#and my mother isn’t going to let me use my hotspot for class since I’m not important

[sliceofalemon]

I was right. :)))

The sky is really gray for no reason and there’s yellowish gray streaks near the treelines.

That... that can’t be good. Like at all.

[timextoxhajima]

GEN Z SERIES, HYUNJAE: The Third Eye

"Will you choose to believe what you see or what you feel?”

Member: Hyunjae

Genre: Fantasy / Slice of Life / Supernatural / Angst / TW

Trigger Warnings: Rape, Self-Harm

Word Count: 5.8k

Taglist: @yn-am-pm​ @fleurseoul​ @sunwoowuvbot​

The first time I knew I saw something that wasn't there, I was scared. How was an eight-year-old supposed to treat an elderly man who looked closer to a skeleton than a human being standing in the corner of the room... of an elderly's home?

I remember my mother combing my grandmother's hair while my father was helping me pick up my crayons off the floor when I saw him. Nurses were walking down the corridors in a hurry. I remember nobody noticed -- or at least, unlike the conventional way of death that has been portrayed in movies and books by the very cliché usage of the flatlining on the monitor. He had a good amount of hair for an old man in his nineties.

Then again, it might've been his deteriorating health that made him look older than he actually was when he died. Time seemed to pass a lot slower when they let me see them. Unlike the way his skin seemed to sink in between his ribs and wrap around the bones of his arms, his eyes were full of light. The kind that I recognised when I was at school. I didn't know then, because I was just a child he realised could see his soul. But I will never forget the blessing he placed on the top of my head. Every single word etched into my mind like carved into stone.

I told my grandmother about the man I saw earlier that day when my parents went to talk to the nurses of the elderly home. She was scared at first, when she realised her grandchild had abilities that not many had. Yet, she never told my parents, because she knew they would convince themselves that they could do something about it -- as if one could really remove the powers of a third eye all so easily.

Angels are not beings with wings or halos but instead, a bright orb of gold and white. The old man waved so dearly to me, after giving his children and grandchildren a kiss atop their heads though they couldn't feel it. He was 88, auspicious numbers in many cultures. Then when the orb of light drifted in through the window, I remember I could almost hear the sounds of kittens and puppies. But just as it neared him, I heard the familiar sounds of laughter from his children and grandchildren, then static sounds of radio and music I didn't recognise. I will later find out that the music belonged in the 40s.

The orb presents you with everything you've loved and enjoyed and held close to your heart in your life, and should you be content with what the orb has to offer you, then it must be time for you to go.

But where there is light, there is darkness. Where there are orbs of smiles and flowers, there are daggers of blood and evil lurking in the shadows. I was 13 when I saw evil in one of its many forms. I had a headache the entire day, a sign to tell me that my third eye is in close proximity with something that did not align with my believes and morals.

I had expected something to jump out at me through the reflection off the mirror, or a hand to burst through the ground and grab me by the ankle. But no, evil in one of its many forms does not need it to be horrifying and scary.

Her hair was long, and her face was covered in what looked like burn marks. 

Does Hell burn through you so quickly? 

She looks human, but her fingers were split down the middle, thorns sticking out every finger, in which on each hand she has ten.

As she graced the corridors of school, she sheds these thorns that drop like nails to the floor, waiting for someone to step on those facing upwards. Have you ever gotten a sharp ache or pinch in the soles of your feet when you're walking sometimes?

If you have, then you would've probably stepped on a Hell's Thorn, or at least, that's what I called it. I never found out if she could see me, but when I realised I could touch the thorns and kick them out of sight, they'd roll off into some corner before dissolving into red ash.

Over a decade of being stuck between two worlds. I've done enough reading to understand the dangers of prancing along this line, not being able to shut one side off completely. So, when the ghosts, demons and spirits hide in the shadows of my room, or stare at me point-blank in the middle of the day like a normal human being would, it becomes normal.

They are everywhere, even when you cannot feel them. It gets confusing, when they look more human than some human beings. 

Just how much longer... or how much more can I stay like this?

"I don't know where your diary is. If you're telling me it's here, then I'm telling you it's gone."

You are standing right smack in the middle of the school field, afternoon sun beaming down onto your hair. Squinting your eyes, you look around the large space of artificial grass and beyond that, the tracks, where students were finding some fun in running laps in the summer heat.

"But..."

"Lee Eun," Your heart breaks, more than necessary, because this is not the first time you've done it. "What you're looking for isn't here. The building your locker was in was torn down 20 years ago and if it was there, it's gone now. Or at least..." She watches you turn around and stare at the ground beneath your feet. "It's not here anymore."

Lee Eun was a student from your school that graduated in 2000. But she lost her life the day she graduated, only because she hadn't seen the brick falling from the nearby construction site where the school building you attended now was being built.

The silence becomes unbearable so you look up, but you only see the two male students jogging along the track and nobody else in sight. The orb did not come to collect Lee Eun's soul; this is not over.

The sweat has stuck your uniform to your back when you return to class, and it becomes apparent to you that a particular shadow has not shifted an inch since you've stepped into the classroom. You weren't in pain, so this entity is not a demon. Yet, you cannot identify its gender. It had no face, no hair, just... a volume of shadow and darkness and if the girls sitting before it knew it was there, they'd probably scream their head off. 

You know its staring at you with every intention in its spirit, though you cannot see its eyes. And it stays when the teacher enters the classroom with a new student trailing behind him. For a moment, your attention is diverted to Jang Jun Hyuk, hair brown and skin fair. The girls in the class were already ogling over him, it's not a surprise anymore. But the shadow turns to look at him, then at you, and the darkness dissolves into the beige wall behind it, vanishing as Jang Jun Hyuk bows and introduces himself.

Then the king of the class speaks at a volume you know you weren't supposed to hear, but consider it a special talent now that you've honed the skills of your third eye.

"Strange vibes," Lee Hyunjae was probably talking to Younghoon. "Don't you think there's something off about him?"

"Are you sure you're not just threatened that there's someone who rivals our popularity?"

Jang Jun Hyuk bows to the class, then is instructed by the teacher to take a seat diagonally behind you, right in front of Lee Hyunjae.

"Hey, new kid."

A frown gently presses itself into your forehead when you can hear Younghoon give Hyunjae a gentle whack on his shoulder.

"Where did you move from?"

"Ah, I moved from another city. My father was transferred."

The shadow was now standing by the door of the classroom, watching the teacher scribble on the whiteboard.

"Cool," Hyunjae offers a friendly laugh. That's more like him. "Join us at lunch, provided you don't have a crowd to hang out with yet."

“Uh, sure.”

The shadow turns to look at you -- even without eyes, you know it’s watching you. 

By the time you have been dragged to the cafeteria by your friends (though most people tend to think you’re weird for talking to yourself sometimes), Hyunjae has doubled over on some bench cracking up at a joke Jun Hyuk made. 

