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theawkwardterrier · 5 years ago

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 39

AO3 link here

He’s gotten pretty settled in with his coworkers at Stark Industries a month into the job, and it’s absolutely stunningly hot, like the air’s drenched, woolen, nearly physical as it fills every little space, but Bucky finds himself going out for lunch. That happens to him sometimes, the need to not be around people, forced to make conversation, to joke and be fine. Because sometimes, still, he isn’t fine; he came home with a weight on his shoulders that can be lighter certain days and heavier others but which is always there, and he’s trying, still, to be okay with that.

He usually eats on the later side, so the afternoon concert is already nearing its close though the music is still apparent from the spot he’s chosen. The file he’s brought with him is only a prop. He keeps it open on the bench beside him but doesn’t really look at it, staring around instead as he unwraps the sandwich he bought.

He’ll try to remember to call Steve tonight, because his best friend made him promise to phone when he feels like this, but he already feels a little guilty about it. He knows that Steve’s got his back, the same way he’ll always have Steve’s, but the Carters are working on adopting their little girl next month - Rose is her name, Steve said - and he can tell that the two of them are stretched pretty thin so he doesn’t want to add on. He has an appointment with his shrink next week, and he could probably make it sooner if he needed it, but this feels like the sort of thing he should be able to handle by himself.

Despite the time that’s passed - six years since Steve and Peggy brought him back, more than ten since whatever happened down in that lab - he hasn’t quite grown used to the ways in which he came home different. If anything, he’s reached a point of annoyance with himself that he’s had all this time and all this help, and nevertheless can find himself overcome by something as simple as a crowd, a noisy room. He remembers by now being the life of the party, ready with a quick remark, lighting girls’ cigarettes with a flick of his wrist and a flash of a grin. He remembers following Steve’s good-hearted, hairbrained schemes throughout their childhood, coming up with schemes of his own, talking their way out of trouble with teachers or the cops on the beat (even if he had to rest his whole weight on Steve’s toes to keep his big mouth closed). But that doesn’t feel like him anymore, and it grates on him that he can’t figure out how to make it be.

He shakes his head at himself, picking a couple of fallen scraps of roast beef from the sandwich wrappings before balling up the wax paper. If he still feels like this at the end of the day, he has the number that Charlie Gibbs gave him before he left Washington, the one answered by a man Charlie describes as “someone who saw a thing or two over there” and who can gather more like them to drink a beer and talk things over if they need to.

In the meantime, there’s still fifteen minutes before he has to get back to the office, and he tips his face upward, limbs sprawling out a little in relaxation as he soaks in the sun. It always makes him feel sort of stupid to have these sorts of moments, the overwhelming of his mind, during the summer, as if the sunshine and freedom should drive them away. But the warmth feels so good, too, that he tries not to think about that, tries to just lean back and enjoy.

When he brings his chin down again, his gaze catches on the bench across the plaza from his. The woman there - one hand holding open a book, the other her own sandwich, a thumb that he can’t quite track wiping away a drip of mustard from the corner of her mouth - is familiar. He stares awkwardly for a moment, trying to place her. She glances up as she tries to flip a page with a thumb (he assumes her clean one) and gives a slight raise of her sandwich in his direction in recognition.

He can picture, like a photograph, the smile he might have given her before the war, cocky, glinting sideways and a bit suggestive. Now he settles for a nod and a tip of his hat, tucks his hands in his pockets and starts walking back.

It’s only as he pushes through the glass doors into the Stark Industries building that he remembers where he’s seen her before: lab coat and safety glasses on, silky dark hair (longer than was truly fashionable) pinned back, in one of the labs during his tour of the building. “The chem fellas, for what they’re worth,” said the guy showing him around, swaggering onward with barely a glance. But Bucky had looked back, caught a glimpse of a raised middle finger.

He sort of wants to ask her whether it was for the “fellas” when she was clearly standing right there, or if she just feels that strongly about chemistry.

She’s there again the next day, sitting on the same bench, holding a different book, Frances Parkinson Keyes’s The Royal Box. He’s actually read this one at Peggy’s recommendation, but he doesn’t say anything, just touches the brim of his hat when he stands. She’s wearing a hat today too, a wide tan straw thing that shades her face, and she touches her brim back at him.

He finds himself grinning as he stuff his hands into his pockets and starts heading back.

He’s actually feeling better on the third day after a night out with Charlie Gibbs’s friends (well, they might even be his friends at this point) and an invitation from Becca to come over to her place for dinner Saturday. He’d wondered when he moved back if being around his family, especially the new generation and their energy, might be too much. But it’s actually invigorating to be around them, to be used as a climbing structure, given random hugs and sticky kisses to his cheeks. He never laughs as hard as he does when Jimmy tells some story about the indignations of his school day or Baby falls unconsciously into an impression of her grandmother. And the youngest is nearly four months now, and Becca swears he smiles all the time, so that’ll be nice to see.

So there’s no real reason he strolls out into the July heat instead of staying in his office, no reason his feet lead him once again to Bryant Park. No reason he stops for only a second, then keeps walking over when he sees a familiar figure sitting not on her regular bench, which is empty across the path, but instead on his.

“I thought that if we were going to keep meeting like this, we should at least know each other’s names,” she says, squinting up past him as he stands over her. Her voice is even, confident, but not strictly businesslike; there’s a smile at the edge of her words. She extends her hand to him. “Layla Mansour.”

He shakes, sits down beside her. “Bucky Barnes.”

“Really?” she says, so dubiously that he actually laughs.

“It’s the name I’ve got.”

“I seriously doubt it,” she says, “but there’ll be time for me to figure out the truth later.” And with that she unwraps her sandwich and takes a bite.

Three weeks later, Peggy requests that Howard send over a chemical engineer and a mechanical engineer to SHIELD headquarters at Camp Lehigh. Bucky’s an easy pick for the mechie considering they won’t even have to go through any extra security rigamarole, and when he hears they’re looking for someone else, he knows right away who to recommend.

Bucky’s never learned to drive, never had to and at some point decided he never really wanted to, so he’s particularly impressed by the ease with which Layla directs the borrowed Stark Industries sedan. She brought gloves with her, a crisp pair, white with bleach, but they’re draped over her handbag in the backseat. Her fingers on the wheel are not long, but they’re easily capable, with short, even nails.

“Where are you from?” he asks like clearing his throat, because he has the feeling that staring at her hands is not an entirely normal thing to do, and because he realizes that he actually doesn’t know. They’ve been talking over lunch for weeks now, but it’s been about preferred sandwich spots and the best things on the menu there, about work, and about her endless books. (She brings a new one nearly every day, and he has no idea how she’s able to read them all. Her library card gets more of a workout than anyone else’s he knows.)

Her mouth tucks in at the corners for just a second, then she says, too brightly even for her, “My grandparents were from Syria. Well, I suppose it would probably be Lebanon now, though, what with the borders shifting and all. And at the time that whole area the Ottoman Empire, but...Now you have the general idea of it, I imagine.”

“Oh,” he says. “No.” Not that he hasn’t noticed her dark, dark hair and intense eyes, but… “I meant, not too many people learn to drive in the city. And um—” He glances out the window, taps a finger on his knee, tries not to mumble. “You have a little bit of an accent. Only sometimes. You drop your r’s, and you’re the only person I’ve ever heard pronounce the number four the way that you do.”

A laugh startles out of her. “I’m from just outside of Boston. Watertown.”

“Don’t know it,” he says, shrugging, turning over in his head the way she says it: Watatown, Watuhtown. “The only thing I know about Boston is the Red Sox.”

Again, he’s impressed as she manages to execute a smooth turn off the main street even while eyeing him sharply. “Be careful what you say. I might live in New York now, but I’ve been going to games at Fenway since I was a kid.”

Bucky lifts his hands in defense. “Hey, they might not be here anymore, but I’m still for the Dodgers. We can hate on the Yanks together.”

“Excellent,” she says, with a grin. “That’s all I ever need,” and she pulls up to the guardhouse at the edge of the base.

He’d expected to be directed to whichever scientist they’d be working with, but Peggy’s actually there to greet them herself.

“We’re honored,” Bucky says, leaning to kiss her cheek.

“You had better be,” she responds. “Good to see you, Barnes.”

“You too, Carter.” He hasn’t seen them in probably a month and the reason why is written in the exhausted lines of her face. It strikes Bucky as a little odd that he hasn’t gotten to meet his friends’ child yet, doesn’t even know what she looks like, but it’s easy to tell how overwhelmed all the Carters are - perhaps the newest one most of all - so it just hasn’t been the right time. They hadn’t even made it into the city for Bucky’s mother’s Labor Day dinner, and Bucky knows how Steve feels about Labor Day and Winifred Barnes. That same exhaustion from Peggy’s face is obvious in Steve’s voice when they talk on the phone these days, catching up late at night when Steve has a minute between cleaning up whatever messes Rose had made during the day. Bucky hadn’t thought Steve could get tired like that since the serum, but apparently kids really do a number on you, or maybe it’s just Rose.

