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minghaoss-archive · 5 years ago

Text

of hues, of blues - m

summary ↯

wherein heartbreak teaches you to love again.

pairing ↯

xu minghao x fem reader

genre ↯

oneshot, angst, smut

and just a smidge of fluff hah!

word count ↯

6.811 words

alternative universe↯

friends with benefits to lovers, hanahaki disease.

warnings ↯

blood, vomiting, explicit sexual content.

author’s note ↯

idk this is absolute filth + a little attempt at poetry. im so sorry this is abysmal.

Surprises are not Xu Minghao’s cup of tea.

He realises this at a very young age.

When he’s riding a bike for the first time, schooling himself to grow accustomed to the unsteady glide of the vehicle. Looking out of the corner of his eye like this, a myriad of colours begin to collect in his peripheral vision. He can smell the freshly cut grass, see the enlarging manicured bushes lazing out in dusted gold, bathed in morning dew, the sight of his parents sat out on a picnic mat and he thinks he’s almost made it - just a little longer. He smiles and then grins and laughs and giggles, feeling as if he had grown wings. Then the world spins in a whirlpool of chartreuse canopies and he falls.

When he grows up, however, surprises are less dramatic but not quite different in proving to be a great displeasure to him.

When he’s 22, for starters, surprises are Seokmin’s ear damaging ‘Happy Birthday!’, a room full of people he can’t seem to recognise and an obligation to stick around talking absently about nothing when all he was planning to do was curl up in bed with a freshly minted copy of an unread book.

At 22, surprises are red coloured bars which tell him he has failed his painting course when he was sure he’d aced it.

At 22, surprises are finding catharsis for his sour mood in giving into Mingyu’s constant nagging requesting his rare presence at a stupid college party.

You arise from a blur of crimson lights and sweaty strangers. Like a newborn phoenix. A mere haze of dark clothes; a stark contrast to the vibrant tints pulsing around you, press a cool beer can to his chest and press a sloppy kiss to your mouth, as a consequence of a childish game of spin the bottle.

It’s right then that he knows that this is comprised of nothing but carnal desire. This isn’t what Minghao wants, he knows this, he wants something everything to mean something more but he just can’t help himself. The aching loneliness in him demands to be fulfilled, by something, just anything.

He shouldn’t follow you upstairs. In fact, he shouldn’t follow you anywhere. He shouldn’t press your back up against an unfamiliar bedroom door and push the hem of your outfit upwards.

Or hiss when you touch him.

Or rut his hips into yours. Or listen to the quivering moans billowing past your chapped lips, Or slide his fingers around your throat,

( a loll of your head, a sigh, his name tumbling from your lips.)

But he does anyway. He wants to.

The next morning, Minghao wakes up to a head splitting hangover. And a very, very empty bed. He kicks off the piss yellow sheets and glares at the cracked paint on Hansol’s ceiling.

When was the last time someone was in this room? Had he made you up? Definitely not.

The imprint of your body, a ghost, begs to differ. He reaches out and smoothes it over. Whatever. Minghao isn’t in the best mood.

Surprises are not his cup of tea.

....

The next meeting is at the college fair.

“You want a flower?” You lean your head to the side, hunched over the stall and he tells you a meek yes, “Those..ones.” gesturing to the pretty blues around which your hair curls.

Minghao may not know a lot but he knows it would be something ridiculous to miss, the gentle graze of your fingers against his ear when you place the pretty ring of blue atop his head.

“They’re called..?” He trails, running his finger along its slender stem. Maybe it’s the rings around your eyes or the way you bite the inside of your mouth, the subtle quality that of being peculiar makes him want to look at you longer than he should. It piques his interest.

“They’re hydrangeas.“ You supply. Minghao nods. Observing the way your nose crinkles and how you purse your lips when you think.

“I’ve never properly introduced myself.” smiling your endearing smile, you snap him right out of his thoughts. The kind of jolt one feels when they dream of falling. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes.

“We should..” You pause, swallowing down a chunk of words. Gaze downcast. It takes him awhile to understand that you are anxious, bashful even. Interlaced hands. Clammy. But sharp eyes. “We should do it again sometime.”

Your dealings with Minghao are so frequent that thinks he can’t quite imagine what his life would be like without it happening again.

By now he can tell your silhouette apart from everyone else’s. If he spreads his palms on your lower back and sucks on your neck, you hum and groan. If he wants, he can tell you exactly where every mark, indentation, valley and curve on your body is.

He’s been staring at an empty canvas for a while now, ideas jumbled, colours appearing together behind his lids and turning to a confusing mix of everything and nothing at all.

He’s listened to Chopin to a point where he’s convinced he can compose the andagios and allegros all by himself.

He's looked for inspiration in between violets and the cerulean sky and poetry, of course.

But it’s no use.

At the end of the day, Minghao only drowns in a sea of unfinished assignments; wallowing purposelessly in the tangerine glow of his makeshift studio, heavily caffeinated.

You coax him out the day Mingyu calls you. Dramatising his best friend’s state with a kiddish pout and flailing arms.

Minghao follows you around like a lost puppy. Resting his chin on your shoulder when you cook him a proper meal, fingers dancing along your apron. Distracted. It’s moments like these that truly confuse you; the care with which he kisses your cheek and the roughness with which he undresses you after.

What do the spaces between these differences, the oceans and hills, the softness of his sighs and the harshness of his grunts, even mean? Whatever. You haven’t fucked in a week or two.

The easel stems from the floor and curls around his primed canvas like a rose plant, thorns, pointed leaves, soft, blushing petals and he feels like he’s looking at his own reflection, devoid of ideas, faceless, empty, spotless.

Then suddenly, sighing, with a loll of his head, Minghao glances back at the bed, your bare body; streaks of rosy dusk splattered on your thighs, oranges and yellows smudged along your cheeks, the subtle rise and fall of your chest with every breath you take. A sliver of the rising sun. Summer air.

He touches his paintbrush after weeks and refuses to let go until all he can see is a waltz of reds and blues, a spin of everything he feels when he touches you. Your face. The gaps between your ribs.

He thinks, if anyone asks, he could talk about it for a good few days.

Minghao passes the semester with flying colours.

This is what happens, Jeonghan’s car grumbles, the air conditioning isn’t working and Minghao is too tall to sit with two other people at the back but he doesn’t mind because your knees are touching.

The wind blows your hair back in messy tufts. You’ve cut it shorter, upto your neck. He decides he likes it better that way.

There’s an Air Supply song playing in the background. Hansol smiles knowingly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, his palms pressed firmly against the steering wheel. “That’s our song.” He says.

Then the car is still for a second. But suddenly you kick off your sneakers, bare feet on leather seats.

You giggle and giggle and giggle.

Tips of your fingers smudged of acrylic clouds. Patches of trees melting away into the amethyst sky. The sun sinking back into a blonde horizon. You’re singing loud. Laughing. You haven’t laughed this hard in a long time. The kind of laugh gives you a stomach ache. The kind of laugh that you think about for days.

Minghao thinks you’re beautiful like this.

He shouldn’t.

It’s not right.

He takes a photo.

...

We are only as remembered as long as we want to be found. Breadcrumbs. We are only remembered if we leave something behind.

The art of disappearing is something Xu Minghao is a master of, perhaps. Sometimes he turns off his phone and lies on park benches and tries to think of ways he could fit the world in his palms, mold it out of acrylic and entrap it in a picture. He is a sorcerer of sorts and magic only brews in solitude. In secret. When no one can hear him say his incantations. It’s a secret between him and the universe.

He leaves not a trace during these periods of artistry. No texts. No confusing social media applications. No boorish human beings. No hindrances.

Minghao doesn’t leave the studio for days. Not until all he sees is black and white. A monochromatic world. When bursts and explosions of platinum lightning have oozed out of the grey sky.

He rushes over to your apartment. Chasing thunderbolts. Desperate. A rainy day. A yellow bus. A knock. Two knocks. Three knocks. He arrives always. In search of colours.

You press your mouth to his before he can step foot into your room, words said between frantic kisses.

“God, where were you?” You say and he thinks you almost sound angry. His duffle bag drops with a soft thud.

He pulls your stringy dress off with a harsh tug. Hands skimming over the curve of your waist, your breasts, your skin. Goosebumps all over.

