'm just so surprised by how good it was as a whole honestly, good enough to binge over the course of a week. i will happily recommend jwcc to anyone willing to give it a watch regardless of age, because i definitely think there's no age limit for a good story, no matter the medium it's told in. :)

[aboyshapeddog]

WIP ⚠️

Jacob Gives Staci The Boyfriend Treatment

Relationships: Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Drug Use, Smut, Unhealthy Dynamics, VERY Dubious Consent, Dom/Sub dynamic, Bliss = Slutweed, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Intox Kink, Dark, Massages, Rough S*x, Daddy Kink (kind of), PWP, Violence

Staci wasn’t allowed to consider refusing the Seeds, ever; the thought alone was in a territory his brain was no longer wired to reach. So when the Herald of the whitetails offered him a lit joint (what the fuck), his only questions were internal.

“Finish this for me will you?”, Jacob’s grumbling voice brought him to focus, the thing hadn’t been touched. Staci couldn’t remember the last time he’d smoked either. The familiar and just as unfamiliar smell filled his chest, it made his stomach twist. “Yes Sir.” Staci agreed like his words meant anything, then he reached for it, whatever the fuck it was.

“Aht aht aht.” His hands were both held still by one of Jacob’s own, whose movements always seemed to be a step ahead of his somehow. Instead the larger man pinched the burning piece between two fingers and brought it directly to Staci’s lips.

His voice was low, “Show me you know what you’re doing first, Deputy”. Staci didn’t hesitate, he leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the end of it, looking down as he took a sharp pull, to save himself from the intimacy of connecting eyes. He coughed into his hand, and smoke puffed out through the spaces between his fingers. Jacob smiled and let out a short laugh, “Been a while?” the personable part of Staci wanted to smile too, he didn’t. The joint was pressed back against his lips, he caught Jacob’s eyes this time; they were calculating, observant in the same manner he used to track deer, fowl, and rabbits; prey.

When Staci inhaled this time it was long and slow, like a well deserved drag from a cigarette; his mother would be sick at the sight. He was reminded of the D.A.R.E. t-shirts she’d gotten them both after attending a program at his high school. The smoke curled in his chest, he let it idle there before blowing it out of his nose with practiced grace. Sorry Mom. Jacob’s grin then was something Staci recognized too - wolfish, wild, and fucking ecstatic, the cat that caught the canary, he could be sick.

Jacob released the deputy’s hands and moved to his large oak desk, grabbing a clipboard off the top and clicking a pen. he motioned with one hand for Staci to approach, and Staci, like a good dog, silently took his position beside and behind Jacob.

The large man scribbled on the sheet in front of him, every once in a while pausing to think . . . creating a brief permeating silence before the scratching would continue. Jacob held the joint in his left hand, lifting it into Staci’s space with one hand while the other continued to jot notes. Pratt had to lean down to get his mouth on the thing, so he leaned.

As he took another long pull, Jacob turned to look at him directly; eyes like dissection pins, the thoroughness of the examination made him falter. Staci coughed again, and Jacob scratched another note on the clipboard. They locked eyes and Staci felt a nail through his gut, Jacob was studying him.

Knowing Jacob, this could be like his own personal project ARTICHOKE. Staci’s thoughts were already racing; jumping off the springboard of paranoia, and here he was, anonymous test subject PEACHES directly under Jacob’s thumb. No, that’s what angels were for, come on Staci. He took another big hit. Jacob hummed to himself “Only You”, glancing back at Pratt every once in a while. Staci stared straight ahead.

The nervousness clawed at his gut like it could tear out of him and save itself from whatever fate awaited its owner, he couldn’t stop himself, “What’s in that?”. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and disuse but he kept it steady, he cleared it and continued “uh, Sir.” Jacob ashed it before turning to face the deputy, “Worried about something?” He chuckled, only waiting a moment before standing to his full height and sticking the blunt between Staci’s parted lips. “It’s a personal blend, a gift.” He spoke with the same nonchalance he used when noting ration cuts and delivery schedules. “You’ve been promoted to my personal food tester, Pratt.”

Jacob sparked the lighter underneath it again, watching the cherry turn bright red as Staci hesitated. Exhaled. Then inhaled.

They stood in silence, the sound of the second hand of the old clock on the wall struck like thunder in Staci’s ears. “Tell me, how are you feeling?” What kind of question was that. How should he be feeling? He was lonely, tired, hungry, he couldn’t remember being anything else since his arrival. “Sore.” Oh yeah, that too. Somehow while he was stuck in his own head, Jacob had closed the distance between them again, staring down at his deputy and taking in every minute expression. “Sore.” Staci said again, his words seeming less and less of his own volition.

The redhead turned his partner around, pulling the small man’s back to his chest, and firmly running his hot hands down the younger mans sides “Here?” he asked. The sensation sent shivers down the deputy’s spine, he could feel his muscles twitch under the contact. “Umm, no actually. More near my uh neck, and shoulders.” Jacob released his hold and went to note something on his clipboard, Staci charted every movement. Then Jacob’s hands were on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his trapezius, the pressure, pain, and relief almost made his knees buckle. Jacob noticed “Right here?” his question was more of an acknowledgment, but Staci answered anyways. “Y-yeah. Right there” his voice was as low now as it was rough, jesus did he really sound like that.

He should stop, he thought to himself, really, but god his mind was racing. When was the last time somebody had touched him like this, when was the next time anyone would take care of him again, if there was a next time. “Stop thinking so much Pratt, I can smell the smoke coming from your ears.” Was he that obvious? Staci relaxed into the other mans touch, taking another drag of the “personal blend” and letting his head loll to the side. The deputy allowed himself to be completely hypnotized, eyelids fluttering shut, and taking deep, heavy, breaths.

Jacob worked silently, a silence the deputy had come accustomed to, diligently massaging the tight tissue; stretching and kneading the others tan skin under his fingertips. Staci let out a breathy groan, shocking himself out of his trance. He shot up to perfect posture. Only to be shoved down into Jacob’s chair, “I said relax, Pratt.” And he did, taking another hit, fuck he was already so high he was laying back nearly boneless in the Herald’s arms. “Now-“ the older man started, continuing to massage as he spoke, “How are you feeling?”. Staci sighed deeply. Warm, fuzzy “Good” he breathed out, “A little uh lightheaded, and uh”, horny- his eyes flitted open. Not now, not with half a mind in front of Jacob. Mot like he could help it but holy fuck now was not the time. “Good?” Jacob responded, running his hands up and down the younger mans sides. Staci tried to ignore the way it tingled in his gut “Yes Sir, Good. Thank you, Sir.” Jacob smiled. “Good.” He removed his hands from Pratt, who promptly began tensing and relaxing his closed fists on his thighs, while Jacob made another quick note on his board.

He was back, again, in the blink of an eye, now sitting on his desk across from Staci. The mountain before him leaned down slowly, taking the brunettes ankle in his hand and unlacing a boot, then sitting himself back upright, bringing the socked foot into his lap. “How about here Pratt, this sore.” His voice was lower now too. “Yes Sir.” Pratt answered too quickly, wanting needing Jacob’s warm hands on him again. Jacob smiled. “Alright Pratt, that’s good, i’ll take care of you.”

Jacob slipped off the man’s jeans and continued his slow methodical journey of tenderizing every bit of meat on his body; cracking toes, and rolling his ankles, then firm squeezes up around his claves to the pits of his knees. Staci was in heaven. Sinking deep into his seat still smoking like a chimney, he was reduced to muted gasping and groaning through a fist over his mouth, while the joint burned down to the filter. Jacob, ever the observer, took hold of it when the stoner started burning paper, casting it aside to his pristine ash tray before getting right back to work. “How are you feeling now, Staci?”Jacob’s voice tickled in the deputy’s ear, he smiled and puffed out the last bit of smoke he’d been holding through his nose, “I’m-“ he interrupted himself with a short laugh “I’m excellent.” He smiled wide before adding “Sir.”

Jacob smiled back, nowhere near as lighthearted. “Excellent?” he asked, and Staci knew that smile; he’d been on the receiving end every time a food can had been placed just far enough out of reach. But right now, body and mind singing praises for the earth Jacob walked on, he cherished it. His body seemed to follow his thoughts without filter, leaning closer to the Seed as he nodded “mmhmm.” Jacob let him, leaning even closer so he could whisper in the younger mans ear. “Well isn’t that nice. Unfortunately I don’t think that’s true, Peaches.” He slid a firm hand slowly up the muscle of Staci’s thigh, inching his way in to press his open palm hard against the fat bulge in the Deputy’s briefs. Staci gasped loud, shutting his eyes as a wave of pleasure crashed over his body, “Fuckin- mierda.” he choked. “You’re telling me you don’t want any help with this, sweetheart?” Jacob tutted, grinding the heel of his palm against Staci’s hard cock. “Dios mio, please.” Jacob loved it when he begged, with those wide brown cow eyes, long dark lashes, and pretty pink lips always a little wet and raw from being chewed on.

