#also not him buying that Italian jacket and not even two weeks later also buying the official EM italia retro jacket 🤣 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bqstqnbruin · 3 years

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Always be my plus one - part 3

Ok, look, it's 4 am, there are going to be typos, and we're just going to have to deal with it. I also tried to find a gif that was Tyson and Cale but I couldn't find one in the gif insert thing on here so I just went with this one (it feels weird to change it up but like, oops)

I make no promises that you aren't going to be mad at me for this part so have fun !

This is shorter than the last part, coming in at around 5k words.

The only warnings I have here are implied sex.

Translations for the Italian in here: "tu sei uno stronzo" - you're an ass(hole)

stronzino - little asshole

Also want to thank @justjosty @zinka8 @hockeylvr59 @hockeywocs anons and I'm sure I'm forgetting people for helping me write this part but ily all I'm just dumb and tired

Read the previous part here!

Series masterlist

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Valentine’s Day

The Feast Day of St. Valentine is traditionally celebrated in the Western Catholic Church on February 14, to honor the patron saint of love. Though not traditionally celebrated as a Catholic holiday, millions of people celebrate the day of love with those who mean the most to them. While pessimists of the day say it’s a ‘holiday made up by greeting card companies,’ approximately 190 million Valentine’s Day cards are sent in the United States alone, not including cards given by school children to their classmates. Couples enjoy the holiday with a romantic night out, presents, flowers, chocolates, etc., while those who don’t have someone or don’t care do whatever they want without the pressure of living up to a holiday that doesn’t mean very much in the grand scheme of things.

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February 12, 2022

“Where are you going tonight?” Matthew’s voice came through his younger sister’s phone. He had called early in the week to see if Anne could babysit Harper so he and Stephanie could do something for Valentine’s Day without having to shell out an extravagant amount of money on a sitter.

“I’m, uh,” Anne hesitates, “going out with Tyson. Sorry.” She hears Matthew let out a sigh on the other end. “Hey, stronzo, why don’t you ask Lucy? Her and Jason never do anything on Valentine’s Day.”

Matthew starts talking about how the last time he asked Lucy last minute to watch his daughter, despite their girls being best friends, she ended up going on a fifteen-minute rant. While Anne gets her heels on, staring at herself in the mirror and admiring the floor-length, red dress she had on the slit going up the side for no one but herself, Matthew continues to tell her about how his twin goes on and on about needing a schedule at all times, how she can’t just drop everything in a moment’s notice because he wants to do something with his wife.

“Hey, Matthew,” she cuts him off, trying to shrug her coat on, “Why didn’t you ask Lucy or Sebby after I said no earlier this week?”

“Because I didn’t think you actually had plans.”

“Again, tu sei uno stronzo.”

“I am not an ass!” he detests.

“Fine, you’re a stronzino, happy?” Anne hears him stammer again, not letting him get a word in, “I have to go, I’ll talk to you later, ok? Ask Ma, Dad’s off in Florida right now so she would probably love to have Harper for the night.”

He lets out another sigh, Stephanie’s voice coming through in the background despite Anne’s inability to understand what she was saying. “Fine. Have fun with Tyson. I don’t need another niece or nephew around Halloween, though, ok?”

“Don’t be gross,” she says, hanging up and finally heading out the door.

Her cousin Adriana was getting married to her soon-to-be wife, Izzy. Her family had no idea that she was the only one who still talked to them, her mother having a fight with her brother after their parents died when Anne and her siblings were younger and vowing to never talk to him again. So far, the stubbornness that seems to run through her mom’s blood going strong since it had been over a decade since she had last seen her brother. Anne was invited to Uncle Frankie’s daughter’s wedding, but no one else in her family.

Adriana and Izzy had this Valentine’s Day-themed wedding, everyone asked to wear red or pink in theme with the holiday, Anne not doubting that there would be paper hearts and cut-out cupids as the decor. The wedding gift she bought them, one of the first things she found on their registry that Anne could afford, was shipped to the apartment they already shared two weeks ago, Anne just needing to remember the card.

She was fully prepared to just sit in the corner with a bunch of people she didn’t know and watch as her cousin got married to the love of her life. Anne wasn’t sure that that side of her family would recognize her after how many years, guaranteeing her to spend her time on the sideline.

Anne slips into the back of the church, seeing no one she knew or recognized to even go up to and sit with them. Everyone was dressed in red, pink, and black. A bit too much for her own taste, but at least she looked good in red and would have worn the color anyway. ‘Note to self, no themed weddings,’ Anne thinks, not particularly fond of the lack of color or real choice that everyone had in figuring out what to wear.

A blonde boy in a red suit walks by her, too far past her to get a good look at him. There was something about him that caught her attention. Anne knew that walk, but she had no idea where she knew it from. It didn’t stop her from admiring him from afar, though, the short blonde hair and the obviously fit physique under the suit captivated her for whatever reason, leaving her practically unable to pay attention to the ceremony in front of her. Not that she cared, at this point she was just there to enjoy the free food she knew would be good at the reception later.

Anne sat at the table against the wall, her cousin not bothering to make a seating chart and just leaving it up to the guests to sit where they pleased. That meant she didn’t have to talk to anyone she didn’t want to, being virtually left alone at a wedding where she knew no one.

“Anne?” a familiar voice snaps her out of the trance she fell into watching Ana’s sister and brother-in-law, Catie and Danny dancing with their two daughters, remembering seeing their pictures on Facebook when they were born, not realizing how much they had grown.

She turns to the man in the red suit who had her attention throughout the ceremony. “Cale?” she smiles at him, not sure how the two had missed they would be at the same wedding this weekend. Since New Year's Eve, the two of them had been texting, calling, FaceTiming, they had hung out, spent the night with each other, Cale insisting he buy her dinner at least once a week. The only reason they weren’t dating each other was because neither of them had said they were. They both said they were busy this weekend, but who would have thought they would end up at the same place. “What are you doing here?”

“Izzy’s brother and I grew up playing hockey together. I grew up with her. What are you doing?” he asks her, taking the seat next to her.

“Ana’s my cousin. Her dad is my mom’s older brother.”

Cale smiles at her, Anne’s heart racing at the sight of it. “So I get to meet your family?”

Anne shakes her head. “I’m the only one here,” she tells him, explaining the family drama that went on between Frankie and Teresa.

Cale looks down at his lap, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his suit jacket. The red bowtie, red pants, red jacket even against the black shirt were so much Anne couldn’t tell if his cheeks were red because of the reflection of his clothes or for another reason. “Tyson’s met your family, hasn’t he?”

She nods, taking his hand in hers. “I told you, Tyson and I are just friends. I needed someone to come with me to a family thing, so he came with me.” Cale nods, not entirely sure that something wasn’t up with her and Tyson. Something was off, there was something he was sure Anne was leaving out, but he wasn’t sure. “Hey, I’ve seen Tyson, what, three times since New Year's? All of them when I was with you. I like you, Cale.”

Cale leans over for a kiss, his hand grazing Anne’s thigh, sending a shiver down her spine. “How about we dance like we did on New Year's?” he asks, standing from the seat, shrugging off the red jacket before he extended his hand out to her.

She rolls her eyes, getting up with him anyway. “I told you then, too, that I don’t like dancing.”

“And yet,” he says, pulling her close, his hand finding the small of her back while he presses his forehead against hers, gazing into her eyes, “you danced with me all night then, and you got up to dance with me tonight.”

Anne laughs, knowing he was right, burying her face in his shoulder, swearing she heard some camera’s clicking, probably the wedding photographer hanging around somewhere and taking pictures of the guests dancing.

“I know I have to say this about the brides when they come in,” Cale whispers in her ear, “but you are the most beautiful girl here.”

Anne could feel herself blushing, her mind flashing back to New Year’s Eve when Tyson told her she looked beautiful. He seemed so genuine saying it, Anne thinking back and not sure if he meant it or was actually pretending. But with Cale, she knew. Cale meant it. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she tells him, ghosting his lips before kissing him.

Being with Cale felt fine. Not perfect, but fine. It was right, but not correct, and Anne couldn’t figure out why.

Everyone starts clearing off the dance floor, the bridal party getting ready to come in. Cale takes Anne’s hand and leads her back to the table where he left his jacket, some other people finding their home base at the same table. Cale knew one of the men at the table, probably from their little hockey group that involved Izzy’s brother. The bridesmaids and bridesmen, as the DJ put it, started coming in, Cale leaning back with his arm slung around the back of Anne’s chair. She leaned back into him, his fingertips dancing up and down her arm as they watched everyone come in.

They watched Ana and Izzy dance their first one as wives, Anne’s stomach starting to make noise as they waited for the food to come.

Cale leans over, nervous about what he was about to whisper in her ear. “Are you hungry for food or maybe something more?”

Anne felt her entire body go numb at his words. They had been seeing each other for a month and a half already, so was what he was insinuating really that strange of an idea? “That depends.”

“On?” he asks, nibbling on her ear before kissing the skin right behind it, losing any sense of care over who at their table was potentially watching.

“On how long you think we need to wait before we can slip out without it being rude?”

Cale inhaled sharply, wishing he could say right now. “At least until they cut the cake. Unless,” he says, his hand moving up her thigh, slowly in case she decided she wanted it to stop, “Unless you wanted to try to find somewhere to sneak away to now.”

“Not for our first time,” she tells him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “And not with my family around,” she laughs.

“I’m fine with that,” he tells her, kissing her. “Your place or mine, though?”

“Well, I drove myself here.”

“And I got a ride.”

Anne smiles, crossing her legs in hopes that whatever she felt would be stifled by that simple action. “So it looks like it’s going to be mine.”

They spent the rest of the night waiting for the moment the cake was cut so they could leave as planned, Cale’s hand never leaving her leg unless he really needed both hands to do something.

Anne could feel her heart racing as she watched Ana and Izzy smash their cake in each other’s face, Anne looking over to Cale and smiling. “You wanna go?” she asks, her keys already out of her bag and in her hand.

Cale drags her out without saying a word, Anne leading him to her car. He walks over to the driver’s side, his arms wrapped around her waist with her back pressed against her car. “You’re sure about this?” he asks her, his eyes flicking between hers and her lips.

“Yeah,” she says, kissing him before he opens the door for her. She couldn’t wait to get home, sure she broke a few traffic laws as she sped back to her apartment with Cale sitting next to her in the passenger seat, his leg shaking the entire time.

They got to the elevator, Cale leaning against her against the wall with his lips pressed against hers, Anne’s hands already working to unbutton his shirt. Cale’s kisses trailed down her jaw to her collarbone, his grip tightening on her waist.

Anne pulled away to lead him down the hallway, practically running, partially due to anticipation for what they were about to do, and because Anne could feel a breeze on her back, indicating that Cale had already unzipped her dress. That, coupled with the fact that Cale’s shirt was already open, his jacket in his free hand, Anne had no desire for any of her neighbors to be given the chance to see her and however Cale was to her already getting naked before closing the door.

As soon as she unlocked her door, Cale had her turned back around, kicking the door closed as he carried her to her bedroom, Anne able to feel everything about him against her body. Cale laid her down on her bed, his lips never leaving hers as he positioned himself over her, sliding her dress off while she did the same with his shirt. Anne’s breath hitched at the sight of him, his body perfect while he stared her down, the first time she saw the typically innocent boy she had been seeing with a mischievous grin covering his face, his eyes darkening at the thought of doing what they had both been wanting to do all night.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks one more time.

Anne nods, taking his face in her hands. “Yes, Cale. I’m sure.”

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February 13, 2022

Anne woke up the next morning, the events of the night before rushing back despite finding the space he had occupied in her bed empty. Her dress was on the floor, Cale’s red bowtie somehow having ended up on her night stand. Maybe he left it there as an excuse to see her again, making a mental note to put it in the living room so she would remember it the next time she saw him.

He had slipped out at some point that morning, Anne playing the voicemail that he left her while she slipped on a t-shirt to cover herself. “Hey, Anne. Sorry, I couldn’t stay, but morning skate was calling. I,” she hears him sigh, knowing he had a stupid grin on his face for whatever it was he was about to say, “I can’t wait to have another night like last night with you.”

It was her turn to have the stupid smile on her face as Cale continues, “Um, anyway, I’ve got something going on with JT and some of the other guys tomorrow for Valentine’s Day, a, uh, charity thing? I think? So would you be free this weekend for a proper date for the holiday? You know, not as crowded, not as much pressure, ideally the same outcome, if you’ll allow it? Oh, hey Tyson,” she hears him say, figuring that he was calling her on the way into the rink despite her being unable to hear Tyson. “Yeah, I’m planning Valentine’s Day with Anne. No, not tomorrow night, this weekend. Uh, Anne, I’ve gotta go, but let me know about, say, Friday night? Alright, talk to you later. Bye.”

Valentine’s Day date with Cale? Part two, more like, but still. Anne liked the sound of that.

“So, uh,” Tyson starts, already dreading what he was about to hear from his teammate given what he had heard him say into his phone. “You and Anne?”

“Yeah,” Cale breathes out, chuckling at the thought of what happened last night. “We, um,” Cale couldn’t even get a full sentence out, acting like a child who just got the toy he had been begging his parents for on Christmas morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he was that happy. “We spent the night together last night. I left from her place this morning.”

More of their teammates were filtering into the locker room, looking at Cale’s face turn bright red while Tyson stood there with him looking like he just about wanted to die. “Ok, but did you spend the night, or spend the night?” Ryan asks.

Cale started to stammer out nonsense, not really wanting to divulge the private details of his and Anne’s night despite the guys teasing him and congratulating him for what he wasn’t saying.

“Guys, keep it civil. Anne wouldn’t want us talking about any of this,” Tyson pipes in, Cale letting out a sigh of relief as the guys disperse to get ready for morning skate.

“Thanks,” Cale tells him, going off on his own to get his gear on.

JT appears by Tyson’s side, a stupid smirk on his face. “Would Anne not want us talking about anything, or would you not want us talking about anything?”

“Well, Anne definitely wouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on, we both know Cale would never.”

“Doesn’t mean I want him to have the chance.”

“You’re treading in deep water, dude,” JT sighs.

Tyson looks at him, hating that he knew what he meant. He had barely seen Anne, despite her brother’s texts from the night before asking if Anne really couldn’t watch Harper because of the two of them going out, Tyson going along with the lie just in case. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“It seems like you don’t know what you want from Anne, either,” JT shrugs. “But Cale does, and he got it.”

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February 14, 2022

12 hour shifts were the only shifts Anne knew. And they were the shifts that Anne detested the most. She was fine the first ten hours, but the last two always seemed to suck more than anything, leaving her exhausted for the rest of the day, into the night, depending on when she got home in the first place.

All she wanted to do was order dinner from the Thai place down the street, having it delivered despite her really not needing to since it was within walking distance, plop herself on her couch and watch whatever reality TV Lucy had texted her that she thought Anne would like. Anne knew she would turn it off after a single episode and switch to Food Network, but at least she could tell her sister she tried.

Anne walks to her apartment, dragging her feet to her door when she sees someone sitting on the ground, his head down looking at his phone. “Tyson?”

He gets up, grabbing the two bags he had with him as the smell of food filled her nose. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my fake girlfriend,” he says, raising the bags while Anne opens the door to let him in.

“I’m confused,” she tells him as he sets everything down.

“Well, Matthew called me on Saturday asking if the two of us were sure we couldn’t watch his daughter, and I figured he might as well have some sort of photographic evidence as proof of us spending Valentine’s Day together,” Tyson explains. “So, I figured I’d go all out: flowers, dinner, and a present. You know, really convince them that we’re together.”

Anne stares at him for a second, not sure why her heart was racing at the thought of him going out of his way to keep up this facade with her family. “I don’t think I like that you and Matthew are so ‘buddy-buddy.’ Or that fact that he didn’t believe me the first two times I told him I was busy on Saturday night. And I thought that you guys had a charity thing tonight?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Tyson asks, handing her the container of food as she joined him on the couch, the Thai food she was planning on ordering right in front of her. “We have a groupchat. Yeah, it’s me, Sebby, Lucy, and Matthew.”

Anne scoffs, rolling her eyes at his failed attempt at a joke. “And let me guess: you gossip about me the entire time.”

“Actually,” he says, his mouth full of food, “you never come up. They think of me as the fourth sibling. The name Anne means nothing.”

Anne laughs, Tyson admiring the way her eyes closed as her smile grew. God, he wished he had gotten to her before Cale did. Why did he have to leave her alone at all on New Year’s Eve? If he were by her side the entire night like he had wanted to be, then he wouldn’t have to pretend to be her boyfriend, he could actually be getting somewhere with her.

“Hm,” Anne hums, swallowing her mouthful of food. “You said flowers and a present. When do I get those?”

“You can get them now on the condition that I can take a video to send to your siblings,” he offers, pulling out his phone and pushing the bag with the flowers and gift behind him. Anne rolls her eyes, smiling and nodding while he starts the video. He hands her the card first. “Read it.”

Anne pulls it out of the envelope, glitter getting everywhere and making her cringe, knowing that it would be impossible to get off her scrubs later on. It was covered with roses and hearts, bringing her right back to the wedding that weekend. “No one has ever made me feel like this. To the woman I love: Happy Valentine’s Day,” Anne reads, feeling a lump forming in her throat. The card was so corny, a little too corny for her taste, but coming from Tyson, she didn’t know why she loved it. She shakes her head, laughing at Tyson. “I love you, too,” she lies.

Tyson swallows hard at her words, wishing she meant them, pulling out the flowers from the bag and handing them to her. She looks down at the flowers, trying to figure out what they are before looking up at him. “Queen Anne’s Lace?”

“Queen Anne’s Lace for my Queen, Anne,” he tells her, cringing at his own words.

Anne giggles, placing them in her lap. “And my favorite flowers, anyway. Thank you, Tyson.”

“Wait, I have one more thing,” he says, hoping that the camera wasn’t shaking too much while he reached for the gift he bought her.

He hands it to her, a small red box wrapped with a gold bow. She unties it carefully, opening the box and gasping at the sight of it. A golden necklace with a white enamel heart as the charm, a golden pattern outlining the heart. “Tyson, it’s,” she starts, unable to find the words, “it’s beautiful.”

He stops the recording, figuring he had enough to hit send to his ‘girlfriend's' siblings. “Let me put it on you,” he says, Anne turning around and moving her hair out of the way. “I thought you would like it.”

Anne studies his face, the smile plastered on it despite her knowing that he didn’t mean it. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, grabbing his food off the table and staring at it now in his lap. “It was fun. I’ve never had a girlfriend who I could buy presents like this for. I mean, I still don’t, but I have you.”

“Oh, come on. You, Tyson Jost, have never had a girlfriend? Look at you,” she says, praying that she was careful with the words she chose. “You’re gorgeous, you’re sweet, you’re funny, you get along with everyone you meet.”

Tyson hated hearing Anne go on about him, knowing that she was just saying it as a friend instead of something more. He scoffs, trying to save face from whatever pain or other emotion he was feeling. “Come on,” he says, not believing her anyway.

“I’m serious!” she insists, reaching up and starting to fidget with her new necklace. “Any girl would be lucky to have you as her boyfriend. I’m lucky to even have you as a fake boyfriend.”

Tyson nods, turning his body to face the TV instead of Anne. “So what are we watching?” he asks, changing the subject and putting his feet up on the table, Anne doing the same.

“Whatever’s on Food Network?” she suggests, holding the remote in the air pointed at the TV.

The two of them settle in, Tyson not paying attention to the show she had turned on. “Hey, what’s that?” Tyson asks, racing over to the red fabric that was on Anne’s coffee table.

“Oh,” Anne blushes, taking it from Tyson. “This is Cale’s. He, um, let it the other night,” she explains, Tyson watching her turn his teammates bowtie over in her hands.

“So you and Cale are doing pretty well?” he asks. Anne looks at him, not sure if she really wanted to tell him about it. “Come on, we’re friends. You can talk to me about anything.”

“I mean,” she says, putting down the bowtie on the table, not taking her eyes off of it. “We’re together? I think?” Tyson already hated that he even offered to listen to her talk about her and his teammate. “I like him. A lot. And I know he likes me, but,” Anne lets out a sigh, not sure where to even take her sentence.

“But, what?” Tyson asks.

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head, looking confused. “Everything is great, but it’s, I,” she stammers. “Something is off, and I can’t figure out what.”

Tyson stares at her for a second, trying to figure out what to say. “It’s probably just that it’s new,” he shrugs. “Everything seems weird when you’re still figuring it out. You and Cale will be ok,” he tells her, hating hearing those words come out of his mouth.

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February 19, 2022

Anne stared at herself in the mirror, the black turtleneck she borrowed from her sister coupled with a beige skirt and black tights on her as she got ready for her date with Cale. He was bound to show up any minute, promising each other they weren’t going to do gifts due to a general lack of time on both ends. She didn’t believe that he wasn’t going to get her a gift, however, sneaking out to the bakery down the street and buying some pastries that the two of them would like, giving them an excuse to both show up back at her apartment. And if he didn’t give her a gift, then she got the pastries all to herself.

If not, she could share them with Tyson, who had been showing up at her place or asking her to go to his place any free chance they both had.

She heard Cale knocking at her door, Anne rushing as fast as she could in her heels to answer. Cale was standing there, a black crewneck similar to her own turtleneck, paired with dark jeans, black boots, and a grey coat. Cale kisses her hello, one hand behind his back with the other resting on her hip. “Every time I see you I don’t think you could get more beautiful, and yet, you do.”

“You’re cheesy,” she jokes as he kisses her forehead, Cale laughing against her skin. “But you,” Anne says, resting her hands on his chest, “get more handsome every time I see you, too. And, you’re hiding a present behind your back, aren’t you, even though we said no presents.”

Cale laughs, closing the door behind him. “Maybe I saw this and had to get it for you,” he admits, kissing her again and holding up the bag near her head.

“Should I open it now or should I do it later when we come back here?” she flirts, holding the bag in her hand.

“Oh, we’re coming back here?” he teases her, trailing kisses down her neck.

“I might have gotten some dessert for us so we had an excuse to relive last Saturday. Plus, you left your bowtie here,” she gestures to it, still sitting on her table, “And I was thinking maybe you wear that tonight instead of keeping it off?”

Cale raises his eyebrow at her, a silly smile on his face. “And what else would I be wearing?”

Anne shrugs, pretending to act innocent. “I was thinking only the bowtie,” she tells him, feeling his grip around her tighten at the thought.

Cale kisses her again, unable to keep his hands off the girl in front of him. If he could, he would forget dinner altogether and just go straight to dessert, but he knew Anne wasn’t that kind of girl, and he wasn’t about to force her into anything she didn’t want. “Hey, I like that necklace you’re wearing,” he says, twirling the charm around in his fingers. “The heart is perfect for Valentine’s Day.”

She reaches up and takes his hand in hers. “Thanks. My sister got it for me a few years ago for my birthday,” she lies. She couldn’t tell him that Tyson had gotten it for her for Valentine’s Day.

#tyson jost #tyson jost fic #tyson jost imagine #colorado avalanche #colorado avalanche imagine #colorado avalanche fic #avalanche #avalanche imagine #avalanche fic #tyson and anne

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moldisgoodforyou · 3 years

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rome (v)

wordcount: 8.2k oops

warnings: smut !! like a lot i'm a tiny bit embarrassed. also angst at the end !!

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“You didn’t.”

Rafe gave her an apologetic smile as their train pulled out from the station in Florence, outside slowly blurring as the train picked up speed. “I think I might have.”

She let him be completely in charge of the transportation, hotels, everything - which turned out to be a terrible mistake, seeing as he’d never traveled on his own before (and had never planned anything in his life). She’d had to amend most of their plans already , as he just purchased without thinking of any logistics. Instead of buying a train ticket directly to Rome, he’d accidentally bought two tickets. One leg of the ride went an hour and a half to Pisa, then the other leg sent them on a four hour train ride along the western coast of Italy to Rome.

The two had nearly missed their fourth alarm, sleeping through the other three, and had to scramble out of bed with Sophie nearly in tears in order to throw their things into their suitcases and make it to the train on time. Rafe bought tickets in advance, like usual, but Sophie had forgotten to check over them once they printed from the kiosk and they hopped on their train just in time. After shoving their luggage onto the rack and returning to Sophie half-asleep in their seats, he realized his mistake when he re-read their tickets.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes blearily, frowning as she inspected the ticket and confirmed his confession. “How did you even manage that? There’s a direct transport to Rome.”

“I don’t know, the page was all in Italian! I don’t know Italian!” He defended, looking more and more worried by the second.

“Okay, baby, it’s okay. You’re fine.” She sighed. “Not the end of the world.”

“You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re definitely stressed.”

“I’m a little stressed.” She admitted, handing the tickets back to him. “We also got back to the hostel at 3am and nearly missed the train and you got kissed by a random boy last night even though I didn’t listen to you when you said he was flirting and -”

“Hey.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And I’m fine, and we’re both on the train, it’ll just take us a little longer to get there. We’re fine. Okay?”

“We’re fine.” She repeated like she was trying to convince herself, nodding. “We’re fine.”

“Exactly. Now I think you need to sleep, angel, at least until we get to Pisa. I can find us some breakfast.”

She lifted her head to squint at him. “Sorry, say that again?”

“You need to sleep?”

“No. The city we’re going to.”

“...Pisa?” He repeated, pronouncing it like “pie-za.”

Sophie shook her head. “Pisa, baby. Try again.”

He scoffed, pronouncing it his way again. “It’s definitely Pisa, Soph.”

“...Okay. You go around telling people you went to Pie-za, that’s fine with me.” She shook her head, settling back into his side. “Can you scratch my back?”

(It only took her a few minutes to fall asleep but she was pretty sure she heard him using Google Translate to see how Pisa was actually supposed to be pronounced when he thought she was sleeping.)

When they finally made it to Pisa, Rafe nudged Sophie awake and pretended not to notice when she swiped a tiny spot of drool away from her cheek. They were both starving and made the thirty minute walk to the Leaning Tower of Pisa just for kicks in their layover - she made him stop to buy her some overpriced crepes from a market stand along the way.

They were both extra tired when they returned to the train, tucking into each other’s side and using Sophie’s jean jacket as a makeshift blanket. He played with her hair idly, watching her as she was about to fall asleep again. “Soph?”

She shifted, trying to stay awake. “Yeah?”

“Are you tired of traveling?” He asked tentatively. “Like, are you ready to go home?”

“I think those are two different things.” She lifted her head a little to check over his expression. “Why?”

“I don’t know, just.” He started, shrugging, but only continued when she nodded to prompt him further. “You seem so much more confident here, you seem happier to me. If living here is something you’d want to do, I’d want you to consider that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous for her reply. “Even if that means we would be apart for a little bit again.”

Sophie sat up completely so she could look him in the eye. “I love traveling, I really do. But I’ve also been homesick for three months - I miss my family, much more than I thought I would, I missed you like hell, and I miss having a routine.” She bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t frown. “I haven’t been home to the Outer Banks since Christmas, and it’s August. That’s ages.”

He nodded and leaned forward, kissing her forehead. “I can go home with you, if you’d like? For the week before we have to go back to start school?”

“You’d do that? Even if you have to see your dad?”

“Yeah, of course I would.” He smiled, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“I’m glad you think I seem confident, because I have no idea what I’m doing half the time.” She smiled. “I feel much better with you around, I don’t think you realize how many days I cried when I first made it to Spain.”

He frowned, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. “I don’t like hearing that. I hate it when you cry.”

“Sweet boy.” She grinned, lifting her head to nudge her lips against his chin. “I’m okay. You need sleep, you’re going soft on me.”

“Remind me how long my mistake is?”

“Four hours. We both need sleep and I can’t sleep if you’re moving around. We get to Rome around two.” She yawned, tucking her knees to her chest to keep herself warm. “Then you need a shower, you still smell a little bit like the club from last night.”

“Rude.” He leaned back anyways so she could be more comfortable. “G’night, angel.”

“Morning.” She corrected, seconds away from sleep.

He laughed, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Good morning.”

The train ride was fairly uneventful - every half hour or so, one of them would wake the other up for entertainment or to point out the window at a pretty view. At one point Rafe suggested they join the mile-high club - but for trains, aptly named by him as the “rail tail club” - she just glared at him and crossed her arms to go back to sleep.

They took advantage of the WiFi to cancel their hostel stay and actually move to a hotel instead - after what happened in Florence, Sophie decided they didn’t need the experience of making new friends. Rafe had to slyly hide the full bill from her when she asked how much it was. (He felt a little guilty seeing the relief on her face when he said it was cheaper than expected, but he swore he’d never put her through financial stress as long as he lived.)

When they finally arrived and walked the ten blocks to the hotel - with suitcases in tow, dodging other tourists and locals in the street - Rafe stripped off his clothes the second they walked into their hotel room. Sophie paused, watching him with amusement as the door clicked shut behind them. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I feel so gross.” He confessed, peeling off his socks and shoving off his shorts. “Why didn’t you make me shower last night?”

“You were drunk, baby, I had to haul you to the metro station.” She followed him into the bathroom and he turned in the shower, shutting the door so steam would fill the room. He raised his eyebrows. “You coming in or are you just gonna watch?”

“I’m too tired for sex.” She told him, hopping up to sit on the counter. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Okay. So let’s just shower.”

“Just shower? You gonna stick to that?” She let him tease the hem of her shirt up, slowly.

“Just shower. Please? I’ll wash your hair.” He encouraged, pressing a kiss to her forehead before turning to get in the shower.

“Hm.”

“I’ll wash your tits.”

He grinned when she gasped and reached out to swat his butt, making him jump before he stepped into the shower. “Or not! Whatever you’d like!”

She rolled her eyes and stripped down, joining him a few moments later. “You have a dirty mouth. I can’t let you keep getting away with that.”

He smirked, stepping close. “What are you gonna do about it? Punish me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She challenged, backing him against the shower wall. He tried his best to hold back a laugh at how cute she looked, trying to seem all intimidating. “Yeah. You know I would.”

She leaned up for a kiss and he leaned down, eyes closing - until she suddenly pinched his nipple, twisting it. “Ow! Sophie!”

She cracked up laughing, getting under the shower spray and handed him the shampoo. “Wash my hair. I’m hungry, let’s go find food.”

“So demanding.” He complained, accepting the shampoo. “Turn around.”

“I said we’re not having sex -”

“I said turn around, not bend over.” He swapped places with her in the shower and started shampooing her hair carefully, adding the perfect amount of pressure and making sure he didn’t tangle her hair. She moaned quietly and he paused abruptly. “Sophie. Do not.”

“Rafe, keep going.” She whined, pressing her head back into his hand.

He grumbled, continuing his shampooing. “Quit making noises.”

“I can’t help it, it feels so good - hey!” She squeaked, whipping around to glare at him when he tugged on her hair at her scalp. “What the fuck!”

“You’re saying everything you say during sex!”

“Are you just constantly horny?” She scowled at him and shoved at his chest.

“Yes, you aren’t?” He argued, stepping aside so she could rinse her hair. She got under the shower spray to rinse and kept glaring at him until she squeezed some shampoo into her palm. “No. Come here.”

He ducked down a little so she could reach, humming contentedly as she ran her fingers through his strands. “Baby.”

“What.” She kept up her faux-anger, but wasn’t really too annoyed with him - he knew it, too.

“I love you.”

She softened, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as she continued to massage his head. “Love you too. Even if you are horny as hell.”

He laughed and accepted her little nudge under the shower so he could rinse her hair. “The showerhead is detachable…”

She looked him over, debating, but her stomach rumbled in protest. “I’m starving. Can’t you get yourself off? You did that just fine without me for three months, I’m sure.”

He laughed, leaning down to kiss her shortly. “I did, but it is criminal that we never had FaceTime sex.”

She raised her eyebrows. “My apartment walls were way too thin, and you definitely would have been caught at Colin’s house.” She reached down to run the tip of her finger under the length of his cock, grinning when it twitched. “Enjoy. I’m gonna get ready.”

“Sophie, baby -” He protested, reaching for her, but she just blew him a kiss and got out of the shower. She’d learned that quickies didn’t exist with Rafe, and if she started something in the shower it would be taken out to the bed, then probably go back to the shower afterward.

(She did her makeup in the bathroom just so she could hear his little groans - ones that he definitely played up for her.)

After going to dinner, and getting lost on their way back, they were both thoroughly exhausted for all their walking and their travels. When they crawled into bed after their showers, Sophie snuggled into his side, resting her head on his chest. “Hey, Rafe.”

“Mm?” He hummed, half-asleep already.

“Do you have any special requests for your birthday tomorrow?”

He smirked, sleepy. “Yeah, you wanna wake me up with sex?”

“Like, actually?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’d do that?”

She shrugged. “If you want.”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t complain. But just spending the day with you is more than enough.”

“Alright. What time were you born?”

“Uh…” He furrowed his brow. “7:12 am, I think. My mom used to wake me up for my birthday at that time on the dot, every year.”

“Aw. That’s sweet.” She typed something into her phone, then nodded. “Oh, you’re a Virgo rising. That makes so much sense.”

He frowned, sitting up a little. “I’m not a virgin, we had sex two days ago.”

Sophie giggled, not bothering to explain - she’d attempted to before when she was first getting into astrology, and he had just told her he didn’t believe in witches. “Has it been that long?”

“If that’s long to you, baby, I can’t even imagine how difficult three months was.” He quipped, closing his eyes and lying back down.

She rolled her eyes. “Good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He murmured, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her close.

The next morning, Sophie woke up and managed to slip out from Rafe’s side, ignoring his grumble and half-hearted, still-asleep attempt to keep her at his side. She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth then changed into some new lingerie, feeling a little ridiculous, but hoped it’d be worth it. When she returned to the bed, she crawled on top of him, rocking her hips gently against his hard on. “Baby.” She whispered, trailing a finger down his chest.

He stirred only for a moment but pressed his hips up against hers. “Fuck, Sophie, more,” he said and she nearly laughed at his dream mumblings. She ducked down under the covers and kissed along his length, rubbing him gently over his boxers. He woke up just as she was pulling his boxers down, thoroughly confused. “Soph?”

“Good morning. Happy birthday.” She told him with a grin before taking him into her mouth, pushing on his thighs a little when he jerked in surprise.

“Am I still dreaming?” He muttered, pushing back the covers so he could see her head. She licked directly up the underside of his cock, tracing a vein with her tongue. “Nope. Not dreaming.”

“Holy shit.” He breathed out, watching her with wide eyes. “I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

“That’s okay, we can fuck again.” She grinned up at him before taking as much of him as she could into her mouth again, moaning around him. His eyes rolled back in his head and he gathered up her hair carefully. “Fuckin - fuck, angel, faster, please.”

She obeyed, moving her mouth and hand just a little faster. It wasn’t long until he was spilling into her and she swallowed, then kissed back up his body. “Hey.”

“Hey -” He breathed out, jaw hanging open, then stopped. “Wait, what are you wearing?” He took her in with a grin and grabbed his glasses off the nightstand table to get a better view of her, wanting to see her in her full glory. “Is that new?”

She laughed, tugging at her bra strap self-consciously. “Yeah. Thought I could save it as a special birthday surprise for you.”

“Holy fuck, Sophie.” He scrambled for his phone. “I need, like, a picture to remember this or something -”

She was turning red from all his compliments and covered her hand with her face as she whined. “Rafeeee.”

He tugged one hand away, grinning at her. “Please? Just one? Or more than one?”

“Um...okay. Fine. Where do you want me?”

His jaw dropped and he gaped at her, incredulous. “You’re serious? You’ll let me? For real, that’s actually okay with you?”

She bit her lip, smiling. “Yes. As long as you keep it in a locked folder on your phone.”

“Oh my god. I’m in heaven. Is this my birthday present, the lingerie? Or the pictures?” He leaned up to kiss her, needy, and groaned as she rocked against his hips to lean forward.

She pushed him back a little, rolling her eyes. “No, you have a real present.” She stuck her chest out, adjusting the bra so her breasts were nearly spilling out of it, and fluffed up her hair a little. “Snap away, Cameron.”

He paused, waiting for another nod from her, then started taking photos, his eyes blown wide. He reached up and ran his thumb over her lips - she bit down on it gently, smirking at his expression. Rafe groaned just as he looked at her adoringly. “You’re incredible. Beautiful. I need to tell you that more.”

“Shut up.” She blushed more, letting her hair fall in front of her face.

He drank the sight of her in, lingerie and all, then set his phone aside. Abruptly, he grabbed at her thighs to pull her up and she squeaked, caught off guard and fell forward onto him. “Rafe!”

“Come here. Sit on my face.” He commanded, dropping his head back to the pillow.

She pushed herself up to straddle his hips again, wearing an incredulous expression. “You’re insane. I’m not doing that.”

He laughed darkly and curled a possessive hand around her thigh, digging his fingers into her leg just enough. “Yes, you are. Come up here. I need you.”

She could feel her cheeks getting hot from his demanding tone, the way he was taking control. “Rafe, it’s your birthday. Let me just take care of you.”