As evidence, when Peggy turns to introduce herself to Layla, Bucky spots a small patch of oatmeal dried onto the shoulder of her blouse. It’s just a little thing, the cream of it blending into her shirt anyway, but it’s large on Peggy Carter; he doesn’t know that he’s ever found her so disheveled, and he’s seen her in the middle of battle and during the frigid center of the winter and after days without a real bath. He’ll point it out to her later - hopefully she’ll have enough brainpower to care.

Still, when she puts out a hand and says, “Peggy Carter,” it’s with that familiar firmness.

“Dr. Layla Mansour.” He can see that Peggy appreciates that she doesn’t shy away from using the title she’s earned, or from shaking back with an equally firm hand. “What can we help with?”

Bucky likes that, himself. Still, when Steve calls that night and waits a whole five minutes before asking casually about Bucky’s new friend that Peggy told him about, Bucky pretends not to know what he’s talking about.

“We just eat lunch together sometimes,” he deflects, and decides he’ll overlook the way Steve’s “hmmm” sounds knowing and just a bit suggestive.

And they do eat lunch together, two or three times a week, sometimes more. As the autumn grows cooler, glancing quickly around before they bring up their favorite and least favorite colleagues, the projects that they’re working on, what they’re most excited about starting next. Inside the newly opened diner down the street during the winter, talking about what brought them to the careers they have now, finding out that Layla went to CCNY too but only for her PhD and a couple years ahead of Bucky - they never came across each other there.

(“Lucky thing we met each other now,” she says around the bite of chocolate cake she is pretending she hasn’t just stolen from him. He smiles, sideways and then more, and echoes, “Lucky thing.”)

They continue into the spring, eating as they walk beside each other in the blossoming warmth, trading stories about how things were for them growing up, about their families, about how home doesn’t feel quite the same when you come back all grown up. Hearing her talk about Ted Williams and Jackie Jensen, her hands flying as if she might snag a baseball out of the air at any moment while he grins at her side, he actually has to hold himself back from gaining some affection for the Red Sox.

(Once, in May, he asks her about her weekend plans and she says briefly that her mother's set her up with a date, the son of a friend of a friend, before turning to toss her bread crust to a couple of squirrels. He doesn't ask more, or mention that the few times his own mother has urged him to go out with nice girls from church or the daughters of her sewing circle friends, he's walked away thinking that somehow they were perfectly nice and normal and somehow not quite right. The next week, she tells him, a bit pointedly, that she's going to see 12 Angry Men over the weekend with some of the other girls from her rooming house.)

He brings her to Steve and Peggy’s for dinner in July. Though he’d seen her not even two weeks ago, at the barbecue that was allegedly for Independence Day (Steve was meant to have a different birthday now), Rosie drags him into the house as soon as they arrive, then squints at Layla, coming through the door behind him.

“Who is that?” she asks, not quietly. “Who are you?”

“We told you that Miss Layla would be coming,” Steve says, striding over, drying his hands on a towel. “Be polite, Rose.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Rose.” Layla steps forward, puts out a hand, doesn’t waver as she is eyed suspiciously and for a nearly uncomfortably long time. Finally, Rose shakes briefly before darting back off into the dining room.

Steve sighs. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m certainly happy to finally meet you.” His polite smile turns somewhat more broader and more youthful, teasing, as he catches Bucky’s glare that means don’t say something like—

“Bucky talks about you all the time,” Steve finishes angelically.

Layla looks over her shoulder at Bucky. “All the time, hmm, James?”

Her hair, normally worn back, is down around her face for dinner, set and curled up at the bottom. Bucky shrugs. “Maybe once or twice. He can’t count very well.”

“Perhaps you should move this conversation toward the table,” Peggy calls. “I think Rose is about to dig into this delicious meal herself, and I might join her.”

Steve and Bucky, mannered as they are, both gesture Layla ahead of them. Once she’s passed, Bucky punches Steve in the shoulder, hard enough that it might even bruise.

All the time? he mouths. Jackass.

Steve tucks his hand in his pockets, raising an eyebrow and mouthing back James?, grinning as they walk in together.

They don’t leave until nearly eleven, after they’ve eaten Steve’s delicious dinner (seriously, when did Steve learn to cook? Bucky can remember when he could practically only boil water, though that might have been because there was barely more in the house than that) and the absurdly rich chocolate mousse tart he made for dessert, after Rose had tucked herself into the chair in the living room where she could still listen to them and fallen asleep, after Steve’s told half a dozen stories to embarrass Bucky and Bucky had given just as good back and Peggy had topped them both.

Layla’s laugh is even lower than her speaking voice, Bucky’s noticed. He can recognize the start of it now, when it’s still a barely audible chuckle, and it makes him smile.

It’s a good night. He’s feeling good, even as he shifts the muscles of his back and shoulder a little. The arm isn’t as heavy as most, and it supports itself pretty well, has control nearly the way a flesh and blood one would, doesn’t just hang from his sleeve as a placeholder - Howard actually started a medical technology division after he worked with it. Still, when he wears it for this long, the discomfort becomes more and more obvious in the later hours.

“You can take it off, if you’d like,” says Layla.

He hadn’t even realized she’d noticed that little movement. Honestly, he hadn’t even realized she’d noticed the arm at all, which is stupid - she’s got two perfectly good eyes, she sees him nearly every day, but she’s never stared or asked prying questions or even looked purposefully away, making unwavering eye contact the way some people do to avoid seeming rude.

There had been that first day they were working at Lehigh, when one of the others on the team was walking across the lab to show them a delicate instrument, holding it carefully and eyeing Bucky’s hand where it was visible past his shirt cuff. “You sure you can handle this?” he’d said, like Bucky was going to thank him for his concern, before he’d crashed to the ground right as he passed where Layla was standing. Even Bucky’s eyes hadn’t tracked her foot flicking out across the floor, just catching the very end of the movement as she set it innocently back where it had been. “Goodness,” she’d said, tilting her head in pity. “Are you certain that you can handle it?” But that’s the only acknowledgement that she’s ever given.

“I’m fine,” he tells her now. “It’s fine.”

She makes a low hmmm sort of sound. “Maybe,” she says. “But it’s also fine to sometimes not be fine.”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” he says, the words out before he can check them. He’s been doing pretty well in the months that he’s known her, talking to Steve and Peggy and the shrink and guys who served, spending time with his family, getting good sleep when he can and taking long walks in the night air when, however increasingly rarely, the nightmares mean he can’t. He doesn’t take time off from work if he can help it, and he’s mostly been able to help it. But he knows that his healing is a slow process, inches and years, that he has to do his best to keep a good face through it all.

He doesn’t know how to explain that to her, really, to tell her that the version of him that she’s spending time with...it hasn’t been a show, but it hasn’t been all of him, either.

“All of us,” she says with conviction, as if she can read his mind, as if she already knows, as if he’s already told her everything and she doesn’t care. “All people are allowed to not be fine sometimes. And you count in that too, whatever you might think of yourself.”

And as she drives them back, soft darkness and the sounds of crickets around them, he tries to let himself believe her.

She gets promoted late in October, which she’s proud of but also finds irritating - it means a lot of extra paperwork and administrative duties. They don’t get to eat lunch together as often now that she has a heavier schedule of meetings. He takes to staying a couple hours later, turning up by her desk around 7 to make sure that she wraps up for the day. They usually go out to supper together after, sometimes even a picture if there’s something good playing.

One frigid night in February, Bucky holds Layla’s coat out for her, trying to douse his nerves by listening to her complain grouchily once again about how the new position means that she’s down to reading a book every two days or even every three.

“The librarians probably have you in their prayers,” says Bucky once again as they wave to their favorite waitress and head toward the door. Before Layla can push it open, Bucky puts a hand to her arm.

“Wait,” he says. “I just wanted to—Well, it’s Valentine’s and you’ve been working hard so I—Here.” He pulls from his coat pocket the little pink case, watches her pop it open to examine the pink rose inside nestled amidst baby’s breath and a sprig of greenery. She’s practical, doesn’t really go for elaborate things, but he’s seen the little flashes of prettiness in the glint of jeweled pins and flowered clips when she has her hair pulled back or up, the various necklaces he’s only caught glimpses of, hidden as they are beneath the necklines of her dresses and blouses. He thought she would like this, and he doesn’t tuck his head but instead watches as she smiles, removes the flower and takes in the scent, runs a gentle finger over the petals.

“Thank you,” she says, tucking it back inside and closing the little case with care. “It’s lovely.”