“Oh don’t you look pretty.“ He admired with clear condescension. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, Staci; ask me to take care of you.” The poor kids mind must have been a soup, Jacob knew it. The way he blinked slow, his eyes seeming to get stuck on one thing or another for too long. But now, he was pink, in his cheeks and his fingertips, panting with his legs spread wide for Jacob; his eyes practically crossing as he made contact. “Take, take care of me. Please, Sir.” Perfect. “Atta boy.”

For Staci it was a blur, hot hands everywhere, manipulating his drunk feeling body. For Jacob it was tying his own neck with a lobster bib, pulling the smaller man’s briefs down and spreading his knees over his own. Jesus, Jacob thought, the poor mutt was leaking already. He didn’t hesitate, sliding his hand over the top of Staci’s cock, and twisting his fist over the dripping head just so- “Ahnnnn fuckingh Jake-” there it was. “That’s right, i’m gonna make you feel real good.” Pratt really knew how to whet his appetite. Jacob spit directly on Staci’s cock, and used his free hand to squeegee saliva straight from his tongue. Staci just took it, lying still while Jacob violated his mouth, it made Jacob hungry.

He pulled his wet fingers out of Staci’s mouth and coiled them in his hair, wrenching his head back so Jacob could lick the inside of his mouth. Staci stuck his tongue out for good measure. “You fucking whore.” Jacob panted wet breaths into Pratt’s mouth, “You take off your pants for every man that gives you a joint?” Staci kept his tongue out. “This is all it takes to get you swallowing my spit and humping my hand, a little brain buzz and a few minutes of the boyfriend treatment. You are pathetic, Peaches.” The Herald ground his cock against his the other man’s ass as he spoke. The deputy’s wordless whines dripped drool on his uniform shirt.

Jacob used his larger size to keep Staci pinned in place, one arm holding him tight, and the other jerking his cock at a torturously slow pace. Staci begged and bucked his hips, dizzy with endorphins, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Well, not literally. Jacob heard every halted “oh god” “feelssso-“ “mierda” and reveled in it. “please, uhn- Jay“ Oh he was perfect wasn’t he. “Jesus you’re a fucking mess.” The herald chastised like it didn’t turn him on even more.

“You like it when a big man takes charge of you?” He lined up a slick finger with the smaller man’s hole “Hmm Staci?” and shoved it in deep. “Yes. Yes, Sir.” Staci would be mortified at the degradation if he weren’t on the verge of exploding. Jacob thrust his finger in and out of the deputy, switching their positions again so he could slip in a second. Now he had the younger man balancing on tiptoes, bent over his desk, hard cock hanging over the edge. Staci’s legs locked at the knees to present his wet hole like breeding stock. The deputy pressed his forehead against the cool polished wood.

Jacob fucked two fingers in, curling them as he slowly pushed in and out of Staci’s tight heat. “Alright, yeah. I’ll be your Daddy.” Jacob grunted, starting to work his own cock with oil and line it up with his partner’s entrance. Then so slowly, pushing the head in. “oh fucking God.” Pratt whimpered, and Jacob just as slowly rolled his hips, fucking deeper into the smaller man with every motion. Staci whined when their hips met, gasping, and hiding his face deeper in his arms as the clap of Jacob’s hips against his ass echoed through the room. Fuck this was so dirty.

The herald started picking up his pace, and force, the kid had his fun, now it was Jacob’s turn. He grunted with every thrust, leaning down to squeeze the deputy’s cock as he bottomed out, slamming deep against his prostate. Moans were pushed out of Staci’s lungs now, with every connection of their hips his back curled, shoving his body forward like dead weight. Jacob was so deep it almost hurt, “W-wait can you, uh Jay-“ a hand was thrown over Staci’s mouth “Not now sweetheart, it’s Daddy’s turn” he sounded as sympathetic as he could manage as he pinned into the other man with reckless abandon. A gargled moan with drool slipped through his fingers, he smiled wide, and pressed a kiss to the deputy’s back. He fucked into Staci like a toy, gripping his hips and pulling them hard against his own. Staci’s legs trembled, switching from one foot to the other to keep his ass high enough for Jacob’s liking. “That’s a good boy.” Staci whined again, causing more drool to pool beneath Jacob’s hand.

“Just like that.” And just like that Staci was cumming, choking out a moan and fat white puddles between Jacob’s uniform boots. His legs trembled and he fucked into nothing as he eked out the last drops.

This was overwhelmingly ignored, save for a low whistle Jacob let out at the sight, and it sure was a sight. Staci collapsed in from of him, hair slick to his face from tears, sweat, and smothered drool. Jacob fucked him mercilessly, still tugging at his pink cock as it dangled between his legs. “Please Jacob it’s too- it hurts, please I can’t.” In lieu of a verbal response the other man bit him, hard at first, before licking and nibbling his neck and shoulders; it mixed the sensitivities excruciatingly. Then Jacob was growling right in his ear, “I’m gonna get every last drop out of you, then i’m gonna breed your little ass”. It was all so much. The larger man fucked continually, hard and deep, pin pointing his sensitive spots with every thrust. His hand too, twisted around the head of his cock, teasing the over sensitive slit like he meant torture another orgasm out of him. “Please, I-“ his mind went completely blank, knees folding and collapsing again into Jacob’s arms.

It wasn’t long before Jacob joined him, thrusts becoming more sporadic, and harsh before “Fffuck.” Jacob panted, now directly into Pratt’s neck as he crushed the poor man beneath him. Staci could feel the warm semen dripping down his thighs, it made him shiver. He felt disgusting, truly, but Jacob all over him and inside of him it felt so so good. The older man grumbled above him, lifting himself off of the deputy slightly, and slowly pulling out his cock. More cum on the floor, now dripping directly out of his ass and Staci could feel it.

Staci made to stand up himself but Jacob pushed him back down, and said“Stay.” So Staci stayed, until Jacob came back with a damp cloth, wiping him down thoroughly with a gentle hand. Staci didn’t dare utter a word.

They were both dressed in no time, Staci itching to run and hide in the nearest shower or cage for eternity. “Before you go..” Jacob started, “Yes, Sir” Staci was too eager again, “How are you feeling?” The question felt heavy without the lip loosening that the drug had given him, he really couldn’t say, he really shouldn’t say . . . “Sore, Sir.” came out again, and he was. Jacob scribbled down another note on his clipboard, seeming to finalize whatever assessment he’d been conducting. “Good.” In his experience, Good could also mean Dismissed; Staci walked to the door before turning around, and pausing, “I think the blend is good, Sir. If you want to try it yourself. Sir.” They locked eyes, reading one another for what felt like minutes, and there was that hunters look again. “I’ll make a note of that, thank you, Pratt.”

[jasonsbruce]

i heard that in the arkham games Bruce gets infected with Joker's disease (whatever the fuck that is) and that he gets some of Joker's memories. Is that true? (I didn't play the games), and if it is, how does Bruce feel about having memories of "torturing Jason" (I don't know if it's something that looks like 1st person pov) and how do you think that would interfere in AK Brujay?

first: I LOVE AK BRUJAY! it's no secret that AK Jason is my favorite. so basically, joker is sick after using bane's titan and he's dying. so he infects bruce with his blood. bruce makes a cure and joker dies. but after that, he keeps hallucinating joker (up until the end of the game where you "get rid of him"). whether or not he actually gets joker's memories for real, i have no idea. but for the sake of the plot, let's go with it and let's say joker is still in his mind! 🤠

bruce doesn't tell jason about it. he buries it, pretends to be fine. he convinces himself he can handle it, that he's strong enough to deal with the burden alone. but as time goes on, it gets increasingly harder to ignore joker's voice in his head, reminding him of all his failures.

and while bruce can feel himself deteriorate, jason seems to heal.

slowly and surely, jason start to stand taller. the darkness that used to hang over him begins to fade. he smiles a bit more, seems to be more at ease.

it is a relief. but at the same time, it's anything but.

because as jason heals from his trauma, bruce is haunted by memories that aren't even his. visions of jason broken and bleeding, tied to a wheelchair, joker's laughter blending with jason's cries and whimpers. it taints everything, affecting how bruce reacts to him, making him pull back, trying to keep distance between them.

but jason does the opposite. he stands a little too close, lets his hands linger on bruce's arm a little too long. subtle hints that jason wants more. and bruce wants it too—but he can't.