Your friends can’t help but to draw your attention to the new addition to the group of popular males. 

“Man fits right in, doesn’t he?” 

“At least he looks like one of them.”

“y/n,” One of the two call out to you. “What happened to... what was her name?”

“Lee Eun.”

“Right, the ghost from twenty years ago. How is she?” 

The two look at you with wide, glistening eyes. Most people aren’t as accommodating to your abilities, so it’s a blessing to have them by your side. 

“I haven’t seen her since earlier today. She said she had a diary in school but she never found it.”

“Well, maybe it is still in school somewhere, locked up in some lost and found box or lost in some locker. Why else would she still be here and can’t... you know, move on?”

You shrug. I wish I knew.

The library was always comforting. The silence, the sound of pages being flipped and the occasional clicking of someone’s keyboard. And strangely enough, the library’s never really a hotspot for other beings except humans.

The peace was, unfortunately, disrupted though, when Jun Hyuk shows up with his backpack and tie neat around his collar. You greet him subtly before returning to your notes, but he sits down opposite you and renders your desire to be alone useless.

“Hyunjae and Younghoon told me you would be here.”

The pen in your grip gets lowered into the ivory sheets, gaze travelling up to look at him through your lashes. “Lee Hyunjae and Kim Younghoon? Why would they tell you where I am?”

Jun Hyuk offers a shy smile, diverting his brown irises away from you for a second. “Because I asked.”

The cold air stings your nose when you suck in a deep breath. “Why, do you need help with work? Because I’m literally the worst person to ask--”

“No, I just needed to know where I could find you so I could spend time with you.”

Your heart begins to thump madly, because it’s not everyday that a guy is so straightforward with his intentions to someone he just met. 

“Uh--” You purse your lips in a bid to form a coherent sentence. “That’s really... honest of you.”

Jun Hyuk grins sweetly, eyes halving into crescents and creasing his skin around his lids. He has a dimple in his left cheek, a detail that you wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t sitting directly opposite you. 

“So, can I?”

Confusion strikes you, only because assumption is a dangerous thing we like to do. 

“Can you... what?”

“Hang out with you.”

The whir of the air-conditioner in the library becomes a little louder alongside the thumping that was now difficult to ignore in your head. 

The blood rushes up to your cheeks and you can feel your face catching fire, so Jun Hyuk eases it by restarting a conversation.

“Anyway, have you done the work from today?”

“I--” You look down at the worksheet he was taking out from his bag. It’s barely filled. “I’ve been staring at it for awhile now--”

“Not good at Math?”

“I’m better at...” Jun Hyuk takes the worksheet and gets up, scooting over to the seat next to you. A gulp finds a way down your throat. “...English and Literature...”

“Well, it’s your lucky day because I’m great at Math.”

Up close, Jin Hyuk smells like fresh linen. 

Not a great sign. He knows what makes a girl tick. 

Jun Hyuk spends the rest of the afternoon helping you with the worksheet, and the glimmer in his eyes...

“Are you listening?”

Your jaw slacks in surprise, blinking your attention away from staring at him. A chuckle sounds from Jun Hyuk, who looks away with the slightest hint of pride.

Jun Hyuk makes you feel like you are prancing on clouds for the next few weeks. The little notes he passed in class that earned the attention of his new friends, Younghoon and Hyunjae. The sweets and treats that he’d leave on your desk before school and the after-school study sessions were your favourite part of the day. 

He’d expected you to be calm and collected when he took the initiative to hold your hand under the table, but he could read how nervous and anxious you got, so he thinks it’s a good idea to ease that anxiety with a kiss on your cheek. 

Lee Eun was no longer around to ask you for her diary, but the faceless shadow was still tailing you when you were in the classroom. It’s never interfered with your daily routine though, thus you choose to leave it be and enjoy being a normal teenager for once. 

Three months after you met Jun Hyuk though, you could tell Hyunjae was deliberately steering away from him, dragging Younghoon along with him. You can’t help but wonder if it was because you and Jun Hyuk were now romantically involved and that Hyunjae had probably caught wind of the fact that you could see things that weren’t there, leading him to ostracise Jun Hyuk. 

Not that it had that much effect anyway, Jun Hyuk was a charming boy on his own; he didn’t need Hyunjae’s help to ‘make it’ in school.

The day carries on as per usual with Jun Hyuk staying in school to study with you. Hands busy scribbling away and eyes darting across worksheets, you’ve always admired how focussed he gets when he does his work. 

In attempt to pull him out of his stress-bubble, you cap on your pen and lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder after making sure there was nobody else left in the library. 

“Do you want to take a break? You’ve been going at it for quite some time now.”

“I’m just about there, just hold on a minute, would you?”

A pout surfaces on your lips. “I know. I just... do you ever feel bad that Hyunjae and Younghoon aren’t as close to you as before?”

Jun Hyuk finishes the line he’s writing and looks up at you. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know, I just... you must’ve heard the rumor that I can see ghosts. Aren’t you upset that they might be leaving you out because of that?”

“You can see ghosts?” He scoffs. His attitude feels strange today, though he hasn’t said anything wrong. “That’s just stupid. And no, I don’t really care.”

“Oh,” A pause halts you, so you can think of an appropriate response. “You don’t... believe in ghosts or spirits?”

“No, that stuff is for kids.”

The thought of Jun Hyuk not believing in something you were known to be able to see was strangely more discomforting than not.

“Why’d you ask about Hyunjae and Younghoon? I thought you weren’t close with those guys?” He’s placing his pens into his pencil case and keeping his worksheets in his file. You start doing the same. 

“I-- I’m not, I’m just asking for your sake.”

“My sake?” He clears the table of his items and leans back in his seat. “Why would it bother me? Is it because you don’t get to talk to them anymore?”

“What? Why would that matter to me?”

“I don’t know, you were pretty smitten with Hyunjae just a few weeks ago.”

“Since when?”

“You think I didn’t notice when you were smiling at him when he was making those jokes-- they weren’t even that funny?”

A frown has finally cemented itself between your brows. “I’m sorry, where is this jealousy even coming from? Why didn’t you just tell me when you saw it?”

Jun Hyuk goes silent, and you can tell he’s upset just by thinking about it. Sighing, you rest your head on his shoulder again in a bid to appease his anger. 

“Alright, I’m sorry, okay? I was just concerned that you might feel left out or anything. And rest assured, I wasn’t flirting with Hyunjae.”

Jun Hyuk hums in response, reaching your chin to pull you closer. Your heart starts to pound in your ear when he doesn’t hesitate to press his lips against yours, the sudden intimacy catching you off-guard and sending chills down your spine. 

Something doesn’t feel right.

“Jun--” You manage to cough out, just as he starts to bury his nose and lips into your neck. “Jun Hyuk, not here.”