He tugs you closer by the heels of your feet. Hunching forward. Kissing you. Greedy fingers leaving you bare, shivering and craving in their wake.

A trail of sloppy kisses from the curve of your ribs to the slope of your stomach. Minghao’s fingers rest on your inner thighs, sucking in a multitude of colours. Fingers curled inside of you. Lewd squelch. Lewder whispers. Loud whines filling the room with each passing second.

He has you whining, sweaty underneath the rough pads of his fingers. Teeth scraping along the bend of your throat. Angry crescents. Minghao’s kisses on your tummy. Your fingers in his hair.

“Look at me.” He commands, holding his fingers up. Your eyes widened, glazed over. Lustful. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes.

If it’s you, if it’s like this, if this all you’ll ever be, wants to leave his trace, wants it to mean something, he wants to be remembered.

“Hey, stop that.” You say, covering your face with your hands. As if he hadn’t memorised it already.

Minghao’s pencil comes to a screeching halt. He’s on his stomach. Bare. Basking in the rubscent sunshine. Your sheets kiss his body, accentuating the slender shape of his waist.

Then the boy glances back and smiles. For a moment, you forget this isn’t love. This isn’t love. This isn’t supposed to be love.

Truth be told, Minghao isn’t good at sketching, he never was. He has never been quite fond of it. Minghao always imagines the world in vibrant colours. Never, in his mind, is beauty in black and white.

But in spite of his bitter exchanges with shaky borders and strange strokes before; now, he seems to excel at putting you on paper, be it in the form of ash pencil lines or splatter of colours, colours and colours, he can never seem to wrong your beauty. “Okay.”

He says and lays on his back. Wondering. Marvelling.

Your chin placed on your folded hands.

He pushes a rogue strand behind, one which always seems to keep falling over your eyes. Somehow every time you’re together, you end up like this. Craving. Touching. Never more. Never less. Can it be less? Can it be more?

No.

He shouldn’t say say or think or want something of that sort. Thinking is wanting. Wanting is saying. Saying is craving.

It isn’t right.

“Stop thinking so much.” You whisper, looking up at him with a look in your eyes that he doesn’t want to understand. Something which says more than what’s told.

Stop. He doesn’t quite stop. Minghao thinks and wants and craves. He mustn’t. Your face fits in his palms, you lean into the touch like a love starved kitten and he craves again. Wants again.

If you were a colour and not a million Minghao thinks you’d be blue.

Change. Change is strange. Sometimes you wonder how the world is frosted over, crystallised, whitened with snow and in a blink again, flowers bloom, spring comes and so comes hummingbirds. Change is strange. Sometimes you wonder how all you two share turns from mere lust to profound conversations of everything and nothing at all.

Minghao possesses a kind of intelligence that is unparalleled, he’s quick to understand thoughts and quicker to word it. You’ve been doing that quite often; talking and talking without meaning to stop. Change is strange.

“Do you believe in love?” Your voice is a low, broken thing, words barely there, airy.

"Yes.“ Minghao gazes at the sky, littered with more stars than there are in the city; the soft glow of silver lights his face up in an unusual way. A way about which you could write a thousand villanelles about.

Stars. Dim and twinkling. You wonder how many of them must have aligned for you to have found each other. Incomplete. Your half said words hang in the air. This comfort is peculiar.

Silence has never been an unpleasant thing before. You’re laid down with your arms and legs spread apart, gaze upcast.

Between the two of you, the wet patch of sand feels like a dried ocean, deserted. Lonely. The foamy sea lilts and sings and calls you to her; but you only lay silent, unmoved.

Minghao reaches out and interlaces your fingers. Hope is a funny thing. Desire is a funny thing. He doesn’t understand what it means to say a lot but speak no words at all. His hand tingles from where you rub your thumb. It’s the first time you’re together. But unbare.

This comfort is peculiar.

He’ll always remember; your shoulders erecting to mountains. Your eyes red and swollen, portions and bits of a conversation about a lost lover. The first time he saw you. Hansol’s piss yellow blankets. Seven minutes in a closet. Heated kisses. Your heart in shambles.

Minghao wonders what it means to love like that. Love that stays even when people don’t.

The sky is suddenly darker than before; mighty ravenous clouds seem to have gobbled down constellations after constellations. It’s going to rain again.

“Do you?“ He asks and you almost look, Minghao thinks, like you’re about to cry.

He wonders why it bothers him, why it makes him want to reach out and pull you to him. But he doesn’t, of course.

He shouldn’t.

It’s not right.

Something in your eyes is forlorn. Tight lipped. Sometimes he wishes he had a stethoscope to hear your thoughts, the ones you don’t unveil, despite your much fabled bravado.

You sit back, glance at him and smile briefly. Strange. Undercurrents. Tempted to trace your lips like it were brail. He wants to know what it means, the downward tilt of your mouth.

You’re insolent, an offensive girl, insulting every pretty scenery around you with your very strange beauty. Messy hair, moonlight kissing up your naked face, circles around your widening eyes and closing, parting mouth , like you’re trying to remember something or rather forget. He wishes his camera were with him.

"I can’t.” You say and the pain in your voice startles him.

"You can.“ Minghao corrects, sliding closer you. Toes touching. Bumping into each other. How one could think they can’t be reduced to the foolishness of a lover is beyond his understanding. Everyone can be a fool. In their own ways, of course. Everyone can fall in love. They just choose to. They just choose not to.

“Of course you can.” He says, sounding slightly injured by your ludicrous comment. Always flared up and cross. You rest your head on his shoulder. Stifling a laugh. It’s moments like these that truly confuse you, the gap between your bodies and the yearning to close it.

Believe in love;

You can.

You do.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Sometimes love lasts forever. Sometimes love gives you reason and makes you believe. Sometimes love is soft whispers, never wilting roses. Sometimes love is forever and always. Sometimes love is the tranquil sea. Sometimes love is comfort and trust. Like the first touch of spring.

Such was not true for Yuta and you.

Yuta fell in love with you one winter morning and fell out every other.

Sometimes you wonder if he had been a phantom. If you were touching air. If you had imagined him all along.

You remember tracing your finger along his back, bumps and drops of his spine, trying to find the man you loved once. You remember kissing him, touching him, undressing him, aching for him to look at you the way he did. To tell you he loved you back. To mean it when he did. You should’ve seen it coming.

When it happens it happens so unsurprisingly. When it happens it happens so surprisingly.

You get off class early. A trail of clothes at your feet. It’s a funny thing, watching someone take away everything you love. It’s a funny thing watching someone give away everything you love.

“Get out.” You say to him with a straight face.

You want to stop him.

“Fine.” Yuta shrugs, sighing, running a hand through his hair. You wonder how many times he’s held her with those hands. Has he ever thought of you when he fucked her? Did he feel sorry for you every time you kissed him? Did he have a good laugh when you weren’t around?

He looks back one last time; as if to say you can pull me back and tell me you love me. You can drag me back and tell me it’s okay. You can forgive me and we will go back to bed. Like nothing ever happened.

Your mouth parts. Words pleading to escape. I love you. Was I not enough?

"I never want to see you again.“ You grit out instead. The door shuts with a soft thud.

You don’t stop him.

...

Minghao hisses when you drag your tongue down his abdomen. Your hair entangled between the gaps of his fingers.

You meet his eyes, watery and widened. Taking him in. “Fuck.” A sight you’ll never share. Afraid someone will steal it from you. A sight which only belongs to you. His brows knitted together, mouth parted in a silent moan.

He cums with a groan and you wipe the corner of your mouth clean, lean on your palms and say, “Happy birthday.”

...

You don’t understand Minghao.

Sometimes he calls you his darling and takes you to his bedroom. Undresses you with care and care and care.

And other times he walks past you like you don’t exist.

...

Nasty wet trails travel down your spine like liquid serpents. They bite your clothes, twist their heads around your lower back and cling onto your skin like they would swallow it whole. It’s summer and your mouth is very dry.

“Hold still.” He scolds. Tapping your bare thighs so you stop moving it so much.

Minghao’s head is in your lap, face shielded from the lurid orange sun. Shaded by a reddened poetry book which says Robert Frost. Your face invisible. Only a hint of your eyebrows. He pulls it back.

“Hey!” You exclaim, trying to seize it but he tucks it away, under his bum. A complacent grin breaking out on his face. All teeth and no shame.