because every time jason touches him, bruce hears joker's voice in his head, bragging, mocking, "i know him better than you ever will. he still wears my mark."

it's the prominent scar on jason's cheek—the letter J—burned into his skin like a brand. every time bruce looks at it, he's pulled back into those memories. hears jason scream and the sizzling sound of burnt flesh.

he can't help but see the boy joker broke, even though jason is standing there in front of him, stronger than ever.

bruce blames himself for that scar. for all of it. and sometimes the guilt is so overwhelming it leaves him feeling nauseous, or waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares. joker still lingers in his mind, and it makes bruce hesitate. it keeps him from reaching out, from letting jason in.

and jason sees it. the way bruce's eye flick to the scar before quickly looking away. at first, jason doesn't know why bruce keeps pulling away, why every time they get close, bruce seems to retreat. it gnaws at him, makes him wonder if bruce only sees him as something broken, something ruined. jason wants bruce to see him—not the broken robin, but the man he is now. strong, capable, and in control.

jason isn't broken anymore. he's ready to move forward, leaving his past behind. the physical and emotional scars will always be there, but he's learning to live with them. he has already given enough time to revenge, pain and hatred. so every time he stands close, every time he lets his hand linger on bruce, it's a silent invitation. i wan't this. stop pulling away.

and bruce can't keep pulling away forever.

one night, when they're alone together, jason is looking at him, his eyes so intense it makes everything tighten inside bruce. the guilt, the fear, the memories—they're all there, wrapped around his throat, threatening to choke him.

but then jason reaches out, his hand slides up, fingers brushing against bruce's neck, and bruce is hit with a wave of something stronger than guilt. it's want—need. "i want you, bruce," jason murmurs. "don't pull away."

hearing the words out loud, spoken with such certainty, makes something inside bruce snap.

he pulls jason into him and when their lips finally meet, it's messy and heated, filled with everything bruce couldn't say out loud.

bruce can still hear joker's voice in the back of his mind, but it's fading, drowned out by jason—by the feeling of him, solid, real and alive.

[cuddlytogas]

an incomplete list of terrible but extremely popular Our Flag Means Death takes that I would like to never see again please

(and I do mean popular, as in, lots of people seem to think they're canon, to the point where I feel slightly insane and like I was watching a different show to everyone else)

1. Ed's mum was loving and nice and supportive, if hampered by her bad situation

this comes up more in fic than analysis, to be fair, but good god, what show were some of you watching? this isn't to vilify her, because yeah, she's clearly a product of colonialism, white christian supremacy, and domestic abuse, but like. that doesn't make how she raised Ed good. clearly she was trying to keep him safe, but "we don't deserve nice things", and especially "it's not up to us, it's up to god", speaks to me of someone who squashes down any ambition on her son's part, has fully bought into the lies of christian colonialism, and tries to pass them down to her son.

as does happen in colonised communities, particularly among older generations. I know us white people like to think that every indigenous person is a perfect left-wing anti-imperial activist, but that's simply not the case, and Ed's mum is so clearly an example of an older conservative christian indigenous parent who had to believe the lies told by their coloniser in order to survive, but is now passing on that trauma to their children. and I just...

if I read one more fic where Ed's mum is a perfect loving supportive angel who always believed in her kid and always supported and protected him, I'm gonna scream. yes, it's sweet, and it's fun to sometimes veer from canon and give your blorbo nice things, but it's still veering from canon. and yet, I see very few people acknowledge that, or actually talk about the nuances of Ed's mother, and how she definitely tried to protect him, but was far from sweet, doting, and unconditionally supportive.

2. Ed's loving look when Stede is picking food from his beard in 1x07

like most of these things, I enjoyed it as a joke or exaggeration at first, until I realised that people were actually being serious. but every time I watch that scene, I see Ed looking absently-mindedly over Stede's shoulder, because a) that's what you do when someone leans in to pick something off you, and b) surely the point of the scene is that they're so comfortable and easy together that they don't notice the intimacy of what they're doing, but Lucius, an outside observer, thinks it's obvious. right?? I can't be the only one seeing it???

[sigh]

anyway. finally, the really really big one:

3. Ed is a soft uwu babygirl princess femme bottom sub who loves her cat collar and is teaching Stede how to dom him in the "say you're the captain" scene

I mean, there's not much to say except to link to duke's absolutely phenomenal twitter thread about "how the 'babygirlfication' and infantilization of ofmd ed teach is an extension of racist perceptions of indigenous men being inherently violent and thus needing to be emasculated to be considered sympathetic"

but especially That One Fucking Scene, good lord. talk about taking shit out of context. everyone looked at a slowed-down gif of one shot in the trailer and cried "babygirl!! he's such a simp, he just wants to be dommed!!", when actually that scene is about how a) Stede is cringefail and terrible at being a typical harsh, commanding pirate, and b) Ed is lovingly embarrassed by this. he encourages Stede to assert himself (and give Ed something to do during his probation/help him make amends with the crew), but like. normally. he's acting perfectly normal in that scene, and mostly annoyed by the outfit and embarrassed by how badly Stede fails. but just because he's sitting down while Stede is standing, and he happens to take a breath in that one shot (because, you know, people breathe sometimes), everyone's doubled down on their "submissive babygirl" bullshit, and I can't get the fuck away from it.

which - listen, it's fun for me, too! it's fun to explore exaggerated aspects of a character, it's fun to read/write/draw that angle in smut, I get it! but I keep seeing people keep claim it's literally canon, and I cannot stress enough that that is Straight Up False. for the love of god, please just watch the show without your (potentially kinda racist) bias glasses on, and remember to treat the characters with respect instead of projecting onto their every interaction a shallow dom/sub binary just because you find it hot.

Our Flag is a show very specifically about masculinity, and what it means to be a man; how assumptions about that can harm and restrict men; and how men can grow beyond them. it's a nuanced and sympathetic examination of this. the whole point is that Ed is allowed to like nice fabrics and be tired of violent piracy and still be a man. the point is that two men fall in love - equal, honest, sincere love - and are still men, still exactly who they are.

(on that note, insisting that Ed is canonically trans or femme because of these things often ends up just leaning into gendered stereotypes: men are harsh and active and dominant, and women are soft and passive and submissive, and if Ed's not the former, he must be the latter, right? it also tends to hetero-ify the central relationship, casting Stede as "the boy" and Ed as "the girl", needing one to be masc and one femme. not always, and again, I understand and have enjoyed transformative works that take those elements and run with them, and explore what the story could be like if Ed were trans/nb/etc - but it's still a transformative interpretation. it's not canon.)

relatedly: those fucking wedding toppers! it seemed blatantly obvious to me that half the point of those scenes was that Ed is distraught and blaming himself for Stede leaving because he wasn't the ideal partner. it's his entire arc for the first half of season 2! Ed hates himself and believes there's something wrong about him that makes him unlovable. so he keeps and then discards the wedding toppers, painting himself onto one of them, because he's projecting himself onto an image of ideal/successful romantic love that he thinks Stede wants, and in which he doesn't fit. he's trying to mould himself into someone else to make himself lovable, not realising that Stede already loves him for himself.

like, it's important that the groom figure isn't actually like Stede, either. yes, it's blond and has a nice, peach-coloured suit, but a) Stede was very specifically unhappy in the posh, heterosexual, married state the figures represent, and b) Stede by this point looks nothing like that figurine. it's directly contrasted with the image of him in the rowboat, scruffy and plain and earnestly in love, rather than fancy, cold ceramic.

so it's important to the whole narrative that Ed's yearning for/projection onto the wedding toppers is false, and born from his insecurity. he gets drunk, and play-acts a stereotypical image of romantic happiness into which he doesn't fit, but real love looks nothing like that, because real love isn't found in stifling hegemonic cultural structures, but honest, emotional connections between people allowed to be their whole, vulnerable selves. Stede is not like the groom, and Ed is not like the bride, because they shouldn't have to be. Ed should not (and does not) have to warp himself into a demure bride in order to be worthy of love: he's already lovable and loved exactly as he is! that's the point!! of the scene!!!!!!

but no, I have to wade through swathes of art and fic and meta about how badly Ed wants to be a sweet little demure kitty princess, how he wants a wedding night and a ring to prove he's Stede's property, and acting as if this is somehow canon, because people on the internet have zero reading comprehension and are scared of brown men.

the whole point of Our Flag is that you don't need to compress yourself into prescribed social roles, and in fact, doing so will only make you miserable; and that racist, patriarchal, colonial institutions should be resisted and dismantled at every opportunity.

so tell me again why the ultimate message is that Ed and Stede should get married under an arch in front of an altar and their lined-up friends, with flowers and rice falling around them, all dressed in white, one in a suit and one in a dress, with rings and a kiss and a honeymoon after, before they move into a detached house with a yard and a fence and re-adopt the kids that Stede abandoned? and this isn't about promises, fidelity, or even monogamy - I'm specifically talking about everyone in this fandom who seems to think that the ultimate goal is the most stereotypical 20th century cisheteropatriarchal christian wedding, but with the name "matelotage" slapped on top, as if that takes away all of the underlying baggage.

just - I know we're all meant to hate men and masculinity and yadda yadda yadda, but actually, to be earnest for a second, men deserve respect too, because all people and all genders do. and two men are allowed to be in a relationship and still both be men - complex men, with their own, layered relationships to their gender - without having to fall into neatly-arranged dom/sub masc/femme roles, or seal the deal with a hegemonically-approved ceremony.

so please, stop reducing an indigenous lead character to a caricature of a femme uwu princess bottom just because he has long hair, wore a robe once, and you're too scared of brown men to imagine him with proper agency. and then please, for the love of god, stop claiming that that interpretation is canon.

