#and in the end should all go to the purpose of being a spreadsheet

[unityrain24]

my statistics professor is. requiring us to take notes in MICROSOFT EXCEL?!!?!?

[cruel-simmer]

So I've never done anything like this before and idk what possessed me to do it now but here we are I guess! Each generation of this challenge is inspired by a Doctor Who (2005-) companion! Some generations are more strict or packed with things to do than others. Same with how closely they stick to the life of the companions - some things are accurate, some stuff is loosely based Currently there's 11 generations with the final one being Dan Lewis plus three bonus generations. I will be updating this challenge with future companions (Ruby etc) whenever their time on the main show comes to an end. I will also be making a TS3 version of this as soon as I can that I will update this post to include a link to Check out a spreadsheet checklist version of the challenge HERE. It is simplified slightly for ease so if you plan on doing this challenge make sure to read through the full requirements below first so you don't miss anything! If you do this challenge and plan on posting it I'd love if you used #tscompanionlegacy so I can see it LAST UPDATE 10/06/24 (keep reading for details)

UPDATES 10/06/24

Complete Yaz generation overhaul

Three bonus generations (Jack, River, Nardole) added

Misc typo corrections

Changed Martha generation degree

Some generation colour switches

Heirs don't need to be the same gender, sexuality etc as the character their generation is inspired by

Normal or long lifespan is recommended

Use as few cheats as possible

All asterisk (*) mark generation requirements are optional

As your heirs age up, give them the required traits in the order that they're listed

Each generation has a colour (assigned mostly based on an outfit that the companion wears in the show) and you can use it as much or little as you like

There is a connection between each generation in their descriptions but you could ignore them and do the legacy in a random order if you wanted to

If baby specifics aren't mentioned anywhere in the generation rules assume you can have as many or few as you like as long as you have at least one to continue to legacy

Basically all of this is just a guide, you should just do what you want in order to get the most fun out of this challenge

You aren't sure what you're doing with your life. You have a tiny home, a rubbish part-time job and no real plans for the future. You're starting to think that's what your whole life is going to consist of until one day you begin to notice the new town you've moved into might be called StrangerVille for a reason. People are acting weird and keeping secrets and no one seems to wants to sort it out so you decide the person to do that will be you. This hunt for answers gives you new purpose and kick starts a love for all things science and aliens.

Aspiration: StrangerVille Mystery Traits: Jealous, Outgoing, Generous Career: Retail Employee, Scientist World: StrangerVille Colour: Pink

Live in the StrangerVille trailer park at least until your aspiration is complete

Work a part-time job as a Retail Employee

Complete the StrangerVille Mystery aspiration before becoming an Adult

Join the Scientist career ASAP after completing aspiration

Create a portal and visit Sixam

Have at least one alien baby with an alien

*Max the logic skill

*Complete the Alien collection

*Reach the top of the Scientist career

If growing up with a Scientist parent, an Alien sibling and the stories of how your parent freed StrangerVille taught you anything it's there's a lot of stuff out there that needs finding, containing and keeping track of. So you decide to make it your job to ensure that happens! It's not your whole life though. There are other things important to you as well, like love and adventure, and you do your best to make sure your job doesn't take over and leave no time for those other things.

Aspiration: Academic Traits: Genius, Romantic, Self-Assured Career: Military (Covert Operator Branch) World: Oasis Springs Colour: Dark Red

If you are an Alien, be stealthy about it in public/at work

Get a Psychology degree

Fall in love with someone who loves someone else more

Go on at least four vacations in your lifetime

Marry a co-worker

Have one child

*Max the research and debate, fitness and logic skills

*Reach the top of the Military career

*Complete the Academic aspiration

Your young adult life doesn't start out as being what you thought it would be - there's an incident with a partner who turns out to be Evil, you can't find a full-time job, living with your parents long past when they envisioned you'd be living with them starts to break down your relationship - but somewhere down the line it starts working out. You find passion in a job you're good at, a stable relationship that makes you happy, and a child you dedicate your life to protecting. You do still get under your parents feet but they don't mind as much now that you're making something of yourself.

Aspiration: Super Parent Traits: Mean, Loyal, Family-Oriented Career: Retail Employee, Tech Guru (Start-Up Entrepreneur Branch) World: Oasis Springs, then Any Colour: Light Brown

Live with your parents until they die and if you want to move out of Oasis Springs you have to wait until they die to do it

Have a rocky relationship with parents from YA onwards until you get married

Play the lottery regularly

Get into a relationship with an Evil Sim and be the one to propose to them

Either get left at the altar or have your partner die before you get married

Find a new partner and marry them

Join Tech Guru career only once you're dating your future spouse

Have one child but only after marriage

*Max the programming and parenting skills

*Reach the top of the Tech Guru career

*Complete the Super Parent aspiration

*The beginning of the next two generations are quite same-y so if you don't feel like playing both of them you could just choose one path - Amy or Rory*

Despite your loving family growing up and the best friend turned significant other that worships the ground walk on, you can't help but feel there's something missing and you want more than the cozy little life that they want. You pretend for a while - there's a whirlwind proposal, wedding and pregnancy - but it's not long before it get's too much and you start putting yourself before the people around you. You don't just want to be some small town writer. You want to be a celebrity, and you want to live like one.

Aspiration: World-Famous Celebrity Traits: Creative, Noncommittal, Self-Absorbed Career: Writer (Freelance), Actor World: Chestnut Ridge then Del Sol Valley or San Myshuno Colour: Orange

*Max childhood creative skill

Have two BFFs growing up and start dating one of them as a teen

Move to Chestnut Ridge with your partner as soon as you become a YA

Get proposed to ASAP after moving out with your partner and get married within a week

Cheat on your partner once between getting engaged and married

Get pregnant on your wedding night and name your baby after your other childhood BFF

Get divorced as an Adult and have a negative relationship with your ex that you actively make worse

After the divorce, move to either Del Sol Valley or San Myshuno (with your child) and get a job as an Actor

Don't pursue another serious relationship

*Max the acting and writing skills

*Reach the top of the Actor career

*Complete the World-Famous Celebrity aspiration

Your parent points out to you how your life is shaping up to be like theirs - they had two childhood BFFs too! and started dating one of them! - and all you can think about is how badly that worked out for them and how much you want it to work out the opposite way for you. You want a big happy family, a picket fence and maybe a dog to go with it. You know just wanting it isn't enough to make it happen though so you put in work, work your more than willing to put in, to show how dedicated you are to this kind of life.

Aspiration: Soulmate Traits: Genius, Romantic, Socially Awkward Career: Doctor World: Henford-on-Bagley Colour: Light Blue

Have two BFFs growing up and start dating one of them as a teen

Move to a new world with your partner as soon as you become a YA

Propose ASAP after moving in with your partner and get married within a week

Get pregnant on your wedding night and name your baby after your other childhood BFF

Have chickens, cows and/or llamas

Go on a date with spouse at least once a week

Have at least three biological children

Adopt at least one baby/infant

*Complete the Village Fair Ribbons collection

*Max the handiness skill

*Reach the top of the Doctor career

*Complete the Soulmate aspiration

For the most part your life is average - you're a minimum wage teacher with a dead parent and your significant other is a co-worker - but then you meet a mad Scientist who you try to just stay friends with and tell your partner not to worry about but ultimately you're too drawn to them to keep away...

Aspiration: Fount of Tomarani Knowledge Traits: Bookworm, Flirty, Perfectionist Career: Babysitter, Education (Professor Branch) World: Tomarang Colour: Mustard/Gold

Have at least one parent die of something that isn't old age

Get a part-time job as a Babysitter while a teen

*Reach top of Babysitter career

Date a fellow teacher as a YA

Make friends with a Scientist and eventually cheat on your partner with them

Leave your partner for the Scientist

Have at least one day/night out in every world

Be enemies with your Scientist partner's best friend

Have your Scientist partner make at least two clones of you (it's up to you what you do with them)

Never get married

*Max the research and debate skill

*Complete the Postcards collection

*Reach the top of Education career

*Complete Fount of Tomarani Knowledge aspiration

For a while you think a Fast Food employee is all you're destined to be which is fine you guess but you were just expecting more. On a whim you apply to university and before long you're moving in, making friends, falling in love and changing your whole life!

Aspiration: Friend of the World or Good Vampire Traits: Cheerful, Foodie, Outgoing Career: Fast Food, Astronaut (Space Ranger Branch) World: Britchester, Any Colour: Purple

Get a Fast Food part-time job as a YA

Don't start university until after reaching the top of the Fast Food part-time job

Live in a Britchester shared house while at university

Become best friends with one of your professors

Make a vampire friend who later becomes an enemy

Become a vampire

Date someone at university but break up with them by the time you graduate

Get a Physics degree

Go on at least two dates with two different Sims

Go on at least two vacations with your university professor

Reconnect with your ex from university as a late adult and give up your life as a vampire

*Max the charisma, rocket science and fitness skills

*Complete the Friend of the World or Good Vampire aspiration

*Reach the top of the Astronaut career

You're known for two things - making food and making jokes. You don't go anywhere without a sacked lunch and you always have a dad joke on hand. You can't imagine why it takes you so long to find the true love of your life. And why do they have to be gone so soon?

Aspiration: Master Chef or Angling Ace Traits: Dance Machine, Glutton, Cringe Career: Culinary (Chef Branch) World: Brindleton Bay Colour: Brown

Take a sack lunch with you whenever you go out or to work

Have at least one child

Teach your heir child to ride a bike

Don't meet the true love of your life until you're an elder

Throw a big wedding party (and dance a lot)

Have your spouse die before you do (either via an 'accident' or you can just cheat it so that your spouse is a few days older)

*Max the cooking and gourmet cooking skills

*Max the fishing skill

*Complete the fish collection

*Reach the top of the Culinary career

*Complete the Master Chef or Angling Ace aspiration

As a child your parent taught you to ride a bike and it kick started your love of sports. As a teen you became Clumsy and it knocked your confidence. As a result you pursue a job in Social Media (which you definitely enjoy but it's not quite your childhood dream of being an Athlete) and spend some time not doing many active things at all for fear of failure. Over time you find confidence in yourself and decide to dive in the deep end to get back into sports by hitting the slopes in Mt Komorebi.

Aspiration: Extreme Sports Enthusiast Traits: Active, Clumsy, Bro Career: Manual Labourer, Social Media (Internet Personality Branch), Athletic (Professional Athlete Branch) World: Any, *Mt. Komorebi Colour: Teal

Have a poor relationship with your non-heir parent

Get a part-time job as a Manual Labourer as a teen

Have a basketball hoop

Don't work your on aspiration until you're at least mid-YA

Reconnect with your teen BFF as an Adult

Meet your significant other in Mt. Komorebi

*Move to Mt. Komorebi

Once your midway through you aspiration, you can quit the Social Media career to become an Athlete (but you don't have to)

Have at least two children

*Max the video-gaming or athletic skill

*Max the skiing, snowboarding or rock-climbing skill

*Complete the Simmi collection

*Reach the top of the Athletic or Social Media career

*Complete the Extreme Sport Enthusiast aspiration

You love your job but you can't help but want more. One day you meet someone who throws into a world of potions and magic and might just give you the more that you've been wanting.

Aspiration: Spellcraft and Sorcery Traits: Gloomy, Loner, Ambitious Career: Detective World: Any Colour: Red

Don't have any friends as a teen

As a YA, become BFFS with a high ranking Spellcaster and fall in love with them quickly but don't make a move (kiss) them

Become a Spellcaster

*Quit job as a Detective

Have a film night with your sibling/s once a week

Move in with your BFF

Reveal your romantic feelings (and have at least one baby baby) with your BFF late in life

*Complete the Magical Artifacts collection

*Reach the top of the Detective career

*Complete the Spellcraft and Sorcery aspiration

Helping people (and animals) has always been in your nature so no one is shocked when you move to Sulani as soon as you are able to pursue a job in conservation to not just help the few people around you but hopefully the entire town. And you do most of it with a dog at your side.

Aspiration: Friend of the Animals Traits: Good, Dog Person, Nosy Career: Conservationist World: Sulani Colour: Black

Always have at least one dog

Be BFFs with every dog you have

Be left at the altar as a YA

Marry someone else that you've known for a while as a late Adult

Donate to charity at least twice a week

Max the pet training skill

*Max logic, handiness and charisma skills

*Reach the top of the Conservationist career

*Complete the Friend of the Animals aspiration

Aspiration: Serial Romantic Traits: Kleptomaniac, Flirty, Materialistic Career: Criminal (Oracle Branch)World: AnyColour: Dark Blue

Have a child that doesn't live in your household

Have at least four close friends

Drink a Potion of Youth a few days before aging into an Elder at least once. If you're already starting on the next generation before this point then keep this heir in the household until they've drank the potion and then after that you can move them out if you want to

*Max the mischief, programming and charisma skills

*Reach the top of the Criminal career

*Complete the Serial Romantic aspiration

Aspiration: Archaeology Scholar Traits: Bookworm, Romantic, Self-Assured Career: Writer (Author Branch)World: AnyColour: White

Get a Language and Literature degree

Don't become close with your parents until you've got your degree

Spend more time exploring the jungle than writing and explore as much of the jungle as possible

Have multiple long term partners before finding 'the one'

Have at least two spouses (with the final spouse being 'the one') over the course of your life

Have a small wedding for your final marriage and invite only your immediate family

Go on a date night with your final spouse at least once a week

Don't move in with your final spouse (or any previous partner) until you're a late Adult

*Die and have your spouse bring you back to life

*Max the archaeology and writing skills

*Complete either the Ancient Omiscan artifacts or Omiscan treasures collection

*Complete the Fossils collection

*Complete the Archaeology Scholar aspiration

Aspiration: Master Maker or Fiver-Star Property Owner Traits: Childish, Maker, Paranoid Career: Freelance Crafter World: Not Henford-on-Bagley, then Henford-on-BagleyColour: Rusty Orange

Decorate your home with things you fabricated

Be a Landlord

Be a Freelance Crafter

Create and activate at least one Servo

Marry a Sim from Henford-on-Bagley and then move there

*Max the fabrication skill

*Max the robotics skill

*Complete the Master Maker aspiration

[clay-cuttlefish]

Updating the sheet has me thinking about the cameo limbo Vic's currently in, and what DC should do with him.

Vic is in this weird position where I don't really think he should be alive. He's had one appearance that was at all meaningful to his arc and one goofy oneshot since his resurrection, and it doesn't seem like anyone wants to do anything with him other than put him in bullshit spy stuff, so it kinda just feels pointless. Unlike some other ex-dead-mentors, though, it's not like him being around is a *problem* for Renee's development. Killing him off again would just be cheap, and there's no reason not to use him now that he's around. So what do you do with that?

Well. Vic died with his heroic arc complete, having passed on his legacy and made peace with his unfinished business, and now he has to figure out what to do in a world where he doesn't have a history to ground him. As a reflection of both his time seeking a purpose after Hub City and his earliest relationship with Shiva, the answer could easily be "hang out and get into trouble".

See, my annoyance with his current position is because I feel like it's kind of a waste to leave him in a dropped (I think? I might've missed something, but I'm pretty sure the Lois Lane Checkmate stuff has been ditched) team/plotline that kinda sucked, not that I'm upset he's sidelined. As much as I want to see my beloved guy, I don't actually have a problem with him showing up once a year. My ideal status quo for him, short of manifesting my stupid knockoff Birds of Prey pitch into reality, would be something like the handful of appearances in the late 90s/early 2000s where he was wandering around playing poker. No team affiliation, no grand motive, just showing up in backups and cooldown issues between major arcs.

Vic has thrived as a side character in other people's books, and it would open up a lot of possibilities if he was set up in a place where writers can pull him for an issue or two without having to figure out whether any of the Checkmate stuff is still relevant or come up with a great idea for where to take him next. It's not that he couldn't develop further, but I'd much prefer him to stay static as a roaming weirdo than to rehash old arcs or go in a direction that cheapens his existing development. It's fine for him to be a supporting character in the communal toybox now that his story has ended, and he's a lot more likely to stay in people's minds and eventually be a part of something neat if he's hanging around.

That said, there are a few things about where he is as a person that I think would be worth expanding on if he's being set loose into canon to cause problems.

The first is that I want to know how he feels about being resurrected. I'm sure his reappearance would've felt weighty to someone who was a Vic fan when it happened, and focusing on Renee's reaction to him being back in Lois Lane was definitely the right choice, but looking at his appearances as a whole it ends up feeling... almost underwhelming? That might just be because making the spreadsheet broke my brain, but it's something any substantial appearance probably has to touch on. I don't even think it's weird that he's seemingly unfazed by waking up in an alternate universe, unlike some other characters who should probably have more feelings about being resurrected by continuity jank, but I do feel like there's a lot of room to look at *why* he's so chill. Even just as a contrast to a deeper exploration of someone else having a bad time about it, there are a lot of motifs to build from, and there's a lot you could do with how his self-perception has changed after yet another metamorphosis. (Based on the scraps of pagetime he's had, I'd point it somewhere in the direction of "he's been freed from old obligations, blurring the boundary between his Vic and Charlie personas.")

i also think there's a lot you could do with his old struggles with whether he was doing the right thing or just doing violence because he enjoyed it, and how he views himself now that he's stepped into a more Shiva-like role. This isn't a new development for him, but his initial shift into a wandering mentor wasn't something he planned - he initially left Hub City out of necessity, failed to start fresh, then latched onto Helena while seeking purpose. There's some interesting weight to him getting a chance to either have a fresh start somewhere else or return to Hub City without the weight of his history, and instead choosing to fuck around and intentionally get into trouble that has nothing to do with him, without even the excuse of mentorship.

There's also the problem of continuity housekeeping. It's not really necessary for tracking who remembers him since other heroes generally have their post-crisis continuity back, but the vibe of him roaming rather than returning home change a LOT depending on which version of Hub City exists (it tends to depend on Blue Beetle continuity, which is currently fucked), if Tot and/or Myra exist, and how long Vic was dead from their perspectives. Honestly there are a lot of good options here. I love Tot and want him to be a part of Renee's supporting cast, but the idea that Vic's civilian past literally does not exist is incredibly juicy.

Other than that... idk man. Just because I think he's underused doesn't mean I think he has to be important. Use him as a plot device for anyone who needs an annoying guy to make them introspect. Do more goofy oneoff mysteries. Let me write a teamup that sucks. Put That Guy In A Situation.

[rimouskis]

How do u make your yearly budget ? I remember you posting about your budget spreadsheet once. Pls I am v interested on how you set it up

I simply must ask if you're the FBI agent in my phone, because I genuinely just sent a message to a friend saying how excited I was it's the end of the month, meaning tomorrow I get to start with a fresh new slate in my budget hahaha

alright let's talk:

I don't do a yearly budget, technically! I budget month-per-month. There are lots of styles of budgets—some allowing for a yearly/more Long Term view—but what worked for my income level was a month-based system.

I lurked on r/personalfinance on reddit for a long while and actually pilfered my budget template from there!

I use this one, which I like both because I've used it for five years and because it's just plain ol' simple. I don't need charts to automatically populate and I don't want to categorize every purchase I make. I just want to see how much money I have per month and how much I'm spending.

That's also crucial to how I personally do budgeting. I don't set aside $X for food and $X for activities and $X for going out or whatever every month. That isn't productive to me; my life looks different every month depending on what's going on. I don't use my budget to be prescriptive; outside of my fixed expenses (rent, utilities, etc.) I just use my budget to track 1. where my money is going and 2. how much of it I have left.

If you want something with a bit more frills, there are lots of other options (one, two, three) on reddit, but I've [personally] found all their bells and whistles overwhelming. If they have useful features you want to use (like, some will have tabs for you to track debt and payments toward it), you can experiment with them, but I don't recommend them for someone new to budgeting.

...I also don't inherently recommend my preferred spreadsheet, either. It doesn't work for everyone. I've shown it to some friends and they almost immediately knew it wouldn't work for them. The reason it works for me is because I am kind of neurotic about budgeting.

To me, "peace of mind" is maintained by having a really close eye on my finances. That means that I track what I spend daily. I manually input every purchase into the spreadsheet. I manually put every paycheck into the spreadsheet. I keep the Google Sheets app on my phone for this very purpose.

