#and Does Not Want To Contribute to its slushiness

[hua-fei-hua]

as someone who enjoys stories involving multiple pairings, romantic or not, as integral to the plot, i often find myself thinking abt what exactly constitutes "a main pairing" esp since on ao3, most people assume that if a ship is not the first one tagged, the fic will not be About them and will more often than not Not give them an arc, bc tagging every minor/brief instance of a ship on ao3 Is a thing that makes combing through tags Exhausting and i Get It.

personally, when writing fics with multiple pairings important to the plot, i just say "they are both main pairings", but i also want to tag my works in a way that communicates such to my audience without making one seem subordinate to one another. you could clarify in the tags "all/both these tagged ships are plot relevant and get development", but that takes hoping that people will read past the relationships once they realize it is not their otp tagged first, and i simply do not have faith in that.

so that means courting one audience a little more than another bc that's just what it is to exist on ao3 at this time. fine, but how do you choose the order now?

is it based off of screen time/word count? that certainly is an objective measure, but what happens if their amount is approximately equal? does it only count if one of the characters in the ship is involved in that scene, or can other characters just, like, be talking abt them or smth? what if they're with a third character, all talking together abt smth totally irrelevant to their romance? does that count as screen time together? does that add to their word count?

i like to use a standard of "character/relationship development" to decide whether or not i even put ships in the relationships category (as in, "can someone looking for this ship specifically as their otp walk away from this story satisfied with their role in the narrative?" n if the answer is no, it's tagged in the freeforms as minor/side/background), but now that's hard to quantify.

and what if the ship with less change/development is the ship with the higher word count, simply bc their romance is more slowly paced for w/e reason? what happens if one ship is intended to foil the other, placing the narrative emphasis on the second pairing, yet still maintaining equal or even greater screentime on the first (bc we the audience are meant to be thinking abt the second pairing by comparing them to the first)?

which one is the "main pairing" and should therefore be tagged first in this sort of situation? audiences aren't always thinky-thoughtsy creatures, and just bc we're supposed to be considering other relationships thematically when observing a particular one doesn't mean that the one currently being observed isn't still having A Moment that is Meaningful to them and Contributes something to their relationship.

i really don't know tbh; i just wish overtagging wasn't so much of a thing that a lot of people feel like they can't really trust a fic to Have that much of a ship if it's not the first one tagged

[barnesandco]

AYESHA!! Can I request, "their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them?" For any character you feel inspired to write for!

The Pay Off

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: brief mention of therapy and allusions to Bucky’s recovery after Hydra.

A/N: This.. got wildly out of hand.... and really, really wordy. I love these prompts and I want to write all of them while my WIPs stare at me feeling betrayed.

Like sunshine honey, the woman who has been sitting two seats down from Bucky at the library for the past four months, with a smile the ambience of New York dawn aimed unguarded at the book in your lap. He’s spoken a grand total of 37 sentences to you in that time, each one laden with the weight of this new existence he is carving out for himself, softly, a breakfast knife through butter. Every interaction with you -- every stolen glimpse up from his own space magazine -- leaves his throat parched but prickling with that sensitive heat that makes him want to thirst more. Like the tingle of salt after ocean water. 

Wetting his lips, he tries to refocus on the page in front of him. It details the scientific contributions of the Hubble Space Telescope, with a colorful side-box about the Nancy Grace Roman, who pioneered the notions of sending telescopes into space to unearth its secrets. The magazine is one from a neat stack to his right, a treasure of information he gathered to go through when he arrived today, but he isn’t making the amount of progress to finish reading by closing time.

Every Avenger has made a comment on getting a library card, to no avail. Sam’s information, Steve’s offer to do it in Bucky’s stead, Natasha’s suggestions of giving a fake name, and Wanda’s kind offer to come with him if he doesn’t want to do it alone, along with Tony’s centenarian-themed jokes and Shuri’s gift of a Kindle containing every book she could buy, have all been politely refused and tolerated in turn. Initially, it was because he likes it at the library. It’s the quietest place he has, and is coming to claim as another safe space. An escape. Now, however, there is a new variable he does not want to introduce to the team.

The woman who sits two seats down from him. You come her every afternoon, a book bag in one hand and a gigantic tote full of Lord-knows-what in the other, both dumped on the table before you go to find a book. He’s close enough to smell watermelons and strawberries, pink, sweet-summer things, reminders of a blueberry sky and sugary lemonade, memories he doesn’t remember having but can taste in the heavy air between them. It had taken him two weeks to discover that the scents were coming from the markers that he saw peeking out from the tote, stationary behaving the same way certain books do, enabling him to live a life he has never had.

Your life is a mystery to him, but he guesses at it, reading you. A rainbow of stray marker lines litters your hands almost perpetually, coming alive when they move rapidly as you check books, sometimes chuckling softly at a particular sentence. Once, he caught a Cheese Whiz stain on your cable-knit cuff, and at another occasion, saw you. Bucky is often overcome by the feeling of sonder at the realization that the clues he is gluing together make for a complex life, a marvel of an individual. There is guilt too, for his curiosity. But your eyes, even looking down, are captivating, and he is too far gone to stop. 

The idea of asking you out, of engaging in conversation beyond the moments of stranger familiarity, scares him still. Last time you spoke was when you laughed aloud at the set of examples one particular student had given for an assignment on sensory details. Zachary, age 11, had written that cow poop was a smell he did not like, sending his library companion into brilliant, bubbling laughs that you cut off too soon when you remembered where you were. At that point, you had looked around to see if anyone noticed, and spotting him, offered an apology he had rejected, on the condition that you share the joke. And you did.

But initiating the moment takes something more than what he has right now. His hands, mismatched and cold from the table, empty and longing, shut the magazine.

-----

The courage arrives on a Thursday. An ordinary day, by all accounts, only Bucky is on his fourth week of actual therapy, and got to the library through the subway, instead of Steve’s motorbike. Small victories fill his chest.

Only, you aren’t there when he gets in, and he panics. Fear and disappointment wrestle for a spot in his belly, claiming a tie in knots and weights, as he paces through the aisles of shelves in what he hopes is an unsuspicious speed. Giving up hope, he’s returning to his seat, head bowed, dismayed, when something collides against his side.

It’s you. A hurricane of movement with a slushie in one hand, your eyes also on the floor, and you crash against him with a shriek too late to save either of you. The slushie, cold and blue, spills out and lands on both of you, as you tumble, hands on Bucky’s elbows while his are on yours as he pulls you down, and you land in a heap of ice-water and sticky saccharine snow, a warm weight on top of him.

The library goes silent, for a breath, and then, when the shock lifts, two librarians come rushing from around some hidden corners, by which time you and Bucky have composed yourselves enough to stand and start to apologize profusely in cut-off sentences and shaky stutters. The slush is sinking through his clothes but there is a flush in his cheeks, and somehow, looking at your beautiful face, he has never been warmer.

When the slushie has been cleaned up with rags -- his hand is starting to shiver -- he stands with more sorry on his tongue, but you say, with a grin, “I guess you really fell for me, huh?”

The quip is surprising, but he laughs. Looks between your now-blue blouse and his inky t-shirt, and makes the leap. “Maybe I can get you another drink to make up for it.” And the pleased shock on your mouth, lips parted slightly and breath still recovering, is worth every step and fall it took to get to that one line.

-----

It goes well. He won’t call it a date, in spite of everyone else’s juvenile cooing and teasing when he leaves the Compound on a Saturday evening in his car. It’s a 70s Mustang, body the color of his old Commandos coat, and the interior a shiny black lined with golden stitching and accents. Royal and his very own. Turning towards the neighborhood you live in, he recalls the months it took to restore the damn thing, the last weeks of which were spent practically living in the garage, breathing on the anticipation of this monstrous achievement.

Queens is neon lights and family-owned delis, the scent of tacos mingling with that of curries, and there’s a different language in each window front. You said you lived in an apartment a couple of stories above a Vietnamese bar. 

You’re exiting just as he gets out of the car, and it takes a moment to catch his breath. In jeans and a silk shirt, you are the sun, and he cannot wait to get to revel in your warmth for at least one evening. 

-----

It goes well. With the exception of nerves he can’t rid himself of but rather ignores, everything is perfect. You had enjoyed his handmade picnic in Central Park, and his disgruntled commentary on how things used to be when you got stuck in traffic on the way back. His imitations of Steve and Tony had you in stitches, after which you had fed him Doritos from a packet he did not know was in the glove-box. 

Smooth sailing, soft as cream and just as gentle, the night, until you get back. It is late, and the lights are starting to flicker out of shop windows, and you go a little bit quiet, discontinuing the steady stream of chatter you have been maintaining with him. 

Something is in the air. Something sparking with promise. It hushes your voices and tightens his throat and has his hand trembling when he opens his door and then yours to let you own. You stand in the pale glow of the corner streetlamp, and his hands are in his pockets like he’s sixteen again, wanting to kiss a girl but unsure how to go about it.

Fortunately for him, you’re not a girl. You’re a woman. Made from electric fire and whatever strength that holds the cotton clouds in the sky, luminous and wondrous. 

“I know that was a bit more than a drink, so thank you for agreeing to this,” he says, meeting your eyes.

Your finger is tracing the face of your watch absently as you smile at him. “I had a great time.”

“Really?” Bucky blurts out, and then hurries to suspend the disbelief.

The answer you give him has his heart doing somersaults. “Yeah. I’d actually love to do this again if you feel the same.”

“Of course. Yes, obviously.” He puts a brake on his train of speech, explains as he walks a little closer to you, close enough to count your eyelashes. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been on a date in 80 years, and I’m a little rusty, but--”

Like the event that started it all, your first kiss is a crash. You lean up slowly and he has time to stop you but he doesn’t. He lets you kiss him and freezes, from head to toe, upon the feeling of your soft lips. Stopping within seconds, you lean back, sheepish, ready to back away and run, he’s certain. His head clears, he thinks a little straighter. 

“Sorry, will you let me try that again?” He asks, clearing his throat, and you lift your hand to hold his. 

The warmth of your hold envelopes the back of his human hand, and twists your grip so your fingers are intertwined, so much more surface area to gain heat and the motivation to seek further touch from. “If you stop saying sorry, sure.”