“You did take care of me, now it’s my turn.” He moved his hand up her leg to rub across her clothed clit, grinning when she gasped and twitched at his touch. “Like you said, it’s my birthday, and what I want you to do is sit on my face. C’mon, baby. I know you’re just dripping for it, absolutely filthy -”

For a moment she nearly considered climbing up on his face right then and there just to get him to shut up, but got too shy and felt her face burning with embarrassment. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“No? You don’t like it?” He continued rubbing slow circles across her clit and grinned when she shifted onto his thigh and moaned. “Hm, that’s what I thought.”

“Rafe.” She protested weakly, her resolve thinning quickly as he flexed his thigh and pushed against her.

“You know what I want my present to be?” He asked.

She started grinding slow against his thigh, trying her best to keep her gaze locked on him. “Hm?”

“I want to make you come. Three times. I know I can, too.”

“I already got you a present.” She mumbled weakly, rocking against him a little faster as her brain began to cloud over. When he shifted a little and flexed his thigh again, she gasped, leaning forward a tiny bit.

He reached up and pushed one cup of her bra down, gripping her breast roughly and pinching her nipple. She bit her lip hard to keep quiet and he shook his head right away. “I want to hear you.”

“Someone’s going to hear.” She protested, whining quietly.

“Let them. I want everyone to know how good I can make you feel.” He shot back.

“We’re gonna get kicked out for a noise complaint.” She argued, rocking her hips a little faster.

“Good. I’ll know I’m doing my job right.”

“Trust me, that’s not an issue,” she muttered darkly, circling her hips on his leg. When she came, whining, she practically collapsed onto him, so sensitive she had to move so his leg wasn’t between hers anymore.

He didn’t care and flipped them over quickly, shoving the sheets down the bed and dragged her panties down and off her legs. “So fucking pretty. Look at you, all wet, you’re so desperate for me, aren’t you?”

“You are on something today, where’s all this coming from?” She shook her head, even though his dirty words had her turned on more than she ever thought they would.

He grinned and kissed up her inner thigh, spreading her legs apart. “You love it.”

“Hm. Do I?”

Rafe moved up to kiss her lips, then down her jaw, then to nip at her throat, although she certainly didn’t need the foreplay. He pulled teasingly on the ends of her hair, a little harder than usual, and stopped abruptly to look up at her when she moaned. “Oh, I forgot, you like it a little rougher, yeah?” He asked in a taunting tone.

She rolled her eyes as she blushed, thoroughly embarrassed by his teasing. “I mean. I wouldn’t mind.”

He paused, thinking. “Do you have anything specific you want to try?”

Sophie didn’t hesitate in responding, knowing she’d chicken out if she didn’t just say it. “Did you pack a tie?”

“...a tie? What for?” He shuffled out of bed, confused, but rifled through his suitcase until he found a nice silk tie, all wrinkled from being forgotten in a spare pocket. He tossed it at her but she held it out. “I can’t tie it myself.”

“Where’s it going?”

She bit her lip as she raised both hands above her head, her wrists pressed together. “Here? But not to the bed, I think that’d be too much.”

He gaped at her for the third time that morning. “You’re sure? You want that?”

“Yeah, is that okay?”

“Yes! Yes. Just unexpected, okay. Okay. We need, like, a safe word or something right, this is some fifty shades shit - is this gonna hurt you? Or fuck, do you want it to hurt?“

She held back a laugh, finding his rambling endearing. “It’s a silk J.Crew tie, baby, not rope. It’s okay. I’ll tell you to stop if I need it.”

“Right. Right. Have you done this before? You seem a little too chill about it.” He put the tie around her wrists hesitantly in a loose knot, making sure she was comfortable before he settled himself back between her legs.

Sophie gave him a little smile, blushing. “No, I just. Thought I might like it and I trust you.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight - you won’t sit on my face but you’ll let me tie you up?”

“It’s different.” She tried closing her legs but he pushed them back open and nipped at her thigh. “Hey. Behave.”

“Yeah? What if I don’t?” She challenged him with a grin, and he just shook his head and teased a finger across her entrance. “Trouble.”

“Rafe.”

“Yeah?” He moved impossibly slow, rubbing two gentle fingers over her clit - she squirmed under him, letting out a little whine. “No teasing.”

“Hm, I think I’m going to tease all I want, with you all tied up. Can’t take control like that.”

She groaned, blinking at him. “I’m already wet, I don’t need to be edged.”

He grinned up at her. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“S’hardly dirty.” She countered, gasping when he caught her off guard with a wide lick up her entrance. “Fuck - I -” She started helplessly as she went to grab his hair, but just had to squirm instead with her hands above her head.

“Do we have plans today?” He questioned, breathing hot air on her clit as he slipped two fingers inside her and curled them toward herself.

“Not til later - oh, there, please -”

Rafe repeated his motions and flicked his tongue across her clit. “What are we doing?”

“Can we not discuss this now?” She argued breathlessly.

“Why, can’t concentrate?” He glanced up, amused. When she went to answer, he just sucked on her clit, making her gasp. “Answer the question, angel.”

“Rafe - fuckin’ - please -” She bit out, unable to think straight. “I’m so close, baby, more -”

He swore there was nothing he loved more than when she’d call him pet names, and the whine certainly added to it. Instead of teasing more, he curled his fingers again and flicked his tongue across her clit, working her through her second orgasm. She’d abandoned all pretense of keeping quiet and gasped out for him, arching her back as she came. When he withdrew his fingers and crawled back up the bed to press them against her lips, she took them easily.

“You are way too fucking good at that.” She breathed out, trying to grab for him again, but cursed when she remembered she was still tied up.

He reached up and untied her with a grin. “You okay? Did it feel alright?”

“Yeah, of course. Though I’m not sure I like not being able to touch you.” She smiled as he pressed gentle kisses to the inside of her wrists.

“Dunno, I think I like when you’re not ripping my hair out when you come.” He grinned, nudging his nose against hers.

She rolled her eyes. “You love that.” She took on a mocking tone, making her voice deeper to imitate him. “Pull my hair, baby - oh, fuck, yes -”

“Hey! I don’t sound like that.” He laughed. “Your sex noises are more embarrassing, anyways, all whiny.”

“They are not embarrassing -”

“You want to record them and see?” He raised his eyebrows, challenging her.

She blushed, shaking her head. “No. Absolutely not. You missed your chance for that the second you came here to see me.”

“Shame. Kind of unfair though, because you definitely got a voice memo or two.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you sent one to me every time you jacked off, that was much more than just one or two. Took my invitation and ran with it.”

He laughed, then reached around and unclipped her bra, pulling it off and tossing it aside, then rested his head next to hers on the pillow. “I love you. So fucking much.”

“Happy birthday.” She smiled. “Love you too, sweet boy.”

He grinned, kissing her sweetly, then stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. “We’re not done yet. I promised you three times.”

She laughed. “Alright, just give me a second to catch my breath.”

Rafe raised his eyebrows with a smirk. “I’m that good, huh?”

She shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “You are too damn cocky for your own good. Oh! Here, let me get your present.” She hopped out of bed and pulled out a gift bag from her suitcase, all smushed down and wrinkled, and handed it to him. “Sorry it’s a mess, I had to pack it before you came.”

He sat up with an eager grin, pulling the covers over his lap. “S’okay, I’m sure it’s great.”

She pulled her underwear back on and pulled on a big shirt of his before crawling back into bed, watching him with a smile.

He unwrapped the gift and pulled out a leather jacket, whistling. “Wow! This is awesome, Sophie.”

She beamed, practically bouncing with excitement. “It’s custom fit to your measurements - I had Colin measure that jacket you always wear to be sure - and it’s ethically made. Well, as ethical as you can get with leather, but it’s handmade by this family in Barcelona, so there’s practically no carbon footprint. It’s neutral, at least. No sweatshops or anything.”

He wasn’t quite sure what all of that meant, but grinned at her enthusiasm. “It’s perfect, baby, thank you.”

“Happy birthday.”

Rafe held it up, looking at all the details, then he caught a glimpse of the tag and frowned. It was $300 - he wasn’t sure he wanted to know how many hours of work that was for her paycheck. “Sophie.”

“Just pretend you didn’t see!” She tucked it back in the jacket quickly, wincing.

“I swear this is a double standard...” He started, but decided not to finish his argument - the last thing he wanted to do with her on his birthday was fight about money.

“Don’t care. Let me treat you.” She beamed as he ran his fingers over the leather.

“You never let me treat you.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows and held up her hand with the ring as if to make her point, raising her eyebrows. “Never?”

“That was different, that’s a gift.” He pointed out.

“Yeah, so’s this. C’mon, put it on.”

“What? I’m all sweaty.”

“Just for a little bit.” She pleaded, pushing it toward him. “Please? I want a picture.”

“Oh, so you get nudes too? I thought that was a special birthday present.” He raised his eyebrows, challenging her, and she giggled. “The jacket is the present. Rafe, please?”

He made a show out of huffing and rolling his eyes but held out his hand, sitting up. She grinned and handed it to him, grabbing her phone when he shrugged it on. “Okay, lay back?”

“You’re directing me? Okay.” He laid back in bed, completely naked except for the jacket, his hand tucked behind his head. She beamed and climbed up on the bed to stand over him, just wearing his big t-shirt and her underwear, and arranged the sheets so they were just covering his dick, his chest on full display and his hip and thigh peeking out suggestively.

“Okay. Don’t smile.” She held her phone up high to get the right angle, laughing when he smirked up at her. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“Yeah? Do I get a picture of you in it too?”

“Nope.” She hopped off the bed and held her hand out expectantly for him to take the jacket off. He sat up and grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. “Sophie. Shirt off.”

“No.”

He just raised his eyebrows and she gave in with a sigh, tugging it over her head. He nodded, satisfied, and helped her shrug the jacket on. “You’re easy when you’re cock drunk.”

She gasped, shoving at his shoulder. “I do not get cock drunk -”

“You absolutely do!” He laughed, swiping his phone from the bedside table. “C’mon. Pose for me.”

She pretended to blow him a kiss, striking a bunch of poses. He grinned, holding up his phone and taking way too many shots. “There we go, angel. I’m gonna send these in to Victoria’s Secret for you.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped him off for the camera, holding the jacket closed. “Shut up.”

“No. C’mere, pick out which ones I can keep.” He reached over and tugged on her arm and she shrugged off the jacket, carefully setting it on the chair before climbing back into bed, purposely dragging herself across him. He groaned. “Baby.”

“Yes.”

“Can’t do that. I’m almost hard again.”

“Okay. You can fuck me again.” She smirked up at him and he took a deep breath, then handed his phone over. “Choose your photos.”

She flicked through them and deleted a few, then grinned at the one of her flipping him off. Sophie cropped it in a little so it was much less suggestive, her chest mainly covered, and cut it off where the jacket ended, then set it as his lock screen. “There. Now you’ll always remember this whenever you look at your phone.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, there was no chance of me forgetting.” He smirked, glancing at the screen then gave her a sincere smile. “C’mon. We need to shower.”

“No.” She threw her leg over his hips, catching him with her ankle tucked around his thigh and leaned in to kiss him, hard. He groaned against her lips, pulling her closer on top of him. “Sophie.”

“Rafe.” She mumbled, nipping at his lower lip. He nudged his nose against her cheek. “Baby.”

“Just kissing, c’mon.” She argued, even though she rolled her hips against him, felt him stiffening against her, and knew exactly what she was doing.

“It’s never just kissing with you.”

“It was the very first time.” She grinned.

“When you kissed me drunk at the party and then rejected me?” He raised his eyebrows, clutching at his chest in mock pain. “Broke my heart, Flint.”

“And look, now you have me nearly naked in bed in Rome. I think you’re doing just fine, Cameron.” She quipped and he laughed. “Damn straight.” He gripped her hips when she moved to get off him, holding her in place. “Where are you going?”

“Want you on top.” She protested, grinding down against him. His breath caught in his throat and he flipped her over with ease, hooking his fingers in her underwear and dragged them off her legs, pushing one knee to her chest as he did. He reached to grab a condom off of the nightstand and rolled it down himself with a little groan, watching Sophie bite her lip. “Tell me how I got so lucky?”

“You’re such a romantic.” She teased, reaching out for him again. He leaned down and carefully slid into her, squeezing his eyes shut when she moaned at the feeling. “Can’t help it with you.”

“Cheesy.” She accused, gasping when he thrust a little harder.

“Mean.” He quipped, leaning down to kiss her, hard, and she responded eagerly. As much as he tried to hold back, they only lasted a few minutes before they were both coming again, Sophie biting down on his shoulder to keep quiet.

Rafe flicked her chest with a grin as he pulled out of her, shaking his head. “Did you just bite me?”

“We have two more days, we really can’t get kicked out for a noise complaint.” She giggled, smiling up at him with flushed cheeks.

___

The rest of the day was heaven for Rafe - Sophie was touchier than ever, even in public, and absolutely doted on him like it was her job. They wandered around a few tourist sites and by two pm, they’d already split three gelatos upon Rafe’s insistence they had to try ‘just one more flavor.’ He FaceTimed with Colin and James earlier in the day and was grinning ear to ear afterward, claiming multiple times that it was the best birthday he’d ever had.

Around six, after Sophie reluctantly agreed to their fourth gelato of the day, she waited outside in the sun as he went and got their cup to split. When Rafe returned from the shop with gelato for both of them, she covered her phone with her hand. “Thank you. I have someone on the phone for you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Julia and Allie already texted me earlier today.”

She just smiled and handed him her phone - her dad waved at him with a grin on FaceTime. “Rafe, buddy, happy birthday!”

Rafe’s grin was so instantaneous it nearly hurt. “Jeff! Hi, thank you! That’s so nice of you to call!”

“Of course, had to check in on you. How’s your day, been good so far?”

Rafe blushed and shot her a panicked look as Sophie shot him a glare off-camera. “Yes sir, it’s been great. Sophie and I have been exploring the city and stuff, getting to know the history.”

“That’s great, I’m glad. Have any big plans tonight?”

Sophie scooted over so she was on screen. “We do, but he doesn’t know about them yet.”

“Ahh, a surprise. What else have you done, the Colosseum? Vatican City? Your mom would enjoy that.” Jeff grinned as Sophie rolled her eyes. “Dad, I’m not taking him to the Catholic Church on his birthday -”

“I know, Sophie, I was kidding.” He shook his head and Rafe held back a smile. “You have two weeks before school starts, right Soph?”

“Yeah, just need to do a few TA things and get my studio set up. Why?”

“I was thinking, we’d love to have you home for a weekend if you have time before classes start. Rafe, you’re welcome to come over as well.”

Rafe brightened as Sophie nudged her knee against his, smiling. “I’d like that. If Sophie’s not too busy, I mean.”

“No, I think I can figure that out. I miss you guys.” She smiled. “So Rafe gets to stay in my room, right?”

Her dad froze up for a second. “I was thinking the guest room or his own room at his house, actually -”

Rafe’s eyes went wide and he pinched Sophie’s thigh, shaking his head quickly. “I can stay at my house! That’s perfectly fine. She’s kidding. We’re in separate dorms on this trip, so it shouldn’t be any different -”

“Oh my god, no, you’ll stay in the guest room.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “Okay, dad, we have to go.”

“Right.” Her dad eyed them skeptically, then smiled. “Well, happy birthday, Rafe, hope it’s a good one. I’m excited to see you both soon.”

“I appreciate it, sir, that means a lot. Thank you.” Rafe beamed, but he could feel his neck getting hot, hoping her dad wouldn’t pick up on his terrible lying.

“Alright. Be safe, you two.” Her dad hung up and Sophie’s cheeks burned a little, feeling he was implying a double meaning. She swatted his chest. “Can’t you control your blush for two seconds?”

“No ma’am.” He replied with a grin. “That was so nice of your dad. Did you ask him to do that?”

“No, he just texted me and asked when he could call. He likes you. Even if you’re a shitty liar.” She gave him a pointed look and he just laughed.

“He’s cool.” Rafe nodded, satisfied. “Man, that was so nice. I can’t believe he thought of me.”

She paused, eating a spoonful of her gelato. “Has your dad said anything today?”

“No, he won’t unless Rose reminded him. But that’s unlikely.” He shrugged. “Sarah and Wheezie texted me, that was nice.”

“Your dad’s not going to call on your birthday?” She frowned.

Rafe shook his head. “No. I’m usually up at school by now anyways, so he forgets. He remembered senior year of high school, but that was because I had a party at my house and asked him if we could string up lights by the pool.”

“Oh. I don’t remember that party.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Yeah, uh, I didn’t invite you and your friends on purpose. Was trying to keep it lowkey, y’know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, was that the one that Cassidy Anderson got so drunk at, she had to get her stomach pumped? And Kyle Green broke his ankle -”

“When he tripped into the pool, yeah, that was the one. Word got around that I was having a party, I’m kinda surprised you didn’t end up there anyways.”

She laughed. “Carter went and texted me not to come, he thought the cops were going to show.”

He wrinkled his nose at the memory. “They did. It was bad, Shoupe told my dad and everything, I was in trouble for a month after that.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows, skeptical. “I’m sure you being in trouble meant nothing.”

“No, he canceled my golf lessons. That was actually a big deal, he knew I liked them.” He frowned a little.

She bit her lip as she suddenly remembered - her dad came home and told her mom that the big tips from the Camerons were going away, that they’d have to cancel their flights to go visit her in Sophie's first semester of college because they needed the refund as a safety net. It was a big deal that they had even promised to come at all, usually her dad had to work weekends to fit in more lessons and he’d asked off just to come see her.

When Ward canceled the lessons, a few of Rafe’s buddies followed suit and canceled as well - she and Carter went around to every course in the area that week to put up flyers to get their dad more customers. She felt a momentary pang of guilt putting two and two together and shook her head, trying to redirect the conversation. “Right. Um, so you want to head back to the hotel, get ready for dinner? I made a reservation for us at 7.”

“Yeah. You alright?”

She gave him a slightly forced smile. “I’m alright. Let’s go, birthday boy.”

He narrowed his eyes a little, but didn’t push it.

Dinner that night was on the rooftop of a hotel overlooking Rome, and they both dressed nicer than they had the whole trip, with her in a cream colored silk slip dress to complement her tan and him in a pair of nice slacks and a sleek short-sleeved button down. When their waiter came out to greet them with a drink menu, he glanced at Sophie’s attire and her ring and raised his eyebrows. “You are the honeymooners, yes?”

She blushed, shaking her head. “No, sir, the birthday. Under Sophie Flint.”

“Oh! The white dress, I was confused.” Their waiter gave them an apologetic smile. “Here is your drink menu, I will be back.” He returned later with two glasses of complimentary champagne, as well as the bottle of wine they ordered, and apologized again.

When he left, Rafe lifted his glass with a cheeky grin. “To my blushing bride.”

She scowled and stopped just short of kicking him under the table. “Shut the fuck up. Happy birthday.” She clinked her glass against his, shaking her head as he cracked up, thinking it was hilarious. “You’re not allowed to buy me any more rings, this just causes trouble.”

“Good trouble.” He protested and took off his signet ring with his initials, sliding it onto her thumb. “C’mon, you hardly wear any other jewelry daily. I like buying you things.”

“I know you do.” She rolled her eyes and pushed the menu to him. “Here. It’s our last night so go crazy.”

He paused, scanning over the menu. “Are we splitting this?”

“No, it’s your birthday dinner. My treat.” She frowned when he flipped the menu to just the entrees without any meat or fish. “No worrying about money.”

“I’m not. The carbonara at the other table looked good.” He replied, wishing he’d looked at how much the wine was that she ordered and made a mental note to pay for all their meals in the airport.

“You don’t like carbonara.”

“Maybe I do here.”

“Rafe.” She reached over and flicked the menu back to the more expensive options. “Do not hold back. I’m serious. I got this reservation back in June and I have more money left in my budget for this trip than I thought I would by now. Let me do this for you.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. And if you really want the carbonara, I’m getting it, so you can have some.”

He laughed as she reached over and refilled his wine glass. “Trying to get me drunk so I’ll give in?”

“Yeah, will it work?” She grinned.

He just shook his head and took a sip with a smile. “You’re spoiling me today.”

“Yeah, you deserve it.”

They were both giggly and drunk by the time they made it back to their hotel, after missing their metro stop twice. When they finally showered and collapsed into bed - to actually sleep, that time - Rafe hugged her close and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I love you, Sophie. Thank you. So much.”

“Love you too, baby.” She murmured. “My favorite.”

When Rafe’s watch buzzed at 1am the next morning, he stirred a little, going to turn it off, but paused when he saw he had a call from his dad. He carefully untangled himself from Sophie’s koala grip and slipped out of bed, tugging on some joggers and a shirt before heading out to the hotel lobby to answer the call. “Dad? Is something wrong?”

“Can’t I wish my son a happy birthday?” Ward asked.

Rafe relaxed a little bit, settling back against a couch. “Yeah, um, it’s just early. I figured something was wrong with Wheezie or Sarah.”

“Ohio’s got the same time as the Outer Banks, kid.”

“I’m on that trip with Sophie, remember, I told you about it in June? We’re in Rome. I’m going home soon.”

Ward’s tone turned slightly sour as he was reminded. “Right. Forgot. You went all the way across the world for this girl?”

Rafe dug his fingernails into his palm, keeping his tone even. “For my girlfriend, yes. I love her.”

Ward sighed. “I’m sure you think you do, Rafe.”

“I know I do.”

His dad paused before speaking again. “I just don’t understand. You had a perfectly good thing going with Brooklyn, she has a great family. She’s used to our lifestyle.”

Rafe was exasperated, as well as exhausted, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She cheated on me, Dad. Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Must have done something to fuck it up.” Ward shot back, taking on a defensive tone.

Sophie had realized she was alone in bed by then and crept out of their room, following the muffled sound of his voice to find him in the lobby. She crossed her arms, frowning, and mouthed ‘come back to sleep.’

Rafe motioned her away and gave her a fake smile, shaking his head. She frowned, not convinced, and came up behind him on the couch, slipping her arms around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I didn’t do anything.” Rafe replied curtly, standing to follow her back to the room. He lowered the volume on his phone so Sophie couldn’t hear a single word.

“Right.” Ward was unconvinced. “I’m sure this girl is just with you to get money out of you, don’t let yourself be fooled. I didn’t work this hard for our family just to let you think you’re in love with someone that can’t provide.”

Rafe was too tired to argue and kept his face impassive, wanting to end the conversation sooner than later with Sophie there. “That’s not it.” She took his hand and led him back to their room, staying quiet but watching his expression carefully.

“I’m just looking out for you.” Ward insisted. “You didn’t - you didn’t knock her up. Did you?” He questioned and Rafe wrinkled his nose a tiny bit at his accusatory tone. “No, Dad, of course not.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows, surprised that Ward had called, and let them both back into the room. Rafe gave her a quick smile and shut himself in the bathroom, not wanting her to hear any more.

“Oh. Well. Just, be careful.”

“I am. Uh, thanks for calling, I guess.”

“Right. Happy birthday. 21, right?”

Rafe’s face twisted and he was surprised to feel a few tears running down his cheeks as he leaned back against the wall, head hung low. “Close. 22.”

Ward made a small ‘huh’ noise. “22, I knew that. Night, son.”

When Rafe hung up, he let out a choked laugh, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. Even if it was the first time in a while his dad had called on his birthday, he still couldn’t even remember his age.

Carefully, Sophie opened the door, peering in. “Baby? Are you alright?”

He turned to her with tears in his eyes, trying his best to force a smile, but she realized right away and pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. “Come back to bed, Rafe.”

He followed her out and crawled back into bed with her, burying his face against her chest as she combed through his hair. “I deserve better.” He mumbled brokenly.

She frowned. “Of course you do, baby. I’m sorry. What’d he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He muttered, and he was so tired that he let his guard down to cry, shoulders shaking a little as he did. Sophie practically clung to him, letting him bury his face in her neck as she stroked her back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re alright.” She whispered.

He nodded a little, nudging his leg over her waist to draw her closer. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Rafe, so goddamn much.”

“What time’s our flight tomorrow?” He mumbled against her skin.

“Not til six, we can sleep in if you want.” She pulled back just a little to kiss him, peppering kisses over his cheeks. “I love you. No matter what anyone says.”

He frowned and her heart broke just looking at how defeated he seemed. “You didn’t hear, did you?”

“No. It’s okay. You gotta sleep, baby.” Sophie pulled the blankets back over them, nudging him up so his head was properly set on the pillow, even though she knew he’d have his head on her chest by the time she woke up.

“Soph?” He whispered after a few seconds, sounding close to sleep again.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

She squeezed his hand gently. “Of course. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

taglist: @whoeveniskendall @kkmaybank @karsinner @outerbanksbro @outerbankspreferences @randomficsandshit @jailcalledlife @tovvaa @moniamaybank @illbesafeforyou @dontjinx-it @freddymaybank @jjmaybankzz @g4bster @oopsiedoopsie23 @babygal-babygal @thecuthoney @babeyglo

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #obx fanfic #college rafe #rafe x sophie #mine #frat rafe #outer banks fanfic #obx #outer banks

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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 4 years

Text

Magnolio, part Two

Rating: SFW Length: 1840 Pairing: Cursed Male Werewolf x GN Reader

The second half of my commission for my dearest Ana.

xxx

When you wake up the next morning, it’s with a headache borne of too little sleep. You groan and drag yourself out of bed, shambling to the bathroom and going through your morning routines. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you hear singing coming from inside your house, and you nearly have a heart attack before you remember your strange experiences the night before. Was that not just a dream?

You peer out of your bathroom with your toothbrush in hand, then creep out into the hallway and decide to investigate in the direction the sounds are coming from. As you get closer, you hear what sounds like someone cooking breakfast, though they’re nowhere near your kitchen. Instead, they’re coming from the sofa in front of the tv, where you’d placed the mirror the night before and set the tv onto the Discovery channel. When you come around the sofa to stand in front of it, you see Magnolio cooking over a rustic wood stove in his mirror world, shimmying a cast iron pan over the fire and singing in what you can only assume is Italian as he works.

“Good morning,” you say after a moment, sitting on the coffee table in front of the tv.

Magnolio startles but recovers quickly, beaming at you from his kitchen and carefully plating up what looks like a hefty serving of thick-cut bacon. “Buongiorno!” he calls back, bringing his plate of food over to where his mirror rests—his dining table, from the looks of it. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really,” you reply, putting your toothbrush in your mouth and getting up to take his mirror to the kitchen. “I was awake pretty late last night talking to you. I thought it was a dream, but I guess you’re as real as it gets.”

“I’m afraid so,” Magnolio replies with a sigh, sitting down with a roll of crusty bread and breaking it open. He watches you curiously as you brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, then follows you with his eyes as you bustle around getting food together to eat. “What’s that?” “Cereal,” you say, pouring milk into your bowl and sitting at the counter to eat.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Magnolio asks, frowning at you over his plate of meat and eggs. You wave your spoon at him as though gesturing grandly with a royal sceptre. “Depression fare, my glassy friend.”

Magnolio looks stricken. “There’s a recession?”

“What? No. I’m depressed,” you say, crossing your legs beneath yourself on the counter. “My brain doesn’t produce the right chemicals to keep me happy and capable of things like, y’know, cooking and shit. The most I do is use the microwave to heat up burritos.”

“That won’t do,” Magnolio murmurs, frown returning in full before his face clears into a smile. “Once I’m free, I will cook for you. My ancestors would come back to haunt me if I left someone hungry.”

“You don’t have to,” you reply, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “I know how to cook, I just… don’t.”

“All the more reason for me to do it for you. It costs me nothing at all. I would be happy to do it for the rest of my life, if it made your life better.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on your cereal so you don’t have to look up into Magnolio’s sunny brown eyes. This is so weird.

You leave Magnolio in front of the tv again when you head off to work, but you find it hard to focus once you’re there. Even coffee doesn’t seem to help you as much as it usually does, and as you do inventory, you can’t help but wonder if the man is doing alright with nothing but re-runs of Deadliest Catch for company. You have to admit that it’s nice to have something to look forward to at the end of the day, and catching up with Magnolio becomes that for you. You begin putting together playlists of documentaries after he decides he prefers the History channel, and you listen to him babble about what he learned that day as you go about your chores at home, smiling to yourself as you play video games with him beside you. He tells you stories from Sicily and Austria and France, and he even begins to teach you Italian when you ask him to—a request which delights him.

You look into therapists and consider medication after Magnolio initiates a long talk over your dinner of cold nachos and root beer for the second night in a row. You know you haven’t been taking care of yourself, and you tell yourself that you don’t care, until Magnolio looks at you with tears in his eyes and a plea on his lips. You sit together and create a grocery list of healthy foods for you to buy on your next shopping trip, and you hesitantly begin to try new recipes with Magnolio’s enthusiastic support—nothing too wild, but good enough that you start to feel better about what you’re putting into your body.

The days and nights go by in a blur of constant chatter between the two of you, from early in the morning until late into the night. You never thought yourself much of a talker, but you never seem to run out of things to talk about with Magnolio, and he’s always happy to speak with you even when you both would be better off getting rest. Eventually, the day of the full moon rolls around, and when you put your keys on the hook by the door after a stressful day at work, you find that you want nothing more than to see Magnolio’s face. You can hear the tv droning on in the living room, but you don’t hear Magnolio’s usual cheerful greeting when you close the door behind you.

The mirror is empty.

“Magnolio?” you call, confusion giving way to concern when there’s no response. “Maggie? Where are you? Answer me, please.”

You hear what sounds like the whine of a dog, and you’re confused all over again until a dark shape appears in the mirror. Staring back at you is the face of a wolf, but stranger—more angular in places and rounder in others. It’s also huge, taking up a good portion of the bottom of the mirror from where it’s peering at you as if you might slap it right on the snout at any moment.

You blink. Rub your eyes. Blink again, then plop down on the coffee table in front of the mirror with a rattle of the glass on wood beneath you. “You’re a fucking werewolf?”

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Magnolio moans, his voice laced with that canine whine that tugs at your heartstrings. “I thought you would get rid of me if you knew.”

“You trusted me with ‘man in the mirror’ but not ‘werewolf’?” you waspishly reply, struggling to keep your temper out of your tone.

“You never asked why the villagers wanted me dead,” Magnolio points out, ears drooping down and back. “I was going to tell you tonight, but you came home later than usual.”

“There was overtime at work—fuck, who cares about that, you’re a werewolf. How am I supposed to get you out of the mirror now?”

Magnolio’s ears flicker back up. “You still want to free me from the mirror?”

“Well, yeah, unless you plan on eating me.”

Down again, this time flat against his head as his amber eyes narrowed. “I would never! Humans taste ghastly, let alone the weight on my conscience.”

You snort. “Oh, the weight on your conscience. Nice to know I don’t look like a pork chop.”

“Oh! Did you know? I learned today, humans are referred to as ‘long pork’ among cannibals, because they allegedly taste like—“

“Don’t finish that sentence. I’m still supposed to kiss that mouth.”

Magnolio fidgets in place, clawed hands coming up to groom the dense fur at his neck in a way that you can only assume is self-soothing. “You would still have to do it under the light of the moon.”

You purse your lips at this predicament, getting up to take him with you into the kitchen. You ponder as you pull a container of leftovers out of your freezer, tossing it into the microwave and pacing in your kitchen. “There’s the window in the living room, but I don’t trust that someone won’t just straight up walk in on me making out with a werewolf and call the cops.”

“What is ‘making out’?”

“Not important. The only other window that can get good moonlight is upstairs in my bedroom. We’ll have to do it there.”

“I’ve never been in your bedroom,” Magnolio comments thoughtfully, finding his pendant in the ruff of his neck and toying with it between two fingertips. “Yeah, well, prepare to be underwhelmed,” you mutter, shrugging out of your uniform jacket and tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. Once the microwave beeps, you try to take your time eating, prolonging the inevitable as your nerves fray. It all seems so sudden, now, though you know you’ve had weeks to prepare. Once you’re done, you do the dishes and then haul Magnolio upstairs into your bedroom, where you prop him up against your dresser.

Magnolio looks around curiously, taking in the rumpled sheets on your bed, the clothing on your “floordrobe”, the cups on your nightstand. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” is all that he murmurs, and for that, you’re grateful.

“Second only to the living room,” you say, sighing softly and frowning when you catch a whiff of your breath. You stand up and hurry out of your bedroom, barely hearing Magnolio call out behind you.

“Where are you going?”

“To brush my teeth!” you shout back, turning on your bathroom faucet. “My breath smells like calamari!”

Magnolio’s laughter brings a smile to your face. You brush your teeth twice and dig out some mouthwash for good measure, and only then do you return to your bedroom to kneel in front of Magnolio’s mirror. Moonlight makes the silver decorations gleam as you look into each others’ eyes, and when you lean in, Magnolio moves to meet your lips. You feel a tingle and a snap as though zapped by a static shock, and in the next moment, you have your arms full of a very big werewolf.

“I’m out!” gasps Magnolio, touching the floor of your bedroom with something approaching reverence as his tail wiggles behind him.

“You’re out!” you laugh, helplessly cupping his big, furry face in your hands. “Welcome back, Mags.”

Magnolio beams, baring all of his sharp teeth before he presses his lips to yours again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he says when he draws away, tail stilling. “You probably don’t feel the same way. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you tell him, and kiss him until his tail beats against the floor.

#exophilia #exophilia fic #monster romance #monster boyfriend #werewolf boyfriend #werewolf #werewolves #Magnolio #My work

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slipping-through-my-fingertips · 3 years

Text

mirrorball

Summary: in every life, that they’ve ever lived, they’ve chosen to come back, and find each other, and fall in love with each other over and over again

Notes: As promised, another part of my folklore series. Enjoy!!

AO3

As much as Kurt loved going to the theater or eating dinner in dimly-lit restaurants around the city, his favorite dates were the ones spent at home.

When he and Blaine danced around each other in the kitchen trying out a new recipe for dinner. When there’s cheesecake cooling in the fridge. With music flooding their ears.

As they set the table, Kurt brings his arms around Blaine and pulls their bodies together. Their fronts pressed together and noses touching.

“I’m so in love with you,” he tells him.

The oven beeps so Kurt quickly moves away to get their dinner before it burns.

I want you to know

I'm a mirrorball

I'll show you every version of yourself tonight

I'll get you out on the floor

Shimmering beautiful

And when I break it's in a million pieces

Later, when the dishes are on the drying rack and the pots and pans are soaking in the sink, Kurt and Blaine are curled up together on the couch. The playlist from earlier is starting over, the sun has set and the apartment grows darker.

Blaine sits up to lit a candle but snuggles right back under the blanket with his boyfriend.

“I love you too, you know?”

Kurt kisses the top of his head.

“What if we hadn’t met?”

“If you didn’t come to Dalton?” Blaine asks.

Kurt nods.

“I’d find you,” Blaine says, “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from being pulled towards you.”

“You really believe that?”

Blaine just kisses him.

Hush

When no one is around, my dear

You'll find me on my tallest tiptoes

Spinning in my highest heels, love

Shining just for you

For the next week, Kurt comes up with plenty of scenarios for a different life for them. Each time, Blaine has their perfect meeting to go along with it.

They’re getting ready together that morning. Standing in their small bathroom. Blaine applying gel and Kurt brushing his teeth.

“If I were a Prince...” he mumbles around the toothbrush.

“And I, a commoner living in a stone house outside the castle,” Blaine continued, “you’d come into town and bump into me while buying fabric. Our eyes met and boom: love at first sight.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and rinsed his mouth. “Or maybe you sneak into a ball where I am supposed to find my future husband. We dance together and I just know it’s you. It’s always you.”

Blaine had cupped his face and kissed him.

“Minty,” he said with a laugh.

Hush

I know they said the end is near

But I'm still on my tallest tiptoes

Spinning in my highest heels, love

Shining just for you

I want you to know

I'm a mirrorball

This back and forth became a game of “What if…” with Kurt normally asking the questions and Blaine being quick to answer.

“Okay, but what if…we didn’t live in Ohio. If I grew up here and you came from LA.”

“I’m not a Hollywood guy, Kurt, my acting would still take me to Broadway.”

“Maybe your career would take you to the West End in London.”

Blaine side-eyed Kurt for a moment. “Out of the two of us, I think you’re way more likely to go to the West End than me.”

Kurt chuckled. “You’re right.”

“And how come in all these situations, I have to come to you. How about you come to me?”

“Okay, you start then.”

Blaine takes in a breath and decides on his scenario.

I can change everything about me to fit in

You are not like the regulars

The masquerade revelers

Drunk as they watch my shattered edges glisten

At eighteen, Blaine Anderson was expected to be married. Soon, his older brother Prince Cooper would take the throne, and until he and his wife produced an heir Blaine would be second-in-line for the crown.

The only problem with getting married was the lack of unmarried gay princes. As far as Blaine knew, he was the only one. Prince Sebastian had tried to court Blaine years ago but ultimately married Prince Hunter of the Southern Kingdom. Princes Nick and Jeff had been betrothed since birth in order to unite their respective kingdoms.

Due to this issue, his father was hosting a ball. All major and minor kingdoms were invited, especially those farthest away. Even ones that they normally did not interact with because Blaine was in desperate need of a husband.