“I’m glad,” he says, letting out a quiet little breath. He’d searched around during his lunch hour for something remaining at the florist in good shape and kept it in one of the cool rooms at work, waiting for the right chance to give it to her. Feeling lighter, he reaches for the door, only to have her stop him this time, a hand on his forearm.

“Are you ever,” she says, “going to ask me on an actual date?”

“Oh.” For all the nights he lay with his hands behind his head and imagined saying those words, he finds that he can’t manage them now, not right away. He almost wants to look away, to gather his head, but he breathes deeply, watches the calm in her brown eyes, the patience there.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he finally says. “Fair Game’s at the Longacre; we can see if there are tickets. Or West Side Story, if you’d rather. Or The Music Man - that’s supposed to be good too, if they’re not sold out.”

“Marian the Librarian?” He can hear that sound, the very beginning of her laughter. “I’ll see if I’m available.”

“You will, huh?”

“I think I can probably make the time,” she says archly. “For you.” And she holds out a hand to him, waiting as he secures his fingers gently between hers, before opening the door.

More chapters here

#things left behind fic #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #oof home stretch for this fic

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same-side · 6 years ago

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I’m sorry if this is too personal but your bio says mechanical engineer and I just think that’s so freaking cool especially being so young and I was wondering what’s that like? (Please dont feel pressured to talk about this if it makes you uncomfortable!)

Hey there! No worries, I don’t mind talking about it)

this is pretty broad so i guess i’ll just ramble a bit. You’re welcome to ask me any more specific questions you might have! Thank you so much for checking in and just. being curious! c:

“young” omg

I suppose I am. Usually, here, engineering takes five years to get the B.S. because it’s such an intensive programme with so many classes to take. I overloaded myself with credit hours so I could get through school faster. I graduated about a year ago and honestly I do not miss school at all; the working world is so nice!! I was the kind of person that was in student government, several clubs, and interning all on top of classes, so when I got into the working world it was like… I finally had time to breathe and do things I enjoy (like art!).

I’m a mechanical engineer, but we’re a really versatile class of engineer. Our educational and professional scope covers everything from materials engineering to programming. A huge percentage of mechies are design engineers; you would probably assume given my art hobby that I’m a design engineer. Ironically, I don’t find much enjoyment in CAD (computer aided design, 3D) modeling and design work; I’m much more adept at taking a look at problems, analyzing them, and fixing them. In fact, all of the positions I’ve had have been in the testing realm.

I actually got my undergrad specialization in propulsion; that means I’m really heavily focused on understanding flowpaths and how fluids and heat interact with components. For example, studying and reducing drag on a car, making aircraft faster by controlling the airflow, making an engine more efficient with hotter combustion, or creating piping systems. I plan on getting my masters in fluid mechanics as well, though it will have to wait a few years.

I’m legally not allowed to discuss my current position, but I can tell you about some of what I used to do!

When I was in college I interned with NASA JPL on the Mars2020 rover team. I was then picked up full time on the Europa Lander team, where I worked for a full year before switching to my current employer.

For the rover teams I worked in testbeds. Simply put, testbed engineers break things. Usually what happens is you have a prototype - in my case, I worked in mobility systems so I was usually testing parts of the robotic arm for the 2020 rover. You look at the specifications and what that prototype is supposed to accomplish, you design different series of controlled tests to push it to its limits, find out where it succeeds, where it fails, etc., and then you design and build the accompanying machinery (testbed) necessary to do so. Oversee the tests, analyze the data, then redesign the components to better succeed at their intended purpose. I really like working in testing because it sees the full scope of engineering. I get to dabble in design work and programming and robotics and materials science and technical writing and hands on building. I get to do all of it, not just the same thing day in and day out. Oftentimes I worked on legacy hardware from the Curiosity Rover; so basically I would take component designs from Curiosity, redesign them, test them, then pass them along to that subcomponent team for review.

For the lander team, I worked cradle-to-grave on the lander’s drill mechanisms. I led a team of three other engineers and we designed, built, tested, and rebuilt the drill for the lander from scratch. It’s important to note here that this was the prototype, non-flight hardware. So what happens now is they’ll take our design and physical drill prototype, rework it a bit, and then very, very carefully make the one that will go on the real lander that gets shot into space. This is to avoid any kinds of contamination and to ensure precision machining of the parts.

My brother is also a mechie and I actually chose to be one because of him. My parents were always super supportive and proud of him, and I wanted that support, too. they. did not believe women should do math or science. So it was a constant struggle of my parents telling me to change my major to something more acceptable. It was also a struggle of oftentimes being the only woman in my classes, not having female professors, things of the sort. I used to do a lot of outreach with children, prospective students, families, corporations, charities, etc. to make sure other underrepresented individuals didn’t have to go through the same scorn I did, and knew how to combat it when they did face it. That’s probably. the only thing I really don’t like about being an engineer, but with each year it gets better.Anyway, I hope that gives a little insight into my life and what I do! Have some pictures!

#t talks #engineering #Anonymous #asks for ts

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fullstop-official · 5 years ago

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A Hellish Freak Disaster with Burning Rubble and No Survivors

AKA: Chapter One - July 18

In three days, everything will change.

But right now, Travis Longfield is swatting his free hand at my shoulder as punishment for having my feet up on the space above the glovebox in the Gator – his Wrangler nicknamed aptly for its military-appropriate paint job. I have to laugh a little at his feeble attempt to keep straight on the road and hit me at the same time, more to mock him than anything else. But I finally give in and give up my recline before he takes his chance at the next stop sign to go for the ankles.

“You care about this thing too much, dude,” I tease, “I’m not allowed to sit comfortably – Jesus, I can’t even eat in here!”

“Do you want her to end up like Cole’s car?” The Gator, of course, has always been a her. “He wrecked that Cherokee. It can’t be saved. They should write it off for internal damage.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry I upset your girlfriend here. I won’t dirty her up.”

“I’m not really worried about that,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not even the one dirtying up your own girlfriend.”

His comment makes my mood immediately plummet, and, as we pull into the Mechis’ driveway behind a sleek, black Lexus, my mood suddenly becomes a satellite that drops from the stratosphere, falling down, down, down toward the earth at thousands of miles per hour and on fire. Travis parks the Gator and we both climb out. He takes a moment to pull his guitar case from the back seat before we go about picking our way around the aforementioned Lexus and Cole’s hopelessly-stained, wrapper-littered Grand Cherokee to reach the side door to the garage.

We enter, and we’re the last two to arrive. Cole is sprawled out on the duct-taped loveseat by the wall that’s way too tiny to fit all of him. He looks over and his shaggy and badly-highlighted hair flips naturally as his head turns. Still, our appearance isn’t enough to steal his attention away from loudly strumming a progression of power chords on his guitar in order to mess with Matt. Matt is attempting to tune his bass on the other side of the room in spite of the noise, but probably isn’t having an easy time without anything that resembles quiet. Bryson is on the beat-up couch opposite of Cole, scribbling in a binder that’s full of schedules, sets, general to-do lists, and other notes that he says are necessary and need to be kept – though the entire thing is so crammed with papers that it will explode one day.

My satellite mood fails to brace for impact and crashes against the ground, colliding in a hellish, freak disaster with burning rubble and no survivors when I see the Lexus’ owner practicing the screeches that she calls “vocal warmups” by her mic stand, front and center. Saying she’s my mortal enemy undoubtedly makes me sound like some sort of comic book supervillain, but I’ve never come up with anything more accurate and less theatrical and childish to describe what we have. Our rivalry would probably take an entire war map with battalions and flags to comprehend.

I met Selena Walton when we were in seventh grade – briefly – but truly got to know and dislike her the following year when our feud officially ignited. It was just shortly after that, during the same year, that the rest of us really jumped on the idea of forming the band and, by the end of eighth grade, we’d seen it through.

There was just one problem. I play the drums. Travis is lead guitar, and Cole is on second. Matt plays bass. Bryson covers keyboard when we need it for certain songs, but otherwise acts as our manager. We were good on our own, just the five of us, but when things started getting more and more serious, we had a debate about lyrics.

Cole is an incredible singer – when he’s singing unclean vocals (the screamo parts). When it comes to singing regularly, he may as well just strangle a bird on stage; the sound it would make is more or less the same. Our preferred genre of punk and its “close-enough” offshoots (we’ve found that a healthy mixture brings in a bigger audience) are starting to blur the lines a little, but we all agreed that we wouldn’t be a full-fledged screamo band. We resolved to use his talent conservatively. The rest of the guys couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives.

I can sing, but drummers stay at the back of the stage, and squishing the two roles together makes the show lose a certain kind of energy. The audience generally likes to see the singer while they’re singing. I can sing backup, but there needs to be someone up front. A hype man.