That isn't something everyone's willing to do, and there's no shame in that���we all find the different tools that work best for us! But if you don't think you're able to keep up with manually tracking every cent you make and spend, I don't think that this method will be good for you.

If you need more automation in your budgeting, where you can get things autofilled and so on and so forth, I would have pointed you towards Mint, which I've heard good things about, but it's sadly shutting down this March. The article I linked provided an alternate recommendation, but I can't personally vouch for any of those services.

I've been tempted by YNAB a time or two — I like the idea that they intentionally work you towards living off of old paychecks instead of the money you earn month-of [which is a financial goal we should ALL strive for, even though it can be very hard], and I like that they encourage giving every dollar a "job", but you don't NEED their service to do either of those things. I don't like paying money to save money, you know? lol

I keep a secondary, simple spreadsheet with my "rolling funds" in it — money I set aside every month (which I input as a monthly "expense" in my normal spreadsheet) which I allocate to specific funds, like car funds, travel funds... I even had a "hockey game fund" for a few years, haha.

I prefer that method to paying for a service to do it for me. I'm sure YNAB has some nice bells and whistles, and it's clear MANY people love being integrated into their system, which has some automated bits that definitely make budgeting "easier," but I like Ye Olde Spreadsheet. Having to input every purchase keeps me accountable, I feel. Also it sometimes discourages me from spending money, haha, which is probably a good thing in the long run.

idk. I'm a huge advocate for budgeting. I know it can be really hard for some people, but I sincerely think there's some budgeting method out there that will work for you, you know? I credit my budget spreadsheets for keeping my head above water during the many times where money was/is tight. Knowledge is power and all that.

Not to sound like a #girlboss shilling my financial advice on tiktok (of which there are too many), but being aware of where your money is going is sincerely the biggest, most important step you can take towards building financial safety for yourself. My budget saved my ass this last year.

If you have any other questions, shoot them my way. I know it can seem daunting, but I totally think it's worth it! <3

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Oooh. For the prompts 22. Playful arguments please!

Let's do it! I'm being romantic about summer and baseball rn so here we go.

___

Children splashed in the Talucci pool with alternating shrieks and giggles, the displacement of water creating cool air where the July sun had been only oppressive when everyone had first arrived. Jane hadn’t been around that many Italians since her cousin Rita’s wedding three years prior, and she was drunk on familiarity, on culture comforts.

And also, honestly, on beer. 

And when Jane was drunk on beer, in the summer, surrounded by Italians, she liked to argue. Good naturedly, of course, and with anyone that would give her the time of day. Tommy was up flirting with the roommate that Marisa Talucci brought over, two med school girls he had zero chance with, so it wouldn’t be him, and Frankie sat right next to Jane, but he was also drunk and when drunk he liked to laugh. So he was a no go.

That didn’t matter, however, because this Independence Day, while cousin Danny and his kid stuffed their faces at the table next to her, Jane had the perfect interlocutor right across. She pointed the rim of her half-drained bottle in that direction. “I think you’re nuts,” she said, continuing the banter she’d started a few minutes before.

Maura, who had indulged Jane because she too may have had one too many beers and one too few glasses of water, gasped. She folded her arms over her bikini top and leaned in, tossing one of the peanuts in the bowl near the center of the table at Jane’s face. It landed, and Jane’s reflexes were too delayed to stop it. Frankie bellowed out a laugh. “How could you possibly counter? OPS combines two of the most basic offensive metrics in one to provide one of the strongest predictors of production! Only the top one half of one percent of the league has a superior OPS. Every single one of those players are perennial all-stars!” Maura shouted, though the din of family fun and sizzling barbecue tempered the sharpness of it.

“I dunno Janie, I think she’s got you. Remember when Mookie led the AL in OPS? MVP caliber year,” Cousin Danny said around a mouthful of hot dog. 

“Who asked you?” Jane whipped around, motioning for him to zip it. But when she turned her sights back on Maura, she grinned wickedly. She wore her navy road alternate jersey, the one she didn’t mind getting dirty, unbuttoned over her own bikini top, simple black to Maura’s deep, rich red. She leaned back when Maura leaned in, and probably on purpose: it showed off all the musculature she worked so hard for, the musculature that often set Maura off-kilter. “Anyway, here’s what I’m saying: you have a stat that has been around since the beginning of time that basically tells you the same damn thing.”

“Oh?” asked Maura, dripping with superiority. She held back a scoff only because she wanted another sip.

Jane sucked her teeth at the daintiness of that sip. At the pink pout cradling the lip of the bottle.

“Yeah - total bases,” she said as if Maura should have thought of it before. “The more total bases the better. Ya don’t need equations or averages or any of that. Ya just need to know how many knocks a guy got and how many bases each knock counted for. I guarantee ya that tells ya as much as a guy’s slug.”

Maura paused, blinked, clearly unsure if she saw Jane’s point or if the alcohol was seeing it for her. “Well, I…”

At that moment, a particularly large twelve year old kid cannonballed into the deep end just a few feet away, and the water on everyone’s feet at the table gave Jane a wet idea. “Wanna bet? Let’s go inside. I know Carla’s got the family computer in Marisa’s old room. We can do a whole spreadsheet right. Fuckin’. Now.” 

Maura dropped her mouth open at the audacity, and then at the implication. They’d be alone. In a bedroom. Collecting data sets. Arguing. “I do want to bet. Lead the way.”

Frankie only rolled his eyes when they shot up from the table and burst through the sliding glass door to the house. Another beer it was, then.

[eaymtb]

It's three weeks today since I last wrote a chapter and I'm feeling weirdly anxious about that fact, like. I've taken accidental long breaks before, but never longer than 14 days and never on purpose and I'm just. It feels bad? XD It feels bad. And it's not an obligation thing, or an external expectations thing, or a productivity thing. It's something internal that I can't quite explain. I suppose in a way it's good, that not writing feels wrong somehow. It's a little like that feeling when I know I've forgotten something really important but can't remember what. Except I know what it is in this case. But it's similar to that, that looming 'what am I not doing, what important thing am I not doing? oh no.'

It's undoubtedly exacerbated by having just collated my word count tracking into a tab on the spreadsheet. I've been tracking up to this point by posting screenshots each time I post a chapter in a discord server I share with a friend as a progress/update/be my cheerleader bitch kind of thing. So this is the first time I've actually seen it all laid out neatly, all together, after scrolling back through that channel and collecting all the data. I had a Moment when I re-calculated the monthly word total for April. It was under 30k and I was so sure I'd hit my goal for that month. But I'm also really bad at math, so the possibility I'd just messed up adding my word counts as I was going was very real. Until I remembered the goal was 25k so yes, yes I did in fact hit that goal, lol. It's super cool that eaymtb is over 100k now, I never thought I'd write something that long. But the monthly word count goals are what's satisfying. Probably because those are challenges and goals I can actually set for myself and meet. I didn't end up making the 30k goal for May. I kind of did on a technicality if I count the catwin fic I posted. But I'm not counting it because that feels like cheating. So, nope, didn't make May's word count goal. Sad forever!

Actually I think I might be freaking out over June being empty of data? God my mental health is so fucking weird. I can't tell if it's an anxiety thing or an autistic thing. Both, probably. Apparently my nervous system thinks I'm going to fucking die if I don't have at least one thing to put in June. XD

Okay, well, I guess I'm going to have to see about writing the next chapter then. Slowly, though, I've got two weeks left of my self-prescribed break, so I can potter and take my time instead of sprinting.

Edit: Oh LOL. TMI probably, but I just realized all my longer breaks (10 days in Feb, 14 in April, 11 May, all coincide with my PMS/period cycle, which makes perfect sense. March was a random easy, low pain cycle which happens sometimes, which is probably why that break was only 6 days. This is why I love collating data. It makes what should be an obvious pattern actually apparent.

[justoneofthoseghosts]

Granted I got excited for the Chenford train but I'm slowly coming down from the high with how the writers choosing to go forward with their writing. I'm not sure about you but I don't think taking a desk job like Tim is doing is romantic at all. Granted there are sacrifices and compromises that need to be made in relationships but when you make those sacrifices that affect your career, I don't find anything romantic by it. What would people say if it were Lucy who agreed to take a desk job so she could continue to see Tim. I'd hope there would be an uproar.

I'm a WOC fan so I was actually excited for two POC leading a romantic pairing with Chris and Lucy. Something we rarely see on tv.

Okay, get ready for some potentially hot (and likely unpopular) takes.

I’ve been slowly transitioning to being a more casual viewer of The Rookie. It’s still a fun show that I watch because it offers me some mindless way of decompressing after a long day of eye rolling and glaring at spreadsheets but I haven’t been all that invested in Chenford anymore. I mean, love that the fandom finally gets canon Chenford after years. Good for everyone who waited so patiently. To each their own, right?

Honestly, I kind of found the writing last season to be a bit wishy washy. There weren’t any really any big Chenford moments (outside of the premiere) until the finale and even then, it sort of came out of the blue. I like my slow burn piled on with a lot of feelings, pining, anticipation, stolen looks - you know, the works - so I was a tiny bit disappointed in how the writers developed the relationship overall. Introducing love interests that weren't really needed in my opinion. Ashley was a barely fleshed out character and while Chris had some potential, the writers didn't really think of him that much. I felt like both the LIs lacked purpose and even how both relationships ended felt off.

Also, don’t really like how they seemed to have retconned Tim’s character. He basically refused to write Lucy up for “losing” the earrings because he couldn’t remain objective. IDK but that doesn’t seem very Tim circa season 1. I don’t find it romantic. It feels a bit patronizing.

Lucy is and will always be my favorite character on this show. I hope she gets better storylines that revolve less around her and Tim. Also, they should write in Oscar more often. I enjoyed him in the last episode!

I do hope we see more POC pairings not just on this show but in others. I agree that there is a serious lack of it and it's something that writers, networks and producers could do much better on.

Now, let me duck back into my cave before I get pelted with tomatoes by the fandom ✌🏻

[caughtthedarkness93]

It's actually something that kind of bothers me about a decision made in the Fallout show. I largely liked a lot about it, but there was a creative choice it made that feels wrong in the context of everything else that happens, that being the reveal that (Spoilers start) Vault-Tec launched the first bomb.

It's something that feels kind of silly because part of Vault-Tec's deal is that while the vaults held up in the war, their use as social experiments kind of implies they were made under the assumption that Vault-Tec could use fear to string rich people along while taking their money bit by bit, and then do research on them on the side for whatever nefarious purposes. All Vault-Tec does by starting a nuclear apocalypse is increase the likelihood that 1, there are no people in the future to give them money, and 2, that in the future, Vault-Tec does not exist. And like corporations make dumb decisions all the time, yeah, but the decision that Vault-Tec is making here is so catastrophically stupid in so many ways and runs so counter to what they actually want that it strains believability.

And moreover, I feel like it undercuts the themes of the series in general that we have any information at all about who actually dropped the bombs. It advances some heavy anti-corporate themes, yeah, but those are already everywhere in Fallout. You can't shake a stick in any given wasteland without hitting an office building you can explore to find stories about a corporation that fucked over its employees or customers or both. Vault-Tec alone is responsible for some truly heinous things that the games do not mince words about. You step foot in any non-control vault, and you'll see how bad it is in seconds.

And the harm it does to the themes about war and violence in the series are, I feel, immeasurable. Because it's my opinion that the question of who dropped the bombs should go unanswered because it's ultimately not important. There was already a vicious, horrible war being fought using terrifying new weapons on both fronts. Both powers involved in these wars had become horrific totalitarian surveillance states and had taken up aggressively imperialistic tactics, annexing and conquering neighboring countries, drumming up aggressive nationalism, and warring over what remaining resources they hadn't strip-mined rather than trying to cooperate. And in the end, each power became so violently entrenched in a conflict that could have been alleviated through diplomacy that they wound up consuming the very resources they were warring over en masse.

The point is that the war dehumanized both sides so catastrophically that, functionally, there was little difference between them anymore. It doesn't matter who dropped the first bomb. It was only the last thing in a long string of events that were hurtling towards apocalypse anyway.

Fallout understands and has always understood that corporate greed and war are tied together, but in this case, I feel it's important that the bombs dropping aren't an act of greed, but of desperation. An overwhelming act of hail-Mary violence, the need to destroy your enemy even though you know that it will destroy you too. Extinction before defeat.

There are always those who will try to profit from the atmosphere those situations create. And there are always those who will try to profit by selling the ashes after the fires die down.

But greed is only partially the greatest sin of war. The other is wrath. The hate that leads you to destroy the enemy at any cost, your soul be damned, the nationalistic arrogance that says that your cause is just no matter how much land you have to sully with blood to advance it, the fear that turns you into the very thing you swear to fight back against in the name of winning. The human lives that become numbers on a spreadsheet, tragedies, families in tears, coffins in the ground, white headstones in a row - all excusable as long as they stay within the right margins.

The same challenges that face the people of the Wasteland 200 years later.

After all, war never changes

Todd Howard’s brain is equal parts American idolatry, stupidity, and a pathological need to lie

[bi-lunita]

When I was a kid my mother told me “your dad is a chameleon” because he could make friends with almost anyone. But these friendships he made were mostly surface and were about him figuring out the things he had in common with those people and really leaning into. As I get older I realize that I too am a chameleon. I can get along with many different types of people by putting many different types of traits on. By fitting into certain molds and seeming more appealing. My dad and I don’t do this on purpose. I learned to do it to survive, because a friend and ally is always better than an enemy. But being a chameleon only works for so long. I do not hold friends groups and instead bounce around. My surface traits really on working on keeping surface level relationships. I don’t remember who I was or who I’m supposed to be. The things I do that come naturally aren’t “normal”. Kids don’t find new ways to organize their Pokémon cards every time they get a new pack. Teenagers don’t normally wait to join a game and start by making a spreadsheet of everything they think would be perfect. Adults don’t fidget or impulsively rawr or have to reorganize the way their folders are placed or have to wait until the clock strikes that :00 mark on any hour to start a task or drop things even though they were holding them two seconds go or a million other things that I do. That I’ve been told isn’t normal. But my dad lets out a high pitched squeal when he’s excited. My dad is blocked and can’t start anything when he’s stressed. My dad likes to keep all his old documents organized in perfect files and if you break his organization than it’s a hoarding issue cause he doesn’t know how to classify it. My dad can get overly angry about what is right and what just doesn’t make sense. My dad is kind and made us breakfast everyday. My dad smiles even when things go wrong. My dad tells you it’s gonna be okay. My dad ends every call with “Are you happy? Good. That’s the only thing that matters”. My dad isn’t perfect. He’s a chameleon. He’s never fully himself and got lost somewhere along the way. My dad isn’t always normal or nice. But my dad loves us, he cares for us. My dad wants to do the right thing. He isn’t perfect, but he’s trying. So maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be like my dad. Maybe instead of hating being a chameleon, instead of feeling like Im never me, maybe I should remember that every shade of color I express is still me. Maybe a chameleon is me expressing every color inside.

[meanwhileinstasiville]

SNES9x

Back when I was a computer geek, for real, in the late 90s, I used renaming all the registry keys as a sort of defensive measure. Some enterprising hackers know how that works (or worked, I should say, because of how long ago that was), but they couldn’t ever hope to get around the entire system. I named them according to an internally consistent system, known to me. And beyond. But...and this is important to people today; agents of government aren’t phased by this stuff. Any FBI agent worth their salt would lookup the MBR and file table to see where all those things were still located in machine code, and how the APIs were call/answering. A long time ago. When dial-up was “fast internet”. Notably, “someone” managed to remote corrupt the TCP/IP stack, which was all the more impressive because my machine was running a winmodem (look it up, sort of beyond the scope here). Also, aggravating. 

As I was seriously involved in working with emulators (because they were experimental at best, and not so reliable), it’s possible “one of those guys” in the development community, took something out for a test drive pathing networks (I used UDP (again, look it up) because my connection was slow and rural and unreliable; a port scan wouldn’t care, but that’s a pretty complicated thing to be doing after “following” a lot of unrouted packets that were running into other packets. There’s a moral to this story, that I’m getting to. Whereby “back doors” (often installed at the behest of government, but not always) were all the rage, and kind of the standard back then, they call that system “rainbow tables” now days. 

A friend who was years later consulting for some certain letter agencies, sort of broached that particular subject in discussing, “rainbow covers most internet traffic, except for a tiny area, and so they’ll just look there” as a sort of “I can look at anything you can do remotely” for any or no reason at all (it was my best friend, so I didn’t much mind). After I had stopped doing the kinds of things those “implementations” are seeking to find, ironically. Screengrabbing and keylogging was the “poor man’s rainbow table” back in the day, but we never talked about that. (A movie called Sneakers begged the question of “who was going to be who” among us, a long, long time ago).

And the moral??? Ok, ok. America today is really big on something called “bittorrent” which needs no introduction, and has also been mentioned on this blog a time or two. We’re not fooling anybody with file sharing. After “Usenet” (also, look it up) was used by *extremely privileged whites* to circulate software, extrajudicially I might add, because computers cost 5k or more and internet was a super exclusive privilege within that privilege, of people for whom many “registered users” (if you can imagine that, because there was a fee, not unlike demonoid) were developing the software themselves. What became the biggest names in software. Microsoft, Apple, Adobe, Norton, and too many to name over a decade or so. Sharing software among people that they thought could “give it a once over”, for beta-testing/free debugging purposes. And so, a list of releases ended up being circulated and forgotten among people who were always the “leading edge” of the technology in question. Of course there are leaks. Some kids share some cool toys with other kids, because they’re all wealthy, so who cares. Software gets traded for drugs. Sexual favors. Becomes a sort of ubiquitous free-when-circulated underground. And open secret. 

(any FTP protocol becomes a means for “everyone to be on the same page” with current software because nobody can afford all the important kinds)

A network of file traders is how some (perhaps most) computer users for a solid couple decades, came to have word processors AND spreadsheets. And databases. And “Multimedia” development skills and capabilities. And multiplayer computer games (from handing out disks at LAN parties and then going home). 

>A digital distribution system for media could never have existed without file trading<

Audio gets small with compressed sound files. Somehow (this was my experience) cracked (look it up) executables allow CD-bound software to be executed without the CD in the drive. I wanted to play Mechwarror 2, which had a GREAT soundtrack, while listening to Metallica after I’d been playing it for a long time. Cracks (not “hacks” of course because they thought a different word would fly under FBI scrutiny) allow some software where one of the “songs” is the data track, to be run flawless with no disc. Cracks give way to greater “warez” (I call it juarez) no-CDs. A distinction without a difference, except a so-called “no-CD” allows a software accustomed to running from regular disc access, to be copied to hard disk and run from there (Mechwarrior 2 was designed to be “installed” that way by the developer “but the movies look incredible” they said of the 300-odd megabyte installation in the days where a gigabyte drive was respectable). Some time after, DSL gives way to cable “broadband” circa 2000, disk drives get huge, software stabilizes around 650mb compact disk, size. This marks “when the dotcom boom” was OVER. 

When only corporations paid for software, and media for the most part, even after napster (that I never used for reasons close to the beginning of this story) went down, because napster gave way to like a hundred alternatives. And usenet was still around. Americans who couldn’t suddenly afford to buy a used car (what computers were going for in the dotcom era) every year or so, still can’t do it even after the dotcom era ends and everything cheapens. Cellphones are like a thousand dollars, when a “dime-store” as I had discussed in another post, computer runs 5-700. Additional dollars. And they don’t become true computers for like fifteen years. Apple makes iPod in the intervening years (internetPoliceOfficerDetective) a company now headed by Time Cook. Apple doesn’t understand why selling music at a dollar (or so, it was a long time ago) doesn’t amount to how people want tens of gigabytes in iPod storage. 

Those napster alternatives I had mentioned, for all kinds of files.

Apple doesn’t go on to *ever acknowledge* that Creative Nomads were sold to the *same people* as Apple Ipods. As of a *couple years ago* they took the iTunes store offline to create a subscription service in its place; the public action that admitted (confessed???) that Ipods had long been “populated” with music from file trading networks. Because Ipods are expensive, and come empty. After Steve Jobs had been dead for some time. Even Microsoft, long fence-rider in the “computers in the home are for rich people, software needs to be circulated for free outside corporate sectors”, confessed to knowing about Wine Is Not Emulation, the Microsoft Windows API translation system, the *whole damn time*. In the vaguest way possible, to avoid being forced to legal action by the government against a technology that they wanted to exist but couldn’t develop. 