“Come on, there’s nobody here. Isn’t it exciting?” He smirks into your skin but it makes you feel dirty. 

“Jun, we really shouldn’t. I’m tired today so...” Gently pushing him off, his eyes are now filled with the ache of rejection. Somewhere inside you, you hope that he understands. But you also hope he knows he’s being an asshole.

“I... I think I’m going to go,” Backing away, you can hear your heart in your ears as you reverse, returning to the table to clear your stationery. His footsteps come dangerously close behind you before you are yanked around violently, each of your elbows coming into tight restraint in his palms. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going home,” When your eyes meet his, they are dark under the lighting. And even then, it seems like the man you trusted had turned to dust and blown away in the wind. “Please, let me go.”

“But don’t you trust me? Didn’t you say that you didn’t know what you’d do without me?” It’s horrifying when his nose comes dangerously closely to yours, his lips that were once part of a daydream now slowly being torn to shreds, forming an idea of a nightmare in your mind. 

If you could feel darkness, you were sure you could hurl out nothing but black masses, when he aggressively pastes his lips to yours. There’s a stark difference being in love and being trustworthy... and being this person who was cutting off the blood supply from your face to your mouth now. 

“Let me go, please!” Your strength is rendered useless in his tight grip around your wrists, and now he decides to shift his tongue to your neck, harshly sucking on the skin and flesh and making you want to hurl and sob instead. The struggle you offered was of no use to Jun Hyuk, not when he is able to shove you backwards and plaster your back to the study desk with all your pens and pencils under your back. 

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?!” 

“You should’ve thought about that before you kissed me first in the garden the other day, no?”

The tears finally stream when the betrayal sets in. Not even prayers would work anymore, would they?

Using his upper body weight to hold you to the table, the metal clinking of his belt comes like a warning when you can feel the tears wetting the strands of your hair. 

“Jun Hyuk, please...”

“Shut up,” Ice cold fingers run up the length of your thighs and around your hips under your skirt, scratching your skin as he removes your underwear. “Isn’t this how much you trust me?”

Sobs run through gritted teeth as your chin tilts to the ceiling, his body absorbing every ounce of struggle and force you were exerting on him. But, it was so easily drained into him that you were gradually turning limp and lifeless. Hearing him undo his zipper while he wets and marks your skin with his tongue and teeth shuts off all your senses. Your eyes flutter shut with resignation, the shivering and trembling seeping away with your need to escape. 

Help me. 

Something fuses loudly. The lights go off. 

“Who’s there?! Motherfucker!” 

The zip goes back up, and the weight on you shifts away. 

“I’m going to kill you!”

His voice wears away, getting softer with his footsteps. 

Still crying, you pull up your underwear that was dangling at your ankles and push yourself off the surface of the table. Everything on the desk gets swept into your back before you stumble out of the secluded study area, the light of the late sunset greeting your tear stained face. 

Reaching home feels like reaching the end point in a marathon, just that instead of feeling pride and glory, you were feeling nothing but worthlessness. 

The lukewarm water feels like a gentle hug around your body when you sink into the cold marble, knees propped up and surfaced with your feet flat against the base of the bathtub. 

Swollen eyes from crying but too tired to cry somemore, and you find difficulty in even remembering why you even fell for Jun Hyuk in the first place.

It was my fault for bringing it up. I shouldn’t have brought it up. 

Maybe if I didn’t have this gift then I didn’t need to ask or worry about Jun Hyuk being ostracised. Maybe it shouldn’t be called a gift after all.

This pain is temporary, right? This small blade can do more than ease the pain. This blood that colors the water can do more than dry the tears from my eyes.

I wish I wasn’t born with this gift. 

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into the tub, under the surface of the water. The water starts to feel thicker, and before you can count to five, it starts going up your nose. 

But then it feels like you’ve been sucked into another dimension and thrown back onto your bed when you gasp, sitting up and choking out what feels like water in your throat. 

Your hands fumble around yourself, and you wince when you look down at your wrists. The vertical cut looked more like a scar that’s already healed, rather than an injury you had chosen to inflict on yourself just hours before.

The clock strikes 3.33am, and while you would usually be kind of freaked out because 3 is not an auspicious number, you can’t help but to feel some kind of relief when you realised you were still alive. 

The next few days you spend in the shadows. Jun Hyuk tries to apologise to you on more than one occasion, but when you glitch and nearly break down when he gets anywhere near you, your friends start to understand that something had happened.

Why would you want to take your life all of a sudden?

Mr. Shadowman doesn’t leave you alone though. Instead, it starts following you more aggressively, showing up in the strangest of places and in the most horrendous positions. You had seen it standing with its feet planted to the ceiling of the cafeteria, then again standing perfectly still behind the classroom door when the teacher closed it. 

Then it finally follows you into the bathroom after school. You’ve changed your studying location to your classroom, so you wouldn’t need to worry about being alone.

But no matter how many times you see this shadow, seeing it curled up under the sink in the female’s toilet makes you yelp and jump backwards, not even enticing a reaction from it. 

“You...” Gripping the edge of the sink, you squat and stare at it. “What do you need from me?”

“I wouldn’t go anywhere nearer to it if I were you.” Your eyes dart up into the broken glass above the sink. Seeing Hyunjae staring at you through the reflection, with the pillar hiding the rest of his body was surprising. 

It dawns on you that whatever you were seeing, Hyunjae could see it too.

The shadow remained still under the sink, crouched into a mass like someone holding its knees to its chest. The water dripping from under the sink slips through the mass like it wasn’t there. Hyunjae spares you a few seconds to stare at it some more until he grabs your arm and pulls you out of the toilet.

“What the-- don’t touch me--” Yanking your wrist out of his hands, you jerk away from him. The impact pulls your sleeves upwards, revealing the bruises that Jun Hyuk had left on you just a few days ago -- and the scar of the cut down your forearm. 

His attention is stolen by the marks, cuing you to nervously pull your sleeves back down as you steal a glance at Hyunjae’s face. 

“Don’t interact with that thing,” He advises after a few moments of silence. “It’s been following you.”

Looking up with a harsh frown on your face, confusion and anger starts to seep through your bones. 

“You mean to tell me you could see these things all this while?”

Hyunjae’s eyes fill with a tiny pinch of guilt, but he doesn’t look away. 

“That thing is harmless,” Your thumb brushes across the area where the bruise was hidden under the material of your sleeve. “It saved me.”

“If it’s harmless or any bit human then why doesn’t it have a face? Or eyes or hair or a mouth?”

“So, you can’t see what it is either. Have you seen others? Ghosts, the angel orbs, demons--”

“Get this clear in your head, I am not here to discuss what you can see,” Hyunjae takes a step closer and looks at you with an expression you can’t read. Was he angry? Frustrated? Worried? Concerned?

“But do not engage with whatever that is. They only stick around if you entertain it, and right now, you are just short of becoming friends with it.”