“I hate you so much.“ You say, sighing and brush away a few strands from his face. He’s pretty like this. Skin aglow, brown eyes suddenly an astonishing liquid gold. Honey.

You’ve been falling.

Minghao sits up suddenly, solemn look on his face. Amused no longer. He presses his mouth to yours. Beating heart and clashing teeth. Fingers holding your jaw in place. “That’s not true.” He says, swiping his thumb over your swollen lips.

You don’t understand Minghao.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

He’s drunk.

Minghao rests his head against your chest and draws circles into your stomach. Falling. You might be falling.

It scares you.

"I’ve got to go.“ You say suddenly. Body cold as the warmth of his own slips away. He’s sitting up on his bed.

He is the prettiest tonight.

Face still rubicund. Pitch black strands gone rogue,falling over his eyes. He swallows thickly. Adam’s apple bobbing.

He’s had too much to drink.

“Stay.” He says, pulling you back, looking up at you with big doe eyes. He tugs you closer. Ear pressed to your tummy. Arms looped around you.

If he doesn’t hold on tight, the whole world starts to spin. He wants to hold on tight. He always has.

“I want you to.” He whispers with such sincerity, you think you might turn to liquid.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Minghao doesn’t remember.

He stares at you. Your body pressed to his. The bend of your spine and your eyes clamped shut. Your hair always unkempt. His fingers yearn for a paintbrush.

His memory is a haze. A swirl of blurriness. A gaping cavern. How did he even get here? In your arms, your lips parted, face buried in his chest. The soft beating of your heart.

You’re awake. He knows.

He can tell. You only tap your feet when you’re awake.

His body slides away from yours.

“We’re late.” He says, his voice all garbled, like the sound was hindered by a rock lodged deep inside his throat. “What happened last night?“

Words seem to be a foreign thing to you for a minute. You look to him and pretend. How do you tell him?

You think of his ear pressed to your stomach and his beautiful eyes, a magnificent ebony looking up at you. You think of thinking. How you’ve been doing too much of it. Minghao elbows you, demanding an answer.

“Nothing.” You say and are surprised by how true it sounds.

You don’t want to be awake

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Melancholy has a peculiar way of coming. Sauntering away in her bluest gown. She meets you often. When you’re drowning in midnight ruminations. When you listen to the most sublime tunes humans have ever crafted. Today she comes suddenly, when you’re watching a movie you’re not watching. Feet propped up on Junhui’s lap. She comes in her bluest gown.

See you’ve been talking for an hour and your jaw hurts.

Junhui and you sit in a discomfiting quietude. He’s been your best friend through thick and thin. Through untamed pigtails and pubertal bacne. Through bad relationships and good. He’s known you long enough to know when you’re lying and when you’re not.

“You know.” He gulps. Looking at his hands. “The way the way you talk about Minghao…like you’re ready to take a bullet for him…it’s..”

“Is that a bad thing?” Your head snaps in his direction, you look annoyed. He winces. “No.” Nervously, he keeps tapping his foot. “Not if you love him.”

“Do you?” He nudges you. Then you tilt your head back and think of nothing and everything.

Your head weighty, inundated with thoughts of him. You keep thinking of Minghao’s smile. You think of his giggles.Stay . His smile. I want you to .

It isn’t until Junhui touches your face, a flick of his index, a tender thing; do you realise you’ve been crying. “I’m scared.” you say, leaning into his touch.

The older male smiles knowingly, passing the bucket of popcorn to you. Junhui is patient. Wordlessly taking your hand in his. He looks so unsurprised it scares you.

"I know.” He says, with no rancour or judgment. As if he has been looking at the insides of your head for long now.

When you were little you doubted the sweet voiced boy had the superhuman power of reading your mind. Knowing when your mum scolded you. Knowing when you wanted to cry and when you wanted to laugh. When you wanted an extra gummy bear. What if he knows now? What if he hears you think he doesn’t love me back? What if he hears you think I am in love with him, I have never been in love like this, what if?

"Let go.“ Junhui suggests, meeting your eyes with a kind of warning which perplexes you. A grand affirmation of all your fears. “It’s not good for you.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s dark outside and you’re lying on his arm, listening to his pulse. Bodies flush against each other.

When you look up; Minghao is staring intently at the ceiling fan, mouth parted, eyes widened, he’s looking at one thing and seeing a million. You wonder what he thinks so arduously about. Then you lean over and press your lips to his. He hums and smiles and laughs against your mouth, “I love you.“

It’s a tragic thing, the quickness of these words falling off of your lips. Minghao stops smiling. You think he stops thinking too. He sees one thing now. “It’s late. We should sleep.” He says suddenly, clearing his throat. As if words had clogged up inside.

Inside your chest, something turns to smithereens.

�� ⊱ ────────── ⊰

It isn’t his fault. It’s not your fault.

“Don’t go.” You whisper to Minghao, a reiteration, a lost memory you’re trying to relive. He sighs and glances briefly at you from the corner of his eye.

"We aren’t supposed to do this.“ It’s more of a thought than it is a suggestion, an idea he renders just to catch your reaction.

For a second, it’s so quiet that he can hear the soft plops of raindrops against your windows. Home. Suddenly he misses Anshan. Feeling rather uprooted when you unlace your fingers from his.

Minghao thinks summers are beautiful, he thinks sunflowers are yellow and that you shouldn’t date.

The words feel deafening to hear. But you’ve always been good at hiding your feelings. Phenomenal, actually. So you ignore your aching heart with no difficulty. “You’re right.” You say, “We shouldn’t.”

Sometimes we find things we aren’t searching for, sometimes we’re told things we don’t want to hear. Minghao thinks it’s the price we pay for not speaking our minds.

“Oh.” He says, sounding a little disappointed.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s funny how it’s so aggravatingly sunny outside.

In your head, it only rains when you are in pain. A reflection of your sorrows. The whistling wind. The hissing thunder. The ugly lightning. Inner storms.

But today, it rains not a drop. Despite you feeling like you’re being torn apart.

Has anything in your head ever been real? Have you conjured up the very idea of Minghao? Is he only an outline of a person you’ve filled in with imagination? A skeleton fleshed out of your pet desires?

Maybe.

Today his thrusts are sloppy, he groans into your skin and you hold onto him like you’re about to let go any second, like you’re losing him.

“I gotta go.”

He studies your face intently, finding that you have something to say in response. Maybe it’ll be a scold. Maybe it won’t be a scold. Whatever. He doesn’t expect you to look at him the way you do. With a kind of spark in your eyes which begins to die out.

“We should end this.” You sigh and Minghao waits for you to say more. For the mischievous glint. For you to say you’re just kidding. Like you always do. For you to say something, anything at all.

“Is it..is it about last night?” He queries, pausing.

“Because..I..” you look at him with a sudden sharpness, something that says stop me, please stop me. But he says nothing. He forgets that words are a thing at all. You look away.

What is unsaid tastes like blood on his tongue. Like blades. Hurtful. He’s trying to touch your shoulder, to see if you’re real.

You sink into the mattress.Looking rather defeated.

“No.” You lie. You sound like a different person. Someone who is brave. Someone who isn’t you.

He kneels between your legs, tugging onto your shorts, sighing. Hopeful eyes searching your face over and over again. “Don’t come back.” You say softly. Not meeting his eyes still. Afraid you’ll give into the temptation of retracting the previous demand. You can’t look at him.

“You always want me to come back.” He whispers, voice heavy. As if he were clinging onto it for dear life. A dying tree to its roots. A sinking ship to its broken anchor.

This isn’t love, this isn’t supposed to be love. You remind yourself again.

Only this time it sounds like an excuse, a poor attempt at concealing the awful pain inside your chest.

“Not this time. This time you can go.”

Your sheets still smell like him. Your shirts still smell like him. Minghao has managed to entangle himself in every aspect of your life.

You wonder how long it’ll take for you to get rid of him. How many washes, detergents and days, months, years.

“Okay.” He says, nodding.

Let go. Junhui’s hand in yours. I love you. Minghao’s involuntary giggle when you say something witty. His bare body on your mattress. It’s not good for you.

Minghao turns into a dot of charcoal against the firmament. The groaning motorbike of his now soundless.

You don’t stop him.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Something like this was bound to happen. It was waiting to happen from the start. It was waiting to happen from the end.