He closes his eyes before you do, and this time, the meeting of your lips is soft. A kiss, not a crash, an elegant collision of mouths and shared wants. In a few breaths of movement, as your other hand rises to his hair and his holds your waist, you come closer, and Bucky grows breathless. The kiss lasts for what feels like minutes too long and hours too short at the same exact time, as you break away with a gasp for air that has pride blooming under his sternum. 

Eyes shining, he hopes he’ll get to do that again. As you kiss his cheek and turn to your door, he looks forward to sitting two seats closer to you on Monday.

[romantichopelessly]

Not a Cinderella Story

This is my contribution to @dukexietyweek 2020! The prompt was Fairytales and I followed it... very loosely. This is also a bullet fic because I scrapped my plot no less than three times over the course of writing this.

Pairing: Romantic Dukexiety, Implied/Background Mociet

Words: 2072

Warnings: jealousy, misunderstandings, toxic behavior

Synopsis: When Remus, Roman and Virgil were young, they were inseparable. They always played pretend--castles and princesses and dragons. But everyone has to grow up. Things change.

----

Remus Sanders and his twin brother Roman have always been close. “Attached at the hip” some would say. Specifically, their mother, neighbors, and preschool teachers.

They always do the same things. They like the same juice. The same snacks. They play with the same toys, and they always laugh at the same things.

Their bond is unbreakable. They are the perfect duo. They never need anyone else.

Until they meet Virgil Storm.

They meet him early in their second grade year. Virgil is… a weird kid. He wears a purple jacket with cat ears on the hood in the middle of August. He doesn’t try to talk to anyone at lunchtime. He wears different colored socks and carries a lunchbox with cartoon spiders on it that says “Happy Halloween” even when it isn’t October.

He’s odd.

Remus loves him. And because Remus loves him, so does Roman.

The three of them make quick friends, underneath the tree on the playground, sitting in the grass and sharing easy smiles, as children do.

Roman suggests that they play a game that he and Remus invented all on their own--Knights and Dragons.

Virgil is quick to agree, because young children don’t have anything to worry about beyond silly games with their peers.

Remus believes that Knights and Dragons is a much more fun experience with three people. Sometimes Virgil is a knight, with Roman, and they both chase Remus around the school yard, giggling and waving sticks like they’re swords. And other times, Virgil is a dragon with Remus, and the two of them roar and yell and flap their arms like wings.

Virgil makes Remus laugh in ways that he thought only his brother could. Virgil laughs with him, not at him.

Of course, all good things come to an end, and soon, for the imaginative boy that was Roman Sanders, Knights and Dragons is not enough.

Knights and Dragons are boring in the eyes of a third grader.

Roman suggests one day that they add a princess to their game of Knights and Dragons.

Remus (rightfully) thinks that this is a very stupid idea. Princesses are for Disney movies and fairytales. Remus Sanders most definitely does not live in a fairytale.

But Roman loves fairytales. And Roman loves Disney. And, unfortunately, so does Virgil.

So they add a princess to their game. Oftentimes, this princess is played by Virgil, but sometimes Roman steps into the role. Remus is just glad that he gets to stay a big scary dragon.

That is… Until just a princess being kidnapped by a dragon and saved by a courageous knight is not enough for young Roman Sanders.

No, Roman wants more. Roman wants to emulate his favorite movies and his new favorite theme of said movies--

Romance.

So Knights and Dragons and Princesses turns into… Playing Cinderella.

There definitely wasn’t a dragon in Cinderella.

Remus is quickly shoved into the roles of the ugly stepsisters and stepmother. Don’t get it wrong! He loves playing the villain. He loves laughing maniacally and calling his brother funny names and getting away with it without punishment, because it was just pretend.

He doesn’t so much like sitting in the grass of his own backyard, watching while Roman and Virgil twirl around, holding hands and “dancing” to imaginary music while they “fall in love.”

It’s boring.

He’s almost glad when Roman’s phase of playing pretend Disney princesses ends.

Except that he can’t be. Because it ends with the three of them turning twelve and entering the dreaded halls of middle school. It ends with Roman joining the school theater club and making a whole bunch of new friends.

It ends with Virgil and Remus suddenly being left to walk home from school alone one day.

Despite his brother’s popularity, both Remus and Virgil are… outcasts of a sort. And since they just downgraded from a trio to a duo, their friendship is a bit more… strained. They still have the closeness of five years of best friendship, but there’s something… missing.

Cue Janus Duncan.

Janus is also an outcast. Janus is like a fairy godmother who comes in to save the poor outcasts at the last second, turning bleak days into wishes come true (if eating school lunch under the bleachers and snorting with laughter as they mix all the slushie options at 7-11 into one cup can be considered wishes come true), and wearing a super cool leather jacket that was two sizes too big, but definitely influenced Remus’s punk phase.

Because, oh yeah. They definitely both start their punk phases after meeting Janus Duncan.

Honestly meeting Janus really is a wish come true for Remus. A miracle among the comedy of errors that was his teenage years.

Because after about a year of Virgil, Janus and Remus being the perfect trio 2.0, Remus starts to… notice some things.

One thing is the way that his heart seems to inflate like a little balloon in Remus’s chest when Virgil smiles at him. The way that his guts squirm when Virgil laughs at one of his jokes, true and bright. The way that Remus catches himself staring at Virgil’s crooked smile, or his chipped nail polish as his fingers twirl around in his hoodie strings.

The second thing has… a lot of the same signs honestly.

Because Remus starts to notice how Virgil always watches Roman when he’s over at Remus’s house. The way that Virgil always smiles and waves at Remus’s twin brother when they pass one another in the hallway at school, his pale cheeks flushing a soft pink.

It makes a terrible, sickly green emotion curl in Remus’s stomach.

Jealousy.

So when Virgil tentatively brings up trying out for the school play, and asks Remus if Roman would mind running some lines with him, Remus does something he isn’t proud of.

He snaps. He tells Virgil that he shouldn’t try. That he won’t even make it. That he isn’t popular kid material. That Roman isn’t his friend anymore, god, Virgil, can’t you take a hint?

He watches it happen like he isn’t the one controlling his own body. He sees the shock take over Virgil’s features. The years of easy trust crumble before his very eyes as Virgil reels back in horror. He can taste the jealousy on his tongue.

As Virgil leaves, Remus knows that he is the villain of this story.

He can see it as plainly as if he had shattered Virgil’s dreams right in front of him, like so much of a shattered glass shoe on the palace steps.

That night, Janus comes over and lets Remus have it.

For about five minutes, before Remus breaks down and tells the truth to his now one and only best friend and lecturing quickly turns to comforting.

By the time that they start high school, the original trio has withered down to just Remus. The other two thirds are nearly distant memories. One a locked door down the hall, and the other three lockers down, speaking to new friends.

Anyone would choose the prince over the ugly stepsister. He couldn’t blame them.

The spring of their sophomore year, the school announces that they will be putting on a production of none other than Cinderella.

Roman auditions, of course. He gets the role of the Prince.

Virgil doesn’t audition, but he offers himself up for the role of stage manager.

Virgil and Roman’s friends Patton and Logan audition. They get the roles of mice, but they don’t seem at all upset by that fact.

Janus auditions. He gets the role of the fairy godmother.

Janus asks Remus to audition.

Remus refuses. He doesn’t want to play a campy version of the ugly stepsisters in front of the entire school. He may not care about this hell hole, but he isn’t going to make his remaining two years any worse than they have to be.

Janus drags Remus to rehearsals anyway. Kicking and screaming.

By some miraculous happenstance, Remus suddenly becomes the set designer for the show.

He may be imagining things, but he is pretty sure that that has something to do with what Janus, Roman and the director were whisper-arguing about in the first week of rehearsals.

Remus is grateful for it. Not that he plans on saying so. He still can’t bring himself to apologize to Virgil, but watching him from afar still brings those butterflies to Remus’s stomach.

One night, after rehearsal, Remus is putting the finishing touches on the carriage prop, which has quickly gone from inconsequential to him to his very own magnum opus. He’s just testing out its mobility when he hears soft laughter.

Naturally, he follows the sounds.

Stage left, hidden in the wings, Remus sees his brother, in full costume, standing across from Virgil, who is chuckling and gently smoothing his hands across the front of Roman’s costume.

Remus sees green. His old friend Jealousy curls around him like the dragon that he used to love to play.

He barely restrains himself from breaking the very set that he worked so hard on.

Funnily enough, that is progress.

The night before the play opens, there is a house party. Remus isn’t quite sure who is hosting, but the cast and company are the only people invited.

Remus doesn’t want to go.

Janus makes Remus go.

Begrudgingly, Remus has a good time. He has a good time drinking soda and watching the other stage hands tell stories about past productions. He has a good time laughing at Janus as he unsuccessfully tries to flirt with the boy in the bright blue sweater who plays a mouse.

He is still having a good time when the girl who plays Cinderella herself caps a plastic bottle and places it on the ground, calling for everyone to gather around for a game of spin the bottle.

Remus finds himself sitting between Janus and his giggly mouse boy, and some other techie who wears sunglasses indoors.

There are a few fun rounds. Roman has to kiss the girl playing the stepmother. One of the mice has to kiss Cinderella. It’s all in good fun.

That is, until Remus isn’t really paying attention and the mouth of the bottle is suddenly facing him. He blinks.

From across the circle, the studious looking mouse speaks up. “Janus clearly touched the bo-” The hand of one of the set designers covers the mouse’s mouth.

Remus blinks again. “So who’s the lucky bastard I’m making out with?”

All eyes turn to Virgil, who looks like a startled mouse himself.

Shit.

Virgil is up before anyone can say anything, backing away from the circle and spinning on his heel before making a beeline for the kitchen. Remus follows, standing up before his mind even catches up with his body. He sees Roman making to stand up too, but he holds out a hand.

Even after years of not being close, Roman can tell what he means without a word.

Remus follows Virgil into the kitchen and finds him leaning against the counter.

“Didn’t want to kiss the ugly stepsister that badly, huh?”

“What?”

“You… You know, Emo, like that stupid game Roman always made us play when we were ankle biters.”

“Wh- First of all, you and Roman are identical twins. You look exactly the same. That was just a game.”