A moral of this story is two-fold. A lot of poor people are crafty. Americans by and large, cannot afford computer ownership, and also mobile phone ownership, at the same time as software required to be “plugged into” the digital world. They can’t afford physical media containing digital media (hence Apple’s open admission that iTunes was a pipe-dream at worst, and imperfect solution at best). Subscription services are all the rage among corporations, since “apps” and similar dollars-for-executables create a divide worthy of a digital fiefdom, which, at present, looks to become a digital landed gentry. Colonial American founders circulated what (*cough* contraband *cough* privateering) in order they become a sort of landed gentry worthy of a revolutionary war of independence?

A long read, yeah. The story is still going though. 

[anachronistic-falsehood]

homestuck penis ouija: tntduo edition

QUACKITY: Ok8y, look, it’s perfectly simple.  KAHRRL: oh NO you ARE not DRAWING another SHIPPING grid DUDE QUACKITY: No no no, it’s not 8 grid, just 8 schedule.  KAHRRL: look WE’VE already ESTABLISHED that YOU’RE going TO end UP flushed FOR everyone JUST deal WITH it QUACKITY: No no no I’m gonna m8ke this WORK WILBUR: No, that’s a grid. You’re drawing a god damn grid. This is a shipping grid.  QUACKITY: Ok8y LOOK HERE QUACKITY: These 8re the d8ys of the week. We e8ch h8ve rows for those d8ys 8nd we c8n dr8w 8 he8rt, sp8de, or di8mond for 8ny given d8y.  QUACKITY: M8ybe even 8 club since K8hrrl 8nd I 8re in the m8rket for 8 new 8uspictice KAHRRL: OH my GOD QUACKITY: Th8t w8y, we know wh8t’s up in 8dv8nce 8nd c8n 8void 8ny possible conflicts. 

WILBUR: Put the fucking pen down.  QUACKITY: Hey, cut it out! Don’t touch me! WILBUR: Do not draw a shipping grid, do NOT do it.  QUACKITY: It’s not 8 shipping grid, you bulge ch8fing fuck8ss!  WILBUR: You are not drawing a shipping grid to organize our fucking dating lives.  WILBUR: That is— that is some bullshit, man.  WILBUR: Absolute bullshit, I will not stand for it

QUACKITY: This is not 8 shipping grid, this is 8 schedule to org8nize our qu8dr8nts! It’s 8 useful tool! WILBUR: You’re not drawing anything that even REMOTELY resembles a grid.  WILBUR: Do not draw an arrangement of squares or otherwise interlocking polygons QUACKITY: LET GO!!!!!!!! KAHRRL: oh MY god WILBUR: You will not draw a spreadsheet for the purpose of allocating mine and Kahrrl’s time spent with a potential mutual boyfriend.  WILBUR: That is exactly the shit I do not want to see  QUACKITY: Oh look, I just drew 8 squ8re! Get re8dy to see 8 lot more of those! WILBUR: No stop WILBUR: Do not draw any more squares I swear to god! WILBUR: Do not draw any quadrilaterals or trapezoids or rectangles or fucking n-drangles and especially as fuck not any god damned RHOMBUSES  WILBUR: I don’t want to see your lines making ANY right angles, do you understand? QUACKITY: Oh look 8nother squ8re! 8 bit wobbly but it’ll do.  WILBUR: That is the perfect example of what you should NOT be drawing.  QUACKITY: W8 here it comes! My first “ship” going into the squ8re! WILBUR: Put the fucking pen down! QUACKITY: OW! Wh8t is your problem? WILBUR: Does Sapnap know you’re doing this? QUACKITY: He will! WILBUR: How presumptuous of you to think he might be okay with being tossed into your bullshit shipping grid just because you decided to be “normal human boyfriends” now QUACKITY: Well I h8ven’t put his n8me on the grid yet, h8ve I? WILBUR: I am absolutely stunned that he understands human romance better than you do. Put the pen down, you’re messing up Ranboo’s book. 

QUACKITY: No! WILBUR: Do it QUACKITY: You suck! WILBUR: I haven’t sucked a single thing in my life what are you on about QUACKITY: You smell! WILBUR: Don’t talk to me about rank smells when you smell like a— like a fucking barn!  WILBUR: Yeah, I said it! QUACKITY: My lusus dr8gged in things th8t smelled better th8n you! QUACKITY: 8nd everything he brought home w8s either 8 de8d 8nim8l or liter8l feces! WILBUR: Yeah well that’s dumb and stupid just like you now gimme the pen QUACKITY: No, it’s mine now. I’m keeping it.  WILBUR: Quackity! Whoa, man what are you doing? WILBUR: Why are you drawing all these human dicks? WILBUR: How do you even know what they look like? What have you been watching??  QUACKITY: I 8M NOT DR8WING THOSE! YOU’RE M8KING ME DR8W THEM, STOP TH8T!!!!!!!! WILBUR: No way, this book is now like…  WILBUR: Our fight fueled ouija board of cock QUACKITY: 88888888RGH STOP!  QUACKITY: DON'T  QUACKITY: NO FUCK  QUACKITY: OK NO  QUACKITY: YOU DREW TH8T ONE  QUACKITY: YOU DREW TH8T ONE!!!! DON'T PRETEND YOU DIDN'T!  WILBUR: Are you sure man? WILBUR: See, that’s the spooky thing about penis ouija. You can never be sure who did the dicks.  WILBUR: Was it you or me or maybe a ghoooost??? QUACKITY: GIVE ME B8CK THE PEN! WILBUR: What? No, this is a fucking masterpiece.  WILBUR: We have to see this through.  WILBUR: We’re running out of room. Hey Kahrrl, can you turn the page for us?

QUACKITY: 88888888HHHHHH!!!!!!!! QUACKITY: This 8lterc8ion is becoming uncomfort8bly physic8l, get the FUCK 8w8y from me!!!!!!!! WILBUR: What the hell are you talking about? QUACKITY: You know EX8CTLY wh8t I’m t8lking 8bout!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Oh, shut up and draw another penis.  QUACKITY: You don’t even underst8nd the soci8l implic8ions of 8ll this hostile touching 8nd gr8bbing, do you? QUACKITY: THIS IS SO CLE8RLY C8LIGINOUS SOOT, JUST 8CKNOWLEDGE IT!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Well, if you want to look at it that way, then be my guest.  WILBUR: This is a common human ritual, don’t you know? It means we literally couldn’t give less of a fuck about each other. I don’t care about what you think is happening here.  QUACKITY: GO FUCK YOURSELF!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Stop biting my jacket.  QUACKITY: FUFCK NYOUF.  WILBUR: We’ve really made a masterpiece here today, Quackity. You should be proud of yourself QUACKITY: OK8Y, TH8T’S IT. I’M FUCKING SICK OF THIS!

WILBUR: What? WILBUR: WHOA SHIT QUACKITY: His Honour8ble Tyr8nny h8s sentenced you to life in j8cket prison. WILBUR: HNFNGMGNHNFN WILBUR: KAHRRL HELP KAHRRL: SORRY man IM not MEDIATING this F*CKING trash FIRE youre ON your OWN

[facedock]

Calling All A-Team Fans – Help Preserve Fic from Fanfiction.net

I recently reblogged a post warning that Fanfiction.net could soon be lost to us forever. In the interest of preserving fandom history, many people are taking action to save fics before the site goes down (which, as far as I can tell, could happen at any moment – could be days, could be months, could be years... could end up being totally fine, I have no idea, but I’d rather not risk it).

There are 64 pages of A-Team (TV) fanfic on Fanfiction.net.

That’s about 1,600 individual stories.

They could all be lost to us at any moment (if the author hasn’t uploaded them elsewhere, like to AO3).

In the interest of preserving our fandom’s history, I’m rallying y’all to help save these fics.

To quote from someone on that other post:

“Do it comprehensively—start on the last page and save every. Single. One. Make sure you include the header and any author’s notes. EDIT NOTHING, ONLY DOCUMENT. Yes, if that means someone misspelled something or you spot a misnamed character, you need to keep that error. If you can form a “network” with friends to save all of a fandom’s works, DO IT.”

I’m taking care of the first (er, last) page right now. I’m not sure if I’ll have the energy to do more tonight. But I’m getting started archiving just in case we lose the fics.

I’ve been copy/pasting the fics into individual Google Docs, storing them in a folder I’ve titled “Fanfiction.net A-Team Archive”, and titling them as suggested below:

“I strongly recommend using the following format for whatever you save, so it can be indexed later: fandom_fictitle_author_datefirstposted.fileextension. So for example (I’m making this fic up for demonstration purposes, don’t bother looking for it), naruto_blessing_ichigo98_07192009 would be Blessing, by ichigo98, posted in the Naruto fandom on 19 July 2009. This provides all the information needed to see if a fic has been cross posted to the AO3, and to run a search engine to see if it’s archived elsewhere.”

I’ve also been copy/pasting the fic stats from the top of the fic, and putting them in the “summary” section of the Google Doc:

I’m not saying it needs to be done this way specifically, just as long as fics are getting saved.

If you wanna join me, I’ve set up a Google spreadsheet to mark which pages have been covered.

Feel free to tackle a page and put your tumblr @ or nickname or initial it or whatever you’re comfortable with.

If you’re going to use Google Drive/Docs to save the fics, I would recommend using a spare Google account if you have one (I’m using an account I have for getting spam emails lol), so you have plenty of room in the Drive.

Note on copy/pasting: Fanfiction.net’s interface doesn’t let you copy/paste on the desktop version. So, when you open a fic, change the “www” part of the URL to “m” to bring up the mobile version. This should let you highlight and copy the text without issues. I’ve also found that, on my computer at least, scrolling to the bottom and highlighting and then dragging the mouse back up to the top of the page highlights the text a lot quicker than starting at the top and scrolling down.

And, remember, this isn’t about saving only the fics you like. It’s about preserving the creations of our fellow fans and creating an archive. So.

I don’t know what we’ll actually do with these fics later... upload them to Ao3?? That seems like something we shouldn’t do without permission from the authors, right?? But many of them may be unreachable, given that some of these fics were posted all the way back in 2000. So. Idk.

But for now, the important thing is just to make sure we have them saved.

If you have some time to spare, tackling a page or two would be cool.

Just remember to check the spreadsheet so you don’t waste time saving fics that have already been saved.

If you want to add your saved fic Docs to the same Google Drive folder, I’ve made it public and editable, so you should be able to put your Docs in there. Please don’t abuse this power lol this is about preserving fandom history, and I happen to think that matters.

EDITING TO ADD: Someone pointed out that Fanfiction.net automatically filters out “M” rated fics when you first go to a search page, so if you’re helping archive the fics, remember to go to “Filters” and change the “Rated” filter to “Rating: All”, so we’re not missing anything.

[absolutebl]

BL 2021 STATS & TRENDS BY COUNTRY

I keep a pretty detailed spreadsheet of everything I watch in BL each year including tropes, runtimes, origin country, etc... for the purposes of statistical analysis. However, I don’t watch/track a whole lot of Pinoy stuff, so be aware it is underrepresented in my meta analysis (erm, actually, I don’t talk about it at all). 

Data note: There’s no question projects were cancelled, curtailed, shortened, and delayed because of C19. We have to assume 2021 numbers were heavily impacted by struggles containing the pandemic.

Nevertheless, I think we can safely say that we are experiencing the golden age of BL right now. Lucky us!

THAILAND

Thailand stuck to it’s pattern of putting out mostly longer running series of 9-13 episodes or so.

Last year, 2020, it produced c. 21 BLs with an average run time of 5.6 hours (skewed low by 1hr specials + short spin offs). These had a mean run time of 10 hours (13 eps @ 45 min ea) and earned an average rating from me of 6/10.

In 2021 Thailand produced 38 BLs (+ 4 microfilms), with an average run time of 6.5 hours, skewed by shorter pulps and the lack of GMMTV content.

Only Manner of Death was 12 episodes, the old standard. 2021′s mean run time was 7 hours with most actually being either 10 or 6. It earned an average rating from me of 6/10.

By the end of July it had already beaten the previous year’s record of 21 BLs. Thailand dealt with civil unrest and refugee influx in addition to C19 lockdowns, not to mention fundraising in a country that depends on tourism for c.13% of GDP so I think we can assume we should have gotten MORE from them in 2021.

This number of BLs under normal circumstances is INSANE. But I do think quality is now being seriously impacted.

We got three sets of sampler packs this year, Y-Destiny, Close Friend, and Seven Project. I wasn’t wild about any of them. I think Thai BL just does better long form although I’m not against this as testers to then give a pair a longer series (which it kinda felt like The En of Love was dong). Do I want to see more SantaEarth and ToruFirst? Who doesn’t? Was I happy to get bonus OhmFluke, BounPrem, BoomPeak, and KimCop? Of course I was. Did I want more time spent with them? Of course I did. So yeah, I guess I am okay with this trend but I’d rather they just gave us new long form.

Aside from sampler packs, 2021 Thai BL split pretty cleanly along the lines of pulps on the one hand (poor quality + flimsy narrative structures in a mostly high school setting at about 4 hours) versus better quality (but way fewer) university set stuff (coming from more prestigious studios at about 10 hours).

If there’s a trend we were all hoping for, it’s that Thailand successfully moved beyond those two models towards more sophisticated BL in other settings and with a wider ranges using mature characters. They did this in 2021 with 1000 Stars, Top Secret Together, Hometown’s Embrace, Bite Me, and a few others. But not many. And while I don’t think it’s technically BL, Manner of Death utilized MaxTul beautifully and pretty much transitioned BL into gay romantic suspense in a way we are all hoping will spur on similar shows.

I think this will continue, although with the current wild success of Bad Buddy I don’t anticipate them leaving uni or high school behind. (GMMTV is like that popular kid who peaked in school and will never let go of the glory days.) Thailand has always sporadically produced quality narratives: 3 Will Be Free, Until We Meet Again, I Told the Sunset About You and He’s Coming to Me spring immediately to mind, but none of those started trends. Honestly, for Thailand it’s all about cost of production and the moment it’s moved out of a school setting things get expensive. Still, we will absolutely see them explore cheap alternatives like cafes, but I don’t think they’ll stretch their wings much further.

VIETNAM

Pretty much just started up its BL industry in 2018. They didn’t really do much in 2019, had a smattering in 2020, but went all in for 2021.

Since Vietnamese BL isn’t in MDL and I’m not actively watching it all I can’t really keep stats. Sorry.

I can tell you that I watched 9 of them with an average rating of just under 6/10, which means for me, they are almost up to Thai level. Pretty much all their BLs are under 4 hours.

Vietnam puts out student-quality production values using small casts and low budgets. But it’s pretty serviceable BL of 1-3 hr run time. The acting and chemistry tends to be decent and they are getting progressively better about both story and queer rep (more to come on that). However, they’re stymied by lack of a robust adaptation industry. 

Tonally they feel like a combination of Pinoy + Thai, but they have lower heat levels and runtimes like Korea (although not as low). They stick to lighter-hearted HEA but and give consistently good kisses. I feel like they are slowly establishing their voice in the field, I’m just not quite sure yet what exactly that voice entails. I am very excited to see what it will be and if Mr Cinderella (will be assessed in 2022) is any indication it’s DELIGHTFUL.

TAIWAN 

Since 2017 Taiwan has brought out 2-3 BL series a year of consistent quality, if inconsistent story structure and length. I really thought 2021 was going to be their year, since they weathered C19 so well (initially). 

And my precious tiny island DELIVERED! 10 BLs & 2 microfilms!

Not 1 but 2 seasons of We Best Love (one of my favorite BLs ever), plus HIStory 4, Papa & Daddy, See You After Quarantine? AND Be Loved in House: I Do. Not to mention a few indie microseries, several movies, some dark stuff, and a fantastic BL sub plot in Love is Science?. The average run time was 2.5 hours with H4 & BLINID throwing the curve.

I can only hope this is the start of a trend for them. But honestly, I’ll take anything I can get from Taiwan if We Best Love is one of the things I get. And I will revel the joys and miseries of the HIStory franchise like I always have.

CHINA

The number of BLs out of China has dropped since its heyday of 7 projects in 2016. It’s now down to only 1-2 a year but those projects are SUPER long by comparison to other BL series and censored bromances.

They settled over the last few years into not gay (but really hella gay) fantasy historicals with amorphous endings.

Perhaps because they could get away with more swish in robes and fans than they can in a contemporary setting? Regardless, it happened, it was censored, and it was a sensation.

Unfortunately Word of Honor seems to have been too much of a sensation for the government homophobes. There are rumors out of Mainland China of actors and writers are now being persecuted and hounded. I can only advise keeping expectations under control for this market, so as not to be disappointed. I hope to be proved wrong but I don’t think we will get much from China for a while.

JAPAN 

Our heritage BL nation produced 7 BLs in 2020 (I know, right, more than I thought, too (Sei no Gekiyaku, The Cornered Mouse Dreams of Cheese, Love Stage!!, His, Life: Love on the Line, Restart After Come Back Home, Cherry Magic). In keeping with a decade long tradition they ranged in style and story; were mainly movies; and still played with amorphous endings, suicide, and the murder gay. Say what you like about Japanese BL, it will never let go of the yaoi that started it all. Very consistent in their taste and execution is Japan.

In 2021 we got 5. And 2 weren’t really BL at all: Absolute BL was a commentary meta analysis spoof of BL and Pornographer Playback was a continuation of that aptly named hot mess of a queer neurosis kink-fest (emphasis on HOT). 

However, Given, Kieta Hatsukoi, and Utsukushii Kare were returns to form for Japan: adapted from a popular yaoi mangas and just different enough in filming style, story structure, and quality to SCREAM “Japan made me, I am not like other BLs.” Which I happen to truly love and feels rather special since it happens so rarely. These all reminded me of Seven Days, and I will move mountains to get that feeling.

However, 2021 was not a return to Japan’s style of production. Most of Japan’s 2021 shows were short series of the K-BL style, which is new for them and live action yaoi. The average run time was slightly longer than it has been in the past: 2.2 hours. I like this for them and I think they do too. I suspect we are going to see more like this and fewer movies.  

After Utsukushii Kare‘s spectacular ending, I feel like we are experiencing a Japanese BL renaissance. For you K-pop fans out there, it’s like the BTOB rediscovery that happened because of Kingdom. So if you’ve just started delving into Japanese BL now, be aware, there’s a huge back catalogue for you to choose from and aren’t you a lucky duck? 

KOREA

Korea has found its stride, what started as a surprise victory last year is now a trend. They’re churning out high quality short run BL targeting a 1.5-2 hour running time (for movie conversion) and it’s consistent and consistently GOOD. Color Rush wasn’t only my favorite BL of 2021, it’s one of my top BLs of all time. And then Light On Me came along and casually blew my mind. Also To My Star = GAH!

Historically, there hasn’t been much Korean BL each year (except microfilms), but it went up from 3 to 11 in 2021!

ELEVEN with an average run time of 2hrs (plus 5 microfilms), which is a HUGE spike in output. And they still managed to stay on point with quality! I think we can safely say, Korea is consciously and intentionally gunning for BL fandom.

I am so grateful. I might be alone in this, but I enjoy that K-BL has a shorter run. I like a tight narrative arc. I appreciate the simplicity and brevity required to make something this high quality work financially. No drifting or waffling allowed. Pacing must be stellar. I understand that it’s a cost saving measure to keep quality BL coming, and I enjoy the results all the more for that. However, Tasty Florida did make me reconsider this stance - it felt underdeveloped and abrupt.

So, it’s 2022, and it’s about time Korea let their gay babies breathe a bit. It’s okay Korea - people will watch it, it will make money, give our boys a little more screen time, please? Drop us the 16 eps of that Decedents of the Sun BL - we all know you can do it.