Blaine’s only request for this ball was that it be a masquerade. His father, of course, thought this to be a bad idea but Blaine insisted. There was much less pressure on his shoulders if those he danced with and spoke to weren’t sure if he was the prince or not.

Hush

When no one is around, my dear

You'll find me on my tallest tiptoes

Spinning in my highest heels, love

Shining just for you

Kurt’s voice broke the fantasy. “So, in this situation, am I also a prince? Just from a far away kingdom?”

“If you’d let me finish,” Blaine said, “you’d know that information.”

His boyfriend lightly slaps his shoulder. “Don’t be mean.”

“Be patient,” Blaine countered.

“How about this instead?” Kurt inched closer to him on the couch. “We dance together at the ball and I pull you out of the ballroom, charm you, and we kiss just outside the party pressed together in the dark hallway.”

“Then what?” Blaine asked, their lips brushing together.

“We live happily ever after, of course,” Kurt told him before pressing their mouths together.

Hush

I know they said the end is near

But I'm still on my tallest tiptoes

Spinning in my highest heels, love

Shining just for you

When they wake up from their unprompted nap, the sun is just starting to set. Golden hour tanning Kurt’s pale skin and highlighting his messy hair.

Blaine only gets a few moments to stare at his boyfriend. Watching his breathing, the small twitches his body makes, and his unconsciousness making him move closer to Blaine. Then, he stirred and lazily opened his eyes.

“Hey you,” Blaine said.

Kurt hummed but even in his sleepy state, he gave Blaine a toothy smile.

“We should make dinner.”

In reply, Kurt snuggled closer to Blaine.

“Or we could order take-out.”

Blaine felt Kurt nod.

“Okay. Thai?”

Kurt shook his head.

“No Thai. Italian? I could go for some fettuccine alfredo.”

Another no.

“Alright, what do you want?”

“Greasy fries and a burger.”

Blaine abruptly moved away to stare down at Kurt, who groaned clearly unhappy that his space heater was gone. Kurt made grabby hands for Blaine to come back. Unable to resist him or cuddling, Blaine readjusted himself next to Kurt.

“Seriously, you want a burger?” Blaine asked.

“Yes please.”

With a short laugh, Blaine grabbed his phone from the nightstand and put in an order for delivery for burgers and fries.

“Milkshakes?” he questioned.

“Strawberry.”

And two strawberry shakes.

And they called off the circus

Burned the disco down

When they sent home the horses

And the rodeo clowns

As they unwrapped their burgers, Blaine started another scenario.

“Alright, this time I’m a famous sports player.”

Immediately, Kurt cut him off. “What sport?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Blaine told him. “And you’re dragged to a game with your dad or Finn or someone.”

“It matters to me.” Kurt sipped his shake. “If I’m to form a successful happy ending, I need all the information, Blaine. You know I’m a detail guy.”

Blaine bites his tongue. As usual, Kurt’s stubbornness was shining through. Except this time, he was clearly joking if his smirk had anything to say about it.

“Football.”

“You better get taller and put on some muscle mass first. You’ll get pummeled.”

"Says the formed McKinley High kicker."

"And I would've been pummeled otherwise," Kurt tells him.

“Fine, not football. Um, how about hockey?”

“You are an excellent skater.”

“Thank you.” Blaine beamed. “Anyway, I’m a jock and you’re a non-fan.”

“Professional jock,” Kurt corrected.

“Eat your burger and listen.”

I'm still on that tightrope

I'm still trying everything to get you laughing at me

I'm still a believer but I don't know why

I've never been a natural

All I do is try, try, try

I'm still on that trapeze

I'm still trying everything

To keep you looking at me

Kurt couldn’t believe he was letting his dad and Finn drag him to a hockey game. It’s freezing even if they’re not right up against the glass. Despite hot chocolate in his hands, Kurt’s shivering.

“Tickets came with money on them. Go buy a sweatshirt,” Burt says.

“You can take my coat,” Finn offers. “I want to show off my jersey anyway.”

Kurt takes Finn’s coat but instantly hands it back because it’s way too long and he can’t sit comfortably with it on.

“I’m going to the gift shop.”

“Be back soon if you don’t wanna miss the puck drop,” Burt tells him.

It’s hard to get lost in a hockey stadium because it’s just a circle so long as Kurt has his ticket he can get back to the seats. He finds the gift shop to be mostly empty despite the insane amount of people here for the game.

He remembers the patriotic colors his dad and Finn were wearing and tried to find the least offensive sweatshirt that supports the Ohio team.

“You don’t have to get Blue Jackets just cause you’re from Ohio,” a voice tells him.

“I rather not get booed at,” Kurt replies, resisting the urge to say the booing would be by his own family.

“Fair enough.” The man shrugs. “I’m partial to the black and silver of the Kings.”

Kurt looks at the sweatshirt in question. It’s much less...loud than the Blue Jackets.

“Isn’t that the opposing team?”

He smirks. It’s then that Kurt really gets a good look at the man. He’s not wearing either team’s colors. No nametag or uniform either. So, he probably doesn’t work for the stadium.

“Who are you exactly?”

“Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt shakes his hand. “Kurt Hummel.”

“Nice to meet you, Kurt.”

“You too but that didn’t answer my question, who are you? You don’t work here and you don’t seem overly invested in the game since you couldn’t be bothered to wear either of their jerseys.”

“Let’s just say, you’ll see me on the ice.”

Then, Blaine handed Kurt a piece of paper with his number on it and walked off.

Because I'm a mirrorball

I'm a mirrorball

I'll show you every version of yourself

Tonight

By the time Blaine has finished his alternative meeting, Kurt has dragged him away from the kitchen into the living room. He moved their coffee table out of the way and pushed the sofas back.

“So, I find out you’re a hockey player after the game,” Kurt said, “I text you on the way home asking if you were distracted because your team lost.”

“And I say, I couldn’t keep my eyes on the puck because I was searching for you in the stands.”

“Cheesy.”

Blaine smiled.

Kurt extended his right hand, “may I have this dance?”

“There’s no music,” Blaine answered but placed his hand into Kurt’s regardless.

Kurt pulled their bodies close so Blaine could rest his head against Kurt’s shoulder. Tucked together swaying in their living room.

“You’re all the music I need.”

#klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #klaine #my fics #folklore series

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mendesficsxbombay · 4 years

Text

don't you wanna see these clothes on me? | s.m

hello! 2 fics in one month? am i even myself anymore?

Requested ‘non sexual acts of intimacy’ from this prompt list:

7) one adjusting the other’s jewellery/neck tie, etc

anon requested this be related to or based on the GRAMMYs

Shawn Mendes was a relatively easy client to work with, anyone would tell you that. There were a few demands to be met, yes, but demands came with every famous person. His demands were always attainable, nothing too out of reach. There’s certain types of food, certain brands of packaged water (do not bring a Dasani anywhere near him or he will riot, she’d learned that the hard way), skin care products should not run out, and so on. She wasn’t his assistant or tour manager to know the details of his rider, but this was her first job on the road, you can’t blame her for being observant.

She was working very closely with him though, if you count picking out his clothes for the day and helping her actual boss, Tiffany, with his show outfits as working closely. The gig with Tiffany was a chance she had taken a little blindly. She was 21, fresh out of fashion school, and her mind was in bits about potential careers. She’d worked at stores, workshops, assisted designers and interned at a fashion week and penciled down her life into two options - styling and client servicing. Would she rather dress people or would she be the one making business happen for a fashion house to dress people? She had no goddamn idea.

Right after graduating though, she heard of an opening with a ‘well experienced stylist, in the field of dressing musicians, a travel job with months on the road and suitable perks’, and she sent an application in to the agency.

She’d read of Tiffany Briseno in her copies of Vogue multiple times. A celebrity stylist with years of experience to her name, most famous for styling a world famous Canadian pop star. He shall not be named because she herself just happened to like his music, a little bit here and there. Not like she lined up to buy a copy of his debut album at Target or anything. Of course not.

When she was called in for a video interview, Tiffany clearly explained the amount of work that went into styling for a world tour and she clearly needed an assistant who was serious with their job, and not in it for the glamour. She, in turn, explained to Tiffany about how she worked all through university, and how serious she was with her career. Her knees shook under the table she placed her laptop on, praying that Tiffany couldn’t see her body locking up with anxiety through Skype. Tiffany complimented her dedication, but also reminded her that absolutely nothing would compare to having to work on the road. She felt her shoulders sink in subconsciously, smiling and nodding as she had throughout her life and ended the conversation.

She told her parents about how she applied for this job that was just a lot of work and how she was so sure they were looking for someone with much more experience, not just a clueless grad school kid. The agency did not feel the same apparently, because she found an offer letter in her emails a few days later. She was required to meet the rest of the team and Tiffany in a few weeks’ time, and until then it was her job to look for sourcing options for Sha- for her client.

That was a whole year ago now, and as so many of the crew members said, the road had started to feel like home.

She bit the inside of her cheek, deep in thought while trying to fix a particularly stubborn crease with her steam iron on the deep red suit jacket he was meant to wear in just a few hours. She always had the option of having someone else do the ironing, but she found it calming, found it easier to collect her thoughts with a steam rod and press in her hands than she did otherwise, so they let her be.

She took the jacket down from the hangar she was using, neatly placing it on another adjacent hangar, and moved to bring in the Louis Vuitton shirt he would be wearing. Going down the front of the high quality linen she thought of how he recently liked unbuttoning way more buttons than he used to. If this weren’t a red carpet and another regular show he’d be wearing a much tighter shirt to hug around his arms, she remembers taking measurements for his other outfits to the exact inch and he said he liked it that way. A tight shirt or even a wife beater that completely let go of any barrier between showing off his biceps.

She remembered teasing him at times, and he used to blush furiously, until he started asking her if she was looking. Then it used to be her turn to blush. She thought back to the first leg of tour. She remembers them constantly sneaking around each other - but also finding excuses to share their space. She remembers feeling sparks, and she knew he felt them, too.

What other explanation could they possibly have for the middle school crush they had on each other? She would love to fend these concerns off by saying he was solely worked up because she was the only girl around his age on the crew. But that would be a lie, she knew the team of runners had a few girls their age - she was friends with them now. And the production teams had people close to them, too, even though they had alternating staff.

She could say that she was the only one working close enough with him, but that wasn’t true either. Telling herself it was just an infatuation would be the biggest lie, it had been months and he still behaved the same way around her. She was tired of having to tiptoe around him for as long as she was doing her job.

Shawn liked her so, so bad. And there was nothing she could do about it.

She had started noticing the little signs at first. Anytime he’d bring in water for himself, he had an extra bottle for her. He always saved her a spot at the dinner table. Got disappointed when she didn’t come in for at least half of his soundcheck. He liked having her near the stage when shows actually took place. And then there were bigger signs. He bought her a copy of Leave Your Mark, a book she had been trying to find for months - and when she asked him how he only ducked his head and said he found it at one of the airport bookstores. A quick ask around helped her know that he had contacted the publishers themselves and acquired a copy.

She had started noticing how the people around them moved away if they were talking. She saw the smiles passed at her every time she stepped out of his dressing room. She knew how Tiffany jumped at every chance of leaving her alone to sort his look out before every show. There were looks and whispers and she saw them all, she felt them all.

He made her nervous. Not because he was a star. God, no, that phase came and went by in a breath. He made her wonder. He made her think of a future with him, doing what she did and being with him on the run forever. He liked her, and she liked him more than she knew what to do with.

Unfortunately for her, being together all day did not help. At all. She felt hyper aware of him. Every time he walked into a room, she felt the atmosphere sizzle. She felt the change and there was no ignoring it. Just like now.

“I can feel you staring at me, you know?”

She heard him laugh once, walking closer to where she was standing, multiple cases of clothes open around her. “Don’t know why you choose to slave over an iron every day - we have people to do that, you know?”

She sighed, hanging the steam rod onto its pole and turned around to look at him, chest constricting at the sight of him in a plain white shirt, tight as she had mentioned before, wearing a pair of glasses she knew he stole from someone on the team.

“It feels nice to iron, it helps me-”

“De-stress. I know. But maybe if you just hung out with all of us once in a while you wouldn’t be so stressed…”

She crossed her arms before herself, cocking her head sideways. Get to the point, her expression said.

“Okay, look, after the awards tonight, everyone wants to go to some club where they’ve booked out a private room for the team. I wanted to know if you’re gonna be coming.” He tucked his hands into his jeans. He was one second away from swaying on his feet because otherwise he looked like a little boy asking for candy he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Ah - I’m not sure, Shawn,” her face was slowly pulling into a grimace, “All your outfits need to be back out first thing tomorrow morning and we need to send them a review as well… plus I need to get the exact details of your outfit so Tiffany can write it in her piece for GQ, and tha-“

“I knew you would say no,” he smiles immediately, and she’s scared. What did he do now? “Which is why… I have booked a table for us. For the - just the two of us, like a date.” He felt shy, felt like he was in high school asking a girl out for the first time. No smiles on his face anymore, just pure hesitation. “There’s this new place, um, it’s called Antico. You said your favourite cuisine was Italian - Antico is Italian, OH and it also has some great vegetarian food so there’ll be so many options for you to choose from…” he’s doing the thing again. He’s blushing and he can’t stop it. He needs to go to the washroom and splash water on his face. He needs to call his friends and tell them he finally asked his pretty stylist out, for real. He needs her to say yes.

She matched his expression. Wide eyes filled with wonder and face flushing hot. Was she even ready to go on a date with him?

“Sh-Shawn,” she breathes out, barely a whisper. Her eyes had grown wide, and he didn’t know if she was hesitant like him or just horrified. She wasn’t prepared for this, and one part of her wants to hug him, say yes, and then run off into the sunset with him. The other part of her though, the rational part, knows this isn’t possible. “I thin-”

“Oh, there you are!” Tiffany exclaims walking into the room, not really noticing how close together the pair were standing, and immediately starts taking clothes off the rack for Shawn to change into. He immediately steps away from her, knowing how she gets. She wasn’t one for showing too many emotions when she was surrounded by people. She did open up to him sometimes, more than she did with anyone else on the crew. He had a sneaking suspicion that unlike his past advances which were subtle and not very direct, it was this one that fully got her attention to how much he liked her, and it had her flustered. Well that makes two of them. “Is it all done, babe?”

“Yes Tiff just, let me finish the shirt and I’ll bring it to you.”

“Shawn, you wanna move to hair and makeup till we wait for your outfit?” Tiffany walks out the door swiftly, not waiting for him to answer, just calling out his name again to make sure he was following.

“Mhmm,” he says, walking backwards to the door, eyes still stuck on the girl he has pined after for months now. He refused to go down without a fight. “I’ll wait.”

________________________________________

She sees him again when he is pulling his shirt on with Tiffany straightening the material out from the back. He looks winsome in just the shirt and the red suit pants, and her mouth nearly waters thinking of the contrast the red of the blazer would have to his skin. Men who were dressed well always made her thoughts run wild, mostly because she learned to focus on the fit and the cut of the fabric, the attention to detail, the simplicity of the design or the lack, thereof. She paid way more attention to the outfits than the men wearing them. Shawn, however, was a different story. She had come to the gasping realisation that she liked him more than his outfits. And she was screwed, because no one knew how soon all of this would be ending for her.

He senses her staring holes into his back. When he walked away, he only had her expression as a response to his question, and while he wasn’t worried if she rejected him, even if it hurt real, real bad, and he constantly worried about never finding someone like her, it was okay. He was worried about this running deeper than him, she shouldn’t have to look mortified just at the mention of a date.

He looks down at his feet, the tailored hem of the pants at perfect length, discreetly raising his head to still find her looking at him. To his pleasure, the corners of her lips were upraised, eyes still on him but not really looking at him. He flashed her a smile, and she quickly realised what she was doing, scrambling to put down his pair of shoes for the evening along with the jewellery box she picked up on the way.

She starts talking to Tiffany about his accessories, and, something. He can’t really be bothered to be focusing on yet another conversation about what he’s going to wear. He wants to talk to her. He wants to know things she hasn’t told him yet. It’s been a year of this slow burning attraction between them, but is it only attraction if he wants what’s in her mind and not just what he can already see?

He already knows what stories he wants to talk about over dinner. He wants to tell her about his cheek scar, and then ask where she got the one on her right hand from. He wants to tell her about his high school prom and then ask about hers. He wants to know why she fell in love with fashion the way she did, because it consumed her fully, and she has to make conscious efforts to pay attention to things beyond art and fabric and clothes, he knows she does. He wants a deeper understanding, not for the sake of dissecting her personality, but just to know her, if she only allows him.

He only zones back in when he knows Tiffany is directly addressing him. “Shawn, you finalised the BVLGARI one last week, we’re still okay with that?”

“Yes,” he says, not sure of where to look, so he continues looking at himself in the mirror.

“Great, honey, you can put this and the chain on him and I’ll go check with the rest of the team.” Tiffany squeezes her arm with a bright smile, and turns to Shawn again, “Looking good, little Dean, it’s almost show time!”

Shawn smiles back silently, watching Tiffany leave the room, as does she. She makes quick work of walking back to him and placing the box on the vanity before him. She takes his vest off the rack, helping him get into it and buttoning him up, and then does the same with his blazer, not a word exchanged between them two.

Shawn used to be an “I can do it myself” guy until Tiffany just had to go ahead and hire the prettiest, shyest girl he’d seen, and he suddenly never wanted to button anything up on his own ever again.

She carefully picks the royal white and blue beaded necklace from the box where it was placed amongst a few other expensive ones. She clears her throat and he leans his head down out of instinct, coming to a more approachable height for her to hook the necklace in.

“So,” she starts, and he chokes on a breath he didn’t know he took, “I just, I googled Antico. It looks … upmarket to say the least. Very pretty, though. Looks like a place you would pick.”

She feels his eyes continue to follow her around, she still chooses not to look him in the eye, how could she? She delicately pulls out the chain meant to be hooked into his vest, the one that will complete his look for the night. He looked… beddable, to say the least.

“But I also saw another thing,” she says, stepping closer into him and he inhales deeply. “Antico doesn’t stay open on the weekends, Shawn. How were we supposed to go there on a Sunday?”

shitshitshit. He’d been caught. Honestly what was he expecting? She’s literally one of the smartest humans he knows, what did he expect her to do? Say yes? No questions asked?

She looks him dead in the eye now, letting out a hmm? and he’s choked up again. He staggers around a bit, she pulls at his hands to adjust his sleeves and tuck in his cufflinks.

“You said, um,” come on, brain, pull it together. “Remember when we were in London? And we all went out together and when we got out there was this whole crowd waiting?”

She remembers. Of course she does. It was the first, albeit not the last time she had come really close to having a panic attack in front of all her coworkers. He recognised the look on her face. He’d seen it on his own face in the mirror when he tried to talk himself away from breaking down. He knew what this anxiety felt like, even though years of being in the business had numbed him to large, loud crowds, overzealous fans and intrusive paparazzi alike. He had taken her hand in his and pulled her back inside the pub immediately, calling his driver and asking him to pick them up ‘round the back, and getting out of there in record time. He didn’t know what came over him but he pulled her into his arms as soon as they were in the car. He murmured softly into her ear, he was here, they couldn’t get to her anymore and she had sniffled and cuddled closer - until they reached their hotel and it was back to being a standard five feet apart from each other. It was one of the last times she had gone out with the whole team, especially him.

“I made a special request, they’re opening up only for us tonight. I don’t really want to stay for the whole show, thought we could sneak out a bit early. I just didn’t want us to be crowded again.”

Her hands froze around his, he left her tongue tied on most days but this was something else. At the lack of response from her, he gently pried her hands off his wrist, holding both lightly in his. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go. I won’t like you any less.”

Her mind rushed back to all the times they had stood close just like this. The time he almost kissed her on her birthday and she almost kissed him on his. The one night they both passed out on the couch in his tour bus, when she wasn’t even supposed to ride with him. She thought about the offer letter that had been in her emails for two days now, offering her a place in the client servicing team for Burberry in London. She thought about the 4 weeks’ notice she had typed out for Tiffany weeks ago, the only reason for her not sending it out standing in front of her. Her mother’s words rang in her head, as they have her whole life. If you’re not moving, you’re not growing.

He squeezes her hands once, ducking his head to the floor and walking away. She thinks about letting him go, but she refuses to.

Her fingers clasp around his wrist, pulling the gentle giant back a little bit.

“Will you wear the silk shirt? The black one?”

He looks confused. Didn’t he just get dressed?

“To Antico? Thought we could match.”

taglist: @shawnwyr @mendesstories @lanallaa @sleepybesson @rulerofnocountry @luvluvxx @wholesomemendes

dm to be added or removed ♥️

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nethandrake · 4 years

Text

let’s fall from the stars.

stevetony. mcu. rated t. post-avengers (2012). 3.9k words.

also on ao3.

buy me a ko-fi.

*****

From the moment they met, Friday nights have always been reserved for Steve. It doesn't matter if Tony has business overseas or a mountain of paperwork awaiting him in his office. He'll always make time for Steve. And somehow, Steve always has time for Tony.

But tonight might be the first time he'll get a 'no', get a, Sorry, I can't do this anymore.

And that's fine. Totally fine. It's a long time coming, after all.

Wear a suit. I’ll meet you down in the lobby at seven, Tony texts before tossing his phone behind him, uncaring of where it lands.

It’s midnight when they first meet.

Tony doesn’t notice him at first. Not at all. He’s too busy staring down the bottom of his glass, too busy wallowing in his loneliness and misery to notice the world swirling around him.

But then he hears a quiet baritone next to him and then suddenly, he’s seized with the need to hear, see, know.

A stranger – tall, blond, and beautiful – sits next to him, dressed in a button-down and khakis with the softest smile he's ever laid his eyes upon.

Tony's breath hitches.

“Hi,” Tall, Blond, and Beautiful says, their bright blue eyes twinkling under the dingy lights.

Time doesn’t stop. Tony wishes it did, wishes he could bottle this man up in his mind because he's just so goddamn ethereal.

“Hey,” he replies and just like that, he knows things wouldn’t be the same.

*****

Steve’s standing in the lobby downstairs, dressed in a navy two-piece. It's an outfit Tony’s seen him in one too many times. And yet every time he lays his eyes on Steve, it feels like the first time.

Steve pauses, his fingers curled around his tie, his lips parting as his blue, blue eyes rove.

“Tony,” he says, sounding a little shy. “Hi.”

Tony swallows his nerves and stills his hands from wringing them. “Hey. You look nice.”

“So do you.” Steve pauses, his eyes drifting down to the ground. “I like your shoes.”

“Thanks. I got them last week from Pep.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“Yup. It was.”

An awkward silence fills the air. Tony has never felt so out of his depth in forever.

Because this is Steve Rogers he’s talking to. Steve Rogers, one of the very few people he can be himself with. Steve Rogers, who’s one of his best friends. Steve Rogers, who he’s in love with.

Steve Rogers who’s Captain America.

I didn’t think you’d show up, he wants to say. I thought you hate me. Why are you here? Why are you here if you hate me?

“We should get going,” Tony says instead, his mouth tasting like ash. “Don’t wanna be late.”

He spins on his heel, heading for the door and not bothering to wait for Steve to catch up.

If Tony knows Steve, if he knows Captain America, he will follow.

Captain America always does.

*****

Tony learns Tall, Blond, and Beautiful has a name – Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers is a ball to be around with. He talks and laughs and listens and spins intricate tales about the life he once had and the life he has now. Even when Tony laughs a little too loudly or makes a joke that falls flat, Steve just grins and looks at him like he isn’t Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, monster.

It’s nice. He’s nice. Everything is just so fucking nice.

Tony Stark never gets nice things.

So when they come to a stop in front of the tower, Tony braces himself for the other shoe to drop. It always does.

“It was nice talking to you,” Steve begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had a great time.”

“Same here,” Tony replies and then squares his shoulders. “Maybe we should do it again. Sometime soon. If you like.”

The smile he receives is as bright as a thousand suns. This is how Tony loses the war called love.

*****

Tonight's dinner is at a place Pepper has been gushing about for weeks – a fancy Italian place in the heart of Upper East Side.

It’s grand and bold, with gold adorning the walls and mulberry silk for tablecloth. Their fellow patrons are decked in their finest and eating lobsters and scallops and drinking forty-year-old wine while Beethoven quietly plays in the background.

Tony should feel at home here, surrounded by the riches he grew up with. But watching Steve squirm in his seat, watching Steve stare down his cutlery like it’s going to stab him in the eye, makes him feel so goddamn uncomfortable.

It’s times like these that Tony wishes he wasn’t born into this life, a life that neither Steve nor Captain America would never, ever see himself in.

Tony should’ve known better than to dream.

He sets the wine glass he’s been swirling around for minutes. “Wanna get out of here?”

At that, all the tension Steve has been radiating dissipates. He exhales, slumping further in his chair. “God. Fuck. Yes, please.”

A quiet snort tumbles out of Tony’s lips before he can stop himself.

Steve cocks an eyebrow wryly. For a moment, Tony forgets everything that’s happened this past week.

“What?”

“Oh nothing,” Tony replies. “Just… Just didn’t expect you to swear, is all.”

Something crosses Steve’s face but it’s gone before Tony could dwell on what it is. But even with a glimpse, he has his suspicions. He hates himself for making it surface.

They take their leave with their jackets in hand, not before Tony leaving a hundred dollar tip. Next to him, Steve breaks into a smile that looks surprisingly fond.

“What?”

“Oh nothing,” he says, shrugging his blazer on. “Just thought that’s nice of you. To do that.”

“I do that all the time.”

“I know.”

There’s something behind his eyes that shakes Tony’s insides. But he turns away and makes a move to his car because he can't, he really can't—

A hand on his shoulder stops him short.

“We should walk,” Steve murmurs, his eyes drifting up to the night sky. “It’s a nice night out.”

“Where are we even going?”

Steve gives his shoulder a light squeeze. “Wherever the night takes us.”

Tony scoffs as he watches Steve walk off.

“That’s so corny,” he says, striding to catch up.

“I know.”

They’re quiet as they navigate the streets and the crowds. New York City has always been a place Tony has both loved and despised, full of shadows and ghosts. But he won’t deny that it’s a place where he can just be. Be swallowed up by the honking and the shouting, the cold, by the nameless bodies and neon lights. Swept up in the moment like he’s the nobody he always wishes to be.

Not for the first time, he lets himself pretend, lets himself be the man he could be for Steve, lets himself pretend that he deserves the warmth radiating from his side, the brush of fingers against his own.

“Tony,” Steve starts in that tone that Tony both loves and hates, the one that makes him weak in the knees and his chest stir because fuck. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

He hears Steve sigh. “You know what.”

Tony knows. Oh, he definitely does. But he’s not ready. Not yet. Not now. Not ever.

“Later,” he says, pulling away. “I need food in me. Can’t think on an empty stomach, you know?”

Steve frowns but doesn’t pursue it, shoving his hands in his pockets as the hundredth crowd spits them out.

Tony never thought the May air could feel this frigid.

*****

One outing turns to two to three and then Tony could barely keep count because all the days somehow bleed together when he’s with Steve Rogers.

They go to many places – diners at the break of dawn, art galleries on quiet weekdays, parks on noisy weekends. Tony’s favorite outings, however, are when they roam the streets aimlessly on nights.

Sometimes, they’d head to a bar and drink until they’re pink in the face. Other times, they’d go to a diner or a hole-in-a-wall. Both times, they’d talk about everything and nothing before Steve would fight him for the bill and offer to join him on his walk to nowhere.

Steve who’s a comic book artist from Brooklyn. Steve who loves Tolkien’s shitty books and hates the cold. Steve who’s kind and witty and beautiful and everything Tony doesn’t deserve.

And since Tony doesn’t deserve, he doesn’t ask.

*****

read the rest on ao3.

#stevetony #stony #steve rogers #tony stark #superhusbands #*fic #stevetonytober

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maybankiara · 4 years

Text

PHONE SWAP (DREW STARKEY)

12: THE MORE THE MERRIER

summary: Addie Mallory is just your average economics student when she meets Drew Starkey at her local Target in Atlanta. This is where the story is supposed to end – a short meeting and a picture to go – except Drew accidentally leaves with the wrong phone, and the story begins, instead.

w/c: 3k

a/n: all questions and complaints to be sent to my po box, thanks

read on wattpad

previous part | series masterlist

Me | 6:12pm Hey! Do you know where most people are meeting up?

Winnie O’Connell | 6:12pm I’ve got no clue but Holden Wes and Marea are coming to mine at 6:30 and we’re leaving a little after 7, Wes isn’t drinking. You can come with us!! The more the merrier 🥰

Me | 6:13pm That sounds great!! Thank youuu

Winnie O’Connell | 6:13pm No problem girl ❤ Winnie O’Connell | 6:13pm You remember where I live right?

Me | 6:14pm Yep! I should be there a in 25-30

Winnie O’Connell | 6:14pm Can’t wait to see you!! 😘

Me | 6:15pm You too 😊

◇

Addie leaves the flat looking—hopefully—decent enough for a night out with colleagues. She’s aware of the fact that all these people have been on a fair share on nights out together by now, and she’s not entirely sure about the dress code, but she went with what seemed the most appropriate – a deep, dark green tube top and a matching high-waisted skirt, with a stylish leather jacket Marianne let her steal for the night. She managed to stuff all her belongings into the jacket’s pockets, even the strawberry-scented tinted chapstick that Marianne forced to take, even if her lips are too dark for the chapstick’s light pink to make the slightest difference.

The Uber picks her up and leaves her at Winnie’s address shortly after forty past six, just like she planned. Addie stands in front of the tall, expensive-looking building feeling insufferably small, despite her height and the platform shoes that are currently making her stand even taller. She smooths out the nonexistent creases on her skirt and tells herself she’s freaking out over nothing, then rings the bell.

Winnie lets her in within a moment and a minute later, the elevator has taken her to the top floor.

Addie stands in front of the entrance door, and hesitates.

The first and only time she’s ever been to Winnie O’Connell’s apartment was on the very first week of the internship. Their bosses were still trying to see whom Addie would work the best with, and Winnie was the first who had a case that involved economic matters that Winnie, as a recent lawyer, couldn’t do on her own. They spent the evening at hers, working through the case until they cracked it with enough Indian takeout to keep them going.

Winnie might’ve been the first person to offer her friendship, yet Addie refused it in favour of a strictly professional relationship she’d deemed necessary to work on that case, and any other. She’s lucky that Winnie doesn’t hold grudges and didn’t even act as if it was out of the ordinary when Addie asked to join one of their nights out.

Finally, with a deep breath, Addie knocks.

Winnie opens the door with a bright smile on her face. She’s taller than usual, sporting a pair of high heels that are a few inches taller than her usual attie, combined with a little black dress that accentuates her curves in all the good ways; Addie’s first thought is that Marianne would like this dress. Her second thought is that she nailed the dress code.

‘Addison, hi!’ Winnie pulls her into a tight hug, smelling of a warm floral perfume. ‘I’m glad you’re here, we’re just about to start a little drinking game.’

Addie smiles. ‘That sounds great.’

The girl moves to the side and lets her in. The door shuts with a click and Winnie’s heels make nearly the same sound across the wooden floor as she leads Addie into the apartment. She stops at the end of the hallway, right where it expands into what Addie recalls to be a massive living room.

‘I’ll just go and grab you a drink,’ says Winnie. She steps through the door on the side, closer than the living room, and Addie catches a glimpse of a silver, minimalistic kitchen. ‘The others are in the living room.’

With that, Winnie enters the kitchen, and Addie makes her way into the living room.

‘ADDISON!’

Her lips stretch into a large, toothy grin at Wes Tucker’s voice, enlarging as her eyes fall upon the boy. Wes is someone a person can’t help but notice – cheerful and always making a point to be the loudest in a room, with a talent for accomplishing the most by doing the least. He’s also yet another person whose friendship Addie refused, yet it doesn’t seem to matter to him, either.

He’s giving her one of the biggest smiles she’s ever seen on him, and he looks casually elegant in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. ‘We’re all very happy you finally decided to join us.’

‘Well, it was about time, right?’

‘Fuck yeah. Now get here, we’re about to play Charades and Holden needs a partner since Marea’s sitting this one out.’

Addie’s gaze drops to the girl sitting at the furthest end of the table, a phone pressed to her cheek and lips stretched into a slight smile. She waves at her, and Marea’s smile increases just a little, as she speaks to whoever’s on the phone. Addie doesn’t think it’s Italian (which Addie is pretty sure is her native language). With her dark locks and matching eyes, slightly tan skin, and a sharp jaw, she looks on edge and filled with kindness at once.

A chair screeches. Addie turns her head, and her eyes meet Holden’s.

‘Hey,’ he greets, flashing her a set of impeccably white teeth. ‘You ready to get this started?’

She nods, letting her face relax and shoulders drop. ‘Let’s get it on.’

‘Great!’

Addie takes a seat where Holden’s pulled the chair out for her, right next to him. Winnie comes a few seconds later and gives everyone a new round of drinks, which Addie suspects isn’t their first nor second, either. They clink them together (‘To the internship!’) and get started with Charades.

The sweetness masks the taste of alcohol, and Addie goes through her drink quickly. Marea leaves the room the moment they begin playing because Winnie is the one acting out in the first round, and the petite brunette holds a lot more vocal power in her than Addie would’ve guessed. When they finish, Wes high-fives her as they count the cards, and threatens Addie and Holden with fire in his eyes.

Addie laughs, and for the first time in three months, feels like she’s finally experiencing the full offer of the internship.

It’s her and Holden’s turn, and he offers her to pick, so she panic-chooses guessing. He groans and she learns soon enough that Holden isn’t the best at miming. The sand is out of the hourglass, and both of them are out of breath.

They’re still faster than the other two, winning the round.

Holden wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head as he gives her a smile. ‘That was a lot.’

‘Mhm,’ says Addie. ‘The only reason why we won is because they’re worse, not because we’re good.’

‘Ouch. Let’s see if you’re any better.’

She ends up being better, after all, or it’s just the initial awkwardness of being partners outside of their workplace finally going away. Addie guessed they would make a good team, given how well they get along at work, but it’s still nice to get a confirmation. Also, Holden offers to buy her a drink when they get to the bar as an apology for doubting her, and she can’t really say no to that.

At the end of the day, Addie is just a girl who likes boys, and Holden just so happens to have swapped his usual three-piece with a navy blue t-shirt and a pair of fitted black jeans, losing some of the office stiffness, too. He’s more at ease than she’s ever seen him, with eyes that tell the intimacy of an inside joke, and there’s something oddly charming about him.

Her hands move a stray curl out of her face and she focuses back on Wes and Winnie, who are shuffling the cards, and she feels her breath flutter as she exhales.

i’ve been single for way too fucking long.

For the rest of the game, half of Addie’s focus remains on the boy sitting next to her. They get through a few more rounds, getting better each time. She’s aware of how close their knees are, of the bittersweet scent of his cologne, of the way he seems to pick up on her mannerisms quickly and easily enough to turn the game into child’s play.

Marea comes back a little before they’re supposed to leave. Wes leads them to his car, a silver Subaru, ordering Marea in the front and the other three in the back. The car’s big enough for them to fit comfortably with Addie in the middle, but not enough for them to not be touching.

Addie doesn’t budge for the entirety of the ride, but neither does Holden.

The bar where they end up meeting the rest of the people from the internship is located in the northern part of the city. It’s full of people roughly their age, drinking beer straight out of the bottle while playing pool or watching others sing karaoke at the back – basically, as Marianne would say it, it’s the “American bootleg version of an honest-to-god English pub”.

Their table is in-between the lousy bunch sitting at the bar and the loud bunch playing pool. Addie slides into the booth with Nadia to her left, and Mark and Diego a little further. The ones sitting beside them are the ones she doesn’t really know, as they’re from a different department, and neither they nor are among those few who travel from one to another given the occasion. Addie checks the time on her phone, seeing she’s got a text from Marianne, but chooses to ignore it for the time being.

Holden slides into the booth next to her, thigh against thigh. Addie feels her skin shiver where his knee brushes hers, and she takes an ice-cold beer out of his hand and nearly downs it in one go.

‘Damn, Addison.’

The bottle thunks on the wooden table and Addie taps the runaway drops out of the corners of her lips. It doesn’t miss her notice how his eyes follow the movement. ‘It’s Addie. For friends.’

‘Okay then, Addie,’ says Holden, grinning. His finger points at the phone that’s still showing her lockscreen – that undisputably dumb-looking photo of Drew one of the cast members took back when he had her phone. ‘That your boyfriend?’

Addie slides the phone back into her pocket. ‘Nope. Just a friend. Haven’t got a boyfriend.’

Holden nods as if he’s mulling the information over. His eyes light up and the corners of his lips tug into a playful smile. ‘Are you as good at playing pool as you are at Charades?’

‘Only when I’ve had more than two drinks.’

‘Well in that case, I can go get you the—’

‘IT’S CHUGGING TIME!’

Both of them are startled by Raiden’s announcement and about two dozen beers being slammed on the table. Next to her, Nadia laughs and makes a comment about how the next morning is going to be difficult, and Diego retorts by calling a pussy, to which Nadine informs him that technically, he isn’t wrong.