[shady-tavern]

WIP for the long short-story “Holding Curses with Gentle Hands”

Lune had been born a little different, two minutes before her twin brother Luc, into a world teeming with magic. She grew up like any other little girl, playing and roughhousing, splashing through mud with her brother. They learned how to climb trees up and down with all the fearlessness of someone who had not quite yet learned how painful falling could be.

She was bright and inquisitive and always pulled her brother along towards her next idea. Showing him snails and slugs and bugs and bees. He came up with stories of all kinds as they played, creating crafty trolls and sweet little fairies as they swung sticks around and made dolls out of grass and flowers. 

They came back home with skinned knees and rips in their clothes and grins so wide and bright they might just rival the sun. They were, indeed, very happy children.

It was only when school started that Lune and Luc learned that they were different. In a world where their neighbor grew a bucket of strawberries in the span of a week, where the grouchy mayor always looked sparkling and perfect and every child learned at least one or two cantrips as they grew up, they were very, very ordinary.

Not a single spark of magic was to be found in their veins.

At first their parents were very concerned, worried that something had happened to their beloved children. That someone might have cursed the babes out of jealousy. Their mother sought out everyone she might have accidentally insulted to apologize, while their father reached out to old friends he lost contact with, worried he might have offended them.

But when an expert came by, he told them the children were fine. They were just ordinary. As bland as old lettuce, he said.

"They're bright children," their neighbor said while bringing them a bowl of strawberries. "It doesn't matter if they have magic or not. At worst their lives will be a little boring."

"We'll adjust their classes," their kind and cheerful teacher promised. "Don't worry, we'll compensate for their lack of magic. They could become great, um, scribes!"

"They don't understand what they're lacking," the mayor said offhandedly during one of his rounds through their little town. "They were born without magic, they didn't lose it. That's a good thing, it will cause them less grief."

Lune and Luc heard their parents cry at night and they looked at each other, deciding that if they had no magic, at least they could be kind. They would make sure their parents wouldn't have to be so sad all the time.

They became some of the hardest working students their school had ever seen and the entire town had nothing but praise for the friendly twins willing to lend a helping hand. Their parents got used to their magic lacking children and while everyone in town knew and never failed to inform travelers and traders about the unfortunate twins, it bothered them less and less over the years.

When the time came that Lune and Luc were old enough to leave the house, their parents were incredibly reluctant to let them go.

"There are a lot of dangers in the world," their mother worried, wringing her hands. "You have no magic to defend yourselves with."

"We'll be careful," Lune promised. "And we'll stick together."

"How will you avoid bandits and rogue mages and magical beasts?" their father fretted, packing daggers into their bags.

"We'll stay on the road," Luc answered. "The queen's road is safe and regularly patrolled. We'll stick with other travelers and traders so we won't be alone."

Their words soothed their parents. While they were sad to see their children go, they gave the twins everything they could possibly need and sent them on their way.

For the first time, Lune and Luc left their hometown and soon they realized how freeing it was to meet people who had no idea who they were. What they were lacking.

They reached a big city after a couple of weeks, getting lost among winding streets and big, bustling crowds. They met mercenaries and adventurers and at one point, Luc started to write down stories inspired by their tales if they agreed to speak to him. He accumulated a big book full of daring tales, of dashing heroes and wicked foes and wondrous places. Of loss and love and what it meant to be brave.

They settled down in the city after a while. Luc learned to play the lute from an old bard and spent his nights in taverns, chatting up travelers and earning his keep by playing music and telling his tales. As well as fleecing drunkards at games of dice.

Lune found herself working at an antique store that doubled as a pawnbroker. Many of the adventurers came to get rid of the odd trinkets and pretty, shiny knickknacks they picked up during their travels and quests.

Sometimes, the items they tried to pawn off were magical and that always made her boss leery. He always refused them, sending them on their way.

"It just means shit's cursed," he would grumble into his majestic beard. "They would not come to us if they could sell magic items to mages instead. Don't touch those things, even the best mages can't always defend themselves against curses."

"Can't curses be broken?" She had heard enough of those tales from the stories Luc read her. He liked to read things he wrote out loud, getting her opinion on his wording and descriptions.

"Aye," the shop owner dusted one of the stained glass decorations he had been trying to sell for a while now. "But you can only remove the curse from the person, not from the item. That's what makes curse casters so much trouble, they fuck up perfectly good merchandise. The best you can do is destroy the item in question and hope that the curse let's go. Doesn't always work, but it's worth a try."

He made Lune promise to never accept magical items from anyone and already the next day she unwittingly broke that promise. She had no magic and therefore no sense for magic either. 

She accepted a plain gold necklace from a mercenary while her boss was in the backroom. The woman had handed the necklace over with gloved hands and a relieved look in her eyes.

Lune chalked that up to her having debts to pay off and startled when her boss returned only to start cussing.

"Stupid girl," he hissed, staring at the necklace in her hand while the woman bailed before she could be stopped. "That's magic, cursed magic! Do you have any idea what that will do to you?"

Startled, Lune dropped the necklace onto the counter and they both stared at it as though it was a life, poisonous snake.

[eyeballsoup7310]

(Rachel Rand voice)

There is a spiderweb in the corner of my room.

It’s been there for years, at this point. Mama’s hit it with the broom countless times, but after a few days it’s right back where it was. Dad says there’s an infestation— not just spiders, but everything. Ants. Wasps. Moths. There are more moth balls in my closet than anywhere else in the house, so Mama always has some candles burning. Dad thinks the candles just make it worse. I’ve never seen any of the bugs. I’ve never seen the spider, or the ants, or the moths when they eat through my cheap, secondhand Star Wars shirt. They eat through my clothes more than anyone else’s. Even Dad’s fancy tweed jacket that he never wears.

Tomorrow is Halloween. I’ll finally be able to get out of the house, I think. Tim has a party he has to go to, but Mama made him promise me he’ll bring me trick-or-treating first. He’s going to pick me up from dance class. I hope the mosquitoes won’t be out this year, like they were last year, and maybe even the year before. Tim hates the mosquitoes. I don’t know how many more years he’ll let me drag him along.

Tim tells me he never gets bugs up in that old attic that he moved into after the basement flooded last year, but I know he’s lying. I watched Dad, up on that old, rickety ladder, as he tried to break the wasp hive away from Tim’s window. They left eventually, but not before stinging him half to death. I’m the only one in the family who’s not allergic to bugs— my friends are all jealous that the mosquitoes never seem to bother me. Tim’s friend, Rolan, isn’t allergic either. Rolan already has plans to move away once he’s old enough. I’m going to miss him— he’s a better brother than Tim is, sometimes. I hope he comes with us trick-or-treating. I hope I’ll be able to leave this town when I’m old enough, too.

…

Sometimes I think I can hear the web talking to me. Whispering. Humming. Thrumming. Burning.

I’ve learned not to bring it up around other people, even Mama. My dance instructor. My friends. But the spiderweb is still there, and it’s taken up so much space, in the corner of my bedroom. I watch it while pretending to be asleep. I can’t see the molding anymore. I can hear it. It’s talking to me. I want to tell someone. I want to tell someone. I want to tell someone I want to tell someone Iwanttotellsomeone but no one can hear it except me. I don’t know what it’s saying. I want to know what it’s saying. I want to know why it talks to me. It speaks in a language I can’t understand. But I could. I know I could. I want to learn.

I think it wants me to learn, too.

Tomorrow is Halloween.

(Context for the Halloween bit, also inspired by Jane Prentiss’ statement in TMA)

[honeydots]

Xander & Soleil Father-Daughter Support

tried my hand at what i'd imagine their in-game support would be c: accompanying fanart here!