“You make it sound like you know everything about that other world.”

“And you make it sound like you haven’t seen a demon and that there are no dangers of it.”

The proximity starts to make you anxious; his build is similar to Jun Hyuk’s and the physical confrontation starts to knock on your skull is all the ways possible. Hyunjae retreats when he notices your eyes are unable to meet his now, and he walks away with his fists clenched. 

That night, you are unable to fall asleep. Not with the new revelation that Hyunjae can see the same things you do. Or was it just the shadow that he can see?

Has he seen the orbs or angels or demons?

You sit up in your bed, eyes adjusting to the darkness when a thud wakes you up. The crickets outside are loud in the silent night, but it takes you just a split second to recognise the shadow standing in the corner where the door meets the corner of the room. 

Keeping your eyes peeled, you fumble around at your nightstand, searching for the button of the lamp. It doesn’t disappear though, when the amber light illuminates the cream-pink room. 

“What do you need?” The query comes out more like a whisper, because most spirits you meet are ghosts who need your help or are willing to talk to you -- most of them have faces and eyes and have some resemblance to being human at some point of time in their life. 

The shadow pulls itself off the wall, and turns from a flat, regular shadow into a mass of darkness; the same way it was in the classroom when you first saw it, then later under the sink in the bathroom. 

This is the first time this has happened -- a shadow that was very obviously a being and yet you cannot decide if it was something harmful or something that once walked the Earth. 

By now, the shadow is just about two metres away from your bed, yet you find yourself inching backwards because you cannot predict what it would (or could) do to you. 

Then it lifts an arm that reaches out to you, darkness flowing like steam off its limbs as it gets closer to you. But just before it can touch you, a flash of brightness interrupts your interaction.

“Stop.”

Your room is brightly lit up for a split second, blinding you from seeing the shadow. So when your eyes come back into focus, your eyes are about to fall out of your skull when you recognise the back of someone you know. 

Hyunjae was standing right next to your bed, between you and the shadow, now visibly a physical  blob of darkness. 

“You have no business here with her. You don’t even need to be here.”

Silence. 

Hyunjae looks at the shadow intently. He is listening to it talk to him, but you hear nothing but the crickets chirping outside. 

“Jang Jun Hyuk will be mine to deal with, not yours. You do not need to be here.”

Lee Hyunjae... just what are you?

“Seer but is she a...”

“What did you just say?” You blurt out when the strange croak gets to your head. Hyunjae flinches and turns around to look at you, eyes flickering with worry before turning back to the shadow.

Now, you can see blue orbs for eyes and skin pulled and stretched like it had been worn out through hundreds of years. It was neither a ghost nor human. 

It didn’t look like Lee Eun or the elderly man you saw when you were 8, nor did it look like the female demon you saw at 13. 

“Leave, you do not belong here.”

“To deserves she know.”

“Know what?” Impatience and fear was getting the better of you, and if Hyunjae was more than human, he would know. “...That I can see you?”

“No, she cannot know!” Hyunjae tries to block you from the ghoul. “That is not your place to tell her!”

The ghoul proves more powerful than Hyunjae and reaches right through him, creating a bright outline of his limb through Hyunjae’s chest. 

“No!” 

That was the last thing you hear just as the shadow touches your forehead, snapping your neck backwards and sending your memory into a dimension you cannot recognise. 

“You will be blessed with eternal protection.”

That was the blessing the elderly man offered you when you were eight. Little did you know that he was merely reading a blessing pinned to your existence on its own. 

"The son of Saint Michael had fallen in love with the fairy of the mortals. Saint Michael hadn’t offered the tiniest bit of worry or concern over his son becoming star-crossed lovers. Angels were meant to be with angels and fairies with fairies... Granted that even if you did know about his son’s feelings, you would eventually realise that it was against the laws of the world, for you were a gateway for the Good to seep into the mortal world. But what Saint Michael did not know was that the fairy his son had fallen in love with had stored the same amount of love he had for her in his heart.” 

“The Heavens forbid star-crossed lovers between the two breeds of beings. Saint Michael himself couldn’t believe it when his son caved into his feelings right after you did. Fairies were fickle-minded; the only beings of the world of immortals that once walked the Earth as human beings. It was expected that you would provide the same love to the Archangel’s son -- but when he decided to embrace you in his all-gold halo of light... Saint Michael knew he could not afford losing the bearings of his son. He had decided that mortalising you would be a smart decision; keeping you close by letting you protect your ability to connect with this world but restraining you from ever returning to Hyunjae’s side.”

“Yet, like mortals, even immortal beings are unable to fight the strength of love. Hyunjae had decided descend to the world of the Humans and Mortals... to protect you by your side in your second life, allowing you to see him, touch him.”

The day you were reborn was the day Hyunjae had decided to humanise himself, albeit the process was draining and set him on a ticking clock from returning to the other world.

The ghoul looks at you, his blue eyes now revealing himself as a fairy who had disguised himself, in a bid to warn you before you had sold your heart to Hyunjae, something you cannot be with.

“You are paying the price for a fault that was his, do you not bear any resentment?”

The memories return. Flashes of Hyunjae smiling at you because he knew you could see him. The kisses that stained his skin because you were a mere mortal with abilities, and he was a being that was meant for more. 

“How is this his fault?”

The fairy is silent, thinking of the words to say. 

“Had he lived up to the responsibilities of being the son of Saint Michael, he wouldn’t have caved in.”

Your hair feels light around your shoulders, watching the fairy slowly morph into something less ambiguous. 

“What would have happened if we didn’t fall in love in my first life?”

The fairy had grown wings that looks like glass, reflecting light into seven colors into the abyss beyond you. He looks at you, blue eyes never faltering. 

“You would’ve become an Undine Fairy, and Hyunjae would’ve had to return to the world of the Skies--”

“And I would never see him again.”

He can see that you’ve had a glimpse into your past life; the forbidden love you had for Hyunjae now buried deep inside you. It feels like someone had just stuck a shovel 6 feet into your heart and dug out every remnant he could find. 

“Would you have let him go, had he been true to his existence and you had become an Undine?”

“There’s no way I can answer that, can I?”

The fairy blinks and starts walking backwards. “The rules between the two Worlds are forged in stone, but everybody knows that the matters of the spirit and soul cannot be bound by tangible logic. Your choice depends on what you believe: will you choose to believe what you see or what you feel?”

The question echoes inside your head, and the world around you flashes brightly like you had just died and walked into heaven.

Your consciousness returns to current time, eyes fluttering open as your alarm clock rings you awake. Sitting opposite you, eyes closed as you watch him snoozing lightly despite sitting in a chair, you feel a pinch in your chest. 

It’s not his fault, and never will be. 