Remus shrugs, as if he hasn’t carried that game and all it implied with him for the entirety of his teenage years.

“And… No. It wasn’t- I just didn’t want to kiss you in front of everyone.”

Remus pretends like that doesn’t make his heart shatter into a hundred tiny pieces.

Virgil seems to see it anyway. “I mean that I don’t want to… have my first kiss in front of all of them. It’s nothing against you, they just- they just all know about my crush.”

Virgil says it like it’s something stupid. Like being in love is something shameful. Like liking Roman Sanders isn’t something that literally everyone in that room except for Remus has in common.

“Your crush on my brother?”

Virgil looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.

He probably is.

Because he doesn’t see it coming for a second when Virgil steps closer, cups Remus’s cheek in his hand like he is made of something precious and priceless, and closes the gap to kiss him.

[vanchlo]

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes / Green Eyes 4

Read all 3 previous parts here! 

Blurb Synopsis: With final exams approaching, you find yourself coming to rely on Harry more, whether for help with teaching, emotional support, help packing your apartment, or to complain about your students wanting to set the two of you up together. The saying goes that ‘stress makes you stronger,’ and that will be the true test during this season in your lives, and relationship. 

Genre: Teacher Harry, soooooo much fluff, some angst, a little sad, and lots of romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Changes by David Bowie & Butterfly Boucher (click to listen; yes the Shrek version, YES FROM THIS VERY PART) 

I also wanted to thank my pals @sunflwrnarry​ and @bfharry​ who’ve helped me with this story with their support, ideas, and love for it. I love freaking out with you two over this story  ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 

*

As you bring your fist to the blue door, you suddenly pause. Thoughts dance inside of your head and tie themselves to your heart. Happiness comes over you in another wave as Harry’s voice interrupts the thoughts, his voice telling you that he loves you from earlier. A content sigh meets the air in front of you in a white cloud. You had forgotten how cold you were, but the playful barking coming from the other side of the door brings you back to reality. 

“C’min!” Harry replies once you knock. 

Slowly opening the door, the warmth of Harry’s house greets you, along with the musky cinnamon smell that accompanies it. What surprises you is the little bundle of golden fur barking at you, but with the cutest bark, you’ve ever heard. 

“Ya, you get ‘er, Gatsby! Go get mummy, go say hullo t’ her!” Harry giggles, and soon you are too as you fall to a crouch as he approaches you. With that tail dancing in the air, you only laugh harder as he slips and falls in front of you. “My goodness, yer a clutz li’l boy. ‘Bout third time ya’ve fallen down and we’ve only been home fer a few minutes, jus’ beat mummy by a tick.”

“Hi, bud. How was your ride home with daddy? What do you think of your new home?” you coo to the puppy, rubbing the top of his furry head. He continues to yip at you for a few seconds until his sniffer takes over. 

“I see how good o’ guard dog, you are, pup. Ya smell any food on ‘em and they’re yer friend,” Harry sighs with a titter, carding a hand through his hair when you glance over to him. 

“No, you’re a good guard dog, Gatsby. You just have to get used to mummy and daddy, don’t you?” you croon, rubbing both hands along his chubby face as he sniffs the air. “Come on, let’s go sit by daddy,” you suggest, unable to hide your laugh as you observe him struggling to walk on the hardwood floor. 

“Looks like I might need t’ get su’more rugs or else he’s gonna be fallin’ e’rywhere.”

“Yeah, it’ll be easier to clean up his accidents on the wood flooring, though,” you note aloud, sliding off your slushy winter boots onto the mat by the door. After hanging up your coat on one of the hooks, you turn right into Harry’s living room to take a seat by him on the long red rug. “Did you take him potty yet?”

“Ya, I did befo’ we went in tha school and afta, and a few minutes ‘go. He went befo’ we went in but not since. ‘m not too worried tho’, I knew when I got him that he’d be peein’ on e’rythin’,” Harry notes, his eyes stuck to the waddling furball. Quickly, they dart to you and his strong arms come around your middle, pulling you into him. “C’mere, love, and have a cuddle wit’ me.”

Gatsby turns and begins to bark at the both of you as Harry pulls you over to sit in his lap, the both of you laughing loudly. He tottles over and proceeds to sniff the both of you. 

“How does she smell, Gats’? Does mummy pass yer sniffer check?” he mumbles, against your cheek where his words tickle your skin. You contribute to the conversation with a laugh at the both of them, sinking into Harry’s arms. Contentment washes over you when your back meets his chest and you feel him press a kiss to your temple. 

“Come here, Gatsby!” you say, patting your lap excitedly. 

“Nah, he’s too busy sniffin’. I swear ‘s all he did when he was in me car, even tho’ I was holdin’ him tha whole time.”

“It sounds like you should’ve named him Scooby-Doo instead,” you remark, earning a soft laugh from Harry. You squirm when you feel his breath tickle your neck. Sighing, you relax against him, his arms resting on your soft tummy and sometimes rubbing his knuckles against it. 

“Perhaps,” he comments, the feeling of his smooth cheek against yours an absence now, his stubble already prickling your skin. “Fit right into me arms, tha both o’ you,” he continues, swaying the both of you back and forth in his arms now clad in a long-sleeved Rolling Stones crewneck. 

You hope he can see the smile adorning your face and being all the reply he needs. You’re uncertain the last time you felt this content and happy all rolled into one, but it’s hard to pinpoint because Harry always seems to have that effect on you. 

“Hope ‘s okay I named him, jus’ thought it was perfect when I saw him tha otha day,” he whispers against your temple, the cinnamon from his gum tiptoeing over your face. 

“Yeah of course, it is. I couldn’t imagine him being named anything else. I don’t know how you kept him a secret for a whole week, I would’ve squealed,” you say with a grin, backing up when the puppy gets brave and stands up, his front paws on Harry’s knee. You titter at the feeling of his feathery whiskers on your skin, the sound of his adamant sniffing, and the cold wetness of his nose on your chin. 

“Yeah, I dunno how I didn’t. There were so many times I almost told ya, but I jus’ wanted t’ surprise ya, bird.”

“I’m glad you did. Okay, Gatsby, you go and smell daddy now,” you relent, your hands coming around the chunky puppy. His tummy is warm against your palms and his whine fills your ears as you lift him up to set in your lap. 

“I dunno, I think he likes how ya smell betta. What, did ya eat sumthin’ on tha way here, a Twix or Bit-O-Honey, or sumthin’?” Harry murmurs, his smile felt on your temple. “We’re gonna hafta watch it, he’ll wanna get into e’rythin’.”

“Yeah, he must smell that Twix I found in my car,” you reply, squealing when you feel the puppy’s warm wet tongue on your cheek. 

“Sumbody already loves their mummy, I see,” Harry comments. “Ya, Gats’, le’ss give mummy all tha kisses!” he exclaims before pressing loud smooches all over your face too. 

“Oh no, attacked by kisses, whatever will I do?!” you shout, feeling the energetic puppy in your lap as you close your eyes, chuckling. You wouldn’t change this for the world, no siree. 

*

“Thanks for dinner, it was delicious,” you tell Harry as you set your dishes in the dishwasher. 

“Welcome, love. Would ya like some wine? I should finish off dis bottle already, ‘s gettin’ all flat,” Harry asks, the soft click of the fridge door opening following his words. 

“I don’t know, it’s getting kind of late and I have to drive home . . ,” you answer, conflict showing through in your words.

Your eyes follow Harry’s tall figure as he reaches an arm to a shelf in the cabinet, grabbing two long-stemmed wine glasses. A smile tickles at your lips when his shirt rides up a tad, and his fern tattoos adorning his hips say hi to you, as well as his happy trail you love so much. It amazes you the amount of restraint it takes to not reach over and touch his tummy. Ugh. 

“You could have as much wine as ya’d like and ya wouldn’t hafta drive home if ya stay tha night. Gatsby had wanted me t’ ask ya, anyways. I told him we could make it work - we’ll all pile togetha in me bed, and ya can borrow sum jammies o’ mine,” he hums, turning to face you as he sets down the two empty glasses. The bubbles rising within your chest only worsen when you see the smug look pulling his lips into a smile. “I mean, that’s if ya want t’ sleep ova.” 

The gurgling of the white wine filling a glass occupies the silence between the two of you. Words fleet you as you watch him fill one glass three-quarters of the way full, and when his eyes lift to you they brim with uncertainty and anxiety. 

“Bird?” he inquires softly, raising an eyebrow. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he bites on his lip. “Sorry, nevamind, maybe ‘s a bit early fer that still. Yer not movin’ in fer anotha’ month, so ‘s okay,” he finishes, trying to diffuse the situation with a soft laugh. 

You deliver your answer by grabbing the full wine glass and bringing it to your lips that part with a smile, “I’d love to stay over and steal your ‘jammies’,” you reply softly, the wine surprising your lips with its sweetness and chill. His face collapses into a blushing laugh as he shakes his head. 

“Birdy, you li’l shit,” he remarks, clucking his tongue as he pours the rest of the bottle into the second glass for himself. “Ya can’t scare me like that, thought I jus’ made a proper fool o’ meself.” 

“No, you could never make a fool of yourself in my eyes, Harry,” you mumble, setting down the wine glass on your short walk over to him. Your fingers soon find him, first on his backside where you cup his ass, earning another head shake from him.  

“Ya really fancy me bum, dontcha, love?” he snickers, setting down the bottle with a clud, twirling the metal cap back on quickly. He turns around to face you, but you leave your hand on his bum. 

“Mmmhmm, it’s quite nice,” you try to say seriously, but it comes out accompanied with a laugh. 

“So ‘s yers, y’know,” he winks, slapping your butt as he dips to plant a kiss on your lips. “We betta go find out what that li’l boy ‘s doin’ in there, prolly gettin’ into trouble.” 

“In a second,” you whisper, placing your hand on the back of his neck slowly. 

“Jus’ a second?” 

“Maybe more,” you shrug, feeling the wispy hairs on the back of his neck as the golden glints in his eyes come into focus. 

His rose lips spread into a smile, showing his straight teeth, and disappearing when your lips meet his in a kiss. The remnants of the chocolatey brownies you had for dessert linger on his lips. Wafts of dark smoke from when he started the fire in the fireplace titillate your senses, coming to be a favorite smell you associate with him. 

