#and I am scared shitless about how I’m going to manage it financially

[himblebo]

Thinking back to the parking lot conversation I had with my coworker after I fully broke down and told her everything that has been going on at home and how I feel so fucking trapped because I can’t afford to leave and she compared it to intimate partner violence and it just. Sank in in a way that it hadn’t before. Like when my therapist told me to imagine if somebody treated the girl I babysit the way I was treated, would I think that was something to brush off or would I immediately report it? Just. Having somebody force you to view your struggles from another perspective is so powerful.

[pickalilywrites]

a mikahisu au inspired by one of my favorite shows~ please enjoy ^^

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Do You Still Dream of Me?

MikaHisu. Hotel Del Luna AU.

Like the Moon Loves the Ocean Series: Chapter 1

13252 words.

Read on Ao3!

Armin Arlert hunches over a stack of documents, nibbling on the end of his fountain pen. The pen costs more than his entire outfit — an oversized suit that Armin had fished out of a bin at his local thrift store when he was trying to find a respectable ensemble to wear for the interview that snagged him his current job. Even now, Armin isn’t sure how he managed to get a job as a finance manager at one of the most expensive hotels he’s ever seen in his life. Actually, this might be one of the most extravagant places Armin has ever stepped foot in. He still feels out of place when he arrives in the morning, his polyester suit looking even cheaper against the marble floors and gilded staircase, but nobody ever seems to pay him any mind when he sneaks through the door and scurries away to his office at the far end of the lobby.

His brow furrows as he looks at a particularly confusing set of numbers, numbers that don’t add up the way that they should. Or, well, they’re not adding up in a way that will be satisfying to the hotel owner when he reports the new estimated budget for next month. They’ll have to cut spending once again. At the very least, they need to stop splurging on unnecessary decorations for the hotel and personal luxury expenditures. It’s the same report he’s made every month since he’s been here, but always surprises the hotel manager nonetheless. And she’s never happy to hear it. Armin highly suspects that it’s a major reason why he’s her least favorite hotel staff member even though he’s really just the bearer of bad news.

Ah, how do I break this to her? Armin wonders, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face tiredly. He lets his arms fall to his sides and sits in his chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as he contemplates his next move. On one hand, the woman can’t possibly fire him because her assets would be entirely in the negatives if he weren’t here to keep her in check. On the other hand, the glare she shoots him as he delivers the bad news is enough for him to wish an abyss would appear and swallow him up on the spot. He briefly wonders if he can lie his way out of it - maybe fudge the numbers so that the woman can live as extravagantly as she desires - but that just seems like a disaster waiting to happen. There really isn’t any way out of it.

Armin sighs once more before opening his eyes ... only to see a set of cold, dead eyes staring back at him.

He’s not sure what kind of noise comes out of his throat as he jumps out of his chair, knocking over the stack of papers he’s been working on and tripping over his chair. He’s still shrieking as the thing approaches him, its hand outstretched as it walks toward him even as he crawls backward up against the wall. Armin can hardly look at it - this ghost of a person, a bloody wound across its neck where it had been decapitated before its untimely death - and he shrinks against the wall as it comes closer and closer.

The door opens just then and the sound of footsteps alerts the ghost, making it turn its head to see who has just entered.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice says. A woman appears, completely calm even though Armin still sits huddled in the corner screaming. She ignores him, her focus entirely on the ghost, to which she offers a warm smile. The woman gestures towards the opened door. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into the office of our financial advisor. If you can step into the lobby, our receptionist can assist you in checking into a room at the front desk.”

The ghost looks slowly from the woman and then to Armin. After a long pause, the ghost woman slowly bows to Armin — her form of an apology, Armin supposes — before departing, the door swinging shut behind her.

The woman stares at the closed door for a moment before shifting her attention to Armin. Gone is her professional smile; it’s replaced with an amused expression, laughter stifled behind lips closed in a thin line. She offers a slender hand to Armin to help him up. “I thought you’d be used to our clients by now. Hasn’t it been almost a year since you started working here?”

“Er, yeah,” Armin says sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. He drags his feet to his desk, collecting his papers and dropping them into a messy stack on his desk before collapsing in his chair. Face in hand, he says, “I probably should, but it’s still weird. I can probably see a million ghosts for the next few years, but they’ll always make me jump in my seat. Maybe if they didn’t stop phasing through the walls of my office and sneaking up on me …”

The woman only laughs, and Armin feels a little more relaxed. Mikasa Ackerman, the assistant manager of the hotel, is one of the only hotel staff members Armin feels comfortable around. While the other staff members either roll their eyes or laugh when Armin encounters their ghostly clientele, Mikasa has always been patient with him.

“The next few years,” Mikasa muses, a lopsided smile on her face. She takes a seat in a chair across from him. She leans her elbow on the armrest, her cheek pressed up against her hand. Eyebrow raised, the manager asks, “You really think you’ll be working here for a few more years? Do we not pay you well enough?”

“You’re really underestimating the cost of student loans these days,” Armin sighs, slumping lower in his chair. He reaches for the mug on his desk, bringing it to his lips, and takes a long sip of coffee. It’s cold as it hits his tongue and slides down his throat, and he shudders when it hits his stomach. On second thought, caffeine probably isn’t the best decision considering the fact that he was almost scared shitless only a minute ago. He returns the mug to its coaster, an unsatisfied frown on his face.

“Poor, poor you,” Mikasa coos, eyes crinkling as her smile widens. She sits back, legs crossed and hands placed on her knees. She looks so comfortable here, so much like she belongs in her wool suit, the golden badge that lists her name and title pinned against her breast. If she weren’t so nice, maybe Armin would feel inferior. “It’s kind of your fault for going for a Ph.D. What do you need a doctorate in finance for anyway?”

“I don’t really know what I was thinking, to be honest. I thought maybe I could teach at a university somewhere down the line. Hoped the salary I earned down the line would make the investment worth it, but obviously I didn’t learn anything in my undergrad.” Armin waves his hand around the room. “Anyway, here I am now working at a ghost hotel so that I can pay off my student loans.” It’s probably the biggest mistake of his life next to taking a job at this hotel. Obtaining a Ph.D didn’t give him the salary bump he hoped it would and this was the only place that paid him nearly enough for his years at school.

“Could be worse,” Mikasa says with a shrug. “At least you don’t age while you’re here.”

“Ah, right,” Armin says. That was mentioned as an added perk when he had started to work here, but he hadn’t really believed it at first. Sure, some of his coworkers claim to have been working at this hotel for decades, although most of them look well under the age they say they are. Armin’s not even sure how that’s possible considering the demanding boss they work under. He supposes he’ll find out if it’s true in a few years, assuming he’s still paying off his student loans by then. Armin sits up a bit, eyebrow raised. “How long have you been working here again?”

Mikasa grins. “A little over twenty years.”

The answer isn’t anything new, but it’s always a punch in the gut whenever Armin hears it because it never makes sense to him. Mikasa can’t be older than twenty-seven — and that was pushing it. If she really were working for twenty years, she would have been a child when she had first been employed. Armin thinks she must be joking with him just like the other employees are, but Armin finds that strange too. Mikasa is always friendly with him, but she’s not the type to tell strange jokes.

“Right,” Armin says. He looks at Mikasa cautiously, but her expression tells him nothing.

“Don’t worry. It’s not so bad after a while,” Mikasa says. She leans back, staring back at Armin. Even though she doesn’t look at him threateningly, Armin still shrinks under her gaze.

“How’s your work going, by the way? Any good news for the boss?” Mikasa reaches over, a finger tapping on Armin’s stack of papers.

Armin groans, burying his head in his hands, although it’s more because of the mention of their boss rather than the work itself.

Historia Reiss is the hotelier of the Blutmond, the phantom hotel which Armin finds himself unfortunately employed. Her appearance is anything but intimidating. She wasn’t even close to being five feet tall. With hair of spun gold and aquamarine eyes, the petite woman could be mistaken for a life-sized doll if it weren’t for the terrible scowl on her face. In all of Armin’s time at the Blutmond, he doesn’t think he’s seen her smile once. She glowered the entire time during his interview, never opening her mouth except to ask whether or not he’d be able to balance her account in time for her to buy the latest model Porsche. The woman didn’t even congratulate him when she and Mikasa came to visit him with the news of his new job, only telling him that she expected him to come to work on time and not to make any mistakes with her finances or she’d have his head. He completely believed her and has always double-checked his work at least three times before finalizing his spreadsheets. His other coworkers have insisted that the woman isn’t nearly as frightening as Armin believes her to be, but the way they cower and scurry to put everything in place whenever she steps into the room doesn’t fool him. He’s also heard a curious rumor about her. His coworkers always mention that she’s been here the longest — over a thousand years — although he’s not sure if it’s just a way of them calling her an old hag because the woman doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

“It’s really not going so great,” Armin says with a pained expression. He flips through some of his papers, pulling out a small stack that documents Historia’s personal expenses. Most of the page is highlighted in bright red. Armin thought the severe color would help convince their boss about his budgeting suggestions at the end of the week. Handing the papers to Mikasa, Armin says, “It’s only been half the month, but Miss Reiss is spending way too much on her credit card already. At this rate, she won’t have enough to buy that caviar that she likes so much.”

“It’s fine. Historia doesn’t actually like caviar that much. She just likes how rich she feels when she eats it,” the manager says absentmindedly. Mikasa flips through the papers, an eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t seem surprised as she reviews Armin’s findings. Once through with them, she straightens them out on the desk. “Maybe I can convince her to get sashimi next time.”

“I’m serious. She really needs to cut down on her spending habits.” He hates how whiny he sounds, but it’s difficult for him not to whine when he’s imagining how infuriated his employer will be when he timidly suggests that she not buy anymore jewelry for the rest of the month. “I mean, does she really need to have twelve different sports cars lining her garage? Where is she even going?”

Mikasa sits with her fingers steepled, a pout on her lips as she looks down at the papers again. She reaches over to thumb through the papers once more before sitting back again. “I guess I can talk to her about it.”

Armin sits up, his mouth shaped in a perfect “O.” “Would you really?” His mind is already going a million miles a minute, thinking about everything he has to review with Mikasa before she presents the information to their boss. Maybe he can show her the presentation slides he prepared in advance. He thought having his notes on an elegant Powerpoint would be much better than him stuttering through his notes while Historia glared at him. A little more energized now, Armin is already clicking through his computer, pulling up the presentation slides for Mikasa to look at. “If you’re really serious, I have some materials that can help you-”

“I’m not,” Mikasa says, an amused smile on her face. She laughs when Armin visibly deflates. “Ah, I feel a bit bad seeing you so disappointed, though. Are you really that scared of her?”

Armin thinks about the little woman, the blue flames that ignite in her eyes whenever he so much as hints at the fact that her shopping sprees should have a cap on them. He shudders. “I’m terrified.”

The woman nods sympathetically. “Alright, I’ll try to talk to her. No promises, though. You know how she feels about these things.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Armin breathes, collapsing against the back of his chair with relief. He knows that most of Historia’s ire will be directed towards him, but he hopes that having Mikasa deliver the news will somehow soften the blow.

“Mhm. You’re going to get used to being in her line of fire though. It’s unfortunate, but it comes with the job of being her finance manager. She’ll always be bad with money no matter how much you tell her not to spend,” Mikasa tells him with a wry smile. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, the sound making Armin jump in his seat. She looks at him, snickering, and pulls her phone out. Mikasa glances at her phone before turning it so that Armin could see the name flashing across the screen - Historia. “Unless you’d like to practice right now.”

Armin, eyes wide and throat closing shut at just the sight of the hotelier’s name, shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” Mikasa laughs. She stands up, straightening out her blazer. “I’ll stop teasing you and leave you to your work then. And don’t worry about Historia; I’ll take care of her for you.” The manager returns to her phone, swiping across the screen and taking the call.

“Thanks, Mikasa,” Armin says. He didn’t mean for his voice to come out as a squeak, but he finds that he can’t speak knowing that his employer might hear his voice on the other end.

Mikasa simply waves at him, walking towards the door. “Yeah, I’m free, but I’m surprised you’re not calling Levi for something like this,” she’s saying. She pulls open the door, her voice fading as she’s walking out. “No, the work is fine. It’s perfect, actually. I was hoping we could talk about your finances. I just talked to Armin …”

Armin winces at the mention of his name and, as much as he knows he shouldn’t because it’ll only make him feel worse, strains to listen in on the conversation but the wooden door proves too thick of a barrier to let him eavesdrop. Just as well, he thinks as he rests his forehead against the cool surface of his desk. He’ll just get back to work estimating next month’s budget. And, he thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut, praying that he won’t have any more unexpected paranormal visitors today.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Historia sits in the passenger seat of a slick blue Bentley, one of the many luxury cars that line her parking garage. Mikasa has tried to convince the hotelier that one car should be enough, has even tried selling them behind her back only for Historia to buy twice as many cars to replace them. Looking at Historia now, Mikasa understands why the blonde gravitates so naturally to high-end sports cars. In the passenger seat with her golden hair falling behind her back in waves, Historia looks like she could be a model for the luxury brand. Her pastel dress, one that Mikasa is fairly certain has been flaunted on a runway at some point in the past year, is probably worth just as much as the Bentley if not more. Mikasa doesn’t even want to think about how much jewelry that adorns the woman’s neck is worth, although she knows she should probably ask.

“What took you so long?” Historia asks, her scowl breaking the illusion of her pixie-like appearance. She sits up, holding her matching clutch purse in her lap. Her bottom lip sticks out, making her plush pink lips look even more like a doll’s. She looks cute, Mikasa could even say, but she knows the words would only cause Historia to narrow her blue eyes in an irritated glare.