Enter Selena Walton. Unwelcomely welcomed to the band after our first five months of minimal lyrics with a three-to-two vote.

And whom I hate more than anyone else in the universe.

And maybe it would be slightly better if she didn’t front our band. I have nothing against female punk singers, or really just female singers in general. Many of them are good, even pretty great. Selena, however, is an exception. She hates the vast majority of the music that we perform. And, though what she does is technically considered singing, she is an alto who thinks she’s a soprano, which is the worst kind of alto and does not make for a spectacular – or even subpar – show. Her signature style is going up a few too many notes at the end of nearly every line, regardless of whether or not she can hit them, and it is such a pain to listen to that I’m surprised my head hasn’t shattered like glass, or exploded like Bryson’s band binder is going to do. This is all in addition to her entitled, annoying, spoiled brat attitude which is all wrapped up into one short, oblivious, bitchy, brunette package.

I wish that was the end of it, but, devastatingly, having Selena as our lead singer isn’t even the terrible part. I can deal with that. But about a year ago, band practice went from being the few hours a week that I had to tolerate the fact she exists to my own, personal hell.

Bryson’s managerial skills are sharp, but PR-wise he tends to run things like a scripted reality TV show in order to make us stand out from other local acts so people can invest in our “personal” lives. I don’t know what celebrity dating scandal gave him the idea, but a fake inter-band relationship was proposed and, by some weird misfortune, not immediately vetoed. After a ton of arguing, I literally drew the short straw.

Selena Walton is my fake girlfriend.

And I hate her.

At the very least, after a year of playing pretend (and having her hang off of me during shows after spitting in my face behind the scenes), I haven’t actually been forced to kiss her or anything yet. I think I’d have to tear off my lips and cauterize the wounds if that happened.

Bryson still sticks to his delusional claim that having us fake date is a good thing for the band, even though it causes more drama when we’re alone together than it ever does when we’re out in the public eye. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to keep it up because Selena only acts like she’s staying faithful to me when, in reality, she’s probably slept with every guy who’s ever looked at her for more than five seconds. Pretending that I tolerate her is a tough challenge, but I deserve an Oscar for acting like I love her.

And so, when Travis and I walk in, she pretends to ignore me, but I watch her in my peripheral when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gives me a look; it’s a spiteful, almost disgusted scowl. For what it’s worth, I’m glad she can just barely endure my mere presence. It’s the one thing about this entire situation that makes me feel all happy and light inside.

Travis sets his case down to take out his guitar, and I go sit on the arm of the couch next to Bryson. Since we cleared out his garage to act as our rehearsal space, my setup has lived here permanently and I’m the only one who ever touches my drums. They only move for gigs, and I don’t have much to prepare before practice.

Cole gives me a subtle nod, but doesn’t stop strumming one of our originals. “S’up, Scott,” he greets me. He uses my last name instead of my first. Bryson, Matt, and Cole have all done that as long as I’ve known them – apparently, the single syllable of my surname is easier than having to waste energy saying the two in Morgan.

I glance over Bryson’s shoulder after nodding back. The paper he’s mentally wrestling with has July twentieth – Friday’s date – and the time of our show at the top. The rest is the final setlist he’s been compiling that has only just been finished. It takes us a long time to decide which songs we’ll be playing, and in what order. (I blame Selena.) The one thing that Bryson has left blank is the space after encore:.

We always do an encore. And it’s always a Paramore song because they’re the only non-objectionable option Selena likes. Paramore is an amazing group, and I do like their music, but if she doesn’t learn to like literally anyone else, I’ll start to lose my goddamn mind.

Bryson taps his pen against the paper for another minute, and then grabs the list and, leaving the space empty, shuts the binder. Our logo is on the front of it, slipped into the plastic cover. It’s just a black circle with our band name, Full Stop., inside of it in an all-caps, blocky, white font. We let Cole design it – we’d said we wanted something simple, and, though it looks like something that was created in Microsoft Paint (and it probably was), he’d delivered. Selena thinks it’s too plain, which is why I think it’s the most wonderful graphic in the world. I wear one of our T-shirts as much as possible and I’m met with her judgy glare each time.

I watch Bryson set the binder aside and look over the setlist another time before rising. “I guess we can start,” he announces. Cole’s instrument abruptly stops. The garage, however, is not entirely silent. Matt and Travis use the absence of guitar riffs to actually tune their instruments. At the very least, Selena shuts up.

I proceed over to my kit, and purposefully bump Selena’s shoulder with my arm as I pass. She’s about five-foot-four – about a head shorter than me – and it irritates her when I “accidentally” run into her. It makes my whole day. I sit on the stool and the others slowly start to claim their positions. Cole drags his amp over from the loveseat, and Travis pulls the elastic from his hair so it falls just to his shoulders. He claims having it loose helps him rock harder. I fail to see the correlation, but he’s a damn good guitarist, so I try not to question his methods.

As Matt takes his place, and Selena taps her microphone to make sure no one (me) has muted it behind her back again, I put my earplugs in and grab my sticks. They feel like an extension of my body when I hold them – like having just a little bit more to my arms. My nerves begin to hum with anticipation. I saw the first song and I’m pumped to play it.

Bryson gets started and reads the set from the paper like always: song title, and then the artist for Selena’s music-illiterate benefit. He only skips the artist if it’s one of our originals – at least she knows the titles of those. And she seems to tolerate singing them. Sometimes.

“Okay, open with This Could Be Anywhere in the World – Alexisonfire. Selena will take a sec to introduce everything, then Silver Bullet – Hawthorne Heights, right into Bring Me To The Light. Selena can improvise something after that. Green Day’s Holiday smoothly into Boulevard of Broken Dreams, then You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid – The Offspring, and this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids.”

“We never really found a title for that, did we?” Travis says teasingly. He throws a small smirk my way.

“No,” I agree in a similar manner, “We really didn’t.”

If he’s going to make fun of me, I’m taking it in stride. I wrote that particular number, and a fair chunk of our other originals. I think that sometimes my titles are pretty good, even when they’re just chorus lyrics. But sometimes – well, they’re that.

“Selena improvises something, and then we go to the Red Block,” Bryson continues without missing another heartbeat. I’m pretty sure I hear his voice raise a little to grab our focus again. “Red Flag – Billy Talent, Red Sam – Flyleaf, and Something Different – Red As Dusk. Selena says stuff. Changing – Saosin. Pressure – Paramore. Selena talks. Be Like The Zeros. Kiss Me, Kill Me – Mest, and Selena introduces the final song. Strong finish with Postcards – Amber Pacific. Got it?”

Four of us nod, or make our brief sounds of agreement. Selena ruins the unanimous confirmation.

“And my encore?”

“If I keep thinking about that, I’ll have a fucking aneurysm,” Bryson says with a straight face. He passes her the setlist. He knows if we start having that discussion now, this won’t be a rehearsal, it’ll be a homicide. “Just run through what we’ve got. We can look at that when I know this set is okay.”

She mutters, “Well, for once I’d like to know what we’re doing before the night of the gig.”

“Yeah, then maybe we could do something other than Misery Business, or Still Into You, or Rose-Colored Boy, or – no, wait. That’s about it, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, but she does stick her middle finger up at me. I hear Travis try to softly suppress amused laughter; a small, entertained huff escapes him. She hates me. It’s so great.

“Please just practice the damn set.” Bryson’s voice has shifted to something like exhausted pleading. He’s not in the mood to break up a fight today. I mean, he’s going to have to anyway – there’s not a single doubt in my mind there – but he doesn’t want to. He always gets this way so close to a show. The stick doesn’t come out of his ass until the stage lights go off.

To ease his stress a little, we do as he says.

This Could Be Anywhere in the World is one of Cole’s favourites to perform because nearly half of it is unclean vocals. This means that it’s one of my favourites to perform because Selena’s unstable wailing only has to pierce my auricular space half as much.

And it’s a ton of fun to play on drums.

Once she’s butchered her way through Silver Bullet and one of our originals, I’m introduced as the representative from California by one of Travis’ very few spoken contributions during Holiday. Even though its absolutely necessary, Selena hates the fact that I’m the best she’s got for clean backup vocals that won’t make our audience’s ears bleed. She especially despises this brief part Matt and I share – my voice and drumming and his iconic bass line – simply because it takes the attention off of her for nearly a full bridge. I sing the rebellious lyrics with a smirk shot her way. She flips me off.

Selena hates singing You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid, and sings this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids terribly in an attempt to annoy me. She makes it painfully obvious that she’s suffering through the Red Block, and gets a smidge better during Changing because a Paramore song follows. She always complains that I use too much cymbal during Pressure. I wonder if she’s actually listened to the song, or if she’s just deaf.

I watch her reach for the list again as it comes to a close and beat her to it.