“You taste and smell so fucking good, like brownies at a bonfire,” you breathe against his lips, your eyes wandering to his that stare at you so adoringly you feel like you’ve already had five glasses of wine. 

“Look at tha potty mouth on you, can’t believe it sumtimes,” he smirks from above you, the smell of cocoa hitting your face. 

“Yeah well, you sure like to kiss it a lot.”

“I do, don’t I?” Harry coos, brushing the pad of his thumb along your lip, adding another theoretical glass of wine to the overflow of your senses. “I’d kiss it bloody all day long, if I could.” 

Your head fills with wishes similar to those as his lips caress yours, but you’re broken apart when you hear a whine from nearby. Parting, you both peer into the other room, finding Gatsby waiting in the doorway. You swear that he stares at the both of you while he lifts a leg and pees onto the dark wooden floor. 

“Well, so much fer that,” Harry giggles, stealing a kiss from your cheek before he lets go of you. “Where’d ya leave those baby wipes we were usin’, love?” 

*

Although Harry’s pajama bottoms swallow your entire bottom, legs, feet, and all, you can’t help but smile at them. The gentle smell of his laundry detergent reminds you of marshmallows for some reason, and you couldn’t be happier as it envelopes you. His Beatles shirt falls over your head and comes down to your thighs, but you’re not complaining. I think these are tha smallest ‘ve got, they should fit, he had murmured a mere minute before as he handed you the folded pile of clothes. Okay, Harry, if you insist, you think silently as you inspect your appearance with a dumbfounded smile. 

With a nervous grin, you set your outfit from today on a shelf in the cabinet and turn off the light. You can hear Harry talking to Gatsby as your socked feet pad down the hallway, easing your nerves quickly. Low and behold, once you push the door open, you find him sitting on Harry’s chest, looking like he’s getting a talking to. Sure enough he is, you find. 

“‘s time t’ go t’ bed now, so we’re all gonna sleep in dis bed. Please try not t’ pee on daddy’s sheets. Ya have a pillow t’ lay on down at tha end o’ tha bed, and yer bed’s on tha floor in tha corner. There’s one o’ those blue plastic sheets down fer ya t’ go pee too, alright? Understood?” he tells the puppy with a toothy smile, wagging a finger at him and twirling one of his floppy ears around another 

“Uh oh, somebody’s in trouble,” you joke, leaning against the doorframe. When Harry’s eyes carry over to you, you self consciously cross your arms over your chest not contained by a bra. “What?” you mumble, narrowing your eyes at him as he stares at you, that toothy grin only growing wider. 

“Nothing,” he confesses, looking back to Gatsby with reddening cheeks, stealing glances at you every now and then. 

“Harry,” you continue with emphasis, dashing around the bed to slide under the cream covers on the right side. “Hi, Gatsby,” you coo excitedly when his tail begins to wag frantically, pulling a giggle from your lips when he turns towards you, hitting Harry in the face. 

“Gosh, kid,” he manages, lifting the puppy up to pass him to you. You’re almost drowned in puppy kisses to the face, sending giggles from your lips. The puppy’s name flies into the air as you try to fight him off. “Guess he likes that taste o’ tha toothpaste.”

“I guess so,” you agree aloud, finally his attack of kisses ending. Soon, he forgets you and wanders around the bed sniffing. He finally lies down and curls up against Harry’s leg towards the end of the bed. 

“I sacrifice one o’ my pillows fer ya t’ lie on, and that’s where ya lay?” Harry huffs, but soon an adoring whine sounds behind his lips as he admires the puppy. “I guess we tired him out runnin’ laps downstairs.”

“Yeah, it’s about time. He has so much energy, I can’t believe it,” you murmur in agreement. When you look over to see the look on his face for the puppy, instead you find his eyes waiting on you. “What? Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

“No, but if ya did Gats’ woulda gott’it,” Harry hums, nevertheless brushing a thumb across your cheek with the sappiest smile you’ve seen him wear in a long time. “Ya jus’ look . . cuter than I thought ya’d look in me clothes, bird.”

“I’m swimming in them, how is that cute?” you ask, pulling on the front of the shirt as proof, eliciting a loud laugh from Harry. 

“‘m sorry, I thought they’d fit betta. But they look great on you, they really do. E’rythin’ does, and sumhow I love me jammies on ya best,” he remarks, his hand coming to cup your cheek. “Yer so beautiful, birdy. ‘m gonna go get ready fer bed too, befo’ I keep blabberin’.”

The smirk painted on his face looks much like the one you’re sure is consuming yours at his words. He folds back the covers and Gatsby moves over as Harry leaves the bed, but you grab hold of his hand at the last second. He turns to you with a questioning look, saying he has to go and brush his teeth. 

“I like it when you blabber, especially to me,” you share, pulling on his arm until he returns to lean over the bed, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress. 

“There’s n’body else ‘d ratha blab t’ than you, love, and ‘m guessin’ we’re in fer a long night with this li’l one,” he smiles, pecking you fast before his hand slips from yours and he leaves the room. 

Yawning, you slide back under the covers and pull them over your shoulders, savoring Harry’s smell they hold. Your head falls onto the satiny pillowcase as the top plush blanket a shade of sage caresses your cheek. A huff tickles at your ears and you find Gatsby’s made his way over to you and settles his head to fall on your calf, his large ears splaying out on the splash of green. Emails and texts on your phone occupy your time as you wait for Harry, listening to Gatsby’s adorable little sounds where he’s curled up beside you. Your sleepy hand finds his furry body, keeping you warm, and you tickle his fur as you turn your phone off to set on the table at your bedside. 

“Look at you two, snug as a bug in a rug, ‘d say,” Harry murmurs out of nowhere, appearing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. For a second, you think you need to do the same because you’re sure the image in front of you is a mirage of some sort. Harry scratches at his bare chest, a yawn leaving his lips while stretching his bare arms into the air. “Oh sorry, I neva sleep with a shirt on, I hope that’s okay. It doesn’t make ya feel weird, does it?” he questions, closing the bedroom door so Gatsby won’t wander around the house, as he said earlier. 

“N-No, it’s okay,” you mumble, trying not to stare as he pads across the room. The closer he gets, the more your heart freaks out in your chest, you’re sure of it. “I like it,” you confess, suddenly wishing you weren’t so good at this blurting out secrets thing. 

“Oh, d’ya now?” he smirks, shutting off the overhead light, leaving his lamp on to carry soft light on his side of the bed. You suffice a response with a shrug of your shoulders, cozying into the bed as he slips under the top sheet, pillowy comforter and blanket. 

“Yer sumthin’, aren’t ya, birdy?” he quips, flicking off his lamp, leaving the soft glow of a few night lights he installed about ten minutes ago for you and Gatsby, his guests. 

“Something special,” you tease with a snicker, hearing his breathy one in return, and soon finding his face lit by the glow. 

“That, ya are, love. My sumthin’ special,” he acknowledges, the squeak of the mattress following his words as he arrives at your side. “If ya need anythin’ tonight, ya can wake me, alright? Figure we might be up a few times with him, anyways.” 

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Welcome, bird, I hope ya have sweet dreams. ‘m glad ya stayed fer a sleepova, thank you,” he hums, a dimple falling into his cheek with his words, leading you to think if you had any they’d already be there in your cheeks. Sometimes you can’t believe your luck. 

“Of course,” you answer, leaning forward to place your lips atop his. He giggles into the kiss as your lips move together, the spearmint in his toothpaste forgotten as it tickles your own tongue too after he gave you a spare toothbrush. His hand comes to rest on your side and it feels peculiar with the absence of his rings, but you savor it and it’s warmth. 

His bottom lip remains between yours, pillowy soft and warm until you begin to hear Gatsby’s snores and your fingers have found the bravery to roam his chest. The cheekiness comes out in you when one wanders to his bum, giving it a good squeeze through the checkered fabric of his ‘jammies’ as he so adorably calls them. A muffled snicker slides into his mouth when the hand on your side drifts to your bottom with a soft slap. You’re grateful for his absence of a shirt, letting your fingers admire the slope of his back warm against your fingers that are cold from washing up. The little hairs all over his body are satiny smooth beneath your fingertips, just like his top lip that you take between yours, your hurried breaths filling the air. 

“‘Kay, bird, time t’ get sum sleep. We can snog in tha mornin’, ‘m beat afta t’day with school and runnin’ after this li’l boy,” Harry sighs after ending the kiss, mirroring your frown but much more dramatically. “Get sum sleep, ‘ll see ya in tha mornin’. We’ll all three go t’ tha shops t’ buy tha rest o’ his stuff and ingredients fer pizza t’morrow,” he yawns, leaving a kiss on your nose afterward. You nod in response and hastily lay a kiss on his cheek. Nervously, you pull away, afraid you’re pushing his buttons, but he just smiles and kisses you on the lips one last time. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper, arms diving back under the warm covers as you try to get comfortable without moving Gatsby. 

“Night, bird . . and Gatsby.”

“Goodnight, Gatsby,” you murmur, patting his small head softly, his snores continuing against your leg. 

“Oh, I see how it ‘s, yer already becomin’ a mumma’s boy,” Harry tuts, clucking his tongue as he squirms in the bed, finding his sweet spot. You drift off soon next to your two boys, counting down the days until you get to fall asleep with them by your side every night. 

*

Browsing YouTube, you scroll through the videos that appeared from your search request for haikus. Yawning, you rub at your eye as you pause your scrolling and inspect a video before playing it. It doesn’t get a chance to play very far when you’re interrupted by a voice. 

“Thanks fer tha lunch again, bird. Ya really do spoil me, I always forget t’ make one,” Harry hums, waltzing into your classroom holding the Rolling Stones lunchbox you had bought for him for Christmas last month. He sets it down on a clean corner of your desk, leaning across it to peck you on the cheek. 

“You’re welcome. Did you eat everything?” you ask, dragging it over and undoing the zippers. 

“Ya. I loved tha bagel sandwich you packed tha fixings fer, and tha soup was lovely,” he hums, leaning against your desk, crossing his arms over the soft yellow button-up covered in black flower designs. 

“No, you didn’t,” you disagree smiling, opening one of the small pockets to take out a box. 