[mcheang]

The critic

Sometimes restaurant owners are aware there is a critic among them, but they don’t know his identity. Sometimes they are unaware they are being visited at all. This is for @edeniz001

Meet Alain Ego. A youthful young man admitted to Ms Bustier’s class as an exchange student from Provence.

Here’s what you need to know about Alain. He is smart, responsible, but he’s dull. He is a wallflower. His appearance is unremarkable, his voice is softer than Nathaniel’s. And his social life is generally shy. His hobby is writing stories and taking photographs.

His deskmate is Ivan.

Predictably, after class was let out for lunch, Alain was surrounded by his class. Well, most of them.

Chloe and by extension Sabrina; could not be bothered to waste her time with a wallflower.

Marinette and Alya introduced themselves as the class president and Vice President. They warmly asked him to come to them if he needed help.

Nathaniel invited him to meet Marc since they both seemed to love writing.

Lila had never been to the French countryside but was inclined to boast about the Tuscan landscape. She seemed annoyed that Alain did not ask her for more details and that the rest of the class were paying more attention to the new student than to her.

Thankfully Alain would only be here for one semester. That was enough time for like...what, 25 akumas to show up?

Hope the new kid was fast. Dupont tends to be an akuma hotspot.

And was it ever...

The majority of the akumas were from Caline’s class. And that was remarkable considering how they had already been akumas. What is up with that?

Are they an emotional class?

Why is Hawkmoth out for them?

Granted some akumatizations happen outside school. But Alain happens to be there thanks to being invited to class activities.

Part of the blame belongs to Chloe.

A real bully that one. Alain can understand why the principal would be cowed by a corrupt mayor. For a so-called hero, he was a coward.

But Alain has noticed some students standing up to Chloe.

Namely the class president and her Vice President.

And yet for some strange reason, instead of telling Chloe off for being rude and mean, they just brush her off and redirect everyone’s attention.

Alain shyly asked Marinette why she lets Chloe get away with that.

Marinette: Because Ms Bustier told us to be good examples and forgive Chloe.

Alya: it’s why Chloe likes her so much. She lets Chloe get away with everything and tries to get her to be nice.

Alain’s eyes were wide at such a scandal.

When Alain’s witnessed his first akuma, he was at art class, making a photo collage of the students.

Let’s just say Chloe didn’t take criticism well at her first attempt at fashion design. Let’s also just say there’s a reason she stole Marinette’s design instead of relying on her mother’s genes.

Point is, Fashion Critic could make her harsh criticism a reality.

During that time, Alain had run for cover.

Unsurprisingly, Alya had run in the opposite direction.

Frightened, Alain asked for help as to where to run to.

Alya: There is no safe house or bunker. Akumas usually blow those up. Here in Paris, just run for cover.

Alain: any ideas?

Alya: not really. I don’t hide.

Alain: ....

Nino: don’t worry, dude. I know where the guys like to hide. Follow me. I’ll take him, Alya.

As they were running, Alain pointed out it should have been Alya leading him to safety.

Nino: she would have delegated it to me anyway. That girl loves to get her scoop.

Alain frowned in disapproval but said nothing. But perhaps he could try to talk to Alya later.

He did, and even Marinette took his side, when they both said she should stop running after akumas.

Alya: the public needs to know!

Alain: can’t you just post the location and powers and physical description? Why do you need to record the whole thing?

Alya; how else will my blog be popular?

Marinette: it’s still not safe, Alya.

Alya: oh relax, it’s not like the Teachers are complaining.

Ok, so Ms Bustier not only lets bullies run rampant without correcting their behavior, she also does not stop dangerous habits.

Curious about the students, Alain decides to be nosy. He visits the bakery and tries their delicious breads. He talks about animals with Mr Cesaire. He explored Juleka’s boathouse. He even babysitted Chris.

One day, Alain just so happens to visit the embassy building where Mrs Rossi works, at a time when she would be leaving for home.

Alain: Hello, excuse me, are you Mrs Rossi?

Mrs Rossi: Yes. And you are?

Alain: I’m Alain. Lila’s classmate. I thought I recognised you from her photos.

Mrs Rossi: oh. How nice to meet one of Lila’s friends. But I’ve been so busy with work, I barely have the time to spare.

Alain: I understand. But it’s nice to see you include Lila in your work.

Mrs Rossi: excuse me?

Alain: you know...you brought her to Achu last year to help out Prince Ali.

Mrs Rossi: I never went to Achu.

Alain: um...Lila was gone for months and FaceTimed us from there.

Mrs Rossi: when did this happen exactly?

Alain nervously tells her.

Mrs Rossi: Lila has been lying to all of us, it seems. She told me the school was shut down because of akuma attacks.

Alain: what? Akumas last only a day. The school has been disrupted by them, yes. But everything goes back to normal the next day. Didn’t you try calling the principal?

Mrs Rossi is stiff and she thanks Alain. She needs time to think. More than that, she wants another person’s opinion and confirmation about akumas before she decides on what else to do.

The next morning, Lila is at school. She makes no reference to Alain meeting her Mother. In fact she prefers to avoid him because he is so annoying. He rarely asks about her adventures and the questions are obviously and disinterestedly polite. What teenager isn’t excited by Jagged Stone?

In the middle of class, Lila is asked to the principal’s office. She returns fuming, with Mrs Rossi and the principal by her side.

Mrs Rossi ordered her Daughter. “Tell them the truth Lila.”

Lila is forced to confess her lies. In addition, for forging her mother’s signature and truancy, she is hereby expelled.

An akuma arrived to target her. As Caline rushed Lila away from the akuma, Marinette actually ran out and used her purse as a makeshift butterfly net. Since she wasn’t feeling negative (actually she felt pretty good about Lila getting exposed), the akuma was just fluttering around in her purse until Tikki threw a macaroon on it and proceeded to sit on it.

Alya is already posting on her blog about it, hopeful Ladybug will arrive to cleanse the akuma.

Marinette rushes out to the roof to wait for her there.

In the aftermath of Lila’s exposure, the class is certainly feeling wounded and guilty.

Caline is trying to advise them to forgive Lila who probably felt shy of their accomplishments.

Alain: Um, she asked me to carry her school bag because her arm was supposed to be sore from planting trees.

His words were a spark.

Kim: I bought her lunch.

Alya: I posted false information on my blog. Ok, technically I didn’t fact check. But Lila was not innocent!

Rose: I donated my summer job cash on her fake donation! (She proceeds to sob)

Caline: but she has already been punished, shouldn’t we extend our friendship to her now that she is alone?

Alain: She didn’t look all that repentant if you ask me. Didn’t you see her smiling at the akuma?

Adrien: Lila wouldn’t have hesitated to hurt us.

Alix: what a psycho.

Caline: that is enough. I want you all to forgive Lila and try to reach out a hand in friendship.

Ivan: But she’s dangerous

Max: and clearly not well if she keeps on lying that she can call Ladybug right after admitting she lied about knowing her.