C-SUPPORT:

Soleil: *Sigh* Xander: … Soleil: … Soleil: *SIGH* Xander: Is it really so much to ask that you focus, Soleil? Soleil: But this is boring! There’s way too much to do. Xander: Perhaps if you would participate in your duties as a princess rather than flirt with the women in town, you’d have more time on your hands. Soleil: Humph. I still don’t get why I had to get locked in here with you. You could’ve at least given me a pretty tutor! Xander: On the contrary, this method has brought me success before. Xander: I dealt with your father’s philandering in precisely this way, and he stopped toying with the feelings of women all together. Soleil: You know why he stopped flirting with girls? You got MARRIED, Papa! Xander: Study. Soleil: Ugh. Fine. Xander: … Soleil: … Soleil: You’re looking sleepy. Xander: I’m not. Xander: You won’t be getting out of this early. I won’t leave until you’re finished. Soleil: Yeah, because you’ll fall asleep and it’ll take me all night… Xander: And what was that? Soleil: Nothing! Just working. Xander: … Soleil: … Xander: … … … Xander: Zzz… Soleil: Oh wow. He’s actually asleep. Soleil: I don’t wanna wake him up. I guess I could leave now! Soleil: Though… I might need a nap, too. My eyes seriously hurt after staring at all this. Soleil: Hmm… Soleil: …Zzz…

B-SUPPORT:

Soleil: Papa! Xander: Hello, you. Soleil: Hi! Listen, I have big, big news! Xander: Oh? And what’s that? Soleil: I’m getting married! Xander: You’re what? Soleil: Yup! Isn’t that something? Xander: I… To who? Soleil: Who? Oh, well. It’s a… Secret. She’s really shy. Xander: …Is that so. Soleil: Uh huh. So, um, anyway. You don’t need to keep tabs on me anymore, because I’m gonna be completely faithful. Just like Dad, heh! Xander: Ah. Of course. Xander: Though, Soleil. You understand, as you’re a princess, that there is a certain procedure which must be undergone when it comes to marriage. Soleil: Huh? Xander: It isn’t something as simple as putting a ring on a finger, it’s a royal affair. Xander: You must introduce her to our family formally, as well as engage her in the courtship process—there’s etiquette to be learned, and we’ll have to make completely certain she doesn’t intend you any harm. Xander: Not just anyone can marry a princess, you know. Soleil: Oh. Soleil: Um. Okay. Yeah, okay. Soleil: I’ll… Introduce you to her. Sometime soon. Xander: Thank you. We’ll be expecting her. Soleil: …Okay. I’ll, uh, go tell her! Bye! Xander: Goodbye. Xander: … Xander: ...That girl.

A-SUPPORT:

Soleil: …Hi, Papa. Xander: Soleil, what’s that expression for? Soleil: I, um. I need to confess something. Soleil: There’s no girl, I’m not getting married. I just didn’t want you to know I was out flirting again. Soleil: It was all a ruse. I’m really sorry I lied, I probably got everyone so excited. Xander: Soleil… Xander: Thank you for telling me. Xander: Though you don’t need to worry, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew from the beginning that you weren’t really engaged. Soleil: Oh, man. Was I that obvious? Soleil: …So I’m in huge trouble now, huh? Xander: It’s true that your actions aren’t exactly becoming of a princess. But I would like to clarify something with you. Xander: I’m not particularly upset that you’re flirting. But I’ll be strict with you if it gets in the way of your duties, as it has been. Xander: It was just the same with your father—he was causing trouble, and I felt I needed to step in to prevent it. Xander: You don’t need to lie to me. If you’d like to to spend your free time with girls, you’re welcome to. But it mustn’t continue to hinder your learnings and responsibilities as a princess of Nohr. Soleil: Oh. Soleil: Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. I really thought you were going to be angry with me. Xander: No. I only want you to understand. Soleil: I think I get it. No, I KNOW I do. Soleil: I admit that I was putting things off for a little too long. Soleil: I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll devote more time to my princess things. Xander: I’m glad to hear it. And thank you for being honest with me. Soleil: I’ll make sure I tell you when I really get married, okay? Xander: Alright. But not too soon. Soleil: Well of course not, Papa! I haven’t met all the women in the world yet!

[waywardsalt]

uhhhhh a bit ago for a class i had to write a short story and then i wrote 20 pages in like three weeks which i havent done in forever. and i like it too so. heres what i would consider the 'final' fully edited version of that short story

Miséricorde

(Includes brief animal death and self-harm)

                Misericorde, misericorde. A sleek dagger with a long, slim blade. The weapon of a mercy killer, secured firmly to the traveling surgeon’s belt.

The surgeon held tight onto the misericorde’s polished hilt, gazing into the passing trees as she walked. With night soon falling, a place to set up camp was sorely needed. Collecting water was also appealing— a lake or a river would be nice. She’d been on the road for hours.

The surgeon sighed to herself. She started going through the pouches at her belt. Vials, her jar, her tools… She straightened up as she heard the distant creaking of wheels. She began to jog back the way she came and spotted a carriage pulled by a pair of large horses. Likely a merchant company, she realized, seeing crates in two of the three carriages following the first.

The leading carriage neared her, and the surgeon raised an arm and shouted, “Hoy there!”

The coachman jerked his head up and tugged the horses to a slow stop. She strode over, giving a short bow. “Apologies for any inconvenience, sir. Are you the leader of this…”

She trailed off, and the coachman, a gruff-looking man with tanned skin and a bushy beard, said, “Caravan. We’re a caravan, miss. Travelin’ merchants. What d’ya need?”

The surgeon clasped her hands behind her back. “Nothing urgent, sir, I merely just wish to ask if I may join your company for a time.”

“Ah, well.” The coachman slid off the bench and onto the ground to stand before her- he stood just a few inches shorter than her. “’m sure he’ll wanna know why we stopped…” He looked sheepish, then eyed the surgeon suspiciously. “Who’re you? ‘m name’s Kestral.”

“A traveling doctor, heading from town to town to aid any in need,” she briskly explained.

A man hurried over; Kestral stepped aside as an older man with close-cropped hair and a stern face reached them and peered at the surgeon. He narrowed his eyes at her, then at Kestral, who shrugged. “She says she’s a doctor, askin’ to travel w’ us.”

“I’m Elric,” the man simply said to the surgeon. “You certainly look the part of a traveling doctor. We aren’t opposed to picking up hitchhikers, so long as you earn your keep.”

“Oh of course, Elric sir.” The surgeon bowed again. Her hair was tied tightly back, and with her deeper bow, it fell into her face. She paused to brush it behind her shoulder before continuing. “I will offer my services freely when they are needed— I’ve just been walking a long while.”

“W-well.” Elric crossed his arms, looking a bit off-put. “Ma’am, you’re free to stay with us, so long as you cause no problems. Come, come with me, you look… exhausted.”

The surgeon was led to the second carriage and invited on, and hardly a moment after she laid eyes on her companions, the carriage began to move. She gave Elric a thin smile and turned to the others in the wagon. “I am pleased to meet you all.”

They stared at her, and Elric cleared his throat and introduced her quickly. A young man— vaguely resembling Elric— sat up. “Greetings, miss. You can call me Tash.” All of those in the carriage began to introduce themselves, and the surgeon patiently took note of all of their names and faces. Tash was a brown-haired youth, appearing related to Elric in some way. Sitting close together were a pair of ordinary merchants; West, a man looking to be nearing old age with graying hair, and Jassine, an older woman with world-weary features. The final two passengers were a pair of lightly armored women standing at the end of the carriage. One was Emm, with short black hair and her arms crossed over her chest, and the other was Lissen, red-haired and with an almost dreamy look in her eyes— the two caravan guards, Elric explained.

The silence returned when the introductions were finished, and the surgeon turned her gaze to the landscape they passed. The sunset painted the sky with fiery hues, and she found herself drawn to the deep reds she could see closer to the horizon.

“Uh, miss?” The surgeon turned; Tash was peering at her, leaning closer. The others in the carriage were looking at her. She felt a faint spark of dread. “You didn’t tell us your name.”

Ah. She shut her eyes a moment and suppressed a chuckle. She opened her eyes and shook her head. “You may just call me ‘doctor’. Through all of my travels, my name has admittedly been worn away and eroded from my memory.”

An easy, rehearsed lie. She privately judged their reactions. Tash looked curious, still, but satisfied. Elric had fixed her with a hard, inscrutable stare, and both Emm and Lissen raised an eyebrow. West easily accepted her answer and Jassine just gave a short hum. None of them pried further, and she turned her gaze back to the sky.