“What, how’d I miss those? You musta hid ‘em from me!” Harry exclaims, taking the box of Chocolate Banana Pocky from your grasp. A cocky giggle of his fills the air as he opens the box and rips open the white bag. 

“Harry, you better not eat those all in one sitting!” you warn. He looks you in the eyes as he sticks four of them into his mouth and takes a bite, a smirk playing along his lips. “Harry Styles!” you proclaim, sitting forward and threatening to rip the box from his hand. He only giggles harder and takes another bite, the four pocky gone in a flash as he crunches on the rest of them loudly. 

Shaking your head, you watch him walk away, sticking three more between his rose lips. You sigh with a smile, unsure of just how many times you’ve seen him devour a box of them within an hour, or less. 

“What’s your full name?” you wonder aloud, looking away from the computer screen and to him where he stops in your doorway, turning around. 

“Well ‘m not gonna delight ya with that info afta ya jus’ yelled at me, now am I? ‘m sure ya jus’ wanna use it t’ yell at me su’more,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves the rest of the half-eaten pocky into his mouth, winking. You can hear his chewing all the way from here. “And no, yer not gettin’ any o’ me pocky.”

*

The deep breaths just don’t stick, and soon you find yourself out of your chair and pacing your classroom. You busy yourself picking up forgotten pencils and papers on the floor, tidying the messy containers of books, and the disaster that is your desk. 

“Ya ready t’ go?” somebody sings from your doorway where a shuffling sound comes from as well. “Birdy?”

You don’t respond, unfreezing your hands from the sound of his voice. Instead, you flip over a copy of The Tempest and replace it in the bin right side up, because Harry would not allow that to be done to a Shakespeare. His shuffling of feet comes next, tapping along the floor and getting closer. A swallow is met with the lump in your throat, and you brush the back of your hand over your cheek, hoping they’re gone. 

“Hey, anybody home?” Harry laughs, arriving at your side and slinging an arm around your waist. “‘m ready t’ go, if you are, love. ‘m sure Gatsby ‘s waitin’ fer us at my place, all excited. He’s missed you, y’know,” he coos, pecking your cheek. 

“Yeah, sorry I-.”

“Hey, yer phone’s ringin’. Here, ‘ll grab it fer ya,” he volunteers, soon feeling his absence as his footsteps are drowned out by the loud ringtone. “It says ‘s yer mum.” Closing your eyes, you groan quietly or at least try to. Soon, he’s at your side again and places it in your hands where you hit decline. 

“What, why didn’t ya answer?” he questions, probably eyebrows knitted together in the cutest way possible, like he does. You don’t look though, so you’re not sure as you shove it into your pocket, busying your hands with the mess of books before you. Removing a copy of The Christmas Carol that was shoved into the front of another bin backward, you replace it to face forward now. “Birdy, what’s goin’ on?” he continues, a hand settling on your arm, but when you reach to grab another book his hand grabs it. It leaves your fingers to grace your chin, turning your head to look at him. 

“I just don’t want to talk to her right now,” you reply softly, hoping he won’t detect the spent tears that aren’t so invisible on your cheeks. 

“Oh,” he breathes, a dimple falling into his cheek when his mouth quirks into a confused expression under his layer of five-day-old stubble. “Y’know, ya’ve neva talked much ‘bout yer parents, ‘d like t’ meet ‘em. I mean we’re movin’ in togetha soon and ‘m sure they’d like t’ meet Gatsby. Ya met me sista fer tha first time tha otha day.”

This time you’re positive he doesn’t see the tear streaks or how they still cling to your eyelashes coated in mascara. Boys can sometimes be so ugh, you mutter to yourself amongst your thoughts. You knew this was coming the second she called, and well, months ago, but you had hoped you could’ve gotten by longer without it. 

“You don’t want to meet them,” is all you say as you turn away, his hand dropping from your chin now cold from the drought of his touch. You soon arrive back at your desk where you pick up a stack of worksheets from this week’s vocabulary words, looking for a paperclip to fasten them. 

“You can’t decide what I want and don’t want, bird. I don’t like that,” Harry responds, and you can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. “I mean, ya met my parents already, why can’t I meet yours? I don’t undastand.” 

“I don’t want you to meet them,” you reply, setting the now fastened stack on one of the wire shelves of the little stackable organizer on your desk. You continue to avoid his gaze by gathering together another stack of today’s green root words quizzes. 

“I thought we weren’t keepin’ secrets, bird, but ya can come ova when yer ready t’ tell me. ‘m goin’ home, so take howeva much time ya need,” he grumbles with a loud exhale, almost slamming the door to your classroom on his way out. 

Sinking into your chair, your hands rake through your hair as a defeated sigh joins the air. Another one falls after the next when you spot the neon blue Post-It note stuck to the underside of your desk, just at the edge where you would’ve spotted it, just like you have. The crack along your heart only grows deeper when you begin to read his messy chicken scratch, and all of the love that leaks from its words. 

Birdy, 

Gatsby wanted me to tell you that you are such a greatttttttt mummy already, and that he loves you soooooo much! His daddy loves you too ;) I’m looking forward to making homemade pasta together tonight, you always have the greatest ideas. My students asked me today when I’m going to ask you out on a date, soooo would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend, toooooo pack up your apartment to come and live with me? ;) I’m so excited to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night, bird. Only two more weeks! Fourteen more sleeps, it’s not like I’m counting or anything. 

I love you, so much

Harry xoxo

*

“C’min!” a voice drawls when you rap your fist against the door. The warm inviting scent of cinnamon greets you when you walk into Harry’s house an hour later, along with the growing puppy who scurries over to you. 

“Hi, bud,” you murmur with a smile, giving him a good petting as his tail sweeps along the floor. “Is daddy still crabby?” you ask him, closing the door behind you with your foot. 

After toeing off your boots and hanging up your coat, you peek into the kitchen where the smell of onion, garlic, and broccoli waft from. Harry stands at the stove in a shirt and sweatpants, rolling his bottom lip between his fingers. You don’t get much of a chance to figure out what mood he’s in, because Gatsby jumps up onto your lap, licking all over your face. 

You play with the puppy in the living room as Harry cooks in the kitchen until he announces the food is ready, homemade pasta night forgotten apparently. You eat together silently while watching TV, Gatsby begging at your feet. You thought that things were better now when compared to earlier, but for the rest of the night something was off between the two of you. You focused your attention on Gatsby who you swear has grown since the last time you saw him, if only a few days ago. Now, he fills your lap comfortably, and you’re sad to say goodbye to him when you leave early. You just couldn’t take the awkwardness floating in the air anymore, and left after a short peck from Harry. 

*

The next day, a Saturday, Harry showed up with Gatsby and a bunch of cardboard boxes to pack close to the last of your stuff. You tried to make it up to him by cooking him breakfast, which he loved, but you still felt it sticking to every moment that passed. You weren’t sure if you should bring it up or not, and at the same time you were waiting for him to bring it up, readying your defenses. Something was clearly bothering him or on his mind, and as you bubble wrapped things and packed them away, you were curious about why he kept looking at his phone. Then around one in the afternoon, after a few hours of packing, he stepped out to take a call. 

“What’s going on with daddy, Gats’?” you posed to the puppy who ignored you, albeit stealing a look at you, returning to the rawhide he’s been intent on destroying. You swallow nervously, glancing over to the hallway outside your bedroom where you can just make out his voice. Tearing your gaze from it, you try to busy yourself by gently placing the wrapped picture frame in the box, and picking up the next one. 

“Everything okay?” you ask softly when Harry returns, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his blue jeans. 

“Ya, e’rythin’s fine,” he replies casually, pulling at the collar of his charcoal-colored henley shirt. 

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, wishing you could forget about packing and admire the way that shirt hugs him in all of the right places. That will have to wait for another day when he wears it, you agree silently, seeing that he’s not in the mood today for his buttons to be pushed. You don’t want to find out what happens when you push them when he’s in a bad mood. You try to forget about it as he helps you pack up some of the less necessary items in your bedroom, like summer clothes, novels, photo albums, CDs, DVDs, and more. 

*

As you stare at the barren shelves of your fridge, you make a mental note to go grocery shopping soon, something you’ve forgotten recently with finals approaching at school and packing. 

“Do you want to get takeaway or go out for lunch?” you call out to Harry, leaving the kitchen to find him sitting on the sofa in your living room. He’s staring at something intently on his phone, but when he hears your footsteps behind him, he quickly hides his phone in his pocket. 

“Takeaway’s fine,” he answers, clearing his throat, his nervous tic. 

“Harry, is something going on? You’ve been acting weird, like you’re hiding something,” you assert, walking around to face him. You’re unsure of what he’ll say as you’re unable to read his face, and you know that’s when it’s bad. 

“What, so yer tha only one who can keep secrets?” he retorts, his face screwed up in crude disbelief. You’re sure the same emotion painting yours is even worse as you feel the sting of his words. He sighs as you shake your head, beginning to walk away. “Bird, stop, ‘m sorry.” 

“What, Harry?” you ask, stopping your feet, but not turning around to face him. You hear him breathe in deeply among the squeaking of Gatsby’s toy he plays with on the couch beside Harry. 

“I was offa’d a teachin’ job t’day, a few hours north at that Wright Arts Academy, that’s who called me,” he announces solemnly. The only thing you’re grateful for in the moment is the fact that he can’t see the look on your face as you’re positive every breath just left your body. “They’re so focused on enrichin’ tha students in arts, ‘s great. ‘d be teachin’ classes like Mythology, a whole class on Shakespeare, Improv, Rhetoric, Intro to Sci-fi and Fantasy, and jus’ so many great English courses. Tha classes are smaller and so ya get t’ know yer students betta. ‘d get t’ teach ‘bout my favourite, Shakespeare, fer an entire semesta, bird! They’re offerin’ me more money, too . . ,” he continues, and you’re unsure of when you want him to stop, or if you wish he had never begun. Suddenly, you do a three-sixty when your thoughts are consumed by the happiness and excitement in his voice. 

“You should take it,” you say, spinning around to look at him. His eyes are stuck on a random part of the wall, but then he looks to you. 

“But ‘s three hours away, bird? ‘d hafta move away and we’re s’posed t’ move in togetha,” he counters, eyebrows falling and quickly you’re more confused than you were a moment ago. 