Addie nearly bursts into laughter. Nadine hears and then asks for her opinion on the matter, and Winnie ends up being included, too, until the entire group is discussing the weight of “dick” and “pussy” as insults.

Raiden tells them to pick partners. Addie goes with Nadia, Holden with Winnie, Wes with Marea, Mark with Diego. Raiden instructs them to intertwine their arms at the elbows, which Addie and Nadia do with ease.

Nadia bobs her head. ‘You ready?’

‘I was born for this.’

In the end, they end up being nearly the last for all three turns, because as it turns out, they’re not that good at this. But it’s a good laugh, and Addie feels like Nadia is someone she might get used to.

The realisation that the only thing they all have in common is the firm they intern for irks her mind a little. She knows that there’s people who get along with everybody, but the idea that there’s a dozen people bonding solely over the fact that they have a love-hate relationship with their job and bosses and actually making long-lasting connections is baffling.

Just... humans. Humans are baffling.

And Addie is starting to feel her five drinks.

She ends up leaving Nadia to go to the bar with Holden, who gets the two of them a drink each. He’s got a mouth made of honey and he talks Addie into playing pool with ease, except she gets Winnie and Wes to tag along, too.

Addie slams two sticks on the table. She’s not usually this confident, or this cocky, but one look at the curve of Holden’s lips is enough to get her to raise her chin high, bump shoulders with Winnie, and say, ‘Y’all are about to get smoked.’

The boys laugh. When it turns out that Winnie is indeed a master at pool (‘It’s a family sport, really’), they don’t laugh anymore.

Addie bends over the pool table, the stick between her index and middle finger. The alcohol is making everything fuzzy and smooth so it’s taking double the concentration – but Winnie says she’s got it, so she’s got it.

The stick glides between her fingers. The last coloured ball shoots into the side, then another side, until it shadows into the hole in the middle.

‘SMOKE THIS, BITCHES!’ shouts Winnie, raising a fair few eyebrows around them, and whispers a “sorry” hushed with a giggle.

Wes sighs. He puts one end of his stick on the ground and the other underneath his chin, eyeing Holden with disappointment. ‘We could’ve played better, dude.’

‘What can I say.’ Holden shrugs, taking the balls out from under the table. He throws a glance at Addie, wearing the same face he usually does when they figure out how to go on about a case. ‘I’m used to having a different partner.’

Winnie chuckles. Wes groans. Addie rolls her eyes.

‘Cheer up, big boy,’ says Addie. She comes from behind him and takes over what he was doing, aligning the balls into a perfect triangle. His stare is burning into her back, but she doesn’t budge. ‘Ready to lose another one?’

‘No, actually.’ he says. ‘Team switch up?’

‘Ugh, really? Wes?’

Despite Addie calling his name, the tall boy edges to Winnie, making a grimace. ‘Nah, I’m with Bradfield on this one. I’ve got a better chance at winning with Winnie. Ya know.’

The pun—intended or not, doesn’t really matter—earns him a light smack on the chest from Winnie, who ends up agreeing to the new teams.

Addie sighs. ‘Fine, then. Holden?’

‘Yes, Addie?’

She comes closer to him, leaning close enough that she’s sure he feels her breath on his cheek, and stage whispers, ‘We’ll get ‘em just like we got ‘em in the Charades.’

Both Wes and Winnie begin to protest so Holden slings an arm around her shoulder, as if protecting her from it all. Where his gentle fingers touch her briefly, Addie’s skin chills – she can only hope he doesn’t notice her shiver.

‘Hell yeah,’ he says. ‘Just you wait.’

His arm disappears from her shoulder and he’s over the table, pushing the stick, and the game has begun.

Addie’s head is beginning to spin a little, and she’s aware that she’s not aware of everything that’s happening.

Some time and two rounds of pool later (that they both still lose, because they’re the worst pool players she’s ever witnessed), they decide to try out clubbing. Mark drives Diego and Mareahome, Nadia leaves with Raiden (whom she has apparently been hooking up with for as long as they’ve both been a part of the internship). That leaves Addie, Holden, Wes, and Winnie with people whose names Addie didn’t catch – she blames it on her fuzzy mind being unable to hold onto any coherent thought.

The club’s lights are dim, and they’re all kind of dancing together. She’s mostly with Winnie, until Winnie leaves to chat with someone who’s just bought her a drink, and Wes is making out in the back of the room with a boy he met back at the bar, and it’s just her and Holden.

Addie and Holden.

He smiles, as if reading her mind, and takes her hand just to twirl her around, watching her gleefully as she throws her head back and laughs, freely. His hands travel to her sides, and soon they’re all she can focus on – their slight tug pulling her close, her hips swaying to the rhythm.

Addie knows it’s going to happen before it happens. Even under the dim neon light of the club’s dance floor, she sees Holden’s eyes flicker to her lips, before looking back at her eyes with a question. They look nice – deep and blue and full of something, and the lights reflected in the m are bright and blue and red and yellow, and that’s all a part of the reason why Addie tilts her head to the slide, her eyes flickering to his lips, now.

Holden leans in. Addie does the same.

His lips taste like beer, not honey. Surprisingly, he doesn’t taste like a mistake, either.

◇

Virgin Mary | 8:21pm so how’s it going?? Virgin Mary | 9:47pm I’ll just assume you’re having a great time 😂 Virgin Mary | 9:49pm anyway just remember to be responsible and don’t do anything super drastic from what you'd do when sober!! love youuu

Me | 00:22am i kissed holden Me | 0:22am or he ksised ke Me | 0:22am were gonna gi to his

Virgin Mary | 0:23am OK HOLD UP THAT CONSTITUTES AS DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT FROM NORMAL Virgin Mary | 0:23am how drunk are you

Me | 00:23am very

Virgin Mary | 00:23am where is he

Me | 00:24am talking to wes

Virgin Mary | 00:24am do you want to shag him

Me | 00:24am yes

Virgin Mary | 00:24am drunk?

Me | 00:24am yes Me | 00:24am no Me | 00:24am fuck Me | 00:25am shit

Virgin Mary | 00:25am do you want it to be a one night stand

Me | 00:26am wtf n0 Me | 00:26am ok ill just call an uber

Virgin Mary | 00:26am let me know how it goes!!!

Me | 00:31am wes is dringing me home Me | 00:31am be there in twenty or twentybfive

Virgin Mary | 00:32am I’ll wait up on you

Me | 00:37am thanks marinanen Me | 00:38am youre my best friend and i loge you dko kych

Virgin Mary | 00:40am lmao I love you too gal ❤

Me | 00:49am ❤❤🤡❤❤❤

Virgin Mary | 00:50am you know what... I don’t want to ask 😂😂

Me | 00:53am were here

Virgin Mary | 00:53am omw!!

◇

13: EVERYTHING GOES WELL

tagging. @jjmaybanksbaby @taiter-tots @sacredto @snkkat @drewswannabegirl @yeslifeofateen @rudypnkw @stfukie @x-lulu @drewstarkey @butgilinsky @solllaris @hyperactive2411 @chasefreakinstokes @surferkie @jroseron @k-k0129 @starlightstories

#drew starkey #drew starkey fic #drew starkey fanfiction #outer banks #obx #phone swap series

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halictus-writer · 4 years

Text

Welcome to Seattle (Ch. 4 of 5)

Remus woke early the next morning, feeling energetic. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat down at his table/desk combination to work on his novel. Safely wrapped in an oversized sweater, he opened the window to let the fresh cold morning air in. It wasn’t until he had settled comfortably into a workflow and even lit a cinnamon-scented candle before he remembered that he should probably still be upset over being blown off from a dinner date last night.

Instead, he felt strangely at peace. Going to the Italian restaurant, laughing with Sirius, and eating pizza had seemed to wash away his troubles, and he wasn’t going to complain if it took a surprisingly short amount of time to feel normal again. After writing a chapter and a half, it was time to leave for his breakfast with the girls.

As Remus walked out of his apartment building, he tossed his jacket over his shoulder and almost skipped down the sidewalk–– tiramisu safely in hand–– with joy. Something about the day just felt good.

Walking into the breakfast nook, he spotted his friends already seated at a table.

“Marls! Dorcas!” He greeted them warmly, giving each of them a side-hug.

Dorcas responded with a “Hey, babe!” While Marlene fixed him with a look.

“You,” she said, index finger pointing at his chest, “are absolutely glowing.”

Remus’s cheeks began to turn red, a lingering side effect of any attention whatsoever being directed towards him. His smile stayed in place though. “What, no I’m not.”

“Why do you look so happy?”

“Also,” he drew out the word, talking over Marlene, “I brought you a gift!” Remus handed over the box containing last night’s tiramisu, previously concealed by his jacket.

“Oh my god, this looks so good.” Dorcas said, eyeing the dessert.

Marlene started to close the box again when Dorcas made a noise of protest. “What?” She asked, laughing. “We have to wait until after we eat breakfast.”

“No we most certainly do not, we are adults!” Dorcas protested, and reopened the box.

Conversation flowed comfortably between the three of them, updating each other on the events of the past week. For every minute of serious conversation, there seemed to be two more of random banter, staccatoed with flicking straw wrappers and play-fighting when Dorcas or Marlene wanted to prevent the other from telling a funny story at the expense of her girlfriend. After Marlene all but tackled Dorcas to successfully pass her phone to Remus–– displaying a video of a wine-drunk Dorcas driving backwards in Mario Kart, her face dropping in shock when Marlene’s voice from behind the camera points out that she is in last place–– they got disdainfully frowned at from a tourist family and an old married couple. James would have been proud.

Eventually, Dorcas brought the conversation back to Remus’s cancelled date. “So, Marls is right, you are glowing, and I love that, but tell us about last night. You don’t seem upset about it?”

Remus shrugged. “Well, yeah, I mean it sucked waiting around for the dinner date that never happened, but if it wasn’t meant to be then there’s really no use losing sleep over it, I suppose.”

Dorcas looked mildly impressed by his answer.

“Plus, I salvaged the evening by treating myself to pizza at the Italian restaurant right by my apartment. That’s where your pre-breakfast dessert hailed from.”

Marlene looked at the now-empty to-go box in surprise. “Wow, I love how we just devoured that and didn’t even ask you where it came from. I don’t think I even said thanks?”

“Don’t worry babe, we were doing him a favor. Remus hates soggy cake.” Dorcas stated confidently.

Remus laughed. “You’re welcome,” he said, looking only at Marlene. “But yeah, I wish the waiter knew that about me. I would be totally happy with any other free dessert, but I guess tiramisu is their specialty or something.”

“Wait, hold on,” Marlene paused. “Are you saying you didn’t buy this for us? I’m withdrawing my belated thanks.”

“No, no, wait hold on, but to the other part of that sentence,” Dorcas said. “Are you saying a waiter gave you a free dessert?”

“Yeah, he kind of always does.”

“Wait, is he like, flirting with you?”

“No!” Remus said, assuredly, but his cheeks turned warm anyway.

“He gave you a free dessert. He has given you multiple free desserts? That is definitely flirting.”

Remus wanted to protest this statement, somehow, but all he could come up with was a strangled sort of noise.

Marlene seemed encouraged by his obvious embarrassment. “Oh my god, you’re going to fall in love and make babies with the help of modern science. Your baby is going to like tiramisu and be born with the personality of an old man. Half you and half waiter boy.”

“What’s his name what’s his name what’s his name,” Dorcas parroted, poking him in the arm with each question.

“Absolutely not.” Remus answered. Having already witnessed Dorcas’s impressive online stalking skills, he wasn’t about to give her a name as unique as Sirius. “Besides, uh,” his tone softened, “honestly I think he only brings me desserts because he feels sorry for me.”

Dorcas’s playful smile dropped. “Oh, Remus,” she began, “don’t sell yourself short.”

Marlene nodded with her, but mercifully changed the subject a minute later.

***

Remus shifted in his seat as his phone vibrated once, signifying an incoming text message. He was in his daily meeting with the other writers for the newspaper. They had just wrapped up the business side of the meeting, and had moved on to the fun side: presenting the best (worst?) reader comments from their online stories.

“Okay, okay, my turn,” the room quieted as Minerva spoke up. She was one of the older writers, and had been at the paper for almost ten years now. Everyone respected (and possibly feared) her, but Remus had immediately connected with her after they locked eyes during a lunch break to discover that they were both reading the newest Margaret Atwood novel and sipping Earl Grey tea. “On my article covering the shopping mall that tried to prevent breastfeeding in public, Ken M. wrote ‘aside from being completely unnecessary, breastfeeding encourages babies to objectify women.’”

The room burst into laughter, and Remus took the opportunity to subtly check his phone. Sure enough, it was Roy, the man he had been messaging for the last few days, and had even moved from Tinder’s chat platform to real texting. He smiled, but turned the phone to Do Not Disturb until the meeting was over.

“Ken M. strikes again!” Someone else announced.

“Ken M. deserves his own column, I swear.” A voice from the back of the room chimed in. “This man comments something completely ridiculous on every post. On my piece on updated bus routes he got into an argument with someone else, and I didn’t read all the comments to know how it got there, but Ken M. ended their dispute with, and I quote, ‘God is a ridiculous myth.’”

Remus laughed along with his coworkers, and took a moment to enjoy the fun banter. He loved his job for his career, but also enjoyed the little positive moments that arose from his sudden move to the big city: meeting Minerva, discovering the infamous Ken M., and laughing along with his coworkers during a meeting. His old job had been at a small newspaper where the main source of workplace laughter was Remus silently laughing at the incompetence of his coworkers, not his readers.

As the meeting ended and people began to file out of the room, he pulled out his phone. Roy told Remus he wanted to take him to his favorite restaurant on Saturday night, and Remus happily agreed to meet him in front of the Pike Place Market neon sign at 6:30. The restaurant was a short walk from there, and Remus was glad he didn’t have to awkwardly refuse getting into the car with someone he didn’t know on a first date.

I want the restaurant to be a surprise, Roy had sent, but do you have any dietary restrictions? Remus appreciated his foresight, and answered with, I’m vegetarian, but I eat pretty much anything otherwise! Remus took a moment to smile dopily after receiving a quick response: perfect.

Remus was excited for the date. Roy was very handsome, with curly blond hair, soft blue eyes, and dimples. He was also, if his profile was to be trusted, very accomplished.

***

The date was horrible. Roy kept most of the conversation centered on himself and his many achievements. Remus noticed that his eyes were actually brown, and while Remus had nothing against brown eyes, seeing as he had a pair of them himself, he couldn’t help but feel weirded out by the fact that Roy, or Gilderoy, as he referred to himself in the third person, had taken the time to edit or filter his eye color in all of his online photos.

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Remus had already reminded himself over and over that it was just one date, and that even if it was disappointing, he would have a good story to tell later, and he didn’t feel unsafe at all. His friends had his phone’s location, and Dorcas had already assured him that she would “track down and throw from the Space Needle” any man who tried to harm Remus.

Remus tried to muster a polite smile as Roy told him about his obviously fabricated second meeting with Oprah, but his smile completely dropped when he read the front of his menu. They were at a steakhouse.

Their waitress approached, saving Remus from whatever monologue he was about to be subjected to. “What can I get started for you guys tonight?” She sounded bored, which Remus was willing to credit her for, as he understood working in the food industry was not exactly glamorous, but he still stupidly thought of Sirius’s excitement as he waited tables.

Roy had the nerve to try to order for Remus. Remus cut him off and appealed to the waitress. “I’m sorry, I realize you probably don’t get that many vegetarians here, but are there any vegetarian menu items?”

“You’re vegetarian?” The waitress said in surprise.

Remus didn’t expect that response, but he turned directly to Roy as he answered, “yes.”

***

An hour later, Remus was finally free of Roy. The aggravating man had offered to pay for the whole meal, with a public brandishing of his multiple credit cards, but Remus insisted they split it, just to ensure that no one thought he owed him anything. Remus wanted to never see this man again, and if that meant paying for half of a check that consisted of one expensive filet mignon and one cheap side salad, then it was well worth it.

Remus said goodbye in the midst of the Public Market, and then walked away. The last thing he wanted to do was get walked home by the insufferable man and have to listen to him, or worse, have to listen to him invite himself upstairs. As he walked home, he blocked Roy’s phone number, for good measure, and deleted the Tinder app from his phone. He dully realized that if he wanted to deactivate his account for good he would need to redownload the app first, but the symbolism felt nice in the moment.

Composure carried Remus inside his apartment building and up the stairs, but after finally locking his door behind him, he started crying. It was stupid really, and thinking that the idiot he wasted one evening with was making him cry only made him cry harder. His tears were out of frustration more than sadness.

He was frustrated that he couldn’t find a decent man on Tinder. He was frustrated that some asshole took him to a fucking steakhouse after knowing he was a vegetarian. He was frustrated because for whatever reason, he was alone on a Saturday night, again, and he very well may be alone on all future Saturday nights, because his ex-boyfriend decided that he didn’t love him anymore. What was even worse to think about, somehow, was that Remus didn’t even want his ex-boyfriend back. It would be so simple, he thought, to simply miss him, and hope that he would change his mind, and Remus could move back to his little college town and get his old job back at the small newspaper and compromise his life away. But he didn’t even want that anymore. Instead, he had to navigate the world not knowing if there was anyone that he could build a life with, all the while wasting his time on losers like Roy. And he was frustrated because he was hungry, having eaten only a small side salad for dinner.

Fueled by hunger and frustrated tears, he got up, grabbed his journal and pocketed a pen, made a halfhearted effort to wipe the tears from his face, and didn’t bother to change out of his date clothes before he headed out to go eat some comfort food.

He started crying a bit on his way to the restaurant, but it was dark outside and the anonymity of the large city granted some comfort. By the time he got to the restaurant, he was mostly calmed down, and just wanted to eat his pizza in silence, and process his emotions through writing them down in the journal he brought.

It was surprisingly busy at the restaurant for being so late on a Saturday night, and Remus took advantage of that fact to quietly slip into a booth as far away from Sirius’s normal section that he could. Remus didn’t think he would be able to keep up with Sirius’s banter, or familiarity, or free tiramisu tonight. Until he had taken the time to process his night on paper, he didn’t want to have to talk to anyone he knew. After a minute of solitude, a middle-aged waitress approached his table: success. He placed his order and went back to his journal.

As always, he started to feel better almost immediately after he started writing. Once he came to a good stopping point, he paused to look up, and drank some of the cold water the waitress had brought earlier. A few deep breaths later and he was feeling almost like a real human again.

Just then, a familiar voice sounded from behind him.

“Hey there.” Sirius’s voice sounded warm, as always, but slightly hesitant too.

“I brought you something, uh, I saw that your pizza just went in the oven, so it’s still going to be a few minutes.” He placed a small platter of roasted green beans to the side of Remus’s journal, and gave a tentative smile.

Remus had a quick fleeting thought of do you think I don’t eat enough vegetables? But, he realized how tasty they looked and how hungry he was. He felt his eyes water slightly as he tore his gaze from the gifted appetizer back up to Sirius.

“Do you feel sorry for me?” Remus asked, suddenly, “because I’m always alone?”

Sirius’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Remus was almost as surprised as he was, for having verbalized the question that had popped into his mind at the moment. He supposed he meant to say alone here, in the restaurant, because that is where Sirius sees him, but it worked in the general sense too.

“How could I feel sorry for you,” Sirius said slowly, “when you look that good, even while you’re upset.” Sirius’s confident smile crept back onto his face as he walked away.

Remus watched him in surprise, and after a few seconds Sirius turned suddenly, instantly locking eyes with Remus. Caught. Sirius winked and turned back around again.

Remus frantically texted his friends. He first had to update them on the horrible date he had gone on, and then the friendly interactions he has had with Sirius over the course of his many visits to the restaurant, and finally what Sirius just said.

Marlene: First of all, Dorcas and I are gonna find this Roy guy and kill him, probably

Marlene: Second of all, REMUS! You gave me sexy-waiter-flirtation-tiramisu! What if he had put a love potion in it or something??

James: I think I’m missing something about tiramisu… is that some kind of euphemism??

Remus updated them on the desserts that Sirius had given Remus ever since he first came to the restaurant. He also started to smile again, almost unwillingly, at his friends’ texts. He remarked how much can happen in a night: excitement about a date, frustration during said failed date, sadness afterwards, spiraling into thinking he would never date again, getting flirted with, and eventually laughing as his wonderful friends tried to cheer him up, cheer him on, and just be their wonderfully unique and crazy selves.

Lily: Remus this is a sign! I said meeting someone organically would be the best, and here we are. You’ve been getting flirted with this whole time by someone you met in person!

Dorcas: She’s right, you should totally go for it! He obviously likes you

James: Come on mate, what do you have to lose?

Remus thought for a second, before responding to his support group.

Remus: my emotional support pizza

James: what??

The group convinced him to flirt back, and Remus silenced the phone before Sirius came back with his pizza. Evidently he had taken over his table from the earlier waitress.

“And here at last, one margherita pizza. Careful, it’s pretty hot, fresh out of the oven.” Sirius fiddled with the notepad he wrote orders in after setting the pizza down. “Um, enjoy your pizza.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey,” Remus spoke up, suddenly. Sirius turned around quickly at the sound. Remus’s eyes crinkled with happy mischief. “You too.”

Sirius laughed and continued his walk back to the kitchen.

***

When Sirius brought the check, Remus carefully penned his signature and a twenty percent tip. He idled for a moment, before flipping the receipt over and writing a string of ten digits. He paused for a second again, before adding underneath in neat scrawl “should you choose not to call, we must never speak of this, because I need to be able to eat margherita pizza here on my really bad days.” On a new line underneath, he just wrote “Remus”.

***

Thirty-four minutes later, Remus received a text message from an unknown number.

“Don’t worry Remus, I would never get between a man and his pizza.”

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earthafromearth · 4 years

Text

Fanfic | Cook a Goat Lamb With the Goat's Mother's Milk 1/3

AO3：https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343103/chapters/55920346

yes i translate my own work just because i know there gotta be more people still want to read some fanfic about those two and I want to make friends, okay? basically any feedback is highly welcomed

and of course im not an english native speaker

so... you know... there maybe some serious English mistake and typo

i cant even type Chinese right for god sake.....

Adolescence was as annoying as that board whose makeup was so heavy that seemed to make her impossible to get up from Charlie’s lap.

Meyer was lying motionless on the bed. He took a deep breath. His mother was cooking in the kitchen, the room filled with that rotten smell of stale beans. The sunlight outside the window was dazzling but without any bit of warm. Meyer pressed his arm against his eyes, hard enough to cause his eye sockets hurt, seeing some scattered sparkles in the dark behind his eyelids.

He had dreamed of Sicily. The window leaked, making every pore in his arm shrank tightly and dry, but the sheet was still moist on Meyer's lower abdomen. Meyer's Sicily was a total fake. He had never been exposed to Italian’s hot sun, New York's sun never brought any bit of heat with it, especially in winter. He had never experienced sweat flowed down his spine into the pants, maybe he should go to Cuba later and get some sun. But Charlie was real, Charlie whose hair was wet with sweat and clung to his forehead; Charlie whose whole upper body naked ,vest throwing on his shoulders causally; Charlie whose belly is tight and soft at the same time; Charlie whose pants hanging loosely on his buttocks ; Charlie, who tasted like lucky strikes but more salty … …Charlie could be real, but Charlie who bit Meyer's throat could not be real. A teenage wet dream. Meyer hated adolescence.

"Mey, are you alright? " Meyer heard his mother's voice and sat up quickly. But before he could shake his head, Jake rushed into the room. "Meyer wet his bed!" Shouted that little bustard. His mother blushed faster than Meyer himself. "Charlie want me to see him later." Meyer said, holding the quilt in a pile and putting it in the large basket filled with dirty clothes of the whole family. If mother noticed that he had purposely straightened his arms and put the sheet deliberately in front of his thighs, neither of them say a thing.

Adolescence made the streets of New York even more noisy, and the woman standing at the alley would wink at Meyer as he passed by, as if she could see through Meyer's wet dream at a glance, while Meyer just happened to notice, really accidentally, that the woman's shabby skirt was folded up and smashed into her underwear. The desire was being hit by a truck head-on, and all of a sudden, his pants seemed to be one size smaller, wrapped around his thighs. He lowered his head slightly and looked at himself, taking each step with extreme cautious, heels landed first then the toes, body moving forward with the toes, walking like a normal person, but he knew he had been founded out.

Meyer should have told Benny that he had seen Charlie dined with a woman at that Italian restaurant a week ago. Those two sitting in the corner of the window, and the woman was leaning her legs to Charlie’s under the table, and her toes were touching Charlie's calf bones again and again. He should have told Benny, so that Benny would chase Charlie over and over until Charlie told him all about it, then Meyer would have known who that woman was, "just a broad." Meyer also knew Charlie would say that. But Meyer didn't say a word to Benny. He just stood quietly across the street and a glass window. He stood there and stare quietly for a moment until he caught himself and hurried away, like a normal person.

Maybe the woman dining with Charlie was also a whore who would stand at the alley and show her thighs. Maybe the woman dining with Charlie was a hot mother of someone bets on their dice, or maybe Charlie was like him, just wanting a head from that woman, touching up and down on that smooth thighs. And that woman would cover Charlie's hand with her skirt. He refused to think about what Charlie would look like at that moment, but he knew at heart that Charlie would hold the woman's ass, hugging her and reaching into her underwear. Meyer wasn't just hit by the truck head-on. He was run over by the truck alive, his flesh felling to the ground, unable to save himself and had to wait for death. Desire was becoming more and more violent.

The hat shop Charlie was working for had a "rest" sign on the door, and Meyer stood still in front of it. He dragged his jacket down, picking up the body crushed by the truck with his bare hands, pieced together a decent body again, and pushed in the door.

"In the back!" Meyer heard Charlie's voice coming from the storeroom. As he walked in, he picked up the cigarette and the match Charlie had thrown on the counter. The door to the storage room was half closed, and the dim light leaked out of the crack. Meyer stepped between the light and shadow cast on the floor. He put the lucky strike it in his mouth, but as soon as he struck the match, Charlie pushed the door open and the fire went out.

Meyer glanced at Charlie. Charlie wasn't wearing his blazer, and his trousers' straps were pulling. Although he didn't roll up his sleeves, he unfastened the cuffs, exposing a section of his wrists, and his carpal was just there, easy to reach. Meyer lowered his head, lighting another match, guarding it with his other hand to lit the cigarette. He took a full puff and let the smoke float out of his nose. Even if Charlie knew that Meyer was delaying his time, he just waited quietly. However, even if he didn't say a word, he couldn't be still. He swayed back and forth, raised his chin slightly and looked behind Meyer.

One side of the hat shop was neatly arranged with men's top hats with little difference in style, and the other side was colorful female hats. On the back wall, facing the door, several popular hats were displayed. Charlie took a low-eave newsboy cap and put it on his head, suppressing most of the curly hair that took a lot of work to tame. Meyer blinked; the lining of the hat must have been stained with Charlie's hair gel. This is the patience of the Italians, superficial efforts which would only cause more trouble.

Meyer caught himself again staring at Charlie's face half blocked by his hat. Charlie was older than Meyer, but still had a little baby fat on his face. That somehow made his cheekbones a little more obvious. He looked like a cub, but the reality was that the fangs had already grown. You think he was cute, however, the moment you reached to him, he would twist his head and bite you so hard you would scream until you lost your voice It wasn't until Charlie took Meyer’s arm and pulled him into the room and the smoke ashes fell on Meyer's hand, he suddenly came back to reality. But the smoke had already fallen to the ground. Fuck.

"Something happened to the joint?" His voice was a little husky. He just smoked too hard. That had to be it.

"There gotta have a problem? I can't ..." Charlie pushed Meyer in front of him. "Just want to have a late lunch with you?"

The storage room had been originally well-organized. Rows of hat boxes had been piled up like rows of walls. Between each row there had been a line of empty space just enough for one person to walk through. Now all the boxes were pushed together, tightly close to the wall. Many boxes protruded or inserted obliquely. However, there were several boxes neatly piled in the middle of the vacated field, like a small coffee table, and there were a few kraft paper bags on it. Meyer glanced at Charlie. Charlie was like a kid squatted next to the Christmas tree, couldn’t help but laughing slyly, waiting for others to open their gifts. Meyer took the bags with different trademarks on it, opening them one by one. Cheese buns, bacon, pickles … … he took out the food and put it on the top of the boxes. Out of the corner of Meyer’s eyes, Charlie smiled like a weasel who had caught the mouse. Meyer took a deep breath and folded the paper bag, neatly lowering it along the edge of the boxes.

Meyer could be seen by whoever was dealing with them as a child whose hair hadn’t grown; he could be seen by a neighbor as a rogue kid who doesn't learn well; and he could even be seen as a shop seconder who could be bullied at will, but he was not Charlie’s prey, the mouse in the weasel's mouth He just was not.

He knew that Charlie wouldn't invite others to dinner for no reason, because he was just like Meyer in his bones and heart. So, what was all this about? I asked you to a fine dinner together so later you would go to a cheap hotel with me?

"It's all kosher." Charlie put a hand on Meyer's shoulder and walked to Meyer's side. He grabbed the cheese from the hat box, and weighed the rectangular bars wrapped in foil in his hand. "Good stuff from uptown." Meyer turned to look at Charlie, and Charlie was smiling so wide that his canine teeth appeared. "Where did you get the money to go uptown and buy food like those?" He heard his voice without a trace of undulation, but Charlie still smiled as if he had secretly hidden lump sugar under his tongue. "I'm good at bargaining.” Charlie threw the cheese on the table, as if it was a hammer from the auction house. Once the hammer is downed, the deal is done.

Meyer squeezed his lips tightly, and Charlie's hand on his shoulders kept him warm for most of his body, as if he was basking in the Sicilian sun. He twisted, and fled stiffly from Charlie to the other side of the table. "You and I both know how you are good at bargaining," he said dryly. He tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but Charlie refused to let him go. He walked to Meyer again, grabbing Meyer's shoulders with both hands, looking down at Meyer, putting Meyer under the newsboy hat he was sneaking on his head. Damn Italian. "What's wrong?" Charlie's hands moved to the sides of Meyer's neck, and Meyer had to raise his head. "Tell me what's wrong, little man, it can't be because of that pile of food."

"You can't cook goat lambs with goat's mother's milk." Meyer whispered, slowing down every byte, as if teaching a baby to speak.

"Meyer." Meyer could feel Charlie holding him harder. It was a warning, a question, and it was Charlie's finger that struck Meyer's skin. Charlie leaned on a fruit tree. The air in Sicily was filled with the sweet smell of citrus and lemon after maturity. He grabbed Meyer's arm and arched his back slightly to lick Meyer's neck and shoulder, exactly where Charlie was holding him now. Meyer didn't know if he was really trembling, but he was trying hard to restrain himself and make him look like a decent businessman, not a stinky boy whose nerves were immersed in hormones. He breathed hard and slowly, taking a small step away carefully. This time, Charlie let go. Although New York is not as cold as Grodno, who had been exposed to a Sicilian’s sun would of course be spoiled.

"I saw you dining with a woman in that Italian restaurant of Masseria." Meyer said fiercely of the word Masseria, but Masseria was not the reason for everything, the name was nothing but said along the way. That’s only Meyer's futile struggle. Meyer knew, obviously Charlie knew as well.

Charlie left out a laugh, and Meyer glared at him. "Little man!" Charlie bent down and patted Meyer's face with his arms stretched out. "It's just a broad, what's the big deal?" Charlie's answer was exactly what Meyer had thought, Meyer knew Charlie, with his eyes closed, his would know where Charlie would go next, which is the worst of adolescent fucking agitation.

Charlie's words were more of an insult than a refusal. Meyer wasn't a captured prey. Meyer wasn't a prostitute standing on the street, bored and playing with her fingers, and Meyer wasn't a cheap whore for Charlie to dine at a fake but fancy restaurant. And now they were in the storage room of a hat shop without even a decent table.

Charlie was still waiting for Meyer's response. Meyer had rushed over. He bumped into Charlie with his shoulders. Charlie was slammed backwards and hit the piled hat boxes. The top boxes fell off, as well as the newsboy hat Charlie wore. The newsboy cap fell on the ground and was covered with a layer of gray ashes. Meyer knew that Charlie would be scolded for this, and Charlie couldn't do anything except to admit it. Good.

Charlie stood up against the boxes behind him. His hair was completely messed up, curled up next to the temple. He arched his shoulders, arms behind him. He was calculating whether to attack or retreat, counterattack or let the matter go. Meyer didn't want to let it go, so he pushed Charlie again. Charlie got to firmly grasp Meyer’s arm this time, Meyer raised his knee and kicked it against Charlie's stomach fiercely. his calf was crippled over Charlie's thigh. Charlie snorted painfully, "Fuck." He heard Charlie scold, and was thrown to the ground almost at the same time. Meyer's back was on the concrete floor tears accumulate in the corners of his eyes, and the hat on the ground deformed in his afterglow. He suddenly wanted to laugh. Charlie's knees rested besides Meyer’s thighs; Meyer's wrists were firmly grasped. Charlie pressed him to the ground, the back of Meyer’s knuckles shattered on the cold ground. "What is this all about? Just because I took a girl to dinner? Didn't I have dinner with you all the time? On your Jewish street!"

"I won't step on your fucking crotch with my feet under the table!" Meyer lifted himself up, but Charlie just pushed him back again.

"Aren’t I sure of that? You just gave me a fucking punch! All because I specially grabbed something nice for you!"

"Fuck you, Luciano!"

This time was Charlie who laughed, short like he choked a mouthful of water. He released Meyer's wrist first. Meyer rubbed the back of his swollen hand. After Charlie saw that Meyer didn't plan to give him another punch, he jumped up to the other side of the room. Meyer sat up on the same spot but didn't stand up. He held his knees to his chest and curled up into a small group on the ground like a child. Charlie turned his back to him, muttering something in Italian, patting his pockets for his cigarette. Meyer took out his own and threw it towards Charlie's back. The cigarette case fell at Charlie's feet. Charlie picked it up, popping one in his mouth, and walked back to sit next to Meyer. "It is not that easy." He handed the cigarette to Meyer. Meyer raised his eyes and waited for him to continue, "You're different, do you understand?" Meyer understands, but at the same time he didn’t understand at all.

"Fuck, I even don't have to tip when I go to Massaria’s little restaurant." They took turns and the cigarette was smoked to its butt. Charlie threw it on the ground and pick another one, "Massaria thinks I'm the next golden boy or some shit." Meyer heard a smirk and said, "Yeah, fuck those old farts!" Charlie finished. He lay down on the ground, picked up the dirty newsboy hat, and nudged it into his chest, but he just pressed the dirt deeper into the texture of the hat, "Fuck." He cursed and clasped the hat on Meyer's head, Meyer immediately grabbed it and threw it out.

"Dairy products are not supposed to be eaten with meat in Judaism." Meyer said quietly. Charlie propped himself up with his elbow. "You can't cook goat lamb with the milk of a goat's mother." Meyer repeated his words before, Charlie hummed, "Then eat the pickles, like I give a fuck."

"You do not give a fuck?"

"Look, I'm only getting these foods because you're Jewish, and I don't give an honest shit about whatever nonsense they say in that book of yours. That book is as thick as a brick, you know." Charlie touched Meyer with his shoulder. Meyer used the half-burned cigarette butt to put on a new one. "I don't care about the shit rules that godfathers or bosses have to follow. I know what I can do. That good enough for me," Charlie snatched the cigarette from Meyer. All of a sudden, no one speak. Meyer heard what Charlie said and his brain just refuse to work.

"Are you going to kiss me or not?” That’s all Charlie can wait,” Or, we could eat ……”

"You fucking dago!" Meyer cursed, grabbing Charlie's collar and dragging him to himself. "Hey! Where did that come from? I didn’t even call you a Kike!."