Mikasa slips into the driver’s seat, fishing the car keys from the inside of her breast pocket. “My apologies. I was speaking with Armin before I came here,” she tells Historia. She turns the ignition, the engine purring as the car starts up. “He had some interesting things to say about your finances.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Historia hisses, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It seems to be a common reaction whenever the finance manager is mentioned in the hotelier’s presence. “I don’t want to hear anything he has to say,” Historia sniffs, as if not speaking about it will somehow help her avoid her financial issues. She reaches for the remote, clicking the garage door open so that they can make their exit. “He never has anything good to say to me. All he ever does is bring me bad news. I don’t even know why we hired him.”

“Because you’re terrible at budgeting,” Mikasa answers easily, ignoring the glare that she receives. After working at the hotel for decades, she’s quite used to being at the receiving end of Historia’s scathing looks. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road as she drives, maneuvering out of the parking spot and onto the driveway easily. “He mentioned that you might not even have enough money for an ounce of caviar at the end of the month.”

Historia whips her head so quickly that her neck might have snapped if she were a normal person. Mikasa doesn’t have to look at the woman’s expression to see that she’s horrified at the thought of not eating the overpriced salt-cured fish eggs. “Should I just fire him?” Historia murmurs, sitting with her back against her seat. She shakes her head, her brows furrowed as she considers letting go of her financial manager. “Or maybe we can cut his pay. I’ll have more money if I cut his pay, right?”

“If you cut his pay, he’ll be working here for longer to pay off his student loans,” Mikasa reminds her employer. “You could try hiring someone else, but he was the best in his class. Harvard.”

Historia’s bottom lip wobbles and, for a moment, it looks like she might even cry. Instead, she lets out a frustrated shriek like a spoiled child. “Ah, that kid! I hate him, you know. Out of everyone here, he’s probably my least favorite.”

“I know,” Mikasa says with a sympathetic nod, trying her best to keep her face stoic even though all she wants to do now is burst into laughter at the childish outburst.

These words aren’t new to Mikasa. In fact, she’s heard different variations of the same words over the years that she’s been here. Sometimes it’s Levi, the current general manager of the hotel. Other times it will be Pixis, the elderly but sweet bartender, or Colt, the receptionist at the front desk who looks barely out of his teens. Quite a number of times it has been Connie, the room manager, for swiping too many snacks from the kitchen in between mealtimes. Mikasa’s even been the least favorite every once in a while, although Armin has been given the title these past few months because he’s come in the way of Historia and the thing she loves the most - a luxurious lifestyle.

The funny thing is that Historia has not always been rich. It’s something that the woman likes to remind everyone, Mikasa included, every now and again. Mikasa doesn’t doubt that, but she does find it amusing that Historia turned her back on her past lifestyle so much so that she doesn’t have an ounce of frugality in her body.

“Who’s the client today?” Mikasa asks just as they’re about to hit the main road.

“Some man named Reiner Braun,” Historia says with a click of her tongue. She flips idly through her phone before inserting coordinates in the device. “His grand-niece reached out to us, but she couldn't tell me how rich he was. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous? You’d think someone so close to him would have a sense of how much money he has.” Historia frowns as she inspects her pearly pink nails.

“Children these days,” Mikasa tsks wryly, but Historia doesn’t seem to pick up on her sarcasm.

“They’re terrible. Terrible, terrible. Stupid and spoiled, all of them.” Historia clicks her tongue disapprovingly. The irony of calling someone else “spoiled” while she’s wearing a diamond choker around her neck hasn’t yet reached Historia.

“And I suppose you know what being spoiled looks like?”

It takes a moment for Historia to realize what Mikasa is saying. She sits up, clearly insulted. “I worked for this!” Historia says indignantly, smoothing out her skirt to prevent wrinkles. “I’ll have you know that I worked for every single cent that pays for my lifestyle. I earned all of this.”

“Of course,” Mikasa says with a nod. Beside her, Historia begins to settle down in her seat. “I’m sure the exorbitant prices you charge your clients also helps.”

Historia gives Mikasa a scathing side glare, one that would have made Mikasa flinch in her early days but now it’s like watching a kitten get angry after hiding its toy. She tosses her head, her golden tresses flying back in the wind. “I should have just brought Levi with me,” she mutters under her breath.

Mikasa remains unbothered. “You probably should have,” she replies in a sing-song voice.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You know,” Mikasa says as they stand on the doorstep of a sprawling mansion fit for a lord, “you would think his grand-niece would have mentioned that he was loaded.” She reaches over to ring the door, frowning when she’s unable to hear its chime through the thick mahogany door.

“This?” Historia asks, gesturing around the estate. She shrugs, unimpressed. “This is nothing.”

Earlier, they had been stopped at the gate and asked for their identification. Mikasa had thought they would have been stopped there after Historia had gotten into a shouting match with the guard over the intercom until someone else popped on the screen — a young woman with thick dark hair tied half-up in a messy bun — and said they were cleared to come through, pressing open the button for the visitors despite the guard’s protests. As Mikasa drives up the road to the house, Historia hardly looks up at the sprawling green lawn, the freshly trimmed topiaries, or the sparkling fountain. The petite woman doesn’t even blink when Mikasa parks at the front of the house, throwing open the door and stepping out of the car without glancing back even as a valet hurries forward and asks Mikasa for the keys. Although not a fan of letting other people drive around in Historia’s cars, Mikasa grudgingly left the keys in the valet’s hand, chasing after the blonde woman because Mikasa knew Historia never likes to wait for anyone.

“I suppose since he’s living so shabbily we shouldn’t take any commission from him,” Mikasa says dryly. She doesn’t flinch when Historia smacks her sharply on the arm. “Or at the very least offer him a discount. I’m not sure he can afford our services otherwise.”

“Don��t joke like that,” Historia snaps. She reaches up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Money is money, so we’ll take what we can get.”

The door opens just then, the same young girl who was on the intercom with a bright smile waiting behind it breathlessly. She looks to be just thirteen or fourteen. Her hair is falling out from its little bun and her clothes — a ratty t-shirt and some cutoff denim shorts — look out of place in the mansion. Historia is no doubt looking at the girl’s outfit in disapproval, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sticks out a hand towards the pair. “Hi, I’m Gabi! I spoke to you on the phone,” the girl says, oblivious to the maids and servants panting behind her that are trying to pull her back. “You’re Mikasa and Historia, right? From the Blutmond?”

“Miss Braun,” a butler hisses, grabbing at Gabi’s arm. “The guests haven’t been properly screened. You can’t just allow anyone to enter the Braun estate.”

“Relax. Uncle Braun said I could invite my friends over whenever I want,” Gabi snaps. She shakes the man off, scowling at him before turning back to Mikasa and Historia. “And these two are my friends, right?” She looks at them expectantly, silently begging them to play along.

Historia and Mikasa exchange a look, not confirming or denying anything. After a moment, Historia sighs, her arms folded across her chest. “For the duration of this visit, yes, we are Miss Gabi Braun’s … friends.” She looks as if the word leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but Gabi looks smug, happy that she’s managed to dupe the mansion’s staff members even though the majority of them look unconvinced. Of course, none of this bothers Historia, who just charges forward, looking around and not hiding the fact that she’s inspecting every inch of this place.

“Oh, um, let me show you around a bit,” Gabi says, shutting the door behind Mikasa and hurrying after Historia. “It’s easy to get lost here because it’s so big.”

“It’s not that big,” Historia snorts.

“Excuse me,” Mikasa mumbles as she pushes past the staff. It seems that they’ve either given up or just don’t want to bother with the Braun girl anymore because most of them just sigh before returning to their assigned tasks.

Although Gabi is supposed to be giving the tour, Historia is the one that leads the way while Gabi and Mikasa follow behind. Historia hardly says anything as she closely inspects the many statues and paintings that decorate the corners and walls of the various rooms they visit, but Gabi fills the silence with needless chatter of the art pieces. Every now and again Mikasa expresses some admiration for all the historical and artistic knowledge Gabi displays and the praise has the girl puff her chest out in pride, but Historia will sigh under her breath or roll her eyes at times. It really may be that nothing in this mansion really interests her because she never lingers on a painting for longer than a second or two before moving onto the next art piece.

“So, Gabi,” Mikasa says after a moment, making sure that the group was out of earshot of any eavesdropping maids or busboys that might have followed them. She makes sure to keep close to Gabi, her voice low as she speaks. “You called about your great uncle, is that correct? Can you tell us a little bit more about him before we meet him?”

Gabi bites on her lip and fiddles on a loose thread on her faded shirt. She nods before looking over at Historia, who’s halfway across the room frowning at a grand piano. “Er, yeah,” the girl mumbles. “I can … I can tell you about him.”

“You can talk from there,” Historia says without looking up. She presses a finger to an ivory key and a note rings out, echoing across the room. It seems that the note is unsatisfactory though because her frown deepens after hearing it. “I have impeccable hearing.”

Gabi looks unsure, but Mikasa puts a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiles. “Go ahead, Gabi.”

“Okay,” Gabi says. She takes a deep breath, but she’s already shaking. Tears already forming in her eyes, she looks up, swallowing hard. “Uncle Reiner … he’s been strange for a while now. Maybe a few months. My parents say it’s just dementia because he’s so old but … I don’t think that’s it.” Tears roll down her cheeks and she’s looking down now, stubbornly wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“Take your time,” Mikasa says gently, rubbing soothing circles on the young girl’s back.

Historia is a little less sympathetic. She strides over, taking a seat on a nearby chaise lounge and sitting back like it’s an appropriate time to relax. “And what makes you think we can help? I don’t typically enjoy doing business with doddering old men.”

“Ignore her,” Mikasa tells Gabi, shooting a look at Historia. Historia simply sticks her tongue out in reply.

“N-no,” Gabi says with a shake of her head, sniffling. “I h-heard you could h-help people. That you h-have a special business. My uncle … I don’t think the th-things he’s seeing are hallucinations. I th-think what he’s seeing … they’re ghosts.”

Historia looks a little more intrigued now, sitting up on the chaise with her legs crossed instead of lounging back. “What makes you think that they’re ghosts?”

Gabi hesitates. “Well … he mentions these names sometimes… Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel…,” she says, brow furrowed. “He hardly ever talked to me about them, but sometimes their names would slip. Whenever I asked about them back then, he would just tell me that they used to be friends back when he was younger. He always looked so … sad whenever he talked about them like … like he couldn’t see them anymore.”

This story is enough for Mikasa to offer their services or at least give Gabi an offer to look at her great uncle, but Historia simply lets out a huff, pushing herself off the chaise and making her way out the door.

“An old man haunted by his old, dead friends,” Historia says with a toss of her head. She beckons for Mikasa to follow her, ignoring the horrified look on Gabi’s face. When the young girl runs forward, barring Historia from leaving, the haughty woman only sighs once more. “Look, if you’re worried he’s getting haunted by ghosts, why don’t you just run over to a church and get some holy water to splash on him? Or just buy some salt to sprinkle around his bed.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Gabi to move out of her way, but the girl refuses.

“I’ll pay you!” Gabi says. She stands resolute, her arms spread wide even as her lower lip trembles.

Historia raises an eyebrow. She steps back, a hand on her hip. “You’ll pay me?” she repeats. “You’re thirteen. What could you possibly offer me?”

“I could give you … my inheritance,” Gabi says. She sticks out her bottom lip, jutting her chin out and lifting her head. Her eyes are still red from crying, but tears have stopped falling down her cheeks. She clears her throat and continues, “Uncle Reiner hasn’t told anyone … but he’s made me the sole heir of his estate … among other things. I can … give you this mansion and everything in here if you just please help me.”

Mikasa wants to tell Gabi that it’s not necessary. Their services aren’t nearly worth that much and, even if it were, it’s illegal to make such a transaction with a minor.

Historia, of course, doesn’t care. She’s looking at Gabi with more interest now, her blue eyes shining as she looks at the girl. The woman isn’t even thinking about the logic of such a promise — when she would be able to collect the inheritance or what she would do with it. Her mind is occupied with calculating the worth of the estate and the many statues and paintings that decorate it. “I hope you know,” Historia says, her eyes glittering, “that any contract you make with me is binding.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Mikasa begins to say, but Historia cuts her off with a snarl.

“No, I’ll do it,” Gabi says with a shake of her head. “All of this stuff … it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never been very materialistic. All I really want … is for my uncle to be okay.” She lowers her arms, looking at Historia with uncertainty.

“How very noble of you,” Historia says, but she isn’t really listening. She’s busy fishing something out of her clutch purse, reaching in and pulling out a document filled out in the tiniest font. Even though the contract could have never fit perfectly in Historia’s purse without being folded up, there isn’t a wrinkle in sight when the woman presents the document to Gabi. The woman fishes out an expensive-looking fountain pen, one that Mikasa is only half-sure had originally been in the hotelier’s purse although it might be more likely she had snatched it off of a desk from the mansion when nobody was looking. Historia holds up the contract with a lipsticked smile, a perfectly manicured nail tapping at against the line where Gabi should sign. “Just sign your name here, darling.”

Gingerly, Gabi takes the pen from Historia, staring at the document with uncertainty. The pen sits uncapped in her hand, hovering over the dotted line where her signature should be. Her eyes scan the document, but the words begin to blur and she begins to gnaw at her lip.

Mikasa steps forward, lowering the document from Gabi’s face. “You don’t have to sign it.”

“Mikasa,” Historia hisses. An angry glare flashes across her face for half a second before switching to a more composed, reassuring smile directed at Gabi. “Don’t listen to her. Just sign it, sweetie. It’s harmless.”