“You’ve always wanted to teach those kinds of classes, Harry, you’ve told me so yourself.” 

“But, birdy-.”

“Take the job, Harry, if it’s what you want,” you insist, trying to smile at him, but it doesn’t stay long when you see the look on his face. 

“I dunno if ‘s what I want, yet. I don’ wanna move away from you, I don’ wanna do long distance. Wait, do you? ‘s tha movin’ in with me too soon, are ya gettin’ cold feet?” 

“What are you talking about? Harry, no of course not. Where are you getting this from?” you reply, dumbfounded at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently, you can only grow more confused. 

“Maybe it has sumthin’ t’ do with not wantin’ me t’ meet yer parents, I dunno, you tell me, bird. D’ya not wanna commit? Why would ya want me t’ take a job that would make us do long distance?” 

“I don’t know, Harry, maybe because I want you to be happy!” you exclaim, feeling telltale signs of incoming tears, and they fly faster than you thought they could have. “You’ve told me that you’ve always wanted to teach classes like those, because you enjoy those topics so much - myths in literature, science fiction and fantasy novels, and even though I don’t understand it, you love Shakespeare! You almost named Gatsby after Romeo or Duncan instead, you love his work so much. Of course, I don’t want you to move away, because things are so perfect right now having a job that means I get to work across the hall from my boyfriend. I can’t believe you think I’d want you to move away and do long distance. I would never- but I want you to be happy, and I’m not going to stop you from taking this job if it brought you that. I’m not going to be selfish and make you stay for my own happiness. A-and my parents are another story, I haven’t spoken to them in years. They’re just not good people. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t know how,” you finish, feeling grateful for that blurting talent of yours because sometimes you need it. Harry’s jaw almost hangs off its hinges as you stare back at him through blurry eyes, wishing the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Well, the last day. Quickly, the tears triple and you can’t stand him seeing you cry anymore because of the thoughts bashing against the walls of your head. 

“I’m going to go pick up lunch,” you say softly, defeat evident in your tone as you turn around. After grabbing your keys and coat, you stomp out to your car and start it. You wait for it to warm up as the cold air from the vents slowly turns warm, but really you only waste the time so you can spill your tears in silence. 

It takes all of your strength and willpower to not go back into your apartment and tell him not to leave, because you’re pretty sure it would break you. You can’t imagine a stranger teaching in Harry’s classroom, no shared kisses in the copier room and staff lounge, crossing the hall to ask him a question as soon as it pops into your head, and the fun you both have with your students trying to set the two of you up together albeit it being futile. The doubt of getting a job for yourself at this stupid Academy of Arts to join Harry only makes you feel worse, especially because of the memories your school holds for the both of you. 

Wiping your tears away, you try to take a deep breath that won’t come, and you pull the car away to leave him and hope that he won’t do the same to you. The tears left as you drove to go and pick up fast food, but they returned when Harry texted you while in the drive-thru to not get him anything because he was going home to think. Once you returned to the empty apartment, that’s all you could do was think, and it tore you apart. 

*

You had left Harry be for the rest of the weekend, although it was one of the hardest things you had done. You’d liken the effort to running a triathlon, although you’ve never done one of those, but you feel like you have the strength of a triathlete after giving him space. You relented and texted him once though, but just once. It was to ask for a picture of Gatsby who you missed, and he followed through, sending you a couple of pictures. They made you the happiest you’d been all weekend, even despite the tears that crept up when you saw Harry’s reflection in the mirror in one. Then his ringed hand holding Gatsby in another, a selfie of sorts with your favorite shirt of his on his torso. It all made you doubt your words the more, not wanting to have to suffice for only seeing him and Gatsby through pictures if he took the job. You were reminded of your reasoning for it all - wanting him to be happy, but it still gnawed away at you what that would mean if he moved. You tried not to let yourself get too carried away and at times you almost called him, but you weren’t sure who was the bad guy after your argument. You were the one who exploded on him, and you both kept secrets from the other, something you had recently agreed not to do. A promise that the both of you broke so soon. 

*

You had yet to see Harry the following Monday at school, even though you could hear the Cat Stevens album trickling from his classroom at seven-twenty in the morning. Somehow you avoided a run in on your way to the early morning staff meeting, and you didn’t mean to, but you were roped in to sit by a colleague. You found your first seconds of joy of the day when she showed you pictures of her growing baby, one Harry doted on and hogged during most of the staff Christmas party last month. You tried not to think of that while looking at the baby’s chunky thighs and rolls on her arms, and how much you wanted to tell him about it. The joy didn’t stay long when you spotted him taking a seat next to Julie, the visual arts teacher who has had a thing for him as long as you can remember. The pit in your stomach hardens at the sight of him, messy-haired and unshaven, and yet handsome as ever. Confliction carries your features when you spot him wearing the multi-colored Peter Max inspired pop-art button up you had bought him for Christmas. It all only gets worse when he senses your stare and meets your eyes, showing you the sadness hidden in them before you look back to the pictures of the baby. 

*

“Hey, teach! I have a question!” a tall brunette girl in your classroom whispers to you, glancing over to the librarian nervously. 

“Yes, Sabrina?” you reply, trying to ignore how some of the students call you that, but then again it’s some that you’re the closest to. 

“Um, Mr. Styles is just right over there, aren’t you going to go and talk to him?” she grins, playing with her ponytail, ignoring the computer in front of her. 

“Yeah, he’s looking extra cute today,” the girl beside her comments and you have to hold back your laughter. “But he was all glum when I had Creative Writing with him earlier, I don’t know what his deal is today.”

“Maybe he’d be happier if he had a girlfriend,” Sabrina comments wryly, raising her eyebrows at you. 

“Maybe I’d be happier if you two were doing your review for the final exam, and not trying to set me up with your teacher, when I can manage just fine on my own,” you comment firmly, trying to avert their attention back to their computer screens and review packet. 

“Hey, Mr. Styles, um Ms. Y/N needs some help with something about Shakespeare!” Sabrina calls to Harry two rows of computers to your right. 

“I don’t need help!” is all you say with a sigh, loud enough for him to hear, turning around the second you see his head of tousled curls lift where he’s leaning next to a student he helps. 

“He ignored you!” Sabrina’s friend exclaims in a whisper, inhaling dramatically along with Sabrina. “You’re not just going to let him ignore you, are you, Ms. Y/N?” 

“God, what you’d do to him, he’s usually all over you?” Sabrina sighs.

“Girls, please return to your work. I’m sure Mr. Styles is busy helping a student with their final review, which you’re supposed to be doing right now too. Finals are at the end of the week, we all need as much studying as we can get,” you calmly say although rather curtly, walking away when you see a student with their hand in the air. 

“I wish they’d just confess their love for each other already, they’re perfect for each other,” Sabrina grumbles, clicking her pen annoyingly. 

“Me too, then maybe they’d both stop being so crabby during finals week,” her friend notes aloud with an exasperated sigh. 

Usually you can take the teasing of your students wanting to set you up with Harry, but today you’re not in the mood for entertaining them or carrying a conversation about it. Today, it just hits a little too close to home, you realize silently as you lean against a wall to observe your class, the student no longer needing help. You steal a glance at Harry who stands up straight after helping a student, patting their shoulder with a smile. His attentiveness shines through when he moves on to another student, falling to his knees to get to eye level with him, giving them all of his attention. The way the shirt hugs his torso in every way only makes it all the worse, clinging to his biceps, the slope of his back, and his love handles you love so much before it disappears into the waist of his black slacks. 

“Ms. Y/N, are you okay?” Sabrina asks, her eyes on you when you look over to her. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got something in my eye,” you answer with a hard swallow, picking up your clipboard and checking your watch. You do anything to try and not think about Harry leaving, and how not only you would suffer, but his students. Also, just how much you’re dying to tell your students, hopefully one day soon, that you’ve been dating all along. Hopefully. 

*

Finals had been wreaking havoc on you and only causing more hell for the day you were having. Luckily, Harry had helped you with the majority of it in the recent weeks and even had given you some of his old tests. The anxiety still overwhelmed you at times wondering if you’re preparing your students enough, if the final review packet was too much or not enough, and if your students would be ready. Finals were going to be the death of you, you were sure, if Harry’s revelation about the job offer wouldn’t kill you before then. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, if he had sought it out and applied, or how it even came about. It drove you even more crazy as the tests neared, knowing that you’d be spending the rest of the week in your classroom from seven-thirty most likely until five pm every day, with him just across the hall.

You craved his voice and his touch, his hugs, and that laugh that could fix anything in seconds. That Monday and Tuesday you didn’t mean to ignore him, but when he walked into the staff room while you were in there, your feet found their way to the door quickly. You’re sure you could have left the bone you bought for Gatsby on his desk or bring it over to his house, but instead you left it in his mailbox with a note. 

Give this to Gatsby, please. Tell him it’s from Mummy xx

It stung when you found it in your mailbox later that day with a note from him. 

You can give it to him yourself the next time you come over :) xo

It was even automatic when you agreed to get lunch with Lola on Tuesday, even though that was the day you and Harry always went and got pizza together. During your prep hour that morning, you lingered in the staff room after he made his appearance. But when Julie the art teacher started to compliment how good he looked wearing the tie you bought for him with Fleetwood Mac song titles covering the fabric, it drove you up the wall. She didn’t stop there, and continued on about how nice he looked and how much she liked his returning beard, making you want to throw up onto your doughnut you had just warmed up. You dropped it into a trash bin in the hallway after deserting the scene, unable to endure her flirting with him and not being able to do anything about it. It pained you to not be able to tell her to stop because he’s your boyfriend, but you and Harry had agreed early on to not share your relationship with colleagues unless necessary. 

It was all becoming too much for you to handle, finals week and kind of fighting with Harry and thinking about him moving away. Too much too quickly. 

*

The hard copy of Creative Writing’s final exam sat in front of you that Tuesday afternoon. The sun already hides beyond the horizon outside the windows hugging the wall to the left of you. This has to be the second or third time you’ve printed a copy to look over, always finding something wrong with it, but this time you think maybe you’ve found a winner. The clicking of your pen meets your ears when you think you find a problem, but it’s whisked away when there’s another click. Your classroom door opens and in walks Harry, playing with the black-tie dotted with song titles of all different colors. 