TBC

#Meyer Lansky #Charlie Luciano #Lucky Luciano #Boardwalk Empire #Lanskiano #anatol yusef #Vincent Piazza

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cuorepietoso · 5 years

Photo

FULL NAME: Battista Tahan PRONUNCIATION: bat-TEE-sta tah-han MEANING:

Battista- Italian given name meaning “baptist”

Tahan- Hebrew origin, meaning “merciful”

NICKNAME/PREFERRED NAME(S): Battista is NOT a fan of nicknames, and generally reacts with annoyance at best when people try to give him one. In fact, he just prefers to be called “Tahan”. BIRTH DATE: 5 January 1986 AGE: 33 ZODIAC: Capricorn sun, Scorpio moon/ascending GENDER: Male PRONOUNS: he/him SEXUAL/ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Battista is Bisexual/Biromantic with a strong preference for women. Though he has a lot of experience with women, he’s never had the opportunity to explore a sexual relationship with a man because he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s had a romantic relationship with one. NATIONALITY: Italian ETHNICITY: Mexican-Jewish CURRENT LOCATION: Verona, Italy LIVING CONDITIONS: 5th floor studio apartment. The elevator does not work. TITLE(S): Mr., (frmr.) Maresciallo Ordinario (Mar. Ord.), Capitano

tw: substance abuse mention, suicidal idealization, PTSD. general content warning.

background

BIRTH PLACE: Hospital Borga Roma HOMETOWN: Verona SOCIAL CLASS: Working– his parents were the owners and sole employees of a relatively unsuccessful stationery shop. EDUCATION LEVEL: High School, some College level courses FATHER: Vincenzo Tahan MOTHER: Shoshanna Tahan SIBLING(S): n/a CHILDREN: n/a PET(S): Pafutta, his “pet” stray cat PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: Aria DiMaggio, Alessio Rossi*

occupation & income

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: Montagues SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: Bartender, though he only works one night a week. TERTIARY SOURCE(S) OF INCOME: Odd jobs for his landlady, Military disability APPROXIMATE AMOUNT PER YEAR: €400k a year, most of which comes from the Montagues and is therefore off the books. CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB?: As much as he can ever let himself be content with anything, anymore, he’s content with the way he lives. He has four walls and a roof over his head, he keeps busy, and whenever he begins to feel the restless itch under his skin he can just go start a fight, and because this is the best way to find the man that killed his father. Any concerns he has about how things happen/are run pale in comparison to what he can get from it. PAST JOB(S):

Thief- Not really a job, considering. But he made a fair bit of money with his slick tongue and sticky fingers, and he enjoyed it in a sort of empty way.

Italian Army/Special Forces- Battista was always quick on the uptake but he took to life in the military like a duck to water. Strong, fast, and cunning, with the necessary people skills to shut up and speak up, whenever it was needed.

SPENDING HABITS: He buys what he needs. Most of his money is spent on alcohol, drugs, and weapons. Sometimes he buys expensive clothes that he doesn’t like to wear for lavish parties. MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: Beretta tanto-style folding knife, blackened steel blade, gifted to him by Alessio Rossi

skills & abilities

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 6/10. Raw power is not and never has been his main weapon, he has neither the height or build to rely solely on physical strength. That being said, he works out every day and as part of his training can carry a man nearly twice his weight a few miles. OFFENSE: 8/10. Preference for knives in close quarters combat, and doesn’t enjoy open combat because of the risk it poses to civilians, though he’s more than capable of using guns. He fights like a devil and firmly believes in the phrase “a good defense is a better offense”. DEFENSE: 6/10. A little slow to guard his left side, but he isn’t afraid to resort to dirty tricks. He fights like he’s trying to die. SPEED: 8/10. Battista is physically smaller than most of the people he’s ever fought so he relies on speed a lot. This ties back into his preference for knife fighting, where speed is essentially everything. INTELLIGENCE: 8/10. His greatest weapon has always been his sharp mind. Though lately he’s been prone to bouts of confusion, when he’s fighting he regains his cunning, razor edge. ACCURACY: 6/10. He’s above average with a gun but nothing to write home about. AGILITY: 7/10. Though he’s not doing backflips or anything but he can command his body to move, and quickly. His reflexes are honed and due to his hypervigilance he’s Always Ready, even when he doesn’t need to be. STAMINA: 6/10. He runs a couple of miles every morning, but generally fighting is exhausting, especially when you’re fighting someone physically stronger. He’s better off finishing a fight fast, rather than letting it drag out. TEAMWORK: 9/10. He does his best work as part of a cohesive team, it’s how he was trained. TALENTS:

(frmr.) Art- Though he’s not practiced in a little under three years, Battista used to be quite the artist, and still has an eye for beauty and detail. Sometimes his fingers itch to pick up a pencil again, but whenever he puts it to paper he finds the only things he can think of are too dark to draw.

Trauma medicine- Battista trained as a combat medic, and though he likes to joke that all he ever did was comfort dying men and tell them they would be okay, he’s quite good at keeping people alive in stressful situations.

Sticky fingers, silver tongue- Some habits are hard to shake, especially when they’re so useful. Though he doesn’t enjoy using honeyed words and a warm smile as a distraction any longer, he’s still got it in him. Coupled with his light fingers and silent step, he still makes a rather adept thief, when the situation calls for it.

SHORTCOMINGS:

Controlling- Whether he’s always been this way, or it’s a result of the life he’s lived, Battista has a hard time giving up the reigns. He’s prone to micromanaging, being occasionally overly critical, and difficult to get along with in a work setting. He has a way he likes to do things, and he expects them to be done to his rather exacting standards.

Abundance of Caution- Drawing attention is the enemy, in his eyes. Sometimes he hesitates to act because he’s unwilling to make a splash.

Gregariousness- Though few actually consider this a fault, it is one in his eyes. He’d prefer to think of himself as an island, but he’s a man that does better when he cares and is cared for in return. These relationships he develops aren’t always within the bounds of where his social circles should end.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN:

Italian- Battista speaks both the Veneto dialect and Standard Italian. He prefers the Veneto dialect (since that’s what he grew up speaking), but he’s capable of code-switching

Hebrew- He spoke Hebrew at home and the military paid for him to take classes to improve/expand his knowledge.

some English- Enough to give a tourist directions and communicate to Americans where and how many the enemy were.

Arabic- This used to be his weakest language, he spoke conversationally and knew the curse words. Now that he’s friends with Ivan Rahal he knows even more curse words.

DRIVE?: He doesn’t drive– he’s never actually had a driver’s license, because when he was growing up he lived in the city and his family was too poor for a car. He never needed one in the military, though he did learn to drive and well. Now that he’s once again living in Verona (and prone to seizures), he doesn’t feel he has any business owning or operating a car. However, he can easily jump start/hotwire a car, change a tire, and fix some basic mechanical issues. RIDE A BICYCLE?: Outside of taking the metro, this is his main mode of transportation. SWIM?: He can but he would prefer not to PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: He’s never had any musical talent, and can hardly carry a tune. PLAY CHESS?: Not well! He doesn’t have the patience for it. BRAID HAIR?: No. He never had any siblings and his mother always kept her hair short and worn loose, so he never had occasion to learn. TIE A TIE?: Yes, though he has to tie it and then put it on his neck. PICK A LOCK?: His skills at lock picking are second to none, it’s part of what made him such an excellent thief and, later on in his career, infiltration expert.

physical appearance & characteristics

FACE CLAIM: Peter Gadiot EYE COLOR: Medium Brown HAIR COLOR: Dark Brown HAIR TYPE/STYLE: slightly long, thick and curly/wavy. He runs his fingers through it to keep it out of his face. GLASSES/CONTACTS?: 25/20 vision in his right eye and 15/20 with slight loss of peripheral vision in his left. He hasn’t noticed this, so it will remain uncorrected, but it does affect his life. DOMINANT HAND: Right HEIGHT: 5’10 ¾”. The ¾ is very important. WEIGHT: 160lbs BUILD: Leaner side of muscular EXERCISE HABITS: Every morning he wakes up at 6am and he runs two miles, and then he does push ups, sit ups, pull ups, and some other weight lifting before going back to sleep. If he’s idle and feeling restless he may sometimes just start stretching. SKIN TONE: Olive, though frankly he doesn’t sleep or see the sun enough to look anywhere near healthy TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: n/a MARKS/SCARS: He has small shrapnel scars on his right cheekbone/temple, and scars on his knuckles. A wicked looking scar that stretches from his belly button to the tenth left rib. And a bullet scar to his upper left arm with no exit wound. NOTABLE FEATURES: His nose is pretty large and he’s broken it a few times. Other than that he just kind of looks terrible and tired most of the time. USUAL EXPRESSION: Blank, or a scowl CLOTHING STYLE: His whole wardrobe is black. Black jeans, black shirts, black slacks, black jackets. When he’s sleeping, he wears a ratty paracadutisti forze speciali tee shirt (also black) that he picked up…. somewhere JEWELRY: A silver Star of David necklace ALLERGIES: Genuine Human Emotion. Sesame seeds. Certain medications. BODY TEMPERATURE: He runs a little cool at an average of 97.9 degrees, and always feels like a solid, miserable block of ice. Especially his hands and feet. DIET: Black coffee, MDMA, antidepressants, vodka, and a highly regulated food diet that is usually Mediterranean or Indian food PHYSICAL AILMENTS: Occasional seizures from his medication, some chronic pain from old injuries.

psychology

JUNG TYPE: ISTJ-strong preference on thinking and judging, medium preference on sensing, almost no preference on introverted Responsible organizers, driven to create and enforce order within systems and institutions. They are neat and orderly, inside and out, and tend to have a procedure for everything they do. ISTJs are steady, productive contributors. They like to know what the rules of the game are, valuing predictability more than imagination. They rely on their past experience to guide them. ISTJs are hardworking and will persist until a task is done. They are logical and methodical, and often enjoy tasks that require them to use step-by-step reasoning to solve a problem. They are meticulous in their attention to details, and examine things closely to be sure they are correct. With their straightforward logic and orientation to detail, ISTJs work systematically to bring order to their own small parts of the world. ISTJs have a serious, conservative air about them. They want to know and follow the rules of the game, and typically seek out predictable surroundings where they understand their role. You may find the ISTJ doing something useful even in social situations (for instance, organizing coats and hats at a party) as they’re often more comfortable taking charge of a task than they are chatting up strangers. When given something to do, they are highly dependable, and follow it through to the end. ISTJs are practical and no-nonsense, and rarely call attention to themselves. Their clothes and possessions tend to be chosen based on utility rather than fashion, and they have an affection for the classics. ISTJs typically speak in a straightforward manner and have a good head for details. They are usually more enthusiastic about sharing factual information than exploring abstract concepts or unproven ideas.

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: 1, the Reformer People of this personality type are essentially looking to make things better, as they think nothing is ever quite good enough. This makes them perfectionists who desire to reform and improve; idealists who strive to make order out of the omnipresent chaos. Ones have a fine eye for detail. They are always aware of the flaws in themselves, others and the situations in which they find themselves. This triggers their need to improve, which can be beneficial for all concerned, but which can also prove to be burdensome to both the One and those who are on the receiving end of the One’s reform efforts. The One’s inability to achieve the perfection they desire feeds their feelings of guilt for having fallen short, and fuels their incipient anger against an imperfect world. Ones, however, tend to feel guilty about their anger. Anger is a “bad” emotion, and Ones strive sincerely and wholeheartedly to be “good.” Anger is therefore vigorously repressed from consciousness, bursting forth in occasional fits of temper, but usually manifesting in one of its many less obvious permutations - impatience, frustration, annoyance and judgmental criticality. For this reason, Ones can be difficult to live with, but, on the high side, they tend to be loyal, responsible and capable partners and friends. Ones are serious people; they tend to be highly principled, competent and uncompromising. They follow the rules and expect others to do so as well. Because they believe so thoroughly in their convictions, they are often excellent leaders who can inspire those who follow them with their own vision of excellence. Reform movements are frequently spearheaded by Ones. Ones are often driven and ambitious, and are sometimes workaholics. But whatever their professional involvement, they are definitely active, practical people who get things done. They are natural born organizers, listmakers who finish everything on the list, the last one to leave the office, the first one to return, industrious, reliable, honest and dutiful.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: True Neutral True neutral characters are concerned with their own well-being and that of the group or organization which aids them. They may behave in a good manner to those that they consider friends and allies, but will only act maliciously against those who have tried to injure them in some way. For the rest, they do not care. They do not wish ill on those they do not know, but they also do not care when they hear of evil befalling them. Better for others to suffer the evil than the true neutral and his allies. If an ally is in need, the true neutral will aid him, out of genuine love or because he may be able to count on that ally a little more in the future. If someone else is in need, they will weigh the options of the potential rewards and dangers associated with the act. If an enemy is in need, they will ignore him or take advantage of his misfortune.

TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic Melancholics naturally lean toward being analytical and intellectual. They often foresee the result of a project long before its completion. They are able to view situations and problems from all sides and see every possible outcome. This makes them very effective at problem solving, planning, and organizing. And although people with a melancholic temperament generally keep their emotions guarded, they are still emotional individuals. In fact, they may be the most emotional of all the temperament types. Their heightened, ever-changing emotions can result in quick shifts in mood. For instance, they might feel a strong sense of elation, quickly replaced by gloom if something negative happens. Because people with a melancholic temperament are introverted, they are often task oriented rather than people oriented. Individuals with this temperament love having a list of chores to complete. They prefer to stay busy, and they tackle their daily to-do list with relish. They tend to be extremely efficient and productive in any career. Melancholics are often perfectionists as well– they have a specific idea of the perfect situation, the perfect way to do things, and the perfect outcome. They tend to set incredibly high standards for themselves and others. When the perfect outcome is not achieved, they can become angered; however, these individuals don’t typically show their anger until it becomes so pent up over time that they reach a breaking point.

ELEMENT: Earth Grounded and practical, when balanced earth is the glue that binds all elements together. It is “nurturing, supportive, relaxed, oriented, sociable, sympathetic, considerate, agreeable, poised, and attentive.” As nice as the balanced Earth is, unbalanced “Excess” Earth frets and meddles and can be quite overbearing as that wonderful groundedness transforms into unmovable and impractical stubbornness. When “Deficient”, Earth can become clingy and vacillating, too eager to please others and unable to ask for help. Earth is the caretaker and the main issue is over-thinking and worry

PRIMARY INTELLIGENCE TYPE: Bodily Kinesthetic Tends to learn things by doing them with his hands. He must engage in a material in order to understand it – simply listening to a theory or looking at a picture is not going to help him. He also tends to be active in sports and have extraordinary balance. Moving his body brings him joy, and it is how he participates in the world around him.

APPROXIMATE IQ: 140-149 MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: PTSD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Depression SOCIABILITY: Battista pretends to prefer solitude, but he needs other people like a flower needs sunlight. This generally manifests in him spending as little time alone as possible, whether it’s going out at night or wandering around during the day, or showing up unannounced to inflict himself on people that seem capable of tolerating him for any extended period of time. EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Though he may come off as cold, calculating, and unfeeling to the layman, Battista’s emotions are generally experienced as long periods of nothingness followed by intense emotional outbursts– anger, sadness, stress, etc. Generally he tries to keep his outbursts private, because he’s embarrassed by them. OBSESSION(S): Battista is prone to overthinking almost everything when he gets in his own head, but the most prevalent worry is about acting violently towards others on accident. He fears nothing more than being a rabid dog in need of being put down. COMPULSION(S): When he starts obsessively overthinking, he begins compulsive behaviors. Usually these are limited to things like hand washing, counting, listing. The hand washing is the most overt and alarming of the three behaviors, because most of the time he counts and lists things in his head. The latter two are usually used to help manage his anxiety, but sometimes he can get into his own head while doing them. PHOBIA(S): n/a ADDICTION(S): Alcohol, MDMA DRUG USE: Ecstasy, though he limits this to maybe two nights a week. Sometimes he’ll do cocaine but only if he’s obscenely drunk. ALCOHOL USE: He tries to limit his intake of alcohol as well, but he averages 3-4 drinks a night and way more on Friday and Saturday nights. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: He would prefer not to be, but it’s generally his first reaction when startled at the very least. Sometimes it’s his first reaction to being angered as well.

mannerisms

SPEECH STYLE: Though it’s rare for him to speak much (if at all) around strangers, when he does he tends to keep his sentences clipped and without much inflection. He isn’t shy– it’s just better to be thought of as a taciturn fool than known to be a chatty one. In more familiar company, his voice can gain a little warmth, but most of his sense of humor comes from him deadpanning some pretty off the wall shit, which he is almost always doing. Even when he’s asking a question, he usually doesn’t raise the inflection at the end of his sentence to indicate that. ACCENT: Typical sing-song Veronan with a slight tendency to mispronounce the “ch” sound in words as the Khaf sound in Hebrew. He has a certain lack of consonant gemination when otherwise required (“ecco” comes out as “eco”), and his intonation has a kind of staccato pattern as a result. QUIRKS: occasionally prone to stuttering and muttering to himself under his breath, as well as completely zoning out. Generally during the day he can be spotted wandering the city like a cryptid if he isn’t working. HOBBIES:

frmr- sketching, writing

current- sex, working out, wandering. He leads a sad life.

HABITS: He wakes up every morning at 6 to work out. Goes to brunch a couple Sundays a month with Matthias Warren. Shows up like a bad penny to shadow his friends occasionally. NERVOUS TICKS: Squeezing the back of his neck, chewing on something DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: He wants to kill the man that killed his father And Then Die. FEARS: Losing control of himself/his situation, getting an innocent person killed, and getting a friend killed. POSITIVE TRAITS: Fundamentally responsible, serious, efficient, and rational. Passionate, incisive, cunning, strategic, and perceptive NEGATIVE TRAITS: Emotionally reserved, comes off as intimidating and powerful if not malicious or aggressive. A bit dramatic. He has trouble opening up and letting other people in, and tries to keep his intense darker emotions private. He finds it difficult to trust others, which means his perception may manifest in suspicion and controlling tendencies. SENSE OF HUMOR: Dry and hard to understand. I don’t think he’s funny, I think he’s fucked up. DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: Situational, and depending on the language he’s speaking CATCHPHRASE(S): not really a catchphrase, but as a filler word he tends toward “bene–” where most Americans would use “like” or “um”

attitudes

GREATEST DREAM: He can’t see himself really… going anywhere. As of right now, he struggles so much with his past and his present that the only goal he can set for himself is “survive”. Perhaps his greatest dream, then, is to someday have a hope for the future. GREATEST FEAR: His greatest fear is the thing most likely to come true, at this point– he spends the rest of his short life fruitlessly chasing his own tail in a pointless quest to find out who killed his father. Part of him already believes he’ll never figure it out, but he clings to it because he needs a reason to keep going, no matter how flimsy it is. MOST AT EASE WHEN: Battista is a creature of war. He’s most at ease when there are fists and bullets flying, blood on his tongue. When he’s tying off an artery and improvising a saline drip, when he’s barking orders (when he has his head resting in someone’s lap and they’ve got their hands in his hair, and they’re talking) LEAST AT EASE WHEN: There are things that crawl around in his head and under his skin in what most would consider a peaceful silence. He can’t relax, he can’t breathe, he can’t think. He shuts down. WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: In 2016 he was involuntarily committed because he was going to blow the whistle on his CO’s war crimes. The shit he dealt with there and the explicit threats afterwards were clear: if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, or if COL. Bianchi decides he’s too much of a wild card, they’ll put him back and throw away the key. MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: He remembers this so clearly. In 2013 he was bragging to Alessio Rossi how good he was at dealing with snow and ice because he was from Verona and he was used to it and he immediately slipped on the rain damp stairs to the office they were walking into and fully ate shit. Rossi made fun of him for months, but he laughed really hard so it was almost worth it. BIGGEST SECRET: See: war crimes TOP PRIORITIES: He can pretend his biggest priority is catching and killing his father’s murderer all he wants, but that’s basically the only excuse he has for surviving at this point. Top Priorities are: Keep his friends alive, don’t get caught, survive. In that order.

#/ / HEADCANON .#tw suicide #tw ptsd #tw substance abuse #again just a general content warning because battista is fucked up #but yeah here we go! hope you like some character insight for a midnight snack!#basically deleted the entirety of the 'likes' section because u have to have a desire to live in order to have an opinion on most of those #and uh. [jazzhands]#diveronatask

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luki-fanfic · 5 years

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A Kingdom For a Book: Part 2

I’m having way too much fun with this idea...

With one failed attempt under their belt, they end up having lunch in Chinatown before heading back to the hotel to regroup and debrief. Tsuna and Gokudera end up sitting on one bed, Gokudera nose deep in a laptop, while Yamamoto leans back on another, and Ryohei slumps the wrong way round in a chair.

“I see why the Ninth didn’t want us to come here,” Yamamoto says. “Do you think the owner knew who we were?”

Tsuna shook his head. “No, I think he would have treated us that way even if we weren’t Vongola. There was something about that shop...it just felt wrong.”

Ryohei frowns. “That’s strange to the extreme. This could be challenging.”

Gokudera is nodding, digging up the research he’d been tinkering with even before they arrived.

“Okay, so that building? It’s been there since the 1700’s,” he explains. “That’s when Soho was built up for the aristocracy, and the book shop’s been around since then. Which is pretty damn impressive considering the wealthy all more of less fled mid 1800’s when there was a cholera outbreak and the neighbourhood took a serious dive. I don’t think there’s a lot of business in London that have been in the same building that long, and if they did, they’re a lot more successful. At this point, A.Z.Fell & Co should be a historic monument or tourist attraction just due to it’s existence, but it’s only reputation-”

At this he tosses his hands up in the air in disbelief.

“-Is a handful of websites for rare book dealers bemoaning it’s existence! There’s a 3000 word essay on here that’s just analysing the opening times! I’ve never seen a white noise spot as bad as this outside of the mafia! It shouldn’t even be possible without mist flames!”

“Are we sure they’re not?” Yamamoto asks, head tilting.

Tsuna shakes his head.

“No,” he insists. “I don’t know what it was about that building, but flames weren’t involved. Besides, it’s too obvious in its refusal to sell.”

Everyone gives a slow nod at that, and Tsuna bites his lip.

“What we need it witness accounts,” he says. “We need to know what doesn’t work.”

This quickly results in Gokudera frantically tapping on his laptop again and setting up a video call with Dino in Italy. When he learns where they are, his face flinches – as if he’s just watched a man belly flop from a high dive.

“Reborn sent you where?” he asks. “The Ninth can’t possibly have approved that.”

“He wasn’t happy about it,” Tsuna admits. “But...it’s Reborn. You don’t really tell him no.”

Dino grimaces. “I feel for you little bro. I wish I could help, but I’ve never tried my luck against the devil of Soho.

“The devil of Soho?” the four repeat, and Dino chuckles.

“Oh, it’s kind of an in-joke among people who’ve tried,” he explains. “The shop is on a crossroad, and someone one suggested you’d probably have to sell your soul in exchange for a book from A.Z. Fell, and it kind of caught on. Plus, according to Christianity, devils or demons are supposed to be fallen angels, and they guy is called ‘Fell,’ so...”

Tsuna guesses it’s probably funnier for the Italians, because Gokudera’s openly cackling. Although that said, Ryohei is also grinning, so maybe he’s a fan of the crossroads story. The boxer does often enjoy American music…

“You might as well give selling your soul a shot though,” Dino continues. “Because I don’t have the slightest clue what else would work.”

Yamamoto frowns, leaning back in a stretch that almost looks painful.

“If we can’t buy a book, can we just buy out the shop?” he asks Dino, and Gokudera brightens.

“The Baseball Idiot has a point. I mean, this is Soho, and that shop can’t be making enough to stay in business. Can’t we just buy the building, or bribe the owner?”

“You really think nobody ever thought of that?” Dino asks, eyebrows raising. “The Fell family are loaded; they own that building, and they’ve never accepted a single offer.”

“Then we’ll make it a really good one. Reborn said our credit limit was unlimited for this-”

“Ten years ago Mr. Fell was offered five times what the building was worth and he didn’t even think it over” Dino interrupts. “And if you think you can scare him out, think again. People have tried everything from hiking his electric bills to bribing the council to shut him down for health reasons. I hear the building was even set on fire once. Nothing sticks, and it always comes back round to whoever tried their luck. An awful lot of enforcers change careers after a run in with A.Z. Fell.”

Dino sounds a little bitter by the end, and Tsuna frowns.

“That sounds a little personal,” he says. “Did Reborn try and make you go?”

His self proclaimed older brother suddenly finds it very hard to meet his eyes.

“No, but let’s just say I have it on good authority that one of the reasons my family ended up in such dire financial straights is because my grandfather tried to ah...convince Mr. Fell to move into a building owned by my family so he could have regular access to his collection,” Dino says. “A week later, there’s a freak accident with our accountant’s computer systems that sees 60% of our assets frozen while a record of all our recent financial dealings was sent first class to the local police department. By the time we cleared it up the money was gone.”

Gokudera does a full body flinch.

“How-”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to know” Dino tells him. “Some of those financials weren’t even supposed to have a paper trail. When my negotiation trial came up, I told Reborn I wasn’t setting foot in that shop. That I’d try and negotiate peace in Korea before I went to Soho.”

Yamamoto whistles, and Tsuna’s optimism sinks even more.

“Where’d you end up?” Tsuna asks.

“Guinea-Bissau,” Dino says. “Came out of it with only two bullets wounds too.”

“...Thats...good?” Tsuna offers, frantically trying to remember exactly where on a map that was, and Dino shrugs.

“Better than Xanxus any way” he offers. “He was lucky to get out intact.”

Yamamoto immediately lights up. “Oh yeah. The Ninth said he’d tried.”

“Lets call the Varia, to the extreme!” Ryohei agrees.

“Not sure how useful he’ll be,” Dino warns as they say goodbye. “His tactics weren’t really compatible with you.”

That’s hardly news to Tsuna, but a list of what definitely wont work is better than no list at all at this point. Yamamoto is already punching in Squalo’s number.

---

Two minutes later, Tsuna is wondering how far he can be from a video screen without appearing offensive, because Xanxus is glaring like he wants to reach through the computer and strangle Tsuna for the crime of bothering him.

Which, to be fair is Xanxus’s general mode of being, but Tsuna hasn’t survived this long by getting complacent. Given his life, it’s not impossible Xanxus has figured out how to do it.

At least the Varia commander is taking his question seriously – the glare had almost vanished when Yamamoto had explained just where they were.

“Whatever you do, don’t steal one” Xanxus warns when Yamamoto finishes up, and Tsuna finds himself leaning forward.

“You stole one?” he says. “I thought the requirement was legal purchase.”

“I was getting desperate!” Xanxus snarls, almost defensively. “Fell-Trash is impossible to reason with. Not that it did me any good. Cost me three months, my body weight in pride and a Lightning Guardian.”

At that Tsuna pauses, and glances to the corner of the screen where he can see Xanxus’s guardians, Levi included, not-so-subtly listening in. Xanxus rolls his eyes.

“Parasol-Trash is number 2” he tells him. “Huge improvement over Belias, I assure you. Idiot walked out with some old folio under his jacket, figuring we could negotiate after it was in our hands. To this day, I have no clue what happened to him, but that folio was on display in the window next morning and Fell’s creepy ass boyfriend was wearing Belias’s shades when we walked in.”

“Boyfriend?” Yamamoto asks, and Xanxus chuckles.

“Oh trust me Trash, you’ll know him when you see him.”

In the background Lussuria is fanning himself with a hand, while Squalo is glowering and inching closer to the screen. Tsuna ignores both of them.

“You didn’t try to find out what happened?” he questions, and Xanxus glares.

“Of course I fucking did!” he snaps. “Even had the lightning member’s we brought along tried to put on the squeeze, but both of them are mental steel traps. If anything, threats just amuse them. Two of Belias’s closest tried physical violence – the boyfriend has this classic car, beautiful piece of machinery; I’ll give him that – smashed out every window and made it clear we were coming back to finish the job. Car like that can’t be easy or cheap to fix.”

“It didn’t work?” Gokudera asks, and Xanxus shakes his head.

The trash left the hotel to get drinks, next thing I know the shark trash is getting a call from the hospital about them.”

The Varia boss jerks his head back, and Squalo freezes for a second, before slinking up to his boss, not even pretending to be subtle in his approach anymore.

“Were they still alive?” Tsuna asks, not sure if he wants to know. Xanxus merely glares at Squalo, who reacts as though it pains him to answer.

“Voi, they lived,” he says. “Looked like they’d been run over by that stupid car a couple hundred times, but they lived. Not that it mattered to us, both of them up and joined a monastery in New Zealand the second they were released!”

Yamamoto frowns. “New Zealand? When you abandon your old life to join a monastery, don’t you usually got to somewhere like Tibet or something?”

“Voi, according to them, they picked New Zealand because there aren’t any snakes there,” Squalo snarled. “Don’t ask me why, never had a problem with them before.”

“Yeah, and that car come morning?” Xanxus adds. “Perfect. Condition. After that, I cut my losses while I still had something to lose.”

“It was their own fault for making compensation jokes about the darling’s car!” Lussuria defends from the back, and Xanxus throws a wine glass in his direction.

The Varia side of the call inevitably descends into a brawl, and little advice is coming. All Tsuna’s managed to gather is, stay legal, screaming is pointless, and don’t threaten his associates or their possessions.

Tsuna silently vows that Gokudera must never enter that building unaccompanied.

Also, before the screen cut off completely, Lussuria popped onto the screen with one final titbit.

“Oh, one more thing. Don’t flirt with the boyfriend,” he says with Bel half in a headlock and the screen on it’s side. “Crowley-darling seems to think it’s funny, but it ticks Mr. Fell off no end. Not sure how he did it, but I got food poisoning whenever I ate out the rest of the time we were there. Ciao!”

The screen immediately goes black, and as a group, Tsuna, Gokudera and Ryohei all glance in Yamamoto’s direction. The teen immediately starts pouting.

“Why are you all looking at me?” he whines.

“Because out of everyone in this room who would think it would be funny, you’re the only one who’d actually try his luck, Baseball Idiot,” Gokudera snaps, and Yamamoto’s lip quirks, point taken. After so much time hanging around Squalo and Reborn, Yamamoto’s baseline for appropriate behaviour and etiquette will never recover – not that there was ever much to save, if Tsuna’s being entirely honest.

In the end, after looking at a spreadsheet of the opening hours Gokudera has on hand, they decide to hold off this evening, and try again in the 40 minute window that there should be just before lunch.

Who knows, maybe Mr. Fell will be more agreeable after he’s eaten?

---

One more part, and think it’ll be ready to migrate to AO3...

#Fanfiction #Fanfic #Katekyo Hitman Reborn Fanfiction #KHR Fanfic #Good Omens #Katekyo hitman reborn #Good Omens fanfiction #crossover #A Kingdom For a Book #KHR

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menswearmusings · 5 years

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Free Product Review—Spier & Mackay Custom Shirt (+Giveaway Announcement)

Spier & Mackay is best known to my readers for their excellent-for-the-price Neapolitan-style jacket cut. But actually, their roots are in custom shirt making. The tailoring, the accessories, the trousers, that all came later. Founder Rikky Khanna (who goes by Rick) asked me if I wanted to give an honest review of their custom shirt program. Intrigued by their multitude of collar styles and what I’d heard was nearly infinite flexibility, I said yes (for my policy on free products and reviews, see my disclaimer page here). With that said, let me dive straight into my thoughts on the shirt and the process.

Pattern is key

I’ve got several online custom shirts from other companies, which I usually make by measuring a shirt I like the fit of and copying the measurements. Over time, I’ve tweaked the measurements here or there to dial it in, and I’ve been happy with the results. But this shirt has changed my perspective a little bit. While none of those shirts fit poorly, something about the cut of this shirt makes it feel like it fits better—using nearly identical measurements. I can only assume it has to do with how the pattern is drafted. I asked Rick about this, and he said that they have a third-generation tailor whose entire career has been in making custom shirts drafting each pattern. He is also apprenticing two younger tailors to take over for him when he retires. Considering the price of these shirts (as low as $80), that’s remarkable.

Collar designs for everyone

While they can make any collar you want based on specifications, their standardized collar designs cover almost all the bases. From point collars to super tall Italian wide spreads, there’s something for everyone (though someone recently did ask in their Styleforum thread for short collars for casual use—a blind spot of mine, since I never wear those). I opted for the large wide Italian spread (“C21” on the website), and then specified a slight increase in front collar band height. It is identical to my favorite dress shirt collar, the Eidos Marcus collar (which is why I chose it of course).

By default, the collars all come with a stiff, fused interlining. Instead of that, I asked about un-fused collar linings. They have four stiffness options: 1) Light (a single layer of un-fused interlining); 2) Unfused lining bonded to a fused lining (which is sewn in; there is no fusing to the shirt fabric); 3) Unfused bonded to a medium fused; 4) Unfused bonded to a stiff fusing. I opted for the second-lightest option and am happy with it. Given that the fabric I chose is a dressy, business-appropriate fabric, it does very well with a tie as well as without a tie, standing up under a jacket. I’m considering doing a super light fused on future shirts (which is how my Eidos dress shirts are made), and will likely also try the lightest unfused option. For sport shirts, such as a washed denim I intend to do at some point, I’ll go completely unlined.

Unlimited possibilities

For customization and even designs, the sky is the limit. For instance, as mentioned above, I requested a small increase in the front collar band height and about doing an un-fused collar lining. But I also talked to Rick about other details like the shirt sleeve attachment angle (a detail Ratio exposed to me as a possibility) or pleated shoulders (a detail found on Neapolitan shirtmakers’ goods, like G. Inglese), and he said it’s all posible. I even asked if I could send him a shirt to just copy all the design details on, and he said this was doable.

I am not a fan of secret menus, so this would be kind of a turn-off for me if I were new to the style game—I wouldn’t know what I don’t know, and would be afraid I wouldn’t think of some critical detail that would take my shirt to the next level. However, the options that Spier does offer by default in their step by step process are enough to make an excellent shirt for most people. And in my opinion, besides a good fit and fabric, most of what makes a shirt special is the collar shape, where they’ve got most bases covered. So, I say if you’re worried about missing out on some secret knowledge, don’t. Just design a shirt with the tools available and you’ll be able to make something special. (I’ve listed exactly what I requested below if you’re interested).

Fast turn-around

The high water mark for quick custom shirt turnaround is Proper Cloth, who has shaved it down to 2-3 weeks. However, I was glad to find out that Spier’s turnaround was only about 4 weeks from the time of my order to delivery.

Some negatives

Not that it’s all roses with the Spier & Mackay online custom shirt program. My biggest gripe is that the fabric selection and descriptions are pretty lame. Their images can sometimes make it hard to know exactly what you’re getting. Maybe I’m just spoiled by Proper Cloth—which has gratuitous fabric images, a full paragraph of copy written about each one, and consistent information like opacity, weave, origin and more—but it feels to me like somewhat of a leap of faith to select a fabric. On top of this, they do not offer the ability to order a swatch (which again, Proper Cloth does). Rick says that’s something they might do in the future, but since their fabrics are all stored overseas in their factory, it is not currently feasible.

I asked Rick what their remake policy is if the shirt fits incorrectly, or you end up hating the fabric. In the event of an issue like that, they will remake the shirt for 50% off, which he feels is fair given the already low prices they’re offering. Compared with Proper Cloth or Ratio, which do free remakes, this makes for a higher barrier to entry for those hesitant to try it out.

As for my shirt in particular, one detail came out wrong: it came to me with the collar cut with curved collar leafs, instead of straight-cut. Some of Spier’s off the rack shirts come cut this way, and other companies do them as well, but I’ve never liked it. I assumed that’s how it was designed, and told Rick I wish I had thought to request it with straight leafs. He told me actually the collar is supposed to have straight leafs, and this was a mistake by the factory. To rectify that, I sent the shirt back, he had a new collar made at their factory in the same fabric, and their in-house tailor attached the new collar to the body of the shirt. It was back to me within two weeks. So, my advice is: if you get a shirt and you don’t like something, definitely ask about it, in case it was an error on their part.

Shop the Outfit: Brown tweed Eidos jacket (similar); Spier & Mackay custom shirt (see details below for fabric and design); Spier & Mackay charcoal flannel trousers (other options from Berg & Berg; SuitSupply; Brooks Brothers; Drake’s).

A couple of things I’d change about the design of my shirt: 1) I’d make it with a one-piece yoke (I didn’t think to ask, and their design tool didn’t offer either. Can someone tell me why the split yoke even exists?). 2) A wider forearm/more pleats at the cuff. They have you measure the bicep and arm hole size, and then you specify the cuff. I copied my favorite shirt for all three measurements, but there are only two darts in the sleeve at the cuff, which means the pattern of the sleeve decreases in width more dramatically than the shirt I measured. It’s a bit tight in the elbow (I’ve never had a shirt blow out the elbow, but this could easily be the first one that will). I’d probably just request they make my shirt with four pleats at the cuff to rectify this.

Overall, however. I’m very pleased with the shirt. I give Spier & Mackay high praise for their superior pattern making, great selection of collar shapes and extreme flexibility in customization. They need a major facelift on their website, and need to make options like collar linings, cuff linings and forearm fit more accessible in the typical step-by-step design process (instead of being special requests in the comments box). But, all in all, I highly recommend giving Spier & Mackay’s custom shirts a try.

My custom shirt specs

Fabric: “BLUE PENCIL STRIPE – TESSITURA MONTI – 2 PLY 160’S”

Collar: C21 “Large Italian Full Spread Collar”, with the following special instructions specified in the comments box:

Specified with front collar band height increased to 1-7/16”

Specified with unfused lining at the 2nd level of stiffness (unfused lining bonded to a fused lining, sewn in)

Cuffs: Round, conical cuff, which tapers toward the end (a custom option requested in the comments box)

No placket

No back pleats

No front pocket

Mother of pearl buttons with crow’s foot stitching

(Help support this site by buying stuff through my links; your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit! Thanks!)

Giveaway

I’m pleased to announce a partnership with Spier & Mackay to give away a FREE custom shirt, plus two other bonus prizes. To enter the giveaway, see the instructions below.