“I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

“That’s not what it’s called!” she snaps.

“Sorry. Be Like The Zeros, parentheses: I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

She turns a bit just so I have the luxury of seeing her roll her eyes.

“What? Do I need to say it backwards too?”

I can visibly see the rage manifest inside of her head and, with another smirk that I can’t help at this point, and that I can’t say is innocent, I launch into a hidden talent that frustrates her to no end. I don’t know exactly how I came across it, I just know that I’m able to do it and she’s not. Travis can do it as well, and he watches me with amusement as I drive Selena up the wall. I picture the smoke coming out of her ears as she glares at me.

“Tihs ekil su taert tub gnihtyna eb nac ew yas uoy woh evol I,” I recite. “Bryson knows the title – he wrote it!”

“Just start the damn song, Scott,” Bryson sighs rather than taking a side, even though I’m right.

I don’t give Selena the chance to have the final word. The crash cymbal screams beneath my stick in the intro. Thankfully, Bryson purposefully wrote this song in the right key for her alto voice, so I don’t have to hear her try and fail to sing outside of her vocal range.

“My mind is clouded like a smokehouse / I think I need a light to find what I was gonna say / My body’s numb and feeling funny / Lost here in a strange place / Just another average day.”

I’m sure Bryson is relieved when we finally make it to the end of Postcards without another interruption. The first hour of practice ends with our finalized setlist played in full and no unstoppable brawls.

“Can we talk about my encore now, Bryson?” Selena demands at the final note, ever the princess.

Bryson starts to look as if he would rather eat his own hand than discuss the encore and incite her wrath, but also that he knows if we don’t talk about it beforehand, we’ll have to pick ten minutes before the show and we’ll end up doing Let The Flames Begin again.

“Okay, fine,” he relents. “Band meeting.”

I set down my sticks and pull out my earplugs as the guys put their guitars on the assorted stands. Selena leaves her mic and goes to take a seat. She hates sitting on the furniture because everything in here is a relic too shitty for a thrift store; it’s all either tearing, patched with duct tape, or just too stained or dusty to be used by anyone other than a semi-successful garage band in LA. Selena’s in one, but she doesn’t act like it.

We make it a habit to sit as far away from each other as possible. Matt and Bryson take the loveseat where Selena’s perched herself on the one not-duct-taped arm that’s probably going to need a layer of the stuff in about a month. Travis, Cole, and I take the couch.

“Thoughts?” Bryson asks. I can tell he’s bracing himself.

I am too, but I keep my mouth shut and wait for Selena to get her terrible idea out of the way first.

“We should do Ain’t It Fun,” she pitches. “It’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

“It would be if our regular crowd hadn’t already heard you sing it a hundred thousand times.”

“What’s fucking wrong with that?” Her angled eyebrows raise, and I can already see her pupils filling up with fire. If anyone else had said it, she wouldn’t be as pissed off, and that simple fact alone is why I argue in the first place.

“Should I say it forwards or backwards?” I demand. She scowls. “They’re getting bored! If we lose the audience at Underground, we won’t get gigs, and Full Stop. is just fucked! Back me up here, Bryce.”

Selena whips her head around to glare at Bryson so fast that I expect her to break her neck, and I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t. Bryson’s biting into his cheek, not wanting to say that I’m right in order to avoid her fury, but not denying it either. The others show their agreement plainly – Matt’s mouth takes on an uncertain slant, eyes bright, and Cole can’t stop himself from nodding subtly. Travis wears a smirk. He always takes my side in this war.

“Oh, fuck you guys!” she spits. Her defeat is a delicate sound. It’s like music to my ears.

“What do you want to do, Scott?” Bryson asks. His voice is calm, a mediator.

“We already have a Paramore song in the set. We can’t do another. We need to try something new this time. An original, or–” I rifle through my mental music library. I know which songs we’ve done, and all of the options we haven’t ever tried because Selena is a brat with bad taste. “Maybe actually try some My Chemical Romance for once? They’re a fucking staple to the punk-pop genre.”

“Ew, no,” Selena interrupts. “Veto.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Where do I start? They’re terrible.”

“First of all, how dare you.”

“Here we go,” Bryson sighs. He goes unheard.

“Second, do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah, like fifty! We should do something by The Chainsmokers.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“What? They’re good!”

“No, they’re overplayed! The crowd will be asleep before we even start. They’re not even punk!”

“You’re such a fucking snob!”

“Wow! Look, everyone! The pot is calling the kettle black!”

“Guys! Holy fuck – calm down!” Bryson’s voice cuts through us both. He’s rubbing his temples to curb the migraine Selena’s clearly bringing upon him. “Can we all remember that music is subjective?”

For a moment, the silence rests. Travis is clearly entertained and firmly stuck on my side. Bryson’s trying to fight off that brain aneurysm he promised himself. Cole and Matt are somewhere between rolling their eyes and coming up with an excuse to leave.

Selena is on the brink of completely detonating. Her jaw is set, posture disturbed and rigid. She doesn’t remove her beady, flaming eyes from me, and looks like she’s trying to murder me with her sheer force of will. In her imagination, she’s probably stabbing me with one of my drumsticks. Her tiny fists are clenched.

“Marianas Trench,” she says through her teeth.

“Are you joking? You’d need a church choir just to sing half their crap,” I say. “Dead Kennedys.”

“Veto. Ed Sheeran.”

“Worse than The Chainsmokers. Jimmy Eat World.”

“What? With their one fucking song? Vance Joy.”

“Who?”

That one really makes her mad, so I grin as I say it. She knows I know who Vance Joy is – if only because she’s mentioned him four million times and butchered one of his stupid indie songs over and over again with her shrieking.

“Good Charlotte,” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes. “Twenty One Pilots.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Really?” For a brief moment, I watch her little, round face light up.

“Yeah, as soon as you can rap, feel free to buy us all synths and ukuleles. I’m sure your Daddy can afford it.”

She’s so angry that I can nearly see her brain boiling. There are a few Twenty One Pilots songs I would willingly relent to adding to a Full Stop. setlist, but at the moment I know she’s too pissed off to even name one. I almost want to laugh.

“Taylor. Swift,” she hisses, enunciating every single syllable with a seething staccato. She knows I would never agree to it and that’s the only reason why she suggests it. Everything she ever does or says is designed to make me mad. In this way, we’re one and the same.

So, I mimic her tone. “Fuck. No.” And I’m just about to throw out The Gits – not that Selena could ever dream to live up to Mia Zapata’s legacy – when–

“Wait!”

The single word from Cole breaks our staring contest. I still feel my blood thundering from the rush of adrenaline that comes with pushing Selena to her breaking point, but I turn my attention on him. Cole’s straightened up from his lax slouch and, even though he’s sitting, he’s still a human tower – it’s no wonder the football coach spent nearly two years trying to recruit him. His eyes are stretched wide with an idea.

“What?” Travis asks.

He takes the question, but turns to me. His massive hand is slapped against his forehead, an indication of an epiphany. “Punk Goes Pop.”

“Excuse me?” Selena demands. Her teeth are clenched, and her brows are high.

Cole doesn’t need to explain it to me – I’ve caught onto his idea the second my mental music library dredges up the collection. He elaborates for everyone else.

“Yeah, okay, so Fearless Records has this series where they have punk bands cover pop songs, and, like, they’ve done some Taylor Swift stuff. Uh, You Belong With Me, Trouble – oh!” – he claps abruptly as the next idea enters his head and, again, his eyes turn on me, full of excitement and what appears to be an ego boost due to his own perceived genius. He’s gesticulating with the approximate energy of a German Shepherd – “Blank Space from the volume six rerelease! Dude, I Prevail goes so fucking hard on it! I had it on repeat for a month, and I can do Eric Vanlerberghe’s parts no problem!” He’s practically already playing air guitar.

“There. See? It’s a compromise,” Matt agrees.

And maybe it seems too good to be true…

Because it is.

“Yeah, too bad we can’t do it,” I object. Bryson sighs audibly and mutters under his breath. “If we let her sing the clean vocals, it won’t sound anything like a punk song! She’ll just try to sing it exactly like the original and fuck it up!”

“Fuck you!” Selena fires at me.

“Then you sing it, Morgan.”

I give myself whiplash turning to look at Travis, and the energy of the garage turns palpable – a thick, stunned tension that I could slice through with a razor blade and a ton of effort. Arms crossed over his chest, Travis shrugs, completely relaxed and completely, unbelievably serious.

In an instant, the initial surprise melts away, and I’m more confused by his proposal than I am shocked – or maybe it’s just an intense mixture of both. But the point is that I can’t sing it! I’m a drummer! That’s the only reason she’s even here in the first place!

“What?! No!”

“Yeah! ‘What?! No!’” Selena parrots me. For once, we’re actually in agreement on something.