At the very beginning of the year, when I was prepping the draft of this post (based on last year’s numbers, it’s my system) I typed that I wanted Korea to “give us the True Beauty of BL.” Well Korea answered my unpublished plea with Light On Me and BL’s first great love triangle. It was utterly painfully and gloriously yearning in a way that K-dramas do best. LoM was also longer than normal for Korean BL (double their average run time) and I hope it heralds good things to come.

But frankly it was Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding that firmly put Korea’s unique stamp on BL. That stamp is high production value, subtle acting, superior AV, decent story, and a VERY light touch. And no one is looking back. We even seem to be getting some second seasons and more historical set stuff.

You do you, Korea. Or specifically, you do you Korean sweet boys (in a very civilized low heat way) and we’ll continue watching.

2022 BL Trend & Growth Expectations

THAILAND will produce the same kind of thing as they did in 2021 with perhaps a few darker offerings, better queer rep, and a fall off in the pulps as money dries up. I don’t see how they can possibly keep up this level of exponential growth, their overall quality is seriously suffering. If we’re lucky, we will get at least 6 experimental pieces with stronger story and atypical setting (like KinnPorsche). ANNOUNCED? 73 BLs for 2022 (many of these are seed project fundraisers, I expect about half to die in pre-production or move to 2023.)

VIETNAM should continue to improve steadily, and give us as many as it can, I’m just hoping it doesn't fall down the Pinoy rabbit hole of no story. They are evolving quickly, if Mr Cinderella is any indication, good things are coming. ANNOUNCED? 2 BLs for 2022

TAIWAN has increased steadily over years but I think they’ll go down from 2021, and 6 is the max we can expect in 2022. I want them to do a gay spoof on Boys Over Flowers but they don’t have the funds. *sad sigh* (This is assuming China doesn’t carry out its political threats, in which case the world’s got more serious problems to worry about.) ANNOUNCED? 5 BLs for 2022

CHINA nothing but a few heavily censored bromances. ANNOUNCED? 1 bromance co-project with Thailand for 2022

JAPAN, look I have cried out for years for ninja/yakuza yaoi adaptations and something more adult domestic like Our Dinging Table, and Japan has announced both. BOTH I tell you. I am SO EXCITED for Japanese BL in 2022. Come on Japan, you can do eeet! ANNOUNCED? 4 BLs for 2022

KOREA. I expect them to double their BL output next year (from 11 to 20+), perhaps including something a little longer after the success of Light On Me. Of course, imma pipe dream Yuri on Ice staring Enhyphen’s Park Sung Hoon and you can’t stop me (but Japan probably will). ANNOUNCED? 15 BLs for 2022

2022 BL line up (announced projects, trailers, etc) as of the end of 2021 is here. 

2021 audience analysis and thoughts here. I discuss growth in terms of audience, investment, and international market penetration. How I think pandemic viewing #s figured into it. Possible new production models. And changes in BL actors and their pairs. (Pure speculation since I don’t have access to these numbers.)

2021 BL Wrap Up - Top Trends analyzed & discussed 

(source)

[other-peoples-coats]

Mando’a in BTMYBW part 2

Alright, so, welcome back to made up mando'a 101. The next chapter of Be that monster you been wanting (chapter 11) is about to go up, and this is, once again, the post where I break down all the word choices and kitbashed words I used in it.

Again, this is a post about linguistics and world building; you don't need to read this to understand the story. Mild spoilers for the chapter, plus a couple of details that will come up soon; nothing Hugely Spoilery, just, y'know, clarification on a couple of points mentioned in the chapter. (Tea. It's the tea.)

Previous post on this nonsense here; basic overview recap of what I'm working with is that there's ~three main dialects of Mando'a, on a sliding scale of 'precise wording and complicated grammatical structure' to 'highly contextual and simplified in the extreme grammar'. Mando’a refernced comes from both mando’a.org and the great big spreadsheet of doom; mostly the later, tbh.

Ok, disclaimers and explanation over, let's get to the kitbashed mando'a. Once again I'm breaking this down by line/chunk of mando'a, skipping things I don't think need explanation.

So, like last time, I'm gonna do mando'a - literal translation - actual translation, and then break down any other words or whatever.

Kaysh ne'ven'hiibir jekai.

Literally, this is They will not take bait; functionally, it's He's not going to take the bait. Qui-gon misses the word bait, but guesses it anyway from context and being suspicious (for, to be fair, good reason). 

Again, Kaysh is the all purpose non-genered Mando'a pronoun, ne' is the negative prefix, ven' is the prexfix for will (becoming will not or won't with the ne' added on). Hiibir is take/pick up, thus, we get will-not-take in one awkward phrase. Jerkai is bait; I figured that given Qui-gon learnt what little Kalevean Mando'a he knows doing negotiation, awkwardly, he probably didn't come across the word.

Elek, haa'banar.

Literal translation is yes, come to pass — functionally, this is the same as Yes he will, but haa'banar is more solid and much rarer in use. It's being used here by Satine as a 'He will take the bait (because he's a Jedi)', like 'if you drop a cup it will fall (because gravity applies).' Very much a statement of belief — Qui-gon's a jedi, therefore he will, sooner or later, go investigate the obvious shiny mystery they are dangling in front of him, even if anyone else might be like 'none of my business'.

Naryc, ne'ven. Mhi as'gaanir sol'tan Jetii meg ne'lendat uhiibur.

Literal translation : No, won't. We get unique Jedi who not-target puller.

Functionally, No, he's not going to. We got the one Jedi who's not an interfering busybody.

So, ne'ven is actually grammatically, uh, nonsense — it's a fragment, and should be technically attached to like, an actual word, like the last time we saw it. 

However, I figure that in at least the more contextual dialects, there's at least a bit of — y'know, weird grammatical backwards creation of words. Thus, we end up with a won't that becomes a sort of contextual negation of the whole idea that Qui-gon is going to take the bait and investigate the east wing. English does this all the time — strictly grammatically, it's wrong, but almost no one speaks entirely grammatically correct, even less when they're chatting with their siblings. 

And, of course, Bo-Katan is slightly less Kalevan influenced in dialect than Satine, which makes her more likely to do things like use the mando'a equivalent of wouldn't've than her sister. Hence also why she's a little less precise about tense; technically, all of her words are in simple present tense, instead of even simple past, but the meaning is a contextually past one (we got rather than we have a jedi who's not—).

Sol'tan is, like I mentioned last time, one, but in the sense of unique or only. Bo's emphasising that out of all the possible jedi, they've apparently got the single one that's not immediately running to solve the shiny puzzle.

meg is the catch all mando'a for which/what/that/who; it's not exactly Qui-gon's fault he guessed wrong, because it's straight up the same word for about four options. 

ne'lendat uhiibur is a kitbash - lenedat is target, and uhiibir is pull + the ur suffix for performer of the action. This is a bit of made up slang — it's an irritating, interfering person, someone who pulls on your (shooting) target, and thus fucks up your shot. The negative ne' is applied to the whole phrase; thus, Bo's complaining that Qui-gon isn't an interfering shithead.

Kih'aka'daab, Kaysh ven'taabir tok'ad briirud Coruscanta tay'haatir ibac mhi cuy tratyc besom'la kihya. Briirud jorhaa'ure'tsad ven'parer akay ibac, kry'ad edur val cuyi, vaal—

Literal translation: Small-task-down, he will-march retreat Coruscant report that we are collapsing lout village. Republic will-wait until that, corpse gnawers they are, while— 

Functionally, I translated this as If nothing else, he'll still go back to Coruscant and tell them that we're just a backwater about to collapse. The Republic'll wait for that, vultures they are, and in the meantime—

So. To start with, Mando'a doesn't seem to have a phrase equivalent to at least or at the minimum or anything similar that I could find, so I…made one up. Kih' is still the prefix for small, aka is task, and daab is down — I'm calling this one of those fossilised phrases that's made its way into general use despite being, y'know, grammatically bizarre; much like a minced phrase that out lived the context it was minced from (english examples include: caboodle, as in kit and caboodle, which was minced from the borrowed dutch phrase kitte en boedel).

Functionally, this does actually work as both if nothing else, at minimum, and suchlike; Qui-gon's not actually translating it wrong, he's just not familiar with all of the uses of the phrase and doubting himself. This is a not uncommon thing to stumble on when you're not fluent in a language; Qui-gon's hedging his bets here.

Again, ven' is the prefix for will, and taabir is technically footed, but like I said last time, I'm using it as a variable word. Here Qui-gon's understanding it as a fairly close to literal interpretation of walked, though in context it's more like hurry or run.

Briirud is retreat — Satine is emphasising that once they're done, Qui-gon will be running back to the Republic ASAP. Derogatory, in the same vein as run home with your tail between your legs. Kalevean wouldn't use briirud except in, well, exactly this sort of context — not just go back (wherever), but run away; the other two dialects would use it in a slightly wider context, but given the rest of the sentence it's still pretty derogatory and dismissive. 

tay'haatir is report — literally, it's package-truth verbed. Very much a double duty here; contextually, Kalevala usually would use this for report like give a news report, while death watch would use it for, y'know, give a military report. Different implications, similar meaning, Satine is kind of striking a middle point.

tratyc besom'la kihya - ok, so this is another kitbashed phrase. Literal translation is collapsing loutish village. Tratyc is 'in a state of collapse', besom is lout+ 'la suffix for adjective (as in, describing the village), and kihya is village, I assume from kih' (small) + what seems to be the root word related to home/living places/shelter of some kind, ya — see yaim (home), yai (womb/belly), yam (building), etc. 

Sidebar — there's probably some cultural nuance in that everything about the home seems to be very much the belly or womb of whatever, but, uh, that's about where we run into the very fucked up totally opposing canon ideas that Mandalorians both have no feelings about gender and are wholly onboard with gender equality, and also value boys much higher than girls and are generally pretty misogynistic in phrasing when it comes to female related words. (it gets pretty yikes. The similarity between the word for woman [dala] and the word for sheath [dalab, which seems a lot like woman+possesive b suffix] is, uh. more than a bit not good.)

I'm not doing that, and I'm not getting into that, so. Y'know. It's there, I know, everything about mando'a and mandalorians is on a sliding scale of fucked up implications, I'm making up words in a fake nonfunctional language so I'm choosing to eject that part of it. 

Anyway! loutish village I have used as a sort of catch all phrase for, y'know, shitty backwater, with the bonus implication that it's rough and kind of a surprise that it's still standing. Like that town that got taken over by libertarians and then immediately developed a bear problem.

Functionally, Satine is saying that if nothing else, Qui-gon is going to report back to the Republic that Mandalore is a collapsing tire fire they should stay the hell away from, lest that tirefire expand to the Republic. This ship is fuckin' sinking, do not board, look, see all this fucked up shit happening! waves evidence.

briirud jorhaa'urne'tsad - another kitbash. Mando'a doesn't have a distinction between the Republic and the Jedi, and 1) I needed one plus 2) Satine, of all people, would draw a distinction between them, particularly in this context.

Briirud is circle, jorhaa'ir is speak or talk (like having a conversation, becomes jorhaa'ur as in talkers  or the people talking, -ne is the superlative, and 'tsad is group. So, we end up with the group of people who talk in circles the most, which, if you asked any Mandalorian and got a polite answer (somehow), would just be to reflect how the Republic Senate dome is round and has so many talking pods. The less polite but much more accurate answer would be that it's basically republic(derogatory), and referencing how the republic are a bunch of two faced fast talking lying rat sucking scummy bastards.

Next few are direct from the sheet, plus a little grammar changes (ven' for will, mostly), and then we have kry'ad edur, which is literally corpse nibbler but I have coined as a kind of equivalent to vultures, in the derogatory sense. 

val cuyi,  So, this is all from the sheet, but I'm mostly pointing out that once again, cuyi is being used here by Satine as an emphasis — not just that the Republic are vultures, but that everyone knows they're vultures, and the Republic will wait for Mandalore to collapse before coming to pick over the corpse instead of facing them in a fair fight (because they're vultures). 

vaal— while. This is a dangling preposition — very formal Mando'a wouldn't use this, but Satine's just chatting with Bo, and trailing off. One of the things I'm doing my best with is to make what speech there is actually sound, y'know, like people talking, and that means fucking with grammar a lot more than technically correct.

Akay vaal, mhi cuy nari tegaanalir'an ash'ad ret'yc. Ni suvarir.

Literal translation is Until while, we are saving anyone possible. I understand.

Functionally, I went with In the meantime, we're sheltering anyone we can. I know.

So, Akay vaal does literally mean until while, but I've used it as a phrase that's sort of — until [whatever] happens, [x] is being done/happening — so, until [my dishwasher is fixed], [I am washing dishes by hand]. 

In this case, it's a linking phrase following on from Satine's statement about the Republic waiting for mandalore to collapse — thus, until [the republic stops waiting for mandalore to collapse], while [mandalore is sheltering who they can].

mhi cuy is we are, and Bo is very much leaning into the Kalevean dialect. She's just chatting with her sister here, and it's, y'know, not a fun topic, but it's also not horrifically traumatising and causing her to slip back into deathwatch dialectal habits. 

This is, incidentally, why Qui-gon is having an easier time translating things; they're speaking mostly like kalevalans, which means he's more familiar with the phrasing and structure of sentences, and is also not having to guess so much based on contextual clues.

nari tegaanalir'an is the present progressive of save or rescue — ie, saving or rescuing. Interestingly, this seems to be possibly derived from the+catch (verb), which…kind of makes sense? I guess?? Anyway, this is a word Qui-gon would have zero reason to know, and works very nicely as a word that changes the meaning of a sentence. (It's not all world building, sometimes it's just author's convenience.)

ash'ad — literally anyone, rather than everyone, which is anade; Bo's not saying they're managing to save everyone, just anyone they can manage to save. Very precise wording here — on the whole, BTMYBW is built on extremely precise word choices from a bunch of people. 

Ni suvarir - literally, I understand, functionally, more like I know. The kind of sighed agreement that you know you're doing what you can but wish you could be doing more or know it's not really enough, even if it's all you can do. Another fractional sentence; Bo's speaking far more Kalevean than deathwatch, with the use of Ni not even as emphasis, just as part of the sentence fragment.

Tion'bor borarir keenir gayi'kartay be briirud jorhaa'ure'tsad nari banar'an?

Literal translation is How work infiltrate network of circle-talkers group happening?, and functionally is How's the work on hacking the Republic network going?

Tion'bor is how (direct from the sheet), with tion' being the prefix for questions in Mando'a.

keenir is infiltrate, but given the context, it's closer to hacking, given Satine's asking about infiltrating the Republic network. Kalevean would have a specific word, probably, but also likely wouldn't, uh, really use it much; Death watch mando'a would use keenir mostly to be like, infiltrate physically and probably would also have a specific word for hacking, like, idk, radio-infiltrate or something.

gayi'kartay be briirud jorhaa'ure'tsad — this is literally network/internet of (as in belonging to) the Republic, but in context is less like, The Holonet and more like, the Senate Network specifically — the difference between going online and getting into parliament's internal network.

Majyc ray'tuure, kih'aka'daab. Meh kaysh cuyi kih'alorii, ret tuur, al'—

Literal translation — Extra week, small-task-down. If he be small royal, maybe day, but—

Functional translation — Another week, at least. If he was a diplomat, maybe a day, but—

Majyc ray'tuure is technically extra week, but given the context, it very much functions as [another week] in response to Satine's implied question of [how long until the hacking is finished]. Contextual! Kalevean wouldn't do this, probably, but then again, extra/another is a fairly logical crossover, so. Chalk it up as one of those non-literal phrases that everyone understands and people who are not fluent are like 'uh what?'

kih'aka'daab again; this time, functioning as at least rather than at the minimum. This is a more Kalevean influenced use of the phrase; Qui-gon is, unfortunately for him, tripped up because he's not aware that there is more than one use of the phrase, and he can't make the two contexts make sense with only one meaning.

kih'alorii is a kitbash! literally, it means small royal, from kih'+aloryc but made into a noun (drop the 'cy, replace with ii). Royal in this context is sarcastic; small royal is basically senator/diplomat(derogatory). They're not an actual leader, but they're carrying themselves like one, is the implication — one of those people who swaggers around like they're a king but very much aren't.

Contrast this with naak'jorad, which is also diplomat, but literally means peace-talker. 

al' is another dangling preposition — it should really be attached to a word, but again, people talk in fragments in real life, and it's a contextual sort of but [situation that means that's not happening]

So, the whole sentence is basically Bo-katan replying that it'll be at least a week until they finish hacking the republic network, because they're trying to hide it from Qui-gon, who is a Jedi and is more likely to notice Suspicious Shit than some random idiot senator/diplomat. And is less likely to be cowed by ooh scary mandos — this is why they've set up the enrichment puzzle shell game featuring the east wing (and…other things) to keep Qui-gon from noticing what they're really up to.

Dini'la jetii'dral osik. Kaysh ven'ulur mayen amyc.

Literally, this is Crazy force shit. They will detect anything changed.

Functionally, it's — well, pretty much the same, honestly. Crazy force shit. He'll sense anything different.

So, not a heap to break down here; most of it comes straight from the sheet. The couple of things to point out here are ven'ulur, which is ven'(will, you should recognize this by this point)+ulur (detect) — which is working here as a 'the force will give him Bad Vibes' — and amyc, which is changed, but also unnatural, which in this case is more like not meant to be there (in the republic system).

In context, it is very much a 'if we fuck up and leave literally any evidence about what we're doing, the Force will Tell Him, so it's taking so much longer because we can't be found out'.

Jorhaa'ir beh dini'la jetii'dral'jurur. Tion'jahaal kaysh?

Literal translation is speaking about crazy Force-carrier. How health they?

Functionally, this is Speaking of crazy Force sensitives. How are they?

Again, not a heap of non-standard words here. Dini'la is very specifically being used here — Bo is meaning both crazy as in that was a crazy plan and in the oh you are Mentally Ill kind of way. There are other words that could have been used, but she's both echoing Satine's phrase — crazy force shit to crazy force users, in terms of 'that stuff is bonkers' — and also in the, well, there's a specific force user they're talking about, and he is Mentally Unwell.

jetii'dral'jurur is jetii'dral (force)+jurir(carry/bear), verbed (hence the ur rather than ir ending). It's a phrase that's basically coming from 'people who have the Force', nonspecific to Jedi or Sith. There is a whole separate post to why mandalore refers to everything with the Force as some variation on Jetii (dar'jetii/jetii'dral/etc), but that post is not this post. So I'm gonna call it akin to how brands become the local word for the generic object — kleenex instead of tissue, hoover instead of vacuum, Jedi instead of whatever the previous mando'a word for force shit was.

And again, tion' is the question prefix, and this time it's attached to jahaal, which is health. Bo's asking how [they] are, but specifically asking how're they're doing, rather than what they're up to or anything.

Kaysh nari piru'an haran'behot.

Literal translation and functional translation: They are drinking hell-tea.

Yeah, Qui-gon was right in his translation. Nari piru'an is the present progressive of drink — thus, drinking — and you should know what kaysh is by now. 

haran'behot is hell tea, which I am using as a hellish(ly spiced) tea. Very much not something most people drink for fun. Qui-gon's guess about it being the equivalent of a phrase is wrong — it is very much an actual tea that is just spiced to hell and back.

Very grounding, one might say. Very good to keep you in the moment, and not, perhaps, having any sort of dissociative trauma response. (baby-wan drank a lot of this during the year on the run.)

Ah. Ibac dush.

Literal + functional translation— ah, that bad. 

I had considered actually using dushne, as the superlative form of bad, but honestly, that bad is a nice little bit of understatement. They both know that if their guest is drinking hell tea, things are pretty shit; the understatement is, if anything, an extra bit of emphasis.

Kih'aka'daab mhi ke'gyce Jetti nari be'chaaj'an ashi naak'jorad.

Literal translation — small-task-down we order jedi continuing-away other diplomat.

Functional translation — At least we told the Jedi to stay away from the other envoy.

Kih'aka'daab rides again! back to the at least; rip to Qui-gon, who has fully given up on working out what that means.

ke'gyce is order, and ke' is actually the imperative prefix — not just told, but Ordered.

nari be'chaaj'an is be'chaaj (away) in the present progressive, which is— kind of stay away, or continue [to be] away. 