It was late in the night when they stopped. The front horses were kept reined to the first carriage, while the extra brought along by the back of the caravan were given a great deal of slack to wander. The surgeon trailed after the group when they dismounted the carriage and began unloading items from the third wagon. Sleeping bags, foodstuffs, a variety of items to set up camp. She helped without a word, and Tash thanked her when she joined him in starting the fire.

She used her misericorde to cut short some twigs they used. The dagger’s blade gleamed, but Tash’s eyes were drawn to the strange greenish hilt, dotted with specks of red. “I’ve never seen a tool like that,” he whispered. “What’s it made from?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the surgeon lied. “I picked it up in a town a few months back.” She tightened her grip on the bloodstone hilt. “It may be polished and painted wood, for all I know.”

Talk around the fireplace was lively. West prepared a meal for the merchants, and Elric discussed trade with Jassine. The surgeon listened in— they were textiles traders, starting from the far-off town of Corphen on a southern island. A few times, the topic of religion came up.

Tash was sitting apart from the rest. The surgeon settled down next to him. “You are Elric’s son, are you?”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. There is a resemblance. I’ve an eye for such things.”

“Oh.” Tash studied the grass at his feet. “You’re a doctor?” He stared at her clothing. “Is the white so it’s easy to see blood?”

“So it’s easy to see grime. I require my equipment to be clean in order to effectively treat wounds.” She brushed dirt off her jacket. “Foot travel is unappealing to me, as you can imagine.”

Tash was open with her as they conversed. The surgeon idly rubbed the bloodstone pommel of her dagger. He seemed the kind of person vulnerable to the harsher aspects of the world, but he was a kind soul without question. And yet his father’s eyes periodically fixed upon the surgeon for mere heartbeats at a time. Tash’s open kindness was certainly not an inherited trait.

They slept under the stars and woke with the rising sun. The two guards seemed constantly alert. Jassine returned to the carriages to check on the merchandise, and Kestral was off inspecting the horses. Tash was the last to wake, and Elric took him to the second carriage. The surgeon watched them go, then turned to West.

“How did you happen to acquaint yourself with Elric?”

The older man grunted in a good-natured manner. “Elric’s decently known ‘round these parts. We’re on the way to Nariko City, o’ course, and he ‘n his son hails from there. Bit of an up-and-coming name. Figured I’d get t’ know him in case he strikes gold.”

The surgeon nodded sagely and raised an eyebrow as she caught a glimpse of the skin uncovered by West’s rolled-up sleeve. “That’s a fresh-looking cut you have there.”

He blinked and peered at it. “Eh, this? It’ll take more than that t’ stop these old bones, nothing t’s worry about, miss doctor.”

“Know that I can tend to it if it becomes worse.”

“’Course. That’s your job, ain’t it?”

Tash and his father stayed in the second carriage for the rest of the day. The caravan moved on and the surgeon settled into the third carriage with the others. Jassine was the one to spark conversation with her, the surgeon careful with her words while they seemed to tumble out of Jassine, the woman having been an adventurer in her youth and now uses her experiences to craft unique textiles.

Still, at no point during the day did the surgeon feel particularly welcome in the group. They stopped for the night and again Tash struck up conversation with her. She was merely passing through, and despite her indulgence of Tash’s extroverted traits, was uninclined to share much about herself, as with Jassine.

The next morning, while helping inspect the carriage wheels, Jassine brought up the subject of gods.

“I take it you’re a religious woman?” Jassine asked, causing the surgeon’s heart to skip a beat. “Most people are. I’ve yet to meet someone who altogether denies the existence of the gods.”

“It’s only logical,” the surgeon quietly replied. “The magic in this land is the easiest proof, and we have those able to channel the power of their patron gods when needed. Why ask? I believe in these gods, but in my time traveling, having brushed against so many religions that I find it difficult to commit to one.”

Her words were lies, and they were ones that made her shiver. Her flesh, her blood, her bones, they knew her words to be lies, but they were lies that made her inwardly shudder. The weight of misericorde at her hip brought her back from her brief despair— it was silly to worry about such things, not when she so dearly believed in forgiveness.  She took a deep breath. “Are you a religious woman?”

“I am. A believer in the mother of the arts, the weaver of textiles and the painter of canvases and the writer of tales. You’ve heard of her?”

“Of course. I hear of many gods and beliefs in my travels.” The mother of the arts. An admirable goddess; the surgeon, on occasion, provided offerings to the mother of the arts, as someone with an earnest respect for creative pursuits. “The mother of arts suits you in your trade. Was there a different god you paid respects to in your time of adventure?”

Jassine scoffed and shook her head. She rubbed her fingers against a wheel spoke, then sighed, “Perhaps, but I didn’t pay as much mind to gods in those times.” She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, “I never told this to Elric, truthfully. I doubt West would care much, bless his easygoing heart, and Tash is such a kind boy. But Emm and Lissen have worked for Elric for years, and Elric himself is pious to a fault. Not the most tolerable man, really.”

“I know the type,” the surgeon murmured, her careful tongue slipping and allowing the depths of her misery and spite coat her words. The look Jassine gave her was thankfully understanding. The surgeon’s hand curled around the misericorde’s hilt, and she recomposed herself. “In any cause, Kestral will be pleased to know that the wheels are in perfect condition.”

It was that night, as they were preparing to sleep, when West pulled the surgeon off to the side. He didn’t speak, but the surgeon already knew what was on his mind; she’d treated enough patients to know the look of a man with a soured wound. He rolled up his sleeve and she recognized the look of a blossoming infection and guided him to lay down in one of the carriages.

She alerted the rest of the caravan before she began— there were looks of worry, the oldest member of the caravan having a wound nearing infection, but Jassine and Tash appeared to have confidence in her as she announced that she would tend to him to the best of her ability.

Elric followed her back into the carriage to watch.

She’d had audiences for her surgery before. Even audiences as stern as teachers strictly grading her work, and audiences as primordially observant as her goddess.

Before she laid out her supplies, the surgeon mouthed a prayer to her goddess.

Mercy, please, grant him mercy.

Bottles, syringes, jars, scalpels… all items from her pouches that she laid out on the carriage floor, all items that Elric eyed with suspicion.

“Have you never seen a surgeon work?” she asked, unable to hide her amusement at his scowl. “I should hope a merchant such as you would be at least familiar with some of these tools.”

“Just get to work,” he gruffly mumbled, and the surgeon did just that.

Her hands were steady and experienced. The last tool she withdrew was her misericorde with the bloodstone hilt, the polished silver blade glinting in the moonlight. West looked nervous; Elric stared at it with an unreadable expression. She set it down next to West’s arm and got to work on the wound.

She soaked a rag in disinfectant and cleaned the wound, ignoring the man’s pained groan as she soaked his cut and cleared away any dirt. It was a simple treatment, and she felt calm and comfortable picking through her bottles of ointment and stock of bandages. The wound was clean and needed to be dressed and wrapped, but before she moved on, the surgeon lifted her misericorde. “I need to create a small cut to help the infected blood escape.”

“Go ahead, ma’am.” West looked away, and the surgeon opened a small cut just below the bottom of the gash with a precise flick of her wrist. Blood leaked out, and she desired to ask him if she may draw extra blood with a syringe, but it was not the appropriate time. So, she moved quietly on to the final wound-dressing.

The ointment was meant to be cold against skin, and West hissed as she spread it in and on the wound. Once his skin was slick with the medicine, she began to wrap his wound in bandages.

“I need to check on this every night until this heals. If we reach town and it is still healing, find a doctor there to check on it.” West nodded obediently, and the surgeon tied off his bandages.

She gathered up her supplies and sheathed her misericorde, feeling Elric’s eyes follow her every movement. His suspicion hung over her for a long while after that night she treated West.  

A few days later, it was pouring rain. The horses pulling the carriages were large beasts with thick fur, bred for strength and stamina, animals the surgeon had scarcely seen.

But they were horses all the same.

So, when the trail became wet and slippery, and one of the horses stumbled at the edge of the ditch and fell, the crack of a broken bone reaching those in the second carriage, the surgeon prepared herself to carry out her misericorde’s core purpose.

Elric and the two guards hopped off the carriage, and the surgeon followed with her hood pulled on. Kestral was cursing, having stopped at the edge of the ditch. The horse writhed in the mud, its eyes rolling wildly in pain and distress. One of its forelegs was bent at an awkward angle. Elric scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, and Lissen sadly murmured, “Poor thing. Kestral, I’ll help you situate another horse.” The coachman grunted and started to cut the fallen horse’s reins.

“Will you just leave it?” the surgeon asked, innocent curiosity in her voice.

“Nothin’ else t’ do,” Kestral grumbled, straightening. “The weather’s too bad t’ stick around.”

“I can dispatch it quickly.” The surgeon crouched at the edge of the ditch. “No point in leaving it to suffer.”