Gabi looks from Mikasa to Historia, her expression uncertain, but she glances once more at the document and grips the pen in her hand with more conviction. The tip of the pen hits the paper and Gabi scrawls her full name — Gabrielle Mariella Braun — in an illegible, childish print before handing the fountain pen back to Historia.

“Perfect, perfect,” Historia says in a sing-song voice, squinting as she inspect’s Gabi’s signature. She turns her head slightly to Mikasa, lowering her voice a bit but not enough as she asks, “They don’t teach children cursive these days, do they? This girl’s signature is terrible. It’s like a toddler let their crayon wander across the page.” Historia takes another look at it before rolling up the contract and stuffing it into her purse.

“Cursive?” Gabi repeats with a knitted brow.

“It’s just connecting all the letters with a line, really,” Mikasa tells the girl, patting her on the shoulder to show that it’s not that big of an issue. A small part of her regrets not talking Gabi against signing the document, but she figures Gabi’s at more of an advantage than Historia is since the former is a minor and any contract she signs could be deemed void. She’ll just leave the problem for later, preferably when Armin is at her side so he can drive Historia mad enough to leave the poor girl and her inheritance alone.

“Right then!” Historia says, a lot more lively than she was a few minutes ago now. She flicks a lock of golden hair away from her face and smiles brightly at Gabi. “Be a dear and show us where your grandfather is. We’ll help him in any way we can.” It’s become quite obvious to Mikasa that Historia has long forgotten Gabi’s name despite being introduced to the girl a little while ago and having just seen her name written on a document not a minute before. Gabi doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s more taken aback by Historia’s change in character. Mikasa can’t really blame her. The hotel manager had seen the woman do a complete 180 after being offered a yacht for her services once and thought new yacht-owner Historia was a completely different person from the usually crotchety hotelier.

“Er, yes. If you follow me, right around here …,” Gabi says, her voice trailing as she leads them out of the room and into the hallway.

Mikasa and Historia follow the girl, Historia with a new spring in her step as she lets her fingers trail against every vase and statue that they pass by with renewed appreciation for the artwork. As they walk, Historia hums a song that Mikasa almost knows by heart, but she knows it’s a song that hasn’t been sung in centuries.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Gabi leads them to a room at the end of the east wing. The room is much smaller than Historia and Mikasa anticipated. Historia had almost walked ahead and yanked open the largest double doors in the hallway before Gabi hurriedly pulled the woman away and rushed them over to her great uncle’s quarters. The door was considerably less extravagant — a single mahogany door with simple square panels and a gilded doorknob — and Mikasa could see the frown returning on Historia’s face.

The girl opened the door just a crack, leaning in to whisper, “Uncle Reiner? I brought some visitors for you. They’re … friends of mine. They said they might be able to help you.” She waits a bit for an answer. Even when Mikasa strains her ears to hear, she can’t hear a thing. It seems that Gabi does, however, because after a pause, she finally opens the door, allowing Historia and Mikasa to enter before her.

Mikasa isn’t quite sure where to look when she steps into the room. The bedroom is every bit as lavish as the rest of the house, the furniture all in deep reds and browns with highlights of gold here and there. There’s a noticeable lack of decoration, the walls instead adorned with photos of an elderly man with a wide jaw, snowy white hair, and milky white eyes. In most of the photos he stands alone — many times posing next to some art piece that he has lying around the house — but other times he’s seen with other members of his family including his grand niece. Mikasa is so busy looking at the pictures that she almost doesn’t see the man himself buried under a mountain of pillows and blankets in his bed. He looks so still that there isn’t much difference between his real self and the version of him in pictures. The ghosts that stand beside his bed look livelier than he does, Mikasa thinks.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice quiet so as to not disturb her great uncle too much. She approaches his bed, Mikasa near her side while Historia wanders around the room unbothered. “This is Miss Historia and Miss Mikasa. They come from a special place … the Blutmond Hotel. They help people like you … people who can see ghosts.”

The man’s eyes flutter open but he struggles to keep them open. He sits up and his head turns towards Gabi, following the sound of her voice, but his gaze is fixated on something past her. It’s not a ghost, Mikasa knows, because there are only three in the room right now. One is currently hovering around the old man, unsure of what to do with his ghostly hands even as his face is filled with worry as Gabi’s great uncle sits up. The other two stand on the other side of the man’s bed eyeing Historia warily as she carefully inspects the room for any valuables.

“Ghosts? Have your parents been talking about me again?” the old man asks before coughing violently into his hand. He hunches over, his whole body heaving with every cough. He pounds his chest pitifully with his other hand as he wheezes. He shakes his head when Gabi runs over with a tissue box from his nightstand. One hand is clutched to his chest, but he’s still breathing heavily when he tells Gabi unconvincingly, “I’m fine. They just worry about me because of my old age.”

The man at Reiner’s side kneels down next to the old man. His ghostly blue hand reaches out to touch Reiner’s, his taut young skin such a stark contrast from the old man’s thin, veiny hands. All of the ghosts are significantly younger than Reiner, Mikasa notices. If she has to guess, they were probably in their late twenties when they passed. Judging from their military garb and the bloodstains that bloom across their chest, they died in a war. She wonders about their relationship to the old man, why they’ve stayed with him so long when it must have been decades since their death.

“Your names are Historia and Mikasa?” the old man asks, a tired but polite smile as he looks from the two women. He sits up in the bed, his back resting against the headrest and his hands folded in his lap. Unbeknownst to him, the ghost who had held his hand earlier sits beside him, gazing cautiously at both Mikasa and Historia. “I’m sorry to say that my relatives have a habit of spreading unnecessary rumors. They seem to have worried my grand niece.”

“They’re not untrue,” Gabi insists. She tugs on the elbow of Mikasa’s suit, her lower lip trembling dangerously. Her eyes are moist as tears begin to form and she sniffs loudly before turning to her great uncle. “I’ve seen you talking to … them. I’ve heard you call their names. Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel… You’re always talking to them when you think I’m not listening, but you always tell me it’s nothing when I ask you about them.”

At the names, the ghosts stiffen, but they don’t move from their positions. They look at Mikasa, wondering if she’ll give away their existence. She tries her best not to look at them.

“Because it’s nothing,” the man says, laughing it off weakly. He gets into another coughing fit, banging against his chest. The ghost at his side, eyes wide with worry, can only look at him helplessly.

Historia’s voice pops up, the hotelier speaking for the first time since stepping into the room. “Were you in the Second Great War, Mr. Braun?” She observes a glass case with different medals, leaning forward as she inspects the engraving on all of them. Historia hums, “I didn’t realize you were a veteran.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man says belatedly, surprised at the sudden jump in topic.

“You have quite a lot of medals and honors.” Historia’s finger traces the glass edge of the case. “You fought well.” The words should be congratulatory, but Historia says this almost coldly.

The old man must feel it too because he begins to fidget under the young woman’s gaze, his silken sheets tangled in his fists as he begins to stammer a “yes” under his breath.

The ghosts must dislike Historia’s tone because the two that had stood at the side of Reiner’s bed stand up, walking over to Historia and staring down at her petite frame. They tower above her, identical expressions of repressed fury on their faces, and Mikasa wonders for the first time if they’re brothers. With only a slight difference in height and hair color, the two could be identical. Despite the two spirits that are glowering down at her, Historia doesn’t waver, not even sparing them a passing glance as she continues to peruse the other items around Reiner’s room.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner. She’s quite interested in … history,” Mikasa lies. She wrinkles her nose as she says it — partly because she’s a terrible liar and partly because the thought of Historia being interested in anything other than money is ridiculous — but Gabi nor her great uncle seem to take notice. Mikasa fishes for the little business card in her breast pocket before presenting it to Mr. Braun, making sure to hold it at an angle for the nearby ghost to see as she hands it over. She clears her throat, glancing back at the other two ghosts to make sure they were paying attention before saying, “Miss Historia and I are from the Blutmond Hotel. We provide services for those who have passed.”

All the ghosts look at her, their necks turning so fast that they might have cracked if they were alive.

“For those that have passed?” Reiner repeats, eyebrow raised as he takes the business card gingerly between his fingers. He frowns and is about to toss the card on his nightstand before seeing the upset expression on his great niece’s face. He drops the card in his lap instead before running a tired hand through his thinning hair. “I’m hoping that won’t be until a few more years yet,” he jokes, but he’s the only one that laughs. It sounds strange echoing alone in the quiet room.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice rising into a whine that Mikasa knows will make Historia grate her teeth.

Mikasa puts a hand on the young girl’s shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” she whispers before turning once more to Mr. Braun. To the ailing man, she says with a soft voice, “Mr. Braun, how many ghosts do you see in this room right now?”

His eyes flicker for a bit, roaming around the room but never resting on the ghost that sits beside him nor on the ghosts that stand near Historia. His gaze finally stops somewhere above Mikasa’s shoulder, eyes watering as he whispers, “Three.”

Gabi’s grip on Mikasa’s arm is vice-like and the hotel manager has to pry the girl from her arm for her blood circulation to return. “It’s alright, it’s fine,” she says to Gabi again, brushing her off gently. Mikasa looks at the ghost beside Reiner and watches as the young man shakes his head ever so slightly, his eyes begging her not to tell the old man of his existence. She opens her mouth, but Historia speaks first.

“Those aren’t ghosts,” Historia says, finally strolling across the room to stand beside Mikasa. She ignores Mikasa’s eye roll and instead bounces about on the balls of her feet, speaking casually as if talking about the weather. “Ah, I should clarify. Those things that are haunting you … I guess you would say they’re your own memories. There are ghosts here too, but it looks like they’re only here to keep you company.” She waves her hand as she explains, trying to find the right words. Historia looks quite proud when she’s done, but everyone (with the exception of Mikasa) looks at her with a bewildered expression.

“You mean there are ghosts here?” Gabi asks with wide eyes.

If Gabi grabs onto Mikasa’s suit any tighter she’ll tear the fabric. Mikasa doesn’t particularly mind, but she knows Historia would be infuriated if Gabi ripped such expensive clothing in her presence and the hotel manager carefully pries the girl off her arm.

“The supernatural world is quite complicated,” Mikasa says gently. She’s worked in the supernatural business for years and she still hasn’t grasped it entirely, so she can only imagine the confusion that Gabi and her great uncle feel right now. Mikasa sucks in her cheek as she tries to think of how to explain the situation in layman’s terms. “There is a myriad of things that can haunt a person, not just ghosts. Spirits, demons … even deities if they’re angry enough.”

“And next you’ll be telling me werewolves and vampires exist,” Mr. Braun scoffs, but his eyes still roam aimlessly around the room for something they can’t see.

“Don’t be silly. Werewolves and vampires are another thing entirely,” Historia snorts with a roll of her eyes, although she doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of either. She points a painted finger at the old man. “What you have haunting you are your own memories, Mr. Braun, although I imagine they’ve grown horribly distorted over time.”

Mr. Braun’s mouth is tightened into a thin line, all laughter gone from his eyes. He fixes Historia with a steely glare, but she doesn’t waver. He doesn’t speak, not even to ask her to clarify. Perhaps it’s because he already knows what memories she’s alluding to.

“What’s she talking about?” Gabi hisses in Mikasa’s ear.

“Mr. Braun, how old were you when you were drafted for the war?” Historia asks, stepping closer to the bed. She ignores that ghost closest to Reiner’s side even when he stands in front of her. She stares right past him as if she can’t see him at all and continues her questioning of Mr. Braun. “Perhaps in your twenties, judging from the looks of your companions. Mid- to late twenties, even. Life was just beginning for you. Being caught up in a war you had nothing to do with must have been frustrating to you.”

“No, it was an honor to fight for my country,” Reiner murmurs, but his eyes begin to cloud over and his expression grows grimmer.

“Did your friends share the same sentiment?” Historia continues to inquire. The ghost brothers from before each put a hand on her shoulders, their expressions just as dark and dangerous as Mr. Braun’s. Still, Historia presses on. “Were they just as brave as you when they camped in those trenches with corpses of other soldiers? Did they die with honor, their bodies rotting in those holes for weeks before whatever remains of them are shipped back to their loved ones? And were you honored to be one of the ones that made it out alive, standing tall even though the guilt was slowly killing you all these years?”

The ghosts are hostile now, their hands rough as they pull Historia back from Reiner. With a flick of her wrist, Historia sends them flying against the wall, their presence only detected by the way the portraits on the wall shake slightly. It’s enough to make Mikasa flinch, but Gabi and Reiner are too distracted to notice.

It’s the last ghost, though, that has Mikasa the most worried. He stands in a protective stance, his eyes flickering with a dangerous blue flame. On his face is a terrible glower, a stark contrast from the worried look he had worn earlier. His fists are clenched against his sides, shaking slightly with suppressed rage. Historia has faced her fair share of ghosts over the years. Mikasa doubts that this one is any more powerful than the malicious spirits that Historia has gone up against, but a ghost powered by violent anger is not something to be underestimated.

“Historia,” Mikasa warns, her voice low.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mr. Braun whispers in a hoarse voice. He seems to shrink into his bed, his silken sheets pulled tight around his body as if trying to protect himself from something. His wild eyes continue to wander above his head, looking at things that don’t exist to anyone else but him. The old man pulls the sheets over his head, but the tremble in his voice can still be heard as he whimpers, “Every day they’ve plagued me, haunted me, but they never leave.”

“Uncle Braun-“ Gabi begins, but Mikasa holds her back after Historia gives her a subtle gesture to restrain the girl.

