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linkemon · 10 months ago

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Metanoia (Howl x Reader)

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you're interested.

Other oneshots can be found here.

ʜᴏᴡʟ ᴛʀɪᴇs ᴛᴏ ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʜɪs ʟɪғᴇ ᴜᴘsɪᴅᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ᴜɴғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ɪᴛ ᴛᴜʀɴs ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ. ᴇsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ sʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀs ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴄᴀsᴛʟᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ…

1. ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛ ɪs ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ. ɪ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴏᴡʟ ɪs ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ɪɴ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴠᴇʀsɪᴏɴs.

Howl spun his dance partner around to the music. Step by step they followed the other couples. The glow of the lanterns was reflected in her eyes. Her hair danced in the cool air. Her lips were slightly parted. She inhaled sharply. Every now and then she burst into laughter. She tried to shout over the singing crowd in the town square. She fell under the spell of Market Chipping. Nothing unusual. She probably never stuck her nose out beyond this point. Most of the people around them had spent their entire lives here. They weren't like him. They couldn't just drop everything at will and move with all their belongings. It was not every day that they had the opportunity to celebrate. Especially in the dangerous times ahead.

He knew what was coming next. She stared at him like he was the whole world. He should be satisfied. And yet, for some reason, this adulation irritated him. He didn't deserve her. And besides, SHE never showed it as openly as this woman did.

The lace dress swirled. The material fluttered as a strong wind blew up. They didn't feel cold. The dancing lasted all evening. He knew it would start raining soon. The first drops had already reached his hair. The woman's touch was foreign. He tried not to think about it but the thought kept pushing itself into his head. She smelled different. Not as he would have liked. She moved in a strange way. Something was missing. He realized painfully that she was different. She moved her lips closer. He let her place a kiss on his cheek. Only one. Something seemed to stir inside him but not as it should. Maybe it's guilt? He gave his heart to a demon a long time ago. Calcifer was far away. He couldn't check it. He probably wouldn't have told him anything anyway.

She moved closer again. He didn't let her continue and pushed her away. Gently. She took a few steps towards him but he gently slapped her hand away. She looked at him reproachfully. She disappeared somewhere in the crowd of a thousand people. Everyone was running away from the rain. They covered their heads with their hands or newspapers. They ran as quickly as possible to take shelter under the roofs. He was the only one walking at a normal pace. Water was pouring into his collar but he didn't care. He took the guitar that he had left at the inn earlier. Immediately afterwards, he disappeared behind the alley of a colourful tenement house. He could conjure an umbrella. Even change the weather if he really wanted to but for what? He somehow liked the concept of getting wet. He followed the path leading to the Wasteland. Here the wind was tugging at his coattails. Pink and gray rhombuses wanted to fly away somewhere far away towards the lavender fields. He should be angry. Something squelched in the shoes. He could barely make out the blurry castle in the fog. Blond hair stuck to her face. He brushed them away every now and then with patient movements.

He placed his hand where the heart should be. Something hurt there. For a long time. Did he really feel something or was it just his imagination? That evening confirmed his belief that he hadn't made it all up. When SHE lived with him, everything around her seemed to come to life. He felt like singing and dancing whenever he saw her. She seemed to draw out reactions from him that he lacked. He tried because she wasn't satisfied when he didn't give his all. Howl spent time with her. She seemed to rediscover life with him. Even these seemingly simple things. She didn't accept his complaining. She stood by him when he called for the shadows. Now there's nothing left of it. Since she was gone, the days had become gray streaks. Each one similar to the previous one. Jenkins, Pendragon, Sorcerer, Wizard, Magician, Apprentice of Suliman, Servant of the King, Demon. He played so many roles and was fed up with all of them. The one person for whom he was always only Howl was gone. He didn't realize how dependent he had become on her until she disappeared.

Howl pushed the wooden door open. A pleasant warmth enveloped him. Something pulled at his gold necklace. The same one he received from her as a gift. Sapphire pulsed slightly. This made him open his eyes wider. He looked up and saw this one person he never expected to see again. For a moment he was unable to move. The puddle outside the doorway grew and grew, staining the floor. And he still didn't get it.

She promised she would come back. But he didn't believe her. After all, why would she do that? He's already taught her most of the things. She was so good at magic that she didn't need him at all. She could find a decent house, set up a business and meet someone. That last thought particularly annoyed him but she had every right to do so. In the end, they promised each other nothing. They didn't even talk about what actually connected them.

— Welcome home, [Reader] — he simply said, sitting down in the chair across from Calcifer.

This was, is and will be her home. That's what he told her the last time they saw each other. Did she still remember that?

The woman nodded, smiling slightly. But then she seemed to remember something and smile faded away. Markl didn't seem to notice anything. The boy showed her all the new spells he learned during her absence. She was rufflling his brown hair again and again, praising him for how much he had grown. She talked about her travels, taking out souvenirs from her bag. Ingaria was huge and it took her months to explore so many corners of the world. She travelled with everyone. By carriages, trains, cars, airships and on foot. More than one adventure has made a child's blood run cold. But then she would add an anecdote or a joke to make him laugh.

— I heard you were at the festival today — she said casually to her former master.

— You're right. — He held the look she gave him. Her piercing gaze told him everything. She knew why he was at Market Chipping. How? It didn't matter much.

He suppressed the strange feeling rising inside him. He regretted going there but she didn't need to know that. Or how much he missed her all this time. That at night he dreamed that she was close again, or that he planted lilies of the valley in the garden just to feel the scent she always carried behind her again. So he kept a straight face adorned with a small smile and announced that he would make dinner.

The fire demon looked at him scoldingly. Its flames danced accusingly. He knew what he meant. After all, he once took his heart. He knew him best and understood what was happening to him.

— Howl, cheek — he hissed quietly, sighing dramatically.

The blonde rubbed the indicated spot. Trace of red lipstick. Great. He wondered what she thought of him. If she even wondered about him at all... But why else would she have asked him the previous question?

Unfazed, he reached for the eggs. Plus a few slices of bacon. His signature dish. If you can even call a simple meal that. Calcifer eagerly ate the shells. To the accompaniment of complaints, he graciously agreed to put a frying pan on it. The pleasant smell of food lured the woman and the boy to the table. They had to clear away books, scrolls and potions. There was barely enough space to put dirty plates on it.

[Reader] complained about the condition of the castle. Dust, cobwebs and a pile of junk. He tried to defend himself. Deep in his heart, however, he agreed that she was right. Since the day she left, there has been chaos here. Marek somehow fought it at first. After a few days, however, he gave up. Seeing his master's condition, he instinctively followed his example. Howl knew he was responsible for this child but he couldn't bring himself to do anything. He denied all the changes for the better that the woman had introduced. He stopped cleaning, left the work in the hands of the student and disappeared for days at a time. Her absence caused him to completely fall apart. He went back to being the worst version of himself. He hated himself for it.

And now she saw who he really was. There was evidence everywhere. He couldn't stand that scolding look. Halfway through the seemingly cheerful dinner, he stood up and reached for a thick book. He read the spell from the old assignment over and over again. He pretended not to be interested in the other two's conversation. But im reality, something inside him was screaming. It rose towards her like a sapphire from a necklace. He hadn't been this close in a long time. She was sitting right next to him. At his fingertips. How many times had he dreamed about this? How he thought about what he could do then? And now she was home again and he had absolutely no idea what to do. Even if he looked composed on the outside.

He looked out the window. The rain didn't stop. He was stumbling mercilessly. Even if she wanted to leave, she would have at least spend this night here. But what next? Maybe she's only here in passing. She came to visit them and is about to disappear again. She will disappear like the mist that hides the The Waste. Or worse, it will all turn out to be just a beautiful dream. Howl will open his eyes in a moment. He will put his feet on the cold floor and she will be gone. He will only have what he has always had left. A pile of objects that he carried into the room one by one to occupy his attention. A colourful ball that reflected light in the glass on the ceiling because she didn't like the dark. An old, worn-out, golden gramophone. They listened to music together. Stacks of books covered with dust. Her favourites were on top. She left handwritten notes in them. When he read to them, he felt like he was one step closer to her. Masks from playing at Market Chipping, feathers from wild birds they watched together, a stuffed mascot and thousands of other things. All this helped him sleep when he lay in bed, tired from working for the king. There he pushed the images of war away from his mind. He tried to forget about the explosions, destruction and victims. Lilies of the valley by the bed drove away all evil, even if only for a moment. They smelled sweet like her. He could imagine himself lying right next to her. She brushes his hair from his forehead again, whispering soft, soothing words. She playfully tries on his emerald earrings, bursting into soft laughter. They talk about what happened all day. Seemingly nothing special. And then she slowly leaves, wishing him goodnight and he sleeps peacefully until morning. He hasn't felt peace in so long...

— Mark, it's time for bed. — The woman pushed him lightly towards the stairs.

— Just a moment — the boy begged, looking at her pleadingly.

— No discussion — she said, seeing that he wanted to protest.

He glanced uncertainly at her and then at the teacher. Then he cast a quick glance towards the demon. The flame tilted towards him knowingly. The student put his hands behind his back but everyone in the room could tell he was nervous.

— Are you staying with us? — he asked, looking at the floor.

The question rang in Howl's ears. This was what he also wanted to know.

— I don't know exactly for how long but I'm staying — [Reader] said calmly. — Now go to sleep.

Delighted, Markl ran to her and quickly hugged her. Then, as if embarrassed by this gesture, he ran up the stairs. The sound of his footsteps faded away. All that remained was the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. There was an awkward silence.

— I think we need to talk — [Reader] said after a while.

The man nodded.

— Don't mind me — Calcifer hissed. - I'll turn around and it'll be almost as if I wasn't there!

They would certainly not find peace with him. Discretion was not in his vocabulary.

— I think we'll leave after all — Howl said.

He turned the doorknob. The color pink meant a garden. He offered [Reader] his arm. She hesitated for a moment but eventually accepted the offer.

— Come on... I wanted to hear it — the demon growled dissatisfied as they walked through the door.

It never rained in this place. A warm, calm evening. As always. The pools of the lakes reflected the starlight. They walked together through the soft, light, green grass. The woman looked around the area. Not much has changed here. Actually nothing. Except for the lilies of the valley. She looked at them for a moment. He saw it. The only flowers that ever interested her. He just planted them.

He sealed his fate here long ago. Who would he be now if he hadn't caught a shooting star that fateful night? Would he still practice magic? He might not be a wizard at all. He regretted what he had done in his youth. The contract took his heart. It wasn't that he was completely devoid of feelings and emotions but something was missing. He was painfully aware of this. Some part of him that would make him feel completely human again. The worst thing was that it hadn't bothered him at all before. It was only when [Reader] came into his life that he realized how many things he didn't have or couldn't do. His love has always been and will always be incomplete.

— So… — he began, staring at the lake. — How long will you stay?

— I've already answered that I don't know. It depends. — The woman shrugged slightly.

— On what? — Howl continued. This was the moment he had been waiting for since he saw her at the castle today. He had to know the answers.

— On you. — She looked straight at him.

— I told you once. This is your home and you can always come back to it. I still stand by it.

— You know that's not what I mean. — She raised an eyebrow. — I'm waiting for you to tell me something.

— Like what? — asked the man.

— You know well — she said with a smile. — That you're sorry. That you love me. That you want me to stay because you care — she concluded.

The wind gently moved her dress. She stood on a hill among the lilies of the valley, the constellations reflected in her eyes. He could have sworn that he had never wanted anything more in his life than for them to stay like this until the end of time.

She was right. He knew it. And yet it was so difficult to express everything he wanted. How on earth did it come so easily to her?

— I am a monster. — That was all he could manage to say.

Black feathers appeared for a moment and then disappeared. He hated this monster. A big, heavy bird. The perfect and deadly weapon. Sent to the front to fight the enemy. There were also people on the other side of the barricade. Ordinary civilians, wanting to survive like him. Soldiers who had families they wanted to return to. Even if he didn't kill them, he contributed to it. If he didn't fight, he was a coward. If he fought, he was almost a murderer.

One day he will overdo it. He will use up too much magic. And then he will remain in this hideous form forever. Until the end of his days.

— That's true, but it doesn't mean I look at you differently. I already know that.

— I meant monster in the second sense too. I'm a terrible teacher for Markl. I'm setting a bad example for him. And I can't take care of my own castle. Since you've been gone, everything has been in ruins. — He took a deep breath. — And I used a woman today to forget about you.

— I was there. — It shocked him. — Why did you push her away? — [Reader] asked.