“Why not? You’ve got a good voice, and I know you know the song.”

“Who’s going to play the drums?!” I reason. “That’s why she’s here!”

“I suggested Taylor Swift! I don’t want him singing it!” Selena protests.

“Exactly! Then she can’t hog the stage and be an attention whore and has to settle for being a regular–”

“Morgan,” Travis interjects (scolds), still calm despite presenting me with an insane idea just a moment ago. Selena flips me off with a look of pure hatred. I generally don’t like to push it that far, but I stand by what I was about to say. Her name is synonymous with it.

“I’ll find someone to drum for you,” Bryson says.

I scoff. “What? Am I that easily replaceable?! You’re all fucking ridiculous!”

“Scott,” Bryson starts in his middleman voice. I look at our manager and lift a brow. He seems to wait until everyone has copied me and all eyes are on him.

And then he supports Travis’ idea.

Using some of the most glorious words I have ever heard in my life.

“If we can just get this over with – pick the cover of Blank Space with you on clean vocals so this discussion will fucking stop – you can dump Selena.”

I have no idea what to say.

So it comes out unfiltered.

“Oh, screw you, Bryson.”

Not meant to be hurtful. Just… I can’t even explain it – just some sort of instinctual, astonished reaction.

I would be free of Selena Walton. And I would get to steal her encore.

But I would have to sing front-and-center. Even though it’s a cover, it’s still a Taylor Swift song. I wouldn’t have to sing all of it – about half the vocals in I Prevail’s version are unclean, so Cole would take them. But it’s still a tough debate.

I can’t really feel my body. I guess the shock is still settling in. Or it has settled in pretty deep and fried my nerves or something. But, while I’m internally wrestling against my own opinions, I dare to steal a look at Selena that ends up lasting longer than just a glance. Her eyes are narrowed, her jaw is tight, and her back is rod straight. She’s still inconsolably pissed at the idea that she could end up without an encore even though she’s had plenty already, but I see something else underneath that.

She wants me to take it. She doesn’t want to have to pretend to be shackled to me any longer. The feeling is mutual.

They’re all staring at me as I weigh the pros and cons a few more times.

In the end, I look Bryson dead in the eyes using what I can only describe as a defeated, cold glare.

“I want it in writing.”

Chapter: 2

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booknerdmechi · 5 years ago

Text

Book Review of the week: After by Anna Todd

10/10

I can't even begin to express what I'm feeling right now with this book.

Probably I'll just say that this is one of those books that I can't stop reading, like literally. About 1, 280 (in my reader) pages and I can't even put it down. I have read it for 15 straight hours (Now, my eyes are sore and I don't care 'cause who doesn't love Hardin Scott, right?😂).

The After series is all about Tessa, the perfect innocent girl with an on point planner of her life, who met Hardin Scott, the tattoed bad boy who has issues and dirty secrets. To find that they are constant fighting and bickering in the beginning of this book then falling in love unexpectedly is, if you will think, is some sort of common story for novels with this type of genre.

However,

Though it is somewhat a common storyline, but the chills and feelings the characters show off is so unnatural, you'll forget the word oxygen. Somehow, Anna Todd manage to put all the emotions of her characters into words that's why it is so easy to dive in to Tessa and Hardin's world, the main reason why I gave this a perfect score.

There's also no part of this book that is dull, every chapters are either intense, hot or will put tears at your pillow. I fell in love with Hardin Scott eventhough I'm not a fan of bad guys that much.

He makes me want to go and find a boyfriend with a lof of tattoos and piercings, and whose twisted in his own ways😂

To be honest, this series has been stucked in my shelf for months now yet I decided to re-read it just now. Yep, re-read is the term bros and girls! This story was actually posted in wattpad app before (I'm not sure if it's still up there until now) where I first encountered this. And no offense miss author and the other fans of this story online... but I didn't like the wattpad version that much. I sort of hate it, I did not even finished its second book. The wattpad version is too redundant for me. HOWEVER, I am very thankful that they published this book and I am able to re-read it in its edited version. Because now it is one of the best!😭❤

Thank you so much❤

Lastly, (because this is now getting too long, ugh the effect of Hardin Scott in me) I have yet to see the movie adaptation of this. What do you think guys? Any thoughts about the movie? Someone give me a heads up pleaseee! Anyways, it's 10:35 pm here and now I'm going, not to sleep of course, but to start the 2nd book to this series. See you!

-mechi

#book review #book #bookworm #booknerdmechi #booknerd #after #after series #hardin scott #badboy #After book review

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synnematic · 7 years ago

Text

DAY 3: Letters to A Loved One

for @saboace-week

TWO PARTS:

Letters to No One ( written by me ) multiple chapters

a03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955610/chapters/32125773

A Couple Years Too Late ( written by @reiji--san ) single chapter

a03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955889

Summary:

A collection of letters written over time with no set destination, but always a person in mind.

Letters to No One

Dear Sabo,

This is stupid.

Makinos got this idea in her head that I’m sad. Which I’m not. Im not sad anymore at all. I’m not. Its just hard. Youre not When you died FUCK. Whatever. fuck spelling and whatnot too. not like you can read this anymore anyway. look. this is suposed to help i guess. a coping mechi mechen method. i write this letter and she stops naging at me. whatever it takes to make them all stop loking at me like im going to snap any second or try to run off again. not like i would anyway.

i know youre not coming back.

you’re dead

you left and you died and theres nothin i can do to turn back time or bring you back or get revenge becus the people that killed you are already GONE and i didnt even know until it was already to late

but im fine

im fine

im not fine

luffy is well hes been better but hes always been a crybaby so he’ll get better. im supposed to be strong now, stronger but i dont really i don’t know how to handle the emotions and whatnot. not like you did. you always seemed to just GET it always sayin the right things, calmin me us him down. i can’t do that but im trying. im getting better i think.

we’ll get thrugh it

fuck this is stupid

what’s the point in writing a letter youl never read? or writing at all damn it

you taght me how to do this bulshit but i never thought id have to use it like this

fuck im not supposed to cry. messed up the ink now. not that it matters but still i wanted to fuck i dont know what i wanted anymore

sorry

im sorry sabo. i should have been i dunno. something. its different without you. too quiet and theres this pain in my chest all the time. like i’m the one that got shot. don’t get it but i hate it and it hurts and i just i wish you were here. i really wish you were here

i miss you

ace

sabo,

hey i uhh found the other letter. never ended up giving it to makino but i think she knew i wrote it at least. luffy did but i don’t know what he did with his. i kept mine in the tree house, under one of the loose boards. its a little water damaged but i don’t think you really care huh?

this is still weird, talking to you like this. even though its not really a talk if its only one way. just like talking to an empty room but not even talking out loud

sorry

its been two years now to the day. maybe thats why i ended up finding the old letter in the first place. havent really been to the tree house much since then anyway because

well you know

went to the cliff tho. the one we used to sit at? i went there first yknow when i got youre letter. took me a while since im still not great at reading. getting better tho. it was quiet. always kinda is but really quiet this time with just a little wind. I think it would be a good day to go sailing. was it like this when you left too? dogma said it was a nice day but i dont really remember it that way.

i dont know why i do this to myself. same as last time i always get i dunno. my chest still hurts. theres a doctor in foosha i went to once a while ago. thought maybe something was wrong with me. he said it was heart break. youd think this is something id get over but i guess not

youre still dead and im still breaking

i dont know when its gonna stop

if it does at all

ace

sabo,

Is it nice where you are?

Overheard some people talking about it today. Talking about death and what comes after. It sounds nice. Heaven. If thats where you went. I think it should be. Where you went, that is, but nice too I guess.

It sounds warm.

I wonder sometimes if my mom went there too. Still dont really know much about her but she sounded nice. Maybe youve met? Is my d Nah it doesn’t matter. I hope its nice there. I dont really beleive in that kinda stuff normaly, still kinda dont but i hope its true and youre happy there. Happier than you were here

I know its probably a stupid thing to ask but do you think ill ever be able to join you there?

The waves were choppy at the cliff today. Almost angry. Theres a storm comin but i think ill still go there later. Maybe

Ive been thinking about death a lot lately

ace

Hey

I didn’t jump, obviously, since i’m writing to you now. Again. Sorry for the silence. Sometimes I just— I dont know. Everything rushes to my head all at once. It helps, occasionally, but then there are the times where my head fills with one singular drive or emotion and thats it, that’s all I can focus on. It used to be anger. So much anger. That was easier than the sadness though. Or the guilt.

There’s things I haven’t really told you. A lot of things actually. I was trying to be strong I guess. Still am. But Makino was right about one thing. It does help, these letters. I like to think sometimes that you just know. That you can read them or that my words somehow magically transfer to you. Wherever you are. But I know that kinda stuff doesnt happen. Not really. So this is more me talking to myself then. That I can do.