And here we have the other, canon word for diplomat — like I said earlier, compare naak'jorad, which is diplomat(complementary) and kih'alorii, which is diplomat(derogatory). 

Bo's putting a brave face on this, but she's a little rattled, and so some of her grammar slips a bit. A bit more contextual, but it's a short sentence, and she is just chatting with her sister. 

Nu'ru'cuyir ru'vegyc'ret ashi naak'jorad maan'taap. Kaysh ru'ret'vegyc cuyir sur'aryc, mir'adir, mar'eyir nass.

Literal translation — negative-past-to-be past-maybe-should other diplomat first-place. They past-maybe-should be focused, investigate, find nothing.

Whoo, that's a doozy, right? The functional translation is There wasn't meant to be another envoy in the first place. He was supposed to get interested, investigate, and find nothing.

So, part of the reason the literal translation looks like a mess is because there's a bunch of past progressive tense in the first half of the sentence. Kalevean dialect gets messy as fuck with literal translation as soon as you start bringing in complex tenses, and this is, shockingly, kind of a lot of weird tense work. This is a sentence that would be borderline incoherent in deathwatch mando'a (no complex tenses! you get past, present, and future only, which means the phrase is, like, 'nu'ret ashi naak'jorad maan'taap. Kaysh ret sur'aryc, mir'adir, mar'eyir nass, which translates as 'shouldn't other diplomat first-place. They should focused, investigate, discover nothing', which…makes sense, but is pretty incoherent.

In average mando'a it would still be— pretty complicated and incoherent. Worst of both worlds.)

So. Lets break that original sentence down some.

Nu'ru'cuyir is the negative past tense of [to be], which works out something like There wasn't, as a part of a sentence — there was in the negative, basically, which gets you was not.

ru'vegyc'ret is the past tense of vegyc'ret, which is the modal prefix of should carried by maybe, which I am kitbashing to be supposed to or similar. should-maybe is a kind of wavering 'it'll be like this (probably)', and then it's just past tensed.

This is a fairly kalevalan word, by the by; the other dialects would have slightly less complex and specific words for meant to.

maan'taap is literally first-place or original-zone, and is another sort of fossilised word — it's a location, but it's a metaphorical location, rather than, like, a literal one. In some contexts it has a far more military implication, but that's pretty contextual.

sur'ar is literally concentrate or focus, but here I'm giving it the slant of interested — Qui-gon was meant to get interested in the east wing, investigate it, and not find anything (more than what they laid out for him). A little contextually more common mando'a than Kalevean, but this whole sentence is a weird mix of the two. Satine is frustrated and annoyed and also worried — this shell game she's running is keeps having extra shells added in, and she's not in control of them — which is pushing her dialect to shift a bit more wildly than her usual intentional blend.

And the rest of the sentence is pretty much translated already.

Oh, jii mhi cuy nari man'ceratir'an meg'tome urakto bor naas?

Last one! Literal translation is oh, now we are identifying all-together hard work nothing?

Functional translation is Oh, so now we're calling all that hard work nothing?

So, one of the things I've actually struggled with is that mando'a doesn't have any interjections or placeholder type words — oh, ah, uh, etc —, but, obviously, if you're trying to write you…need those….

So. I'm putting them in and calling it good enough. Not a lot of thought, just vibes.

Most of this sentence is straight from the sheet, more or less; the two bits that aren't are nari man'ceratir'an and meg'tome.

nari man'ceratir'an is the progressive tense of man'ceratir, which is itself identify. I'm leaning on mando'a does double duty for military/non military words, and given that this is very specifically a 'we're going to say [x] is [y]' sort of use of calling, it's a linguistic kind of joke. Like, not just 'oh, we're calling it nothing', but 'oh, we're identifying it as nothing', with the sort of Military Implications of Identifying This Thing being the joke, because it very much was not a military operation.

Like your friend saying 'we should go to the mall' and instead of just going 'yep' you respond with 'SIR YES SIR!'. kind of stupid, kind of mocking the whole thing becuase it's not that serious.

Obviously, in this context, it actually was serious, but Bo katan is trying to lighten the mood by leaning into 'haha mock overblown offended and serious'.

meg'tome is a kitbash — meg is again, the catch all which/what/that/who of Mando'a, and tome is together (you may recognise it from where it shows up in the marriage vows).

Thus, we get that-together, which is a sort of fossilised phrase of [all the subject of the sentence] together. It's a pretty contextual phrase, but it's useful enough it's stayed around, because it's handy to have a word that's the verbal equivalent of vaguely guesting at a bunch of crap, metaphorically or literally.

[incandescentflower]

~ reveal your watch & rewatch drama list ~

Tagged by @stickers-on-a-laptop! Oh boy. Here we go.

Watching (in the order I threw them on my spreadsheet and my descriptions) 😂:

KinnPorsche: Bonkers Mafia bodyguard/mobster love story/so fucking rapey (Look, I am not telling anyone else to not like it, it just hasn't been good for me, despite my high hopes it would be, but yeah PeteVegas are the most interesting part by far)

To My Star 2: My babies are back and saaadddd - I want this over with, which is kiling me since I looked forward to it so much. I didn't expect to receive contact therapy from this show, but here we are.

Old Fashion Cupcake - Boss/subordinate form a sweet relationship. I WOULD DIE FOR THEM. I have so many long fics I should be writing and yet, I just think of them.

Check out - Two men who meet at a getaway villa and have a fling end up meeting again later and it looks very rich and trashy. I liked episode 0, I am meh about the rest except the lead's chemistry.

Sky in My Heart - Brother from other show has to be doctor in a small village and meets a teacher to fall in love, second tier ATOTS. Okay, but this has been a very nice watch. Low bar investment. Fah is ridiculous but also says heart breaking things sometimes.

Tomorrow - Reapers try to prevent suicides. I was like, this looks so cool from the gifs. And it is. But also very sad. And well see above. Already too much sadness.

Ultimate Note - Tomb raider, familial destiny meets shipping of lead with mysterious amnesiac. This has been fun so far. But lots of bugs. Why.

Rewatching randomly:

Bad Buddy, The Devil Judge, Word of Honor, all for fic purposes. I have loved them all for various reasons for a while now.

Plan to Watch:

Hrm, I have a long rec list and I pull from it sometimes. But ones I am looking forward to most immediately:

Moonlight Chicken: Earth and Mix with P'Aof again, what's not to be excited about?

Viceversa: I am looking forward to Jimmy in a lead drama and small roles by Ohm and Nanon.

Most of my really anticipated stuff has already come out this year or is going now, so I guess I am looking forward to being surprised!

Tagging @mineonmain and @cbayeeeeee and anyone else who would want to do this.

[myelocin]

ij(y)&m | miya a., akaashi k.

synopsis: love is enough, until you think that it isn’t. to love and to lose; then whether to dive into the sea of ocean eyes or look into the skies in search of the sun.

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, longfic, happy ending, love triangle

wc: 17,500+

characters: miya atsumu, akaashi keiji

a/n: this is a commissioned piece by @23soong | i still can’t believe u trusted me w this giant fic but ilu i guezz

commissions | ko-fi

(April 16, 2021 | New York City.)

You like to eat cake.

The color lilac, ocean eyes, and the sky. The lyrics to Ayahuasca, and the hidden metaphors where the poem you uncover always looks like a different scenario than the next person. You know what you like, and it’s only this and that. Other days, when your reasoning is a little swayed, you suppose you can afford to think that you like this plus that.

It was a difference only you understood.

(—understand, you mean.)

(You always know what you understand.)

You like cake because you enjoy sweets, and that one shade of violet that borders right in between periwinkle and lilac, because it never looked like it was too much. It didn’t blend into the background like some of the warmer colors, nor make too much of a bold presence like the depth of scarlet. You suppose you like where you’ve always been, after all.

Being content with your own security had always been one of your stronger suits. There wasn’t a wall, nor a fortress around you, but even when you’re out in the open you felt okay. The shade in between lilac and periwinkle was enough because it was you.

Chocolate over cheesecake, because you’ve never been much of a fan, and that bakery down the end of street fifteen minutes away instead of the one right across where you lived. The windows were always tinted in the shade that gave away its age, but you suppose it was its charm. The old auntie who sits by the counter always wears her apron, even if all the pastries to be sold for the day were already prebaked and arranged on the front for display.

There’s an old comfort found in that auntie’s bakery, you think. You still don’t know her name, and you know she only smiles at you because you’re probably a regular by now. You know the pen she’d had clipped to her apron is the same one from eight months ago, probably never used, because the seal’s still intact by the cap. There wasn’t a table that you could call yours, nor a spot in the fall you would stare at and daydream on your rougher days. There was no music, to dull out the sounds of the world outside—but now that you actually give it a little more thought—that’s what gave you the most comfort.

It’s a known fact that when people tend to slip into a state of reclusion, they would search for a space in a world that they can cocoon themselves in. External factors, there, but ignored. Phone often switched to silent, where the spot they stared at along the cracks of the wall would show them a world they could live in—momentarily.

(And that was the problem—at least you think.)

A safe space, they say. And it had always been valid. When your sister would talk about the boy in her dreams who loved her under the rain, you can tell that she felt safe. Sometimes she looked a little farther away despite physically being with you in the moment, but she always looked warm—so you would just choose to sit shoulder to shoulder beside her, and let her be.

People worked differently; a simple this or that situation, and it’s always going to be like that.

Your comfort is just this.

Auntie’s bakery fifteen minutes away, where you’re some random seat inside because in all the years you’ve been coming here, you could never really pick a spot. The table by the window was nice, as was the one by the shelves. The AC hit you in the way you appreciate the most wherever you chose to settle, anyway.

A slice of chocolate cake on Mondays, then maybe again on Wednesdays, but Saturdays could also mean red velvet if you were feeling like it. The bells by the door sound out your entrance every time too, but even if one day there were gone, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having a constant was okay, but not necessary. You’re here because you liked their selection better than the one closer to your place, and that was that.

Auntie’s bakery wasn’t your cocoon that kept you away from the world, but you liked it that way.

You found comfort in taking a seat in one of the ten tables inside, and setting your bag on the chair beside you as you got comfortable. You liked moving your hair to the other side, and slumping your shoulders because you know you'd enjoy this little break you decided to give yourself.

You had chocolate two days ago, and even if there was a new option for carrot cake today, you still bought chocolate again. You can hear the conversation from the group of teenagers outside the window every time the doors would open and the sounds of the world outside would filter in. The sound of traffic and life was dulled by the walls, but not muted. There’s still no music in the bakery, and you can sometimes hear every time the auntie behind the counter would shift and tap away at her phone.

This was your slice of comfort.

You didn’t escape the world, but you find yourself still. There was an underlying of connection that you found with the world when you’d have your one slice of cake after a job well done.

So you like to eat cake, because you deserve cake.

You finish the schedule you’d set for yourself, written in bullet points from top to bottom—additional notes scribbled in the margins so you wouldn’t forget, and spreadsheets written so that you keep yourself in line.

You like to eat cake, because it’s a reminder that you’re doing your part as a little cog in the machine that is this world. It’s not escaping that gives you comfort, but rather, the reminder that you’re still in this world, and you’re doing just fine.

(So you deserve your cake.)

-

Until some days where you feel like you don’t.

-

Your childhood looked something like this:

Air conditioned rooms, sniffling instead of crying, and the lilac blooms outside your window. There’s a sky, infinite as she’s always been, that watches. Sometimes she cries, but in your corner of the world, it’s more common to see her smile. Sometimes you wonder what she smiles about, but 7 year old you liked to think that she smiled for the same reasons you do.

A cool breeze in the summer, and paper kites folded every sunset. Your dreams of ocean eyes every time you’re close to the shore, as if it’s a foreshadow to the future still to come, but you’d always only stand by the edge and watch—never wading too far in.

It wasn’t a fear of the water, nor the depth, but you just always had a nagging thought behind your head that the waves would never truly be for you. You loved the sun, and the sky too much to give in to the waves.

Perhaps it’s a metaphor for something later on in life; perhaps it isn’t. You’ve never been curious enough to try to think much about it.

Ever since you were young, your idea of love never changed much from your initial thoughts.

Love felt like it should just be what’s written under the bullet points of your life schedule. Love, supposedly, looked like ocean eyes and dark roots for hair. He’d be a little more on the reserved side, and would conquer the world with you.

People always tell you that love should conquer the world for you, but it felt like too much of a selfish dream. Your whole life, you moved with a sense of purpose in mind. You buy cake after a job well done, because you know you’ll only deserve it by then. You do things only because you’ve done certain things, and it’s always been as black and white as that.

(It works.)

You’re in high school and you sit next to your best friend’s boyfriend from seven to five. You have a circle that loves you as much as you do them, and you still treat yourself to slices of chocolate cake from a bakery down the street. Their cake has a generic taste, you think, but it could be better.

Still, you settle. Settling is okay.

The idea that things would always be just okay in the black and white was okay. Your everyday life, and routine, looked like this. The people around you act like this, and you—in return, feel like this.

You laugh when things are funny, then cry when they aren’t. You appreciate the notes you’d find in your locker: the doodles and scribbled reminders alike. The difference in the handwriting and color choice of the sticky notes only reminds you that you’re part of something that isn’t just you.

You will always love your shade of lavender, or lilac, or periwinkle, but you found sentimentality and love in shades of peaches, scarlet, greys, and serenity blue too.

Routine is the kind that looks more lax than rigid, because bursts of serendipity still find you anyway.

-

(March 13, 2015) Hyogo

Because it’s in your final year of highschool, where the idea of what it initially was is thrown right out the window.

Miya Atsumu.

Brown eyes that are the complete opposite of every hue of the ocean, and his god awful piss yellow hair.

When you meet him, there’s not much to romanticize about it. He sat a few seats away from where you are, and parked his bike purposely close to your sister’s by the gate. He raised his hand to the questions he didn’t know the answer to and would drag his chair beside your desk to say hello even when you’d turn away to focus on your paper during breaks.

Love was an abstract sort of thing, so you could guess that his peculiarity fits.

You were all the shades of lilac while he offered you the pale yellow of every sunshine you found solace in ever since you were young. The color on the opposite end of the color wheel, Miya Atsumu truly was your contrast.

He ate cheesecake and didn’t hide his face when he sneezed. He’d roll up his sleeves and fight the next person without thinking to talk it out first and scribbled his ideas from the center of the paper instead of listing them out from top to bottom, or left to right like you always did.

But he was the start.

“Hi, Len.” he said instead of the standard “hi, hello; what’s your name?” greeting, and it even if it baffles you how he got your name before you even had the chance to introduce yourself—you didn’t think you had it in you to be mad about it.

Third year highschool Miya Atsumu with the god awful piss yellow hair and black undercut smiled in the way that had the left corner of his mouth rising just a little higher than the right, and you were fucking hooked.

You didn’t show it at first, but you were hooked. He had the kind of lilt in his voice that you always thought was more endearing than attractive, and would often lean back in his seat with one arm slung over the back of his chair as he waited for you to finish up with your review for the day. He liked all the things you thought were okay at best, but he was who stayed.

Libraries were for those who found a little comfort and familiarity in the silence, and he was a wildfire. He fell asleep waiting for you as you studied, but would always have a whole lunchbox of soft snacks for you to munch on while you did your thing, checking off the bullet points of your list.

On Saturdays, he was the person waiting for you at the bleachers by the track field with a towel and water bottle, cheering you on as if he understood the sport. When you’d pass him, he’d wave, and holler at you like you just won even if you’ve just been running laps for warmup.

He was never a hello, because he was a whirlwind that caught you off guard straight from the start. Some would say this is like serendipity, and perhaps it is—he is—but you like to think that maybe he’s just part of the black and white of your life. You liked what you liked, whether it correlated with your plans or not, and it really was as simple as just that.

-

In high school you always liked to eat cake after exams. You liked chocolate because it was sweet, and you’ve always been the person who had a sweet tooth.

You write left to right, from top to bottom and keep your letters beside to eachother in print, because it makes sense.

Miya Atsumu, the boy who was the pale yellow to your lilac, was the one who offered you a pen when you’d misplace yours, even if he only had one with him in his bag.

And you liked him, you suppose, because you just do.

-

(March 13, 2020) | Tokyo

Miya Atsumu was blunt, and freeing.

He was the sky, and not the sea, but love—later on, became the realization that you’re just freefalling.

After the initial introductions, there wasn’t a point where either of you felt like you were still supposed to be somewhere else. Like something you didn’t know had even been out of place sliding into it, instead of clicking. The skies would open, not just for you but for him as well.

While you saw all the colors of the sun and of the golden hour, Atsumu saw the shades of lilac in the earth.

What becomes is the love that’s felt in the silence, and on the way home.

It’s your voice that he hears chastise him to put down the donut and share it with Osamu when he’d been planning to leave him a third of the last at best. It’s the four letters of your name that he scribbles in the corners of receipts mindlessly, but would still fucking deny it every time he’d get caught.

Atsumu and his bike rides to school, along with his habit of catching up to you just to get off and walk beside you if he sees you nearing the gates.

A silent sort of company in the morning beside someone who was basically known at the most perfect personification of what noise would look like if it were to be redesigned into human form.

True love, and serendipity he thinks, is this. It’s you and all the witty remarks you’d make towards him, telling him to go away, that he never ends up taking seriously because you’d be blushing red before he even gets a chance to react.

The reaction he comes is delayed, but the epiphany that it’s you who becomes the face to love, isn’t.

You were the who when it came to answering the who, what, when, where, why, and how of love.

The what was answered love. The when, is yesterday, when you spilled a little bit of your chocolate milk on your desk and cursed in the way he never would have figured you saying, and today, when you looked out at the skies and smiled your private sort of smile towards the palette of the sunset.

The where was everywhere. Love, as you, in the sidewalks leading up to the gates, and on that desk on the row ahead, diagonal to him.

The why, was this. (It was everything.) (Running, then leaping. Flying, then soaring.) (Everything.)

He finally finds truth to the poems he usually tended to ignore in love songs, but it was great.

And the how, finally, was answered with a shrug.

How did he love you? Atsumu would always shrug because he just does.

Always, always does.

-

Along with the high, comes facing the reality that you must also fall. For the longest while, you’re climbing, climbing, climbing¸ until eventually, there’s nowhere else to go but down. The real face of love looked somewhat like that.

It’s one foot after the other, and steps towards the sky. There’s no staircase with a solid ground leading up, nor wings clasped behind you to lift you up even with through the absence of a breeze. (But love had you flying.)

It’s seeing the sights you’ve seen your whole life not with a new set of eyes, but a new vantage point. Atsumu’s the sun, all the while you still felt as if you were the child forever glancing up towards it. They tell you to never look at light straight on, but his glow never had you blinded.

Atsumu gave you clarity, showcased on a silver platter.

You understood all the priorly misunderstood parts of your life, where it felt like a new kind of exhilarating. Like having knowledge at the palm of your head, the world became as infinite as it became yours.

(And yours alone.)

Your hands that only grabbed just what was yours were suddenly reaching too far in the cookie jar. Greediness has never really been you, but eventually the fall—your fall—from the high looked like crumbs on your hands and shirt, and the absence of what once was where it should still be.

Atsumu never said a word, because it never was that way.

Still, you closed your eyes while still in the air. The view was right there, and Atsumu was beside you through the climb, the high, and the period where you just glide, telling you to open your eyes and look but you only did—for just a fraction of a second.

It’s the heaven that sits above the clouds that terrify you, you think. The unspoken truth that was kept as a hush is suddenly right in your ear screaming.

“He’s holding you to the clouds,” it taunts, then continues, “—But what have you given him in return?”

Atsumu’s never heard the demons in your head, nor was aware of its presence in the first place, but he always seemed to just have a way of knowing what to say, exactly when to say it.

Like now.

He’s sat in the bleachers, high on life, while you’re high on adrenaline. Six thirty in the summers meant the sun was just beginning to set, so he smiles, knowing that you’ve always thought of this moment as yours.

(And his, he adds mentally, a whisper to himself—a validation that you are his as much as he is yours.)

Truly.

“Hi Lena,” he grins; one side quirked up higher than the other, and under the bloom of scarlet and amber, he’s beautiful. “What’s your name?”