To Enter:

1- Make sure you’re following @SpierMackay, and @MenswearMusings on Instagram

2- Like this post on Instagram

3- Tag at least 3 friends in separate comments on the Instagram post; more tags = more entries

4- For an extra 5 entries, share the Instagram post to your stories with tags of both @menswearmusings and @spiermackay

Here are the prizes:

GRAND PRIZE: a FREE Spier & Mackay custom shirt

SECOND PRIZE: $50USD off a custom shirt

THIRD PRIZE: $25USD off a custom shirt

The entry period for the giveaway ends Sept. 2 at 11:59 p.m. Central Daylight Time. We will announce winners, who will be chosen at random out of all the entries, within one week after the end of the entry period.

Rules and regulations

Per Instagram rules, we must mention this is in no way sponsored, administered, or associated with Instagram, Inc. By entering, entrants confirm they are 13+ years of age, release Instagram of responsibility, and agree to Instagram’s term of use.

The give-away is open to people from anywhere that DHL or FedEx will ship.

Read more at Menswear Musings

#bespoke shirt #broadcloth shirt #custom shirt #hairline stripe shirt #italian collar #italian style #product review #spier and mackay

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vanaera · 6 years

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Translucent Fireworks

Synopsis | Jungkook yearns for a New Year to come after the warmth he sought in Busan turned lukewarm. Sparks start to alight when spring comes and a girl with a coloring book and weird laundry schedule stepped in his laundromat.

Genre | Fluff, Drama, Slight Angst

Wordcount | 23k+

A/N | Surprise, surprise! @cinserity, you thought me taking up your freaking laundry!au is a joke? AHAHAHHA No. Sorry this is not a crack fic. I prefer to stay in my drama/angst expertise. Enjoy reading!

“Comfort settles on what is familiar; familiarity is made by routines and traditions. As much as anyone would like to have their days vary from each other, a constant is needed to hold one’s life in place.”

These were Jeon Jungkook’s mother’s constant reminders to him whenever he would like to do something stupid in his high school days just to make life “exciting.” In the thawing winter of the last week of February Jungkook reminds himself of this when he fumbles for his keys, his eyes in a never ending fight against the sleep hanging on his eyelids.

His movements are slow as he crouches down, a gloved hand inserts the key to the padlock, twists it, and then he places the key and padlock in the pocket of his green bomber jacket. He grasps the metal gate of the store front before he pushes it up, higher and higher until the gate is no longer obstructing the face of his laundromat.

He steps away to look at his laundromat’s signboard: “Jeon’s Laundromat�� printed in the usual blue and green color scheme with a simple washing machine cartoon art that was a trend in the 1970s and still a trend in the 2000s for the vintage look. It’s simple and basic, a perfect match for a simple laundry business in the simple Myeongjang-dong, Dongnae District of Busan. The white paint has faded and grayed with age but the shop still resonates the same warm and homey aura back when he used to play toy cars inside as he keeps his grandmother company. Jungkook tries to curve his lips to form a smile on his tired face. He wishes the same warmth could soothe his exhaustion.

“Wow, you opened early. It’s like five thirty in the morning.”

Jungkook turns to see his high school friend, then-partner in crime, now a florist with his own flower shop across his laundromat giving him a cheeky smile. “Shut up, Jimin,” a hoarse chuckle resonates from his throat as Jungkook leans on the wall of his shop and decides he needs a distraction. He tries to appreciate the ridiculous color combination of his friend’s orange parka, green sweatpants, and a Mickey Mouse beanie sitting atop a taupe brown mop of hair. “You look ridiculous,” Jungkook snickers.

“Hey, excuse my outfit,” Jimin chortles as he looks down at his pink-socked feet in his slippers, stifling a guffaw. “I ran out of food, so I rushed out, just put on anything on my sleepwear to look decent.”

“You look anything but decent.”

“Oh shut up! I’m gonna be in my usual glory when I open my shop later,” Jimin’s eyes crinkles. “I’ll be as beautiful as my flowers later, just you see,” he says as he steps away waving at Jungkook to bid him goodbye and a “See you later, coconut head.”

“Yeah, see you later,” Jungkook waves as he enters his shop, flipping the “Sorry We’re Closed” sign to “Come In, We’re Open!” He stays by the glass door to look at the morning dew of early morning under the mellow yellow patch of the skyline about to overwhelm the parting navy colors of night. Jungkook could make out the pots of white carnations behind the doors of Jimin’s pastel blue flower shop. His eyes then travel to the apartment unit above the flower shop to watch Mrs. Taehee Jung gather the dried clothes she hung up the night before. Old Sangmin’s bakery is still thriving on the far right and Jungkook remembers his elementary days when his mother used to buy him muffins on the way home from school. He makes a note to buy some toasts later to munch on. Home-based convenience stores are opening one by one, and he could already see someone mopping the floors of the red-bricked establishment of Kim’s Italian Restaurant on his far left. His view is disrupted when Mr. Changmin Song, a resident below his apartment unit, waves at him as he walked on the street. Jungkook is compelled by moral norms to return the wave with a smile. Oh and there’s Mrs. Eunhui Lee, a patron of the laundromat, biking past him and Jungkook waves again.

His mornings are always filled with warmth, a stark difference to his life five years ago in the concrete jungle of black and white buildings. He doesn’t miss the pressure of schedules that drove people here and there, the constant feeling of glass screens pressed against stressed flesh while shouting some things that are needed to be done – a life where everyone needs to go somewhere and do something in such a never-ending hurry. Jungkook’s glad he traded a life where people are controlled by time and cold apathy for a life of laidback days, serene nights, and warm sympathy of people. However, he’s been used to the warm life here for too many years that sometimes Jungkook thinks the warmth of being home had already turned lukewarm with unwanted consistency. His laidback days dragged too long, the silence of his serene nights started to deafen him. He feels he missed something – something he skipped over and never bothered to check when he packed his belongings and set his eyes for the rural world. He feels so unsatisfied when he already thinks he’s content with his life.

The sight of the increasing people on the street signals Jungkook it’s time to focus on his own shop now so he rips his stare away from the door and lets it graze the interior of the laundromat. Fifteen cheap but functional silver and white washing machines lined against the cerulean blue walls, the center being occupied by two long wooden benches placed against each other for the customers to sit on. A vending machine and change machine are placed against his right where a corner of the walls leads to a comfort room. A desk to his left serves as his station where he can keep an eye on his shop. Still the same old Jeon’s Laundromat his grandparents started in the 1970s.

“Another day, here we go again,” he sighs, walking towards the washing machines to start another business day.

Nothing much happens in his day for him to describe in detail. He eats three regular meals, sometimes in solitude, sometimes in the company of his florist friend. He sits in his station with people he was all-too familiar now coming in and out. At times, he stands up to walk around the shop and see if he could be of any help for his customers. Sometimes he engages in conversations with the older ladies who were friends with his late mother or father just to know about their day even though he knows he’ll get the same response: “Just okay, there’s nothing much I do in my days anyway”, “My son is still irresponsible”, “Hey, you know you can come over and have dinner with us someday.” His lassitude in the morning was sustained in the evening, and by the time he hits the covers of his bed, another day has slipped through his flimsy fingers.

The days that followed were also like this. He opens the laundromat around five thirty to eight from Monday to Sunday. He collects the coins and cleans the shop before he closes around nine to ten. He would refill the vending machine and change machine every Tuesday and Thursday. On Friday nights, he does accounting works that keeps his business alive. At the end of the week, the cycle will repeat. He wakes up tired and he sleeps the exhaustion away only to wake up again to find that getting up from the bed is always going to be the challenge of the century. He’s always greeted by faces he have seen since he was three and sometimes he thinks he’s a sick bastard for wishing for them to not show up in his day when all they meant was good company. He lives a comfortable life with the same routine, same activities, same setting, and same faces and he can’t deny he is uncomfortable with this. He thinks his days are too identical, only differentiated by the numbers of the months, days, and years. A never-ending cycle only bordered by the thin lines of time, dictating the consciousness of man of what is yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

In his defense, Jungkook knows he tried. He tried to start and end his day a little early or a little late. He also tried playing with the days of the week like how he decided two weeks ago to have Mondays as his day offs. He didn’t realize he grew accustomed to the seven-days-a-week work in the constricting gray walls of Seoul that he unconsciously brought this work attitude in his hometown. He also tried to engage in new activities his younger self have been dying to do years ago. He tried so many ways, more than he can count with his hands, just to make his day a little bit different from the others, even just a flicker of variety in his uneventful life. He’s desperate, he knows, because no matter how many times he tried, they always end up in the same conclusion – it’s pointless.

It’s hopeless. It’s not like his job requires activities that could make his day eventful. It’s not like something will happen if he woke up a little earlier or slept a little later. It’s not like he still enjoyed the activities his younger self liked to indulge. These thoughts boggled his mind throughout Mondays, only making him weary in his own day off so yesterday he decided he doesn’t need day offs and just open the laundromat everyday. He knows he always needed a distraction and his business could be enough as one. “Maybe I’m being too ungrateful,” he thinks. He has a job that could support his lifestyle; he has a home he can come back to – an apartment unit which stood through time since he was an infant who grew to dream of the city and then came home last year to detach himself from the nightmares of the urban life. It makes him nauseous sometimes when he admits he indeed has a life others would dream of. However the comfort of one’s life doesn’t ensure the comfort of one’s physical and mental well-being. He’s always troubled with this feeling of being so dissatisfied for no reason. This emptiness metastasizing in his chest fills up the hollows of his lungs. They block the valleys of his throat, drowning him with the ripples of nothingness. It disables him in some days with such unreasonable lethargy to get up and live another day. He never expected this void could swallow him whole. Many times he decided to just give up, it won’t go away no matter what he does. All adults feel like this anyway. It’s only normal.

But when he lay on his bed, his eyes mapping the lines made by the cracked paint on his ceiling does he remember why he shouldn’t stop trying.

This venom of dissatisfaction – it deemed him incapable to be himself when he lived in the gray city years ago. It haunted him on day’s end driving him sometimes to be so drunk of dread and regrets. That’s why a winter a year ago, he decided it’s time to come home. He’ll fix himself.

He can’t give up now that he’s so near to getting rid of this.

“Here’s your change Mrs. Song,” Jungkook stands by the door as he hands the silver coins to the woman in her late fifties. Mrs. Eunji Song, a friend of his mother and their past neighbour years ago, still has the same curly brown hair and fascination for pink clothes

“Ah, thanks Jungkook,” the lady smiles and gets her change before latching her hand on the door, getting ready to make her way home now. “By the way, do come to our house any day to have some dinner. You know you’re always welcome in our home,” the lady smiles again making Jungkook give her his own smile. She has always been so accommodating to their family even back then when he used to tease and make her daughter cry for fun. He wishes he could feel thankful for the offer like his younger self would be; not this disgusting guilt pressured by instilled culture.

“Will do, Mrs. Song. Have a safe trip home,” He bids her goodbye as he opens the door for her. He gives her one last smile to compensate for the bitterness of his thoughts before she rounds up the corner of Sangmin’s bakery.

Jungkook goes back to his station as he lets his vision linger on the other customers of his shop. He could see Mrs. Jinhee Park, a friend of Mrs. Lee, gathering her dried clothes. Mrs. Eunhui Lee, a mother of two and his apartment neighbor, feeds the coins to the coin slot of the washer before she presses a button to start her laundry. He could make out the familiar back of Park Jihyun, Jimin’s younger brother, sitting on the bench reading some manga he remembered Jimin raving about a week ago. It is three thirty in the afternoon and he’s expecting more familiar faces to turn up when the six o’clock mark comes for people who preferred to do their laundry at night.

Jungkook knows everyone just as how every resident in Myeongjang-dong knows everyone. After all it’s a small town. Newly moved residents in their area were welcomed warmly in the neighborhood with some rice cakes, and then they are introduced to everyone around the town. The tradition is preserved through the years as well as each family’s background, making it easy for everyone to pick apart every event in one’s life like a dissected frog experiment. Labels are permanently marked and gossips spread like wildfire. Jungkook knows Mrs. Song came from a poor family but founded a business which earned her family enough wealth to last their next generation. Mrs. Park’s husband died early and then she married her neighbor who was her first love during her youthful days. Eunhui had her first son at the age of sixteen with a jerk who left her. After two years she had her happy married life with her bestfriend.

Jungkook is pretty sure everyone knows his mother died when he was in college because of tuberculosis and that his father just died a year ago which was actually the reason why he went back to his hometown with his older brother. It was only him who stayed and preferred to run the family business. Unlike him, Junghyun loved the city and has a nice position as a supervisor in a company.

A peaceful and secure life is what Jungkook have always wanted. He doesn’t have dreams as ambitious as his brother’s nor does he feel unsatisfied with the laundromat business. As he looks around the establishment founded by his grandparents, Jungkook is thankful they, along with his parents, provided him a secure future. The prosperity of the business hasn’t changed nor the patrons of Jeon’s Laundromat even after his parents died. It has always been the same; everything hasn’t changed one bit. Neither do I, Jungkook thinks. Comfort is felt on what is familiar but sometimes he wishes it was the other way around – familiarity to be felt on what is comfortable. He always felt too comfortable with his life now that he feels unfamiliar with himself.

His mother had always reminded him that constants are needed to make life solid enough to be manageable, tangible, and most importantly, liveable. Jungkook thinks he already has too many constants in his life that his world seemed to stop moving and no matter what he did he’s still stuck in the same position. A stagnant echo in the gray static of a television left behind by the transmission signals.

Jungkook returns to work when Jihyun came to his station to say goodbye with a message from his brother that his attendance is very much wanted by the florist later at nine o’clock in Uncle Bob’s Bar. Jungkook sends him off with a message for Jimin to stop being so demanding like a clingy girlfriend.

The afternoon hours blend into the evening, and just like he expected, more customers went to the shop to do their laundry at six ‘o clock. At eight forty-five, Jungkook is pulling the metal gate downward, locking it with the huge brass padlock, and tucking the key in his pocket as he steps away to end another day of business.

“You’re only closing now?” An all-too-familiar voice he sometimes finds irksome drives Jungkook to give Jimin a once-over.

“Wow, you sound like my wife,” Jungkook walks towards his friend, who self-proclaims “beautiful as his flowers”, sporting a sky blue and white striped button down and navy jeans.

“Eww, you shouldn’t dream to have me as one when I’m already taken. Dude, I already have Minyoung!” Jimin cackles, starting to make a sprint as Jungkook charges after him to knock off the stupid grin from his face. It was ages ago when Jungkook ran like this; he really needed one that night to take his mind off of these stupid thoughts.

Uncle Bob’s Bar is actually owned by Kim Sangjin, Old Sangmin’s younger brother, and is located a few blocks away from the bakery. The two take their usual seat at the far right corner of the bar. Jimin raises two fingers to Mrs. Kim who has already memorized the friends’ orders that hasn’t changed since their college days.

Jungkook lets his eyes travel around the rustic mahogany interior of the bar complimented by the orange glow of candles placed in lamps overhead that attempted to mimic some form of chandelier. The chestnut cabinet holding liquors older than him was nested near the wooden staircase leading to the second floor where college students seems to be having some game of beer pong which reminded him of his own reckless days, back when life rolled on and on before it advanced too fast when he packed his things for the modern streets of the city. Now here he is, back where he started, hoping his untuned life will be fixed by his stay in his hometown.

“We used to do that back then,” Jungkook’s attention turns to Jimin, realizing he’s staring too long. He’s zoning out more frequently as the days pass by.

“Ah, yeah, then we’ll have bets with Taehyung and Hoseok who can take more shots then end up losing count because we always end up wasted. Can’t believe they’ll only come visit us just to drink here.”

“Seokjin called earlier,” Jimin starts, “said he and the guys gonna prepare some get together in Seoul. Last boyhood days, I say. He’s serious with Hana ever since college and he’s preparing to put a ring on it in July.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen with the news. He thinks it is risky prolonging romances with an indefinite ending that’s why he’s glad Seokjin and Hana were able to see a wedded life together as their future. “Really? Wow, I’m glad for them. It’s been like six years and they managed to keep the romance alive.”

“’Cause Seokjin looks damn good. Same reason why Minyoung will never get tired seeing this handsome face every day.”

“I will punch you for real this time.”

Jimin laughs as he leans on his chair, making himself at home. Well this bar was like their home but that was years ago. “Anyway, Seokjin and his happily ever after is not the reason why I wanted for us to have a drink here. It’s about you.”

“What about me?” Jungkook gives him a pointed look.

“It’s just that,” Jimin runs his hand through the strands of his hair as he finds the right words to say. “You just sound so…listless? Like you’re tired everyday for no reason.”

“I…-“ Jungkook stops, the aggressive “I’m not” he wanted to say dying in the confines of his throat.

“See? You can’t even deny it,” Jimin leans forward, his hands almost reaching out for him. “What’s wrong? Is it because of your life here? I told you you don’t have to force yourself to continue the business if you really felt that inferior to your brother-“

“No. It’s not about him,” Jungkook cuts him off with unnecessary hostility. Sure, sometimes he felt inferior to Junghyun because his position is something to be envious of compared to his laundromat business. Jungkook always felt the need to tell himself every now and then that the city is for Junghyun and this province is for him. Being jealous of something he would never enjoy in the first place is pointless.

Jungkook thinks his friend would not be able to fathom the complexity of his dilemma so he comes up with something he could reach. Jimin’s concern makes him feel sorry for his recalcitrance.

“What’s your favorite holiday, hyung?”

If Jimin was taken aback with the sudden diversion of subject, he did a good job masking it with a smile. “Thanksgiving.”

“Why?”

“Family gets together then we play games and eat lots of food. It has always been my favorite holiday ever since I was a kid.” Jimin‘s smile grows into a grin that makes Jungkook decide to lull himself in this subject longer. “God, this is a cheesy question from slambooks but since you brought it up, what’s yours?”

“New Year,” Jungkook replies instantly. “I like the adrenaline rushing through me whenever I count down the minutes separating two years. I like seeing the sparks of fireworks and the fact that this is the only day it is legal for you to cause some ruckus and make loud noises. It always promises a new start, a change in your life.”

Jungkook remembers his college days when they’ll sit on Seokjin’s car and drive around town blaring rap music beyond reasonable levels of volume, his mom’s eyes crinkling as she greets him “happy new year” with his dad, he and Junghyun buying those sticks that sparkle and cackle like small fireworks when you set them alight. The feeling of exhilaration, the tingles on his spine, the feeling of setting your eyes on only one end – Jungkook misses that. A new start, a change in my life, Jungkook always knew this is what he needed. He’s been too comfortable, too familiar with everyone that he felt foreign to the thought of making life exciting. What he feared most has already happened - Life has gotten boring. It numbed him of his will to live like he wanted to and made his days and nights dreary and aimless. It’s sad when every time he thinks of this he could picture the college student version of him years ago who declared he’ll never be like the adults who stopped living for the sake of existing.

Jimin must have realized what he meant with his reply and so as their drinks arrived, his friend’s words stuck to his mind until midnight as he slumped down on his bed, imagining the worn off lines of his ceilings to be constellations that disappeared after he graduated.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your New Year soon. I know you can.”

Winter finally melted away when March came, only leaving the cold breeze and chilly dewy mornings for spring as remnants of its wake. Jungkook was never one to give sentimental meanings to seasons unlike his sappy florist friend. Jimin always told him spring is the first season – it’s a perfect time to start anew especially after winter wiped the life away of the usual plants that grew in his shop. He remembers Jimin telling him one afternoon, “The cold has ended and the time to plant new flowers has come. It wasn’t used as a personification for hope for nothing, you know.”

It was only now he thought that Jimin’s metaphors about spring must be true.

It was nine in the morning of a usual Monday when spring entered his shop with a swift swing of the door and a blur of pink sweater and jet black hair

Jungkook knows everyone just as how every resident in Myeongjang-dong knows everyone – except this girl. His eyes follow her as she stops at the sixth washer, dumps her laundry, presses some buttons, inserts some coins, closes the cover, presses start, and finally sits on the bench. It was only then he noticed she carried some sort of paperback with lots of black and white pages – too big for a pocket book, its cover too minimalistic in design to be a magazine.

After living in the town for so many years, he thinks maybe he adapted the prying attentiveness of old country people. It makes him feel better thinking this could be the reason why he suddenly want to decipher the paperback in the girl’s hand, not because he’s too attached to the sentiment of having some kind of change that could alter the repeated cycle of his life. Minutes are not enough for him to recognize the material when he realizes the paperback was no more in view and he’s now staring at her eyes. Jungkook immediately tears his gaze away before he could print the crease of her eyelids or the color of her irises in his memory. He chides himself for being too curious even though he knows no matter what he tries to convince himself with, this inquisitiveness will only creep behind his back and implant itself in his mind.

Most of his customers are patrons, people he have known for so many years as their predecessors have also been patrons since his grandparents started this business. He couldn’t recall anyone’s relative who has a short stature and shoulder-length hair that matches this girl. He also hasn’t heard of any newly moved residents or any tourists traveling around their area. It’s impossible for her to live in a neighboring town and just come to Myeongjang-dong just for the sake of her laundry. He thinks it’s only fair for him to question her origin and motive.

He lets his eyes wander again to the girl’s way, noticing now that Minhee Jung, the photographer down the block, is also staring at the new girl. Mrs. Lee is also here, sitting on the other side of the bench looking agog to know her identity. He wasn’t the only one curious of her then.

Minutes passed with his eyes running through the pages of the 4th volume of Naruto he borrowed from Jimin with the mechanical whirring of the machines that turned to be melodic in time. His reading was interrupted with him bidding Minhee goodbye and helping Mrs. Lee with her laundry, including occasional gazes on the girl who kept flipping through the paperback he was still trying to figure out. The air in the laundromat wasn’t so still like yesterday. Jungkook felt strange when relief engulfed him with the steady hymn of pages turning.

By ten’ o clock, the girl finished her laundry and left with a soft “goodbye” Jungkook almost fails to hear. The minute she steps outside, the man shoots up from his seat and strides to the glass door in big steps to watch her disappearing figure make a turn on the corner of Kim’s Italian Restaurant. It dawns on him it’s also the same route he takes on his way home but he thinks he’s being paranoid. He couldn’t give a substantial answer why his attention was so hooked to the girl and her paperback so he didn’t bother to confuse himself further than he already is. Jungkook just blames it on the unusual black and white paperback so he can sleep that night.

It wasn’t until Wednesday when Jungkook’s interest was piqued again. The girl entered his shop at nine ’o clock, used the same washer, sat on the same spot of the bench and pulled out that damn paperback. Just like what he did on Monday, he read the same manga, though now he was on the 12th volume because he’s determined to finish Naruto to prove Jimin he can catch up to this story about ninjas. However, his usual reading pace is slowed down just so he can look at the girl in patterned successions; his eyes drift to her way when he lands at pages whose numbers are divisible by four. After three, four glances, he thinks she looks attractive in her blue pullover and gray jeans as her attention is captured by the paperback which is driving him mad.

Jungkook prides himself for his rationality. Even in his group of friends, his common sense and wit is regarded functional whenever they end up in sticky situations brought by his group’s occasional sprouts of foolishness. However today, Jungkook can’t really keep up this pride as said rationality is thrown somewhere when he decided to stand up and walk around the shop to finally discern just what this infuriating paperback is.

The pace of his walk is sluggish, almost similar to a fugitive’s gait as he pretends to inspect the washers on the opposite side of the one she’s using. He knows he doesn’t look suspicious as his customers know he does walk around the shop to assist them, “except today,” Jungkook thinks. His walk gradually slows to a stop when he neared the spot behind her, her back coming into full view as now he can finally look at the page. It’s black and white. Black ink swirled around and met other lines to form a mandela, “a flower,” Jungkook prefers. Patterns circled around with detailed geometric shapes and curvy triangular projections that made petals look so abstract than it should be. The other page is also the same – a black and white mandela he is sure would look better with some actual colors than the present monochrome scheme. “It’s a coloring book,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, comprehension now settling as to why this material is an outsider in his shop. He’s used to seeing his customers flipping through printed materials filled with pages to pass the time – mostly books and magazines. It isn’t everyday one would see someone bring a coloring book with them to a laundromat and just stare at it for a whole hour.

The girl picked up on Jungkook’s uncalled prolonged inactivity as she suddenly turned to her back, her eyes catching his guilty stance of peering, of “being prying,” Jungkook thinks. He immediately composes himself, his mouth preparing a buyable excuse his mind has concocted. “Ah- I’m sorry if I bothered you. I was just checking the washers.”

The girl only gives him a tight smile and a polite nod before she quickly returns her attention to her coloring book.

Jungkook reminds himself not to act like a weirdo anymore to save himself from nerve-wracking explanations for his questionable actions he himself is finding hard to understand. He leaves her spot, walks around the washers, never going to her side to avoid another wave of awkwardness. He whips out his manga the second he returned to his station and convinces himself to just stick to reading because he needs to finish this volume by tomorrow. He thinks he’s effort is impressive for trying hard to anchor his attention back to the comic book though he couldn’t proudly say he did enough to avoid the girl’s direction for just thirty minutes. He guiltily admits he can’t keep himself from sneaking a few glances in between reading. He thinks his reason to do so could justify the act this time. It’s just too weird, he thinks. Why buy a coloring book if you’re not going to color it anyway? Why stare at it for an hour? What’s so interesting with a black and white drawing anyway?

The girl bids him goodbye by the same ten o’clock mark and Jungkook finds himself rooted again on the glass door as he watches her silhouette blend with the province landscape and remnants of the morning glow of the sun. Today he blames it on the girl’s unusual pastime that bewildered him up to the day of her return.

By Friday, Jungkook’s certain he’s acting like a damn stalker and he doesn’t know how to explain for himself anymore. The girl arrived at the same time, same jeans and sweater – a dandelion yellow now – ensemble, and did the same routine in front of the sixth washer. However, Jungkook could make out she brought something with her along with her coloring book. He raises himself from his seat a little to just peek – and oh it’s a watercolor set, the cheap set he usually sees in the neglected corners of bookstores. He falls back down on his seat when the girl suddenly stood up and walked towards his station. For a moment Jungkook panicked, he sat up so straight he almost knocked off the air of himself as his hands frantically pat his askew shirt, desperately making himself look presentable. “Shit, maybe she figured out I’m being a creep,” he thinks as he counts the seconds she’ll stand in front of him and demand for him to stop acting so suspicious – but that doesn’t happen. He could see her stand clueless by the door, her head snap left then right, probably thinking what to do, before she decides to wind up to the right end of the shop where the comfort room is situated. Jungkook counts up to ten seconds when her figure reappears, her right hand now occupied by a small see through cup filled halfway with water. Jungkook diverts his attention to the fifth page of the 12th volume of Naruto when the girl nears his station before he returns his gaze on her to see her now opening the watercolor set.

Jungkook thinks it’s unusual to be so amused watching a girl color a page using watercolor. He doesn’t know what he finds so relaxing with her peaceful posture - her coloring book laid open on her lap, the watercolor set placed on her left side as her hand gracefully flicks the brush around. He can’t make excuses for himself anymore why he’s itching to know what she’s coloring, what kind of color she is using now, why watercolor and not colored pencils. Some kind of tranquility blankets the interior of his shop as he flips through his manga again, his excitement dying down to an unperturbed state he never felt until recently. The mechanical song of the machines lulled him to delve in the world of ninjas, recurrent glimpses on the girl brings him back to his world in Myeongjang-dong. By eleven o’clock she bids him goodbye and then Jungkook finds himself staying by the glass door again. Jungkook can’t think of anything to blame now as he ponders over her extended stay just to finish her coloring session.

On Sunday, Jungkook finally decided to approach her. She came by nine ’o clock again wearing a lime green sweater and faded jeans bringing the same watercolor set and coloring book. Jungkook saw her making her way to the sixth washer and already expected her to do her laundry routine, sit on the bench, and start coloring. He didn’t expect he will be met by a missed note in his machines’ automatic symphony caused by anxious tapping of fingers against metal and the desperate squeak of the money return button under unforgiving pressure. The girl’s figure was hunched on the floor, her fingers flicking the coin slot and rapping the surface of the washer in interlaced sequence and this time Jungkook knows this is the reason why he should actually go to her and not because of him being nosy as per previous encounters.

“Umm, excuse me, let me help you,” Jungkook gets on his knees beside her, already insulting himself for sounding so dumb.

“My coins got stuck inside – I”

“No it’s alright. It happens sometimes. Don’t worry.”

Jungkook fishes his pen from his pocket, twists its cap to turn on the small handy flashlight he uses to make out the metal works in the dark crevices for him to determine the problem. He tuts his tongue, realizing the coin jam can’t be solved with simple knocking and tapping of the machine.

“What’s the problem?”

“There’s a coin tipped to the side inside. Don’t worry, it’s easy to fix.” He grabs the toolbox placed at the foot of his chair, right where he places his slippers for comfort, and he pulls it up to rest on his desk. He’s glad he decided to keep a toolbox for incidents like this even when Jimin discouraged him why he needed a toolbox since he’s not a washing machine mechanic. He opens the box and gets his utility knife before closing it again.

Jungkook may not know how to fix washing machines in general but he learned how to fix simple problems like this back when he aided his mother ran the shop. He slid the knife in the slot, pushed the tilted coin with it, and twists it a little. When he felt it slide smoothly, he smiles as it starts the tuned music he has been waiting five minutes ago.

“It’s fixed now,” he gets up from his knees and closes the cover before standing up only to meet the girl’s eyes in such close proximity, her breath so close to his chest he could feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing up . He’s frozen in his spot and he could only stare at her, her image surely making an impression in his mind. Her small warm brown orbs are adorned by creaseless eyelids. She has small cheekbones and he could see blemishes on her cheeks but her make-up did a good job in hiding them he thought twice if they were really there in the first place. Her face is shaped like a strawberry, her thin lips painted cerise that can rival any shade of red. Before Jungkook could stop himself from staring, the girl stepped away and cleared her throat softly muttering an apology, bringing the man back to his senses.

“Umm, yeah, it’s okay now, just press the start button,” He murmurs then immediately turns away, his eyes set for his station before he was delayed by a soft voice he now has a face he could match with.

“Thank you.”

“It’s alright,” Jungkook says without turning back as he sits on his chair, his lips unknowingly curving into a smile.

She leaves by twelve in the afternoon with a goodbye after finishing another page. Jungkook wonders if he’ll have his following weeks filled with her presence like this.

That night he was enveloped in the hospitality of Jimin’s small unit nursing a cold glass of water to amend the sheen of sweat glistening on his neck. His friend’s house is wedged between two other complexes around the street that corners Old Sangmin’s bakery. He felt the need to take the ten minute fast walk right after closing the laundromat just so he can get some answers he is very embarrassed to ask for. After dawdling on the polaroids that hung on his friend’s wall which portrayed Jimin’s family, their group, and his girlfriend, he thinks it’s time to disregard this empty pride and just start speaking.

“Have you heard of any newly-moved residents in town?” He licks his chapped lips before he opts to be clear with his intentions. “A girl around 5’2, long hair, always wears sweaters, jeans, and Converse sneakers?”

The playful glint in Jimin’s eyes did not surface when recognition first kicks in. “Oh her! She’s the new resident in the apartment complex across yours.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” The gleam in Jimin’s eyes is of pure unbelief. “She just moved in last week. Saw her carrying a luggage on your street last Sunday afternoon when I was doing bouquet deliveries.”

“How come I didn’t know about this?”

“You open your Laundromat at the ass crack of dawn and go straight to bed past ten. Of course you wouldn’t notice. Actually,” Jimin’s eyes sweep over his sofa before bringing it back to his friend, his stance more rigid. “I heard there’s something with her. No one in the area knows anything about her. No one could even say where she has come from.” He leans closer as if someone will hear him, “She seems secretive too. Suspicious, no?

Jungkook snickered, shaking his head. “Are you sure you’re not just relaying gossips you heard from the housewives here?”

“Maybe,” Jimin rests his case as he leans back, dismissing delirious perceptions influenced by old town idle talk. He then startles Jungkook when he decides to turn the subject to him. “Why did you ask?”

Jungkook hoped to evade this question when he made his visit but then he has no choice now as his friend’s teasing smirk signifies he wouldn’t let him drop the subject anytime soon. “Okay fine, I find her weird. She came to the Laundromat on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and this morning at the same time – 9 a.m. And she always bring this coloring book –”

“What the hell.”

“I know, right? It’s weird. She brought this coloring book and stared at it for one hour and then on Friday she decided she wanted to color-“

“No,” Jimin interrupts him, the smirk on his lips erased by the staggered look in his eyes. “What’s really weird is she does laundry four times a week. No person living alone would need to wash their clothes that frequently.”

Jungkook wished that night he didn’t hear Jimin’s remark. He only realized that this girl’s laundry schedule is anomalous enough to disregard her strange affinity with her coloring book. “Four times a week, Jesus Christ,” the man drapes his arm over his eyes but it’s useless when he can see mandelas playing on the cracked lines of his ceiling. His friend’s observation planted itself in his head like lawn weeds. It proliferated in his thoughts and formed a growing sea of green that always taunted him to just dive in. It's annoying; disquietude shouldn't be so charming.

The weight of his thoughts only materialized when the following weeks came. The once plain days of Jeon’s Laundromat is now perplexed by this girl four days in a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. She always comes by at nine ‘o clock in the morning, does her laundry, and stares at her coloring book or colors some pages, “always with watercolor,” Jungkook notes. The sharp swing of the door signals her arrival along with the gust of cool dewy breeze from the outside and after that, Jungkook’s attention is now on her until she leaves. By the second Friday, Jungkook confirms Jimin’s right when he said there’s something with this girl. This woman washes the same clothes she already washed in her previous visit. His eyes became familiar with the sight of the pink and blue striped button down, lavender skirt, and royal blue dress being dumped inside the washing machine. Sometimes it’s the yellow sundress, white pleated skirt, and mint green blouse he thinks she doesn’t wear in the first place. He sees them pristine clean even before she dumps it in and still pristine clean after she washed them. Jungkook doesn't linger on probable reasons behind her activity when he's already drifting in his space, wondering why he’s bothered by the thought of their colors fading anytime soon.

Her presence is tangible in some days and an aftertaste in every night. Jungkook never saw her in the days that were not in the schedule of her laundry nor is he fortunate to have just a glimpse of her room light turned on when he comes home. His ears are already used to the quiet street, soft click of the light switch, and the silent hiss when he draws apart the drapes on his window; the dark rooms across his apartment devoid of any life. The hollowness at nights was filled with dreams of mandelas and watercolors and it is until the day after tomorrow will these dormant curiosity and sense of adventure come full force; a reminder that there is indeed life, just not visible for him at nights.

She’s queer, odd, unfamiliar, and definitely offbeat in the musical of his very ordinary, normal, and uneventful life but her tune is not outlandish to be disturbing. He can’t will himself to admit to Jimin he likes watching her color pages with her cheap watercolor set, wondering to himself how she likes to color, or what her favorite color is because she always come in his shop wearing sweaters in hues that define the vibrant spring. The air around the laundromat is colored with new pigments as the girl brushes around her coloring book while Jungkook reads mangas. The music of the washers accompanies exchanges of shy glances and the timid curve of lips.

This is uncharted area, an unexplored field, and his bare feet is still trying to get used with the rough and itchy weeds but he doesn't deny the buzz in his bloodstream wills him to run across this sea of green and just forget they were in fact parasitic foliage on his lawn. He goes against the cautions of unfamiliarity set on his door since he was a child and decides maybe - just maybe a discrepancy can actually give him comfort.

He starts to anticipate the days of her visit and the undisclosed wishes of her mandelas.

Geometry suddenly became a fascination on Tuesday.

Jungkook postponed business until eight thirty when he realized his refrigerator is practically devoid of anything edible. He used his usual opening time and first two hours in Farmer’s Market and by half past seven he is already waiting by the bus stop, his hands occupied with plastic bags that will satisfy his appetite for the following week.

The road was silent, except for faint chatters of the town people and the brief appearances of trucks and local cars. Farmer’s Market is a subdued repose in weekdays and a loud frenzy in weekends, Jungkook remembers as he sits down on the bench. He settles his purchase by his side, muscles effortlessly releasing the tension he wishes his mind could do a better job at. God, he’s already tired and he hasn’t started work yet.

Rustling of the leaves filled in the noiseless street and the patterned zipping of vehicles cannot make it better, exaggerating the seconds to grow into centuries in his mind. Jungkook knows he needs something to occupy his mind. His eyes look down at his wrist adorned with the watch that was handed down from his father. He always felt comfortable with the warm brown leather straps, still-distinct black of roman numerals arranged on a circular plate of the yellowing white face of the clock. The hands were at seven and nine, two lines connected at the center. And since they look like lines, they also look like they could extend whenever at whatever point - his plane geometry teacher said so. Can it turn into something when the area near seven is connected to one and nine is connected to three? Can expansion of mere periods create a difference from its original form?