She had to use seven-mile boots. There was no other way she could have made it back to the castle before him. She took the prototype a long time ago and he hasn't seen them since. He didn't think they would last this long. And he certainly didn't expect her to take them on a trip.

— Because she wasn't you. I only love you and no one will ever replace you. Even if I didn't realize it. — Howl locked eyes with her for the first time that evening.

He could finally look her in the eyes without a trace of shame. That's what it was. The feeling he had found so difficult to name all this time. Even if he felt love, he didn't want to admit it. He also let go of his guilt. The ballast accumulated over such a long time disappeared as if by magic.

She stared at him expectantly. He knew she was waiting for the last words. She wouldn't be herself if she didn't want to see it through to the end and have her own way.

— I wish you would stay. — The man gave up. — I will change. I promise.

He placed his forehead against hers. She smelled like all the lilies of the valley around them. He stroked her hand and kissed it. He felt like he didn't deserve more yet. He'll work for it. He will make amends. He will become a better person. And then he will be worthy enough.

— Then I guess I have no choice. You're stuck with me. — Her laughter echoed throughout the starry garden.

Howl grabbed the place where the heart should be. He couldn't feel his pulse under his shirt. After all, many years ago, he gave up everything he was. And yet he lived.

This time he didn't need Calcifer to know what was inside him. He was still human. Looking at [Reader], he was sure of it.

#howl x reader #howl's moving castle #howls moving castle #howl no ugoku shiro #reader #oneshot #character study #studio ghibli #fem reader

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neutron-stars-collision · 1 year ago

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Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 3 - Canning Town Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 2 Summary: Flirting, Leicester Square station mixtape, flowers and breakdowns in the cantina. Or another chapter of an unlikely liaison. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language and imagery and more outrageous flirting. Author's Notes: Chapter a month might just be the new deal here, apologies. And this one's long, by which I mean over 11k 💁🏻‍♀️ It also seems like now that I've started, I can't stay away from Neil's POV so... yeah. Look out for a cheeky cameo too 😉 Other than that, I can assure you this is just as chaotic and ridiculous as the last chapter. These two are in full control, I'm just a mere scribe, doing my best. Hopefully it works. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Incorporating Neil into your daily (and weekly) life was easy. Almost terrifyingly so if you did as much as stop and think about it. Perhaps the self-preservation rooted deep within forbade you to reflect on it. Which, in hindsight, was a good thing.

After that first victory of obtaining Neil’s number, you did not hold back from texting and bombarding him with daily nonsensical memes that could have driven a different man to madness. Neil, however, took it in his stride. It was rare not to get a reply from him after longer than an hour. And that boosted your courage like nothing else.

Some days, the conversations went like this:

/ 🏹, 12:07 pm/ Show me what socks are you wearing.

/✝️, 12:13 pm/ Jesus, that’s forward.

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ That’s basically my second name. So?

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ I swear I won’t sell the pic on OF.

/✝️, 12:20 pm/ Well, if you do, then at least share the earnings with me.

Although you started the ridiculous conversation, when the next text came, consisting of a single image of a socked ankle bared by the familiar hand pulling up the pant leg, you nearly dropped the coffee cup in the middle of the Covent Garden. It was just an ordinary Tuesday lunchtime, with the square bustling with sound and movement. Using the rare sunny September day, you escaped the confines of the Royal Opera House to have your coffee break on the kerb. Thanks to the dwindling sense of coherence, you did not drop said coffee when you opened the photo. The socks you had asked for were black with a grey argyle pattern. But that was where the normalcy ended, for the rhombuses were filled with corgi heads. The brown-beige dogs stared at you through the screen with their beady eyes and were the reason for your hysterical laughter.

The overprotective mother tending to her children close by shot you a dirty look. Well, fuck her.

/ 🏹, 12:23 pm/ Neil, you’re too cute. Way too cute.

/✝️, 12:32 pm/ It’s what every guy wants to hear. Thanks, Cupid.

/ 🏹, 12:34 pm/ I never said you’re not hot, though. Which you very much are. So much that I thought of you when…

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ Yeah, don’t finish that sentence. Please.

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ I’d rather maintain my innocence.

/ 🏹, 12:36 pm/ As you wish 😘

That was not a lie. It was a result of yet another tiring day and an early night in bed when it was too early to sleep. So, you chose to fill the time like most women would, letting your thoughts drift to images and scenarios that always did the trick as your hand delved between your thighs. When you realised who you had been thinking of, the tension was so close to bursting that you did not try to shift the attention. When you came, the guilt was nowhere to be found.

After all, it was not a sin to think of pretty boys when taking the edge off. As soon as you realised that Neil did not take the flirty line seriously, that feeling of potentially having done something wrong became non-existent. It was fine. It was all fine.

Other times, especially during those Wednesday mornings on the Tube, your conversations looked more like this:

“I’ve got an invasive question…” changing the subject during your weekly chats was easy, for as soon as you set a weighty gaze on Neil, he sobered up too.

The endless questions did not seem to bother him either. Your boundless curiosity was particularly grateful for that.

“As long as you’re not going to ask me what underwear I’m wearing, I think we’re fine,” the poker face was only disturbed by Neil’s twitching lips, and the sparks danced in his eyes as he inclined his head in your direction, blessing you with the golden strands, “Shoot,”

Every time, you took a deep breath, silently gathering the courage to ask, and then let the question fall from your lips without a pause:

“When was the last time you’ve been in love?” the curiosity was all it was.

Yet still, Neil’s widening eyes made you consider that perhaps something else was underlining that desire to know. And that this question was different than others you had asked. Different from “Dogs or cats?” “Typical coffee order?” and “Any hidden talents?”. But it was too late to take it back.

“Oof, you weren’t joking” Neil seemed to shake it off quickly, only briefly offering you a glare before looking down to find the needed words, “Probably two-ish years ago…?” you were sure you had imagined the broken edge in his voice as Neil swallowed hard and continued “It was a disaster. She didn’t- Let’s just say I went in too hard and too fast, and she got scared. Pretty much ghosted me after a half-assed excuse” when he raised his head and meet your gaze, you could see the depths of hurt in his eyes.

Your heart felt pathetically hollow, but you smothered the feeling to nothing but an uncomfortable sting.

“Ouch,” a wince was easy enough to muster, and you followed it with an apology, “Sorry,” Neil’s crestfallen look was an inspiration for you to place your hand on his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze “I know that it doesn’t help, but it’s her, not you” you knew the light statement was the right way to go when Neil cracked a wry smile and gave your other wrist a tap.

“Thanks,” it was evident enough to realise that Neil was eager to drop the subject. It was clearer still that you were going to be the next target, “I won’t ask you the same since I know better, but… Do you really think no one could change your view on love?” yet when the question fell in the space between you, it was not what you had expected.

The surprise must have painted on your face, for Neil looked a second away from taking it back. You stopped him from doing that the only way you could think of – by extending your hand in what was universally thought of as a ‘hold up’ motion. It was not that you did not want to answer. And it was not the first time someone had asked either.

But it was not something you were keen on inspecting and tearing apart to offer an honest answer. It was a fact, pure and simple. A fact that you would believe in till the day you died. There was no place for love in your life, and there would never be. Full stop.

“Yeah, I do,” you met Neil’s waiting gaze and offered him a weak shrug. The strange disappointment in his gaze made no sense, so you chose to ignore it to shift your attention to the world outside the carriage as it arrived at the next station. The belief in your next words was as tangible as anything else you could conceive, “It would take a miracle”.

He did not ask that question again.

Those Wednesday morning conversations also became a source of information, which you had stowed securely in the compartment of your brain labelled ‘Neil’. After almost two months of acquittance, you knew that he was born and raised a Londoner (from Richmond, the posh fuck [affectionate]), was decidedly a dog person and had a chocolate Labrador growing up (a girl named Daisy), listened to alt-rock and 80s music and was what he described as a hopeless romantic. You still did not know what he did for work, only that he was decidedly not a tattooist, literary agent, paramedic, jockey, art critic, dressmaker, choreographer, or bus driver. Whether he was truly not just a priest undercover was still up for debate.

***

Only when you fled the confines of the ordinary tiny London flat kitchen and felt the night breeze of the city on your skin, left bare from the jacket you did not yet put on, had the question of the ages pop into your head. What the fuck? There was no answer. You shook your head against the memories of what had just conspired and stopped on the pavement to put on and fasten the jacket. Even annoyed, you could still feel the biting cold begin to settle in your bones.

You never expected to bump into Liam. Never in a million years would you have considered that those two friends you shared would extend the invitation to that man out of all people. And you certainly did not expect him to come.

Although, as he had unhelpfully explained himself, he only showed up because of the chance you would be there. The audacity made you shake your head vehemently, without a doubt attracting a glare or two from those who remained sober at this hour. In Soho on Saturday night, that was unlikely.

You walked through the cobbled streets with the neon lights lighting your path without an aim or a map. The only objective was to stomp the frustration into the cracked pavement and end up home. Somehow. Specifics were to be determined later.

Sure, rushing out of your mate’s flat like a lightning bolt could be seen as impulsive. But Liam offered you no choice. The pleasant buzz of alcohol did nothing to stop the embarrassment, which grew worse by the minute. The long walk in an unknown direction was a sad but acceptable consequence. Or so you aimed to maintain.

By the time you had seriously begun to consider using the dwindling phone battery to order an Uber and save you from the penance of someone else’s transgressions, the red circle with a navy blue bar appeared on the horizon. Salvation, at last. You picked up the pace, eager to get out of the cold and that one step closer to home. This close to Leicester Square and the theatres just having closed their doors on the last patrons, the bustle seemed quieter somehow, more subdued. It was a blessing for your budding headache and a threat to the thoughts eager to appear with nothing suppressing them.

You crossed the road and descended the staircase with a sigh. The heat of the station enveloped you like a hug as you passed the ticketing gates and spent an unnecessarily long time staring at the Tube map. When the logic kicked in, at last, you rushed over to the correct platform.

Only to regret it as soon as the timing screen came into view. Heathrow Airport 25 mins. The polite PSA text below informed you the line was experiencing delays. No biggie. They were sorry. The usual shit. A curse litany lodged in your throat as your eyes roamed over the platform.

All the noise in your head faded to nothing when your gaze settled on that familiar blonde head of hair. He was sitting in one of the few chairs with his head bowed over his knees in a position so exemplary for a Saturday night in the glorious London town. You skimmed over his body, taking note of the casual jeans and a t-shirt, peeking from beneath the unbuttoned jacket.

Before you knew it, your legs had started carrying you in his direction, a goofy smile present on your face. The improbability of it happening made everything easier. Because what were the odds?

Instead of counting them, you approached Neil, still so blissfully unaware of your presence and delivered an opening line:

“Hello, Father,” the joke did not yet get old, and you still got the kick out of it.

Especially when Neil raised his head fast enough to give himself a whiplash and gasped from shock.

“Jesus- Oh, what the fuck?” clutching at his heaving chest with all the drama he could muster, Neil offered you a look so full of surprise you knew he did not expect this to happen either.

The only weekend plans you had discussed over texts were that you had a party to go to, and he was likely to go out with his workmates at some point. But that was it. Zero specifics, no need to share them because there was no need for either of you to know the details. And yet.

“Is that how you should greet a lady?” playing on his theatrical reaction, you feign a shocked expression.

It was clear you would fail at any attempts of annoyance. Your cheeks were already aching with that kind of wide, manic grin only Neil seemed to cause. You could see his eyes skim over your figure, taking in your clothes with that sort of precision only he seemed capable of. Finally, satisfied with what he saw, Neil raised his head to meet your gaze again and got up to bow lowly at your feet:

“Apologies, m’lady,” before you knew what he was doing, he took hold of your hand and kissed your knuckles. A move so fast you almost thought you had imagined it if not for the fading sensation of his lips still ghosting your skin, “What are you doing here?” with his hand lightly touching your elbow, Neil steered you towards the seats.

Only now, with the surprises fading into the background, you took note of the empty platform. It was just the two of you sitting on the creaky plastic chairs. You shifted an inch closer to Neil, seeking the warmth radiating off his body and replied:

“As I’ve mentioned, I had an invitation to this flat party in Soho… And I went, but then, and you’ll never believe that happened-” recounting the improbable story felt good, and you took pleasure in the attention Neil gave your every word.

“Let me guess… Liam showed up?” his interjection followed your dramatic pause flawlessly.