Alain mutters to Ivan, “Wanna bet that Ms Bustier becomes Lila’s puppet if she actually does this?”

The next morning, Caline actually tries to order the class to say one nice thing about Lila and to write her a nice letter. Never mind that she clearly heard Alya report that Lila was exiled from Paris after Chat Noir admitted she had been working with Oniichan to endanger Ladybug. Apparently he had somehow heard how Lila was smiling at the akuma and suspected she was in league with the terrorist.

Alain so couldn’t wait for the term to end.

When it finally did, he gladly reported to the school board his investigation on the akuma class.

He blames Caline mostly for her redundant perspective that people need to forgive bullies and liars instead of educating them and correcting their behavior. Like seriously, how else would the victims get justice? She also lacks a sense of responsibility in that she refuses to correct Alya’s lack of self-preservation.

His advice: fire her or suspend her indefinitely, send her to get proper training. Get the class a strict and just teacher with a sense of fairness.

Once his job was done, Alain sighed and emptied his bag of textbooks. He could really go for some wine.

[gelenka-daria]

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod could you the bad pick up lines for Melkor and Manwe for the 3 paragraphs challenge?

“You know what we need? One of those ridiculous coffee house AUs. I’d die for one where Manwë works at a Café and Melkor’s absolutely smitten.”

i mushed these prompts together if that’s alright cus holy shit i have so many more to go through, anyway, it’s a little rushed but i hope you like it!

“Is your mother a beaver? ‘Cus damn!”

Everybody on their table, except for him, groans. “Next,” Námo demands impatiently, rubbing his temples. This had been going on far longer than it should.

Tulkas cackles around a mouthful of cake on the other side. “I thought you were good at this, what with you always having someone hanging off your arm.”

Melkor glares daggers his way. The spiteful brute. He can’t protest, though, because it’s true, this was his lane, he’d never had trouble getting whoever he’d wanted, but nothing he’s come up with so far was good enough to make Manwë drop everything and drop on his lap. He’s off his grid. He must be having a bad day. The worst.

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Nessa asks, patting her boyfriend’s back as he chokes on said cake.

Melkor scowls at her. “I can’t just ask him out, I need to get his attention first, woo him, make a monumental first impression.”

“And you’re planning on doing that using some of the worst pick up lines to ever exist?” Vairë asks blandly, stare just as flat.

“Fine,” he huffs and leans back in his chair, spreading his hands open to his companions on the table of the café just a block from their campus. “Since I can’t apparently function today, why don’t you offer your own input? I don’t think any of you can come up with a single better line.” He narrowed his eyes, daring each and every one of them.

Nessa coughed, eyes not meeting his. “Sure. ‘I think that you’re hands are heavy? Would you like me to hold it for you?’” She says, voice just a bit above a whisper.

An awkward silence follows.

“Okay, geniuses, why don’t you guys suggest a better one then?” She snarls, her face chilly-pepper red.

Vairë seems to be thinking hard. “'Are you a wifi-hotspot? Because I can feel a connection.’" 

Námo gives his girlfriend pained smile.

All eyes migrate towards Tulkas, who immediately turns red under their collective gaze. “You know I’m not good with all this sappy shit! Don’t drag me into it.”

“That’s not true!” Nessa protests. “You’re exceptionally charming, love.”

Vairë raises a brow at this. “Really? Tulkas?”

“Really? Námo?” Nessa quips flatly.

“Fair point.” Vairë responds after a short silence.

“It can’t be worse than anything we’ve heard so far.” Námo says with some annoyance.

Tulkas sighs, exasperated. “Fine, let me think first.” He purses his lips together. “'Are you a mixing bowl? Because I would like…to…put..my eggs…on you—no, wait.”

“Gods have mercy,” Ulmo whispers from his seat, squeezing at the bridge of his nose, making some noise at last.

Melkor points in each of their directions. “I just want you all to know, you’re useless.” He deadpans, and refrains, with quite some willpower, from sighing wistfully and turning his attention to the source of his turmoil. He has his long, pearly hair in a ponytail today, Melkor notes, blowing flyaway strands from his eyes with a huff every now and then. Melkor wants to hold him, consume him whole.

He isn’t supposed to be having this issue, anyway. His pride has taken a hit, It’s not his fault his mind can’t form proper words, he’s never been into anyone this much in his life to begin with and he’s not sure what to do with this new found revelation.

It frustrates him to no end, because he had been fine.

Until one rainy late afternoon, when he decided to take shelter in a café - this café - for the first time to wait the rain out since he didn’t bring an umbrella with him. That had been it, when he’d first seen him, in the form of flashes in the corners of Melkor’s eyes while he watched the rain through a misty glass door, beams of light so frequent he couldn’t just ignore. And lo and behold, when he turned his head to inspect the white ghost, it had been Manwë - at the time referred to as the angel in the BlueBird café - flowing between tables, taking orders, stealing hearts, or Melkor’s, at least.

It was later that he’d find out that he and Manwë were in the same university, knew some of the same people, even took a class together. How - and he couldn’t stress this enough, how - had Melkor not noticed him before? It boggles him to this day.

Needless to say, Melkor fell hard. Hard enough to ask all these hopeless idiots surrounding him for help. They knew Manwë, far longer than he’s existed for Melkor, were his friends before Melkor had the displeasure of being acquainted with any of them.

He feels someone elbow his arm, and looks up in time to see Námo’s eyes dart left, then back to him. 

“Hey, look who it is!” Tulkas exclaims to the approaching, smiling vision-in-white-apron. “Looking good there, man, what you been up to?”

“Not much, same old” Manwë says, and gods, he has the voice of angel, too. Melkor almost purrs. “You guys need anything?”

“No, we’re good,” Nessa tells him, “it’s busy around here, no point in keeping you.”

“Our friend Melkor here might.” Ulmo declares all of the sudden, and the table grows tense. Melkor stares at the man opposite him, who’s a complete waste of time and space, if you ask him, with how many times he’d informed Melkor that he isn’t really Manwë’s type. Melkor didn’t even ask, thank you very much. But there’s quiet challenge in Ulmo’s seaweed eyes, the one thing Melkor doesn’t back out on.

He stands from his seat and cradles Manwë’s free hand in both of his, marveling over soft skin, turning golden eyes on celestial blue, looking at him, drinking him in, not from a discreet table in the corner, nor through a window with his face pressed against stained glass, a chorus of noticemenoticemenoticeme accompanying the drum of his heart, but a proper beholding. Manwë goes a little rigid at the abrupt contact, but otherwise doesn’t recoil, regarding Melkor through delicate lashes with a bit of wide eyed confusion that Melkor can’t fault him for.

Their companions hold their breaths.

Melkor slaps on his winning smile. “Are you a house? Because I would like to come inside of you.”