Jungkook thinks yes, it can when he recognizes the familiar supplementary lines he used to draw on his notebooks. Extremes can be in unison in the form of acute and obtuse angles. The angles are uneven but they still measure a 180. They can be a clean 90 - 90 but Jungkook prefers them unbalanced because he wanted to feel normalcy in inconsistency. Jungkook then sees the lines on the aged face of his clock transform to lines on the graying white and blue of Jeon's Laundromat. His laundromat their point of intersection with him and the sweater girl as the lines that will coexist in the brief two or three hours if she decides to finish one page. The difference between their angles so noticeable like the drastic split between 120 and 60 because her fleeting hours of stay cannot equal the stagnant years he lived on this establishment. Jungkook thinks his ceiling will now bear the misalignment of these askew lines.

Jungkook detaches himself from his trance when he felt the bench creak. The wooden parallel lines of the bench on his right were unceremoniously interrupted by another person. Blue jeans, cherry red fuzzy sweater, and straight jet black hair makes Jungkook remind himself that emergence of supplementary lines is scheduled on the day after tomorrow, ascertained tomorrow if it’s Sunday or Tuesday like today. Tuesday is not tomorrow. Why is she here? Jungkook sides a glance, ever perplexed with her presence, and he sees her hunched over, hands on knees, puffing out tired breaths, and still unaware of him with plastic bags of the same color as his by her side. With the sunlight gracing her profile, she looks more breath taking than he remembers. He was already taken aback before with her imperfectly beautiful freckles and her thin red lips, but what he never noticed before was the raven black crowning her head, darker than her midnight tresses; an indistinct inconsistency of her natural being.

Appearance of green and blue lines crosses his vision and disrupts his thoughts. The sudden whish of opening doors makes him look down on his watch while standing up to grab his bags. It was only 7:56, such little time never felt so long. As he sets his eyes toward the bus, he now notices the strange sweater girl was no longer by his side and was now struggling on the metal steps of the vehicle.

Should he help her? Helping her won’t make him seem creepy right? Damn it, Jungkook hurries toward her side. He gently taps her shoulder and mutters, “I’ll help you with this.”

She must be quite startled with his sudden interference with her widened eyes and parted lips, but the man can’t seem to be aware of this when he’s mesmerized with her eyes, registering their color is not just brown, it’s hazel. He sure learns more about her this Tuesday which cannot be granted in the confines of his laundromat. He immediately looks down and grabs her plastic bags as the thought of social convention enters his mind which deems it quite inappropriate to stare for too long.

“For one passenger or two?” The rough voice of the driver in his mid forties weirdly sounds outlandish to his ears when he stood up to place his card on the sensor for the vehicle fare.

“Uh…”

“Only one,” the firm tone makes the male whip his head to sweater girl’s way, now nearing him as she got up the steps and flashed her own card before beeping it.

“You don’t have to, I got my own,” she pulls her lips a little into a smile.

Jungkook feels spring coloring his cheeks with embarrassment. This is so uncool. He tears his gaze from her and settles it on the nearest vacant seats behind the elderly woman and a married couple seated in the first two rows. He lets her make her way first before following, his eyes trained on his shoes until he plops himself down on his seat. “Too much for one day, shucks.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Huh?” He looks at her face and sees her expectant expression before realization hits him.” Ah- oh here are your bags,” he gives them to her, disregarding how her fingers felt a little calloused when they overlapped his. This shouldn’t even attract him and yet he finds himself magnetized towards her eyes again.

“Pull yourself together, man!,” He averts his eyes toward the opposite direction, hoping for the ride to end faster ‘cause shit he’s acting like a retard now and he can’t even redeem himself by engaging in small talk-

“You’re Jeon Jungkook, right?”

“Wait- huh?” Jungkook whips his face toward her direction with such alarm in his eyes as if he was caught stealing. He thinks she hid her bewilderment of his suspicious behavior behind curious eyes and a friendly smile.

“Jungkook-sshi right? Owner of Jeon’s Laundromat?”

“Why – ah yes,” Jungkook almost forgot that here in Myeongjang-dong, everyone does know everyone. He opens his mouth to speak but found words dying down his throat. He can’t think of how to continue the conversation when his awkward reply simply ended her attempt of small talk. He observed her eyes glancing his way then back to the window, her fingers twiddling with each other as the quietness settle on both of them.

“Maybe she’s also uncomfortable with such quietness,” Jungkook thinks. Small talk probably eases the pressure from the silence between two strangers who surely have acknowledged each other’s presences before. Since she went beyond her way and started a small talk with him, the man thinks it’s only right that this time, he start one. So when the bus halts on the next stop to let the married couple get down, Jungkook is staring at her way and opens his mouth.

“You do market shopping on Tuesdays too?”

It’s her turn to be startled as she looks his way, her mouth gaping before stretching into a pleasant line. It’s fortunate she smiles a lot; she has a beautiful smile. “Y–yes. It’s less chaotic during weekdays.”

Jungkook felt his own lips tugging into a crescent. He finds courage to talk more and bask longer in her presence. Relief seeping in his bones when he notices the shimmer of curiosity in her hazel orbs. It’s been such a long time he noticed those childlike glimmer in the eyes of the people around him apart from his friends.

“I heard from people you just moved in here.”

“Ah, yes around the first week of March. My friend recommended a better work position around here. I’m an accountant by the way,” she supplies with a chuckle. “How about you? Did you start your business on your own?”

“No, my grandfather started the family business and it was passed down to my mother then to me. It also happened that my patrons are successors of my grandfather’s patrons.

“It’s wonderful then that you continued the family legacy.”

“It is,” Jungkook replies with a timid smile.

The next minutes were spent in silence, less awkward now, and when the bus halts on the fourth stop, Jungkook stands up to bid goodbye when the girl beat him to it.

“This is your stop too?”

Oh, right she lives across him. Jungkook rubs his neck. “Uhh… yes.”

They stepped out of the bus, the girl’s plastic bags secured in Jungkook’s grip (he insists to do so), as they walk in peace past the Italian restaurant. During their silent trip, she dropped in casual remarks how the weather was nice today, or her neighbors were so kind to give her homemade kimchi when she moved. Jungkook told her that people here are really warm and Busan style kimchi is one of a kind to which she agrees. As they go up the stairs of Ahjummah Bongcha’s apartment complex, Jungkook can’t help but glance at his own unit just across the street. How many nights has he spent wondering how this girl lives across him when he can’t even sense an inkling of life and now he’s here, feet landing on the front of her unit in the third floor as he gives her her plastic bags. Lines are lingering at the intersection today before they can become supplementary lines now with a smaller difference of fifty-eight degrees.

“By the way where do you live?” She gives him an inquisitive look as she sets her plastic bags down first before she can put them inside.

Jungkook suddenly feels like a thief caught in his act. “Don’t get creeped out, okay? I live across you –”

“And you didn’t make any remarks when we’re climbing up the steps?”

“I only noticed now, I swear!” Jungkook grins. “I was absentminded when we’re going up the steps –”

She suddenly laughs, slapping his shoulders playfully and Jungkook really does swear a tingle of electricity didn’t just sprout from the contact. “I’m just kidding, don’t get too defensive.” She opens her screen door and makes ready to bid goodbye. “Thank you with the plastic bags, again, Jungkook-sshi.”

Jungkook suddenly realizes he missed something important every rational person engaging in small talk should have known in the first place. He holds onto her arm before she can close the door and she looked so shocked with the sudden action. His next words make those hazel eyes soften and her lips extend into a charming smile Jungkook knows he’ll always remember before he goes to sleep.

“What’s your name by the way?”

“Kim, Sarang.”

The strange sweater girl doesn’t seem so strange now.

The following days have been a blur of sparks and new colors but Jungkook manages to remember them all. The peculiar Kim Sarang, the color of her sweaters, the stretches of her smiles, her longer visits, and the pigments she likes on her mandelas.

Monday permitted him to go to her usual seat and ask about her day as per social convention for two acquaintances. He gestured to her ever familiar coloring book filled with colored and black and white mandelas and he spent that day learning that watercolors and coloring books were a big part of her childhood. She has always been fascinated with transluscence and light play, the way the first splash of tints won’t look the same way when the minutes dried them up.

“You have to be very good in predicting how they’ll look after you painted them, so it’s really important to know the amount of water you’ll put in the paint,” she demonstrates with a flick of her wrists and lets him see the mirage of lilacs filling the petals of another Mandela, the same color of her sweater today.

“Then, you must be really good at predictions,” Jungkook chuckles.

“Nah, the outcomes are just easier for me to see because I’m already used to them.” She then looks at him, “You said your medium of preference is colored pencils so you’re already used how the outcomes of the textures will look.”

“Uh, I think not. I just wing it and it happens to look good.” Jungkook’s crinkled eyes matches the grin now painted on her lips as she laughs.

She ends her laundry duty with Jungkook helping her and a smile with a wave “See you next time” as she steps out his laundromat. The man finds himself planted on the doorstep, watching her leave by twelve o’clock, wishing next time would come sooner.

Soon enough, next time, comes two days later in the form of Wednesday and a game of twenty questions.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue. Yours?”

Jungkook grins, “Red.”

It’s Sarang’s turn to start another question.“Favorite holiday?”

“New Year.” Jungkook could already feel warmth spreading on his chest with just the thought of it.

“Oh yours just comes next to mine. Mine’s Christmas.”

“Really? Then you must like all the Christmas lights and the trees”

“God no, I’m just in for the gifts.”

Jungkook’s blank face makes her guffaw. “Okay, I like the lights and trees. It’s sounds so corny when I say it out loud.”

“Then mine’s cornier. I like new beginnings.”

“Wow, you’re sentimental.”

“Yeah, kinda explains why I have that stupid car freshener by my side. Jimin gave it to me when I told him I’m going back in Busan and he thought I have my own car. His face is undescribable when he was so disappointed he saw me coming down from the bus.”

“But he’s happy you kept it.”

“Yeah he was. He’s one sappy fellow-“

He just didn’t expect a third person to join in. “I’m so gonna tell hyung about that.”

“Oh no! Jihyun, Wait!”

Wednesday was quite short when Sarang left by eleven thirty with a grocery errand she has to do and Jungkook says it’s okay, his hand resting on the collar of Jihyun’s shirt. It’s okay, he’ll see her again soon enough.

Friday was not so okay when florist Park Jimin suddenly barged in the laundromat while Jungkook is in mid-sentence about his dog Cloud, Sarang also surprised with the new presence.

“So I heard I was sappy.” Jungkook could tell Jimin was quite offended.

“Uh… you are.”

“You brat –“

“You know you have a business to attend to right?” Jungkook points to his flower shop.

“Shop’s closed because I wanna visit my childhood friend-“

“We see each other everyday.”

“- who happens to just remembers me as a ‘sappy fellow’”

Jimin turns his attention to Jungkook’s company, his eyes lighting up when he recognizes the girl Jungkook was talking about. He offers her a hand, “Sorry for my interruption. I’m Park Jimin, you must be sweater girl-“

Jungkook suddenly chokes on his own spit.

“Umm, Kim Sarang actually.” The girl shakes his offered hand with a polite smile.

“Sorry,” Jungkook apologizes while already pushing Jimin out of the shop, “he makes stupid remarks sometimes but he has good intentions.”

“Hands off me, brat.”

“No, get out. You have your own business to attend to.”

“Hey, you’re only 25, I’m already 27. I was born here first. I ate more rice than you.”

“You-“

Their banter was suddenly interrupted with a set of giggles that came from sweater girl. “You must have a wonderful childhood,” she remarks before she suddenly remembers Jimin might have been set aback “Oh, sorry for laughing, I just-“

“It’s okay,” Jimin reassures, making his way to her side already getting comfortable on the bench, “It’s what makes me charming, got my girlfriend swooning with the Chim Charms.”

Jungkook felt the need to interject. “Yuck.”

“Shut up.”

Sarang’s curiosity wills Jungkook to talk about his childhood. He tells her about how close he was with his grandparents and parents, the treats they spoil him with, and that everyone in town was friends with their family. Jimin also shares in the story-telling when they got to the part how nine year old Jungkook accidentally spilled laundry water on Park Jimin when he was cleaning up. Fortunately, little Jimin agreed to forgive him if he would play with him because other boys in town ignore him since he’s a wimp and with those puppy eyes he won over nine year old troublemaker Jungkook who he later found out was two years younger than him.

“I’m still bitter about it.”

“No one cares hyung.”

Jungkook continues on with his tale. He can’t stop when the girl was looking at him with eyes that will him to talk and talk. It feels strange to tell someone about his whole childhood and adolescence; how he stuck with his friends he met in high school through Jimin, how lightweight he feels telling her all about his good old days, because everyone has, there will always be good days even though life has ever been hopeless and miserable.

Sarang gave him stories of her own happy days in return. He learns that even though she lives far from her parents, they always wait for her daily Skype calls every evening without fail. She also has a childhood friend named Aecha whom she met in daycare when no one wants to play with her because she’s a klutz and kept messing the arranged tables of other girls for tea parties.

“Like Jimin,” Jungkook side comments, earning a playful elbow nudge from the florist to which she laughs.

Sarang tells him she’s got a lot of similarities with Aecha except being good in math to which Jungkook says it happened to be his best subject.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Jimin answers before Jungkook can. “He went to school competitions for math quiz bees and he manages to always, always get the gold medal.”

“Pure luck.”

“I think not,” Jimin insists. “His mother has this display thing in their living room where all his medals are. All gold, I’m telling you. Oh, plus certificates from art events in college.”

“Really? Wow, you must have passed through high school and college with flying colors.” Sarang turns to Jungkook and he’s taken aback when he sees the flicker of interest in her eyes. He doesn’t know what to feel about it.

“Can’t give Math all the credits though,” Jungkook rubs his neck. “Drafting classes gave me the rainbow wings which I used to fly with flying colors.”

“Rainbow wings? That’s new,” She sniggered. “You said you draw sometimes but I never thought you were this good.”

Jungkook lets out an awkward laugh as Jimin starts to sell him out again. “He’s really good. He used to draw cool backgrounds for school events which provided him extra allowance he used to treat his family, sometimes me.” Jungkook feels Jimin getting sappy now, “He’s really gifted, he even helped me paint my flower shop which garnered much compliments from my customers.”

Sarang’s smile got wider now. “If you’re good in numbers and art, I’m guessing you took architecture as your major right?”

“Uhh yes,” Jungkook rubs his nape again, already uncomfortable. Jimin suddenly senses this and tries to change the subject but-

“You must have tried making blueprints for a company before, no?”

The sudden question got Jungkook rigid and stiff. He suddenly diverted his eyes away from her, her words left hanging caused a sudden sweep of cold air in the midst of spring, seemingly freezing their conversation as well in a hideous iceberg, suddenly growing sharp spikes that taunt him. Seasons should be chronological in manner, he can’t remember autumn when he’s trusting spring to cure him. He can’t remember now-

“Your watch, is that your father’s?”

Jungkook returns his gaze on her, her hazel eyes so gentle and her thin lips smiling not as wide as before but it’s still warm enough to soften the edges of the tension. Jungkook appreciates her effort of noticing his discomfort and exhales slowly with “Yes, how did you know?”

“It’s got brown leather straps and the face is already yellowed. It’s quite a trend for men back then.”

Jungkook dismisses any unpleasant thoughts when he pulls a smile for himself. Good old days. “I always liked these straps than stainless silver ones. I’m more comfortable with this.”

Jimin smiles and tries to liven up the mood again, “Yeah, when he got it from his dad he won’t shut up about it.”

Jungkook stares at him to which Jimin nudges away.

Sarang leaves by twelve thirty, laundry in hand, and an apology to what happened earlier. Jungkook can’t bring himself to watch her leave like he always does.

“You know, she doesn’t know, right? Don’t be too upset.” Jimin tears his attention from whatever that will seem to enclose around him again.

“I know hyung, it’s just-“

“I understand. Just… don’t be closed off. I think there’s still something about her,” Jimin scrunches his face as he gestures, “with the four times a week laundry duty or maybe just because she’s a clean freak. But seeing her now,” he looks at the laundromat owner, “she’s kinda alright; just… curious and interested. Like you are about her.”

It wasn’t until he got home by the raven night sky of ten o’clock does he understand Jimin’s point when he finds a plastic food container containing a still hot stew before his doorstep. He picks up the sticky note attached on top of it, a neat handwritten “I’m sorry about earlier - KS” in black ink. No need to feel too hurt. It’s been years, he has to move on. It is already a luxury to have the pure interest of others for the purpose of understanding in this world when nitpicking other’s flaws mattered more than anything else for the ‘necessity’ of leverage on others.

Jungkook straightens up, a smile and wave ready to be sent to the apartment across his only to be greeted by a dark unit with no hint of any life.

Sunday came around too soon for Jungkook’s liking but the thought was quickly diminished when his eyes caught a movement of rose pink while he’s reading the 13th volume of Naruto. He snaps his neck toward the wall clock and right, it’s already nine o’clock. Of course, spring is here.

He stood up from his desk and found Sarang already seated on her usual spot, same coloring book and watercolor set by her side. He walks by her side and before she acknowledges him, he already starts speaking.

“Uhh Sarang, thank you for the kimchi stew two days ago, I just,” he looks down when he feels his throat getting blocked up. “I hope I didn’t scare you that day.”

“Oh no, you didn’t,” she shifted in her seat. “I just felt bad because I thought maybe I offended you in some way-“

“No offense taken, the topic was just… uncomfortable for me.” Sarang gestured for him to take a seat beside her and he does so. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it anytime soon.”

“I know, it’s okay,” she smiles. “People don’t like talking about what unsettles them.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Sarang’s smile just gets wider. Jungkook isn’t sure if it’s only for him with the way it looks somehow strange but he knows he feels a tad better now.

“You’re a great cook by the way. The stew was amazing. It has this some distinct taste, definitely not from Busan. It must be from your hometown then.”

Jungkook notices her eyes flicker in a way he can’t comprehend but he doesn’t mind it too much when she tells him “I- I don’t think it reflects anything from my hometown. I used to live in Gwangsan-gu, Gwangju, but I never managed to capture the Gwangju taste in my cooking.” She paused for a while before she lets out a chuckle, “But I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Jungkook spends the rest of the minutes by her side in silence, watching her color the pages in uniform motion, union in her strokes evident, and how her favor of blue tints always happen to appear in huge splotches or in tiny linear details.

She leaves early by ten o’clock because of accounting works she needs to be done for the client she’s working with. Jungkook sends her off with a smile, watching her retreating figure. Few words were shared today but Jungkook could see more opportunities in the following days, affirmed so when she turns back for the first time before she rounds the Italian restaurant to give him one last smile.

The following weeks proved it to be true as each day bled to another one. The day seemed like a millisecond, too miniscule for Jungkook when months ago they felt tediously long like centuries. Spring will come by nine o’clock and another conversation and shared laughter will fill the timeframe of Sarang’s visit before they’ll part by twelve with full smiles and shy waves of their hands in their wake. His shop became livelier with animated chatters and giggles, stories of how he found a stray pup with his group of friends by the corner of their college dormitory and decided he’ll keep him as Cloud, how Sarang laughed when she told him she sucked at math and how many times she failed her college entrance exams but she still wants to be accountant so no one’s gonna stop her at that. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” she snorted as Jungkook cackled. It sounds too hilarious that it surprised the man himself but he doesn’t care. It felt so long ago since he felt like this.

“D’you have anything you’re good at?”

Sarang turns to him with an incredulous look before lifting her book to him “Isn’t it obvious already?”

“No,” Jungkook sniggers as he clears his statement, “I mean aside from watercolor painting.”

“Well, what are you good at besides math and drawing.” She raises her eyebrows and moves them comically, something Jungkook considers weird at the same time awfully cute.

“You won’t believe it but I sing and dance.”

“Okay, you’re just bluffing.”

“No, it’s true!”

“As if. No one can be a whole package, you dork.”

“Just wait ‘til you see this,” the man fumbles for his phone, eyes scanning through numerous files before his thumb presses on the center. It starts to play with seven men on the stage in flashy outfits getting ready with their formation as a thunderous beat starts to boom out from his phone. “Too loud, too loud for the shop,” and Jungkook frantically inserts the jack of his earphones, fits his ear with one bud, and as he turns to his side, he never imagined he’ll get a close up of Sarang’s warm hazel eyes. “She really has pretty eyes- okay I’m violating her personal space.”

Jungkook clears his throat, “Umm, if you don’t mind I-” His fingers were ready to fit the bud in the girl’s ears before his action was intercepted with the girl’s much smaller fingers that sends a jolt to the man’s body.

“It’s okay,” she smiles, fitting the bud in her own ear. “I wanna watch your performance you’re so adamant to show me.”

“Not that adamant - okay fine.” Jungkook presses play again yet he cannot bring his eyes to focus on his first ever show performance for their college event. It was a good show actually, but Jungkook reasons he looks like shit there anyway and the view in front of him is much nicer to look at. Sarang with her eyes trained on the performance, lips painted in cherry gloss parted slightly, her figure leaning closer to him to get a much better view from his small outdated handphone. Jungkook basks in the lack of proximity between them as he watches her locks fall forward on the side of her face and God, he wants to tuck that hair behind her ear but he has to control himself so he puts his other hand on his side of his ear bud to look he’s also focused on the show. He’s never been focused on someone as much as now.

Five minutes have already passed as Sarang leans back in her place, surprising Jungkook as he realizes he’s stared at her profile for so long.

“You- you like it?” Jungkook trains his eyes somewhere to keep the blush creeping on his cheeks

“Yeah, you got some killer moves there, and vocals too, Mr. Justin Seagull”

“Oh my god, that was the dumbest stage name ever that I thought back then was really cool.” If spring has colored his cheeks earlier, well now his ears are already in vibrance too. “Anyway, what about me being a ‘whole package’ you said earlier,” Jungkook raises his eyebrow to attempt a smug look and he himself is surprised where the hell he got this cringey confidence just to mask up his blushing self.

“Oh stop it,” She chuckles, playfully hitting his shoulder. She looks down at her forgotten book as she smacks her lips together before she looks his way again. “To answer your question earlier, there’s something I’m also good at, aside from painting and my work.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I dance.”

“Can you show-“

“Sorry, I don’t have any embarrassing footage to show in exchange.”

“Hey, unfair!”

Jungkook never thought he could grin this much without hurting his jaw. Smiling, laughing – it felt so surprisingly effortless. It felt like he travelled back in time, back to his good old days with this foreign excitement he used to have now embedded on his chest that continues to manifest, overwhelming and unyielding even when he tried to contain them. He decides he wouldn’t stop; he can’t. He’ll continue to run over this uncharted zone, farther past the familiarity of what he has grown up to.

Each day, another page is colored in Sarang’s coloring book.

“What if you only use the colors I’m going to say for the next page.”

“I’m gonna accept that challenge.”

Jungkook grins.“Okay… use purple, pink, and brown.”

Sarang immediately flips the book close. “Forget it, you have a terrible color choice.”

“Just try it!”

“Fine.”

After a few minutes, Jungkook was already gaping at her. “Wow, it looked amazing.”

“Of course, I have to amend the hideous color scheme.”

“It was just for a challenge – okay touche.”

Everyday, another area is marked with memories on the unknown field of unfamiliarity.

“You know, you always walk in my shop in sweaters of various colors.”

“Well, I like colorful stuff.”

“Ohhhhkaayy.” Jungkook immediately leaves her place.

“Where are you going- Wait what is this?”

“Strawberry popsicle,” he hands it to her. “It’s pastel in color plus you’ve been eyeing that in my vending machine since yesterday.”

“Oh okay, thank-“

“That would be 500 won.”

“Nevermind.”

“I’m kidding! Take it, my treat.”

Everyday, another new conversation for Jungkook to run in his head as he slept with thoughts of supplementary lines, their angles not so askew anymore with 100 and 80 degrees angles, a 20 degree difference that makes him smile . Constellations on his ceiling started to burn brighter now, awakening dead stars long forgotten in the dust.

Weeks and weeks followed with Sarang’s longer visits and the ever present color of spring on Jungkook’s cheek that reflected their blooming friendship. A few times, the man finds himself convincing no one but him that he’s already satisfied with their childlike tales and childhood stories, sometimes mature discussions, and then… and then the prolonged stares, lingering touches, shy smiles. It’s foolish, pointless even to deny he wanted that 20 degree difference in their supplementary lines to disappear. In fact, no more supplementary lines; he wanted to feel her presence other than in his laundromat, the only intersection he has with her. How about a line? That could go on and on forever; he can meet her everyday with no hindrances at all. Right, he can opt for a line-

“So… how’s your girlfriend, son?”

“Huh?”

“Your girlfriend? The one with the coloring book.” Mr. Changmin Song tries again. Jungkook was still taken aback with the sudden interference in his thoughts so he lets his eyes focus again to what’s in front of him. Oh right, he was helping Mr. Song in packing his laundry. His mind is wandering towards her way too much again.

He clears his throat as he packs the last bundle in clear plastic. “Uhh, she’s… not my girlfriend.”

“You two always have a nice time here everyday, also not to mention I saw the food container on your doorstep one night when I went up to get my pliers back from Eunhui.” Mr. Song insists.

Right, everyone in Myeongjang-dong knows everyone, what did he expect? “We’re just friends, Mr. Song.” With three packed bundles in tow, Jungkook uses his hip to push his glass door open, stepping out of the shop to proceed to secure the bundles on Mr. Song’s bike.

Mr. Song follows him outside and positions himself next to his bike as he gives the laundromat owner a grateful smile. “Thanks son for helping me with this.”

Jungkook sends him a polite bow in return with “Anytime, sir.”

As the elder man positions himself on the bike, ready to pedal back home, he calls Jungkook’s attention one last time. “You know son, if you wanna get the girl, ask her on a proper date. That’s how I got my wife stuck by my side ever since. Okay I’m gonna go now, good luck with your romantic endeavors.”

“Thank..you, sir.”

Right. It’s foolish to convince himself he’s already satisfied with his friendship with Sarang, when from the start he already wanted more. The interest and attraction was already there, evident in his eyes even. Jimin tells him so one Wednesday night, spaghetti half finished as Jungkook cannot keep himself still in the back room of the florist’s shop.

“You look like a hungry puppy whenever you talk about her. Are you that thirsty?”

Jungkook spits out the water he’s drinking.

“What the hell?! That’s just unnecessary!” Jungkook accepts the napkins the florist handed him. ”How did Minyoung tolerate you with that mouth of yours?“

“It’s the Chim Charms – okay I’m gonna be serious.” Jimin pulls a straight face when Jungkook attempts to splash the water to his face.

“Hyung, I just…,” Jungkook messes up his hair in frustration, maybe in embarrassment also. “I wanna get to know about her other than in my shop. I want to meet her everyday, not just every other day.” He lets a shy smile slip on at the thought.

“…sap.”

“What?”

“Nothing! First off, go text her. Of course you already have her number, right - What do you mean no?”

Jungkook shakes his head, “I don’t know how to… you know I don’t know much in the dating scene. I’m not like you, or Tae-hyung, or Seokjin hyung who’s effortless in picking up girls.”

“Then the next time you see her, during your conversation just slip in casually, ‘hey can I get your number, if it’s okay?’” Jimin sees Jungkook’s eyes widen and he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Just be casual, okay? Keep it cool and manly like what you always fail to seem to be - ouch that hurt!”

A kick on the shin to his friend, and a “Thank you for the meal and happy birthday, more years for you to tolerate my insufferable hyung,” to Minyoung who sends him off with a friendly smile, Jungkook leaves Park’s Flower Shop. It’s already thirty minutes before midnight. He’ll just sleep it off then tomorrow he can see her again. His lips unconsciously pull into a smile.

He whistles the tune of some love song he heard in the radio as he makes the final steps towards the main door of his apartment complex when his eyes catches an unfamiliar movement right across him. Are those arms waving at him?

“Jungkook!”

Great. Now his mind is conjuring an imitation of her voice. He must be going crazy. He shakes his head and continues to walk only to be stilled again.

“Jungkook, hey!”

It sounds too real. He lets his eyes sweep before him, stopping at the movement of a figure and arms as he strain to focus them. Okay, this can’t be real.

“Sarang?”

“Yes! Sorry to bother you so late, but can I ask you a favor?”

Jungkook never thought he’ll get to see her this soon. “Okay, just hold this for me then I’m done,” Jungkook gives her the pliers he was using before returning to the bunch of red and black wires he was fiddling. A few twists here and there and a wrap of electrical tape, Jungkook bends down to plug in the now fixed cord of Sarang’s washing machine.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you so late, I know you must be on your way home but you’re the only one I know around here-“

“Hey, what’s the rush?” Jeonguk stands up to meet Sarang’s eyes, stilling her from her rambling. “It’s okay,” He assures to which the girl relaxes her rigid shoulders. It really is okay, Jungkook thinks. More than okay, actually, when he gets to see Sarang in a messy bun, glasses perched on the bridge of her button nose, slim frame dressed in a long dress he guessed must belong to her mother.

“Umm, okay,” Sarang’s eyes wanders to the side, probably thinking what to say to fill in the silence. They must be doing it a lot, filling in the silence. The awkwardness drives the man to let his eyes travel around the unit that has always been plunged in darkness, until now. The furniture was decent, minimalist even with her small sofa pushed to the wall and an old television situated across the room. A coffee table in the center holds a couple of fashion and art magazines his mother used to display in the laundromat. Aside from that, nothing much stood out – no picture frames, any memorabilia that may give him a glimpse of her childhood.

“You must have been in the middle of unpacking.” Jungkook turns back to her.

“Huh?”

“Your unit,” he gestures around the room, “it misses picture frames of your family. I remember you told me your mom likes taking photos.”

“Ah yeah,” Sarang bites her lip, “I left some of the boxes back in Gwangju. The moving company will bring them to me by next week.”

Before Jungkook could enjoy more of her company, Sarang’s voice brings him back to his rationality. “Thank you for your help again. I know it must be getting late; I owe you a lot.”

“Ah, no need to worry about that,” Jungkook walks toward her screen door, Sarang close behind him.

“I still feel embarrassed though; If you need any favor in return, feel free to ask.”

“Okay, noted” Jungkook grins. A favor from sweater girl? Wow, he actually hit the jackpot tonight. But what favor can he ask her of? There’s practically nothing he needs assistance of - wait.

Before Sarang could send him off with a smile, Jungkook’s foot wedges itself between her screen door and wall, wind knocked out from himself with the sudden action.

“Actually, I already have a favor in mind,” Jungkook smiles. “Can I have your number?”

Jungkook never thought a day could pass without his heart humming around his ribcage. His days were still as is: open the laundromat at 5:30, collect the coin and clean the shop around nine or ten before he closes; refill vending machine and change machine every Tuesday and Thursday; do accounting works on Friday nights. Sarang still drops by at nine every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, her stays getting longer and longer that Jungkook started sharing lunch times with her. The only difference might be the constant exchange of messages that fills his mornings and nights with grins and bubbling joy. He still isn’t able to have her presence in Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays; nor does the light in her unit rarely signal her residence in her home, but he got messages all week around to fill him with his hunger he never felt before.

Sometimes they’ll talk about miniature things that have never been interesting until now.

“So I read one day that washing machines have some meaning to them.”

“Yeah?” Sarang stops to look at his profile. “You’re starting to be real poetic about your business now.”

Jungkook chuckles, “I just came across it. Since they turn the clothes around them, it somehow mimics a cycle. You put dirty things in them and they come out clean now, kind of like how you change oneself for the better.”

Other times they’ll send messages about things that they have taken note of each other.

Sarang: Hey, I just passed Mr. Sangmin’s bakery. I bought some muffins. (3:30 PM)

Jungkook: Oh really? I’m gonna buy some later ahahahha (3:31 PM)

Sarang: No need. I already bought enough for us two. Expect me there by 4. (3:31 PM)

Jungkook whips his head to the calendar by his desk. It’s Tuesday, that’s strange-

Sarang: You know, you always text with “ahahahha” like an awkward teenage boy (3:32 PM)

Jungkook: Maybe I am (3:32 PM)

Jungkook: ahhahaahah (3:32 PM)

The man’s attention diverts to the sound of the chimes by the shop’s door.

“Welcome –“

“Hi,” Sarang smiles. “I got some muffins for an awkward “teenage boy”.

But there are also times when they’ll send each other signals that cross whichever boundaries set by social convention. Maybe it’s just him, Jungkook doesn’t really know.

Jungkook: I always have fun when I talk with you (10:30 PM)

Sarang: Me too. I have never experienced talking with someone for hours until now :D (10:31 PM)

Jungkook brings down his phone to look across Sarang’s balcony. Another Wednesday night granted him a soft glow in the room, a smile spreading on his face as warmth envelops his chest.

“Yeah, me too.”

Never has Jungkook been more curious of Sarang’s strange lifestyle when the following Friday night came. It was around nine thirty when the laundromat owner closed the shop and stayed inside to do accounting works when a set of three knocks on his glass door broke his focus on his tax returns.

Jungkook stands up from his desk to walk towards the door, familiarity sinking in along with surprise when he finally makes out the face of his late night visitor.

“Sarang?” the man immediately opens the door to let her in. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

The girl removes her denim jacket, her slim form accentuated in a fit white tee and tight jeans. “Are you not expecting any visitors?” Her amused voice sounds foreign to his ears, already bringing his attention back to her from his dazed state.

“Ah, actually no. My patrons know I close around this time on Fridays. I was just… surprised. Yeah…” and this might be quite an understatement. He never expected to see her at all tonight with her clad in something so flattering to her proportions, too foreign from the comfort of her sweater and jeans ensemble. Maybe he wasn’t just used to it, anyways at least he got to see her again.

“So what brings you here?” Jungkook asks as he sets down a cup of green tea on his desk, smiling at the girl who’s seated across him.

She adjusts her seat on the extra stool the man brought out before saying her thank you. “I- I was just done with my work and I just saw the light is still on in the shop so…”

“It’s alright, I was just curious,” Jungkook dismisses, sitting himself back in his chair surrounded with papers and cash invoices. “Though I’m gonna be busy for a while, gotta do some paperwork.”

“That would be alright,” Sarang smiles.

The following minutes passed with the scratches of ink on paper and soft chuckles. Sarang decided to help him with his purchases “so you can finish faster, plus this is also what I work with so it’s fun.” Jungkook can’t help but sneak few glances at the girl, with her eyes focused on the numbers, fingers swiftly pressing on the calculator, and her lips painted so red he just noticed now. The surprise of her sudden visit still doesn’t wear off when he can’t still believe the girl who spends her nights away from her home is just here right across him now. He could just reach out and grab her hand and ask her if she feels the same way about him as he does about her because he’s confused if the attraction he feels, sees even, is just conjured by his inexperienced mind. He turns back to the computation he’s doing. It’s too soon for that anyway.

“Is it your dream to manage your family business?”

“Huh?” He felt his mind halt as all thought still around him.

Sarang clears her throat as she puts her pen down, account of his purchases already done. “Has it always been your dream to do the laundromat business?”

He clears his throat. He never told anyone about this nor deemed this topic worth talking about because of the uncertainties that plagued however he can’t fathom the unusual feeling his chest - so light as if he was floating. “Actually, no... It was my childhood dream though.” Jungkook leans back, papers already stacked neatly. “When I was in kindergarten, my teacher asked us to draw our dream and I drew the whole shop with our patrons and me sat on the desk. While growing up, I learned I really liked math and drawing so I became an architect. It didn’t occur to me it as my dream though.”

“Then what is it?”

Jungkook halfheartedly smiles, “I’m still not quite sure yet, but I do know I’m content with what I have now.” He feels he’ll turn the atmosphere somber now if he speaks of what happened years ago so he just pulls his smile a little wider for her, however he also can’t decipher what the girl’s tight smile means.

Jungkook doesn’t know what goes on in Sarang’s mind and he wishes to know what causes the unfamiliar look in her eyes, just like now, someday. He hopes to know why she’s never at home on some nights, what she does on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. When he thinks of it, sometimes he feels he knows her, has the little things about her mapped out on his palm for him to always remember, and there are some times, like now, when the people you seem to know can be strangers too in mere minutes. He thinks he may seem like a stranger earlier if he divulged the misery and pain he felt when he went to the city that made him realize dreams are not just labels. They can become strangers they can be familiar with when they’re both ready. Comfort with oneself can wait, he’ll settle with the comfort offered by familiarity so tonight he’ll be someone who’s familiar to her image of him – a 25 year old inexperienced in dating, awkward “teenage” boy who likes to talk about good old days.

“How about you? Have you dreamt of being an accountant since you were a child?

“ No… I don’t know.”

“Hmm?”

“I really don’t know what my dream is. I just know that I like doing this kind of paperworks. But it’s not enough for me to be called as a dream.”

“You’ll find it eventually. Everyone has one.”

Jungkook looks down to his stack of papers, stooping down to put them in the cabinet of his desk. “How about painting?”

“W-what?”

“Painting,” Jungkook says louder as he stands up to meet her hazy gaze. “You really like coloring mandelas and they look really wonderful, too.”

Sarang rubs her shoulder, “It’s just – just a hobby I had when I was in middle school – I don’t think-“

“You should try though. Start coloring your own life; you’ve already colored enough of the black and whites of others.”

Somehow, the following minutes, hours until they closed the shop together around eleven thirty, Jungkook manages to see her warm hazel eyes again.