Of course, he got it. Of course, he guessed. You shook your head at his eager smile, aware of the glee in your eyes:

“Damn, you’re good” your low approving whistle reverberated in the space. Most shockingly, there was a certain level of joy in sharing the story, even as your skin crawled with the embarrassment of what transpired, “Yeah, and it turns out that getting blocked did not make him smarter. It became a whole thing, along with him getting down on his knees in the middle of a kitchen and proclaiming his undying love to me,” you wondered if Liam was still there, kneeling on the tiled floor and waiting for your return.

Partially, you hoped that was the case.

Throwing you out of the strange ruminations, Neil shook his head and offered you a serious look:

“Blimey,” his tsk almost got lost in the PA announcement, crackling from the speakers. When it ended, Neil met your gaze with a sympathetic smile, “No wonder you ran away,” his knee nudged yours, triggering something you would not understand even in months.

Sitting upright, you nodded fervently:

“I had to” the emotions you did not know were present poured out from your lips as the next words fell in the space between you, “And like- He doesn’t even know me? He never saw me on the stage, and he thinks that making me cum a couple of times is enough?” a frustrated growl tore from your chest as you finished the tirade with a tired sigh and simple punchline, “Bullshit,”

There was no time or willingness to take apart where all that anger came from or why it was suddenly so important Neil understood your reasons. It just was. Later it was easily blamed on the alcohol still present in your veins. For now, you met his gaze and shrugged, answering the questions he seemed too shy to ask.

“With that, I must agree. It’s bullshit” nudging you with his shoulder, Neil smiled, brightening the clouds that still seemed to hang over your mind.

You shot him a brilliant grin, brushing away the concerns with terrifying ease. They had to wait, ideally forever.

“Thanks, babe” sugar coated your smile as you allowed yourself to gaze, taking note of the blush spreading on his cheeks. Although you would never admit it out loud, the blue of his eyes was slowly becoming your favourite shade of the colour. It was that thought that triggered your next confession, “Admittedly, meeting you here is a highlight of the night,” you watched as his eyes grew wider, evidently not expecting to hear something that honest. The moment stretched for what felt like ages until you found the strength to look away, focusing on the timing screen and the issues it posed, “Though, those delays are bullshit, too” your eye-roll elicited an instant laugh, which only added warmth to the kindling sparks in your chest.

“Mhmm,” Neil’s hum acted like an anchor, tying you to reality.

It was a better place to get lost in than the chaos raging in your head. You chose to stick by it, following the easy way out with a simple question:

“How come you’re here?” you turned towards Neil, hoping to block the platform and the world beyond from view.

Even if just figuratively and for a short while. If the answering bright smile was anything to go by, Neil was happy to humour you:

“I’ve been out for drinks at a pub, but then our crowd isn’t very… boisterous, so we all went our separate ways, and here I am,” he signed off the summary with an explanatory shrug, but you should have kept your guard up. Once his gaze settled on you with an intensity of intent, a pathetic instinct kickstarted your heart with all the subtlety of trainwreck, “Bored as fuck until you’ve shown up” the joy in that simple sentiment was enough to make your cheeks heat up.

Of its own volition, your brain provided the fresh memory of how Liam’s attention in that cursed kitchen had made you feel. How running away was the only option you saw then. It was different now; the quiet focus of the man sitting next to you was a welcomed change. A company you were happy to keep. For however long you were allowed.

“How long do you think till it’s-” ignoring the shyness that did not seem happy to be buried in Neil’s company, you changed the subject with all the grace of an elephant.

It was evident in how you stuttered, quickly abandoning the idea of finishing the sentence and letting it trail off into the quiet. It was too early to raise your head from the depths of shame it was drowning in. It was all a little too much.

“Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour… or never,” Neil’s voice gained a cheeky edge as if conscious of your minor crisis and happy to offer a distraction.

You risked a peek at his face, finding the signature smirk gracing his face. That expression never failed to feel like a sharpened knife piercing through the walls of your uncertainty. It complimented his face too well, dragging the attention to Neil’s sharp features and his remarkable eyes that always felt like they could see right through your bullshit and the pretending. It was terrifying.

It was then, in the light of his frightening beauty, that you decided what to do next. What was necessary to keep you (moderately) sane. One look at your tote bag lying on your lap offered inspiration:

“Fab,” your dry comment elicited Neil’s laugh and sealed the deal on what you wanted to do next. There was no backing out. You straightened your spine and swivelled on the seat to face him fully. When your knees touched him, Neil’s eyes widened almost comically. But that was only the beginning of the wild ride for him, you were sure of it, “Well, then… Dance with me,” the delivery of that line required a special nonchalance.

One that required you to hold Neil’s gaze long after you had finished speaking, and the words had only just dawned on him. Once they did, his eyes got comically large, and his lips parted on what could only be a mute expression of horror. A giggle got trapped in your throat, but you fought valiantly against it. For now.

“Pardon?” Neil’s choked-out question came after sequenced opening and closing his mouth with nothing coming up.

Your poker face was tearing at the seams. Foolishly.

“Dance with me, Neil,” repeating the request (order?), you extended your hand towards him, signing off the invitation for what it was.

The shock was still present on his face. Despite that, Neil slipped his palm, warm and fitting perfectly, into yours. You could tell that it was not entirely conscious on his part.

You sure did not mind it, though.

“I might have had a drink or two, but I didn’t think I was drunk enough to be hearing things,” Neil’s incredulity bled into his tone as he stared you down as if hoping the sheer disbelief would be enough to deter you.

Tough luck.

“Come on,” squeezing his hand, you switched the tactic with a question, “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” there was no judgment in your gaze, and you hoped Neil knew that.

If asked, you could not explain why that was something you wanted to do with him, there and then of all places. But it still felt important. Urgent, even.

The no-bullshit look you got in return almost made you burst into laughter.

“You’ll see me dance,” Neil deadpanned as if it was clear.

As if that was the peak horror that could befall him at your hands. Using the lifeline of your joined palms, you rubbed your thumb over the tender skin of his hand, hoping to let that act as a reassurance. That was a nonsensical fear to have.

Who gave you, a mediocre ballerina, the right to judge? Absolutely no one.

“And?” you offered Neil a brilliant grin, doing your best not to think about how right it felt to have his hand resting in yours.

That question seemed to catch his attention, pulling him back from the precipice of self-doubt. You watched as Neil pondered the answer, staring at you with that bright-eyed, anxious expression, complete with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip. He picked at the worried, fragile skin, and you did not think about soothing the damage with your tongue. Not at all.

“I don’t know… You’ll leave and block me?” when he finally found a plausible answer, it was the last thing you expected Neil to say.

Despite the seriousness on his face, you could not hold back the laugh that spilt from your lips. What an idiot [affectionate]. The adorable pout in his bottom lip was responsible for the recklessness you chose to implement.

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned in and used your free hand to cup his face, eradicating the remains of the gap between you. As your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, Neil gasped, barely disguising the sound with a cough. The grin spread over your face as you spoke:

“It takes a little more than that for me to block you,” that was true; you could barely fathom blocking Neil, least of all because of such a trivial reason. It was only after a beat that the second meaning of what he said sunk in. The meaning you expected Neil did not exactly consider slipping out like that. You grabbed it with both hands and a knowing smile, “Also… you enjoy talking to me that much?”

The jackpot shot came with a furious blush on his cheeks and an embarrassed scoff as Neil turned away from your watchful gaze. Your hands stayed linked. That, too, was an adorable reaction. It made that pleasant warmth in your chest burner brighter, though you refused to inspect it too closely.

Before you could consider pushing him for a reply further, Neil jumped up from the creaky seat and pulled you to standing using your tight handhold. The fake pep was visible from miles away, especially in that manic grin that almost seemed too wide on his face. But you did not have the time to question it.

“Okay, let’s just dance,” Neil tugged at your hand impatiently.

He did not seem capable of standing still, hopping from one leg to another. If that was a sign of what was coming, you knew you were not ready. Your eyes narrowed in what you hoped was a mildly threatening look:

“That’s a deflection tactic,” still, you took a step closer to him, finally putting that handhold to use.

“Yes, it is,” Neil nodded as his arms opened in a shrug.

That was your answer. You could only cement it with a smile as you allowed him to pull you closer, almost into his open arms, except-

“Wait, we need music,” remembering that crucial missing piece, you let go of his hand and darted back to the tote abandoned by the seats.

“No shit,” Neil’s dry comment was accompanied by the scuffling of his shoes over the cracked tiles.

You grinned, triumphantly holding out the speaker you had fished from the bag. That was the only pro you could think of that came from your earlier practice, and no time in between that and the disastrous party.

“Lucky for you, I came prepared,” you showcased it like a spoil of war and turned the speaker on, awaiting the sound confirming it had connected to your phone. When it came, you ceremoniously placed the device on the vacated seat and pressed play on your phone. Only once the music was playing, you turned back towards Neil with a flourish, “Voila,”

It took him an additional second to identify the song, the synthesizer filling the empty platform with a special kind of vibe. When the proper beat kicked in, you started shimmying your hips and shoulders to the rhythm, awaiting Neil’s reaction. You were not disappointed when he gaped at you with joy barely disguised underneath a frown:

“Really?” still, his foot started tapping with the singer’s voice.

Shrugging, you spun around him, feeling the music fill your body like it always did. You always felt the most alive when dancing. When your feet were following the choreography, and head was deliciously empty of everything but the musical notes and lyrics.

When you stopped to meet Neil’s gaze, you found him staring back in awe.

“What? It’s not me; it’s the holy spirit of the shuffle,” the song started heading towards the chorus, so you added the hand movements, orbiting around Neil and hoping to pull him along, “Can’t argue with it,”

‘Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me

Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me’

It was an all-time favourite. A bop you did not have the heart to resist whenever it came on. Now was not any different. Your lips started whispering the words as your body moved through the space, overcome with the feeling of dancing. At that moment, you were grateful for the sensible footwear your past self had chosen that morning. Sure, dancing in high heels was possible, but the Converse made for a much better choice. They slid along the cracked tiles without resistance, allowing you to double the efforts.

It did not matter that you had an audience. Or that it was a particularly attentive one, for you never once felt Neil look away. He was still staring, standing almost stock-still, save for how his feet tapped out the beat. That had to change.

‘Don't you want me, baby?

Don't you want me? Oh!’

You stopped, chest heaving and limbs still too giddy with the effort. You met Neil’s unwavering gaze over the space and mouthed the chorus, aware of the interpretations he could easily reach. That was fine, nothing you were opposed to. In a way, him noticing half your actions did have a tentative hope behind them would have saved you time. And words. But that was a thought for another time.

Once you heard the female vocals come in, you reached out towards him, yet again presenting Neil with your open hand. Yet again, he did not hesitate, letting you pull him close. When the distance had been eradicated, Neil placed his hand on your waist with an experimental level of timidity. As if he was still fully expecting the move to backfire. Silly goose. Your hand ventured up his chest to his shoulder as you steeled your frame into what was expected of ballroom dancing. The habits were hard to shake off, after all.

Despite the booming synthesizers and grooving rhythm, you let him lead you into a slow dance. With each step, Neil’s confidence seemed to grow, for his grip became firmer as he splayed his hand over the small of your back and pulled you closer. It did not matter that his technique would bring your snobbish teachers from ballet study to tears. What mattered was that you felt safe within his embrace, never shying away from Neil’s gaze as it stayed trained on your face. What also mattered was that the genuine smile was fixed on your face. Especially when the song was slowly ending, and Neil was not letting go. What a novelty that was. You worried that once you tasted it, it would be impossible to let go. To forget this careless feeling, encapsulated within a simple, tender hold and open, beautiful eyes.

“That was hardly a song for slow dancing,” when Neil spoke, the remark came upon a hesitant smile, so at odds with how sure his hand was within yours.

“We made do, didn’t we?” you could only offer him a smile, aware of the wobbly edges of your voice and the yearning of your treacherous heart.

Even with years of practice, it sometimes wanted what it could not get. Affection, namely. Or the tenderness that meant something, rather than the mindless touch of a loveless fuck. You hoped one day those two would disappear, leaving you perfectly satisfied with what you had.

As if aware of your dangerous thoughts, the song switch came at a perfect moment. The last beats of The Human League died down, replaced with an equally cheesy rhythm. If not worse. Neil’s reaction was instant. He stopped dancing abruptly, making you nearly miss stepping on his foot. Your eyes darted to his face as curiosity soared in your chest. The barely masked joy you found there only made that warmth in your heart feel like tongues of fire. You disentangled from the embrace to place your hand on his chest and push him back lightly:

“Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you’ve got,” you completed the encouragement with a wink and stepped back to give him space.