Now, see, this isn’t what came to him, because what he’s looking for is the apposite of a restraining order, but there’s no taking it back now.

Nessa chokes on air, Námo and Vairë look like they’d rather be anywhere but here, Tulkas’ trying his best - and failing - at not laughing, reddening throughout, and Ulmo, well, if it were up to him, Melkor would be six feet under.

Manwë blinks once, then twice. “I see.” He says after a long moment, the faintest pink tainting his cheeks, which Melkor’s all too thrilled to see. He thinks he can feel the pulse in Manwë’s wrist quickening under his fingers. Manwë clears his throat gently. “I reckon you would want to take me out on a few dates before any… of that happens.”

Melkor swallows. “Yes, of course.”

“You might need my number, too.”

Melkor might just die. “Naturally.”

“Could you…?” Manwë trailers off, and there's a bit of tugging, and he realizes Manwë’s trying to pull his hand from Melkor’s suddenly turned iron grip. He releases him, albeit reluctantly, as Manwë would require it to quickly scribble down his number on a little notepad before fleeing back to work.

“What?” Nessa says, breaking the bewildered silence, gaze flitting between him and Manwë, who’s already on the other side of the café. “That actually worked?”

Melkor lifts his eyes off the precious paper, held dearly to his chest, meeting Ulmo’s miffed stare, shit-eating grin splattered across his face, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Not his type, my ass.”

[artificialqueens]

now there's green light in my eyes ch. 1

author ladyalix

cw / alcohol

ship: trixya

1920s/Great Gatsby AU for Trixya! Trixie is a Milwaukee girl visiting her cousin Pearl in New York, Katya is a Russian refugee in the bootlegging business, murder and lovers and speakeasies and general 1920s New York fun ensue! Trixie, Katya, Kennedy, and Pearl are cis girls, Max is a cis man, and Violet is a gay/genderfluid Italian gangster who does drag!

more on ao3 @ladyalix

I know what the gangsters think of me. I can converse with them as easily in their native Italian as in English, I smoke and drink like one of them. My clothing is cut low to lead them into business deals, coerce them into thinking I actually give a damn about them personally. They like to believe it, and so they do.

But these men, I do not find them attractive. No, the one who makes my heart race is someone entirely different.

___

Trixie Mattel’s summer in New York was hard to run by her mother. It was safer in Wisconsin, Mamma had argued. The city wasn’t proper for a nice girl like Trixie, only nineteen, chaste and well-mannered - she belonged in a small town, helping Mamma run her dress shop, biding the days until she married whatever good-natured man came along first. Ever since Papa had died when she was eleven, Trixie had spent her summers working. It wasn’t easy without a man in the house, but they made do with what they had. Trixie had stopped asking for new clothing long ago, learned to pretend not to be hungry on the days when there wasn’t money for food. When Mamma took in sewing and laundry and cleaned rich ladies’ houses Trixie came along and helped; the most important thing, though, Mamma always said, was that she did not lose her dignity and class. Mamma grew up in New York; her sister’s daughter Pearl, who was five years older than Trixie, lived there now. Mamma had left it all behind to marry Trixie’s father, a love story she told with wistful eyes and sighs whenever Trixie could coax it out of her.

“They didn’t want me marrying him,” she said. “He was an Indian from Wisconsin and I was a socialite from New York. It was quite the scandal back in the day - in all the papers, you know. It was unthinkable. But when you love someone, sometimes boundaries that stark cease to exist. When you love someone everything falls into place.”

And so Trixie and her mother, cut off from any inheritance, still acted like socialites even when there was nothing to eat, when there was no coal in the fireplace, when Trixie had to drop out of school for a year and take in mending. She held onto that secret knowledge, that she came from New York and had the manners and poise and dignity to show for it, like it was a treasure. A pearl, like her cousin’s name. She’d never met Pearl, but the two had corresponded for many years of Trixie’s childhood. Trixie could tell she was a pretty girl even in black and white -  lithe and elfin with big eyes. Pearl often wrote of lavish parties and beach holidays and trips abroad; she married an Englishman named Max Malanaphy last year. Trixie idolized her. And this year, the summer she would be turning nineteen, Pearl had finally sent her the letter Trixie had been waiting for as long as she could remember.

My Dear Trixie,

I hope Wisconsin is doing you well! You must be DREADFULLY bored! Would you like to spend your summer staying with us in New York? I’ll pay for train fare.  I’m sure you are old enough now that Aunt Eleanor won’t mind. Do write back!  

Love, your Pearl. xxxx

Trixie’s mother had been reluctant - Trixie was too naive, too trusting, too young, she had fretted.

“But Mamma,” Trixie had argued, “It’s Pearl . You know her. She’s a very responsible girl. I won’t get into trouble with her and Max - Mr. Malanaphy - looking after me. And she said she’ll pay for train fare!”

Her mother had sighed.

“Tell Pearl we shall pay her back,” she finally said. “But… perhaps. You have been very helpful lately, very mature. It might do you good to get out of Wisconsin for a summer.”

So here she was, in New York City. Max and Pearl had a flat overlooking Central Park which was one of the nicest places Trixie had ever seen, more beautifully decorated even than the mayor’s house back home where she used to clean the floors.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Max said warmly, his accent betraying his British roots and making him seem very sophisticated. Though he wasn’t too much older than Pearl, his hair was already a steely grey. He was handsome, Trixie guessed, tall and lanky with a long straight nose and fair skin. He’d been an officer in the war, with medals to prove it, but now worked somehow in trade. Trixie was rather confused about the exact nature of his job, but he did do well for himself, it seemed. Pearl was just as pretty as Trixie had pictured her, even more so maybe. Her hair was pale blonde, her eyes blue and shaded by long dark lashes. She dressed well, too; pale, floaty dresses that showed off her slim, attractive figure in a way Trixie’s mother would have considered vulgar. Trixie considered it wonderful.

“Tonight we’re going to see the most wonderful jazz singer,” Pearl gushed as she bustled about the flat, tidying up what was to be Trixie’s new roo,. “Kennedy Davenport herself. They say she’s the Josephine Baker of New York.”

Trixie had no idea who Josephine Baker was, but she nodded.

“Am I coming with you?”

“Of course,” said Pearl. “If you want to. And you must promise not to write home about where it is.”

“What do you mean?”

Pearl smirked. “I guess you know drinking alcohol is illegal now,” she said. Trixie nodded again, suspicious.

“Well, Max and I just happen to know a little place that gets around that pesky Eighteenth,” she grinned. “It also happens to be an absolute hotspot of talent in every colour, shape, and size. None of which you’d find on the outside, either. But it’s all very hush-hush. Can you keep it a secret?”

Trixie frowned, considering. She couldn’t help thinking of her mother’s warnings, her promises to stay out of trouble, but eventually she squared her shoulders. “Yes. I can.”