You arrive late at Wonwoo’s party and Minghao’s shoving his tongue down some other girl’s throat. The bottle’s been spun in unfortunate circles, a turn of fate.

Your friends say nothing. Speaking of this and that, anything but how Minghao’s probably fucking someone else’s brains out upstairs. You feel stupid.

“You okay?” Mingyu asks suddenly, you're surprised.

He’s Minghao’s best friend after all. Does he pity you this much? To traipse through restricted territories, comforting you in the most comforting way there is? You decide friendship and pity are parted only by the thinnest line.

Mingyu is your friend too.

“Yeah.” You reply, smiling briefly.

A soothing hand on the small of your back. A reminder of how you’re real and this is real, definitely not a nightmare.

Across the room, with the booming music ricocheting off pasty walls, a background of sweaty strangers and twists of neon, Junhui is looking at you.

No, that’s not right.

He’s looking through you.

You want to throw up.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

You think about sunlight caught in his eyes. Sunflowers in his hair. The way he shivers you when kiss his throat. You think of him once and twice and three times. You can’t stop. You mustn’t.

“What are you doing?” Junhui’s voice echoes through the bathroom. “Are you okay?“ He watches his dearest friend lean over the toilet seat.

You don’t know what to say. You’re looking at a ring of hydrangeas, afloat in a pool of your own blood and bile. And suddenly you know this means something, this always has.

...

Minghao catches your glaring eye and he’s surrounded by a thicket of roses,they are a kind of pink that is more orange than pink. He is painting. Birds warble and the wind hits his fringe to provide an unobstructed view of his face.

The next morning you spend an hour cleaning blood out of your sink. The same soft petals circling him, accompanied by vicious thorns. And you think it’s worth it, to die like this, to die for love.

...

He thinks of your smile often. Tries to commit the curve to his memory like he’ll forget it otherwise. Perhaps that is what he fears. Forgetting you. Your face. Your smile. Your voice. He fears to never be able to paint you again. Perhaps if he had forgotten, you’d cease to exist.

“I can’t do this.” He says to the nameless girl, her lipstick smudged.

It’s not right. It doesn’t feel right.

He yearns to run his fingers through your unkempt hair; he can’t stop thinking about you, your roaring laugh and your poetry, your heart, your fingers. Your imperfections. The bend of your spine and the slope of your neck.

Minghao searches for you in other people and finds only a gaping hole.

...

Minghao keeps having a recurring dream, one dream amongst thousands. He’s had it since he was a child.

He’s swimming at first, halving sapphire water with every stroke; whilst the sun shines above him. A spotlight.

He’s alone one moment and then he isn’t. Then he is in a meadow, a green meadow, a brilliant green that is too green to be just grass and not shards of emerald.

He’s lying down, head rested on his folded arms, the sky is cobalt, not a cloud in sight.

Peculiarly enough, in his dream, he knows he is in love and it is with someone who lies with him.

The first time he has this dream, he is 13. It teaches him to touch a paintbrush. To flirt with paint and fall in love with colours. Passion no longer latent. At 13, his lover is faceless.

Now, he lies in the same meadow, he looks to his beloved, anticipating the same blank outline he always has seen

and finds your smiling face instead.

...

Junhui swears at Henry James often. Unable to decipher whatever the hell the author drones on about. One time he flung his copy of The Wings Of The Dove and watched it tear into two miserable halves of stupidly sophisticated words.

But you understand him. You pick up the torn pages and glue them together. You understand Henry James.

The Turn Of The Screw. Horror in places that aren’t horrific.

A kiss of autumn. The commencement of reds, darker browns and crunchy leaves. Not horrific. Minghao is looking at you, vines of steam from his coffee, brick red beret. He’s looking right at you. Not everything around you. Not autumnal beauty to catch inspiration from and spill it on his canvas.

...

Minghao used to love someone once.

A rattling thing inside his chest. He was young, too trusting and a blatant stranger to the jolting ache of unrequited love which comes when she quickly turns him down.

He promises to never love like this again.

Fast and unsteady. Without reason. Without logic. Unconditionally.

He thinks of your fingers, smaller against his. He thinks of dusk laying atop your body. He thinks of the rings around your eyes. The curls of your eyelashes. He thinks of blue.

(Minghao has never been good at making promises.)

⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s past midnight and you’re waiting for melancholy to visit like she always does. But she never comes. Never in her bluest dress. Never anymore.

You haven’t been coughing up flowers for a few weeks now.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Nervous is a laughable understatement.

There’s an elephant in the room and its squeezing Minghao’s throat with its trunk, crushing the poor thing to dust.

The café is anything but silent. Soft music. Buzzing with teenagers. Loquacious couples. In between all the unspeakably loud bustling, Minghao is surprised to find that he can only hear Junhui’s tapping foot. The tings of Joshua’s phone. Hansol’s low humming. Minghao clears his throat. “I think .. I’m in love with her.” He says, sitting straight suddenly. He blurts it out like it’s a grand revelation.

Junhui silently sips his drink. He’s only decided to see the younger male because he was offered brownies.. Minghao investigates silently, eyes darting all over his friends’ face. Hansol nods. Joshua says nothing but offers a huge grin. Unsurprised. He was expecting a parted mouth at least, if not dropping jaws.

It’s only Junhui who breaks the obnoxious silence. “You’re the last to find out.” He says finally, narrowing his eyes. Minghao frowns.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

He’s wearing the same shirt that he wore the first time you saw him. Baby blue. Sheer. Smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Then your stomach twists. Finally, in your head echoes a delirious laugh. How foolish it was to get one’s hopes up.

You wonder what it will be this time, perhaps lavender, perhaps a water lily, perhaps wisteria.

But nothing comes.

You only find your own reflection, staring back at you, gaping eyes emerging from dirty ash toilet water. Then you try the sink.

Nothing comes.

"When were you going to tell me you were dying?“ You jump,turning and finding him leaning on the door frame.

Arms crossed. Minghao has the audacity to look offended.

“When were you going to tell me you’re in love with me?” You say instantaneously, frowning. If nothing comes now. If nothing comes for weeks. No thorns. No flowers. It means what you think it means. You’re glancing at him from the bathroom mirror. He shuts the door. Just the two of you.

Craving and Wanting. Thinking.

It isn’t wrong.

Wanting you isn’t wrong.

A ring on his little finger. He rubs his nape. Sheepish smile on his face. “I was hoping now.. isn’t a terrible time.”

You’re sitting on the ceramic ringlet of the sink, feet dangling. Like a child, you jut your lip out “It is.“

See you don’t mind the way he comes to you. Standing in between your legs. Foreheads pressed together. Fingers entwined. The oceans and hills. The gaps between your bodies. The tear in your heart. Forever closed.

“You're trying to seduce me.” You frown, and he’s laughing and giggling, fingers tilting your chin upwards.

“Am I not succeeding?"

You shake your head a no. Toying with the hairs dropping over his eyes. "Failing miserably.” He recognises your jests in an instant. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes.

Then he kisses you, soft and lingering. Muffled words pressed against your lips.

“I love you.” He says, breathless. Eyes widened. Lips swollen. He thinks you’re driving him a little insane now. Searching your face for an answer. “If I didn’t love you back…” You say, nails painted a kind of wine red that never should be unsweetened, “I wouldn’t be dying.” Thank you for saving me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for saving my life.

You tug Minghao closer by the ends of his outgrown hair and kiss him a little dizzy. He thinks you’ve been driving him insane ever since you’ve met him.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

A cream envelope in hand, velvet under his fingers, a present amongst many presents. You’re wearing his shirt. The fabric reaching right below the curve of your bum. Speed Hunter scribbled on in chalky white. “I’ve tolerated you for an entire year.” You say and press your mouth to his. A tingly sensation in his tummy. It almost feels as if he’s swallowed a jar of butterflies.

Surprises are not Xu Minghao’s cup of tea. Seokmin’s screams still scare him, he falls off bikes and still fails courses sometimes.

But still, he, too, unwittingly, finds himself falling in love with a villanelle called Stars.

Your name inscribed underneath.