The hesitation stage lasted much less this time. Neil stared at you, evidently weighing the pros and cons of giving in, but as soon as Falco opened the song with the lines in German, he had made up his mind. It was your turn to be dumbfounded as you watched Neil thrash to the music, almost keeping up with the beat. He slid across the tiles, barely managing not to slip as Falco went on about Mozart and his flair.

‘Er war ein Virtuose, war ein Rockidol

Und alles rief: Come on and rock me Amadeus’

It was easy to say Neil got lost in the music as his lean body twisted and turned, claiming the space he was allowed to occupy. There was grace in his movement, as well as carelessness, perfectly balancing the dance into an ideal mixture. A rare spark of envy kindled in your chest as you did your best to ignore the question of what it must feel like to be this free. During the poor attempt at moonwalking as he circled you, you could no longer hold back the laugh. Neil’s hands weaved through the air as he threw his head back to shout the hook along with the singer. With each call of Amadeus’ name, the affection in your chest grew, becoming increasingly lethal. A show of that kind displayed not only his trust but also what kind of a man Neil could be if he got rid of his shyness and inhibitions. It was something you doubt you could ever forget.

And that could be a problem.

When the song drew to a close, and Neil’s heaving breaths alerted you that he was probably worn out with exertion, he stopped. The reverberating beats sunk into the background as you met his gaze, aware of the silly softness you could not eradicate from your eyes. Neil looked manic, his pupils dilated and irises sparkling. He was breathing hard, the exhaustion making him shrug off the jean jacket with impatience, so far that Neil did not bat an eyelid when the article landed on the dirty floor. The reveal of an old, worn-out t-shirt underneath that hugged his broad shoulders and biceps just right made your jaw fall slack.

That, too, could be a problem.

Despite the common sense screaming at you to look away, you stared on, aware of Neil gazing right back. A wiser person would have shaken awake in time to switch off the music and call this quits before any further damage could be done. But you were never the wiser person.

You looked on as the song switched into a different era of music, and gentle, cheesy chords of piano and percussion filled the platform with a ballad almost everyone knew. Neil was not any different. You noticed the change in his eyes, switching from playfulness to mild seriousness. As if he, too, knew your fates were being decided at that exact moment.

However, the results of those decisions would not be noticeable until much later.

Using Elvis’ crooning as a backup to help drown your thoughts, you reached out your hand towards Neil, repeating the invitation. It was up to him whether he wanted to take it. Just like everything else in your friendship. The eager hope was hard to nip in the bud. It itched and ached until you could hardly stand still, awaiting the sentencing for what felt like hours. At last, Neil closed the gap and took your proffered hand with an impassive look.

The second time bore all the experience of the first, making it easier to fall in place without hesitation. Neil clasped your hand in his and let his other arm wind around your waist, pulling you close. Much closer than before. Your hand found its way to his shoulder, curious fingers stroking the expanse of his neck, revealed by the t-shirt collar. You did your best not to notice the goosebumps rising on his skin. It was impossible to tell which of you moved first, leading into the gentle sway. Only once you started waltzing around the empty platform, it was impossible to stop.

‘Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?’

Halfway through the song, you tilted your head back from where your gaze had been trained on the expanse of his chest and met Neil’s waiting gaze. The shock passing through your system felt like a fatal blow. There was no denying the fact that this was a first. The first time you had ever danced like that with someone, motivated by nothing else but the desire to do it. There was also no denying the fact Neil’s watchful eyes and the soft strokes of his fingers, running along the expanse of your waist down to your hip, felt like nothing else you could have ever experienced before or after. It was well past your usual flirty chats and casual innuendos. Well past the daily playfulness of whatever it was blooming between you. It was well past the worn-out tracks and lived-in spaces.

Absolutely fucking terrifying.

‘Take my hand,

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help falling in love with you

For I can't help falling in love with you’

It was impossible to say what had tipped the scales right then. Whether it was the song lyrics, drawing attention to all those things you would rather ignore till the end of time or the unwavering eye contact you had maintained as you spun across the space with grace that had not been there previously. Or whether it was due to how Neil held you steadily, all the while allowing himself to stare, eyes roaming over your face in a meticulous study. But perhaps it was just a trick of fate, a sudden loss of reason and logic that made you tip forward and give in to the gravitational pull of his orbit. Perhaps Neil was guilty of the same thing.

Before you knew what had failed and why, you were close enough to feel the gasp of his breath fan across your face. The air ghosted your lips as your nose brushed against Neil’s, and the time slowed to a crawling speed. There was no denying the fact that you wanted it. The want hummed underneath your skin and made it hard to think clearly.

You only knew that Neil closed his eyes, and his sharp intake of breath hit your lips, making you tilt forward. Making it oh so easy to let go and-

“This is Piccadilly Line service towards the Heathrow Airport,” the PA system crackled to life, forcing you to separate as if burned.

You blinked awake, barely noticing the train slowing at the platform and the music still playing from your speaker. One glance at Neil told you all feelings were very much mutual. It was a close call. So close you could almost feel the kiss that never happened. An uncertain smile played upon your lips as you turned off the music and jumped aboard the train. You could only hope the King of the Rock’N’Roll himself was wrong about this one.

***

It was a well-known truth that a pretty boy could make you a little stupid. Stupid enough to do things that, under normal circumstances, would be off the table. But all it took was a flash of blue eyes and a charming smile, and boom, logic gone, reason decimated. Usually, there was a price to pay for that.

But the potential costs meant nothing in the face of the revelations the Saturday night brought. Namely, the kiss that never happened but you could easily dream of. Which you did, just to brighten up the restless sleep. Needless to say, that night unlocked some things. Things that perhaps were best left untouched. But hindsight was a gift you did not yet possess.

Instead, you battled with a single idea that was difficult to eradicate. Sure, that night, or how it had almost ended, was never mentioned again. As early as the next day Neil reached out to you and set the tone you were happy to follow. But the memory remained, nagging at your brain for a week and not once letting go. It was a seed that planted another thought. The thought that nothing was preventing you from reaching out for more. That there was no script to follow with Neil. That idea was like a brainworm making a home inside your skull.

Because, yes, you were known to be a little stupid for attractive boys. And Neil was potentially the most beautiful man you have ever met. That proved to be a problem.

Exactly a week after that Saturday, you caved in. The autumn breeze was hitting your face and tangling your hair as you stared at the Thames. There was no better place to start a catastrophic chain of events than the Blackfriars Bridge. Or so you told yourself. You took out the phone to stare at the messages and opened the text conversation with Neil. It took an additional fortifying breath to start typing out the proposition and start the exchange.

/ 🏹, 5:39 pm/ So, I figured, since we already broke the rules on our hangouts last Saturday

/ 🏹, 5:40 pm/ Would you like to grab coffee tomorrow?

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ That’s unexpected.

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ Why the sudden change of heart?

/ 🏹, 5:46 pm/ I liked your moves.

/✝️, 5:47 pm/ I’m pretty sure no one’s ever said that to me.

/ 🏹, 5:49 pm/ Maybe they just weren’t looking. I knew I was.

/✝️, 5:51 pm/ Okay, yeah. I’d like that.

/✝️, 5:52 pm/ Any labels I should be aware of?

/ 🏹, 5:52 pm/ Nah, fuck the labels.

/ 🏹, 5:53 pm/ Unless you want to bring me flowers. Then let’s call it a date.

/✝️, 5:55 pm/ Then it’s a date 😘

You stared at the phone long after the screen went dark. Along with the buzzing joy and anticipation of what tomorrow would bring, there was also an eternal question. The question you had avoided pretty damn well so far. What the fuck have you done?

***

By the time you were meeting Neil in a café (chosen because of its perfect location between St. John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage), those nerves of anticipation had transformed into anxiety. The worst was that you did not even know what you were so nervous about. A date (that was not really a date) was nothing new. You have done it many times before, usually to great results. But suddenly, when Neil was inserted into the equation, all that you got was uncertainty. And a strong fear of fucking it up. It did not make for a good mix.

Part of it dissipated once you turned the street corner and saw him waiting in front of the café, a bouquet in hand, despite your line being nothing more than a throwaway joke. An affectionate smile was impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you may have tried. It stayed as you closed the remaining distance and met Neil’s gaze. Then it got transformed into a stupid grin as your eyes scanned him head to toe (hair just as messy as always, leather and jeans completed with sneakers – in other words: fucking hot). Once that foolery was complete, you could shift your attention to the flowers, now held out in your direction like a sheepish offering.

It was a colourful bouquet of wildflowers, freshly bloomed and coming from a florist rather than Sainsbury’s. The thoughtfulness was enough to make you blush. Before you could delve into an embarrassing attempt at cover-up, Neil broke the silence:

“You haven’t specified what kind of flowers,” his shyness was easily seen from the fidgeting hands and eyes unwilling to stay on your face longer than necessary.

That was your cue to get yourself together and accept the bouquet with a courtesy. That, too, was just a trick to drag that shy smile onto his face. It worked.

“Those are perfect, thank you,” with another smile, you turned towards the entrance and went in as Neil held the door. It was a cosy café with only a few tables and a bar-service ordering. You motioned towards the smiling server behind the counter with a question, “Wanna go order coffee?”

You did not expect in response to your innocent ask for Neil to come to a strange stand-still in the middle of the entryway and measure you with a look that spoke volumes about him having something to say and no way of expressing it. You raised your eyebrow, urging the words to come out and save you from death by perplexation.

After a beat, Neil seemingly found the ability to speak again and stumbled through a sentence:

“I’ve got… uh… a thing,” the emphasis on the final word was accompanied by an awkward shift, his hand automatically reaching up to comb through his hair and messing it up even more.

That did not help. At all. You blinked, aware of the comedy role you had just been awarded without warning. You were vaguely conscious of the server’s gaze, undoubtedly staring at the spectacle presented with fascination.

“Jesus, what thing?” when Neil did not elaborate, you prodded with another question, gaining a slightly hysterical edge.

It was probably that tone which made the most impact. Neil seemed to wake up, his hands gesturing as he attempted to explain:

“A thing about figuring out people’s drink order,” he shrugged, almost as if already embarrassed by ever bringing it up; that would not do, “Like a-”

“A kink?” you interrupted his explanation with a devilish grin, knowing that it would do the job.

That and the teasing, of course.

The reaction was instantaneous. Where previously there had been mild shyness and uncertainty, the furious blush had bloomed. Neil looked horrified as he took a step in your direction as if considering sealing your mouth shut before finally admitting defeat. What you got instead was a glare and an affronted reply:

“What? No! More like talent, I guess,” Neil shrugged, visibly battling the dilemma you were not privy to. You decided to help him the best way you knew how – by reaching out and squeezing his hand. Once. Just once. It was enough to do the job and make your fingers itch with an inexplicable desire to prolong the contact. Luckily, it disappeared when Neil recovered from his internal crisis and gestured towards the counter, “May I?”

You could only nod, happy that whatever had just transpired was past you. Not that it was not fun, but because of the audience that did not deserve to see what had happened. Whatever it was.

“You’ve got me intrigued, so now you have to,” shrugging upon Neil’s hesitant smile, you ventured inside the café, scouting for a perfect table.

Soon enough, the ideal booth had been located and taken as you awaited Neil’s return. You did not have to wait long, for as soon as you settled and placed your coat on the backrest, he sat in the chair in front. That sheepish smile was still in place, so you tried to bring back his confidence with dumb chitchat until you were interrupted by the server approaching your table. It worked. As you both fell quiet, Neil was visibly fighting a grin threatening to transform his face. The pride surged in your veins without respect towards your sense of humility.

The woman shot you both a bright smile as she set neared the table and put a steaming porcelain cup in front of Neil:

“Flat White for you, sir, and for your girlfriend-” you never got to hear the end of that sentence as Neil’s horrified expression and a loud interruption stole your attention.

“Oh, we’re not-” your laughter was almost enough to drown out his protest.

Almost because the server still looked extremely apologetic as she placed a larger cup in front of you with a clink.

“-Caramel Macchiato,” you waved off the atonement she seemed ready to launch and smiled, the curiosity at his choice already occupying your mind.

“Thank you,” as soon as the woman was out of earshot, you turned your cheeky smile onto Neil and covered his hand resting on the table with your palm, “Are you ashamed of me, my darling?” your favourite blush spread upon his cheeks, widening your grin in the process.