“Oh, isn’t that the bee’s knees !” chirped Pearl, clasping her hands together in excitement. “I hope you have something nice to wear!”

Max beckoned for Trixie to follow him and Pearl down a flight of steps to the basement of an old unassuming brownstone - something so well hidden, so inconspicuous, that by day it would have had no hint of its true nature.

“This definitely doesn’t seem legal,” muttered Trixie. Max nodded understandingly, his grey hair illuminated by the gas lamps, his pale face almost haunting in the dim shadow.

“I was worried too, my first time. But don’t worry. The cops tend to overlook this place. Mostly because of Madame Zamolodchikova’s bribery.”

“And her sex appeal,” snorted Pearl. “You know she’d be in prison for alcohol possession right now if she didn’t look like she did.”

Trixie gulped.

“Madame what ?”

Pearl laughed.

“Katya Zamolodchikova. Max, we know her well enough, you can stop putting on airs.” Max huffed.

“First-name bases are overrated, darling.”

The speakeasy was dark, clouded with smoke and pervasive with the scent of alcohol. A black girl with large light eyes and an elaborate feathered costume sang jazz on a small raised stage.

“Kennedy Davenport,” whispered Max, “an absolute genius. I can’t believe she’s performing at Madame Zamo’s. She’s been signed with all the big labels uptown already.”

The band picked up and began to play a peppier jazz tune.

“Oh, let’s dance,” exclaimed Pearl, grasping onto her lover’s wrist. She looked vibrant and lovely even in the dim light, her pale blonde hair coiffed into finger-waves and her thin, flat-chested body draped in a short pale pink dress.

Trixie hung back, feeling inadequate and dumpy in the pale blue gingham she’d brought from home. It was too modest and too hokey and too Wisconsin for a place like this.

“Don’t you want to dance?” called Pearl, expertly twisting her body into the Charleston with Max.

“Um…” Trixie froze. “I think I’ll watch. For now.” She sat on a plush red couch, folding her legs the way her mother had always taught her. This - the dress that looked nunlike next to Pearl’s - was still the shortest dress she’d ever worn. As she sat, it hiked above her knees and made her feel very daring and very, very bad.

“It’s quite all right, darling,” came a gravelly, foreign voice from startlingly close behind her. Trixie turned around to face an elegant blonde woman, all red lips and picture star hair and sharp cheekbones and bony limbs, dressed in furs and diamonds and reeking of smoke. “Not everyone is a dancer. Some of us prefer to sit back and watch, yes?”

“Leave her alone, Katya,” said Pearl, rolling her eyes as she walked towards Trixie and the mysterious woman. “Trixie’s terrified, the poor dear.”

Katya , thought Trixie as the realization dawned in her brain, this is the owner of the speakeasy, the bootlegger,  herself.

“Terrified? Trixie, dear, you have no reason to be terrified,” cooed the blonde woman, the “r”s in her speech trilled and drawn out. “You are not hiding in ditch from Red Army.”

Trixie blinked.

“ What ?”

“I am only teasing,” affirmed this Katya. “Can I get you something to drink? What do you like?”

“I’ve, um, actually never drank alcohol before,” confessed Trixie.

“Have you not?” Katya’s eyes, which were a startling blue, filled with mischief. “Well, today we have a little bit of everything. Scotch from Scotland, gin from England, vodka from Russia, champagne from France, rum from the West Indies.”

Trixie had no idea what any of those things tasted like, but she knew what champagne was; she decided on ordering that.

“A good choice, Trixie,” commented Katya as she bustled about, pouring a glass.

“How is business on the North Shore, Miss Zamolodchikova?” murmured Max, pronouncing the foreign surname perfectly. He’d obviously practiced.

“Oh, excellent, excellent. You have spoken with Dardo about the latest shipment?”

“Of course.” Pearl glanced nervously at Trixie, who had been pretending not to pay attention.

“This doesn’t concern you, Trixie,” she whispered, giving her hand a squeeze - amiable, yet firm in its message to make herself scarce.

“Oh. All right. Sorry.”

Trixie left the couch, casting glances the others’ way and kicking herself inwardly for not realizing that Pearl herself - and Max, too, then, were bootleggers, gangsters. It certainly explained Max’s wealth and his frequent trips to London.

As the night dragged on, Trixie tried hard not to trail after Pearl, but it proved difficult. Katya seemed to take Trixie under her wing, providing her with drinks and making small talk. Trixie learnt the older woman was originally from Russia, and had spent time living with artists and ingenues in Paris before settling comfortably in Long Island, nestled on the funds from her speakeasy.

“It is, of course, ridiculous what you must do to have a little fun in this country,” she explained, taking a drag on a cigarette. Trixie always thought of cigarettes as being in the realm of men, but Katya managed to make it feminine and even sensual. It was no wonder, she thought, that all the gangster men went after her.

“Why don’t you go back to your country, then?” asked Trixie. She realized how rude she must have sounded only when the Russian woman’s blue eyes misted with tears.

“Oh, my dear, I have no country to go back to. Ever since damn Communists killed the tsar. I came to Paris as refugee when I was not much older than you, you see. All alone - my parents were killed in the fighting.” Katya swallowed hard. “Everything you see, I make myself. My entire life here in America, I make myself.”

“‘Golly,” whispered Trixie.  Her childhood had been far from ideal; she knew what it was to be hungry, to wear clothes that never fit right. But poor as she had been, Katya’s story made her background seem near idyllic.

“It is all right. We all have our crosses to bear,” said Katya quietly. “I do not dwell too much in the past. And besides, in Russia I could not do this ,” she said, grasping Trixie’s bare thigh with her pale hand. Trixie tensed.

“What is wrong with you?” she exclaimed. The Russian’s hand felt good, exciting even, but it was all wrong. Men weren’t supposed to do this to ladies, let alone other ladies. Trixie’s mother would probably have a heart attack if she could see her daughter right now.

Katya retracted her hand, a look of shame spreading across her face.

“I am sorry, Trixie, I thought you knew. Here in my bar, we are very open about our… sexual differences, you see. In Paris it was all the rage. Every woman I knew was intimate with other women. But New York, even, is not Paris. This I know now.” Trixie’s anger faded as she saw Katya’s face etched with worry. Katya was no predator - she was just a woman, a woman like Trixie, who fell in love with other women. Maybe, just maybe, Trixie even felt the same way. The Russian woman was so unlike anyone back home, she couldn’t be sure; the way she smoked like a man, the way her accent made Trixie’s name a rolling wave, the way she showed so much kindness and openness and understanding. The way this place seemed to be safe for people like Kennedy to sing and Katya to love, it couldn’t be a bad thing. When you love someone everything falls into place…

“I hope we can still be friends, Trixie,” Katya was saying now. “Nothing really happened.”

“Yeah. Nothing happened,” confirmed Trixie. “But if something were to happen, I don’t think I would mind.”