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years ago

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all was golden when the day met the night

chapter 5/5

read on ao3

start from the beginning

As the weekend wears on, Eddie feels more and more like himself. He chalks it up mostly to staying inside with Chris, Disney+, and takeout for two days straight, basking in the unbridled happiness that always seems to surround his son. He knows, though, that a big part of his feeling better is also because of Buck — he’s never had a catharsis like that with anyone, and he thanked Buck by essentially slamming the door in his face as soon as he tried to dig a little deeper. He wanted to help, Eddie wanted him to help, but it was too much and he was too raw, so he just shut down. Defaulted to being closed off as he usually was because it was safe and easy. But Buck is his best friend, one of the people he loves most, and he deserves someone who could be open and honest with him.

Eddie really wants to be that person.

He really needs to apologize.

He tries multiple times, writing and deleting texts, planning scripts in his head but never hitting the call button. The words keep getting jumbled and they don’t feel like enough, don’t feel like they’re fully expressing how much Eddie wants to tell Buck everything, wants to fully let him in, if Buck is still interested. If he’s not, Eddie’s really not sure what he’s going to do.

He braces himself on Monday, but Buck doesn’t come in. He sees him through the window as he parks and all but falls out of his car, hurrying toward Armageddon. He stops at the front door of the shop, knocks, smiles, and waves, before hurrying off again.

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s just running late.

He doesn’t see him at all Tuesday, but gets a selfie of a sad looking Buck wrapped in a blanket with a mug of tea and a message reading sinus infections suck ))):. He smiles as he tells him to feel better, and things almost feel normal. Maybe this is just how Buck wants to play it — pretend that Eddie didn’t have a complete breakdown and go back to how things used to be, to how they used to be, whatever that was. If that’s what’s going to make Buck happiest and keep him in Eddie’s life, that’s what Eddie will do. He’ll smash all his feelings back into a box and set it on fire if he has to. Whatever it takes to make sure Buck never leaves.

The door above the shop rings on Wednesday morning, but Eddie’s too absorbed in trying to balance the numbers of a recent wedding to notice. A shadow falls over his laptop, and when he looks up, he’s face to face with Buck, backlit in the golden glow of the early morning sunlight, looking like an angel even in his usual all black. Eddie feels his mouth go dry and his heartbeat pick up.

“You know,” Buck says, his smile easy as always, even if his shoulders look a little tense, “you’re pretty cute when you’re trying to do math.”

It’s a knee jerk reaction to roll his eyes and shake his head, and he smiles too as he sees Buck relax. “At least I know how to do math,” he fires back, laughing at Buck’s mock outrage. Just like that, they’re back in their old routine.

“That’s what I have Maddie for. She’s the brains of the whole operation, and I’m the beauty.”

“What’s Chimney then?”

“He’s dead meat after he let my flowers die while I was gone for a day.”

Eddie snorts as he gets the craft paper. “Well, math might be hard, but replacing flowers is easy. Any requests?”

Buck just shrugs, smiling softly at Eddie now. “Whatever you’re feeling.”

Eddie’s been trying to figure that out for the past four days, but it’s so much easier when Buck asks him to do it with flowers. He wraps the bouquet and turns back to Buck, holding the flowers between them like a shield.

Buck cocks his head, confused. Eddie clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about last week. You were just trying to help, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’ve got...a lot of stuff to sort through, and I didn’t want to put that burden on you.”

Buck’s smile gets softer still as he reaches out to hold Eddie’s wrist. “It’s okay, I get it. But I meant what I said — I’m here for you no matter what. However and whenever you need me.” He takes the bouquet from Eddie, holding it in the crook of his arm. “Are these apology flowers to match your apology speech?”

Eddie laughs, trying to ignore the embarrassed blush he feels growing on his cheeks. “I guess so. Yellow roses literally mean apology, purple hyacinth means asking for forgiveness, and red carnations—” mean something that you absolutely can’t tell him, he finishes in his head. He freezes for a second, scrambling for any other reason for including them, before lamely landing on— “They just looked nice.”

Luckily, Buck takes it, no questions asked.

As he leaves, Eddie feels a weight go with him, feels more like himself than he has in days. Buck is still here. He saw Eddie at his lowest and it didn’t scare him off. And while that’s all well and good, it feels fragile and new, like something that could break the minute Eddie tries to make it more than friendship like he still so desperately wants.

Instead, he resolves to ball his feelings back up in his chest, hiding them away like he’s done for months and months now. He promised himself he’d do whatever it takes to make sure Buck sticks around, and he meant it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun is setting as he enters Armageddon, in a surprisingly good mood given everything that’s happened the past two weeks. He makes his way to the back, distracted by trying to figure out what to do with his weekend. Maybe they can go to the art museum Chris has been raving about, look at all the works that don’t make any sense to Eddie but can keep Chris enraptured for hours. Maybe Buck will come along to explain everything.

He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t register Buck and Chris’s conversation until he’s halfway to the table they’re sitting at in the back room. When he does finally tune in, he stops, just out of sight, and feels his whole body start to go numb.

“It says they mean ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Please forgive me’. Is that what Dad said they meant? Was he sorry about something?” Chris is reading from a school library book, the bouquet from earlier this week on the table between him and Buck.

Buck looks at the flowers, smiling almost sadly, before turning back to Chris. “Yeah, that’s what he said too. We just got into an argument, but gave me these flowers, so it’s okay now.” He turns back to the flowers, fingers playing with a stray stem that had fallen off as they wilted. “What does it say about red carnations?”

Chris flips through the book, eventually landing on the page he was looking for. Eddie braces himself as quietly as he can, because he knows exactly what Chris is going to read. “There’s a lot of meanings for different colors, but it says that if you give someone red carnations, it means you love them and feel something special for them. What did Dad say?”

His sharp intake of breath is completely involuntary, fueled purely by panic. Both heads snap toward him immediately, Chris’s face lighting up, Buck’s looking stunned. He tries to keep his own face as normal as possible, but his eyes feel wild and he’s hot all over and he just needs to get Chris and get out.

“Dad! I got a book about flowers from the library so I can know what they mean just like you!”

He really hopes his smile is genuine, because as happy as he is that his son wants to be anything like him, he also feels about 15 seconds away from passing out. “That’s great, buddy. Can you grab your stuff so we can go?”

Chris hops off the chair to pack up, filling the would-be uncomfortable silence with his usual chatter about school, what he’s reading, and what he did with Buck all afternoon. Eddie very pointedly keeps his eyes on his son the whole time, nodding and commentating more than normal so he’s not tempted to look at Buck and completely fall apart. Chris hugs Buck tight around the middle before heading for the door, forcing Eddie to acknowledge Buck without any kind of buffer.

“Thanks for watching him, we’ll see you later, okay?” he says, looking at a spot just over Buck’s shoulder. He doesn’t wait for a response, just rushes out, following after Chris even as he hears Buck call his name.

Surely, Buck will just brush this off. He won’t think twice about why Eddie actually included the carnations and just move on. They’ll be fine, Eddie won’t lose him because of his loud, dumb feelings, and the whole thing will blow over by Monday. He repeats it in his head over and over, willing it to be true.

They’re through the front door and halfway down the sidewalk before Buck catches up with them.

“Eddie, wait!”

Apparently, his force of will is not as strong as he thought.

Eddie skids to a stop, letting Chris run ahead to the store. He closes his eyes and prepares himself, because this is it. The moment he had been trying to prevent for months. He’s off the edge of the cliff, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He takes a deep breath before he turns around.

Buck is watching him. He looks confused and a little worried, and Eddie’s palms itch to reach out and somehow make it better. He jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans instead.

“The carnations weren’t just for show, were they?” Buck asks, slowly, quietly, like he’s trying not to spook a caged animal.

He could lie. He could tell him they didn’t mean anything, that they really just looked nice. He could deny it over and over, and he knows eventually Buck would give in and let it go. They’d go back to square one where they’ve been for so long that Eddie can see ruts forming in their routine.

He’s so tired, though. Tired of lying, tired of wrestling with his feelings and trying to keep them from cracking his ribs and breaking free. And Buck had already seen him lower than rock bottom, and he stayed. Maybe he would stay after this, too.

“No”, Eddie says, shaking his head. “They weren’t just for show. Neither were the gardenias or pink camellias or red tulips, none of them were. You can look them up if you don’t believe me.”

Buck freezes, eyes wide, still as Eddie has ever seen him. And for as much as Eddie is usually a coward, he decides this is the moment to be brave.