“Hi,” he rasps, gently closing the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you return, eyes straying to the test in front of you. Your attempt to continue checking it is futile as goosebumps cover your skin and your heart hammers away. 

“Gatsby misses you.”

“I miss him too,” you reply, feeling the tears press at the back of your eyes with warmth, trying not to think about not seeing him for months at a time if Harry moved. 

“I declined tha job yestaday,” he announces gently, but the whiplash you feel from looking to him quickly almost hurts. His bubblegum lips sit in a taut and nervous line, hands bunched into fists in the pockets of his red slacks. They leave your view when the printed words on the test return in your eyes, growing hazy quickly. “Can ya say sumthin’, please, bird?”

“I hope you didn’t do it for me,” is all you say, hoping the true meaning comes out in your honest tone muddled by your waterworks. 

“‘Course I did it fer you. I did it fer us, and Gatsby. I did it coz ‘m ashamed it took me longa than ten minutes t’ figure out that no matta tha luxuries, that’s not my dream job. I already have my dream job, ‘s here teaching across tha hall from you, gettin’ t’ have ya botha me durin’ my prep hour, combine our classrooms t’ play Jeopardy, have our students harass us t’ go onn’a date already, and gettin’ t’ have a snog with you wheneva I want. I don’ care if I don’ get t’ teach all those bloody fancy classes and get paid mo’, coz I lose all o’ that here that already makes me so happy. ‘m sorry I didn’t realize it earlier,” Harry confesses, emotions wavering in his voice that he clears a few times, taking slow steps over to where you sit. 

“You know . . . ,” you begin, listening to the silence that takes your words and probably how much they’re killing him right now, especially when you leave you chair. “I think we’re going to have to tell our students sooner or later, because they’re driving me nuts. So are these tight outfits you keep wearing, they make it really hard not to attack you with kisses whenever I see you.”

A smile explodes on Harry’s lips, the first you’ve seen him wear in days, as you approach him. Your hands sing when they touch his chest, feeling the necklace under the fabric before they wrap around the buttery smooth fabric of his tie. 

“Y’know,” he begins sarcastically, a hand coming to his chin where he strokes his new beard, although not quite as majestic as it’s been before. What a little shit. “I think ya might be right on that one, but I like t’ watch ‘em squirm. ‘s been fun t’ hear ‘em get all frustrated ‘bout us not datin’ yet,” he giggles, his rings finding their home on your back once again. 

“Little do they know, huh?”

“Oh yes, very li’l,” he chuckles, the dimples falling into his cheeks under his patchy facial hair that you love so much. Quickly, they disappear and his cheeks flatten from their prior roundness. “‘m sorry y’know, so sorry, birdy. I was a proper asshole t’ ya, I feel terrible ‘bout it.”

The tears signal their return when his head falls and you spot one escape and fall down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it can get very far and lift his chin up to have him look at you. You thought your heart couldn’t hurt after everything he had said moments ago, but it wrenches inside of your chest at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, tears falling from them. 

“Harry, please don’t cry. It’s okay, we all make mistakes. I just want you to know that I am committed to you, so much so that I can’t wait to move in with you . . and Gatsby.”

“I know, ‘m sorry I ever doubted it, I dunno why I did. ‘m committed too, coz I love ya so much, birdy. I love you,” he weeps, shaky words hitting the air that you pass when you pull him into your arms. “I didn’t know I could miss ya so much ova jus’ four days,” he continues, his hot tears meeting your neck as his beard leaves tickles after brushing it. Your heart breaks even further at the feeling of his chest trembling with a sob against yours.

“I know, Harry, me too,” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair as he holds onto you, his face hiding in your neck. 

“Plus, I couldn’t take tha job coz ‘m not gonna be one o’ those shit parents who makes Gatsby spend a different weekend at each parent’s house. Also I miss you makin’ me lunches, I neva rememba,” he cries against your skin, his subsequent giggle gracing your ears. He’s the first to pull away and your heart aches a little harder at the tears painting his face, ones you try to make quick work of. 

“Good, I don’t think I’d have the heart to tell him, so it’d have to be you.”

“‘Fair is foul and foul is fair’,” he pouts dramatically, quoting a certain William, the pad of your thumb swiping below his left eye, feeling his feathery eyelashes against your skin. “Guess we’ll hafta stay togetha then,” he sighs sarcastically, pursing his lips that soon sing out a bubbly laugh still adorned with the remnants of tears. 

“Oh, I’m sure our students would harass us to get back together if that were ever to happen,” you giggle, adoring his wispy dark eyelashes that clump together with wet tears, his murky green eyes peeking up at you beneath them. 

“Ya, they’re gettin’ ratha rowdy ‘bout that, aren’t they?” he notes aloud, clucking his tongue as if disappointed then sniffling. Your thumb wanders to his forehead to smooth out the crease that’s formed between his eyebrows, pulling his eyes to yours. “‘d love t’ tell ‘em but ‘s fun t’ watch ‘em go crazy right now, but sumday, ya.” 

“Yeah, we have to make it fun first,” you agree, catching the last tear with your finger, hands wandering to his tie the same dark color of his button-up. 

“Right, you are,” he hums, eyes darting to your lips as you slowly yank on the tie, bringing him closer. “I knew I hadd’a smart birdy.”

His smile dissolves against your lips that surround his in the sweetest kiss containing the unsaid words and forgotten kisses from the last few days. Sorry’s pass between your lips as his warm rings press into the small of your back, the tie caught between your hands until you let go, certain he’s not going anywhere anymore. His lips sputter a laugh against yours when both of your hands come to caress his lovely bum that you squeeze greedily. 

“Watch those naughty finga’s o’ yers now,” he warns through hooded eyes, the bitter smell of black coffee dancing across your face. 

“Or what?” you reply with a shrug, the both of you feeling your fingers slowly dive underneath the tight fabric of his pants. 

“Or yer gonna catch me without any briefs on one o’ these times,” he replies, trying to keep a straight face until the words leave his mouth that soon pecks yours. 

“Oooo, I’d like to see that happen,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows at him until he collapses into laughter above you. 

“I dunno what ‘ll do with ya, bird, with a potty mouth like that.”

“Well, you can’t dump me now, we have a son together,” you shrug dramatically, mouth pressed into a fake line as you watch his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

“Very true, altho’ a crappy joke there. I guess I might hafta kiss that potty mouth outta ya.”

“I’d like to see you try, Mr. Styles,” you counter, happy to see the tears have abated from the both of you, hoping you don’t find them again for months and months. 

“Oh, would you, Ms. Y/N? ‘ll take that bet, and if I win it, ya hafta come ova and make Gatsby and I dinna t’night. And have wine with me and stay tha night, gotta get su’more practice befo’ ya move in with me soon,” Harry continues, a smug expression donning his features. 

“Deal,” you say, squealing when his hands come under your bottom and lift you up to sit you on a nearby desk. The words on your lips disappear when he plants his lips on yours hastily, hands drifting along your waist. “You better get it all out before our field trip next week.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,’” Harry replies, quoting Shakespeare with a funny look on his face, replacing his lips on top of yours. Your tongue scoops up and into his mouth that he parts for you, tasting the Bit-O-Honey he just had that you’re sure his pockets are full of if you checked. You giggle into his mouth when your hands brush against his thighs, sure enough feeling the hard candies in his pockets on your way to explore his bum again. 

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” you recite as your nose draws a line across his cheek moments later, leaving him silent. A smile curls upon his cheeks at the sound, astonishment playing with his features. 

“Our students are right, we really should be t’getha, birdy. I love me a Shakespeare girl. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ but I think ours ‘s doin’ pretty well, if I do say so meself.” 

[delightfullychilled]

11 Mixers That Make Alcohol Healthier

Full disclosure: Alcohol ranks pretty low on the scale of healthy things to put in your body. Not to get all preachy, but it contains calories that don't fill you up, it lowers your inhibitions which means you end up eating more, it dehydrates you and also causes you to retain water so you sense bloated and puffy, and it takes up so much of your liver's attention that the organ stops metabolizing unwanted fat efficiently.

Of course none of that makes drinking any less fun - or makes you want to skip happy hour. To mitigate the harmful effects of your buzz, choose mixers that don't just make alcohol more palatable, but proceed one step additional to make your drink a bit healthier.

Read about Liquor Delivery Toronto, Dial a Bottle, and much more.

1. Sparkling Water (About 4 ounces): Free of calories and artificial ingredients, sparkling water beats regular soda and most juices, which contain loads of sugars and excess calorie consumption. Even if you prefer wine to hard alcohol, you can add a splash of soda drinking water to your glass to increase the volume of your drink without adding extra calories to it. Tastes great with: 1 ounce vodka (about 4/5 of a standard shot cup) and a splash of cranberry juice (not cocktail) and offer over ice.

2. Popular Sauce (About 2 dashes): The spicy stuff can give your beverage a kick without contributing many calorie consumption. While booze tends to increase your urge for food, a super-spicy cocktail can minimize the damage by increasing your metabolism and speeding up digestion, Dr. Cederquist says. Tastes good with: 1 ounce vodka and 4 ounces tomato fruit juice. Function over ice.

3. Jalapeños (About ½ a pepper, diced): Like warm sauce, sizzling jalapeños can increase your body's heat range, which makes your body work additional hard to keep its awesome. While Dr. Cederquist says you'd have to eat an extra large serving to reap considerable benefits, this ingredient can, at least in theory, temporarily boost your metabolism to help the body process calories more efficiently. (And that's more than you can say for an extra-big helping of straight-up tequila.) Tastes great with: 1 ounce tequila, 1 ounce fresh lime juice, and 1 teaspoon or packet of glucose. Shake with ice and strain to serve.

4. Lemon Juice (1 ounce): Unlike lemonade, a squeeze of straight-up citrus contributes juicy flavor for half as many calories and far less sugar, ounce for ounce. Tastes good with: 1 ounce gin, 1 teaspoon or even packet of sugars (which is less than the amount of sugar inside lemonade), 1 ounce sparkling water. Assist over ice.