You’re laughing, as if you don’t carry the weight of all your demons on your shoulders. Amber against your deep brown eyes, and he’s caught. Like always. Fucking entranced, like always.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you voice back, leaning close and laughing at the way he scrunches his eyes close at your sudden display of brevity. It catches him off guard every time. He loves it, as much as he does you—but he’s still a boy inside.

You laugh anyway, pressing a kiss on his eyelids when he keeps his eyes closed, and you smile, softly, when you notice the way his shoulders relax.

“What’s your name?” you echo, then you’re both laughing at the inside jokes that you admittedly could never get sick of.

“I really don’t know,” he stretches further, enjoying the ay the moment became not just yours, but also truly his, with just a couple of words and some laughs. “I just can’t remember, Lena, but what’s your name?”

You laugh, throwing your hair up in a quick bun, before taking the seat beside him.”Atsumu we sound stupid.”

You don’t turn to return his stare, but you feel his eyes on your profile before he even tries to make something off of it. He smiles, and you feel that too.

You’re beautiful, he thinks to himself. A thought that comes to him more frequent than remembering the kanji for his own name, and Atsumu knows he’s rooted himself way too deep to even try to think of letting go.

“Fuck the status quo or whatever that shit says babe,” you hear him laugh in return.

You’re both sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes towards the sun, and the world feels like it only exists to be yours. (and his.)

A moment, where in your eyes, it feels like it’s just (him) and you.

Just him.

Love, as just Atsumu, because he has a way of being your forever anything and everything. A whirlwind of some sorts; a spontaneous wildfire wrapped with the pretty shades of serendipity, and it feels so right.

It’s quiet, but it’s the nice kind of quiet. The demons in your head are hushed, but if you know they’re probably just slumbering, you’re still overwhelmed with a newfound sense of comfort. The source feels like it’s meant to flow infinitely, and you smile—until you don’t. You remind yourself the virtue of never taking more than you can bother to use, so as you turn your head, watching him soak in the light once again, it takes so much inside you to remember that and fight back the urge.

“Don’t you have practice tonight?” you ask, curious.

His sports bag was placed beside him, and it takes you a little while to notice that he’s decked out in his training gear. The time on your clock tells you it’s six forty five, and you’ve always known that practice started at five.

“I do,” he hums.

You turn in response, poking his cheek before pinching it. “Then go.”

Atsumu sighs, in a too-dramatic-voice for a man who was well beyond those years, but you suppose that that was just one of his charms. “Wanna stay actually,” he pouts leaning his weight against yours, to which you’re quick to groan at, nudging your shoulder to try to get him away.

His chin settles on your shoulder anyway, but his other arm is quick to anchor you around the other side, making sure that he’s still holding you up, more than you holding him up. Atsumu’s face is close to yours, as is yours. It’s a position he’s always liked. When he looks at you, he can see the little dots on your face that other people never could get to see unless they were this close. When you blink, you do it slow, like you’re savoring the sight in front of you, and his heart thrums in a tender sort of happiness because even if you never looked much like the sentimental type, he knows you well enough to know that you really are that.

Atsumu juts his bottom lip, like he’s tired, and you laugh.

“Tsumu, go.”

“Tsumu,” he counters. “—stay.”

“Actually,” he corrects himself, shaking his head. “Lena,” he smiles. “Stay.”

-

“You don’t have to do anything,” he adds. “Just stay.”

His words hit you before you could even try to pull your walls back up, knowing that it’ll hit a spot you aren’t exactly keen on confronting just yet.

Just stay, his words echo in your ear, and you suppose that that’s really all you could do. Moments like this where love overwhelm you the most has you fearing love the most, if you were being honest with yourself. There was a fear that comes with love, because at the root of it all, love will always just be a risk.

The higher the climb, the harder the fall they say. The more you give, the more the world will take. You look at Atsumu, who faces you with his pouted lips and sunset painted across two pools of baby brown. He closes his eyes and leans forward, knowing that you’ll kiss his eyelids before you even say it. Like the earth letting itself pulled by gravity, you’re beckoned towards the sun, falling into orbit as time—the human concept of it anyway—begins to move slow and all you can do is spin in circles and marvel at the being that is the light.

“I love you,” he says, and he’s honest.

What terrifies you is the honesty in your voice too, when you reply with an “I love you,” of your own.

The higher the climb, the more painful the fall, you think. When Atsumu opens his eyes and allows for the silence to remain and blanket the piece of the world that is yours and his, you see that you’ve already made it to the highest summit.

The more you give, the more the world will take.

But the thing is, you don’t know what you’ve given him. Your hands are empty beside his, but he holds them anyway. You’re so fucking in love and it terrifies you because what is the earth next to the sun? It stays in a distance so it doesn’t burn, but now, even as you’re face to face with the being that embodies the essence of the light and life itself—you aren’t burning.

Then it hits you.

He is your everything.

You gave yours, so what else could the world take other than him?

-

And because love also wields the power to make you more fearful than you are in love, you admit to yourself that you’re fucking scared. Atsumu says “I love you,” again, and holds your empty hands in his that holds nothing but still feels all the ways full at the same time. It’s suddenly hard to swallow, and you’re cold.

The summit is beautiful, but you are cold.

You close your eyes, walk forward, lose your footing, then just freefall.

The scary part is, even if you do that, you know Atsumu will just think of it as an adventure and jump right after you—riding the current with you, even though you’re venturing into what’s unknown.

Still, you close your eyes.

You pull the parachute first, imagining that you’ve hit the ground before the winds would even get to you.

-

(March 13, 2021)

The funny thing about heartbreak is, Atsumu thinks, is that you recognize its presence before you see its face.

He felt you fading.

Fading from something, but it never fathomed to him that it was from him. You never pulled away when he held his hands, because he made it a point to consciously remind himself to wipe them clean beforehand every time so he supposes it wasn’t that.

“Are we okay?” he asks anyway, when you’re in his car, staring out the street that’s a couple ways from your house. Six-thirty’s already passed, and the skies are in shades of grey instead of the marmalade and amber the sunset always brings.

Atsumu’s voice is a break in the atmosphere, that you think wasn’t tense, but the way his voice quivers in the way only you can point out has you thinking otherwise.

You swallow.

“We are.”

Atsumu exhales, and at the way his voice seems to sound a little more amplified than usual, you realize that the engine’s turned off. Regardless of the nagging voice in your head to stop dragging this out, you turn away anyway.

You love him, and love to love him. You love kissing his eyelids when he naps on your thighs and associating him with the little things just because.

(You turn away, prolonging the inevitable, because you don’t want to associate him with the end—just yet.)

You think to yourself that you don’t deserve this—him—because he deserves better, but you want to have just one more bite. Fists clenched in the pocket of his hoodie you wear that still smells like him, and you want to cry.

Atsumu sighs again, tired. When you look at him, he’s already staring at you, for god knows how long now, and you wince because he looks exhausted.

“Are we?” he asks again, and when you open your mouth to try to find a couple words to string together as a reply, nothing comes out.

“Lena,” he says, and his voice is loud.

He’s only been whispering this whole time, and you’re aware of that, but it’s still loud. His car’s in park; the engine’s off, and when you shift your position from side to side to try to find your place, you can hear the fabric ruffle against each other.

“Len,” you hear again. “Lena.”

“Talk to me,” Atsumu says, and you’re baffled at the way that his voice sounds like a plea.

“I am talking to you,” you mumble. You shift again, but you’re still not comfortable; you don’t want to look at him. You don’t think that you deserve to look at him.

But his voice still comes to you, soft. He’s saying your name; again and again, but it still sounds like a fucking plea. Your shoulders shake, but you still it before he notices. The bullet points that come after the list you write left to right, from the top going to the bottom doesn’t give you an answer as to why he’s fucking pleading.

“Please look at me,” he’s whispering now. (Still loud.)

What is there to plead for?

“What’s wrong, Tsumu?”

“Babe, you gotta talk to me.”

The zipper drags across the plastic of the door, and makes a sound. Internally, you flinch right as you shift your position again because you’re still not fucking comfortable.

You look at him, then blink. He’s staring at you, desperate for words you don’t have, and suddenly your hands feel so empty.

What do I give you?

He shivers when a breeze floats in through the window, while you don’t. Then you blink again. Right, you think. This is his jacket that he gave you. He’s sitting beside you, at 23:10, half an hour away from his apartment, knowing full well there’s traffic in Tokyo regardless of the fucking hour.

Your thoughts, a battle between what can I even give you? and look at what you’ve given me.

“Tsumu I think this is it,” you suddenly whisper, the feeling of being so out of place finally dawning on you.

You keep shifting, uncomfortable in your position, because you’re not supposed to be here. You buy yourself a slice of cake after a job well done, but when you look at Atsumu—what have you done?

What have you given for you to receive so much?

His hoodie’s still warm, and your fingers clutch onto the fabric.

Atsumu stares at you, and even if you want to look away, you can’t. He holds your gaze like he’s held your heart for years now, and you know this won’t be a situation easy to break out of. His grip had always been solid despite the lack of bruises that tell the world of its presence.

“I think,” you sigh, swallowing down the urge to say it’s a joke, to take back your words.

“I think—“ you say again, but hesitate. Atsumu watches you nod your head, the look in your eye so far he doesn’t know if he can catch up by now. You’re whispering your words, the most of what you say phrases he can barely even understand, but he listens to you anyway.

You want to cry again, the tightness in your chest increasing tenfold, and the feeling of discomfort reminding you that you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t deserve this slice of cake, but you’re greedy.

Balled fists, hazy thoughts, and you’re cracking. You aren’t breaking, but you’re cracking.

The fallout is the same.

You nod your head again, and Atsumu watches, his eyebrows scrunched up and drawn together, as you seem to arrive at a conclusion without even letting him in the conversation. The haze clears from your eyes, and by the looks of it you’ve already rooted yourself someplace you don’t even want to stand in.

He tries to say your name, but you’re still shaking your head.

Then you’re shrugging off his jacket. Atsumu opens his mouth, still fucking confused because what are you doing?

You held his hand yesterday and kissed his eyelids goodnight three fucking hours ago.

“What are you doing?”

You hear him, but that’s all there is to it. You know you should be listening to him, but only the definition of the words register in your head. The meaning to be deciphered in the situation remains unseen, when the only thoughts in your head revolve around the fact that your hands are still so empty.

You think about what he says, though.

What are you doing, Lena?

He watches you unzip the zipper from the front, and hear the audible click when you unbuckle your seatbelt. He’s still watching, mouth parted in the silence in disbelief at what he thinks is the goodbye scenario he’s always avoided thinking about. You’re leaning forward, then it’s the left arm out before the right.

A breeze comes again, and even if your eyes are elsewhere, you catch a glimpse at him from your peripherals as he’s shivering—again. Frustration bubbles up in your chest, welling up into tears, but you don’t cry.

You remind yourself that you shouldn’t cry.

Balance was what kept the world in orbit, so therefore, you must only take, if you give.

Rewards are reserved for accomplishments, but what have you fucking offered?

Atsumu’s given you the world, but you still face him with empty hands and just an I love you.

Love was your certainty and your lifetime kind of truth, but what else is there? When Atsumu tells you he’s all yours, it’s enough, but when you do—why does it feel so little?

You take the risk, then the plunge, and look at him. When he blinks, and keeps his eyes shut just that while longer, you have to fight the urge to kiss his eyelids like you’ve always done. His hoodie’s folded on your lap now, but you still smell your honeydew on it.

How many times does he have to wash it to get the smell out? you think.

Atsumu swallows his words, his retaliations, because he knows you’ve anchored yourself before you even hit the water. If you had always been anything—other than the fact that you are always his everything—it was the fact that you are resolute.

So he lets you speak.

He already offers you his love even though he looks at heartbreak in the face.

And it’s your face he sees. Faraway eyes, your shoulders tense, and a shiver that makes your fingers tremble in the slightest. He sees every detail play out in slow motion, and even if his heart is hammering in his chest, just as yours probably is, he thinks to himself—you’re beautiful.

You, as the face of love from the hello, and still you, the face he puts to heartbreak as he listens to you say, “I think I have to let you go.”

‘Let what go?’ he thinks. When you let go of something, it’s to get rid of the bad—the dead weight.

Was he the dead weight?

“It’s for the best,” you say. (For your best, you think.)

“I don’t think we can keep doing this anymore.” (I don’t think I can keep doing this to you anymore.)

“I think this is the best for us.” (For you.)

“What—“

“Tsumu,” you say, cutting him off. Your voice doesn’t quiver but your hands hidden from his point of view clench then unclench.

“Atsumu,” you say again, this time with a smile. It isn’t forced, because you don’t think that you ever had to force a smile for him, but at the sight of him watching you, heartbreak written across his face, your heart can’t help but crack in the same pattern.

It runs a little deeper, you think. The kind of deep where you aren’t sure if even the scars will fade overtime.

“Lena—wait—“ he tries to interject, but you’re already opening the door and walking outside.

He knows your look when you’ve decided, and he knows that it looks something just like this. Still, he bites his lip, hoping that this would just blow off come daylight. He knew you had always been the type to feel the things that come, but never really dwell on it enough to process it. There was hesitance when you accepted things from others, and it never escapes his line of vision when you’d just duck your head a little lower when you didn’t have anything to offer back.

When he says I love you, he means it in both the verbal and in the silent way he tries to communicate with you.

Like leaving traces of himself in every little piece of everything, so that it’s there for you to have and just know.

“I love you,” he says again, and again.

In the silence, but you don’t hear it. On the walk home, you feel it but you turn away.

 -

This is the painful part of love, you think. You know that you’re frustrated, and that everything you hate which unfortunately comes with love is brewing so strong in your chest, that no words come out.

You tell yourself that you’re mad, but when you look at the mirror you turn away.

“My name is Lena,” you say, and you begin. In the world—or your world at least—chaos is swirling so in order to find organization for it, you close your eyes and center your thoughts on the first fact to keep you grounded.

“I like to eat cake, when I deserve it, because I still am victorious,” you say, then add, when a flash of pale yellow comes to mind, “—sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you say, then turn the corner to walk into the kitchen so sit at the table. You remember the slice of cake you bought this morning, meaning to save it for tonight, remembering that you just finished your exams after cramming for nearly two weeks.

In hindsight, you really should have expected it though. Your sister did mention that she just started her period the day before, and usually you never minded when she ate a couple of stuff that wasn’t yours—and you know this is isn’t the reason why you’re crumpled down on the kitchen floor with one fork in hand and no cake in the fridge, but you are.

You’re crying, and flustered, and the words that come out of your mouth sound more gibberish than coherent. You think that you’re saying Atsumu’s name, beside an apology, but truth be told you’re letting yourself go and blank out.

The cold air from the opened fridge hits you on your knees, and you really should be getting up by now to shut it close before your sister comes home and pokes at you for it, but you really can’t be bothered to think about caring.

This is the fall that comes with love, and what was taken was what you were given.

It’s you who gave him back, because the thoughts in your head are busy telling you that even if love was enough—was it really?

Were you enough was the ugly question you don’t face, so you close your eyes and convince yourself that you’re crying because of a fucking slice of cake and not because of the sun.

You ignore the memory of walking home, and still feeling Atsumu’s presence watch you with eagle eyes as he slowly drove with you down the sidewalk – “just so I know you’re home safe, at least give me that.”

-

Give, you think.

There was nothing that you had given him, and Atsumu had deserved something even greater than eternity itself.

-

It’s in the same hour of that same night where Miya Atsumu, who wore red eyes and slumped shoulders, that was standing outside the bakery an hour and fifteen minutes away from his place, wondering which kind of cake you’d like the most out of the thirteen in the display.

-

(September 13, 2021)

Time moves at a weird pace.

Yesterday feels like yesterday, and today feels just like today. It doesn’t move slow, because you know the clock keeps ticking, but still you move. Sunrise comes before sunset, but you stopped looking up and watching the in-betweens colors before that final stroke of marmalade, or even five thirty’s golden hour.

Gold reminded you of the sun, so you looked away. Love had you blinded, and you wanted to look at the world with the lens of practicality instead of the colored ones this time around.

Atsumu was still around, for the most part of it.

Graduation came, then summer, and you know even without you he kept blooming. Towards the end of the year, right before graduation, you still saw the posters on the wall, and heard his name in the announcements. There was always a congratulations right before, followed by a “we’re proud of you,” that never flew past your line of attention.

He deserved it, you think.

Miya Atsumu deserves the whole cake, and not just a slice, because he continuously still gives—his good deeds going well past just the title of a job well done.

You, on the other hand, both kept your distance and thoughts in order in the beginning.

He still said hello when you passed by him in the halls. The awkward timeframe right after a breakup didn’t spare either of you too. With you, opening your inbox and rereading the old messages; debating whether you should just archive the whole conversation or delete it altogether, then seeing Atsumu typing something for a whole five minutes before the indication stops and a message is never sent.

Where you’re stuck wondering what he could have said, because you know Atsumu’s always been the type to not only wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather, shout it out instead.

You never fit that bill, but you (love)d him anyway.

If you were being honest—at least to yourself—it took long, before Miya Atsumu became just the name of a contact in your phone, the text history buried at the bottom. Seven months’ worth of texts piled above his last, “hey, i’m outside,” that you never could bring yourself to delete.

For a while, you think, you deserved that slice of cake.

Just a slice, and not the whole thing, but for that while—it was all yours.

-

(December 2021)

Akaashi Keiji didn’t come into your life until another three months after you shut the book and pretended you never read its contents. You say you know the end, but really, you never flipped past page 223 despite the book ending at 416.

The end was a page that was skimmed over, and never really read through. A dog eared fold on the corner, instead of a bookmark, for the sake of it sitting on the shelf, looking finished. In the moment, you know it isn’t finished, and you’ll probably stumble upon the book again at some point, later down in time, but perhaps if you give yourself enough patience, you’ll forget that it was left to be unfinished in the first place.

Miya Atsumu was a story you started, where you read the start in a third person POV, then left it midway when you took the reins and rewrote what you think the ending would be from a first person perspective.

I am not enough for you, you said. I will take off this jacket and leave it here, because I haven’t offered you anything.

I will leave, and let you go because you deserve more.

(But it’s I love you, as the thought, that still will always remain.)

-

You have your books and bullet point notes, the days after today written in a list: from top to bottom with just a couple of scribbles along the margins. Akaashi met you like serendipity used to dictate, and this new book started like how it should have.

“Hello,” because that’s how it should start. Followed by a “how are you?” because that’s usually the next thing to say.

The conversation’s light before it dives deeper, and you think to yourself that you like it like that because it follows order. Atsumu gave you half his bento box two hours after you first met, while Akaashi offered you a napkin and his extra fork when yours fell.

Often, your friends would tell you that it probably wasn’t a good idea to compare the dynamic of the two, and you agree because if you were outside this situation you would be advising the exact same, but when you do things from first person, a lot of things become that much harder just because.

This wasn’t love, nor was this the replacement of love, but you can’t help but admit that Akaashi Keiji was the prince charming you wrote about in your diary when you were a kid. He was the ocean eyed prince charming every teenager dreamt of, and this was the slowburn kind of pace that love should be.

Atsumu barreled into you and made himself be known as the yellow in the color wheel opposite of your purple, and even if it didn’t clash, nor blend, it had a presence.

You think to yourself that Akaashi was all the shades of ocean blue, while you were that kind of purple right in between lavender and periwinkle.  You could stand next to him at the train station, or be squished next to eachother in the train during rush hour, and people would take one glance and assume you’re together.

Situating yourself beside the shade next to yours in the color wheel felt right. Blue to purple, or purple to blue. It worked. Neither of you had to jump far, or take a leap across the wheel, but only take a step and you’re right there.

He wasn’t love, but you didn’t let yourself think that he could be.

It’s two more years of this until your master’s is done, so you suppose reading a side story wouldn’t hurt much.

Only that this side story was getting a little more complicated than you initially just planned out. You jumped into this story without the thought of grabbing a bookmark, and Akaashi Keiji had been the type of person you knew hated dog eared bookmarks.

“What are your thoughts about this?” he asks you one day though, so completely out of the blue that it has you whipping your head to the side to stare at him, wide eyed. You’ve known him for a while now, and he was okay. Perhaps just the word great, at best, because whether you looked at this from a first person point of view or a third, your words would still be the same. Objective thoughts led you to thinking of coming to a conclusion based on the rubric of your childhood, and Akaashi fit the bill.