So for starters I guess, I had a dream about you last night. I used to have dreams about you a lot. Nightmares too. It’s been a while though, at least a few months since the last one. Normally the dreams are the same, extended memories or something small but usually just the two of us, sometimes luffy. Last night you turned to me in my dream but your face wasn’t right. And I think that’s more terrifying than any of the nightmares i’ve had.

I’m starting to forget what you look like, what you sound like.

It’s been six years now. Longer than the time I knew you. All I have left is the flag Luffy and I found in the wreckage of your ship. I tried to look for more but most of it’s been buried now and i’m afraid. I don’t know what Id do if I found your bones there.

We never took any pictures, never saved enough for something as meaningless as a camera and i regret that now.

I think i’m going to get a tattoo soon. Before I leave the island. Even if I forget what you look like and the sound of your laugh I still want to take you with me somehow. So you can sail the seas instead of — well.

I just don’t want to forget you sabo

Ace

Me again,

I got that tattoo that I said I would in my last letter. It’s been a while now but it still itches every once in a while. Hah, you should have seen the guys face when I explained what I wanted done. People still keep mistaking it for a mispelling. As if I didn’t know how to spell my own name.

Anyway, got that done a little before I left Dawn and a lot has happened since then. I have my own crew! And a devil fruit too, though man was that a surprise. Still don’t really have the best of control over it and I set random things on fire sometimes but I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. I’m a CAPTAIN now! Got my own flag and everything. We’re the Spade pirates. Isn’t that cool? The Ace of Spades is supposed to be a card that symbolizes death but I don’t think we’re so bad. Hell, we’ve actually helped a lot of people so I hope you’re proud of me. Still wish you could have been my navigator but we probably would have ended up fighting all the time huh? Can’t have two people that want to be captain in the same crew obviously. You would have loved this life though.

I know you’re probably in a pretty nice place yourself right now but the open sea on a clear day is the most beautiful thing. And the STARS Sabo — when the sun sets down low you don’t even need the moon to see, the stars are so bright. Brighter than they ever were on the island.

You’re up there somewhere huh?

Is the view better than the one I’ve got right now?

Seven years is a long time my friend. I’ve grown a lot since I last saw you. Do you grow at all where you are? I bet I’d still be taller than you.

Wish you were here

Ace

Hey Sabo

I think I need some advice right about now.

It’s been 103 days since Whitebeard defeated me and took me onto his flagship. Yeah, uhh, probably should have updated you on that sooner, huh? My bad. My crew was defeated not that long after I was too. We’re all here now but we’re fine I promise. Actually, that’s kinda my problem.

I want No, I wanted to kill him at first. Whitebeard. All this time hearing about my dad and all he accomplished in life, all he did. So many people that respected or hated him and I just — I don’t know. I heard that Whitebeard was around and I figured if I could just be the one to take him down, the one to kill him even when Roger couldn’t then maybe — Maybe I could prove myself. Prove that I’m stronger than him, than Roger. That I’m better somehow. Or at least different.

Not that that really worked out.

Could have killed me but instead he took me here and made this stupid speech about family and trust and wanting me to be his son or something and I told him no. Obviously. I don’t need a family after all, or at least more family. I’ve got Luffy. And you. Plus I wasn’t I’m not about to just throw away my own ambitions yknow? I promised you, I PROMISED you that we’d go out to sea and live free lives, the life of pirates. I don’t want that to end, not when I wanted to take you with me on that journey, the life you never got to live.

So I kept fighting and fighting and fighting over and over again, new tactics, new plans. But Sabo I’m so tired now.

So tired.

And they’re really starting to grow on me. As much as I’ve tried to avoid the crew or even piss them off. There’s this one guy, Thatch, in particular that is just too god damn nice ALL THE TIME. And Marco too though he’s kinda stuck up. And they keep talking about family. About belonging and — I don’t know.

Is it bad that a part of me wants that? To have an actual home? To belong?

They don’t know though, not yet at least. They don’t know who I am and maybe — FUCK I don’t know. I don’t know how they’d react to knowing who I am, what I am. I’m scared to find out. But is it worth trying?

Would you hate me if I gave up a part of my freedom for something more?

I feel like I’m betraying you somehow. But at the same time I think you would want me to be happy too.

I don’t know yet for sure but maybe, maybe this is my one chance.

Ace

He KILLED him.

One of the few genuine friends I have and he’s dead. All because of GREED. Why does this keep happening. Every time I grow attached and start to feel safe something like this happens again just to prove how messed up the world really is. Over a stupid FRUIT and now thatch is dead and— fuck. A member of my own division too. My responsibility and I failed again. Just like I failed you.

I can’t protect ANYONE. Even after all the training and the fighting, the missions and responsibilities. But when it actually matters I’m not even there and my friend gets stabbed in the back and left to DIE.

The blood’s on my hands. I should have known. Should have picked up on the signs and done something — anything . But I was too late. Again. And now he’s gone and that TRAITOR is who knows where.

Well not this time.

This isn’t going to be like what happened with you, with an enemy I never knew and had no chance of finding.

This time I’m going to find him and I’m going to make him pay.

I don’t care if I’m cursed. Maybe I brought this on them in the first place, just by being here. But I’m not going to just sit by and let this happen again. I couldn’t take revenge for you but I can for Thatch.

I can at least do that.

Sabo,

I’m getting close.

I know you probably don’t care, but writing to you like this is the only thing that seems to be keeping me sane recently. It’s like I’m chasing a damn shadow. Every time I get close or feel like I’ve finally caught up the bastard does something to out maneuver me or fuck me up somehow. It’s been months now but this time I think I’ve finally cornered him. Teach is apparently on his way to Water 7 now and there’s a little island, Banaro, that he’s sure to stop at. If I can get there before he leaves then I can finally avenge Thatch. I can make up for my own failures and make sure that he never hurts anyone from my family again.

I dunno how it’s going to go yet but he hasn’t had much time to master his new fruit yet so I should have the upper hand regardless of whatever that rat has planned.

Short letter this time, I know, but I don’t really have a lotta time to waste right now. I’ll be reaching port soon and from there — well, who knows. Guess I’ll probably update you again afterwards though, or whenever I get back to the rest of my crew.

It’s nice to know that I’ll finally be able to avenge someone important to me. Risky, but I know you’d do the same.

Ace

Sabo,

I’m being executed today.

Guess that’s a solid way to start off my last this letter, huh? Yeah, nice going Ace, well done. I really know how to keep things upbeat in these damn things don’t I?

Damn it.

Teach, well he, FUCK— sorry.

I don’t want to do this.

He beat me. I don’t have any excuses, nothin I can say to make up for what happened or explain it in anyway. He just did. Just another reason to hate him I guess, but if the alternative was joining him then this is better. Much better, Still, uhh, it hasn’t exactly been fun. Impel Down was just about as bad as I expected, maybe worse even. There’s— you know what, it doesn’t matter what it was like. You don’t need to know that.

Maybe I’m just stalling now.

They don’t really give a lot of time for these things apparently, even when they’re last requests. Bullshit, but I think they just don’t want me to be late for my closeup. Gol D. Roger’s only son means I’m about to broadcasted all around the world. Thanks dad. Great perks. Though, I expected as much. Just proving what I always feared.

ANYWAY, at least I’ve had a lot of time to think lately. Don’t actually know how long I was locked up in there but the silence does things to people, to me. I didn’t dream much while I was there, kinda hard to sleep, but I thought about you a lot. Actually, been thinkin about you a lot for a while but this was different I suppose.

The guys down there like to talk a lot. It helps pass the time but most of them are kinda shit people so I didn’t reply much. Still listened though.

Y’know, in twenty years, I’ve done a lot, seen a lot, experienced a lot— more than most my age, but there’s a lot I didn’t get to do too, didn’t learn about.

I never really thought about love until recently. It’s not really a pirate thing, huh? High seas and all that nonsense but life moves fast and a lot happens all at once. Not a lotta time to sit around and, I dunno, dream?

Whatever. Well, the guys down there talked a surprising amount about it, like it’s something magical, better than any other treasure, and it got me thinkin. I’ve never really cared about that stuff, haven’t since I was a kid. But I guess that’s because I figured no one would be able to stand me for long, no one would actually accept me for who I am. But, that’s not really right, huh? Since you did that right from the start. I’ve known that for ages but guess it didn’t really sink in until now.

Call it childish innocence or whatever, but you accepted me even back then when I was broody and angry and maybe a little murderous. You knew who I was, my history, my dreams, and you didn’t laugh or run away or anything like that. You smiled that stupid smile of yours and just accepted me, all of me.