“Mr. Braun,” Historia says, stepping through the ghost easily. She reaches over and pulls the sheets from the man’s hands, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. She grasps the man’s face in her hand, lifting his chin up, and forces him to look at her and only her. “You said it yourself that it’s not your fault. Why have you gone so long doubting your own words?”

It’s the first time the man’s gaze was fixed on something, his eyes no longer wandering aimlessly at things unseen. He licks his chapped lips as he struggles to find the answer to Historia’s question. “Because I lived while they died,” he tells her in a voice dripping with grief. His eyes grow glassy, moist with tears. “I believe that warrants some guilt, don’t you?”

Historia is silent, holding his gaze. Even when the man’s tears begin to fall, dripping down his cheeks and spilling onto her hand, she still holds on. After a moment, she finally lets go a little too roughly, throwing Mr. Braun’s head back with unnecessary force. The movement earns an indignant squawk from Gabi, who struggles to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the hotel manager manages to hold the girl. The ghosts move towards the hotelier too, their faces alight with anger, but she waves her hand again and all three are pinned against the wall with much greater force than last time.

“What if I told you that you could see your friends one last time, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks as casually as if she were asking about the weather. She digs through her purse, humming that little tune as she does so. She pulls out a little silver pistol, her slender fingers wrapped against the gilded grip, and loads a single bullet into its chamber. She speaks again, her words light and honey-sweet as she points the barrel at the old man’s forehead. “Mr. Braun, would you like to see your friends again?”

“Historia,” Mikasa growls with narrow eyes.

“What’s she doing? Why does she have a gun?” Gabi asks, voice rising. Her head whips back to Mikasa, eyes wide with horror. She tries to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the woman holds the girl back tightly. With more urgency, Gabi thrashes more violently, trying to lunge towards Historia’s gun. “Let me go! She’s going to shoot him!”

The ghosts have broken free, all of them clambering for Historia with arms outstretched, but the blonde stands there with her gun aimed as if she and the old man are the only two in the room. Historia ignores the ghosts even as they grab at her, her arm remaining steady even as they try to pull the gun from her fingers. She keeps her gaze fixed on the old man who only stares back at her. While Gabi screams and Mikasa struggles to keep the young girl out of the line of fire, the old man appears calm, a look of resignation on his face.

“What do you say, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he rests his head against the headboard, eyes closed as if he’s about to fall asleep. His answer is adequate enough for Historia to fire the gun.

A piercing shriek cuts across the room just as Historia pulls the trigger, but it’s the only sound that can be heard. There is no whistling bullet. There is no bang as the bullet makes its mark upon the target’s skull. There is no dull thud as a corpse falls to the floor. There is only Gabi screaming for her great uncle as she finally manages to pull away from Mikasa’s hold, her screams only halting when she reaches for the wound on Mr. Braun’s head only to find him fully intact and unmistakably alive as he blinks back at her.

“What …?” Gabi asks, turning slowly to look at Historia and Mikasa.

“It’s a special gun, sweetheart,” Historia explains as she blows at the tip of the barrel. It’s for show, really, because the gun isn’t smoking at all. She drops the gun in her bag, patting it happily before looking back at Gabi and noticing the girl’s stunned expression. Historia frowns, leaning over to Mikasa to ask, “Did I not make that clear?”

“Not at all,” Mikasa replies. Her employer is many things, but clear is not one of them.

“Ah, it’s so troublesome to explain though,” Historia grumbles. She looks at Gabi, watching as the girl slowly loses her mind trying to comprehend everything unfolding in front of her. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout and Mikasa can already see the wheels turning in her mind as she tries to find a way out of dealing with the young girl. If there’s something Historia dislikes almost as much being told how to handle her money, it’s dealing with people on the verge of a mental breakdown. Historia looks over to Mikasa, her face hopeful as she waits for her employee to step in and take the lead, but Mikasa shoots her down with a dirty look and Historia sighs. “Look, Gabi,” Historia says impatiently, hands folded across her chest and foot tapping already. “It’s really not that difficult to understand. You see, the bullet I shot your Great Uncle Braun with allows people to see ghosts. Now, Mr. Braun can finally interact with the ghosts that have been watching over him for so long, all thanks to yours truly!” She waves a gracious hand and waits expectantly for the praise that she believes is deserved of her, but it never comes. Gabi is too busy staring at the empty air around them to give Historia any sort of thanks.

“What do you mean?” Gabi asks, her voice reaching a terrible whine that makes Historia sniff disdainfully. She looks at Mikasa, her expression making it quite clear that she thinks that Historia is speaking nonsense, but the woman offers her no further explanation. Her eyes land once more on her Great Uncle Braun and she notices that his eyes no longer roam. Instead, they are fixed on something in front of him, something that she cannot see. Horrified, she turns to Mikasa, gripping the woman’s wrists so hard that her knuckles turn white. “What’s wrong with Uncle Reiner? Why is he like that? He’s even worse than before!”

“He’s fine,” Mikasa says soothingly. She breaks one hand free from Gabi’s grasp and pats the young girl’s head gently.

“We could make this a lot more simple, you know,” Historia says. She pulls out the gun from her purse once more, twirling it carelessly in her hand. “Shall I shoot her too?”

Mikasa shoots Historia a hard glare. “You are not shooting a child.”

Her employer rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath about how she was simply suggesting an easier solution, but she puts the gun away.

The ghosts are speechless as they cautiously approach Mr. Braun. The two brothers keep their distance but the other ghost — the tall one that had looked so murderously down at Historia when she had pulled the trigger — is the only one to stand right in front of his old friend. Both the ghost and Mr. Braun stare at each other as if they are the only two in the room. The soldier holds up a hand, reaching for the old man but too afraid to touch.

“Bertholdt.” It’s not a question that comes from Reiner, but a statement of disbelief. As he gazes at the ghost, the old man looks more awake than he has been this entire visit. He sits up, reaching for Bertholdt’s outstretched hand. Their fingetipsrs touch, then their palms, and then their fingers lace together. Ever since he had first laid eyes on Bertholdt, the real Bertholdt, Reiner hasn’t looked away once. “It really is you.”

“It’s true, then? He can see me now? He can really see me?” Bertholdt asks, staring in awe at his fingers interlaced with Reiner’s. He looks to Historia, eyes begging her to tell her that this is all real and not some cruel trick.

It’s a heartwarming scene, but Historia stands there with her arms folded across her chest. She gives him a curt nod before looking away disinterestedly, an inaudible sigh slipping from her lips.

Mikasa gestures for the ghost and his companions to get closer. “Go on,” she says with an encouraging smile. “He hasn’t seen you in so long. It must be overwhelming to reunite with you after all this time. Tell him everything and banish the nightmares that have been plaguing him for so long.”

Reiner continues to converse with Bertholdt as if nobody else is in the room. “But have you been here all this time?” He looks behind Bertholdt, a genuine smile now on his face. Although he has aged, his grin is as youthful as a young boy’s. He gestures with his free hand, waving his friend’s over. “Marcel and Porco, too? After everything I’ve done, you’re still here?” Tears are beginning to well up in his eyes once more but Bertholdt hastily wipes them away with a tender thumb.

“We were worried about you,” Marcel says. He takes a seat on the edge of Reiner’s bed. His expression is much softer now, filled with affection as he gazes down at his old friend, and rests a gentle hand on Reiner’s arm. “After the war … we were sorry we abandoned you. We couldn’t find it in ourselves to leave you again until we knew you were alright.”

It must have been torture for them to stay by Reiner’s side all those years, observing him helplessly as he screamed at distorted visions of them that blamed him for their deaths. It takes a certain type of strength — a certain type of love, Mikasa thought — to stay for someone for all those years. It had already been over half a century and still they had never left him. It must have been a similar pain for Mr. Braun too, Mikasa thinks, to have been tortured by the memory of his fallen for all those years. All those years he had suffered alone. Not anymore.

“What’s going on?” Gabi whispers, eyes wide as she tries to take in a scene she can’t understand.

“We’ll explain outside,” Mikasa whispers back. She places a hand on Gabi’s back and leads the girl towards the door, Historia dragging her feet as she follows behind. In the background, Reiner and his old comrades continue to talk.

“We were so worried,” Porco is saying, voice quiet as he takes a seat beside his brother Marcel. “You blamed yourself for things that weren’t your fault. It didn’t feel right to just leave you when you were suffering so much without us.”

“Did I worry you? I’m sorry. You stayed because of me instead of moving on like you should have,” Reiner says with a wry smile. He gazes down at the hand that holds Bertholdt. “But I’m glad I could see you all one last time… I missed you.”

Bertholdt gives Reiner’s hand a quick squeeze. “We missed you too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It fades a little bit, affection replaced with concern as he asks, “But the things you were seeing … are they still here?”

Reiner doesn’t even look around to check, keeping his eyes on Bertholdt instead. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. His smile is spread so wide, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I only see you.”

Mikasa shuts the door gently behind her, a small smile on her face.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“So let me get this straight,” Gabi says slowly. She holds up a fist, bringing up a finger every time she brings up each new topic she’s had to process. “There were no ghosts haunting Uncle Reiner. The things he was seeing were just hallucinations that were conjured up in his mind due to his own guilt. But there were ghosts — the ghosts of his old friends — that were watching over him all these years because they were worried about him. And I can’t see them because I wasn’t shot with a magic bullet?” She looks at her three fingers with a frown and then at the two women beside her.

“That’s pretty much it,” Mikasa hums. She’s only had to explain it a handful of times to the girl, so she’s quite pleased that Gabi’s grasped it so quickly even if the young girl’s expression grows more and more troubled with each repetition.

“Please don’t make us go through it again,” Historia says with a grown, knocking her head back against the wall. She bangs the back of her head against the wall a few times in frustration, her expression one of tired impatience, before letting out another exaggerated sigh. Although Mikasa has been patient throughout, Historia has been growing more and more impatient, only offering a few words here and there while Mikasa took care of most of the explanation.

“Well, it’s hard to believe you when I can’t see anything! How can I even trust you guys? I might have signed over my entire inheritance to a bunch of frauds!” Gabi points out, her gaze more suspicious of them than it was when they first met. “For all I know, you might have just made things worse bringing up his past!”

Historia stiffens at the young girl’s words and for a moment Mikasa thinks she’s going to get up and leave, but the woman opens her mouth to say quietly, “Darling, would you have rather he been haunted by his past until his last breath?” Gabi doesn’t respond and Historia continues, her eyes a little less icy now as she leans against the armrest. “You don’t understand because you’re so young. You don’t have things that you regret or lost things you can’t live without, not the way your uncle has. You should be thanking me, really, for allowing him the ability to reunite one last time with his old friends. Some people aren’t so lucky.”

The young girl’s cheeks blaze a bright red and she looks down at the floor, her eyes bright as they begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared,” she mumbles, lower lip trembling dangerously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before. So sad, but at the same time … so happy.” The tears begin to roll down her cheeks one by one, her shoulders shaking as the girl tries to suppress her crying. Mikasa is about to reach out and offer Gabi a shoulder to lean on but, surprisingly, Historia beats her to it.

Gently, the blonde wraps an arm around the child’s shoulders before guiding her onto her shoulder. It’s a rare sign of sympathy, one that Mikasa usually doesn’t see Historia display, especially towards clients. It’s even more surprising when Historia begins to stroke the girl’s hair, brushing stray locks away from the child’s face as she hums that song that Mikasa still can’t fully recall. “Farewells are like that,” Historia murmurs, looking into the distance as if remembering something. “They’re always sad, but they’re not entirely sad. Never entirely sad.” There’s something wistful in the way she says this and Mikasa almost opens her mouth to ask why, but now isn’t the time. Maybe another day when they’re alone and there isn’t a child between them that needs comforting.

The three of them stay that way for a while, silent save for Gabi’s sobs and the muffled conversation on the other side of the while. As Mikasa rubs circles on the young girl’s back, she focuses her gaze on Historia, who has that faraway look in her eye that she sometimes gets when she isn’t thinking. It’s not one that Historia wears freely around others, but she’s gotten more careless around Mikasa over the years. Mikasa notices that such a distracted gaze tends to appear during businesses such as these where a client with ghosts that should have left a long time ago. There’s no ghost that haunts Historia now, at least none that Mikasa can see, but she has a feeling she already knows the memory that keeps Historia up at night. Why Mikasa never asks the woman herself, she doesn’t know.

The door to Mr. Braun’s room finally creaks open and the ghosts — Porco, Marcel, and Bertholdt, who is still holding onto Reiner’s hand as the old man follows them to the hall — trail out. They look much calmer now, their expressions serene and no longer hostile as they look first at Mikasa and Historia.

“Did you have a nice talk?” Historia says, getting up to meet them. She looks over at Mikasa and Gabi. Although the young girl is still crying, Historia beckons her forward, a twinge of annoyance on her face that’s replaced with a polite smile as she looks at Mr. Braun. “I hope you’ve had enough time to say your goodbyes. Goodness knows you’ve probably had a lot you wanted to say to Mr. Braun for the past half a century, but you’ve stayed here far too long, don’t you think?”

They nod in agreement, but they all look reluctant to go, Bertholdt especially. Still, Marcel steps forward with a gracious smile and says, “We have to thank you, Miss Historia, for allowing us to meet with Reiner one last time before we pass.”

Historia waves away his thanks with a wave of her hand, although her smile grows into a smirk after hearing the praise. “Not at all. It’s the least I could do.” She turns to Mr. Braun, her gaze more patient than it was when she was dealing with the elderly man’s great-niece. “Are you ready to say goodbye, Mr. Braun?”