Maybe not your bill now, but he still fit it.

Akaashi Keiji was who your should have been prince charming looked like, with the ocean blue eyes and poetry for words.

Even though he asks you that now, when you’re seated in the passenger seat of his car parked outside your apartment building, you still can only bring yourself to just blink. You stay true to the fact that you are surprised, and you do admit that, but that’s all there is to it. Nothing feels like it’s leaping out of your chest, and there’s no flutter of anything in your stomach.

His words register in your head, but so does confusion.

“This?” you parrot, trying to find meaning through the limited context he provides.

Akaashi nods, hands still at 10 and 2 on the wheel, while his foot hovers over the brakes. You can see that the car’s in park, but he’s tense. He lets a couple more seconds pass—that felt like it was stretching a lot longer than what it really is—before inhaling and turning to face you.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking like he’s saying it to himself rather than towards you. “This,” he confirms, then after it looks like he convinced himself, he looks at you, and nods again.

You stare at two pools of the sea, that immediately has you wondering if it’s either the Atlantic or the Pacific. Your feet that had long been digging into the warmth of the sand on the shore are suddenly hit with the first cold kisses of the water, and you’re caught.

“This,” you sound out, and by now you’re already well aware of where the conversation’s headed. The both of you still skirt around the words anyway, the silence quickly settling in.

He’s breathing in and out, steady, and tapping his finger against the steering wheel—steady. You’re sat beside him wearing a jacket that’s always been yours, and the AC in his car is just the right kind of cold. When you shift, you’re not exactly comfortable enough to want to stay, but you aren’t uncomfortable to the point of wanting to leave right away either. The space between the both of you feel appropriate, and you know even if he leaves later, his place is only a ten minute drive away.

Convenience, you think; it’s an appropriate word to describe this.

So you turn to face him.

Ocean meets earth, and you’re aware of the cold waves touching your ankle now. You’re nodding your head when you hear the click of his seatbelt unbuckle, then keep your eyes on him when he leans close.

It’s like staying on the edge of the shore, hesitant for the long while, before the moon beyond the daylight loses patience and calls for the tide to favor the yearning of the sea as it grants the tips of its waves to reach further inland.

From your seat, you watch as the ocean comes to you.

Your hands are empty, still, but you did finish that paper two days early so you suppose a slice of something is okay.

“This is convenient,” he finally hears you say, and Akaashi wants to say something else, but he shuts himself up when he sees you finally look at him, like you found an answer to a question that’s boggled with your head for a while now.

He knows there was always something unanswered that bothered you, but he never had it in himself to breach past the boundary the both of you had situated right in the middle just for the sake of asking.

He was curious, but they did say that curiosity had its ways of killing the cat.

Akaashi doesn’t want to be killed—and because he didn’t want this to be killed either—he chose to keep his silence.

Still, he still has it in him to hesitate. The moon can only push the tides so much, and the water will only go so far to where it rarely ventures before it must recede back to where it should be come daylight.

It’s daylight that you yearn, and he sees that.

A faceless kind of sun—that he can only guess is the answer to all the questions he knows you still have.

What’s above the both of you is the gleam of moonlight now, he reasons, so he goes as far as he can and waits. You’re still standing by the shore—still sitting completely still—until he watches you break out of the hesitation laced with your thoughts, right as you move.

“What are we doing?” he hears you whisper, so Akaashi begs for the moon to push him forward just a little closer.

(He hopes you don’t pull away.)

“We’re doing what’s convenient,” he offers, a set of words strung together at the very last second that he knows is just a crafted lie, then prays for the best.

You’re nodding your head, and you give yourself just those few more seconds as you weigh your thoughts, deciding what’s still okay and what isn’t.

You think back to the bullet points of your journal, and mentally recite the facts written in an organized list.

You like to eat cake, and treat yourself a slice after a job well done, because that’s only when you deserve it. You (love)d Miya Atsumu for a whole novel of your life where the reason fell under just because instead of the specifics you try to fit in places for the sake of accuracy and detail. Miya Atsumu was the sun that was always with the sky, and you were never blinded even if you did always stare at him directly in the eye. (Next to that part is always a quickly scribbled why—but you don’t know the answer to it just yet.)

(You say you should really be getting back to it later, to fill in the blanks, and give it some closure—but you aren’t ready for a closure.)

(You aren’t ready to open page 223.)

Then next on the list is Akaashi Keiji. You had two classes with him and went to the same university for your masters and the most you know about him is that he likes his coffee with just a splash of caramel. He lives just a ten minute drive away from you, and he’s okay enough to share a laugh with on weekdays and breakfast with on weekends if you had class together that day. He’s okay with 7am lectures, even if he did have bags under his eyes, and he’s the type to always carry a bookmark with him or at least just a scrap of paper to fit in between the pages because he hated the idea of just folding the corners as substitute instead.

It’s not that he’s convenient, but rather this is convenient.

You got along well, and you suppose that you’re comfortable enough with the ocean to wade deep within it and still not drown.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you hear him murmur, so you take a step and wade in a little deeper.

Ankle deep, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt as you shift and fully face him.

Ocean blue, and the waves are swirling, swirling, swirling—you’re pulled in. Waist deep, and the water’s cold enough to wake you up and remind you that it’s fine. You’re fine, and you can breathe; you aren’t overwhelmed, and when you stretch your fingers and try to feel for the sand beneath the waves, you can still feel it. There’s a certain security found in being grounded, then you’re thinking to yourself that whatever this is, is okay.

You try to stare down, and face the waves, and will yourself to not think of the sky.

There’s no daylight, and the sun slumbers, so the waves around you heed to the call of the moon and move back and forth, in motion, but still, around your waist.

So it’s you who buckles your knees in waist deep water and pull yourself under.

It’s the feel of the water, cool and not exactly cold that greets you, as you push yourself forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt before pressing your lips against his.

Akaashi sighs against your lips, as if he’s already discovered the ending to a story he conceptualized himself but never really had the courage of writing out.

He’s kissing you right back, and it feels good—for the moment.

You try not to think of the nagging feeling that pokes at you again and again, saying that the warmth of the sand under the sun in daylight feels much more like home than the cool feel of the water.

-

You’ve always known to yourself that there was the undeniable contrast between Akaashi and Atsumu.

Comparing the two wasn’t a bright idea—it was stupid, if anything, and didn’t help with shit, honestly speaking. (You always were honest to yourself.)

Akaashi hummed his praises, and never was the type to really shout them out. He called you when he’d pull up to your building, instead of wait outside the door and surprise you with a couple pieces of chocolate and a cheesy grin that you swore to hell and back you hated to boot.

Atsumu was everything unpredictable and freeing, but Akaashi was predictable in the way that eventually grew sentimental. He, alone, had forever been great. You knew well that there was so many things he could take pride in, and never bothered to hide your compliments when it came to his achievements, because you knew he deserved the recognition.

Akaashi spoke to you in metaphors, while Atsumu told you like how it is. You admit to yourself, that even if there were some days where you liked the challenge of trying to understand what was written underneath the underneath—the days where you just wanted to hear it as it just is were just as equal.

For the next few months after the first, time still moved okay. Sixty minutes was still an hour, while twenty four hours was still one whole day. Whether Akaashi’s hand was on yours, or if his lips were on your neck in the car, time still just moved.

Your heart skipped a couple beats, when his thumb would always caress the corners of your lips before and after he kissed you, and your cheeks would bloom into all the shades of scarlet when he’d whisper your name in between the kisses that never felt rushed.

But it was just that.

You felt the rush of what love was supposed to be—the hype that it never failed to bring—in the car.

At 11PM, in the parking lot of your apartment building, the height of love thrived on the fumes of serendipity for an hour or two every couple of nights, and would trickle fast when you’d open the door and tell him goodnight.

Atsumu was goodnight, my love, with the cheesy smile and your montage of eye rolls but secret blushes when you’d turn your back and make your way inside your house. Akaashi, on the other hand, you think is just your goodnight, then go, because at the end of the day—because of convenience—the both of you are somehow dragging out the goodbye.

So you part from him, wipe your lips, and try to ignore the way his thumb lingers just a little longer on the corner of your lips. You turn away when the look in his eye turns softer, because it shouldn’t, and pretend like you didn’t just see the shift the both of you have been trying to get away from.

Just two years, then goodbye, you tell yourself.

This isn’t love, Akaashi thinks to himself, hand on the wheel and foot on the gas pedal instead of the brakes. He watches you walk past the hood of his car, the hand that was just balling up the collar of his shirt only moments ago raised to give him a goodnight wave as you walk past, and shit, he thinks.

He still smells honeydew even after you’ve shut the door, and he can’t help but notice how silent the car feels despite the low hum of the air conditioner blasting inside his car.

Akaashi sinks into his seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, before he sighs his deep exhale.

“Ah,” he mumbles. “Shit.”

This wasn’t supposed to be love.

-

If there was one thing he excelled at above the rest, and kept as a constant since day one, for Akaashi it was playing it safe.

This route was set to be the one he’d take when he’d drive home, because it was safe. Traffic was inevitable in the city, but this on had the least turns. A couple stoplights, and some convenience stores would be in every corner as well as a gas station at every couple of miles was convenient.

Safe, like choosing just plain vanilla for his cake flavors ever since he turned old enough to pick out his own cake, and safe, like just a splash of caramel in his coffee to lessen the bite of espresso.

You were what challenged him to walk a little ways outside the circle he’d always deemed as safe.

He didn’t run away from it, on the other hand, because he realizes that it’s curiosity that made him take the bait. You weren’t just the girl who shared a couple subjects with him and wrote her notes in the same order, the letters written in print instead of scribbled with questionable cursive.

Truth be told, it was before he even took the risk that night and begged for the moon to let him reach just a little further in the shore for him to unconsciously begin redesigning the face of love into the contours of your face.

You looked like love.

What it could just possibly be at the start, until he waded too far into the shore for that thought to turn into the beginnings of certainty.

And when Akaashi Keiji was certain, he took no time in looking for somewhere to bury his roots as deep as he can possibly go in.

It started with noticing that some weeks you prefer red velvet over chocolate mousse, then making a mental note to himself that you prefer the bakery on the east side of campus than the one on the west. You never made too much conversation with the teenagers that worked there part time, because he understands that there’s never really a point in doing that when you could just be on your way, but he took note of how you’d smile a little more towards the uncles that trimmed the hedges on the garden outside.  

In his eyes, not only did you look like the textbook definition of love, but you also looked like his dream of what love is supposed to be.

It’s supposed to be looking at someone, doing something so mundane, and realizing that having a name beside you written in a book that was supposed to just tell your journey wasn’t all that bad—at all.

And all it took was a Sunday morning, on the twenty first of some month he can’t quite recall in the moment, for him to catch a glimpse of you making your way to the library with a cup of what he knows is just boba in a coffee mug in hand. The sky behind you looks like it opens, as if there’s something with it that’s always been with you, and even though you’re at a distance—in his eyes, you’re glowing.

You smile at the uncle who’s trimming away at the hedges to your right, then right before you make a turn, you’re raising your hand as a good morning and giving him a smile.

And fuck, Akaashi thinks.

He holds a heart that beats, where for the moment it’s not because of the fact that he still needs to breathe.

He’s okay, and this is okay.

He thinks to himself that there’s a chance, because the both of you work. So it just means to say that this, can too.

“Okay,” he exhales, the whisper more as a reassurance to himself than to anyone else. The world covered in daylight slumbers at his words, and as he stands, his own schedule in place, he wishes for the blessing of the moon to push him with the tides back into the shore again.

“Tonight,” he texts you, instead.

“I’ll pick you up tonight.”

-

(March 13 2022)

In shades of grey, Akaashi Keiji loves you.

Grey car, oceanic yes that look grey under the stormy nights you’d always meet him in, and the rainclouds of tonight blending the skies into the muddled shades of one palette. Making out in his car, a couple times a week, because even if he wanted to hold your hand and kiss you out in the world—you always did pull back.

But he has this, and for an hour and some minutes, has you.

Your palms on his chest, where his breaths are huffed out and fucking heavy. There’s smoke out the engine, the air conditioner’s blasted in just the way he knows you like, but it’s those hazy eyes of yours he could never read that stare at him.

Or towards him, rather.

Akaashi thinks to himself that it’s always looked as if you mean to be staring at someone else other than him, living through the moment that was somewhere else but here. He knows love is meant to be screamed at the top of his lungs, so he tries to at least do that.

He’s never really thought the rest of the world should know, because all he really wants is for you to know.

Words don’t come out, and his hands are under your shirt before they even try to run through the skin of your neck like he usually does. Cold palms flat against the curve of your back, and you’re confused. Akaashi’s staring at you, breath held as he holds onto your smell of honeydew for as long as he can like it’s the lifeline he needs. Your eyes are even hazier, looking like you’re even more lost, and he’s frustrated.

He kisses you again, pulling you flush against him, until eventually you’re pushing at his chest when the center console begins to dig into your skin a little too much.

“We can go upstairs?” he usually tries to suggest, and now, looking at your red lips and mused hair, he wants to ask the same question again, but because he thinks he knows you like the back of his hand, he also knosws that you’ll just wave him off with a half hearted no chuckled out instead.

This is just a pit stop, and he knows. He is just your pit stop, and even if the agreement was the same on the flip side, it bothers him that he fucking knows.

“Someone will see us,” a thing you say, because he’s just your for now.

Akaashi Keiji, in your head, is going to be your almost mistake, almost enemy.

(And you don’t want to hate him. It’s not that his limbs have been too entangled with yours for you to come up with that decision, but rather, it was just how you just didn’t want to hate someone you shared slices of your truest you with.)

“Someone will see us, Keiji,” you warn again, ducking a little when a group of people make their way out of a building and head in the general direction of their car.

Akaashi knows that you’re aware of the tinted windows he had installed just two weeks before, and that they fucking worked, so why were you still hiding?

What is there to hide?

So it’s him saying, “I don’t care,” that lights a kind of flame in his gut. They travel up to the veins, reminding him of their existence.

It’s a risk, he thinks. He holds your face in between his hands, shaking. You allow yourself to finally tremble with him, because broken has been the only side of you that he’s ever known.

Akaashi’s frustrated, again, because watching you watch him in the dim—despite the haze of your dark brown, he still tries to jump at the chance that perhaps this could be love.

He wants to know what you look like in every shade in between black and white. There’s a lot of pastels and violet blended in with your choice of wardrobe, so it fits.

Akaashi wants to hear the sound of your voice at twenty three, and not just at a zero or a hundred. He knows your heart breaks a little more when October 5 around the calendar, but he wants to know why.

“Someone is going to fucking see,” you’re hissing now, but you still don’t pull away.

Akaashi knows he’s just the getaway car, but he still keeps his foot on the pedal, always ready to go when you are.

He sees the look in your eye and recognizes the tendrils of goodbye before it’s even completely thought out from your end, but he shuts his mouth, swallows his own doubts, and kisses you like you’re his.

(For tonight, you are.)

(Under the moonlight; away from daylight; within the waters, ever drowning in the depths—you’re his.)

So Akaashi locks his doors, starts the engine, and kisses you again and again and again and again like the world within this little space is all the world will ever be. He drowns out the voice in his head that tells him to pull away; to push you and himself away, because this isn’t okay—but tonight he is selfish.

“I don’t fucking care,” he repeats; in between the kisses and the façade.

“Lena I don’t care.”

You don’t understand, but at the same time you do.

You’re still kissing him anyway, and leaning into his touch. You only look at him when he opens his eyes, to pull yourself back into the water and away from the memory of daylight and sun and fucking sand because not yet—you think. You don’t want to think about the word deserve, just yet. There’s a fire that’s been lit in your veins, and the world feels like it’s kicking you off of somewhere again so you could just soar.

It’s not the same, the voice in your head cries.

And it’s not.

Love, is Miya Atsumu and daylight. He’s the whole tier of cake always put on display that you mean to buy, but never do because you feel like what you carry with you would never be enough. He’s the masterpiece against the skies, against the backdrop of your world, and he deserved nothing short of the greatness that he is too.

Akaashi’s lips are on your neck, where he mumbles your name, once, then twice, but never enough to feel like he’s endgame. There will never be a number to match to that what could be enough, you think, so you let it be and leave it at that.

Akaashi Keiji isn’t a secret, but you still shield whatever you have from something. You think you shield it from the sky, but some days has you feeling like it’s really meant to be understood as working like the other way around. He’s kissing you, still, then when his lips move to kiss the side of your forehead you still.

You know he means to leave a kiss on your eyelids, but you keep your eyes wide open—staring at him. It’s the ocean blue, but you’re not being pulled away, swept out to sea this time, because there’s no current. Within the depths, you see a reflection of the skies that always watch, and the clouds above look like they mean to weep.

Your toes hit the sand underneath the waves, and you take one step back—closer to the shore.

You’re not there, yet, but you’re headed there. Akaashi looks at you, looking a little more broken than whole, and while there’s an apology at the tips of your tongue, he beats you to the punch by saying “What’s wrong?”

He knows he’s asking a question he knows the answer to, and he probably shouldn’t be doing that, because it will only bring more harm than good at this point, but he says it anyway. At every chance that falls on his hands here he can at least try to make his presence be known, to root his name and him into the grounds of your earth, he’ll do it.

Pinpricks that poke and prod at his chest before they dig a little deeper, and a whole lot fucking deeper when you turn away from him and pull away, taking with you your traces of honeydew and love.

“Nothing,” you answer. A lie. You both know, but neither of you confront the clear sins of the other. “Nothing,” you say again, solidifying your answer.

The list comes reappears in your head, and the facts that you’ve been gathering lay themselves side by side beside you in the most cohesive order.

You like to eat cake when you did something worth celebrating for. Fact.

Your name is Lena, and there’s a lot about the lyrics to Ayahuasca that sends you spiraling. Fact.

Fruit tarts over cheesecake, because even if you didn’t mind cheese all that much, cheesecake felt weird. Fact.

Miya Atsumu, forever and always; spring to winter, will always be love. Fact.

You let him go because he deserved better. Fact.

You mark the pages of a book you haven’t finished reading by folding the corners of the pages into the little triangles resembling dog ears instead of buying an actual bookmark, while Akaashi Keiji, does the same. Fact.

Your truth is that even if he stares at you right now, with the eyes of a man in love, you know that the sinking feeling in your stomach is the fact that you think as if he’s just meant to be with you in the moment, but not after it passes.

“Keiji, I’m sorry.”

-

It’s the way you looked as you said the words instead of the words itself that sticks in Akaashi’s head the most. He’s up, awake at 2 in the morning, tossing and turning in bed, frustrated. There’s a misplaced sense of anger inside, but he knows it isn’t towards you.

He isn’t angry at himself, nor you, nor the two fucking words that sounds like a consolation prize if anything.

Akaashi sits up, back against the headboard and ponders to himself if this is the kind of extremity Bokuto had to face whenever he was going through the motions. It’s the kind of fire that bubbles up but never explodes. First, he remembers. Then, he’s angry. Next, he’s swallowing down the words he wants to say because the problem is—he doesn’t know who to say them to.

He could call you and ask what your fucking deal was, but he knows that’s out of pocket. Your deal had always been the black and the white. He knew you as someone who appreciated it most when things fell into what was in accordance to the list you always write in order. It’s always been either this, or that, and he should have drilled it into his head at the very least.

Then after those thoughts eventually settle into his head and accumulate into a pile in front of him, the anger that already had rose to the neck area suddenly simmers down.

Then, finally, Akaashi realizes, as the exact moment settles in—he’s just tired.

He’s a little sad, and tired. Slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and thoughts a whirlwind of just you, you, and you.

This wasn’t part of his norm, he thinks, but he thought you were. He thought all there was to you were boba or juice shoved in a coffee mug and friendly hellos to the uncles who trimmed the hedges. You were the color lilac despite having a love for all the shades found in the rainbow. There was probably a semblance of love, in your life, before him, but he knows that inn this part of your life—he was bound to meet someone who’ve had endings of their own.

He sighs again, realizing the truth that he doesn’t want you to be just an ending for him to reminisce over with a group of strangers some time later.