A blunder like that was not something you would ever lose sleep over. Even less so, considering that you were there with Neil. Even with your deep-rooted dislike over anything that had to do with relationships and the complications they lead to, you could not possibly be angry over being perceived as belonging to Neil. If anything, it was flattering.

“Stop it,” he shook off your hand, way too gently, and shook his head as if desperate to clear it, “I just didn’t-” after a beat, he dropped your gaze, giving up the fight, “It doesn’t matter, sorry” although you would do anything to understand the thought processes unfolding behind those slightly vacant blue eyes, you were not given a chance. Instead, he took a fortifying sip of coffee and looked at your cup, (not so) swiftly changing the topic “So… how did I do?” the anticipation in that gaze offered no space for a bargain.

You glanced at the beverage in front of you and slowly raised it to get a tentative taste. The warm liquid slightly burned your tongue, but before you could mourn the damage, the caffeine and creamy caramel filled your mouth with pleasurable goodness. It was a top-notch choice, making you follow that first sip with another almost without a break. Burned tongue be damned.

“Very good, actually,” raising your head, you met Neil’s proud smile. It was a much better look than the embarrassed expression from earlier, motivating you to add, “Maybe you should try getting into BGT with that talent,” you winked at him, even if to prolong the blush, which had begun to fade.

But also because it was fun to compliment him, considering that you meant every word and because of your suspicions that Neil did not get them often. That alone was a travesty, in your opinion.

“Very funny,” rolling his eyes at you with a happy smile tucked in the corner of his lips, Neil looked even better.

It was easy enough a conclusion that lightness and happiness were a good look on him. Especially when you were the cause. You tried not to let that go into your head, but… Well.

“I know,” you matched his smile with a smirk of your own, “Hysterical,” with the perfect pause to take another sip of the glorious coffee, you shifted the topic, “How was the week at the clergy?”

Without Neil’s continuous amused reactions to the same old joke, you would have dropped it by now. But how could you if it still got a laugh out of him each time? You couldn’t let opportunities like that slip by. No chance.

This time, Neil hid the joyous huff of laughter in the coffee cup as he pondered the answer.

“It’s been good. Fine,” a noncommittal shrug offered no room for guessing what it was that he did, which was still a mystery, but you counted wins where you could find them, “A bit busy, but what can you do. I might have a work trip coming up soon, so…” it was only when the second part of his reply was processed by your brain, currently preoccupied with staring at Neil’s mouth (which was a very normal state of mind to have), that you perked up.

That was important information. For two contrasting reasons. One was that whatever Neil did for work involved work trips, and that narrowed down the field, albeit barely. Two was that it would mean he would not be around every Wednesday, ready to meet you. That second deduction took hold of your heart with the icy grasp of disappointment.

“So, no more Wednesday meetups?” it was impossible to keep the sadness out of your tone as you settled a wary gaze on Neil.

Sure, it was survivable. But where would be the fun in it?

It was not fun to see that same apprehension creep into Neil’s eyes.

“Yeah, but only like… for a few weeks,” from his sudden dislike of eye contact, you guessed that the estimation might have been an understatement. Though you did hope he was not lying. The pitiful look must have been still present on your face, for Neil followed the statement with reassurance, “I’m sure you’ll survive without me,” he hesitated for a millisecond before returning your previous gesture and giving your hand a comforting pat.

You did not move it away, the pleasant warmth and weight of his palm seeping through your skin and soothing the sudden spell of sadness. It was difficult not to let that inexplicable feeling lead you into the deep end as it was not something you understood. It settled in the darkest cavern of your heart and accompanied its beat with its foreboding presence. There was no choice but to push past it.

“I don’t know, I’m going to miss you,” the confession felt dangerously light on your tongue as you registered Neil’s reaction. His beautiful eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he quickly dropped your gaze, choosing to stare at the table instead. The only sign that you were heard was how his thumb stroked your hand repeatedly, “I hope you’ll be back before the premiere,” using the only way you knew of lightening the conversation, you made sure to slip in a playful tone.

Ever since the day you had shared joyous news with Neil, he often asked about the preparations for the ballet. He seemed genuinely interested in the process, the rehearsals, and your impressions at every stage.

When you innocently hinted at a costume fitting in your texts Neil immediately asked for a picture. You complied, gleefully posing in the dressing room mirror wearing the whole get-up, complete with pointe shoes, tights, and a white ballet tutu with the accents of blue flower petals. All in all, you had the right to believe that Neil would be interested in coming to see the ballet when it premiered. You had that covered.

“I’ll do my best,” his hopeful smile was enough to distract you, for soon Neil followed it with a question, “Do I get an invite?”

The cheeky smile was back in full force, almost wiping you off the surface of the Earth. More of that, please. Feeling brave, you slowly tangled your fingers with his to raise your joined hands from the tabletop and squeezed his palm. It was a silly question to ask. You had to make sure Neil knew that.

“Well, duh,” you started with an eye roll, taking pleasure from the feel of his hand holding yours, “I’m going to need a personal cheerleader for when I fail big time,” it was a rare thing to hear you admit the fear and anxieties out loud.

Most of the time, they only existed in your mind, never expressed. And especially not in a conversation because that fear of someone else confirming all you feared was overwhelming. It was better to appear invincible to the world than to let them know your weaknesses. Somehow this logic did not want to apply itself to Neil. No, he has heard it all. And yet, he did not seem keen on confirming you were right to doubt yourself.

“That’s not going to happen. You’ll be the perfect Cupid,” punctuating the encouragement with a squeeze of the hand, Neil shot you a brilliant grin.

The nickname was growing on you. It was also the cause of a few silly smiles during the rehearsals when you were addressed with your character role. That was alright, too.

Now, with the force of his beautiful smile shining upon you like a rare beacon of hope, you tried your hardest not to let the praise consume you whole. Instead, you turned to the faithful vice of sarcasm as you let go of his hand and settled your chin on your folded palms. Eyelashes and doe eyes in full force. Naturally.

“Wow, my charms must be working if you’re this blindsided,” curling the corner of your mouth in a smirk, your eyes roamed over his face in familiar patterns.

It was refreshing to remember why you invited him out in the first place. Why you have decided to break the unwritten role and step on the line you both had been tiptoeing from day one. Why nothing was holding you back from reaching for what you wanted.

This time, Neil did not turn away from your taxing gaze and met it head-on. Almost as if permitting you to proceed with whatever you desired.

“You’ve no idea, sweetheart,” mirroring your tentative smirk, Neil offered you a wink and picked up the coffee cup.

You were certainly not going to eschew a chance like that.

***

As far as first dates (could he even call it that?) went, meeting up for coffee and letting the conversations run without a disaster somewhere in between was rare. Even rarer still considering that Neil did not know how he got to this point and whether it was not all a dream. The jury was out on that. Even though Sunday was now two days ago, the meeting was still fresh in his mind, posing a thousand questions.

Because he really did not know how he got that place. The only certainty was that sometime between the surprising Saturday night meeting at Leicester Square station and the day after, Cupid made up her mind and chose to strike. Alternatively, she decided to act considering the realisations he was not privy to. Sure, that night at the station almost ended with a kiss. He knew that. He was there. But it did not offer answers as towards why an almost kiss made her behave in contrast to what Neil thought he understood about her.

Because a date was definitely a step above flirting. And it was hard to understand what that meant. If anything at all.

Now, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Neil stared out the window of the HQ cafeteria and tried his hardest not to think about it (her) for a change. It was not going well, as one could expect. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Ives was staring. Those piercing blue eyes (bluer than his, which has once or twice been proved during a night out as those things usually are) have been glancing his way instead of focusing on the sandwich on his plate. What a prick (affectionate). After what felt like a fiftieth glance, Neil dropped the napkin onto his place with force and turned towards Ives with a glare. The patience has worn out.

“Oh, just spit it out,” Neil hissed the words with ire.

The grin spreading upon Ives’ lips did not help a bit. The soldier leaned forward, abandoning his food and setting the perceptive eyes upon his friend. Mercilessly. With years of friendship, Neil knew this was not ending well.

“I haven’t said a word,” the man shrugged; a picture-perfect nonchalance.

If only.

“But you’ve been staring,” Neil’s attempt at covering up the tension with a bored tone failed.

He knew that as soon as he saw Ives’ unimpressed smile. There were no doubts about where this conversation was heading. It was the interrogation Neil had feared from day one. It was only a matter of time. Damn it.

“Go ask Henrik. Maybe he can help you gauge my eyes,” in moments like this, Ives’ cockney accent came out in full force, tearing at the shreds of patience Neil seemed to have.

Despite himself, he cracked a smile at the comeback.

“Doubtful,” quickly hiding it in the sip of tea, Neil muttered a quip of his own.

While Henrik, the team’s medic, was a peculiar man, it was improbable he would be into that kind of thing. Unfortunately.

“Eh, I wouldn’t put it past him,” before he could hope this was the end of the conversation, Ives levelled him with another no-bullshit look and delivered the sentence in four simple words, “Mate, spit it out,”

If only it were that easy. For one, Neil did not even know what there was to tell. Sure, he has met a girl. He was probably thinking too much about said girl daily. But that was it. The end of the story. Pathetic, as per usual.

“I’d rather not,” as the last resort of keeping his dignity intact, Neil averted his gaze and fixed his stare on the dirty floor of the cantina.

A solitary potato chip was lying there, attracting attention. For one, maddening second, his brain tried to concoct an elaborate metaphor in which he was like that lonely, forgotten chip on the ground.

Thankfully, the idea was soon dispersed by his irreplicable companion and his booming voice, cutting through the idiotic thoughts:

“I beg to differ,” the hint of reassurance in Ives’ voice was responsible for luring Neil into listening, just as the soldier delivered the question, “What’s her name? His name? Their name?”

Admittedly, the inclusive way of asking was a nice touch from someone who frequently lacked decorum. Or, more accurately, did not bother with it. It was that addition that made Neil crack, with the final resolve crumbling as he tried to protest:

“There’s no- Cupid,” giving out a tired sigh, Neil finally raised his head and repeated the nickname with something ridiculously close to the softness of affection, “I call her Cupid,”

It made no sense. He knew that. But it did not help that whenever he thought of her, that stupid, embarrassing part of his heart was roused awake from periodical slumber. So much for being reasonable.

As soon as Ives whistled lowly and that familiar sardonic grin appeared on his face, Neil knew it was a mistake.

“Kinky,” his murderous glare got ignored in favour of another pressing question, “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Lucky was definitely an overstatement if you asked Neil. But he did not fancy getting into the specifics of the relationships yet. Instead, he happily let himself delve back into memories of that first meeting. He still could not find other apt ways to describe it than a strike of fate. Dramatic? Sure, that was his second name.

He did doubt that Ives would appreciate the insane poetic ruminations, however.

“I’ve met her at the Tube, and she’s a ballerina… Pretty fucking cool, at that” that was a non-negotiable fact. Period.

Yet from the way his friend stared at him, Neil could easily deduct that here, too, he sounded like the insane idiot that he was. An idiot that finds friends on the Tube and lets that develop into something else. Something he tried very hard not to define. It was going splendidly well. Of course.

“Uh oh,” as if reading his mind, Ives, the prick, pasted on a silly grin and bated his eyelashes down at him, continuing the interrogation, “Is that a crush I’m sensing?”

Fuck. That was, indeed, a mistake.

Not that there was a crush because there absolutely wasn’t anything of that sort. Idiot, he might have been, but not… No. No. Which is exactly why Neil had to pause to cover his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. Conveniently ignoring Ives and his bullshit assumptions.

Only once he felt like the annoyance had simmered to an acceptable white noise, Neil dropped the hands covering his face and met his destiny in the form of an infuriating sardonic smile.

“No, she’s just… I’m fascinated, okay? I’ve never met anyone like her before, and we’ve got a good thing going with weekly chats and… stuff,” running out of steam, Neil let the last word trail off into silence.

He knew what it all sounded like. He did. Except that there was no better way of describing it (them) to the outside world. And he was certainly not keen on showing Ives the texts. Not after the last conversation this morning, which involved more innuendos and another rendition of What socks are you wearing? - his favourite game. Truly. What made the exchange more incriminating, however, was the fact that Cupid’s current socks brandished an image of an adorable pug with a caption: “Send dog pics”. Yeah, that. That was a theme he was so far happy to ignore. Kind of.

“Did you kiss her yet?” another ridiculous question acted like a wake-up call as Neil felt the loathed, crimson blush fill his cheeks.

“What is this? Middle school?” another outburst got met with a stoically blank face, not helping to ease the shame of being so goddamn transparent “No, I didn’t,” I wish, “We danced” offering the alternative lowkey felt like self-sacrifice.