He doesn’t look at Historia, his gaze lingering on Bertholdt whose hand he still holds. His withered hands cling to the spirit, eyes wistful like he never wants to let go. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks.

“If there’s ever a way, then I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other,” Bertholdt replies. Mikasa can’t see the ghost’s face, but she knows he means it. She doesn’t know if it’s possible — to meet someone again after death or if reuniting in another life is feasible — but she believes his words now. If anyone can make it happen, it will be him.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mikasa and Historia drop the ghosts off at the hotel, leaving Connie and Levi to assist them and introduce the ghosts to the hotel’s rooms and various facilities. Mikasa had taken a few minutes to assure the ghostly trio that all of their accommodations (within reason, she added) would be met to the best of the staff’s ability. She would see them all again soon, the manager assured them even as Historia impatiently dragged her away to meet their reservation at the dim sum restaurant Mikasa had placed earlier today.

“So,” Mikasa asks, watching fondly as Historia shoves an entire BBQ pork bun into her mouth, “how is the food?”

“Incredible,” Historia answers with her mouth full of food. Despite how elegant the woman might appear on the outside, Historia — much to Mikasa’s amusement — always eats as if she’s starving. It doesn’t matter if they had eaten hours ago or thirty minutes ago; Historia will shovel food into her mouth until her cheeks are filled and doesn’t stop until every dish is licked clean. While others have found the woman’s table manners atrocious and even frightening at times, Mikasa can’t help but be entranced whenever she watches Historia eat.

“Come, eat more. The shrimp dumplings are absolutely divine.” Historia plucks a beautifully wrapped shrimp dumpling with her chopsticks and offers it to Mikasa.

“Thank you,” Mikasa says, holding out her plate to accept the dumpling. She takes the extra time to admire the delicate pleats in the translucent skin and the gorgeous pink of the plump shrimp sitting inside. When she takes a bite, the delicate wrapper breaks apart and her teeth dig into the shrimp with a delightful crunch, her mouth filling with the shellfish’s sweet flavor. Mikasa easily finishes the dumpling in another bite, savoring the taste of it as the starch wrapper melts on her tongue and mingles with the savory-sweet filling. When she’s done, she looks up to see Historia looking at her with a smug smile on her face.

“Delicious?”

“Very.”

“You’re very welcome,” Historia says, her chest puffed out proudly as if she was the one to suggest they eat here tonight. She goes back to inspecting the dim sum dishes laid out in front of them, her eyes latching onto a plate of chicken feet. She nibbles on one, spitting the bones out onto a napkin. When she’s done, she gets another, her lips shining pink from the grease. “It’s lovely, but it would have been better if you had let me change like I had asked.”

After dropping the ghosts off at the hotel, Historia had thrown the door open and rushed out to go change before Mikasa had caught her by the wrist. The woman needs to have a wardrobe change almost every hour of the day. It’s another one of Historia’s eccentricities that Mikasa lets slide half the time, but she had made reservations earlier and changing it would have been inconvenient.

“Would the chef’s cooking be any different if you were wearing a different outfit?” Mikasa asks. She takes a gentle bite into a soup dumpling, making sure not to slurp the broth too noisily. It almost burns her mouth, but the tender pork filling inside more than makes up for it.

Historia frowns, discarding the bones from her third chicken foot onto the table. She licks the sticky sweet black bean sauce from her fingers before wiping them on the napkin that sits across her lap. “It would taste better if I were wearing a different outfit,” Historia replies before plucking a fried crab ball from its plate. She digs her teeth into its crispy exterior with a loud crunch and swallows before continuing. “Things taste better when you’re dressed for the occasion. You should know this by now, Mikasa. We’ve been together for over twenty years, you know.”

She doesn’t need the reminder. Mikasa has been counting the days just like her cousin has been counting down the days. He’s been with Historia for almost an entire century. Mikasa wonders what it’s like to know someone for one hundred years. She can’t fathom it.

“And what would you wear instead?” Mikasa asks.

“Mmm.” Historia brings her chopstick to her mouth to nibble at thoughtfully. The woman has entire rooms filled with clothes — all organized by color, season, and style — and yet she’s still able to remember and assemble entire outfits complete with shoes and accessories. She grins when she’s finally thought of the perfect outfit, pointing her chopsticks at Mikasa with a grin on her face. “The Majorica pearls. They look like little dumplings. And the blue tulle dress, the one with the trailing skirt.”

Mikasa knows exactly which ensemble Historia is referring to, although it’s admittedly been a while since she’s seen the blonde hotelier wear the fairy-like tulle. With its shimmering skirt that seems to be a different shade of blue every time Historia moves and its long billowing sleeves that hang off Historia’s shoulders, it’s a piece that’s far more suited for a runway or an elegant wedding than a casual outing to a dim sum restaurant, but Historia wears such extravagant pieces with such confidence that it would seem out-of-place if she were to wear anything less luxurious.

“I think you look beautiful right now,” Mikasa replies.

Historia hardly bats an eyelash. “Of course I do. I’m always beautiful,” Historia says, brushing off the compliment as easily as she always does. It used to bother Mikasa, but she’s used to it now. “That blue dress would really suit the atmosphere of this restaurant better though.”

Mikasa only hums in response.

The two continue eating — Mikasa in delicate bites while Historia gorges herself with buns stuffed with succulent meats and crispy deep-fried shrimp balls but somehow never dropping a crumb. Mikasa doesn’t even eat much. She’s never had much of an appetite, but Historia cleans every plate. By the time Historia cleans off their last plate, there’s a mountain of dirty dishes stacked high on the side of the table, and yet Historia is still hungry enough to call over a nearby waitress and order nearly every dessert on her cart.

Mikasa doesn’t touch any of the pastries that are laid out in front of them, but Historia plucks a crispy durian cake and breaks it in two, the flaky crust crumbling underneath her fingers and spilling onto the table. The intoxicatingly sweet scent of the durian custard is fragrant enough to fill the whole room. Historia stuffs one half into her mouth, savoring the delicate taste of the durian custard as she chews and swallows. She follows with the other half before wiping her fingers on the cloth napkin in her lap.

“Do you still dream of me?” Historia asks nonchalantly. The question comes out of the blue, making Mikasa look up from where she was staring at Historia’s fingers.

I do, Mikasa wants to say. I dream of you every night. But she doesn’t say it. She never does. Instead, the manager replies with a simple, “Yes.”

“Hm,” is all Historia says.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

That night, Mikasa dreams of Historia in a garden. She wears clothing from a different time, the material like that from a rough burlap that has been bleached white from the sun and stitched into a plain dress. She’s younger in this dream, her face a little rounder and her blue eyes less guarded. Historia lays in the garden, staring up at the starry sky. She doesn’t stir even as another girl joins her.

“Historia,” the girl says, freckles sprinkled across her olive skin. Her hair is chopped unevenly in a short cut that frames her thin face, but Historia still smiles when the girl leans over her. It’s not the first time Mikasa has seen this girl in her dreams. “I dreamed of you again.”

“Did you?” Historia asks. Her mouth always curls upward whenever she sees the girl. She’s probably not even aware of it.

“I always dream of you,” the other girl replies.

“Was I beautiful?” Historia asks.

“Of course, you were,” the other girl replies. She lies down beside Historia and the blonde curls up against her, Historia’s blonde head resting against the other girl’s shoulder while their fingers intertwine. “You’re always beautiful.”

It’s painfully intimate. The two look so happy together, curled up against each other as they stare up at the sky. Mikasa doesn’t think she’s ever seen Historia smile like that. It makes her heart ache.

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 4

Previous: Daddy’s Favorite & The First Date

Pairing: Kim Seokjin X OFC

Genre: Light Angst, Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Light College AU

Rating: PG13

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Swearing, Very minor mention of consensual sex 

Summary: Kim Seokjin meets the deciders of his fate, and the demise of his relationship. 

Codename: The First Heartbreak

Winter, Junior Year

          Kim Seokjin and Lee Euna began their courtship on the pretense of getting to know each other more for the sake of their economics project. What Seokjin hadn’t expected, was to fall into bed with Euna, to hold her hand on campus, to discuss New Year’s celebrations and date nights at the ballet or symphony. Euna knew how to wine and dine, sweeping Seokjin up in what he could only describe as a whirlwind romance. She wanted to ensnare him, to make her life so irresistible, he couldn’t breathe without her. The plan would’ve worked too, if Kim Namjoon hadn’t stepped in.

         It was late one Thursday in the middle of January, snow had fallen across campus coating it in a freezing blanket, when Seokjin arrived at his car. Resting gently on the dashboard was a note with a simple location, somewhere up town, no signature. Terrified by the thought of what would happen to him if he didn’t go, horrified by the thoughts of what might happen if he did go, Seokjin sat in his car, hands frozen to the steering wheel, eyes wide in shock. He had no good options.

         Turning his car on, blasting the heat and whatever podcast he had started in the library, Seokjin drove cautiously to the location. He could turn on find my friends, sending his location to his brother. He could call his brother, and ask to mute himself, so that he could hear whatever happened. He could just wait in his car, unmoving until someone came and got him. That seemed like the best option. Wait an hour or so before leaving and hoping to never find a note perfectly placed, with his name on it, in his locked car ever again.

         The best laid plans are always turned to shit, and as the minutes ticked by, an ever-present shadow kept growing. At first Jin thought it was an optical illusion, a trick of the light, but as it moved closer and closer, he became aware that it was in fact a man. A man rivaling his height, though shoulders less broad, and lips far from pouty, dressed in all black, his eyes cast down at Seokjin.

         “Kim Seokjin, glad you made it,” He said, reaching for the handle of the door, he opened it.

         “Who are you?” Jin asked.

         The man shook his head and nodded towards the building behind them, practically windowless, it stood stories high. How a warehouse could look so majestic confused him, never had he seen a building like this before. Exiting his vehicle, he paused.

         “Do you want the note?”

         “No, we won’t be here tomorrow,” The man said as he walked towards the building. Matching his strides, Jin followed. He watched the man enter a code and have his retinas scanned before they stepped into the building. The darkness was only alleviated by small lights along the floorboards, guiding them to another locked door. Jin didn’t dare speak, only watched in astonishment.

         This couldn’t be happening.

         “Have a seat,” The man said before following his own directions.

         “Who are you?” Seokjin asked, eyes trying to make sense of the dimly lit room.

         “Welcome, Kim Seokjin, to OT7,” The lights were raised and Jin gasped. Not only was he seated at a large conference table, but it was now clear that there were two other men, dressed in black, looking like the Korean Mafia.

         “Um, hello,” Seokjin nodded, staring at them.

         “I am Kim Namjoon,” The first man said, his bleach blonde hair neatly quaffed back, exposing his forehead and spectacles. “I am glad you received my note. This is the team,”

         “Min Yoongi, head of cyber intelligence, coding and security,” Yoongi said, eyes blinking quickly.  

         “Jung Hoseok, forgery and documentation,” Hoseok informed.

         “We have brought you here for a specific reason,” Namjoon said.

         “Okay,” Jin was still confused.

         “You are friendly with Lee Euna,” Namjoon began.

         “Yes,” Jin answered.

         “You’re a scholar of economics and finance,” Namjoon continued.

         “Yes,” Seokjin nodded, nothing was connecting.

         “We want you to join our team,” Hoseok said. “Want is the wrong word, you are joining our team.”

         “What team is that?” Jin was still confused.

         “OT7, we are a highly trained, highly specialized group of agents tasked with protecting the world from the scum of the earth,” Yoongi said, sitting back in his chair.

         “We look out for the good of the world,” Namjoon simplified. “It sounds nebulous, but I guarantee it is far more simplistic than you think.”

         “Why me?” Seokjin whispered.

         “You have been on our radar for years, and this year you stepped up to demonstrate your skills,” Namjoon told him.

         “We need a member on the team who can analyze the trade, monitor our marks and watch for any concerning trades,” Yoongi clarified.

         “More importantly, we need you to help us infiltrate the Lee family,” Hoseok spoke up, eyes moving from Yoongi’s to Namjoon’s, “That’s why he’s here, we don’t need to drag this out, the guy looks scared shitless.”

         “Infiltrate the Lee family?” Seokjin repeated. “That’s, how?”

         “You two are dating,” Yoongi said.

         “Sure,” Jin nodded.

         “To be direct, we need everything you have on Lee Euna and her family,” Hoseok said.

         “I don’t have much, I mean, I don’t know anything about their business,” Seokjin’s eyes widened, still confused how he had managed to find himself here.

         “Here’s how this is going to work,” Namjoon said. “You are going to work with us, you are going to be onboarded and brought into this organization. Then, you are going to tell us every last detail you have on Lee Euna. Finally, the second most essential part of this plan, you are going to break her heart so that Yoongi can put her back together, gain access to her computer and plant various tracking software. With the information Yoongi gathers, you will spend your days analyzing their business models, following their stock and going over every financial record we have access to. Do you have any questions?”

         “She loves me,” Seokjin’s eyes were wide, this was more preposterous than anything he’d seen in the business world.

         “All the better reason to end it now,” Yoongi said.

         “It’s, it’s almost Valentine’s Day, she loves Valentin’s Day,” Seokjin was pleading.

         “Even better,” Yoongi responded.

         “Why me?” Jin asked again.

         “Can you find me someone more intelligent, more equipped?” Namjoon questioned.

         “I’ve never broken someone’s heart,” Seokjin said, more to himself than to the other men.

         “There’s a first time for everything,” Hoseok replied, tone gentle.  

         “Who are you again?” Seokjin repeated.

         “Who are we,” Namjoon corrected, “OT7, your new family.”