And of course, Akaashi Keiji was the type to demand answers, because it’s only minutes later here he finally makes up his mind, standing up in a rush and picking up his phone as he dials your number, the digits memorized despite your contact having been long saved.

You don’t pick up after the first ring, but it’s only two am and he sees your game activity on discord so he knows you’re up. He’s tapping his foot, a little impatient, but because tonight he made the abrupt decision to suddenly be selfish—just this once—he didn’t care.

The second ring still rings, but there’s silence. Your status changes from online to do not disturb, and by the third ring, he hangs up, and grabs his keys.

-

To be fair, you did count down from ten to one.

Akaashi’s at your door before you can even say hello. He doesn’t look like he’s lost much sleep, taking into consideration the fact that you already are well aware of how little he even sleeps, but it’s you who leans by your door and says hello anyway.

He shifts in his place, left leg supporting his whole weight before the other. You watch, somewhere between amused and indifferent as he parts his lips once or twice, shutting them close each time before he eventually just settles with looking away and murmuring, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“To make out?”

He looks at you, then sighs. “Just wanna talk.”

-

And to be fair on your end, even if he did say that, there really isn’t much talking going on. The both of you are only wearing your pyjamas, just a couple hops away from going to bed—until this—obviously. He’s driving around the street of the neighborhood park nearby in circles; the one with the two stoplights on either ends, and just one corner as the only way that lead to your house, while his route was the turn a couple more ways ahead.

He misses the turn to your home every time. It’s a fifteen minute walk at best, and truth be told, if you were already sick of this, you would have long gotten off and started walking already, but you suppose that tonight you were a little more patient.

There’s a lot of factors that have to deal with Akaashi being patient with you too, so you could guess that it’s safe to assume that this was just a give and take situation.

You give him your words, while he gives you his.

He gives you his time, then you give him his.

There’s a balance that needs to be maintained, so while he gives you silence, in return, you do the same.

Until he breaks it, saying, “What happened back there?”

“It is what is is, Keiji,” you hum, head turned to face the window to your right.  

“We were working out,” he reasons, and you widen your eyes, looking at him, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought we had an agreement, Ji,” you retaliate.

“We didn’t say anything, Lena,” he scoffs.

Scoffs, you think. Then it fucking dawns on you that he was actually already wading in the deep end, too fast, too hard.

You shake your head, always having been resolute with your decisions, as you were transparent with your intentions. Akaashi, on the other hand, seemed to just squint right through it and look at the mirage instead of the actual desert that was right there.

“But it was still said,” you tell him, and when he stops the car near the sidewalk just to gawk at you, it really fucking hits you that he was way too deep in something that was only waist deep in hindsight.

“That’s what you think,” Akaashi tells you, but he doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound tired either, so it messes with you in a weird way to realize that this is just his truth.

“I can’t tell you what you can and can’t think just like how you can’t be putting words in my mouth that I never even said, Keiji,” you bite back, flustered and frankly a little appalled at the bluntness off his words. When you stare at him, you try to give it some reason that maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he just had a bad day and was spewing shit out of his mouth at best, because at the moment, absolutely nothing is making any fucking sense.

But then he’s sighing, tired. The back of his head thumps the car seat headrest when he leans back and loosens his grip on the wheel. The streetlights flicker, but stay, while the stoplight with the corner that has your turn on it signals yellow.

You bite the bullet and turn to him, but still slow yourself down.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean—“

From his peripherals, Akaashi sees the stoplight further up ahead that leads to his turn blink from green to red.

He pauses.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m—fuck. Fuck, okay,” he continues, pausing to rub his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Len, I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

“I think,” you begin, exhaling, and frankly feeling a little more worn out. “I think we were looking at different stoplights this whole time.”

Akaashi laughs, finding it a little out of your character to be speaking in metaphors, especially knowing that that was always his sort of thing. He nods, anyway, a little past worn out, and just fucking tired at this point. It dawns on him that it is three in the morning, and he’s pulled you out of your apartment just to try to find a common ground in something that had been completely one sided from the start.

You’re yawning, in your spot just beside him, but you still look at him anyway with blinking eyes that look more sleepy than anything, but he supposes he’d rather take that kind of look over frustration or sadness.

He fights the urge to tuck in the strand of hair behind your ear, looking away when you blink a little too long, because he knows that his lips will never find a home against the skin of your eyelids he knows he’ll still periodically think about from time to time when nostalgia decides to visit him a little later down the road.

He remembers his stoplight’s at red.

“This kinda feels like a breakup,” he laughs anyway, giving himself this little bit to stay in the moment and pretend like car rides with him, and you, will still be an okay thing for tomorrow.

“Does it?” you smile, slowing down, and thinking of yellow.

Yellow.

He smiles, but doesn’t say a word, and the conversation ends just like that.

“Let me drop you off at least,” he says, and you shake your head, eyes cast towards your stop light as the countdown to green begins to tick.

“I think I wanna take a walk.”

“At three AM?” he prods. “Alone? In Tokyo?”

It hits green, and you stifle a laugh, a little drunk on the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t make you feel like running, but rather, soaring, instead.

“Yeah,” you snort. “At three AM, alone, in Tokyo.”

He knows he probably should have said something to at least get you close enough so that your building can be seen, but by the looks of it, your mind’s already long made up as you open your door, and walk out, shutting the same door softly behind you. Akaashi’s quick to lower the windows on that side, tilting his head as you do the same, leaning down give him a little smile.

“I really don’t mind dropping you off just so that I know you’re safe,” he says.

“And I really am okay,” you laugh, waving him off. “No need to be so nice, I just probably broke your heart.”

“Probably’s an understatement,” he laughs, but waves you off when you look like you’re about to say something.

“Why are you being nice to me? I didn’t do anything to you,” you laugh again.

Then you watch as Akaashi shrugs, smiling the kind of smile that you think he does when he’s alone as he looks at your stoplight turning to green ahead instead of the one on his. “You don’t need to do anything for anyone to get stuff, Len.”

“—You really don’t.”

-

It isn’t as much as looking at heartbreak straight in the face, Akaashi thinks to himself. It was really just a matter of pulling his head out of his own ass and realizing that the first look of a break of his mundane isn’t what fate has in store. Serendipity works weird, he realizes. People say it’s the happily ever after you’re supposed to be craving for, but he realizes it’s a lesson.

You were a lesson, to which the exact words he can’t exactly have a solid grasp of as of now, but he knows in time he’ll find them.

The reality of heartbreak is that it just comes, for the sake of being there. It doesn’t trickle slow, or give a warning. In his case, Akaashi realizes that it’s just there because it’s the result of something.

He’s driving down a street, passing your turn, where he has to peel his eyes away at the sight of you walking past a no U-Turn sign, because it just hits him that you were never for his to cradle to begin with.

There’s not much about you, but he can just about tell that you look like the kind of woman who holds on to the best kind of book, shoving it away during the best part, because you’re afraid of the inevitable that the story will still end.

He taps at his steering wheel, coming to another stop at the red light of his street, where he turns on his signal to turn to the right when he’s given a go. For a moment, his eyes flicker towards the passenger seat, where you were just hours ago, in the exact same moment where he was high on something and thinking that the world was just made of 2.

Akaashi looks at heartbreak in the face, but it’s just fragments of you, and a couple sentences he can’t connect to each other, and just like that he knows that this little slice of your life will just be a piece of a puzzle he isn’t a part of.

It’s okay.

It will be okay.

But right now the light’s red, and he allows himself to feel that it isn’t. He tells himself that it’s not because he isn’t enough, but rather, he’s not enough for the kind of fulfillment you were looking for. Perhaps love and happiness looked like the skies, and not the seas, because that would explain why most of his memories with you always involved you facing the clouds, as if caught in a daydream.

Akaashi laughs to himself, a little dryly, when the lights turn green and he’s easing off of the brakes. His world will always be in motion, and he’ll always be headed towards something—but right now he thinks of the moment as a metaphor that he’s heading out of something.

Out of the first phase of love; where it’s just an idea and not exactly it.

He was the getaway car, but it was okay. In shades of grey he supposes he’ll always see you, but perhaps one day he’ll find the perfect shade of orange to let the blue in his eyes finally come into a full bloom.

-

It’s in the exact same moment that you pass by the no U-Turn sign that you’ve always just ignored on your street, where a lot of things hit you.

First is the memory of Atsumu.

At first, you feel bad, because you know you probably just walked out of a situation that had to deal with you breaking a heart instead of healing it, but your truth had always been your truth and there was no point in sugar coating something whose end was prewritten right from the start.

So you shake away the thoughts, and remember Atsumu again.

It’s undeniable, that who he was had always been your truth regarding what love would always be. Miya Atsumu as the gold to your lavender, and even if the color wasn’t just your neighbor in the palette, standing beside him fit.

It fit, but just saying that it does doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

The No U-Turn sign stares at you in the face, so you stop.

You’re standing in the sidewalk again, like all those years ago, and even if you’re pretty sure that you just broke a heart only some moments ago, the only name running through your head in the moment was Atsumu’s.

Love was as ugly as it was beautiful. Selfish as it was selfless.

No U-Turn, so you keep walking.

You pull back from the waters, and ignore the moon, and stare at the skies, pretending that you’re in the presence of the sun where the sky that blankets your side of the world is bathed in the colors of daylight. Every shade of the sky saturated, where the sun looks more of a gold than a blinding yellow.

You laugh, briefly recalling the time when he decided to let you be with the spiral of your thoughts, and it’s tonight where you come into a full realization that he only did that because he knew this was the something you needed to go through yourself before even letting him in.

Your thoughts drift, and you look up to the sky, searching for the big ball of light, because in your heart, you’re calling for love. You’re alone in the streets, at three in the morning just loitering around in your pyjamas that don’t match in any angle, but love is what drives you to keep walking home.

No fucking U-Turn, and it hits you like a damn truck.

Miya Atsumu will always be the love that you’ll still find in the silence. In every shade of yellow and gold, and every walk home. He’s the presence—or a fucking entity, you laugh to yourself—that drives slow next to you who decides to take it slow and just walk home, talking the long route on the sidewalk.

There are streetlights that glow in the distance like fireflies, and you’re suddenly thankful for the burst of light.

Light, like your Atsumu, who will always be the face of your love.

You don’t know if you deserve it, but it truly had to take reading a damn side story and coming into terms that the most you could ever give the rest of the world was an honest I’m sorry.

“You don’t need to do stuff for anyone to get stuff,” you hear Akaashi’s voice chorus in your ear again, so you smile to yourself, not exactly changed, but a little enlightened at most.

Change and acceptance doesn’t happen overnight, but like love, who came into your life like a rush, epiphanies also held the nature of just arriving without warning.

The tears that begin to dribble down your face afterwards worked sort of like that. You recall sitting on the floor of your kitchen, tears on your hands, down your cheeks, on the floor, and on your shirts. You told yourself again and again that you were crying because of the cake and not because of how unkind you were to yourself, because even if your hands were empty—you know that word is only subjective at best.

You’re walking down the streets now, along the streets with the lights that look like fireflies at three am and you could just feel Atsumu smirking beside you if he was here.

Tears that feel warm, but it’s liberating.

Nothing strikes you one minute, only to change you a whole 180 in the very next because it just doesn’t work like that, but what does stay is Akaashi’s words. They swirl in your head again and again, like a broken record that has you realizing isn’t playing such a bad song at all.

Love is as selfish as it is selfless.

You loved Atsumu selflessly, but now you want to hold on to a semblance of him again—albeit it just being a memory, for now, and love with the intention to take.

It’s to accept, he would correct you, if he was there, but then again, those will always just be the words that you are yet to hear.

But for now you walk along the sidewalks and reminisce. You reminisce the view of the summit, and the feeling of being so high up. You think of Akaashi and the ocean blue eyes you thought were just great at best, and whisper another apology into the universe you pray will deliver your words to the rightful ears, because right now, you just want to love selfishly.

There’s a book on your shelf with a dog eared bookmark on page 223, and you think that tonight you’ll pull it out and at least dust the cover.

When you look in the mirror, you know that you’re in love and that fact alone is as undeniable as the truth that your name is Lena.

It’s okay to be in love, and a little broken, and it’s okay to eat a slice of cake just because.

You’re crying still, when you stumble out your door again, Atsumu’s hoodie around your frame, as you drive to that only bakery in town, forty five minutes away, because you know that they sell the best kind of red velvet.

The funny thing about epiphany is that once the smallest bit of it strikes you, it keeps coming. Reality is messy, you think, and your eye opening moment doesn’t happen like how it does in the books where every moment plays out one before the other in perfect order.

There’s a method to the madness that is life, where the order is called spontaneity because the very nature of it is to defy just that.

Serendipity that’s always found you through the face of Miya Atsumu and the amber skies that were yours and his every six thirty. Eyelid kisses and I love you, just because. Climbing from one straight to a hundred, and even a fucking thousand that quick because love is as much of a whirlwind as it is a slow burn.

You tell yourself time and time again that all you do is take without giving, but at this point it’s the universe that wishes for you to understand that there is no such thing as ever giving too little.

Love, as selflessness and purity will keep giving because even if you open your hands and offer it nothing, it will only smile back fondly, telling you that you are always deserving—as you are.

You surpass the word enough—as you are.

You are loved—as you are.

There will always be someone who will sit behind the door and eat cake with you in the silence.

-

Right now, it’s just you, but you make do anyway.

You’re in the driver’s seat of your car, frankly a mess, primarily because of three things.

The first, you’re finally feeling everything you’ve told yourself you shouldn’t be feeling—all at once. Second, the cake is really good, and you don’t feel guilty about eating it this time around.

And third, the auntie selling you cake commented that there was a gentleman just last week who wore the exact same kind of jacket that you’re wearing, buying all thirteen flavors of cake and taste tested each one on the table by the window. She asked him if he was waiting for someone, and apparently he’d always say that he is, but she was just taking her time getting caught up in a little something, but “she’s worth the wait,” he’d repeat.

“She’s worth a lot of things, so waiting a little bit is okay.”

Apparently he would buy everything but cheesecake, even if he did stare at the piece a little longer, looking like he wanted to try.

You’re crying at the thought that there was still a piece of him that was all you, even after all the one sided conclusions you didn’t even talk him through with.

“Okay,” you say, whispering to no one but yourself in particular. The container with your one slice of red velvet is on your lap, while there’s an unopened one that’s the mango cheesecake you would never in a million years order, in the passenger seat of your car.

“What do we do now?” you say again, looking at the reflection of yourself in the reflection of your windshield.

You’re nodding your head, the words to write beside the bullet points in your head already listing themselves out in a neat line, written in print. You shake your head afterwards, for the first time without the presence of anyone really, overwhelmed with all the things you thought would be your end, showing you all the epiphanies you’ve been pretending you never saw all this time.

There’s a comfort found in listening to the sound of your own sniffles in the car, your own arms around you like the anchor Atsumu’s have always been, and just like that you break down again because not only are you in love with him, you’re also giving yourself the kindness your soul has been needing to realize that you need to love yourself just as much too.

It’s not easy, but it’s tangible.

Accepting love, as the selfless something, and not just a factor that worked like the give and take system was also not right here, but in time you’ll be right there with it where it’s tangible.

“I’ll eat cake today, just because,” you finally say, and at your first bite of red velvet, the weight of your demons lessen just a little bit.

 -

April 16, 2024 | New York City, USA

-

Miya Atsumu has always thought to himself that love worked in an oddly sadistic way. It came without explanation, stayed without boundaries, then would just fucking up and leave like it didn’t just build a whole world and there would be no consequences.

Thankfully for him, love was the one thing that never left.

He saw you through a myriad of what you think are your lessons, and Atsumu smiles at every candid memory of you.

He saw you think to yourself that you were falling for ocean eyes, then saw you again, a few months after what he assumes was the fall out, at your graduation.

You wore your cap the other way the first time, and he chuckles, snapping a photo from the distance—to which you rapidly turn your head towards his direction at—a feat of yours that he can never guess how it was made possible. He was there, from a distance, cheering when your name was called, and you walked to the stage. Lilac flowers and every slice of chocolate was something he dedicated forever to you, and every time he’d close his eyes before a serve he would lightly tap at his eyelids reminding himself that that will always be yours and his.

-

The future is where time moves slow, and then it doesn’t.

The demons are there, but you suppose that it’s because they’re sort of a lifetime deal. Somedays you’ll still look away from the slice of cake you’ve been meaning to eat after a job well done, but the better days also come right after the plunge where you’ll drive yourself to the auntie’s bakery located in the OK part of New York at three in the morning just because.

You were connected to the world, despite your demons, and it was okay.

New York had went from just a postcard on your wall to the skyline that greeted you every morning before you went to work.

The smell of coffee and the feel of sunlight at 9am. Love, as the something you can still hear in the silence, because it works just like that.

Silence, as the word that’s nothing more than the absolute contrast to what New York is, but it was you dulling even the noise that comes with Time’s Square to realize that this is the kind of atmosphere good for you.

-

And because serendipity works like a bitch, it really shouldn’t have surprised you when through the crowd, it’s still Miya fucking Atsumu who you see staring back at you like he’s found you far longer than you found him.

(Perhaps there’s more than just truth to that.)

You don’t think you want to cry, because the love that’s always been there still feels the same, and when you walk towards him, a pace like your usual, you feel weightless.

There’s a comfort about meeting smack in the middle, and you think that this is it. You gave your twenty steps while he gave his. Maybe some days he gives you a little more than just twenty, and maybe some days you’ll find yourself in bed, taking zero steps while he’ll go as far as flying some thousands of kilometers just to be with you.

You let serendipity be, as you stand before him, feeling like no time has passed.

A little over three years has passed, but see the same streaks of amber in his eyes of earth, and you think that love, also has a face that looks timeless.

And it’s this.

It’s you, and it’s him—in a city that uses noise that works like silence.

It’s New York and the sea of lights. Miya Atsumu and his dopey smile, that somehow still crossed more than just a couple oceans to a land foreign to him, and he still managed to come to you halfway, like a whirlwind.

An unprecedented presence that you welcome anyway, because love, you suppose, will forever be so many things.

It’s one face that one name that holds all of that though, Atsumu thinks.

He’s looking at you, where in his head he’s already laughing because your lipstick’s smudged on the left side, the culprit obviously being the piece of croissant looking a little lame in your hand.

“I love you, still, but I think you know that,” he says immediately, as if he’s just continuing a conversation.

(In a way he is; the last you talked to him, you never really heard a reply. You said goodbye and then you left, and Atsumu never got a chance to get a word in.)

And as if he read your expression, he laughs, hands low on his waist as he stands in front of you, present. “I wanted to tell you that then so I’ll say it now too I guess. My voice has got a little deeper so it probably has more effect now.”

You shake your head, already past the state of disbelief considering the rollercoaster that is your life. “It still has the same effect,” you mumble, croissant long forgotten.

You think that you want to cry again, but Atsumu’s grinning and you feel breathless.

It’s like mercy that greets you after you think you’ve done nothing but sin—you’re breathless but your lungs feel full.

So it’s Atsumu walking up to you, looking at you like you’re his daydream, saying “Hi Lena, what’s your name?” that grounds you back to the earth after freefalling from the summit.

The world has always looked different from the view at the very top, and even if you closed your eyes throughout the fall, there was a certain comfort you realize only now and that’s the fact that the whole time you were falling—it was the sky that held on to you and never let you go since.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you say back, closing your eyes when you lean in halfway as he reaches forward and pulls you the rest of the way, towards him—towards love, and towards home.

“I’m sorry I don’t have something with me right now to give you,” you mumble out anyway, and your heart bursts at the feel of his hand stroking the back of your hair, as his voice anchors you down again to keep you from floating right by your ear.

He kisses your eyelids, then your forehead, and the white noise of New York has you feeling both connected and safe.

“You’re okay,” he says. “You’ve always got me like how I’ve got you, and I’ve never thought there was anything more that I could try to ask for other than that.”

“You are everything that love will always ever be and that’s it for me, Len.”

He smiles, and while things still don’t fully click into place because healing has a habit of doing just that—you also let yourself feel the lightness of just this.

“You don’t need to do anything. I got you,” he says. “You got me too,” he reassures, and you believe him.