Not because Neil was embarrassed of what had happened that Saturday night but because it stayed a secret to anyone who was not him or Cupid. At least, that is what she told him, much to inexplicable surprise, which he could not and would not try to understand.

“I never knew you dance,” the soldier’s remark, as always, missed the mark.

Annoyance at the whole world, at this rate, rose at a steady pace. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that Neil was frustrated at the circumstances of the relationship with the woman in question, but it was too soon for self-realisation to do its work.

“Of course, I do,” instead, it was the distant feel of pity that nagged at the edges of his soul as Neil allowed the dismissive reflection to be voiced without the veil of fake pep, “Anyway, none of it matters. She’s not into relationships, so…” he shrugged, aware of the pitiful picture.

In a way, it was easier to know that about her ahead of time. It was perfect information to push at his brain and heart whenever they got too comfortable with the situation. To remind them (and himself) that it was not going anywhere, and it never would.

But, for some infuriating reason, the heart tended to be a stubborn beast holding no regard for facts. Not that heart had anything to do with this just yet. Of course not. Neil just… liked her. As a human being likes another human being. Platonically.

“Surely, your roguish charm will convince her otherwise,” as expected, Ives looked as if he was trying very hard not to feel sorry for him and was failing.

The reassurance hardly worked if Neil was being honest. The existence of said roguish charm was highly debatable. But who was he to argue?

“Nah, it’s fine. I can be just friends with her” manifesting much, or whatever. It was a blessing to have a different topic to switch to, “Anyway, I’m not going to see her for the next couple of weeks since we’re leaving,” another attempt at a nonchalant shrug got lost in the heaviness Neil could not shake off if he tried.

Going off on a mission right now, in the middle of it all, was far from ideal. Neil liked his job, loved it even, but then, some operations felt like a drag from the moment they appeared on his desk. That was one of them.

“Yeah, Lisbon is on,” from the tiredness written all over Ives’ face, Neil could tell the lack of enthusiasm was shared, “Two weeks, but it might be longer,”

“Great,” sarcasm dripped from the word as Neil glanced at his friend and asked, “We’re going to bunk together?”

It was only half a joke. Because only the company made the perspective of that mission seem a little less daunting.

“You wish, love,” the answering grin on Ives’ face was the perfect punchline to the dramatic conversation. The soldier got up from the table with another quip, “You know I’m not into blondes,” he walked away without another glance, yet the laugh he elicited from Neil could be heard in the room above the cantina.

#neil tenet #tenet movie #tenet 2020 #neil tenet x reader #neil tenet fanfic #neil x reader #neil tenet imagine #tenet fanfic #robert pattinson #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson x you #robert pattinson x y/n #robert pattinson imagine #deadlines & commitments

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 1 year ago

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I'm looking for plastic polygon tiles, the kind they used in elementary school math class, but none of the ones I can find online are gonna work for my purposes. I don't need rhombuses or trapezoids or rectangles, I need a set of regular polygons from 3 to 8, all with the same side lengths, but I can't find heptagons anywhere! This would be trivial if I had access to a 3D printer, I could just make my own, but I don't, so I can't. I'm working on a project which requires having a ton of each shape, and my attempts to make them out of construction paper have been shoddy at best; even using a protractor and compass I can't get the sides and angles just right, they're all slightly wonky, they don't tessellate the way I need them to. I require a level of precision that I am incapable of doing myself. Does anyone know where I can special order the tiles I need? Preferably all in specific colors, but if not I'll take anything I can get and then prime and paint them myself. I need triangles, squares, pentagons, hexagons, heptagons, and octagons. They don't even teach heptagons in school...

#shapes #geometry #project #help #tiles

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cas-rolled · 6 months ago

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monday <3

🌗 meeting to discuss workshop development

good news! additional scientific writing workshops are going to be developed very casually with the goal of debuting them in the spring semester, so I don't need to do too much for them this fall

I'll be presenting my previous scientific writing workshop again, as well as providing tutoring to first-year STEM cohorts, which should be nice

they reminded me to communicate if I need to reduce my hours for in-center writing tutoring because of my other responsibilities this semester :)

⚡️review more sources

one was entirely unnecessary, so that was quick

I found another with fantastic additional information that I'll be incorporating into my draft after receiving feedback later this week

another source was less helpful than I had hoped but still has useful information. I'm not sure if I'll add it to my draft, but it makes me understand the geologic concepts I have to incorporate much better

🌈 unplanned ventures

one of my course syllabi was made available! I transferred it into my notion...four more to go! I'm hoping they'll all be ready before next Monday.

created a thesis skeleton that I'll be able to copy/paste my writing into, which ensures I'll avoid struggling to format it later in the semester

continued reading my book on Descartes, which I'm hoping to finish up by next week. I'm using it as preparation for my philosophy of science course, since it's been several years since I've read philosophy and he's one of the main philosophers for that subject. I've included a quote below that I rather enjoyed.

"Indeed the perfection of an image often depends on its not resembling its object as much as it might. You can see this in the case of engravings...in accordance with the rules of perspective they often represent circles by ovals better than by other circles, squares by rhombuses better than by other squares, and similarly for other shapes. Thus it often happens that in order to be more perfect as an image and to represent an object better, an engraving ought not to resemble it."

-"Optics", in Descartes: Selected Philosophical Writings

#in a day #thesis process #the academy #studyblr

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redrook · 1 year ago

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watching the Mario movie with my husband @beemovieerotica and since Bowser introduced the concept of marriage, and all the koopahs appear to be the same sex, that brings up the question of if they're all the same sex and all marriage is gay marriage, OR that koopah sexing is just undiscernable to the casual human observor

I posited that female koopahs have a square cloacah, male koopahs have a rectangular cloacah, and nonbinary koopahs have rhombuses

and my husband told me "Stop talking."

tumblr what's your take

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rhodesmusic · 2 years ago

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The boundary of a tricylinder is a rhombic dodecahedron: graphing polyhedra with implicits and expressing them as Minkowski sums

The day before yesterday (or rather, yesterday at 12 in the morning) I was mathing on discord and a friend brought up Steinmetz solids, which are funny shapes obtained by taking the intersection of two or three cylinders. As the cylinders pass through each other, they outline a shape where they cross, which is the Steinmetz solid. Taking two cylinders gives you something called a bicylinder, and similarly, taking three cylinders gives you something called a tricylinder:

Images from Wikipedia

They showed me this and I was interested in the diamond-like pattern of the corners and edges on the tricylinder. Looking at it, we can see that the points at which all three cylinders intersect form a cube, and the other corner points come from where two cylinders intersect in the middle of the third, which seem to be positioned in the middle of the squares from the cube. Plotting this out and projecting the vertices onto a sphere to get a better idea of how they're arranged, I got this funny shape, which is called a rhombic dodecahedron, apparently:

Made with desmodder for desmos graphing calculator, graph link

I guess the name comes from how all its faces are rhombuses and how it has twelve faces, the same number of faces as a dodecahedron. Sharing this with them, another friend's immediate reaction was "oh SHIT it's the"

along with this implicit plot of the rhombic dodecahedron in a 3-d grapher (a really cool one, by the way) (also, not the exact image they sent, just recreated it lol). What immediately caught my attention was how simple this implicit equation was. It seemed awfully convenient how this complex shape could be described so concisely with an implicit. I looked up the rhombic dodecahedron on Wikipedia, and found that it was, in particular, a zonohedra, which is a competitor for the most fuckin silly math term of all time.

A zonohedra is a convex polyhedron which is centrally symmetric, possessing a special kind of symmetry, but what's sick is that a zonohedra may be equivalently described as a Minkowski sum of a collection of line segments. A Minkowski sum of two shapes is just the shape you get when you take any point from the first and add it to any point in the second, via vector addition. You can repeat this to get the Minkowski sum of any number of shapes in any number of dimensions, and when the shapes are all line segments, you get a zonotope (lmao).

Thus, 3-dimensional zonotopes are these zonohedra, which come from taking some number of line segments in 3 dimensions, and then going through all combinations of points on them, picking one point for each segment, and adding them together. The rhombic dodecahedron turns out to be the Minkowski sum of the line segments forming the long diagonals of a cube, and I can't help but feel like the simplicity of it's implicit equation comes from how it can be expressed as a zonohedron.

(Me realizing the rhombic dodecahedron is a zonohedron)

Thus, I'm interested in how you could get from a zonohedron to a Minkowski sum, and then to an implicit plot, or maybe the other way around from an implicit plot to a Minkowski sum (though this requires you know the implicit gives a Minkowski sum to begin with). For example, any cube is the Minkowski sum of three orthogonal line segments of equal length (letting the lengths vary gives you a cuboid), and the unit cube has the implicit equation

max(abs(x),abs(y),abs(z))=1,

so I wonder how you could derive the implicit from the Minkowski sum. (Unfortunately, the cube is the only Platonic solid that's also a zonohedra, since it turns out that the faces of a zonohedron have to have an even number of sides, so womp womp for expressing the tetrahedron, octahedron, icosahedron, or dodecahedron as Minkowski sums of line segments.)

Note how it doesn't matter if you translate a shape in any direction when taking the Minkowski sum, since the resulting shape will be congruent to to what it'd be without translating, namely, it'll just be that shape translated in the same way the component shape was. This means you can translate the line segments in a zonohedron's corresponding Minkowski sum so they all sit at the origin, so that every one of them can be described with the vector sitting at the end of the line segment; the zonohedron can be derived from just a collection of vectors. This site I found gives these vectors for lots of different zonohedra.

So, given some 3-dimensional vectors, how would you get an implicit equation plotting the zonohedron they represent? I'm working on this for the 2-dimensional case, with the goal of being able to bump it up to 3-d or even generalize it to n-dimensions once I figure it out.

Also, another thing I'm mildly curious about. In my opinion, the tricylinder is much more cool and swag than the bicylinder because the 3 cylinders it comes from make full use of 3-dimensional space and thus we get a cool polyhedron from it (the bicylinder gives you something called a hosohedron). An infinite (filled-in) cylinder can be thought of as the Cartesian product of a disc with the real line, for example, for an infinite cylinder around some axis, you take a disc orthogonal to that axis and sweep it back and forth along the axis.

This proposes a generalization of the tricylinder: In n-dimensional space, take n copies of the Cartesian product of an (n-1)-ball with a line. Namely, for each axis from the canonical basis, take the unit (n-1)-ball sitting orthogonal to that axis and sweep it back and forth, getting a (filled-in) "hypercylinder" (don't know if this is the actual name for this). If we take the intersection of these hypercylinders, what's the n-dimensional polytope we get from the boundary of the intersection, that is, the graph we get from the boundary? (How to even define this boundary graph, that is, define what the vertices and edges are in a way that generalizes to n-dimensions is the first step).

For 2-dimensions, the 1-ball is just a closed interval, and the cylinders are just infinite strips, so the intersection is the filled-in unit square and the boundary is a square. The boundary of the Minkowski sum of 4 line segments, starting at the center of a square and ending at its vertices, is also a square. Similarly, for 3-dimensions as we saw we get a rombic dodecahedron, which is equivalent (as a graph) to the boundary of the Minkowski sum of 8 line segments going from the center of a cube to its vertices.

If this pattern continues, which I feel like it should, it'd give an equivalence for this question, namely, the n-polytope coming from the boundary of the intersection would be equivalent (graph-isomorphic) to the n-polytope coming from the boundary of the Minkowski sum of 2^n line segments, going to the vertices of the n-hypercube. (Note that we could just take 2^(n-1) line segments going to just the vertices of the top half of the hypercube to get an equivalent shape up to some translation and dilation, this is what the website I linked five paragraphs ago does.)

That's all for now. Will post an update on this if I find somethin!

#math #mathematics #mathblr #mathcore #rhodes math

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averycorvoidae · 2 years ago

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Resentment Dump

Haven't been able to write anything in a while at this point. It's beyond being frustrating.

I need to keep myself keep *trying* things though. I WANT to make something. I NEED to.

Everything I do just makes me want to put my arms in a blender though. For lack of anything else to do (or better to do...) I'm just gonna fully post chapter one of what I was writing

My outline for the story looking back was just... awful. Nothing actually interesting happens in any individual chapter. It was meant to add up to being more overwhelming as a whole as opposed to any individual "straw breaking the camel's back" moment. Between that and not understanding how people *interact,* chapter two became a swamp that couldn't let people grow, promoted strict inaction. Chapter three had the same issue. Really only the last 3 chapters do I have any drive to want to write. I guess I could make them into short stories, might be an easier angle to approach from.