         “Welcome, you’re gonna love it,” Hoseok said laughing.

         “Hoseok will pick you up tomorrow after your final class and bring you to our headquarters where we will begin your onboarding process. You will finish school early-

         “How?” Jin interrupted.

         “Summer school. You will quit your part time job and spend every waking moment not in class at headquarters. You have much to learn,” Namjoon finished.

         “I’ll have your new phone ready for you tomorrow, bring your computer so I can fix whatever shit software you’ve got on it and amp up security,” Yoongi informed him.

         “Am I, am I in danger?” Seokjin asked.

         “No, you’re not. Yoongi has a new trainee tailing you, so if anything goes wrong, he’ll be there,” Namjoon answered.

         “Who?” Jin asked.

         “That’s for us to know.” Yoongi smirked.

         “In any official documents, you will hence forth be referred to as-

         “Worldwide Handsome,” Yoongi suggested, a glint of terror in his eyes.

         “Codename WWH,” Namjoon nodded, “We use code names for every mission, need to know basis.”

         “Okay,” Seokjin said, eyes trying to focus on his new family. “What’s this mission called?”

         “The First Heartbreak,” Hoseok said, “I’m in charge of naming missions.”

         “Your task, before Hoseok picks you up, is to break up with Codename Cupid.” Namjoon instructed, voice harsh.

         “By tomorrow?”