“I love you,” he says in a rush. “I’ve loved you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it out loud, so I just gave you love in flowers instead. You’re everything, Buck, to me and to Chris, and I just didn’t want to lose you or scare you away because I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you left. We need you, in whatever way we can have you.”

He can feel himself shaking as he stops talking, face hot with a furious blush of embarrassment, he’s sure. He never stops looking at Buck though, waiting for him to say something, anything, even telling him to fuck off and never speak to him again would be better than silence.

He waits, and Buck just looks at him with an expression he can’t decipher. He looks and looks, and with every passing second, Eddie feels the world crumbling down around him.

The numbness is back, this time laced with the sting of rejection. He takes a few steps backwards as he feels tears start to prick at the back of his eyes, turning toward the store before they’re too noticeable.

He stops when he feels Buck’s hand wrap around his wrist, holding him in place. “Eddie, please,” he says, sounding close to tears himself. “I— I don’t know what to say, I—”

Eddie pulls his wrist back, Buck letting go without a fight. “It’s fine, Buck. Just forget about it.”

He walks away, tears falling without shame.

He half hopes Buck follows him.

He doesn’t.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie is not hiding. He is strategically avoiding.

He tries to process everything over the weekend, but come Monday, he still can’t bring himself to face Buck, to have the talk where he tells Eddie that he just wants to be friends and nothing more. Because he’ll say that, but things won’t go back to normal. They’ll be awkward and stilted and they’ll drift farther and farther apart until they’re no longer in each other’s orbit, practically strangers. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know what he’d do with himself without Buck, and he really doesn’t want to try figuring that out now.

So Buck comes in every day like normal, and every day Eddie finds an excuse to busy himself in the back room and let Hen handle him. It only takes her two visits to catch on and pry every detail out of him.

“Eddie, I love you, but you’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” she tells him when he finishes his story.

“Thank you for kicking me when I’m down,” he says, voice muffled from where his head is pressed to the table. She grabs a hold of his wrist, tugging it until he sits up and gives her his attention.

“Look,” she says. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on in Buck’s head, but he looks about as heartbroken as you do, if not worse. You have to talk to him. If you love him like you say you do, you owe him that much, at the very least.”

She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean Eddie is happy about it. Nor does it mean he’s going to jump headfirst into talking about his feelings like he did the last time. He tried being brave, and look where that got him.

He’s still biding his time (and licking his wounds) when he comes back from a delivery a few days later to an eerily quiet store. It’s late afternoon, when they’re normally busy with people picking up bouquets for date nights on their way home from work, but he doesn’t hear any voices when he comes in the back door or see Hen running around with fistfuls of flowers. He walks to the front and stops dead before he can call out for anyone.

Buck is there, once again lit up by the sunlight streaming through the windows, standing next to a vase holding the biggest bouquet Eddie thinks he’s ever seen. He looks nervous, biting his lip as he watches Eddie walk closer, no doubt waiting for a reaction. Eddie’s honestly dumbstruck, because not only is it huge, but he immediately registers the meaning behind each flower he sees.

Blue violets for devotion, forget-me-nots for true love, yarrow for everlasting love. Aster, red chrysanthemums, honeysuckle. Rainflowers asking for returned affection and jasmine for love without conditions. They’re all surrounded by moonflowers for dreaming of and hoping for love. The whole thing is an explosion of color and scents and emotions and it’s beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the man standing next to it.

“I didn’t know what to say last week,” Buck says quietly, gaze moving from the flowers to Eddie. There’s a blush crawling up his cheeks that rivals any rose or carnation. His smile unfurls like a lily in the summertime. “I figured I’d try speaking your language instead.”

Eddie turns to Buck fully, tries to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat as his mind tries to process the sheer amount of things he’s feeling. He has half a mind to pinch himself, make sure he’s not dreaming, but he knows he isn’t. This is better than anything in his wildest fantasies because it’s real.

He’s snapped back to the present moment when he feels Buck’s hands on his, slotting their fingers together. Eddie squeezes instinctually, holding on for dear life, because he feels like he’s about to crack again — not from despair this time, but from sheer, unfiltered joy. It only gets bigger when he looks at Buck and sees it reflected in his eyes, too.

“Eddie,” he says, a laugh bubbling out of him like the happiness is overwhelming. “I love you. I love you so much. I think I’ve loved you from the minute I ran into the store for the first time, and it’s been snowballing ever since.” He brings a hand up to Eddie’s cheek, wiping away tears he didn’t even know were falling. He leans into the touch, smile only growing because it’s warm and perfect, like he always knew it would be. “You said I was everything to you and Chris, but you two are more than everything to me. I want to be here, with you, for you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

And because he is who he is, because he’s been living with his parasitic self doubt for longer than anyone should, Eddie pauses. His mind flashes through all his shadows and darkness lingering under this momentary happiness, and while it’s overwhelming and good and true, he still doubts.

“I’m a mess,” he says, feeling Buck tighten his hold like he’s afraid he’ll try to run. “You saw it up close. I can’t guarantee it won’t always be that bad. Are you sure you want to deal with all this?”

“I want everything with you, Eddie. Good, bad, and ugly. You can’t scare me away that easily. I won’t let you.”

For once, there’s no rebuttal. He knows Buck is telling the truth, feels it in every part of him. If he focuses enough, he swears he feels a little less darkness around him. But there’s so much going on in his head that he doesn’t know what to say anymore, can’t figure out how to express to Buck exactly what all of this means to him.

He’s still not great at words, but he’s as good at actions as he is at flowers.

There’s no fireworks or angels singing when they kiss, and it takes a few tries for them to stop smiling enough for their teeth to get out of the way. But once they fall into a rhythm, Buck hands on Eddie’s hips, Eddie’s hands running through Bucks curls, the whole world falls away until it’s just them. It’s a slow, gentle thing, but Eddie pours everything he’s hiding into it, hoping that Buck picks up on how much and how deeply he loves him. If the smile he feels on Buck’s lips is any indication, he thinks the message is loud and clear.

They pull away eventually but only to rest their foreheads together, soaking up each other. Eddie’s still smiling as he leans in, placing kisses on whatever parts of Buck’s face he can reach, just because he can. He feels the rumble of Buck’s laugh in his own chest, and almost wants to cry again at the realization that he’s going to be able to feel that laugh whenever he wants, have it memorized and tucked away in his mind for when the darkness is too loud.

He always knew Buck had enough light in him for both of them. Now he gets to prove himself right.

He pulls back a little more, taking in every feature of Buck’s happiness, fingers coming up to gently trace over his birthmark.

“Does this mean I get free tattoos for life?” he asks. Buck’s laugh is sharp and surprised, and they dissolve into giggles and kisses and touches like they’re teenagers again.

Eddie knows that it won’t always be this perfect — things will be hard, they’ll be tested again and again, and sometimes things will feel too dark for either of them to bear. But the light will always come back, they’ll grow stronger, blossoming in ways they never could on their own.

Eddie has been hiding in the shadows for too long. Buck is finally bringing him into the sunshine.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie fic #9-1-1 fic #9-1-1 fox #i'm sad it's over except SIKE i have a lot of little fics planned for this #i hope you guys like it!!#the flower shop #ficcery

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love-killed-the-superstar · 4 years ago

Text

super late but here is day 6!! also: if the cottage was actually destroyed i’m sorry, but i combed through TOTS a LOT and couldn’t seem to find any proof it was actually fully destroyed so... please just suspend your disbelief for this one, lads

CASSUNZEL WEEK DAY 6 - TRUST AND HEALING

Interior decorating is something Rapunzel never figured she and Cass would have in common, but somehow, here they are.

To be perfectly honest, when Rapunzel decided to return to Gothel’s old cottage (or what was left of it, anyway) she wasn’t really sure how Cassandra would take the news. How exactly does one explain that they’re rebuilding your nearly-destroyed childhood home that may or may not hold a boatload of trauma inside its walls? In the end she had taken the coward’s way out and written her to break the news, fully expecting to be met with silence on Cass’s end, as so often happens when she receives news that’s hard to swallow. The fact that she returned to Corona less than a month after the letter had been sent surprised Rapunzel to no end.

(“So, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” she had said nonchalantly, climbing off of Fidella’s back and rolling up her sleeves as Rapunzel stared in shock. “Where should we start?”