Whatever. Below is my unedited first draft for my 2nd attempt at writing a book.

Since before I was born, the mayor’s house had been growing. Every month, when my village received our shipment of rations, the mayor kept the building materials. Every month, he used more materials than we ever thought he had, growing from all points across the desert. From the village in the center, the house nearly stretched around to meet itself, choking out any sight of the horizon. Even the dirty sun glued permanently to the desert floor has been erased from daily life. In a few years, I wouldn’t be able to do what I’m doing tonight, leave.

I’m not looking forward to leaving, but I can’t quite tell why. Living with your parents isn’t an enviable lifestyle. There’s no real work in the village, most people just kill time waiting for the next shipment of rations. Maybe it’s the romanticism in an open-ended life, where any choice made from the wealth of options would confidently display who I am. Maybe there’s just some security in the entombment, as the years go by, in the hot sands, the sky would slowly get darker and darker, the house cocooning the village entirely. I could just lay down in my house one day, blankets of desert heat tucking me in for a long sleep. I’d wait to be discovered by the first person to break through the barrier, a relic of an ancient life devoid of my personality and mistakes.

The first thing I need to do today is visit the maiden. The maiden of purity wasn’t a belief instilled in me from my parents or the village, but a saint I know to guide me well. The shrine I built lies inside a small room inside the mayor’s house. Her purifying aura prevents any of the mayor’s corrupting hands from rebuilding her room, or even attempting any reconstruction on that wing of the house. I’d like to imagine that she’s the entire reason the house hasn’t snaked back through the town it surrounds, but maybe the mayor remembers his life before construction.

From the corner of the town center, I walk in a line that crosses in front of Suzie’s door, and across the town I keep walking in a straight line. Even if I turn slightly, I’m on the path, I simply walk until I reach the wall of the mayor’s house. The wall is littered with windows, the only one that leads me deeper into the house is the only window that features right angles. Every other crevice into the house is made of misaligned rhombuses, trapezoids, and frustratingly, the occasional pentagon when the mayor misjudges his craft. The maiden wouldn’t appreciate me entering through any other window besides, simply out of respect for the square window’s purity in form. Lifting myself up, I bring my legs to rest on the windowsill. A quick glance inside the house didn’t reveal any inhabitants, so I threw myself into the house proper.

The rug I always land on moved again. The mayor constantly adjusts my corrections if he notices. The semi-circle rug would meet perfectly with the trident fanning of hallways that stretch forward from the window if he backed the edge of the rug against the window. Instead, the rug constantly gets moved halfway between the left and center hallways, the corner between the two cutting into and lifting the rug uncomfortably in the air. After I corrected the rug, I moved down the rightmost hallway, only a short walk until I reached my shrine.

The inside of the house, through the planning of its scatterbrained creator, is in a word: uneven. Smooth floors get bumpy, corners of ceilings rise and fall in complete disregard for their twin side. The most distressing change, however, is the temperature of the house. There is always noise in the house, a constant whirring of unseen air-conditioners pumping out stale air. Even this close to the window to the desert, the heat couldn’t pierce the settled cold air. The cold bit me and with it, I felt more confident in my last visit. Of the few I was brave enough to explore, this wing featured the most acceptable temperature. With its stillness, the maiden favored the cold, so long as it didn’t enforce brittleness.

The hallway straightened out into a square as I neared the door to the room, which was itself, nearly a perfect square. I put my hand o the freezing doorknob, and I felt my tongue swell, choking me. I’ve been worrying about my tongue, for months I’ve questioned my ability to control it. I’ve been talking, wishing for silence, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, and holding myself when I have things to say. The reaction is unquestionable, a corruption growing in my tongue trying to fight against the maiden’s purity. Corruption is a constant worry, but others fail to notice the perversion in the world around them. The house simply is, simply builds. They don’t notice anything wrong with its construction, anything wrong with me. For weeks, rings have formed around the edge of my vision. The deformative signs that I’ve started to lose myself to corruption.

I open the door and enter the room, it remained exactly as I left it. The likeness of the maiden painted on the wall, bright teal against the wall’s orange brick. Her angelic presence brightened what was very nearly a broom closet. The maiden eternally held arms aloft, wide enough to stretch onto the adjoining walls, enveloping me in her distant embrace. Underneath her chest was a table featuring small objects, what I came to collect before I left. Two effigies of the maiden stood on either end of the table. One effigy was carved out of simple wax, in the cold she would not melt, would not deform. The other effigy was carved in wood wrapped tightly in razor wire soaked in my dried blood. Between the two maidens was a moderately sized knife with a white handle and grey blade, a gift from my father years ago, it had a single edge, expertly sharpened. To honor the maiden was to have a relationship with pain. Purity was the goal with such worship, corruption and mistakes only being washed away with acts of penance and cleansing. I grabbed the knife and put it in my pocket. I only needed one effigy, the other would best serve protecting what it can of the village. The wax would quickly melt, so with a heavy breath, I took a tight hold of the maiden wrapped in wire. The cold air kept me alert as the metal dug through the top layers of my skin. I put the maiden into my baggy pants pocket, just large enough to hold her for the moment.

Beneath the mural’s arms was the only mirror I had regular access to. Positioning myself infront of the mirror, I looked close at my reflection. Starting at the extremities, everything looked normal. My feet and legs seemed as I remembered when I put my sandals on in the morning. While still lumpy and bulging in all the wrong places, my body didn’t seem unnaturally contorted underneath my clothes. My knees still peeked under my baggy pants, my chest and shoulders still the only unique bulges beneath my poncho. My hands I looked at both with the mirror and without, still small blocks at the end of even smaller arms. Stumpy fingers attached to crooked joints still moved properly, as pure as they’ve ever been. My face was still square and ugly, wide mouth, stumpy nose. My eyes seemed different, however. I moved closer to the mirror, inches away my nose touching its reflection. Around my eyes, the brow, the cheeks, the root of my nose, they all seemed puffy. I tried to furrow my brow in concentration but my reflection refused follow. My eyelids narrowed, I can feel the muscles tensing, but the expression remains the same in the reflection, clear evidence of impurity. I opened my mouth, peeled my lips away from my teeth. My tongue looked purple, veins bulging along the sides seemed to writhe on their own accord, evidence enough. I pulled the knife out from my pocket and looked back at myself in the mirror. My hand was shaking. I know what I had to do to keep pure. Maybe I was worried about moving? It would be hard to move to a new town without the ability to speak, eyes in bandages. I put the knife back in my pocket. When I was settled in the city, I’d cleanse myself from them and any other growths that grow in the meantime.

I had everything I needed from my shrine, when I was gone, if anyone found the maiden and my shrine, they had the start of what they needed to get started. The foreign tongue seemed to sulk between my teeth. I don’t know if the growths have thoughts or agendas, but after my quick examination it seemed to recede further back in my mouth. I took one last look at the room around me. With a heavy exhalation, I knew I had to go. I grabbed the doorhandle again, beginning to open the door.

A heavy breath echoed into my shrine. The mayor must be nearby, and he must have grown. I held the doorknob firmly as I pressed my ear against the door. A loud shuffling was present, but I couldn’t tell if it was coming or going, nor its direction from me. I eeked the door open and thrust the top of my head out. Nothing on the path to the window. I turned my body and head to the right, and saw a large hand gripping the wall from an unseen corner. My knees buckled in an attempt to reel be back into the shrine. The great arm dug its fingertips into the wall then flexed, dragging the rest of the great mass forward. More arms sprang out into the hallway, doing the same. Then one of his large, fragile legs kicked out, bringing forward an oversized shin, then knee, then thigh. Then the rest of the mayor shambled forward, draped largely in a patchwork black sheet, I couldn’t tell what innumerable other growths plagued him. He turned his frame towards me, the large bronze mask, depicting a disfigured man with a long beard, swept its gaze across the hallway. If the mayor saw me, he didn’t act like cared, instead continuing to drag himself down the hallway, many of his shorter hands carrying tools and building supplies. He struggled to move his great form down the hallway. Luckily, I managed to pull myself together, safe inside my shrine, I closed the door.

I pulled the effigy out from my pocket, clasped tightly between my hands. With blood running down my arms, I began to pray to the maiden. I prayed that the mayor would not sully this room with his corruption in my absence, that my village would remain pure, that my trip from the village would pass effortlessly, that I could live up to the purity that she promised. I moved to my knees and bowed my head. I closed my eyes, brow furrowed in concentration on appeasing the effigy I clutched. Soon, the pounding of the mayor’s movement penetrated the room. He was close, his breathing came next arrhythmically with the pounding. As he neared the door, the last two sounds came, the clattering of his tools banging together and the low groan that accompanied every breath he took. This close, the pounding shook the room, while his breathing merely vibrated anything not fastened down. The noises moved past the door, then slowly quieted themselves as he continued further along down the hallway. The mayor was always absent minded, so he frequently moved without the threat of turning back around. After the noise subsided further, I eeked the door open again, he was far enough down the hallway that I could safely follow. His backside was covered in the same sheet, long enough that it stretched as coat tales draped across the floor behind him. I walked towards the door, my legs were still shaking. The penetrating feeling that he would turn around at any time and chase me down still held me. Logic knew that I was safe however, so I forced my legs forward step by step.

While I loathe the monster he’s become, I pity the man he used to be. Older than my parents, the same man has traveled and expanded the walls of his house. I can’t tell if he’s in a constant pain with his many growths or simply can’t feel pain anymore. Then I thought about his actions, how could a being like him still possess human thoughts? He moved with a singular, obsessive purpose down the halls of his house, always adding, expanding. Some structures within couldn’t safely shelter life, the former leader of our village couldn’t even speak with his people anymore, or wouldn’t. It didn’t matter, he couldn’t be delivered to purity. Cutting off his cancer, he’s been alive for longer than any person could naturally live. Maybe, like my tongue has been, his body runs without his mind, and he’s left only to hope for death, the only blessing he could hope for.

The mayor turned down another of the trident-hallways, allowing me access back to the window. He moved the rug out of position again. I put the effigy of the maiden back into my pocket. Through the callouses and scars, my hands have been harder to get to bleed, so I didn’t even feel light-headed after my walk. I positioned the rug correctly one last time, hoping that the mayor would never turn back down these halls. Grabbing onto the frame of the window, I hoisted myself back onto the windowsill and threw myself back over into the sands. The grains freely entered the wounds in my hands as I caught myself. I needed to wash myself quickly as to prevent infection. I quickly wiped what I could on the poncho before dashing back to my home. Securing my valuables in my pockets with my hands as I ran, I quickly made it back home. Near the concrete building, the door was already open, I ran to the bathroom and began vigorously washing my hands. Clumps of bloody sand dripped off my hand alongside the steady trickle of my diluted blood. A thorough use of soap left my hands sand and grime-free. With the rinse over, I grabbed the last of the towels I left out for this very day. Drying my hands quickly turned into wrapping my palms with the clean towels. I made a fist with my hands, I could still feel everything down to my fingers and the towels were secure for the rest of the day.

I walked out of the bathroom, greeted by my still open suitcase. I was nearly done packing up, I just needed to secure what I took from the shrine. As they sat on my bed alongside the suitcase, I looked across the variety of sand-colored clothes that made up my wardrobe. I didn’t have room for everything, but with the variety of plain single-colored clothes, I wasn’t losing much. Grabbing the knife out of my pocket, I made a small opening down the side of my suitcase, before forcing my knife to sink deep in the clothes. The effigy already had a special spot in the suitcase, right on top. Layered over a clothes-less divot was a thick rag stained to a dark brown from years of soaking up blood. I placed the effigy in the center of the divot before swaddling it with the loose ends of the towel. Packed neatly, the suitcase closed neatly, the zipper unfettered.

I didn’t know what time everyone was supposed to leave, but I figured people were probably waiting on me. I still wanted to take one last look around town before I left. I grabbed the suitcase and put its wheels on the floor. I turned around and remembered the open door, winds hardly blew sand in, but I shouldn’t leave it open. I paced towards the door and grabbed the handle. Then I let go of the handle and paced back. Back and forth I walked before I caught myself almost running. Grabbing the handle, I closed the door.