“…Go for it,” Kestral responded with a shrug. “’m sure it’ll thank ya.”

There was no further discussion, and the surgeon was left with the dying horse. The rain would make it nearly impossible to salvage any parts of the animal once it was dead, but it deserved mercy nonetheless. She carefully slid down into the muck beside the animal, careful to stay out of the way of its hooves and sat by its head. She removed the glove from her left hand and laid her bare palm on its neck. The horse stared up at her with glassy eyes.

The surgeon raised the misericorde and made a thin cut in the horse’s neck, and she pressed a finger against the cut. Blood welled up around her finger and she shut her eyes, focusing on the animal’s blood. Her own blood seemed to burn in her veins as it dimly communed with the horse’s.

Be at peace. I will grant you mercy, as is my sworn duty.

The horse slowly relaxed, its eye still fixed on her, but it quieted and stopped thrashing so much. The surgeon kept her fingers pressed against the cut, and she calmly positioned the misericorde’s blade above the horse’s eye. The blade was thin and long— designed for a swift and decisive kill.

The thrum of the rain seemed to dim around her as the surgeon drew in a deep breath and plunged the misericorde deep into the horse’s eye. The animal thrashed once, then went still. She gently ran her fingers through its soaked mane, then slowly drew the dagger’s blade out of the eye. As it exited the wound, the gleaming blade was coated in blood, but the rain washed that blood and gore off the metal, leaving the blade as clean as though it had been freshly forged.

A new horse was attached to the front carriage as the surgeon sent a prayer along with the dead horse’s soul. Forgiveness to the broken bone that had led to its merciful death— it had been a loyal and proud animal, the blood had told her.

Tash’s voice rose above the rain, calling to her that they were going to get going again. She called back that she would catch up to them.

The caravan traveled on without her, and the surgeon removed a jar from her belt- a jar the size of her hand, three-quarters full of blood. She wasted no time— she slashed the horse’s throat with the misericorde and held the jar up to the wound to collect blood. It was blood that carried the life of the horse and was shed as a result of mercy. Once the jar was full to the lip, the surgeon screwed the lid back on, stood and bowed deeply to the dead horse, and ran to catch up with the caravan. Misericorde, gleaming blade of mercy, was returned to its sheath.

They slept on the carriages as the rain continued, and the topic of religion returned. The surgeon rolled onto her side at the edge of the carriage and feigned sleep. Jassine, Emm, West, and Elric talked, while Tash was snoring softly and Lissen was alert at the edge of the carriage.

“I reckon the church in town oughta like our stock,” West declared. “I’ve heard they have a few churches in town, I might visit and pray to th’ god of trade.”

Jassine laughed. “Of course, gold and demand are at the forefront of your mind. I might see if they’ve got an altar to the goddess of the arts.”

“I’ve no need for churches,” Emm muttered. “I do all my praying on my own— Don’t give me that look, Elric. I know the father of battle is a touchy subject, but it’s what I believe.”

“Be careful with that,” Elric tersely replied. “You’ve heard about the crusades.”

The conversation quieted. The surgeon willed her breathing to slow. Elric spoke up. “We should go through our stock in the morning. Make sure there’s nothing that could be seen as blasphemous or profane. The word of the lord of law is spreading, as it ought to.”

Emm didn’t respond; the surgeon heard her stand and join Lissen. The surgeon knew of the lord of law, and he was a stern, strict god, hands-off with his belief of respect and hierarchy. It was while hoisting banners of the lord of law that soldiers had run her and her fellows out of their homes and decreed their beliefs as heretical. The old surgical scar on her abdomen itched.

Gods of law, goddesses of nature, lords and ladies of trade and art and speech and government. She’d studied as many as she could, and found that the wider a deity’s domain, the wider the reach of their religion. But the narrower that domain, the more intimate the prayer.

In the following morning, she observed Elric’s prayer for the first time. He prostrated himself on the ground, his flesh, blood, and bones belonging to his lord and therefore something not to tamper with. Many religions held that view. Your flesh, blood, and bones are sacred and therefore are not to be touched, altered, or manipulated.

It was understandable why he was so suspicious of her. A doctor, a surgeon, meddling directly with the flesh, blood, and bones, though, so far, with little tampering that crosses the lines etched by his beliefs. Doctors in service to the lord often worked with potions and tinctures; surgeons, at most, usually just stitched up wounds. Deeper meddling was frowned upon. The body was a sacred temple, not to be breached or split open under decree of the lord of law.

The surgeon, as everyone else was busy, declared that she needed to wash, and walked off into the forest to find a pond. The lord of law was not her lord. She prayed to the mother of blood and so worshipped the body in a different way— a way in which touch, alteration, and manipulation was forgiven and celebrated when it granted mercy, in whatever form it took.

She found a clean pond and stripped naked, laying everything at the base of a tree. The water was cool and reached up to her knees at its deepest point. Her first job after taking to the roads was to remove a tumor from a priest of the lord of law. He was an old man who knew who she was, but did not care. Much of what she did to cure him went against the popular doctrine, but as he’d said, there are many gods in the land, and to unflinchingly treat the word of the lord of law as stone-faced fact was plainly ignorant.

He'd spoken his mind. There had been a passion to him; a passion more suited to a follower of the mother of blood than the lord of law, though the surgeon knew herself that her cold demeanor was at odds with her beliefs. When she’d become a proper blood-sworn, there had been frenetic partying and celebration with her peers, but her own emotions had always been subdued and measured.

The surgeon had brought two items with her into the pond— her misericorde and her jar of blood. She would wash in the aftermath of her ritual.

Her first ritual was an anxiety-ridden one, but no more anxiety ridden than her first surgery or her initiation. The coven she’d lived with had been gentle and reassuring every step of the way. The surgeon sighed and shut her eyes as grief washed over her. As a blood-sworn she was bound to forgiveness, but she doubted she could find it in her to forgive the people that had driven her from her home and killed her brothers and sisters.

The jar and the misericorde lay on a half-submerged log. The surgeon unscrewed the lid of the jar and lifted it. The blood inside was from a myriad of sources; the dead horse, a bandit she’d killed, a company of patients she’d treated at the last town. Humans and animals, blood of the healthy and sick and dead. She lifted the jar and tipped her head back and drank the blood.

It was warm and thick, the metallic taste more than familiar to her after her many blood-sworn years. She started with small sips, then took larger gulps— drinking deeply until the jar was empty. Not a drop was wasted— though, if the ritual went well, she would be forgiven for any waste.

She traded the empty jar for her misericorde and straightened her back. The wind sent a chill through her body, and the surgeon eyed her surroundings, looking for the slightest rustling of a bush. More so now than ever, uninitiated witnesses would not be tolerated— if not just for her nudity, then for the way her practices had been marked as deeply profane. She lifted her misericorde and admired the shining metal and the dark stone handle.

Her skin was tanned, and her forearms and hands were riddled with small scars. Old cuts and slips of the hand from her time learning to use the scalpel and misericorde in surgical acts. The surgeon held her left arm straight out, and she rested the tip of the misericorde on the underside of her elbow.

She drew in one last long breath, and tore the sharp blade through her arm, slicing it open from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed and pain shot through the limb, but she remained on her feet. Blood streamed down her skin and poured into the water around her, the cut so deep that in some places the white of bone shone through besides the glistening skin and muscle.

She bowed her head and watched the blood dissolve and disappear in the water as accepted tribute. The pain in her arm faded, and the wound was perfectly closed with nary a scar when the surgeon lifted her head. The mother of blood had accepted her ritual and blessed her with healing and the knowledge that she’d been aptly merciful in her work.

The surgeon waded into a deeper part of the pond and quickly washed herself, then hurried back to dry herself off and redress herself. It would be unwise to be gone for too long. The jar returned to its spot on her belt and the misericorde was returned to its sheath.

A bush rustled, and the surgeon shot up and tore the dagger from its place and didn’t relax as Tash sheepishly showed himself. “What do you think you’re doing?” the surgeon demanded.

“Y-you’re a follower of the mother of blood.”

“Give me a good reason not to slit your throat where you stand. What do you wish to do with that information? Trade it off to your father so he can have me executed as a heretic? Use what you’ve seen as blackmail? Speak.”

Tash held up his hands, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I was just curious. I have no grudge against you. I don’t pray to any gods, and you’ve helped us so far. I promise to keep it a secret.”

The surgeon kept the dagger pointed at his chest and advanced closer to him. “See that you keep your word. You seem a kind soul; I hate to rid the world of your presence. Just know that while I am merciful and forgiving, that mercy can be ruthless.” She slowly put the dagger away, and they silently headed back to the caravan.