Here I am about to— about to leave , and it’s because there’s a whole fucking WORLD out there that can’t seem to do the same thing a five year old noble brat could — no offense.

And y’know, if that’s the closest I get to love then I’ll take it. Hell, maybe I even love you too. Actually, no. I don’t think maybe is even a factor anymore. Seems stupid now that I think about it, but I probably loved you even back then. From the very start. Little late to be figuring that out now, huh?

They’re rushing me. Marine bastards.

I know I’ve talked a lot about, well, death. So many years spent just thinkin that I deserve it, just because of who my father was, but now that there’s this whole messed up world agreeing with me, is it wrong that I’m— fuck — I’m scared Sabo. Absolutely terrified and there’s nothing I can do about it. All these years I’ve practically asked for it and now—

I know it’s late to start saying this, way too late now, but Sabo, I want to live.

I want to do so much with my life than this. I want to explore more, see more. I want— I want what I can’t have anymore. And it sucks. It really fucking sucks, but this is how it ends for me. Goin out the same way my shitty pops did. Apparently. What a sick joke this all is.

But I'm running out of time now. Guess I’ve spent what time I had. Garp knows what to do with this after... after everything. I know it won't matter in the end, but I think all of these should be together, y'know? Just in case. It's nice to know that he still considered me family, even now. He's the only one here that seems to actually care. You would think these assholes would cut me a little slack now that we’re here but I just… I don’t think it matters to them that I'm about to die. Not even a little bit. Shouldn’t hurt, but it does. I’m still human after all. Just like them. But maybe they don’t see it like that.

I’d pray for miracles but I don’t think there are any gods out there to help me. I still don’t think there are any gods at all. Doesn't really bode well for what comes after, huh?

Luffy’s going to be mad at me. I promised him that I wouldn’t die.

Maybe we can both watch over him though? You’ll probably be mad at me for saying this but a part of me is a little relieved. At the end. At least I’ll get to see you again, right? I don’t even know if we’ll both end up in the same place, but I can hope. I really, really hope. It’s selfish but I’m glad that I won’t be alone. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Ace

A Couple Years Too Late

Dear Ace,

It’s been a while, has it not? I’m sorry, but man do I have some things to tell you.

If only I could tell you.

I got your letters. Well, more like I found your letters. Stored away in a box at our old tree house. Can you believe it’s still intact after all these years? Pretty good for a couple of kids huh?

Dear Ace,

I’m sorry. I can’t believe I stopped so soon. Not even a couple sentences in and I had to leave the room. What an idiot. Let me start again.

Hey Ace. How are you? Are you eating well? Getting enough rest? You have to make sure to take care of yourself, I’m not there to nag at you anymore now. You’re all grown up. I sound like such a parent I’m sorry. I just care and want the best for you. I got your letters. I’m sorry the delivery took so long. Way too long. It’s a shame this is how we reunite. I hoped I could have seen you at least once before

Dear Ace,

I did it again. At this rate I’ll clean out Headquarter’s paper supply. I’m sorry. It’s just, every time I write, my vision gets blurry and I can’t see anymore. How can I properly reply to you if I don’t know what I’m writing? Would be embarrassing if I had a bunch of spelling mistakes especially since I’m the one that taught you how to write.

Speaking of which, you’ve gotten a lot better! I can see from the different letters you wrote. It makes me happy to see that, shows you practiced a lot. Did you help Luffy too? I only taught him so much before I left, I’m sorry. It must’ve been hard on you.

It must have been really hard on you…

I’m sorry. I keep speaking nonsense. I just don’t know where to begin, what to say. This is the third time I’m trying to write to you and you are right—it’s pretty stupid. Maybe a part of me is just hoping that the same thing will happen with you. That you’ll get this letter in 10 years or so and then maybe we could meet again, somewhere in this wide ocean.

Or maybe somewhere in skies up above.

I can dream, right?

Hey Ace, Is this how you felt? When you wrote every one of those letters, did it hurt this badly each time? I’m sorry, I should’ve come to get them sooner. Maybe I wouldn’t even be writing this right now if I had. Maybe you wouldn’t have had to write them if I had come sooner. I’m sorry. I really made it hard for you huh? I’m happy you wrote though. It feels as if you are here, talking to me. Telling me of your struggles, your adventures. All the good and the bad—even though I already knew some of this. I’m happy for you Ace. Truly I am. I wish I could’ve been there when you sailed out to sea, we could’ve sailed out together. Met your first crew, that I wouldn’t be a part of because I would have had a better crew.

When you found a family .

I’ll have to visit them one day, and properly thank them. It’s the least I can do.

Hey, remember the declarations we made back at the cliff? I still haven’t done mine, been busy, it’ll probably take a while. Still, you did yours did you not? You let the whole world know who you were. Fire Fist Ace, that’s a pretty cool name they gave you. You were always the better big brother so I’m not surprised you beat me to it. Mine’s a little bit harder so cut me some slack okay?

Weird how the past couple days I struggled to write and now it’s all just pouring out, I’m sorry it’s such a mess of words. I still don’t know what to really say. My vision is still blurry but I’m fighting through it. I’m sorry the paper may be a little wet.

…I’m sorry.

Twelve times. Twelve times I’ve said those two words but nothing changes, nothing will change. I’ve come to that conclusion. Took me a while.

A long while.

It’s been two years or so since you left. Every night I have the same dream. And every time you’re always out of reach. Every single night I wonder “Would things have been different if I was there?” People kept telling me there’s no right answer to that.

Would you be alive right now if I had remembered just a little sooner?

Ah that’s right. I haven’t told you. I didn’t think it would matter if you knew since it wouldn't change anything, I’m sorry. Thirteen. I lost my memories. Pretty shitty thing for me to do right? I know. While you were suffering I didn’t even know you were a part of my life. While you died, I paid no mind because I didn’t know. You must be really mad at me. For forgetting so easily.

And then life rewards me my memories when I see your death mention in the papers. That’s pretty fucked up huh? Maybe I should’ve looked at the papers sooner.

Hey Ace, do you know now? Is it pretty up there where you are? Have you met your mom? She’s up there too right? I’m sure she is. If there is a Heaven I know you’re there. Regardless of what people say, what they may have called you, Heaven is where you belong. The image of an angel truly suits you, you know. Maybe you always were an angel, and god sent you down to me. Can I let you in on a little secret? Thanks to you, I was able to become who I am today. If I hadn’t met you that day you pulled me out of the Grey Terminal I probably would’ve been back in that castle, suffering. You changed my life for the better and I’m eternally grateful. And seeing as you brought it up first; I love you too. Always did. Even during my amnesiac years, I’m sure that part of me was still there. Loving you even if it didn’t remember you. Sad that we’re sharing such things now huh? It’s almost laughable. Yet not even a smile comes to my face right now… What am I saying? I’m sorry, I ramble a lot.

Fourteen.

It’s been almost two years since then Ace and the pain just gets worse. Does it ever go away? Did it ever go away for you? It’s like a nail is constantly being hammered into my chest. Some days they slam the hammer harder than others. Some days they slam it so hard I can barely breathe… I can cover it up better than before at least, can function in my daily life. Oh yeah—I’m a Revolutionary, have I told you that yet?

Do you think if this world was different, you would still be alive? I wonder.

Are these letters really supposed to help? The only thing it’s helping with is making the pain worse. Will you even read this? Maybe if I send it flying high enough, will it reach you? Or maybe you're watching me right now as I write it? If you are then well…

I miss you.

God I miss you so much.

It’s not fair. Why did you have to be the one to leave? My first friend, best friend, my partner, my brother, my… There are so many things I want to share with you. I want to see you again. See you smiling, laughing, angry—I just want to see you. Even if it’s just one more time.

Would it have been better if I had died that day? Would I be with you right now? I’ve had that thought so many times. And maybe I tried to join you…so many times.

But I’ve thought a lot. Luffy is still out there is he not? I can’t just leave our little brother like that. I’ve already fucked up enough as it is. Even if he hates me, pushes me away and never wants to see me again—I’ll protect him. I asked you to take care of him before, now it’s my turn.

By the way, I’ll be visiting you soon—no, not like that. Sadly. I’ve avoided doing it for a while because I didn’t want to believe it but I think it’s time now.

I’m sorry…that I can’t be with you, not yet. But you aren’t alone. I may not be next to you, but I’m always thinking of you. Every waking moment and every time I close my eyes. You’re there.

Fifteen.

We’ll meet again soon. There are just some things I have to take care of here first. It may sound a little selfish but please wait for me okay? Just a little longer.

Sabo

#saboace #acesabo #saboaceweek2018 #I REAAAAALLLYYYY HOPE WE HAVEN'T HYPED THIS UP TO MUCH #BUT I'VE BEEN WAITING TO RELEASE THIS PROMPT FOR /MONTHS/#I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY

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