         “Yes,” Namjoon answered.

~~~~~

         Seokjin drove until his gas tank was on empty, fear and confusion coursing through him. They, OT7, hadn’t given him much information, only his task: break up with Euna. Seokjin had never broken up with someone before, never watched the realization that the two of them weren’t building something come crashing down, gloss forming over their eyes as they tried to remain calm. He’d never hurt someone. He’d also never had a code name or been in some secret government organization. Was it a government organization? They hadn’t said. That was even more worrisome, expecting Hoseok to pick him up to take him to his first of what he assumed was many onboarding sessions. These men, the four of them, must be child prodigies, must be highly intelligent or bred to be in these positions. He couldn’t figure out how he fit into their plan, only that he had to.

         Barely sleeping, he trudged through his classes, absentmindedly taking notes, counting down the hours until he had to break up with Euna, and then promptly hop into a car with a man he barely knew, Hoseok. Euna texted frequently, concerned over his lack of communication, and was excited to see him over coffee.

         “Jinnie,” Euna called as she stepped into the coffee shop. Seokjin, having turned on voice recording, set his phone face down on the table.

         “Euna,” He said, refusing to call her by any pet name. It was a trait about him she found frustrating, his inability to verbalize his affection. She loved him, she could say it, she could identify the feeling within her body, but Jin? Never said, never tried to say it, just grateful that she wanted to spend time with him.

         “How are you? Where have you been?” Euna asked.

         “Just really busy,” Seokjin shrugged, closing himself off to her.

         “Oh?” Euna could see through his lie.

         “Yeah, and I’ve been thinking,”

         “I made reservations for Valentine’s day, it’ll be our 5-month anniversary too,” Euna sipped her latte, eyes bright but questioning.

         “About that, Euna, I’ve been thinking, and I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” Seokjin said. On his long drive around town, he practiced his speech. The words, written by Namjoon, had been kind and direct.

         “What?” Euna’s voice dropped. She hadn’t been expecting this.

         “I need to focus on my work, and with Dr. Cho asking me to TA this semester and next spring, and with the option to TA two sections next year, I need to focus. All my time needs to be directed at my work. I am graduating early, and I just don’t have the time to be in a relationship. I’m sorry, Euna, I really am.”

         Euna sat silently, eyes boring holes in the tabletop, her coffee forgotten. Hadn’t they been falling in love? Weren’t they planning a romantic Valentine’s Day weekend? Roses and chocolates and champagne at one of the hotels her parents owned, overlooking the city? Wasn’t he going to tell her that he loves her?

         “I can’t believe this,” She whispered, a tear dropping from her eye. “I thought we were moving forward, falling in love.”

         “I don’t know if I was,” Jin said.

         It was in that moment that Euna felt herself shattering. She wiped the stray tear away before setting her eyes on her now ex-boyfriend.

         “I trust you’ll be cordial in social situations,” Euna said.

         “Of course,” Jin nodded, his gut reaction to reach for her hand gone as he took in her downcast features.

         “Goodbye Seokjin,” Euna stood, staring into her full coffee cup.

         “Goodbye Euna,” Seokjin responded.

         On the drive to headquarters, Seokjin blindfolded, he listened to the droll of the radio. Hoseok didn’t say much as they meandered through the streets, onto the freeway and off. It was hard to tell what the actual directions was and what Hoseok was doing to throw him off. If only he knew how poor Seokjin’s sense of direction was.

         “WWH, you can take your blindfold off,” Hoseok said, putting the car in park.

         “Is this how it’s going to be?” Seokjin asked.

         “For the first month or so, then you’ll prove yourself and get to drive,” Hoseok responded.  

         “How did you get into this, group? Organization?” He was unsure what to call it, unsure what it even was.

         “Ah, that’s a story for another time,” Hoseok guided him towards the elevator. Having his retina scanned, the doors opened, and they stepped in.

         “Namjoon’s in charge?” Seokjin asked.

         “Yes,” Hoseok nodded.

         “He’s younger than me,” Jin stated.

         “Yes,” Hoseok replied.

         “Is he-

         “A genius?” Hoseok smiled.

         “Yeah,” Jin nodded.

         “Yes,” Hoseok nodded again.

         “Are all of you-

         “Gifted?”

         “Yeah,”

         “Yes,” Hoseok looked at him, knowing full well his response answered the unaskable question.

         “How did you-

         “All in good time, Mr. Handsome,” Hoseok winked and stepped off the elevator, glancing at the empty reception desk before turning down a hallway.

         “We’re briefing you before Yoongi takes over.”

         “Yoongi?”

         “Did you bring your phone and computer?” Yoongi asked, making his way towards the men.

         “Yes, I did,” Seokjin handed over the devices.

         “I didn’t ask if you have any other devices, iPad, tablet, anything,” Yoongi was busy looking over the material, not paying Seokjin any attention as he pulled off bar codes and shut down the machines.

         “No, no tablet,” Jin answered.

         “You do all that economics work, on this singular computer?” Yoongi questioned, disbelief in his voice.

         “I have a monitor-

         “Fuck, bring it tomorrow,”

         “Ah, Worldwide Handsome, have a seat,” Namjoon said entering Yoongi’s office. “I trust it you slept horribly?”

         “Absolutely horribly, worst night’s sleep,” Seokjin shook his head.

         Eyeing the dark circles adorning Seokjin’s face, Namjoon spoke softly, “You didn’t go straight home yesterday.”

         “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

         “Did you follow through on your orders?” Namjoon questioned.

         “Yes,”

         “Yoongi, send the voice memo and print the transcription,” Namjoon directed.

         “I’ll listen and transcribe it, give me 5 minutes,” There was no further discussion, Hoseok stood and moved to his office across the hall.  

         “Mm, let’s talk about Lee Euna,” Namjoon led Seokjin into a conference room on the opposite glass wall of Yoongi’s office. The exposed brick was laced with a variety of greenery, plants of all species crawling up the walls and windowsills.  

         “Alright,” Seokjin sat down, his heart moving his center of gravity to easily meet the cushion of the office chair.

         “How long have you known her?” Namjoon asked.

         “I’ve known of her since freshman year, but only became acquainted with her this fall when we became partners in Dr. Cho’s class.”

         “Who asked who to be partners?” Namjoon pressed.

         “She asked me,” Seokjin replied.

         “Any idea why?”

         “No,” Jin shrugged, he’d been wondering the same thing since she asked.

         “When did you begin dating?”

         “November,” Jin answered.

         “Two and a half months after the project began?” Namjoon clarified.

         “Yes,”

         “How is she, as a business partner?”

         “She knows a lot more than she lets on, about everything,” He shrugged.

         “What did you know of her family before you started seeing each other?”

         “They are one of the most elusive and public family’s in the world,” Namjoon started, “They have billions, donate to charity, and have hands in every aspect of the financial system, both in the states and globally.”

         “What do you know now?” Hoseok asked, setting the transcription in front of Namjoon.

         “Euna doesn’t talk about her family much…”

         “What do you know?” Namjoon asked again.

         “Dae-Seong is the devil incarnate, angry and vindictive, abusive to all three siblings. Jun-Seo is flirtatious and rambunctious, takes his job very seriously. Kwan-Min is much like Jun-Seo, and the two are inseparable.”

         “How does Euna relate to them?” Hoseok wondered.

         He took a seat next to Namjoon and stared at the greenery. Seokjin hadn’t spent enough time with him to understand the full duality of Hoseok, but he had the feeling there was more to him than met his eye.

         “She doesn’t, Dae-Seong has made it clear that she is the golden maknae of the family, and everyone should bow at her feet. He hates her and has made it his mission to turn the other two against her as well. When they announced she would take over the company –

         “They didn’t announce that,” Namjoon interrupts, eyes darting to Hoseok.

         “I thought they-

         “YOONGI!” Namjoon yelled, voice rattling the glass separating them from the coder.

         “Aye, what?” Yoongi asked, stepping into the room.

         “Lee Euna is set to become the next CEO of Lee Enterprises,”

         “Says who?” Yoongi shot back.

         “Mr. Handsome,” Hoseok said.

         “Is that really how I’m going to be addressed?” Seokjin rolled his eyes.

         “Yes,” Hoseok smiled.

         “It’s not in any papers or reports, no internal memos, nothing. No one has that information. Are you sure, Lee Euna is set to become CEO?” Yoongi stared at Seokjin, wondering if this string bean was holding the key to the gates of paradise.

         “She said it one night, we were talking about the future and jobs,” Jin informed them.

         “Did she offer you a job at Enterprises?” Namjoon demanded.

         Seokjin glanced from man to man, anger and frustration in their eyes. “Yeah, but I said that would be weird… We haven’t been together that long.”

         A pause filled the room, air the only thing exchanging between the men. Jin couldn’t tell if he had just fucked up, or royally fucked up.

         “Did she say when?” Yoongi asked.

         “No, probably a few years after graduation, her dad wants her to spend more time actual in the company before she takes over,” Jin answered.

         “Mm,” Namjoon nodded, his rage ebbing as he broke down the information. “What does that do for our plan?”

         “What’s the plan?” Seokjin asked.

         “Oh, Worldwide Handsome, you have so much to learn.”

Next: Searching for Seokjin

[how2to18]

TRAVIS JEPPESEN HAS been publishing inventive fiction since his early 20s, and writes about art all over the globe for Artforum, Art in America, and a slew of other magazines. His new nonfiction book, See You Again in Pyongyang, chronicles both his personal experiences as a tourist in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and his ambivalent relationship with it as a writer and analyst of culture. After accepting an invitation to accompany his friend, travel writer Tom Masters, to the country several years ago, he has since traveled there four additional times and written extensively about its art and architecture. In 2016, Jeppesen became the first American to ever complete a university program in North Korea, having participated in a month-long intensive Korean language course. That experience, which gave him unprecedented access for an American to the culture and daily life of Pyongyang residents, as well as to other parts of the country on supervised excursions, make up the bulk of the new book.

See You Again in Pyongyang dramatizes a meeting point between an intellect with a passion for getting lost in other cities and landscapes, and an environment that by its very design forbids such a sensibility from ever gaining foothold. What ensues is not a polemic, but rather a romance of antitheses. Jeppesen ultimately accepts this lack of resolution, processing his relationship with the country through a combination of memoir, historical background, and the bringing to light of others’ stories that our own ideologically biased media seldom care to find for themselves.

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BEN SHIELDS: Your first novel, Victims, is largely about an apocalyptic cult. In See You Again in Pyongyang, you look past a lot of the clichés that we have about North Korea and their society, but there’s no escaping its cult-like quality. Have cults and cults of personality been lifelong intellectual fascinations for you?

TRAVIS JEPPESEN: It’s safe to say that. And extreme forms of belief and ideology in general. I kind of despise all forms of ideology, but I’m fascinated by the way that people either fall into it, or it can be imposed on them from without. It usually is some toxic combination of the two. I think it threads its way through all of my writing.

I was really interested in the differences you outline between Soviet, Chinese, and Korean communism, especially with regard to Confucianism’s lingering influence. In the Soviet Union, the cult of personality got out of hand, to the point where Stalin at times tried to rein it back. In your view, which is more essential in the Korean system: the propaganda for the party, socialism, and the ideal society, or the deification of the marshal?

I think Kim Jong-il’s contribution to the development of the system was making the party one and the same with the leader. The party is the mother, and the leader the father. You need both to nurture you. The development toward the deification of the leadership came about as a result of Stalin being a big role model for Kim Il-sung. But also because there were these different factions of communists who arrived to establish the early North Korean state. There was a lot of competition between the factions, so it was a way for Kim Il-sung to put an end to that. That kind of extreme despotism — deification — really is an imposition of fear on the populace, because he eliminated all of his enemies one by one. That’s very much how the system evolved and how it became what it is today.

Obviously I have to ask this: what do you make of the North and South Korean peace talks, the looming Trump-Kim summit, and the call in some quarters for Trump to win the Nobel?

I hate to say it, but I think Kim Jong-un is the one who has kind of engineered all this, whether or not you agree with his methods. He did it by terrorizing the world for much of the last year. But look, I think what’s happening is really a great thing. It looks like they’re going to announce an official end to the Korean War, which is amazing for people on both sides of the divide. Let us not forget that the North Koreans have also been living under the threat of nuclear annihilation for decades now. We love to say in the Western media how flippant and manipulative they are and how they never stick to any of the agreements that they sign. But it was actually the United States who first violated the armistice agreement they signed by installing nuclear weapons on the Korean peninsula in 1958. Nobody talks about that in the Western media.

I had no idea before reading your book that that was the case.

Yeah, very few people are aware of this. This is not to defend the regime, because of course I think it’s terrible. But fact is fact. They have been putting up for years with these military exercises on their border conducted by the United States and South Korea. The United States would never put up with that, an enemy nation conducting military exercises on their borders. But the North Koreans have had to sit and watch that with their binoculars year after year after year. They’re a really small, weak, kind of powerless nation. They did what they had to do by developing these nuclear weapons.

You blame a lot of what’s happened in North Korea recently on President Bush’s aggression toward them, which makes a lot of sense. But at the same time, Trump has been more aggressive, at least in his rhetoric, than any president ever toward the DPRK. Why, then, do you think that peace talks and at least the promise to denuclearize are happening now?

A lot of it has to do with the increase of sanctions. Kim Jong-un’s policy for the last few years has been known as the byungjin policy, which is the simultaneous development of both the military and the economy. There’s this whole class of rich people that didn’t really exist before. [Jong-un] is protecting them, and they’re protecting him. It’s kind of a two-way street. Were a horrible financial crisis to happen again in North Korea, it could be potentially disastrous internally for his regime. And some experts say that, yeah, the North Koreans are kind of scared shitless of Trump because his rhetoric has been so wild. It’s weird because I obviously am not a big Trump supporter. I think he’s a sociopath more than anything. But having said that, if he does manage to normalize diplomatic relations with North Korea, he’ll have done something really amazing that no US president has done. The South Koreans are being very coy. [President] Moon Jae-in is being all like, “Oh, it’s all because of Trump.” He knows how susceptible to flattery Trump is. The United States and South Korean economies are so intertwined that if Trump flippantly tries to turn against the South Koreans, it could completely bungle the whole process. Just as Moon Jae-in is using flattery as a means, I think we can probably expect the North Koreans to do something quite similar. And it could lead to very good things. 

You include in the book a powerful story of a North Korean defector in the South, whom you call Un Ju, who left her home city of Wonsan at the age of 18 to follow her mother to the South. How were you able to connect with as many defectors as you did?

When I was in Seoul, I volunteered with an organization called Teach North Korean Refugees. But they’re rather strict. They say at the outset, if you volunteer with us you can’t use this to do outside research. I had other ways. Un Ju was a friend of a friend, the filmmaker Kim Kyung-Mook, a South Korean queer filmmaker. Two of his roommates had been North Korean defectors, which is highly unusual. Mook is certainly very different. He’s a great artist and is a person of great powers of empathy. He introduced me to Un Ju. It was great talking to her because I felt like a lot of the North Korean defectors one encounters, especially in the media, go through almost this reverse brainwashing process where they can only say bad things about North Korea. She actually had a lot of good things to say about North Korea and a lot of bad things to say about her experiences in the South. I wanted to show that this isn’t such a black-and-white issue the way that mainstream media makes it out to be.

Near the end of the book there’s this rather awkward exchange between Comrade Kim, your friend from the Korean State Travel Company, and one of the other guys on the program, Alexandre. Kim, with some suspicion, essentially asks, “Why are you so interested in our country? What is all of this to you?” Yet you are sitting right there, not being asked the same question. Why do you think you didn’t get that feedback from him?

Alexandre is kind of freaking out because he feels like he hasn’t been able to pierce below the surface. He wants to come back on a student visa, not on a tourist, because then he’ll be able to do things, then he’ll be able to go somewhere without a guide. Maybe then he can find the answer. But the whole point that I kind of reach is, no, this is what it is. You’re not going to see anything that we haven’t seen, basically. It’s this kind of Zen moment that I reach that allows me to sit back detachedly and observe what’s going on there in that scene. Alexandre comes from this classic liberal arts tradition. “Oh, I’m interested in North Korea because I want to expand the limits of myself and learn a new language. I’m in the midst of my education, so I’m discovering myself!” This concept is completely foreign to them. They don’t have the language to understand it. So that scene was a showdown between two universes of perception, really. 

Also toward the end, you talk about that feeling of not belonging to a society just as you’re about to leave it. In my experience that often happens after extended stays, where it feels like you’ve gotten lost, but the last three or four days you realize it’s at least partly a fantasy. That can be a painful feeling if you’ve fallen in love with another society or culture. But North Korea is not a conventional place to develop an attachment. What specific emotions accompany the realization of not belonging in the DPRK?

One of the underlying themes of this book is, what are the limits of empathy? To what extent can we identify or have an empathetic identification with the Other? For one thing, their ideology is so race-based, which means I could never belong there. But I developed a certain affection for the people that deepened as my understanding of the society and how things function deepened. The book ends with these open-ended questions like, what is love? What is empathy? This sort of identification with someone who believes in something so highly bizarre and so specific — is it possible? To what extent do any of them really believe in this ideology and to what extent is it forced on them? I think art should ask these kinds of questions rather than just providing a list of hypothetical answers.

In one of the early scenes, you’re at the window of your hotel room in Pyongyang, contemplating your affection for the city, which has grown and accumulated at that point over four visits. Intellectual interest in a society cannot fully explain one’s attachment to it. Have you thought about why North Korea has become so personally significant to you, beyond merely a subject of study?

It’s my spiritual homeland — my soul is the gulag! Just kidding. I don’t know. I think this is why I kept going back and why I wrote the book. It’s an attempt to answer that question. I like to be free and be able to wander the streets of a strange city and have the classic romantic experience. But when I go there it’s kind of like putting yourself into prison and trying to recreate that experience in the outside world. I think what’s drawn me to it is its ineffability and the fact that it’s a mystery, an enigma, something I can never quite unravel. It’s the same reason I’ve fallen in love with people over the years whom I can’t figure out and who are very mysterious to me. There’s this lingering mystery that keeps me drawn to them. It’s an affliction when it happens.

Yes, it’s like a disease.

I’m a diseased mind. I fully embrace that.

¤

Ben Shields is a Brooklyn-based writer who has written for the Paris Review, Bookforum, and other magazines.

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Author image by Jason Harrell.

Banner image by (stephan).

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YO I’M BACK

“Are you nervous?” Harry asks, gripping onto Y/n’s hand as he starts his three-hour drive to his sister’s house.

In their now one year of dating, Y/n is finally meeting Harry’s sister. With their schedules being tied from Y/n’s university to Gemma’s new job and Harry’s recent solo work, there was barely any time for either of them to visit one another. But with Y/n convincing her bosses to get her off the schedule for a week, it’s finally time for Y/n to meet Gemma.

“I’m okay.” Y/n replies reluctantly. 

In all honesty, she’s scared shitless. Even though the rest of Harry’s family practically coos over Y/n, Y/n wasn’t raised in a high-income family. She shared a two bedroom apartment with her two parents and her two older brothers her entire life. Her only time out of the house was when she went off to school or work—never really having a social life because she neither had time nor money for it. 