I can’t remember the last time I was in my room without the wind’s rustling companionship. Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t place it. I looked at my hand, it looked and felt like a glove, I focused on trying to will my hand into a fist, slowly. Uncorrupted, my hand followed my orders. Moving my hand to my chest, I felt a fierce pounding, I was afraid of the corruption; but my hand was fine, I had no reason to suspect it. I moved towards my bad while my eyes darted around, each step stretched into a leg inspection, with every move of my arm, I looked for any abnormalities. Finally at my bed, I laid into it. I closed my eyes and furrowed felt my brow naturally furrowing. I sat with myself for a moment as a mild headache crept across my forehead.

My mind was racing faster than the headache crept. Without moving, I focused on each part of my body, the senses seemed to respond reliably: arm, arm, leg leg, hand, hand, foot, foot. The headache started to stretch back towards the temples. I tucked my arms into my torso, legs up to my chest, ending on my side. I checked earlier, and I couldn’t see anything, there was no reason for me to feel this sickening sense of betrayal. I thought of the effigy in the bag, back to the shrine, the mirror. My tongue felt engorged, pressing hard into the top of my mouth. My eyes… felt normal. My brow relaxed, the headache began to subside. My eyes lied to me, made me paranoid. I fed it. I gathered myself and stood back up. I looked at myself again, all seemed normal, just a momentary lens of corruption. Insidious, but it won’t creep on me again.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked to the far side of the room. I opened my door, and walked down the hallway of bedrooms and bathrooms. With a heavy sigh masked by the rolling wheels of my suitcase, I walked into the front end of my house. While we did little hosing, the front of the house was a singular spacious room meant to host guests. A small block to my immediate left held a kitchen, to my right, a dining table surrounded by eight stools. Ahead of me was a large central fireplace, beyond that ten or so feet of open flooring with the occasional rug, chair, or pillow, all backed by a large wall. Just as I feared, what were my parents still lingered in this open area.

The corruption is inherently insidious, a cancer that mutates by making you guess if it’s even there until everything becomes unrecognizable. At some point, the corruption makes a person realize that they don’t know what’s in front of them, not anymore. Maybe they’ve been watching it for years, subtle signs of change get erased until you’re looking at a monster.

I noticed my parents changing far too late for me to do anything. The first time I couldn’t ignore it was when they first heard of the people leaving, they didn’t even know I was interested. My dad’s face shaped itself beyond his typical anger, the wrinkles around his mouth folded harshly, the back of his mouth receded into a black void, his teeth removed from all visibility. His brow arched downward into a harsh V while his nose up to fight the downward pressure. The end result was a haunting mask of a grimace. I remember looking at my mother, she seemed fine at the time, but I don’t think I’ll forget how he changed.

Over the passing months, as people signed onto the trip, my dad changed more and more, and so did my mother. They both shared the same exaggerated expressions. I was always good enough at interpreting their emotions, but now it was worryingly easy. Anger, confusion, and disgust were the most common expressions I noticed from my dad. My mom on the other hand frequented sorrow, a number of pensive expressions, and a singular, truly blank expression that I had trouble discerning, there just didn’t seem to be anyone there. Their bodies, at first, seemed to degrade, becoming baggier and looser. Their height, both normally taller than me, began to slouch before fully degrading, my eyeline either matching, or rising slightly above theirs. The most horrible thing about these changes wasn’t how hollow they seemed, but precisely the opposite. There was a core humanoid figure inside all the excess skin, walking around like a kid in large pajamas. Sometimes while walking, their footsteps would get caught on the skin-suits instead each step rolling the orientation around while the figure on the inside didn’t seem to mind. They made noises like my parents, sometimes, but it always sounded more like catchphrases. The longer a conversation would go on, the more one would hear repeated words. I don’t think my parents can be saved anymore, any cleansing would be purposeless. I’ve found its best to hide from the corruption, treating it as normal – so life went on.

When I moved with my suitcase into the open room, I found that the figure meant to represent my mother was standing in the kitchen while “father” sat nearby with a chair pulled from the dining table. Both craned their necks over to look at me as I entered the room, but the rest of their bodies remained motionless. I kept walking through the room, keeping steady eye contact with “father.” When I passed halfway through the room, “father” groaned over the rumbling wheels.

Leaving?

Yeah.

He kept following with his eyes. I turned to “mother,” who followed my movements as closely as the other.

Goodbye…

Mm, yep.

Neither of their bodies moved to intercept me. They weren’t looking for to hug me goodbye or even get close. The spirits of my parents hung their words in the air. Corrupted or not, it would be the last time I would see my parents. As callous as a part of me feels, I’ve long since mourned them at this point. The only reason I’ve slowed my pace was another excuse to stop me from leaving. Nothing real keeps me here. My parents were gone, replaced. My shrine grows ever more ineffectual against the ever-growing house. Before too long, I’d be trapped by the house, forced to navigate its labyrinth if I ever wanted to leave. There was no work, and most everyone I knew was leaving.

The thinking stopped me in my tracks. My eyes wandered to some aimless corner of the kitchen. I refocused on “mother” then “father,” neither moved amid my lapse in concentration. I began moving again, keeping my eyes locking with “father.” Neither creature made any more noise as I left my home, the rumble of the wheels breaking an otherwise eerie silence. I grabbed the handle of the door and took one last look at each of them. A pit of guilt formed my stomach as I opened the door, a subtle wind blowing particles of sand past my feet. I took a step outside and quickly closed the door behind me.

Whatever stopped my tracks before still held me, still slowing my footsteps. I don’t know why I walked through the house, I’ve made my peace, I’ve had months to do it. I’m condemning my parents to their eventual tomb. Yet, I know they can’t be saved; they’re too far gone. It’s a sad situation, but I need to keep moving. Maybe the corruption has gone farther into my mind than I thought, can’t say. I just need to keep moving. People are waiting for me.

Feeling freed from whatever held my feet, I found my eyes lazily scanning the rest of the village. A few similar, large buildings erected in a large circle around a wide raised platform featuring a fountain. Between the houses were calm gardens of sand. Most of the wind avoided the village, breaking on a few tall buildings across the fountain from my facing. Regardless of calm winds, the many cracks in the buildings constantly trickled sand like blood from cracking, dry skin.

I began to walk across the sands towards the fountain. Around the other side I would find the sled that would carry me away from the village. I had to carry my suitcase at this point, the lack of proper walkways preventing me from simply rolling it with its wheels. As I passed the other houses, I realized I didn’t have the same connection to the rest of the village as I did my shrine or home. I knew that a few of these houses stood empty, their residences now vacant. The village wasn’t a particularly close-knit community. I knew my neighbors, and they knew me, but neither of us got involved in the others’ business. I assume everyone saw the dire situation of the village, but most chose to remain.

In total there were only six people leaving the village. Two couples, another woman, and myself. I was surprised that Dominic and Julie were leaving. I was much more surprised that Dominic first started talking about leaving. Dominic constantly walked around town, talking to people, moving things. Julie, I don’t know much about, she mainly kept to herself inside their home. Robin and Terry were hardly seen apart from one another. In my own natural reclusiveness, I also don’t know much about apart from seeing them by the fountain regularly. Aside from myself, the only person leaving by themselves was Asa. I’ve seen Asa around a lot more than the others, but I still didn’t know what she did with her time. Unlike the others, I’ve spoken to Asa on a few occasions; she’s nice to me, but I always prefer my own company.

Rounding side of the fountain, I saw the sled that was going to take us away from the village. Sleds are essentially a modestly sized platform atop the bottom half of an edged dome that cuts through the sand. Sleds were generally rare to see, hardly anyone ever moved long distances to or from the village. This sled had a fixed ramp up the back, and railings across the front and sides. In the middle of the platform was a small hut that provided cover from the sun on longer journeys.

Most everyone was standing on the platform, but Dominic stood away from the sled, waiting for me. He quickly spotted me after I passed the edge. Dominic was the tallest out of everyone, but the distance made him look stocky. His well-maintained body didn’t seem as weathered as a life spent trudging through sands would bring. His shaved head, from the distance, only held a black visor casting a shadow downward on his face; in reality, I knew that his sunken eyes allowed his brow to shade the rest of his perpetually impassive face. Instead of moving towards me, he stood there with his hands on his hips as I continued to move towards the sled, carrying my suitcase. After a few minutes of waddling, I was within shouting distance, but he just kept staring at me. Only when I got close enough to see the sweat run down his furrowed brow did he talk to me.

Alright, you’re the last one, just give your bag to Terry, he’ll fasten it down.

Sorry abo…

It’s fine. I’m sure you wanted to say your goodbyes.

Yeah…

Without another word, Dominic turned to the sled and started walking. Finally, having noticed me approach, Terry half-heartedly rushed down to grab my suitcase. With his thin frame, Terry moved like he was twice as heavy. With his oversized pants and shirt, it was hard to tell where his long limbs ended, and his torso began. His face was rather angular, with a prominent nose walling two small eyes from each other. As he reached me, Terry forced an unconvincing smile onto his face before thrusting his arms out towards my bag. My arms were already weak from carrying it this far across the sands, so I merely placed it on the ground where Terry could best grab it.

Sorry.

Yeah, no problem.

Terry’s tone kept the bright aspect he wanted to show, but his smile was gone as soon as my bag was back off the ground. Without another word, he began trudging back to the sled. The people back on the sled had their attentions fixed on us. Wanting to avoid their gaze, I shadowed behind Terry, largely blocked by his larger figure.

As I reached the sled, a light humming could already be heard, the engine of the great machine standing by. Terry stepped up to the ramp with a singular exaggerated movement before continuing forward. I approached the ramp behind Terry, I would need to pull myself up. I looked up at the two people on the platform that were talking to Terry earlier, Robin and Asa, they were looking back at me. My cheeks got warm, and I pretended to drop something underneath the ramp. I ducked underneath ramp and waved my hand across the sand to burn the time before I could socially re-emerge. My hand felt a bump, and I reflexively grabbed and pulled. It didn’t take much force, but I suddenly found myself holding onto a short section of pipe, broken at both ends, slightly longer than my forearm. With a prize in my hand, I popped my head back over, seeing the two talking to one another again.

Supporting myself with my arms, I put my left knee on top of the ramp before pulling the rest of my body onboard. I’m sure the clatter of the pipe hitting the metal ramp drew looks from the two women, but I forced myself not to look over at them. I walked forward until I found myself on the platform, the hut blocking the two women from seeing me. I placed the pipe on the floor next to the hut. Terry was getting finished with tying my bag alongside the guard-rails around the platform, finishing the row of people’s strapped-down luggage. From where I stood, I could see through a plate of glass into the hut. Inside, a woman sat across a table from Dominic, assuredly Julie. In contrast with her heavy dress, Julie was rather petite in most regards. Small shallow eyes hovered above a small button of a nose that rested above a small nearly lipless mouth. Her fine hair was pulled back into a ponytail that exaggerated her weak movements. She noticed me glance at her and offered a weak smile in my direction before turning back to Dominic.

I looked at the desert around the sled, it seemed so small. The cavernous house that encompassed us and the village blocked any real sight into the world beyond aside from a still-wide opening to the front of the sled whose distance was difficult to judge. Behind, the village didn’t seem real, houses that dotted the land pointlessly. Nobody stood by to see us off, aside from the haunting feeling that there used to be people here. The low hum of the sled grew to a large rumble before returning to a hum, albeit louder and deeper than the first. The sled took off, after a brief jerk backwards, it felt like I was standing on a stationary platform again.

Terry, Robin, and Asa were approaching me. Asa wore a handmade cloak, essentially a poncho like mine, but given a hood and lengthened to reach her feet. A custom seam down the middle provided an opening for her hands to gesture when she talked. Asa’s did its best to fight an inherent sorrow; her eyes carried heavy bags, and her mouth strained against its disposition towards frowning. Robin was hanging off Terry like her own short poncho, the bottom edge of which failed to reach her navel. A short pair of pants the only other coverage for her otherwise thin body. Robin seemed intoxicated on Terry’s shoulders, a wide grin supported a heavy nose and two eyes that seemed ready to close at any time.

I hate this, they’re kind, or pretend to be. They won’t talk to me for long, walk back to their spot from before, maybe go inside. It doesn’t matter, I’ll forget what they’ll say, what I’ll ask. I don’t get to ask, really. The tongue in my mouth feels engorged again, forcing lips to smile and jaw to open. I feel air rush out my throat, I’m making noise. None of the three react to what I’m saying, it’s comprehensible, as always, but not me. I try to use my eyes to signal to someone, to break the trance, Terry and Robin are too focused on each other to notice. Asa seems to be avoiding eye contact entirely, her eyes moving from fixture to fixture around her. There’s nothing left to do, I just stand here and wait.

#garbage #short story #very dissapointed #frustation

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