Their weighty conversation about dreams and warmth became the catalyst for Sarang’s visits on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights right before Jungkook closes the shop, as if her laundry visits in the morning were not yet enough. Jungkook could already feel the supplementary lines closing on in 95 and 85 degrees angles, an almost equal split and he’s never felt such excitement run its course down his bones.

On some Sunday night, they talked about Sarang’s high school memories.

“My mom skyped me yesterday by the way, she said she sent me my high school graduation pictures I left when I was packing. I just received them this morning,” she hands him a 2x2 photo.

“Wow, you look the same back then. You’re really pretty-“ Jungkook snaps his head to her, his hand on his mop stilling as he balks.

“Really?” Her grin spreads faster than the heat rising above the man’s cheeks.

“I mean- yes you’re pretty –“

“Thanks for the compliment! I’m gonna give you that photo as a thank you.”

It’s actually too much for a gratitude but anyway, he’ll take what he can get and Jungkook turns and tucks it in his wallet when she was busy wiping the glass door.

One Monday night was quite romantic when they both decided to cook carbonara for their late dinner in the kitchen at the back of the laundromat. She was actually surprised when he mentioned there’s a small kitchen in the shop so he explained his Grandpa extended the back of the shop to accommodate his Grandma’s fondness for cooking while managing the shop.

“You sure like pasta, hmm?” Sarang gives him a teasing smile as she stirs the cream.

“Yeah, but I, for the life of me, cannot cook my own favorite dish,” Jungkook snickered, heart swelling as he watched the girl prance around, pink apron his mother used to wear now neatly tight around her waist.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna cook for you instead.”

True to her word, Jungkook finds a familiar plastic food container on his doorstep the following week with a pink post it note saying “This is tuna carbonara, a specialty from my mom. Hope you like it ;)“

And last Wednesday night was when he realized his New Year actually happened. It was the best night he ever had since years.

“No Sarang, I’m going to ruin what you drew.”

“You know that’s not true; just paint and go; you had rainbow wings, remember?” Sarang smiles as he grabs his hand, and gives him a paintbrush.

It’s been years since Jungkook held anything that is related with art tools, anything that created lines and forms used to make him sick. However, none of that was present now, his chest unusually feeling light at the thought. He looks up towards the girl as she lays out two A4 papers with her hand drawn mandelas, her eyes glimmering with a shine he never saw before they started to talk, even before she was just silently coloring away in her own little world.

He sits himself beside her and grabs the first pigment that catches his eyes – lime green – youth, new beginnings, then cherry red – candy pops, sweet pomegranates he loved to eat in summer, and yellow, bright yellow – sunflower fields, summer, joy. After years of wrapping his heart with regret, disappointment, and hatred, he thought he would never feel happy again. But now – now he was actually happy, unadulterated joy that is so childlike he feels his chest is going to combust. He remembers all that he loves with the colors he chose - his family, friends, the life here in his neighborhood, the warmth he was showered with ever since he was born. It was time to let go, he realizes, now that he started to love again the warmth in this life he chose, now that his new year have already happened.

“I know my dream now,” Jungkook mutters as he stops his strokes and turns to face Sarang. “My dream is to live in a nice neighborhood filled with warmth. Sounds cheesy I know.” He giggles.

“No continue on,” Sarang prods him.

“Back then I thought dreams are supposed to be what you want to be, what job you want to have. We’re kinda systemized to think that our jobs define us anyway. After a series of success, disappointments later, I finally realized that dreams can be where you want to be, what your soul wants to experience, not just some title to add to your identity. When I went back to my hometown, here, it really felt a dream. You can’t be always happy with your dream though since happiness heavily relies on your state of mind but if it’s your dream, you have to feel content with it. Happiness can be found in contentedness anyway.”

Silence follows when Jungkook stops. He searches her eyes as he gulps his nervousness. He never bared this side of him to anyone yet.

“That’s wonderful, Jungkook” Sarang smiles so wide, cherry red lips matching the color he loved on the geometric design she drew, red, bright red- adoration. Time seems to have stilled in the chilly evening as Jungkook keeps his eyes on her, the tingling feeling blooming in his chest, bursting into fireworks, filling his heart with colors and sparks he never seen before, colors he deemed will never come to his life. And he feels the same sparks swimming in her eyes as he leans forward and places his lips against hers, uncertainties fading into nonexistence as he tastes the sweetness of youth and the thrill of new years on her soft lips.

“Wait, what, you kissed her?”

“Uh… yeah,” Jungkook shies away from the florist’s scrutinizing gaze. He trains his eyes instead on the Polaroid of their friends, sipping the tea his friend prepared when he suddenly visited without premise on a Tuesday night.

“Wow,” Jimin leans back in his chair, carding his hands through his hair, “I never thought you were this impulsive.”

“I don’t even know if that’s an actual kiss!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I just placed my lips on hers and that’s that; I didn’t even move ‘cause I’m really nervous but when I pulled away she was smiling at me and I think it’s okay but I-,” Jungkook stops as he slumps forward, “I really don’t know how she feels. I’m sure I like her, really like her, and I really like the kiss and then the next day she just smiled at me and acted like we usually do.”

“So, you just… go back to just being friends?”

“Somehow.”

“You know you’re treading in dangerous waters, now, right? Friends don’t treat each other like that; you’ve been prancing around each other and acting as lovers already. You have to clarify what you feel already or you’re just going to blur the lines further and cause more confusion on both of you.”

“But I don’t wanna scare her, hyung.” Jungkook bites his lips. He keeps thinking what he has now with Sarang is enough but he knows he is fooling himself because he knows he wants more, especially when he felt his feet running on soft grass and experiencing new horizons when he’s with her. “Also, I don’t even know what she does at nights and on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays - she’s rarely at home at all.”

“You still haven’t figured that out?” Jimin’s tone bounds on a wary one and it makes Jungkook more anxious.

“No… she pretty divulged everything from her childhood, school life, and even her work and when I look at her, it seems I know everything about her but at the same time nothing about her.”

“Okay, I know you usually dismiss me when I tell you ‘speculations’ of housewives around here and I think Sarang’s a pretty good girl. But I won’t deny I actually saw her earlier with a man-“

“But maybe it’s just because of her work. You know she does accounting for business people!” Jungkook finds it ridiculous. No one knows Sarang like he does. He’s the only one she’s close with around her, she said so herself.

“Alright, alright,” Jimin pats the younger’s forearms, placating the situation. “I’m just telling you what I saw, no need to be too defensive.”

Jungkook knows Jimin was just looking out for him; he was just somewhat disappointed how the florist can think of Sarang like that when he barely knew her. How can he think of her like that?

Jimin decides to go back to the initial purpose of their conversation. “Okay Kook, if you want to know more about her, go ahead. Ask her directly. Tell your feelings directly. You’ll never go anywhere unless you actually face the path you want to take.” Jimin takes in a breath before continuing. “It may… It may actually help if you tell her what happened to the engineering company you worked in. You already encouraged her to open up good memories with you when you started talking about yours. Maybe… maybe if you talked about more personal, things you want to hide, maybe she can tell you about hers too. Maybe she’s just like you, keeping personal stuff away and safe from anyone’s scrutiny. And if you started talking about yours, you’ll send her the message you’re serious with her and want to get to know her sincerely with hopes she’ll return the same feelings as yours.”

“Thanks, Jimin. Actually,” Jungkook looks at him, “I now got over that problem of mine. I actually felt I already set myself free from the past two years I drowned myself in endless self-pity and hatred. I actually feel happy now.” Jungkook smiles, the curve almost reaching his eyes, and he’s never been more proud of himself until now.

“Re-really? That’s great!” Jimin exclaims, arms grabbing the laundromat owner to hug him. Jungkook almost tears up, he can’t believe he’ll be able to actually say that himself now. “I’m happy, I’m actually happy again, mom, dad, Junghyun hyung.’” He can’t believe this was his new year at all – he thought it was meeting Sarang but he never thought accepting himself will be his new year, his new beginning. His days with Sarang made him relive his days; his memories that made him remember his dream, his happiness. And he felt Jimin now understand fully what Sarang meant to him when he pull away, eyes glassy reflecting his as he says, “I’m really glad, Jungkook, I’m proud of you. I hope things will go well with Sarang.”

Jungkook dwells longer in Jimin’s home, relishing in the positivity that filled the florist’s unit, washing away any tension that occurred earlier. Around eleven thirty, when Jungkook was putting on his shoes by the florist’s doorstep, he decides he’ll tell Sarang what he really feels for her tomorrow. He cannot wait anymore; he’s ready to finally tell her more of himself tomorrow, the things he was proud of and the things he was not. He trusts her enough to give her his heart, as a whole now.

“That’s good. I’ll cheer for you, Kook. Oh by the way,” Jimin stops him in the hallway, “go ask her also to be your date in Seokjin’s wedding. July 21st is already around the corner.”

“I will do that hyung – wait what month is it now?”

“It’s almost halfway of June, kiddo. June 13 to be exact.” Two months have already passed and summer has already started. Jungkook lets out an amused laugh; it always felt it was spring whenever he’s with Sarang.

Jungkook smiles as he waves goodbye, “I almost forgot Seokjin hyung’s wedding is in July.”

When tomorrow came, Jungkook postponed business so he can drop by around eight thirty at Saemi’s Bookstore, a shop owned by Mrs. Jinhee Park’s daughter, just a street away from Jeon’s Laundromat. It was the bookstore where he usually bought his art supplies back in high school, instead today, he’s not gonna buy something for himself. With the bills he saved in a piggy bank he never thought he owned, he purchased two sets of artist grade watercolors, a set of brushes, and one ream of A4 papers because a canvas and easel was not in the inventory of the bookstore. Once he goes to the city, he will promise Sarang he’ll buy her one.

By nine o’clock, he was already going up the stairs of Ahjummah Bongcha’s apartment complex when his arrival was met with a swing of the door and spring entering his line of vision clad in a cerulean sweater, basket of laundry in hands. Except today, spring is not in his shop but in the shell of her home.

“Hi,” Jungkook smiles sheepishly.

“Ju-Jungkook-“ her surprise was still written on her face when Jungkook gently pulls her toward back into the warmth of her home.

When he sets down his huge paper bags on her coffee table, he wipes his clammy hands on his jeans as he looks at her surprised form, confusion still written on her expression.

“Good morning,” Jungkook adds a wave because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Don’t you think you should have said that before barging in my room?” Sarang says with a teasing shine in her eyes, but the man could not focus on anything but the way her cheeks are colored in cherry. He hopes it’s because of him.

“So what’s that?”

“I – I actually bought something for you. Since I don’t know what type of flowers you like, I figured I’d bring you something you like instead, so here,” he opens the paper bag and shows her the sets of watercolors he got for her, “They may not be roses but they are also filled with colors and I hope you like them.”

“Jungkook they’re wonderful.” He looks at Sarang’s eyes to find them so glassy and it is until she closes up to him that he open his arms to accept her form hugging him. “Thank you – Thank you so much,” she sniffles. The man immediately pries himself away to look at her eyes, wiping her tears.

“Why-Why are you crying?”

She turns away, “No it-s just-it’s just no one has done something like this for me. A-and-”

Jungkook makes her turn back to him, “and what?”

“No one really acknowledged my dream, e-even my mom. They sa-said it was just a po-pointless hobby and I’ll never earn anything from it. I usually referred to it as just a ho-hobby but then when you said I have to start coloring my own life and then this-” she stops to look at the watercolors and then at the brushes peeking in the other paperbag. She chokes on a sob again. “I-I never even got the opportunity to buy one for myself and then here you come taking with you all the stuff I ever wanted and needed,” she pauses, “metaphorically and literally and I know I’m blabbering too much but thi-this is all too much. I-I cannot say anything other than than-thank you so-so much. Thank you so much Jungkook.”

And as her sobs die down her body, Jungkook hugging her and carding through her hair after finding out it calms her down, he finally learns a lot of things he was dying to know. She mumbles she spends her Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays to go to the city to finish all the accounting jobs she does for businessmen in the surplus.

“I’m so sick of it but I cannot stop doing them because I won’t be able to make as many money I need,” she leans closer to him, her cheek warm with tears pressed against Jungkook’s chest.

It doesn’t take a toll on her though, she adds, she’s already used to the underside of life. She’s been through horrible bosses before, and didn’t wish a repeat of her experiences that’s why she left the city and went to this province.

“All of them are horribe – a-all of them.”

Her painful experience in the working industry was not the entire reason she left home. Eyes red, she doesn’t stop crying. “I left be-because I was afraid my mom will disown me, I told her I will be successful and yet he-here I am - so – someone she could never be proud of. I love her so-so much and I’m afraid she can’t even stomach the sight-sight of me and I-“

“Sarang, you’re a wonderful daughter any mother could be proud of. She doesn’t need you to be successful or what. You’re already enough; you have dreams and you’re a good person. If you think no one could ever be proud of you - you’re wrong,” Jungkook pulls himself from her to look at her eyes reflecting nothing but him. “I’m proud of you and I’m really grateful life gave me the opportunity to meet you.”

And that’s enough for her to relax her rigid form, her arms wounding tighter around him as Jungkook sways them to the lull of his heartbeat to calm her down.

He’ll have to tell her his feelings some other day. Watching Sarang give him a piece of her without him initiating anything is enough for him. He’ll hold onto that piece dearly and when he manages to give her his broken pieces he left in the dead nebulas of his ceiling, he wishes she’ll hold onto them too.

Jungkook goes to the laundromat and flips the sign to “Come in, you’re welcome.” Sarang did not visit at night.

Sunday came along with the following weeks and Sarang’s late night visits stopped as her morning laundry duties dwindled into only an hour in the shop around Mondays and Fridays only. She brings A4 papers decorated in different hand drawn mandelas and the watercolor set Jungkook brought her, however Jungkook feels he’s back to square one. She talks like the usual but her clipped sentences, half hearted giggles, and unfamiliar eyes make him think she’s avoiding him. He doesn’t want to go back to what they were before, not when he finally saw her whole piece, not when he wants to take all his chances to tell her he loves her. But if this is what it makes for her to stay a little longer by his side, he’ll wait until she’s ready to share herself again to him.

Another week passes when he finally sees a chance to be honest with her.

It was three in the afternoon of a humid Wednesday when he heard whimpers and “Jungkook I-I don’t know what-what’s hap-happening” from a call and immediately, the man closed his shop and sped to the unit he spent his nights wondering.

“Sarang?” He walks in and finds her slumped by her laundry, tears mixing with the water that started to flood the small room, the water frosty as it reached his feet. He runs to the side and pushes the toppled washing machine upright again. “Shit, what happened?”

“I – I’m so-sorry! I was just wa-washing my-my clothes then the washing machine suddenly stops and so-something went wrong with the outlet a-and I panicked and sud-suddenly water started overflowing- I’m so-sorry I don’t know what – what to do anymore.”

“Shhh, don’t cry,” he stoops down to her and helps her up, “I’ll help you fix this, don’t cry anymore.”

After an hour into cleaning up the flood, and fixing the outlet with another faulty wire he hasn’t noticed that started the trouble, Jungkook sees Sarang by the lavatory of her bathroom, face devoid of tears and hands frantically washing tons of vibrant clothess Jungkook swears he’s never seen on her before.

“The washing machine is fixed already.”

She whips her head to him, hands stilling, “Oh-oh thank you, I’ll just finish this.“ She wipes her hands on her old jeans, “Sorry for inconveniencing you, I don’t know what got to me – you can go-“

“I’ll help you wash those.” Jungkook goes to her side before she can make another attempt to dismiss him.

Silence ensues but the sound of clothes crumpling and the foamy sound of the soap makes it somehow not quiet. The smudge on the fabric the man is holding won’t come off no matter how hard he tries.

“You do know you’re washing with hard water right?” Jungkook looks at her, hands already still by her side.

“What do you mean?” She turns to him, eyes already resembling tower high wall he knows he cannot break.

“Your clothes won’t come clean- the hard water will make the scum-“

“It’s fine, I didn’t ask for you to stay-“

Jungkook pulls her hands away from the soap, fingers shaky as he tries to keep her from looking away from him. “Why- why don’t you just come to the laundromat and do what you do like always? Why are you avoiding me?”

“I can’t face you.”

“What?”

“I really don’t know- I don’t wanna talk about this anymore-“

“Remember that day you asked me if I make blueprints for a company?”

His question makes her furrow her brows, eyes trying to get to his intentions. “Whe-where are you getting at?” Now they’re on the same page.

“I want to be honest with you, and I’m gonna tell you yes, I made blueprints for a company before.” And then he tells her the tale of a brave naïve boy who’s ambitious and thought the city was for him, an attainable paradise for anyone who wishes for more, more, and more. After graduating with high honors, he got easily accepted in one of the prestigious companies, CAE Systems, an engineering firm with skyrocketing gross income. But it will always be inevitable in every big and small organization to have a virus caused by one’s own greed and power and he learned that in his second year of working at that goddamned company.

“It was astounding what ends people could reach just to get what they want,” her hands still in his, he keeps his stare on her, a stranger in his eyes but felt like home when he felt the squeeze on his hands. He engulfs her in his embrace before he could feel himself shatter in front of her.

He learned what fraud was having dealt with projects guided by questionable demands from his superior; he learned what embezzlement was when he got close enough to the higher ups to know the appalling numbers on the management director’s bank account. Growing up in a home surrounded by warmth guided by straight morals, he thought he needed to straighten up the strings of a city as stone cold as ice bergs with moral compasses only pointed towards money and power. He idly thought he can end it.

“I was the reason the company was put into shambles, and it was both my pride and greatest curse.”

Backed up with an ambitious reporter, he felt like a hero when he handed him every bit of evidence he could get his hands on. The media feasted on CAE Systems, charges were made, and not before long the company was shut down. Jungkook felt he has never done anything in his life as good as this. He only realized he was no hero when he was told no company will ever accept a whistleblower. It was already late for him to learn that no one recognizes good in a place where good is conditional. Resumes were ignored and unpaid bills started to pile up when it finally sunk in he was in a hideous concrete jungle and he was a lion cub who dared to pounce on a cruel hunter.

“It was difficult to experience rejection upon rejection, but what’s worse was when I started to doubt the morals I upheld, when my mind thought it misplaced good for bad – it made me miserable and I thought I was going crazy.” He felt tears slide down his cheeks and he cried harder when Sarang wiped them away. “But that’s o-okay, I learned to not blame myself anymore and I started to become happy again here.”

“I- I don’t know what to-to say Jungkook, I’m really bad at comforting others; I-I don’t even know why you’re telling me this.”

“You’re already comforting me enough,” he pulls away, “I’ve been anticipating a new year would come and you helped me finally see one, feel those sparks I always longed to feel. I’ve seen you let out your fears to me and I want to not hide anything from you anymore - I really don’t know what we are anymore but that kiss really-“

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“What? Sa-Sarang, listen to me. I don’t know if this is lo-love but this is what I-I feel-

“I don’t believe in love, Jungkook.”

“What? N-no-“

“You should go, Jungkook.”

Jungkook heads home with a broken heart and a broken gaze and he opens the Bacardi rum he locked away in his dad’s liquor cabinet one year ago to stop his alcoholic tendencies. Liquor burns down his throat after he downs his first shot; he finds it useless to smother the pain that’s constricting his throat, filling his lungs with bitter thoughts that he never even had a chance to see his love bloom. It’s cruel he thinks, second shot already making its way down the hollows of his body, to feel this way and not be able to stop what he’s feeling. He thought he’ll never feel anything as abominable as the nothingness and frenzy of thoughts that cursed him for two years, but this - this is harder to accept because he became naïve again.

He wished he should have stopped being greedy, wanting things to advance when the girl he adores probably never even wanted to be by his side at all. Adults never give anything unconditional anyway – balance must be observed for the order of an ironically unfair world - maybe children do, that’s why he did what he did. On the side he wished he should have stayed longer and stood his ground when she drove him out of her house, out of her life more directly. Maybe he should have seen her weakening resolve, her eyes probably pleading for him to stay against her fears caused by self-indicted obstacles. But most of all, he wished he should have seen the signs before – Jimin’s speculations, Sarang’s sparsely decorated home, her unusual lifestyle, and the concerning amount of clothes she kept on washing and washing until they fade when he never even saw her wear them at least once.

Twelve shots downed, Jungkook feels maybe his mistake was not knowing enough of her, maybe if he did, he could have stopped himself from falling when she can’t even hold onto his broken pieces he trusted into her. With his room hazy around him, he grabs his phone and dials the number of the police station where a friend worked at.

“Hoseok-hyung,” Jungkook manages to not drawl on the phone, “Are you on duty now?”

“Yeah, Kook, what’s wrong?” Hoseok asks; his tone must have convinced the other he’s completely sober.

“Can you – uh – Can you look up ‘Kim Sarang’ from your records there?”

“Hmm… are you sure she’s from Gwangju? No name like that is listed here.”

“Uh- no- no, nevermind. Sorry for disturbing you.”

The line goes dead along with the leftovers of the New Year he had. It was beautiful when it lasted.

“You don’t look like you’re getting married Jin, at all,” Jung Hoseok starts, mischief in eyes as they walk down to a restaurant Min Yoongi booked. “You look like you’re getting your first lay around here.” Hoseok isn’t completely wrong when they receive a few lingering glances of other people. They can blame it to their model friend for his Adonis-like looks.

“Uhh, you do know that’s the purpose of a bachelor party right?” Kim Namjoon pipes in. “To celebrate the last days of single-ness if you are not informed, officer Hoseok.”

“Hey, I’m not on duty now!”

“But the badge hanging on your belt-loops says otherwise,” groom-to-be Seokjin says before Taehyung hooks him under the elbow and hops away, “We have to walk faster if we wanna go to other places you slowpokes!”

It was the 16th of July, peak temperature of summer at a raging 24 degrees Celsius but Jungkook didn’t mind since he had Jimin to fill in the silence for two hours as they travel from Busan to Seoul for the bachelor party organized by Gwangju officer Jung Hoseok and photographer Min Yoongi for their eldest friend, Kim Seokjin. He shouldn’t have put on his hoodie over his white tee but Jungkook reasons he cannot feel anything that summer inflicts.

Jungkook sips his water as he smiles along the ruckus made by his friends yet he can’t make his smile wider than he wanted to. Not when the first girl he ever adored did not show up in the laundromat for the rest of the weeks; not when he never saw her face around the neighborhood again even though Jimin informs him “I haven’t heard about anyone moving out yet so for sure she’s still here.” He suddenly hears the loud guffaw Hoseok makes when Jimin nudges his elbow.

“You alright, Kook?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook wishes.

Jimin looks around before leaning towards him. “Don’t think about her for now, let’s enjoy ourselves for Seokjin. Let loose, just for now.”

The past two hours whizzes by with laughter and stories of Seokjin’s scarce dating life before Hana, of Yoongi’s proposal to his long term girlfriend signaling another wedding to be anticipated, Hoseok’s recent promotion, Namjoon’s prospering business, and Taehyung’s everyday mishaps as a veterinarian. Jimin talks about Minyoung and the probability of them moving in before he pops the big question of marriage and Jungkook just tells them everyday is still the same in the shop though he finally got over the CAE incident and he sees his friends’ smiles become wider. After their hearty dinner, they pranced to the nearest arcade where Jungkook loses himself in the fun playing basketball and claw machines, especially when he crushed all of his friends in Dance Dance Revolution.

The night was getting deeper when Hoseok leads them to a bar he booked to have some alcohol to tone down the liveliness buzzing in their veins. It’s the last part of the bachelor party they planned so “Seokjin can waste himself for the last time with no regrets,” as the police officer said.

When they entered the bar with neon signs that spelled “St. Jude’s,” does Yoongi take a double take.

“Hoseok, you booked this bar? I told you to book a decent bar, not filled with strippers!”

“Shit, I booked Anne Marie’s wait-“

“Why did you lead us to St. Jude’s for God’s sake where is Anne Marie’s?”

“I did not see the sign sorry! Anne Marie’s-“

Jungkook can barely hear what they are talking about when he felt his eyes adjusting to the strobe lights and the pounding bass of the bar. However all of that stops when a slow song starts to play and a spotlight is centered to a girl on the stage wearing nothing but a pair of scarlet high heels.

Even if she changed her hair color, Jungkook won’t forget her hazel eyes and the soft curve of her thin lips.

“Jungkook, we’re going, what are you-“

Jungkook stands frozen as Sarang sways to the song, her hands gracefully reaching for the pole before she swings herself off the ground, pale naked body gliding on the metal pole before Jungkook quickly averts his gaze to the left side of the bar with the signboard “Final show: Eve!”. The audience on the tables starts to clap and howl like hyenas; he could already see some man go to what he assumes the manager and mouth “one lap dance” before motioning towards Eve. Jungkook feels nauseous. This is too much.

“Hyung I’m not gonna leave”

“Jungkook what-“ Before Taehyung could grab the hem of his hoodie, Jungkook runs up to the stage and grabs Sarang by the wrist. He could already feel Sarang trying to free herself from him but Jungkook only tightens his hold as he maneuvers around the people. Somebody is already shouting behind them and Jungkook fastens his pace as his eyes finally land on the fire exit sign. He pushes the door open into an alleyway and immediately takes off his hoodie, slips it on Sarang’s shivering body and then he’s grabbing her by the wrist again and hails a taxi, pushing Sarang inside before he gets in and tells the driver to get them anywhere away from the bar

Sarang refused to look at him, fixating her gaze on the window of the vehicle watching the city whizz by. Jungkook falls into silence, only watches the reflection of the mascara tears ruin her cheeks as sobs seize her body. He guessed he wasn’t wrong at all with the drastic 120 and 60 split of their supplementary lines. He was just entirely wrong to think her minimal hours in his life was acute when the entirety of her life was an entire obscurity for him. Jungkook looks away, not knowing what to say as the taxi speeds away in the blur of the hideous city.

Sarang remained silent as Jungkook stopped the taxi in front of some hotel until the moment the man let her inside a room he checked with an amount he can afford.

“What do you want, Jungkook?” she seethed, her voice sounding so hard and unfeeling.

“I don’t need you to explain or what I just want you to stay with me-“

“Bullshit, Jungkook! BULLSHIT!” She suddenly fumbles with his hoodie, hands immediately taking the clothing off of her. “I know men like you,” she spits, “All you want is fun, right? Well here it is!” she exclaims, grabbing his hand to place on her shoulders, “Touch me, savor the moment after the scene you caused earlier, you can have all of me right here, right now!”

Jungkook stoops down to pick his hoodie up to give it back to her. “Put this back on.”

Sarang slaps his hand off, dropping the fabric to the floor. “What are you doing?! Now’s your chance, get on with it! Or are you that type who wants me to strip first before you do your thing,” she leans toward him again, her face contorted in a twisted scowl. “Do you want me to bend over too, sir?”

“Is that what you really think of me, Sarang?” He keeps his gaze at her, the tears on his clouding his vision not enough to deter him. “Or should I call you something else since that name is probably forged?”

He knows he finally broke down the crumbling walls she kept holding when Sarang wails as she hugs herself, cries rocking her figure as she kept mumbling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her apologies and hoarse cries filled the midnight in a distorted lullaby Jungkook felt long ago but never knew enough as he shifts in the couch, limbs numb. He stares across the girl on the bed, her back facing him, but it doesn’t hinder him from hearing her soft voice breaking the silence.

“Why- Why did you do what you did earlier?”

“I don’t know- I tend to follow my feelings first before thinking about the consequences.”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this-“

“I love you”

“No, you don’t get to say that! It’s so unfair, you don’t-”

“Why?” Jungkook finds himself sitting up. “Why? Tell me why is it unfair because for the past weeks I’ve done nothing but reach out to you, give you my heart only to be shut down so many times and I still don’t know why I’m even trying. So tell me, why is this unfair.”

“You scare me, Jungkook. You scare me with the things you make me feel.” Her voice is barely above a whisper but he still hears it anyway.

In the morning, Jungkook wakes up with a heavy heart and a yellow paper with his name replacing the spot where Sarang laid.

He stands up, stuffs the paper addressed to him in his jeans pocket and sends his apologies to his friends immediately, especially to Seokjin. He leaves the hotel, leaves the city with the letter unread as he takes the earliest train back to Busan.

“July 16, 2012

Jungkook,

I’m sorry for all the things I have done, for all the things I’m about to do. I liked your stories, I do. They remind me of the warm town I was born in. But it also filled me with remorse.

You must have wondered at first why I do laundries abnormally frequent. I always wanted to wash away the dirt I’ve always felt. I grew up in a money hungry city which has never been touched by anything akin to love. I understood why at the age of 16 when I decided to let myself fall for someone as foolish as me. We left town and he led me to the city and introduced me to the land of dreams, of success, of everything men has ever wanted. But then I realized not everything is perfect; beauty blinds up the things we needed to see and he was the perfect example. He was lovely at first, until he started painting the mandelas I do on papers onto my skin. I never thought this same love will bring me my humiliation when he made a business out of me, my utter damnation when I realized there was no other way back.

I always got used to what the outcomes will be, the aftermaths of the things I have done. And then you came and I suddenly felt I was back to my youth again with nothing to worry, nothing to feel ashamed about. I started having dreams again. But I know this side of paradise will only crumble because I knew I have never been welcome to experience heaven as a luxury. So I never came back to your shop again these last weeks. I tried to wash my sweaters, the things I loved wearing whenever I’m with you. No matter how I tried to cut off everything related to you, I know I can never erase your scent from them; I can never erase you from the back of my mind.

I know my explanations are delayed and they may sound like excuses. I’m never fond of confronting you yet because I know I’ll only cry. Even if I’m a whore who probably knows the taste of every man who roamed this city, you’re the only one I kissed with my lips. I don’t know if this is love yet, and the mere thought of it scares me but when I saw you wanted to stay by my side even after all my dirt and grime must have repulsed you, I wanted to be selfish, I want to stay by your side too.

I left a lot of loose ties when I moved to Busan; I can't let these nightmares from here to the town. I need to sort them out first and I need to fix myself, too. I don’t know if you’ll wait for me, but I naively hope so. If you didn’t know yet, I slipped you letters on the pot beside your bicycle rack when I came from my work here. Even if you don’t believe them I hope you’ll read them. They’re the only things I’ve ever been completely honest about.

My real name is Kim Sarang, and meeting you was surely a blessing.”

Jungkook flips to the next letters.

“July 13, 2012

Jungkook,

I don’t think I’m even allowed to say I miss you after shutting you out and suddenly disappearing but your face is what I can only think about these days. I can't even write ‘dear’ to address you not after the things I have done. You make me feel things I don’t even deserve in the first place. I’m sorry, I really am. I thought about moving out because maybe you’ll never want to see me again but I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I can’t.

I’m frequently in Seoul now; I need to pay my debts as soon as I can, he already went to my home and I can't have him anywhere near you. My method might repulse you but I have no other way left. After I’m done, I’m cutting myself from this life for good. I’ll tell you the whole truth when I got back and finally fixed myself.

P.S. I finally understood what doing laundry with hard water does to your clothes. It ruins them and makes the dirt stick on the fabric. I’m washing with soft water now. Hope this lightens up the mood of my horible life.

- Sarang”

“June 14, 2012

Dear Jungkook,

The watercolors are fantastic! They were so so pigmented and I've never seen such brush shapes and sizes! It's summer and I can't believe it felt like it's my first Christmas. The last time I had Christmas was when I was 14.

I think my thank you's are not enough to let you feel my gratitude.

-Sarang"

"June 2, 2012

Dear Jungkook,

I'm not an accountant. I've never even been in college. My mother was an accountant and I used to help her when I was young that's why I know some things. I've made decisions I will always regret that I can't even ask why my life turned out to be like this. I work in St. Jude's every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday and it was horrible, disgusting, and pathetic. I abhor how it's name perfectly suits a filth like me, a very impossible cause. I feel more miserable when I can't even tell you that personally after all your honesty. I don't want to witness the repulsion that will cross your face. But I don't know what to do; I've got no diplomas that can enable me to have a respectable work and I've got huge debts I have to pay just so I can have at least a fraction of a normal life here in Busan. They say the past will always catch up to you and it's fucking true

I actually planned to end everything yesterday night. And then I remembered you and I know I can't just go without having one last moment with you. I never imagined that night would be a miracle. You told me I can find my dream and it was the nicest thing I've ever heard; after years of begging for someone to say 'everything is gonna be alright' even though it's not, I finally heard it. It's enough for me. I'll keep on living and I promise you, someday I'll tell you everything.

-Sarang"

Jungkook unfolds more and more papers, and he finds numerous post it notes and her watercolor drawings. There's a painting of his silhuoette by his desk.

"I always think you have a nice side profile."

He flips to the next and it's the replica of the interior of Jeon's Laundromat all in pastel with two silhouettes sitting in front of washing machine number - him and her.

"I'm sorry I always stay long here. Chatting with you here felt the closest to home."

But what makes him still is the last drawing in his hand. It's a portrait of him smiling, his eyes twinkling, and he looks so happy.

"You told me I had to color my life and I decided I'll do a portrait of someone and the first face that came to my mind was yours."

Summer melted and the crisp chilliness of autumn settled in when September peeked in but the chilliness was not enough to cool down the hyped conversation on the phone.

"Really?! Wow! Congratulations on the news Seokjin hyung!" Jimin turns to Jungkook, "Hana is pregnant!"

The younger grabs the phone. "Hyung, don't stress out Hana too much and I hope she's gonna be a girl so you get to beat the guys that will come close to her." Jungkook laughs, "I wanna see those long limbs put into use."

Jimin gets the phone back and updates Seokjin that Minyoung moved in with him recently, and Jungkook could hear the man's windwiper laugh from the other line.

The call ends with Seokjin telling them Yoongi's wedding will be on December and that he, Jimin, and Namjoon will be the ones in charge of the bachellor party.

When the call ended, Jungkook turns to Jimin while turning the stem of the Daffodil he was holding between his fingers. "Junghyun's gonna visit next week."

"Really? I'm gonna call Taehyung then so we can all hangout. He's on a break anyway for whatever reason he convinced his superiors."

"I'm not even surprised he can do that. Anyway he can finally have the drawing lessons he wants so bad," Jungkook snorts, "He said my skills are already rusty and I'm a bad teacher."

Before Jungkook leaves the shop, Jimin's voice stops him, "Still waiting for her?"

Jungkook's hold on the yellow bloom was firm. "Yes," He says and he exits the flower shop with a smile before he crosses the street and opens his laundromat.

Jungkook looks out from his glass door and watch the waking town in the early morning haze. Mrs. Taehee Jung is folding her laundry above Jimin’s flowershop. Convenient stores have now opened and Old Sangmin’s bakery is already filled with people. Kim’s Italian Restaurant is about to open like the usual. He waves to Mrs. Eunhui and towards Mr. Changmin Park who passes by. Everything is still the same, he sighs as he looks at the daffodils starting to bloom in the small potted garden he made with the help of Jimin and his chest warms at the sight.

He wakes up from his trance when Mrs. Eunji Song pulls the door open. He welcomes her in.

"It’s my first time seeing them," she points out.

Jungkook follows her line of sight and his eyes lands on the watercolor paintings gracing the walls of his once barren pale blue walls.

Jungkook replies, "Ah, I got them framed last week. I only got them today, Mrs. Song"

"It's a painting of your shop, and wait - is that you?"

Jungkook nods with a smile.

"The colors are wonderful, very lively, an exact replica of you these days" she looks back at him, amused and impressed. "See? It looks so the same! Who's the artist?"

Jungkook's smile stretches wider. "Kim Sarang."

The people around this Monday morning was sparse which allowed Jungkook to sketch the outlines of the shops thay line across his laundromat. His disposition was undisturbed until it was nine o'clock and the wind chimes resounded around the rather empty laundromat.

"Welcome-“

"Hi, Jungkook."

In the middle of autumn, it felt like spring again. Even if he has never seen her for so long, he'll recognize her warm hazel eyes and the timid curve of her lips. With cherry red sweater, blue cropped jeans and a her raven hair in a bob cut, Sarang looks at the artworks on the wall, her own paintings displayed with her name printed in small fonts on the paper.

She looks back at him, eyes glazed and her mouth agape.

Jungkook feels his heart thundering against his ribcage. "Yes, I waited for you." And even if she needs a year, he knows he will still wait.

Sarang leaves her sketchpad and her watercolor set he bought for her on the bench as she sped her way to him. Jungkook already stretches his limbs, welcoming her back in his arms, back in her home. Jungkook tightens his hold on her as he felt her tears wet his cardigan, strings of gratitude filling the rhythm of Jungkook's swaying.

"I've done a lot of thinking - and I know I've got better things to tell you, she mutters, "but the first thing I want to tell you is that I finally know what my dream is."

"What is it?"

"My dream," she looks up and Jungkook finds himself reflected in her eyes, "was to know how to love again, to feel new beginnings," and then he tastes them on the softness against his lips, the sweetness of youth and euphoric feeling of happiness. She moves against him with ardor, sparks flying and colors bursting behind closed eyes as Jungkook basks in the thrill and adrenaline of finally having everything back in his life. Sarang looks at him, with eyes reflecting him and him only as she says against his lips, "And I finally got them."

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