5. Lime Fruit juice (1 ounce): Fresh lime fruit juice is a wonderful source of vitamin C, an essential nutrient and antioxidant that can make a cold suck less by shortening its size and severity. Because alcoholic beverages can reduce your ability to battle off infections for up to 24 hours after you obtain drunk, you can use all the help you can get. Tastes great with: 1 ounce white colored rum, mint leaves, 1 teaspoon or packet of stevia (or another organic sweetener), and soda water.

6. Watermelon (4 ounces): Made up of more than 90 percent water, naturally lovely frozen watermelon makes a slushy and satisfying drink without the artificial ingredients and added sugars found in daiquiris mixes and other frozen cocktails. Watermelon also adds a dose of fiber to greatly help manage an alcohol-fueled appetite, and lycopene, an antioxidant with anti-cancer properties.

Tastes good with: 1 ounce tequila or even rum. Use a blender to combine until smooth.

7. Muddled Berries (2 ounces): Most fruit-flavored, icy drinks like piña coladas and daiquiris are full of processed sugars. While a couple of berries won't assist you to hit your each day produce needs, the fruit will normally sweeten your beverage and infuse it with vitamins and nutrients. Tastes great with: 2 ounces rum, ½ banana, and ice. Work with a blender to mix until smooth.

8. Low-Cal Orange Juice (2 ounces): Unlike diet soda, that is filled with iffy synthetic sweeteners, reduced-calorie orange fruit juice tends to contain the real stuff, simply watered down. (You can make your own from normal OJ at home, or inquire a bartender to combine equal parts juice and water.) While sugary juice is generally frowned upon as a mixer because it's full of liquid calorie consumption, OJ does contain supplement C. And because weighty drinking is associated with vitamin C deficiency, which can cause fatigue on top of your hangover, it's smart to get a supplementary dose of supplement C when you can. Tastes good with: 1 ounce whiskey and 1 ounce sweet vermouth. Work over ice.

9. Iced Green Tea (4 ounces): Long considered a super food, research accomplished on rats suggests that antioxidant-rich green tea, which contains particular compounds called polyphenols with anti-inflammatory properties, appear to secure the liver from alcohol-induced harm - which obviously can't hurt. Tastes great with: 1 ounce bourbon. Offer over ice.

10. Low-Calorie Soda (6 ounces): While the things doesn't cure cancer or advertise weight loss or anything, soda from manufacturers like Zevia, which is sweetened with the naturally low-calorie sweetener Stevia instead of artificial sweeteners, can taste your drink without contributing tons of calories. Tastes good with: 1 ounce rum or vodka.

11. Ice: By taking up area in your glass, ice replaces extraneous components and leaves little room for extra alcohol and mixers (and the calories therein). It also waters down your beverage as it melts. That's a good thing, especially if you're bad about drinking water on long nights out, which is a time-tested way to combat alcohol's dehydrating effects. Tastes great with: Any of the recipes above.

[bordersmash8-blog]

Andrew Zimmern’s Lucky Cricket Is More Than a Controversy. It’s Also a Bad Restaurant.

It’s awkward to enter a restaurant like Lucky Cricket during a moment of controversy: The staff must carry on and do their jobs, knowing that some of their guests might just be rubberneckers hoping to get a glimpse of the place that its co-owner, travel television star Andrew Zimmern, claimed would save the Midwest from bad Chinese food. The ceilings of the dining rooms are decorated like the woven bamboo sides of a Chinese cricket cage, and that night, it felt like an apt touch: We were trapped here, restaurant staff, suburbanites, and media vultures all, trying to dig both meaning and livelihood from a place suddenly overloaded with the wrong kind of fame. On the night I went, the restaurant was three weeks old and chugging along, with Zimmern reportedly popping in once in a while to expedite in the kitchen.

I came to see Zimmern’s vision for the future with my own eyes — to view his secret weapon in the crusade against faux Chinese-American cuisine. To be absolutely clear, the firestorm around his remarks to Fast Company, wherein he said, “I think I’m saving the souls of all the people from having to dine at these horseshit restaurants masquerading as Chinese food that are in the Midwest,” was never a conversation about whether a white man could cook Chinese. (Of course people can cook whatever they want — relax.) It was about the strange idea that the food-court Chinese joints of the nation were a problem that needed fixing in the first place. That we the people have been duped by orange chicken and crab rangoon, and he, the world traveler and gourmand, would release us from our ignorance. In the fallout from Zimmern’s remarks, an essay I wrote in 2013 on cultural appropriation was quoted by Eater’s early coverage; writers of subsequent stories asked me for meatier quotes, and I obliged. For my trouble, I got an anonymous call on my cellphone from an earnest Zimmern stan, which made me want to go to Lucky Cricket even more.

Lucky Cricket is ostensibly our escape vessel from the tyranny of shopping-mall cashew chicken — so what does it look like? It looks dark and full of logos, a jumble of confusing signifiers. Adorned with a palm-thatched roof and giant Tiki faces with slushie machines in their mouths, the bar screams, “Rainforest Cafe but also Margaritaville.” Its tables’ surfaces feature iconic exotica album covers, celebrating an American musical genre famous for mixing the sounds of kotos, bongos, and gongs into a pan-Pacific pastiche of sound. That room was the first red flag.

If Lucky Cricket is meant to show us “real” Chinese cuisine, why is there a heavy Tiki element here? The Tiki aesthetic itself is mired in illusion, an invention of post-World War II Hollywood. You get the sense, being there, that you’re in a Disneyfied vision of the East. You see a Thai tuk-tuk (which of course you can sit in), photos of Asian marketplaces so generic it’s hard to place them, and posters that say “HAWAII,” while tucking into a plate of hand-torn noodles inspired by the cuisine of China’s central plateau. If this restaurant were a piece of writing, an editor would call it a “centaur”: two distinct organisms slapped together in an uncanny mess.

By the host station, there was already a wall of merch: T-shirts saying “Get lucky” awkwardly machine-translated into Chinese characters (a point of pride for Zimmern in the Fast Company interview) and a collection of kitschy Tiki mugs. Regardless of any complaints one might have about the rest of the restaurant’s authenticity, at least we know the mugs were manufactured in China. A private party space in the back, with sparse but blood-red decor, was labeled “Kung Food Room.”

In his remarks to Fast Company, Zimmern revealed that the goal of Lucky Cricket, aside from its own propagation as a nationwide chain, is to educate the Midwestern consumer and share the Chinese flavors and refinement that he experienced on his own culinary journey. The menu, he said, would feature his “favorites from around China.” Considering all of the bombast surrounding this opening, I at least expected the food to be decent, to be forced to admit that, yes, it was at least better than PF Chang’s, or even better than the Leeann Chin — Minnesota’s own Chinese-American chain — across the street. Yet the short menu felt incredibly watered down, and there was something fundamentally off about the execution of the majority of the items my group tried.

Top left: Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps. Top right: Soy sauce noodles. Bottom: Soy sauce noodles; Hong Kong waffles and Shanghai fried chicken; sheng jian bao; roast duck at Lucky Cricket.

The dan dan noodles were perhaps the most disappointing item we ordered. The flat egg noodles were a strange improvisation from the thin and cylindrical ones that a diner would normally see in this dish — are Midwesterners not used to spaghetti? To make matters more dire, the noodles were overdone to an Easy Mac consistency. The ground pork topping, meant to carry tang from pickled greens and numbing spice from ground Sichuan peppers, tasted like microwaved, airline economy-class breakfast sausage and was bereft of moisture. If we evaluate Zimmern in his self-appointed role as an educator, he has failed to introduce the dish properly.

Another basic item, the fried rice, was minimally and unevenly seasoned, absent of any crisp or wok-induced char. Even the bits of char siu, which one would normally expect to contribute some flavor, were tasteless. The dish required more than a little dousing with soy sauce and chile oil, provided to the table in Lucky Cricket-branded bottles. (The typeface may look familiar to fans of the late food magazine Lucky Peach.) More compelling were the Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps with ground pork, tofu, and loads of chopped garlic chives and an eggplant duo, one portion deep-fried and the other glazed with soy sauce and chiles. Both dishes were openly borrowed from other Chinese restaurants: Happy Stony Noodle in Queens, New York, and Peter Chang Cafe in Glen Allen, Virginia.

That the kitchen’s interpretation of the basics of Chinese meals — noodles and rice — were remarkably deficient is telling: So much went into the over-the-top aesthetic of the place, yet the details, those nuances that would supposedly shame every Panda Express cook in the nation, were actually worse for the wear. If Zimmern hadn’t set expectations so high on the realness scale, perhaps one would have forgiven the kitchen for its mishandling of building-block Chinese dishes. But if you can’t do noodles and rice, maybe try barking up someone else’s tree.

According to his Instagram, Zimmern occasionally checks in on the restaurant, though surely he’s not the one sending out those plates (nor would anyone reasonably expect him to). But if he were, perhaps that would be even more troubling, considering his claims of expertise. What Zimmern said during his video interview with Fast Company clarified for many what his intentions for the restaurant, for which he is a business partner, would be. And it’s not appreciation for the countless Chinese-American restaurateurs and cooks who adapted their cuisines to meet American palates where they were. Those pioneers did this for the sakes of their livelihoods and families, working day and night hawking General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour pork so their kids could go to college. It’s hard to watch a well-resourced and connected outsider like Zimmern denigrate their contributions to American food culture while intending to profit off of the same.

Call me optimistic or naive, but I don’t think that the diners of Middle America, an increasingly diverse and worldly bunch, would be satisfied with an experience that is actually worse than food-court Chinese — as if a few aesthetic distractions like giant Tiki faces and Google-translated Chinese would make the experience feel more “real,” whatever that means. It’s hard to leave the restaurant with a strong impression of what it wants from you: It carries kitschy, mildly racist irony in one hand, and an argument for its own expertise in the other. That said, the vision of authenticity that Zimmern and his partners are peddling here exists in tension with a clear desire to filter it out of fear that Middle America can’t handle the good shit. And say what you will about Panda Express, but at least the fried rice is seasoned there.

Soleil Ho is a Minneapolis-based writer and podcaster, who is moving to California next year to be the dining critic at the San Francisco Chronicle. Katie Cannon is a Minneapolis-based photographer. Editor: Hillary Dixler Canavan

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2018/12/7/18130579/andrew-zimmern-lucky-cricket-controversy-visit