Y/n being poor and moving in with Harry has been a focus for the media since they publically announced their relationship. They disclosed that Y/n is only paying off her debt and university tuition because of Harry’s wealth, and even talked about Y/n only moving in with Harry because she wouldn’t have to pay the rent that way.

And even though it is true that Harry pays rent and pays off her debt, it is nothing like it seems. There is an entirely different story underneath their publications that nobody understands besides Harry and Y/n—and that’s what scares her the most.

“Don’t worry, baby. She’ll love you. She can read whatever she wants, yeah? But all she needs to pay attention to is who you really are.”

Harry holds her hand tighter. He knows that Y/n is well aware that Gemma has tried to get Harry to break up with her for a while now. She thinks that Y/n is nothing but a gold digger—using the sympathy card to get every ounce of money out of him so that she can manage a living. Of course, that wasn’t the case, and Harry would be willing to spend the rest of his life disproving his sister. 

And he’s starting today.

“Who I am is not going to impress her, Harry. I have nothing set out for me. My future is a dead end. I’m useless.”

Harry’s eyes narrow in pain at her words, slowly letting his eyes leave the road so that he can look at her. He loves her so much more than he can explain, and knowing that the woman he loves so deeply feels so negatively about herself completely and utterly destroys him.

Y/n is so much more than she thinks. She has more determination and gratitude than anybody he’s ever met. She has so much strength and willpower to keep herself moving forward, and despite Harry seeming to have the most difficult job to others, he doesn’t have half of what she has to offer to this world.

“Hey, don’t say things like that. You know that’s not true.”

His eyes are glistening with tears and Y/n almost goes back on her word just for the sake of his own wellbeing. She knows how much putting herself down can affect him, but she truly believes in the words she spoke and won’t take back what she said because she knows it’s true.

“It’s the truth, Harry.”

He scrunches his face with squeezed-shut eyes, shaking his head wildly.

“That’s far from it. You’ve been busting your ass trying to finish school; I have never seen someone so determined to accomplish anything in my life. You inspire me every day—every single day. When I feel like giving up or thinking what I’m doing isn’t worth it, I think of your ability to overcome any of that. It doesn’t matter your money, Y/n, you’re the best person I’ve ever met. I’d do anything to be half the woman you are.”

And as much as Y/n appreciates his words—and no matter how much his words make her heart swell—she doesn’t want to carry on with this discussion. So she smirks, letting out a slight chuckle to lighten the mood. She leans over to press a gentle kiss on his cheek, rubbing her nose slightly against the skin.

“So you wanna be a woman, huh?”

Harry laughs, sneaking a look at her from the corner of his eye. She looks as beautiful as always, and no matter what ends up happening at Gemma’s house, he’ll be by her side no matter what it takes to get there.

His life would be meaningless without her with him. She’s defined all his greatest and most memorable moments, he’ll never let her go.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Harry sighs, “you’ll always have me.”

Pulling up into Gemma’s driveway gave Y/n enough fear to almost pass out on the walk to her front door. Everything she has felt about this day is building up so much inside of her that her body almost feels numb. 

Her heart is racing, her palms are sweating, and her breathing must have been harsh because Harry immediately notices how different her demeanor has become. 

He pulls her into him a bit more than before, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple and rubbing his hand along her waist.

“Stop stressing, darling” Harry whispers, “it’ll be fine.”

But she just knows it won’t be. This is a disaster waiting to happen and she feels the anxiety deep within her bones. If she didn’t love Harry so much, she wouldn’t hesitate to leave him on the door step, steal his car, and drive away from here. But it’s because she loves him so much that she’s willing to prove Gemma wrong.

She has to.

While taking the finals steps up to her door, Y/n has to grab onto Harry’s hand and arm with both of her hands in case she decides to run away. And just for the sake of her sanity, Harry gives her one last reassuring kiss before he opens the door to her home. 

“Gem! We’re here!”

Her house is everything Y/n expected it to be. Everything is open, everything all in one place—nothing to separate the rooms. The walls are bright and decorated with art work Y/n’s only ever seen on display at local museums. It all looks so expensive, there is nothing Y/n has ever seen like it. 

Gemma walks out from the kitchen, looking slightly uneasy, but smiling as she gives her brother a welcoming hug. Their greeting is short and Y/n admires how close they truly are. She never had siblings to grow any particular bond with, so watching Harry and Gemma soaking each other up and making up for lost time makes her heart jump.

But it’s not that long after where Gemma’s attention is on Y/n, a prominent scowl on her face and a glimmer of disrespect in her eyes.

“So, this is Y/N.”

Y/n feels Harry’s hold on her tighten.

She disregards the way she speaks, even if it sends a shiver down her spine. She’s going to do her best to get Gemma’s liking and approval, there is no way she can mess this up. This is her only shot.

“Hello, Gemma, it’s wonderful to meet you.” Y/n smiles, sticking her hand out to properly introduce herself. Gemma smiles slightly, looking down at Y/n’s hand.  

“Is there any reason my brother is paying your university tuition, Y/n?”

The way she says her name burns Y/n’s insides; like her name is toxic on the tongue. She slowly puts her hand down, tucking it underneath her other arm as her free hand moves to push twist her hair. 

Fuck, Gemma really jumped right to it and now Y/n is unsure of what to say. She didn’t expect those types of questions to come so soon, and no matter how many times Y/n had prepared for this moment, her tongue is tied and she’s never felt more intimidated in her life.

“O—Oh, well—”

“Gemma!” Harry seethes, his eyes glaring at his sister in almost a threatening manner, “What the hell?”

Y/n swallows thickly. 

“N—No, Harry,” Y/n interjects, shaking her head slightly, “it’s fine. It’s just that my family isn’t financially stable. They obviously wanted me to get into the best university I could, so when I got accepted, I began to take out student loans. I was on work study and we were provided a good amount of financial aid but it wasn’t enough for us. I ended up owing a lot of money to the bank and—“

“So you had my brother use all the money he saved up from his career just to waste it all to pay for you?”

Y/n stands wide-eyed, clearly not expecting that harsh of an accusation. She knew accusations were going to come, but not so goddamn soon and not so rude. 

And she really wants to crawl out of her own skin. She feels sick—she feels filthy and she wants nothing more than to leave the hatred glaring from Gemma’s eyes. 

She feels the tears she’s been holding in hit the surface, and her chest is heaving and her throat is chocked from the thickness in the air. She really can’t be here right now—she really can’t keep listening to anything else Gemma decides to throw at her.

She’s embarrassed and insecure, two things Y/n can’t handle on her own and now she’s forced to face the situation that’s feeding her both.

“What the fuck?!” Harry shouts, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

It took Y/n months before agreeing to let Harry pay her tuition. He had offered since the day he met her. She stressed herself out in ways he’d never seen—pushing herself to the brink of exhaustion and never giving herself a chance to properly take a breath. 

In the moments leading up to their relationship, he felt his career wasn’t even half of what she put herself through at the time. He had all the money for everything she wanted—he was willing to give every penny he had to her, drop everything he’s worked for and give it all to her. He didn’t need it anymore. He had spent his entire life building his future and by the time it was over, he had so much money that he didn’t even know what to do with. 

He found his girl—he found the one he was going to marry. He had a house—a beautiful house—one he could still pay off because he’s still being paid for being in the media. He lived his dream, there was no reason to keep the money he made.

He had everything.

And after what felt like years of Harry begging Y/n—to the point where he even went on his knees—to help her get through her financial crisis, she couldn’t say no. Not to that amount of desperation, not when he was in tears watching her suffer so much.

“That’s bullshit!” Gemma spits.

She takes a threatening step towards Y/n, and in any other circumstance, Y/n would run away without hesitation. But she can’t move.

She lets out a sob when Gemma gets in her face, not daring to touch her but still close enough to make Y/n understand how much she’s made her angry—enough to let her know how serious this all is.

“What are the chances a girl like you gets it on with my brother?! Huh? What are the fucking chances of that?!“ 

“That is fucking enough!” Harry booms, pushing his hand out to push Gemma away from Y/n. 

He swears, he could fucking break her wrists in half. Gemma was the last person he expected to judge Y/n on her economic class. He actually thought they’d get on extremely well. He never expected to be holding Gemma back from punching a very fearful, shaken up Y/n.

And he wishes more than anything that he can be comforting her right now, but he’s not going to risk letting Gemma out of his grasp.

Y/n steps back, taking in a harsh breath as the wind is knocked right out of her. She genuinely feels like someone punched her in the throat, which probably would have happened if Harry wasn’t holding Gemma back as hard as he is. 

She feels the tears that were building up in her eyes slowly start to fall, her barrier completely breaking down. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, nothing was. She’s not supposed to make Harry’s family hate her. She wanted to become apart of it, grow old and pass down more generations of it. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

In the mix of her emotions, Y/n puts on the fakest fucking smile she’s ever put on. Of course,  it’s not on there for long. She looks down the second it disappears, falling just as quickly as it formed. If she continues to fight for herself, there would be no room for any hope she wishes to carry that Gemma will somehow see her differently. 

“You don’t have to worry about this anymore, Gemma.” She cries, little pathetic sobs finding their way from her throat, “Me and Harry are going to go now, and neither of you will ever have to see me again.”

When the words fall from Y/n’s mouth, Harry’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. She can’t be serious—she can’t mean what she’s saying.

How could Harry live without seeing her? He’d never be able to forgive himself for letting it get far enough to where Y/n is going to leave him and never think of coming back. No, the thought of that just can’t be possible.

“No.” He whimpers, watching her as she turns away from them, “Baby, please don’t.” 

His hands loosen around Gemma’s wrists in defeat. His whole body is paled and his eyes are brimmed with tears and refusing to blink. 

He just lost everything.

“I never want her back in this goddamn house, Harry, I swear—”

“Do you realize what you just did to me?” He chokes out a sob, his hand reaching to the overwhelming pain in his chest. “You just ruined me, Gemma. I—I’m—She was everything to me, you don’t understand.”

And he really can’t find it within him to stay long enough to listen to what she has to say. She just ruined his life—his life is completely ruined and he’s never felt so utterly lost in his entire life.

He walks out of Gemma’s door without looking back, not daring to do anything but speed up his pace when he sees Y/n sobbing against the car door, her body shaking and eyes soaked with tears.

Nothing is making sense, everything he thought he knew is falling apart. The life he’s built himself is crumbling beneath him, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

When Y/n is only a few feet away from him, he grabs onto her wrists so tight and rams her into his chest. His movements are nothing short of desperate and he needs her to know how much he needs her, now more than ever.

He needs her to know that he physically can’t live without seeing her again. She means more to him than anything he’s ever had and he refuses to let her walk away from what they have. He won’t let it happen.

He won’t.

He grabs her face so that he can look at her, and the pain in her eyes makes him want to rip his heart out of his own chest. She can’t look at everything she’s ever loved and know she has to walk away from it. 

“You didn’t mean that, Y/n. You are not fucking leaving me, there is no way in hell I’m letting that happen.”

His hands are running feverishly down her hair, his eyes practically pleading for her to just come back to him. 

But he needs to understand.

“Harry—“

“Not over my fucking sister, Y/n. Please, you can’t do that to me. You can’t.”

She squeezes her eyes shut—the only way she can think rationally because she can’t think properly when she looks at him. It hurts too much.

 How in the world is she going to do this? It’s either she stays with Harry and he loses the person who means most to him, or she leaves Harry and lives the rest of her life alone because she can’t find love in anybody else.

She almost considers staying with him. Almost. But there is no way she can stay together with him and live her entire life being hated by somebody who means more to Harry than she does. She just can’t.

“She’s right, Harry. This whole thing—all of this is a mistake. We’re too different, this isn’t right.” She sobs.

She really doesn’t mean it, but she does believe that there is some truth behind her words. They should have known this was never going to work out, no matter how much they do love each other. 

Love can’t always win.

“No!” Harry barks, pressing his forehead so hard onto hers he wouldn’t be shocked if he broke his skull from it. “You don’t dare say that shit to me. You don’t say that to me.”

Y/n shakes her head, pushing him off of her as hard as she could. It breaks her heart to not feel him pressed up against her, but she needs to do this for both of their sake.

“That’s your sister, the way she spoke to me.”

“I don’t care. I’ll never let her in again, she won’t have any fucking sense in this, baby. Nothing will get in our way.”

But she just can’t.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry swears he feels his heart ripping in half at her words. His body feels completely detached, like every bone is breaking and all he has left to do is fall in front of her. He holds onto her legs like it’s his last hope. His sobs draining out everything in his head and all he can fucking feel is the mix of his heart being taken right out of his chest and her hands running softly through his hair.

“Please, Y/n.” Is the only thing is brain can muster: Please, please, please. Any source of desperation to keep her with him, that’s the only thing his brain can register.

He grips onto her legs tighter, his forehead pressed against her knees. He feels her tug at his hair, hears her cry and curse under her breath. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Please.”

She sighs, one last cry ripping from her.

“I can’t.”

[toclaireify]

OneHunna Truths

1.       I’m a terrible dancer.

2.       While I was in Europe, I explored every old church that I could. Not for religious purposes. Mostly because I found such peace and beauty within them.

3.       I’m not a nice person before my morning coffee.

4.       I can’t sit normally. Usually I have to be curled up in a ball or have one leg tucked under the other.

5.       I always crave fruit and sushi when I’m hungover.

6.       I’m probably the most easily scared person on the face of the planet.

7.       Don’t look for validation in other people.

8.       Graduating scared me shitless. I always had a plan or next step, and for the first time in my life, I was just taking it one step at a time.

9.       I wish I could be a pseudo-adult forever.

10.   Whenever I get really drunk, I snore really loud.

11.   I only have tolerance for very few people.

12.   The last episode of Dawson’s Creek is the only thing that can make me cry.

13.   I hate wearing shoes, but I love their aesthetic

14.   I’m so lucky to have a friend like Daniel. He writes me motivational emails and makes the best playlists.

15.   I constantly crave Panera salads.

16.   Life is too short to drink shitty wine.

17.   I fell in love with an Oxford boy in England.

18.   I’m terrified that I peaked at 21.

19.   I got finessed into buying an up-and-coming rapper $200 worth of polo while I was blacked out.

20.   I get in fights with homeless people and overly aggressive males.

21.   I’ve seen Matt Nathanson live 6 times, and met him three times. You could say he’s my favorite human being on the planet.

22.   Post graduate depression is a very real thing.

23.   I never text first.

24.   Lots of people know me as a social butterfly, but in all actuality, I am a huge socially awkward introvert.

25.   This past year has definitely been one of self-discovery and new experiences.

26.   I don’t think I’ll experience any better years than the ones I spent in my undergrad at WVU.

27.   The funny thing is, I was never supposed to end up there, yet that is the place where I became the person I believe I was meant to be.

28.   I’ve worked at Gap for five years, holy shit.

29.   I’m obsessed with getting my nails done.

30.   I traveled to a foreign country for two weeks, didn’t tell my parents, and got away with it.

31.   I’m still on a journey of discovering my own self-worth.

32.   This dude who interned with me last semester tried to make out with me while I was blacked out eating a hotdog at Joe’s.

33.   Fuck the Domain.

34.   I’ve been trying to be more creative like painting and writing and shit. It’s not going very well so far.

35.   Boys have cooties.

36.   Stephanie Rochelle is the North West to my Penelope Disick.

37.   Living in 813 has been my favorite living situation thus far.

38.   My heart cannot fully express how much I adore my Evans Street boys.

39.   Home would suck without Sarah and Coop.

40.   I’ve done way more drugs than I probably should have.

41.   I lost my phone in a club in London, and it was one of the most traumatic moments of my life.

42.   Friends who have good taste in music are friends for life.

43.   I failed all my classes while studying abroad because I would skip all the time to travel instead.

44.   Not a day goes by that I don’t miss living in England. I miss all my friends so much.

45.   I enjoy spelling out obscene messages on diy party banners.

46.   Listen to Bodega Boys.

47.   One of the biggest compliments you can pay me is saying you want to drink with me, and trust me, I get that a lot.

48.   Mix orange juice with a 40oz. You won’t regret it.

49.   Don’t worry, I’m still obsessed with wine.

50.   Every time I go to Bent Willy’s, I black out.

51.   Black Lives Matter.

52.   Sometimes you just gotta dance it out to ‘I Wanna Dance’ by Whitney Houston.

53.   I low-key wanna be best friends with Schoolboy Q’s cousin because all he does is drive around downtown LA and drink lean.

54.   Lil B follows me on twitter.

55.   Gin and tonic has become my drink of choice.

56.   My parents illegally opened up my mail and discovered I had $5,500 worth of credit card debt.

57.   I left Joe Mama’s to go hook up with a dude, and then came back to the bar an hour later.

58.   One of the best talents I possess is being able to roll up a yoga mat perfectly symmetrical.

59.   I fall in love with strangers daily.

60.   I downloaded tinder for two weeks, but got rid of it because it was just way too much.

61.   I wish I had enough money to go where I want to go and do the things I want to do.

62.   I’m convinced that I am my biggest obstacle in life. No matter how much I want to achieve my goals, I often find that the only thing holding me back is myself and my fear.

63.   My biggest guilty pleasure is BuzzFeed. Send me a quiz so I know it’s real.

64.   Children are the strangest creatures on the planet. I can’t believe I ever was one.

65.   I obsess over other people’s animals because I no longer have any of my own.

66.   I just really fucking love food.

67.   I’ll always wonder why I was never good enough.

68.   Sometimes I wonder if Michael and Suzanne are aware that they gave birth to the baddest bitch in West Virginia.

69.   I love reading my horoscope, no matter how corny they are.

70.   Some days I feel like I would never be happy not being single. Other days, I kind just wanna get cuffed.

71.   When, I eat pepperoni pizza, I pick all the pepperoni off first and eat it, then I eat the actual pizza.

72.   I low-key think I have anxiety and depression, but I guess I’ve managed it pretty well on my own so far?

73.   I feel like I can definitely feel energies around me. Like positive and negative energies. Uneasiness. Stuff like that.

74.   I honestly don’t think I’ll ever have as good a group of friends than I have right now.

75.   I crave financial independence. But it’s a lot harder than I ever thought it would be.

76.   They say I’m the queen of Morgantown, and they’re not wrong.

77.   More than anything, I just don’t want to lose my spark.

78.   I love hanging out in libraries.

79.   I’m not comfortable with staying in the same place for very long. I’m always looking forward to being anywhere different than where I am at any given time.

80.   Shameless is probably the best show I’ve watched in a really long time.

81.   I own an obscene amount of wine glasses, and none of them match.

82.   Tumblr is my favorite form of social media. I don’t ever post anything, but I’ll spend hours reblogging stuff.

83.   I only recently learned how to contour and do my brows. I love doing my makeup, but I suck at it.

84.   Also, I fucking hate doing my hair. Mostly because I suck at that too.

85.   I think my father is low-key ashamed of me because I’m anti everything he believes in.

86.   And Suzanne is afraid to talk about politics in front of me because she’ll know I’ll come in with wild hot takes that make her uncomfortable.

87.   So clearly I’m the only liberal in my family.

88.   Don’t ever get a credit card. Or four. They will ruin your life.

89.   But fuck capitalism, amiright?

90.   I’m not good at dealing with confrontation.

91.   The only channel on TV that’s worth watching is Viceland.

92.   I honestly love being in school. It gives me a ton of structure, and I just really like to learn.

93.   I don’t believe that “everything happens for a reason” bullshit.

94.   I was meant to be a wine mom in another life.

95.   “IDK I’m just out here” has basically been my life for the past six months.

96.   At the end of the day we all just want to matter.

97.   I never feel like I get enough sleep.

98.   Student loans are the new housing market bubble.

99.   I took me A LOT longer than what I wanted to write this. I started in August of 2016 and just now ended in February 2017, but I think you can definitely see the progression of my thoughts over those months.

100. Every year, these never get old. But sometimes it’s hard for me to come up with stuff. Mostly because it’s hard for me to be honest to myself. But if anything, you should always tell the truth, to the people you value most in life and yourself.