“I-I didn’t think you’d actually – well, hang on a moment,” Rapunzel had replied, chickening out of the tough conversation. “Let me just find my clipboard.”)

Cass has been… a little quiet on the matter, to be honest. It’s been easy enough to keep distracted by the house; the foundation and floors have been rebuilt where they’d been torn through by black rocks, and Rapunzel had the roof rethatched several weeks earlier. Cassandra has thrown herself into repairing furniture, refitting the window panes and getting the water mill back up and running again, while Rapunzel has taken to repairing torn curtains, scrubbing mould and mildew and moss from the walls, weeding the cracks where plant life has inevitably sprung up from and filling them in afterwards. The effort to seal up the entrance to Gothel’s strange underground mirror lair takes the both of them, and although neither of them have much to say, it gives Rapunzel a grim satisfaction that the burned, smashed up hideout can’t be reached any longer.

This part of fixing the house takes just over two weeks of dawn-til-dusk of hard work, and each evening they ride back to the castle and fall into Rapunzel’s bed, too tired to really talk about it. Eugene finds the whole thing bizarre and doesn’t shy away from telling them so, but Rapunzel kind of got the feeling that he wouldn’t understand it from the moment she mentioned the idea to him.

(“Why are you dragging this ordeal out?” he had asked her one night, just two days before Cass showed up at the house without warning. “And why bring Cass into it at all? I don’t want to police your process, but isn’t it time to put Gothel behind you both and… learn to let go of the past?”

Rapunzel hadn’t known how to answer him. “It’s just something I want to do,” she had said instead. “And Gothel hurt her too, Eugene. I can’t keep it from her.”)

They don’t need to talk about it; not if they don’t want to. Rapunzel and Cassandra seem to have come to a silent agreement that they won’t push for some big heart-to-heart that ends in tears, or an argument that eventually turns into a greater understanding of each other’s pasts.

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, nothing really needs to be said at all. Right?

…

“I can’t believe we’ve done this, Cass.”

“Tell me about it. What exactly ignited this passion project of yours, anyway?”

“I wanted to breathe new life into this place, I guess.”

The two of them stand back and stare at their surroundings in satisfaction. There’s no more cobwebs or ivy or moss covering the walls, and where there are stains Rapunzel has thrown on a cream wash. The floors and ceiling and roof are repaired, the windows are no longer cracked and smashed, and the creak of the water mill can be heard faintly from outside. The salvaged furniture is stacked up in the centre of the room, and Rapunzel has decided that tomorrow they’ll take a trip to the market to replace the items that were too far gone to be saved.

Today, they’re focusing on the walls.

Rapunzel’s vision is a little… eclectic. Pale, neutral walls might be best, and perhaps they can be accented with floral imagery, or maybe even a mural of the cottage itself. Another part of her, however, dreams in full colour; cerulean walls, or perhaps celadon, with bright sunny yellow flowers and trees with purple leaves – and why stop there? She could paint some horses in a meadow, or birds soaring through the sky. Why not paint fairies, unicorns, dragons? Make this house its own storybook experience?

“I’m so torn on my vision,” she confesses to Cassandra as she stands between buckets upon buckets of paint, an entire rainbow of choice laid out in front of her. “I need a better idea of what to paint before I can even think about washes. Any thoughts?”

“I’m a little creatively stinted, Rapunzel,” Cass deadpans. “I thought you had a clear vision of this place when you started out?”

“I can’t narrow it down. Do I want to go simple, or do I want to completely transform this place?”

Cass shrugs listlessly, sitting down cross-legged by the stacks of furniture. “You just have to listen to your gut.”

Oh, if guts could talk, Rapunzel would be all ears. Her frown deepens as she contemplates her options. Maybe she should find a compromise. Pale walls, vibrant art? Maybe that will work best.

Hesitantly, she reaches for a muted green (the bedroom area can be a forest mural now, she’s decided, or maybe a marsh) and heads over to a wall in need of a fresh coat. Cassandra joins her, a comically large paintbrush in hand, and they paint in a sullen silence.

“So, Cass. I’m… I’m glad you came back to help me out with this,” Rapunzel ventures. “You didn’t have to.”

“You sounded afraid in your letter,” Cass says coolly, with a long sweeping stroke. “Like you thought I would be angry at you for doing this, so I thought I should come back. Besides, I… I wanted to see it for myself.”

Cassandra can be frustratingly hard to read sometimes, and now happens to be one such instance. Rapunzel isn’t sure what she wants right now. It was easy enough not to talk at first, but something about pouring some of her own flair into these walls makes her uneasy – has her overcome with this urge to get everything off their chests before she proceeds. What memories does Cass have of this place? Does it hurt to be here, even if she refuses to show it? Is there some good left in this place, parts that Cassandra might not want to let go of?

“Do you like what you see?” Rapunzel asks quietly.

“...I don’t know yet. I need a fuller picture before I draw any conclusions.”

Rapunzel feels like – hopes – she has some insight into how Cass might be feeling right now. Returning to the tower for the first time since reuniting with her family had given her all sorts to think about, and watching it fall had filled her with a nauseating combination of crisis and catharsis. After all, there were some good memories amongst all the long, drawn out days of agonising boredom and walking on eggshells around Gothel, always so afraid of saying the wrong thing and making everything worse. It wasn’t love, and her world was so small before she left the tower behind.

Even if her time with Gothel was far briefer, Rapunzel can’t help but wonder if Cassandra holds echoes of fond memories somewhere in there, as few and far between as they may have been.

“You know, when I returned to this place, I didn’t think the house would be salvageable,” Rapunzel confesses to the silence. “Given the spike tearing through it, and the way the mountain crumbled inside, I figured it would probably have fallen apart. So seeing that there was still a chance to restore it… I don’t know. I couldn’t really think about anything else, for weeks afterwards. In the end, Eugene just told me to get it all out of my system. He’s not exactly happy about it, but…”

“Well sure, the wedding will suck if you’re too busy thinking about complimentary paint colours to focus on your vows,” Cass points out dryly. Rapunzel laughs.

“Yeah, you have a point.” As she goes to dip her paintbrush again, she glances to the wall adjacent; cream, blank, inviting.

“...Do you have a date in mind yet?”

“Not yet. We’re thinking spring or summer though. We need time to get all the arrangements together, after all.” Rapunzel purses her lip. “You know, I think I’m going to start on some detailing. Mind finishing this off?”

Cass nods, and carries on in that same long silence. Rapunzel moves onto the wall. She envisions a recreation of that cottage. She’s been sketching it a lot, lately, and goes to retrieve her journal.

“You’re making a mural of the cottage?” Cass wrinkles her nose as Rapunzel leans the journal up against a beam at the edge of the wall. “So you step inside, just to see the outside all over again?”

“Well, it’s picturesque!” Rapunzel says. She lingers, paintbrush trailing in the beige she picked out for the base of the house. “Unless you don’t want me to paint it?”

A pause. “No, go ahead. Paint it. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Rapunzel begins slowly at first, glancing between the wall in front of her and the woman two metres away, still listlessly dragging the brush. She’s changed a little; her hair is getting longer, scraped back into a slightly lopsided ponytail to keep it out the way. Rapunzel is tempted to drag a comb through and tie it more evenly, but judging from the tension in Cassandra’s shoulders, it would probably be met with resistance.

After a while, however, Rapunzel soon falls into the trance of painting – absorbed into the gentle strokes of the brush, planning the subtle lighting and how to translate the details of the house in simple splotches of paint. She even forgets her original plight to talk things through with Cass, losing her awareness of the world around her until it is simply her and the brush and the wall, coming together to paint this fairytale home, where from now on only good things will happen and happy memories will be made and no child will ever feel abandoned or unwanted or hurt ever again–

“Rapunzel!”

Cass grabs her arm and Rapunzel jerks out of her vision, staring at her in confusion. Her paintbrush, dripping jade, is just inches from the edge of the beam in the corner. The stretch of grass she was in the middle of painting now has an uneven glob that slowly rolls down like a teardrop. Cass grips her arm tight, eyes bright with alarm.

“Cassandra, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Her grip loosens and, brow furrowing, she releases Rapunzel’s arm. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong, you just…”

“I just?” Rapunzel prompts, bewildered.

“The beam. You were – you were going to get paint on the beam.”