Neither of them spoke. Tash kept glancing her way, but with more curiosity than suspicion. The surgeon kept her eyes forward. There was a hitch in their step as the sounds of shouting drifted their way, and then they set off sprinting through the trees. Tash half stumbled through the undergrowth and the surgeon quickly left him behind with her more graceful dash.

The surgeon burst from the tree line upon a scene of bandits accosting the caravan, Emm, Lissen, and Kestral battling with them. The surgeon rushed to the nearest bandit— already engaged with Emm— and she wrapped an arm around his neck and sank the misericorde deep into his side. He grunted and fell as she released him with withdrew her blade, and Emm just gave her a short nod before joining Lissen. There were only a few bandits, but something about the weapons they wielded sent a shiver down the surgeon’s spine. Lissen had the sense to keep her distance.

Tash rushed into the carriage for safety. The surgeon slashed at the nearest bandit and managed to nick his throat- deep enough to reach the artery and cause blood to spray out. she breathlessly turned to Lissen as the bandit collapsed. “When did they show up?”

“They just got here, cocky bastards.”  Lissen sheathed her sword and nodded behind the surgeon. “Hardly capable. We’re already done. Thanks for your help, doctor— hm. Kestral looks hurt.”

The pair of them jogged over. With the body of a bandit slumped close by, Kestral was sitting against the first carriage. The surgeon lowered herself to the ground near him. “Let me see your wound, Kestral.” The coachman just groaned, and the surgeon gently lifted his hand away from his side. She hissed once she saw the wound. “Emm. Bring me one of the weapons.” The guard complied, and the surgeon started mentally considering her options.

When Emm presented the surgeon with the weapon, a plain dagger with a strange sheen, she scowled. “Ah, they used blessed weapons, wonderful. It would be helpful to know which god blessed them, that’s a waste of time now.” Kestral’s wound already had the smell of infection coming from it, and the skin and veins around it were turning a sickly green. “If I don’t work on this soon, he’ll die- please make sure I have space for this. I may need to operate on him— it looks like parts of that blade may have chipped off in the wound, likely another part of that cursed blessing.”

The surgeon hastily began setting out her tools, and ordered, “Find a cloth for him to lay on. I’ve seen such wounds before; there is only so much time before only magical solutions will work.” Emm complied and ran off without a word, while Lissen hung around. The surgeon glanced over at her. “Help me out here.”

Emm quickly found a plain cloth and laid it on the grass, and Lissen helped the surgeon move Kestral onto it. The two guards eyed the tree line, and the surgeon felt dread creep up on her as she cut away at Kestral’s shirt. “Please trust me, sir, I have the abilities to save you.”

He just nodded slowly, grimacing. The surgeon tensed as she heard footsteps behind her, but kept her focus on sorting her tools and thinking of how a normal surgeon could handle this— if even possible. Her eyes flicked up to Kestral’s pained face, and she tightly gripped her forceps and scalpel. With or without an audience, she would need to call on her blood-sworn blessings.

“Trust me,” she repeated, her voice strained as she became more aware of the rest of the caravan watching. She knew to inspect the wound- the basic treatment of applying disinfectant and numbing cream, and carefully checking the depth of the wound and extracting any metal. She’d treated wounds caused by blessed and cursed weapons before— her blood-sworn abilities gave her an advantage in meddling directly with her patients’ blood.

Once the wound was cleaned, the surgeon ‘accidentally’ slit one of her fingertips open. She could practically feel Elric leaning over her. Jassine and Tash sat on either side of Kestral. West was quietly tending to the horses. The surgeon drew in a long breath and worked faster. The poison was spreading quicker than expected, and she started to make small cuts with the scalpel along the infected veins, just barely remembering to numb each area— she would have to thank Jassine for talking to Kestral while she worked.

“Prayer may help,” Elric murmured, and the surgeon glanced briefly back at him. He shuffled over to sit next to her, in his hands a small white totem of the lord of law. “This poison is not natural to his body, and therefore throws off the law. The lord may help.”

“Sure,” the surgeon hissed, resolving to ignore him while she continued to open new cuts and apply medicine.

Nothing was helping.

Her hands stilled, and the weight of misericorde at her hip reminded her of her oaths. Of what she’d pledged herself to all those years ago, the god that she swore to provide mercy and forgiveness in the name of, the very reason why she’d made the ultimate show of faith and operated on herself in return for greater ability.

She met Tash’s eyes and reached for the dagger.

Mercy on this injured man, and forgiveness to the flesh that ails him.  

The surgeon drew the misericorde and deepened the cut in her finger, whispering, “Mother, aid me in my work once more.” Blood streamed from the cut, more so than was naturally possible. It didn’t matter who saw at this point, so long as they didn’t stop her.

She traced the coachman’s wound with her bloodied finger, a spark shooting through her arm as visceral connection was established. Kestral’s eyes shot open and met the surgeon’s, but through his blood she felt his tentative trust. She could trace his veins, find the path of the poison, and sense every detail she may need for her work. She doubted she would truly need to cut into Kestral’s body, instead just communing with his blood and flesh.

There was a furious bellow beside her, and Tash lunged past her to restrain his father. The surgeon steeled herself, blocking out the pious merchant’s angry shouting. The speed at which the vitriol towards her faith had spread still haunted her but she had rarely come into contact with anyone who harbored that vitriol and knew what she was.

She would have to thank Tash— no, not just Tash. Kestral, Emm, Lissen, Jassine, and West. Filtering out the poison and ensuring that it stayed out, she urged Kestral to stay still, continually impressing upon him that she only wished to help him. She traced the wound with her misericorde, and located the poison, dark blemishes among the vitality of the blood. Bizarre curses and blessings, highlighted by her desire for mercy. The desire that pulled her forward and kept her focused inward on the wound and the blood, compelling it to take ahold of the intruding poison and carry it back out.

Elric’s fingertips brushed her back, and she resisted the urge to turn and chastise him. Already she was seeing progress, a sheen joining the blood leaking from Kestral’s wound, and she quickly dabbed it up with a disposable rag. The cursing from Elric and the muttering from Tash urged her to work faster. “The poison is almost out,” she tensely reassured Kestral.

The color of the injured man’s veins returned to their normal color, and the surgeon kept her focus sharp until no more poison was extracted by the blood. She let out a shuddering breath and removed her bleeding finger from the wound. Kestral and all the others watching seemed to relax- Elric’s cursing had slowed down. She glanced back at him, taking in his scandalized expression. She turned back and sighed. “Kestral.” He winced. “I’m going to stitch up your wound.”

No protest. The surgeon got to work much more quickly than before, calm enough to talk. “When you reach the city, find a doctor and have them take a look at you. I promise you’ll live, but you will need to take care of this as it heals.” She paused, then added, “Do not tell them anything about me aside from my being a doctor. I am sure you know why.”

“Of course,” Jassine answered for him.

The surgeon stitched dutifully for a moment longer, contemplating what to do next. Threaten them? The reputation of her faith was bad enough. No, she would have to hold out hope that these good people would not sell her out. Elric, on the other hand…

Once the basic stitches were in place, the surgeon turned to face Elric, still held back in Tash’s embrace. The man began to speak, but she cut him off. “I care not what you think of me. Neither do I consider you to be in my debt. Understand that due to my faith, I am a woman of mercy and forgiveness, and I shall therefore forgive you for any hatred you hold towards me, despite the unfoundedness of that hatred.” She turned away and started to wrap bandages around Kestral’s waist, not wishing to waste any more breath on Elric.

She was pledged through the flesh, blood, and bones to heal in the name of the mother of blood, and her patient was more important than a man whose faith had turned him against her.

They reached Nariko city three days later. Kestral moved gingerly, but had, with the help of West and Jassine, taken good care of his wound. Elric had not spoken to her since she’d made her blood-sworn faith obvious— not that she wished to speak to him, anyways. Emm and Lissen flanked her as she stepped out of the carriage onto the city streets. Emm smiled at her, and Lissen just gave her a reassuring nod as she started off to leave.

She’d gotten where she needed to go and would move on once her job was done in the city. There was no reason to stick around with the caravan. It would likely pose a risk to her and her identity if she lingered.

The surgeon set off to find a hotel. She had messages to send and equipment to clean. She’d hardly taken a few steps as a hand on her shoulder prompted her to turn around. She was met by Tash’s melancholy smile. “…Thank you for saving Kestral. And… helping us. I’m sorry about my father. I swear to make sure he doesn’t endanger you and your identity.”

“Don’t be sorry. I forgive him, as I should. I hope you are successful in any of your future endeavors. I suspect you are one with a bright future.” With that, she turned back and walked off, adding over her shoulder, “Worry not about your father sharing news of a wandering blood-sworn surgeon. There are many like me, and you don’t even know my name.”