“Oh. Uh, good reflexes! I didn’t realise.” She laughs nervously. “Guess I got a little carried away, huh?”

“Yeah, well.” Cass mutters, stepping back. She sets her paintbrush back in its bucket and runs her fingers through her hair, uncaring that she smudges green paint against her scalp in the process. “Just be careful, Rapunzel, all right?”

“Uh, sure.” Rapunzel frowns. “Cass, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Raps.” She turns her back. “Look, I’m going to get some fresh air.”

She heads towards the door without looking back, leaving the door wide open and swinging as she goes. Rapunzel watches after her, thoroughly confused, before turning back to the wall. Maybe Cassandra does hate the mural. Maybe she hates everything Rapunzel is doing right now, and is just here to intervene when things get too much? After all, things have been strange between them since she returned. They’ve barely hugged or kissed or held hands, and Rapunzel knows they’re not in the giddy, starry-eyed closeness stage of their relationship anymore, and Cass has never been huge on big gestures of affection, but still… it’s impossible to ignore this atmosphere any longer.

As she sets her own paint brush aside, dejected, something catches the corner of her eye and she pauses. There’s something on the beam. When Rapunzel looks, she can’t work out at first why it grabbed her attention; it’s just a chip in the wood, a scrape maybe, but it’s fairly deep. She only noticed it from bending over, it’s not too far off the ground… and that’s when she sees more scratches. Some are shallower than others, some more controlled and some extremely wobbly and veering off to one side. But she can make out that they’re more than just someone chipping away at wood when they’re bored. There are… scribbles, wonky bodies, twigs for arms.

The lower part of the beam is covered in a child’s carvings.

The longer Rapunzel stares, the colder she begins to feel inside. This beam isn’t the only one; there are dozens of wooden trimmings, as her feet carry her across the room, and each with the same cast of characters – a tall scribble and a shorter scribble. Mother and daughter.

She needs to find Cass.

Rapunzel doesn’t need to look hard. She barely takes two steps outside before she sees the glint of Cassandra’s sword as it slashes through the air, sparring with herself. If she hears Rapunzel approach, she doesn’t acknowledge her until Rapunzel offers, “I saw the carvings. I’m sorry, Cass.”

“Why be sorry? You didn’t know they were there,” she mutters, swinging again, and again. “Nobody did. Even I didn’t, until we started the wash. Once we were standing there, the memories kind of hit me all at once.”

“They were yours, then.” No response. “...They looked quite advanced, for a four-year-old’s drawings.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do to pass the time, once the floors had been swept and the beds had been made?” Cass snaps. Another swing. “I had nothing but free time with the house to myself, after all.”

“Cass, can we please talk about this without the deadly weapon thrown in?” Rapunzel pleads. Cass ignores her. Another swing.

“I’m just lucky she was never around long enough to really pay attention to them. I mean, can you imagine how she would have scolded me? Or worse?” Another swing.

“Cassandra, please. Put down the sword. Let me near you.”

“I don’t get it, Rapunzel! Why did… why did I just – why did I ever let Zhan Tiri fool me into thinking she might have loved me?”

“Cass, stop!”

Cass raises her sword to strike again when she feels arms wrap around her waist, halting her in her tracks. Rapunzel clings on, pressing her cheek to Cassandra’s back and feeling her erratic breathing as she stands still, finally allowing the sword to lower gently.

“...Why did it have to be this cottage, Rapunzel?” she croaks. “Isn’t it better to leave it all buried?”

“I don’t think so,” Rapunzel whispers. “Darling, I don’t think that will work forever.”

Cass sinks to her knees, taking Rapunzel with her, and they kneel in silence as the breeze rustles the trees around them.

“I feel sick,” Cass says dully, setting her sword down in the grass. Rapunzel presses her forehead to the space between Cassandra’s shoulder blades, breathing in her smell, trying to soothe her somehow.

“This is too weird, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Rapunzel, it’s so fucking weird.” Rapunzel winces. Cass does well not to curse in front of her, but, well… maybe now isn’t the best time to comment on it. “You never even lived here. Why do you have this need to mold it to your worldview instead of letting it rot away quietly like everybody else was happy to do?”

“This is a beautiful place,” Rapunzel protests. “Isn’t it beautiful? Why should it have to die because of the terrible things she did? You were born in this cottage, Cassandra, that means something! Gothel was a horrible person and she made both of our lives miserable, but – but that doesn’t mean we can’t still find something beautiful in this place.”

“Not everything has to be beautiful, or even saved. Fixing a house isn’t going to fix us, is it?”

The sharpness of her words cut right through Rapunzel, and pulls away from Cass, stunned. Cass cranes her neck to face her, regret already written all over.

“You’re right. I’m a fool, aren’t I, Cass? Because I – I actually hoped it would.” Rapunzel buries her head in her hands. “Darn it, I… I want to move on, just like you do. I always think I’m over the tower and Gothel, but then when I found this place… I just thought about how good it would feel to take it away from her and make it beautiful and then some new family could live here, a loving family who take care of each other and don’t b-belittle their kids…”

Cass turns around fully, and reaches over to squeeze Rapunzel’s shoulders.

“Don’t, Raps. You’re not foolish for wanting those things, all right? I just… I don’t think painting some walls will bring you any closure. And being here, surrounded by all these things that remind us of her, isn’t helping either.”

“I shouldn’t have written to you. Eugene told me to leave you out of this because he knew this was a bad idea and we’d both get hurt from it, but I didn’t listen, and now-”

“Seriously, stop. Do not give Fitzherbert the satisfaction of being right about something.” Rapunzel peeks up at her, and Cass offers her a small smile. “I didn’t feel like this the whole time. It has been kind of fun, repairing things and putting it all back together, but then I’d remember where we were and wonder why we were doing this, and – and I didn’t know how to even talk to you about it.”

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk, so I didn’t try to push it.” Rapunzel smiles faintly. “Eugene is going out of his mind, trying to understand the logic of the situation.”

“He’s not the only one.” Cass leans forward and kisses Rapunzel softly. “Look, if you truly believe that redecorating will somehow cleanse this house of Gothel forever and give us some catharsis, I’ll trust your judgement. But only if you trust mine when I say that this isn’t the only way to do that.”

Rapunzel nods, leaning over to kiss her back.

“I’m sorry Gothel hurt you,” she murmurs. Cass sighs sadly.

“I’m sorry she hurt you too.”

“I wish Zhan Tiri hadn’t forced you to remember all of this, but… do you regret knowing?” Rapunzel asks, running a thumb across Cassandra’s cheek soothingly. Cass leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“No. I always knew something was missing, so even though it hurts, at least the pieces are all there. I just – I wish it had gone differently, that’s all. I wish she had been different.”

They sit in silence, neither sure of what else to say, and Rapunzel glances back over at the house. It stands stout and quiet, charming on the outside, but somehow she can't bring herself to go back inside. “...You know, maybe we should leave it for today.”

Cass quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “Really? It’s barely noon, and the walls won’t paint themselves.”

“It’ll still be standing tomorrow! Besides, we’ve been perfect strangers since you came back. I want to take a moment just to be with you.”

She flops back, stretching out on the soft grass and staring up at the cloudless sky above. It truly is beyond beautiful out here. Cassandra’s face hovers over hers, presses a kiss to her brow, and then she lies back beside her.

“You know, when you take Gothel out of the equation, this place is really peaceful,” Cass comments.

“If we have our way, by the time we’re done no one will associate it with her ever again,” Rapunzel agrees. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”

“Paradise,” Cass remarks, and Rapunzel can hear the wry smile in her voice as she speaks. “It would be just paradise.”

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, they’re going to build it back up, better than ever before. Nothing else needs to be said. The clouds drift on and they lie there, hand in hand.

#cassunzel week #cassunzel week 2020 #cassunzel #tangled the series #tts #writing

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ardeawritten · 4 years ago

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Halo 4

The game-player in me is thrilled with the very pretty levels, new weapons, flashy enemies and more creative, less linear methods of level progression/interaction. Lovely soundtrack as always, though the random peppy upbeat music overlaid on a race-to-save earth battle is still hilarious. This game was fun and enjoyable to play, a great few evenings' worth of distraction and some nice catharsis for a little current-events-related attitude. The last quarter felt like a meat-grinder slog, but then, it's endgame of an FPS. What else is it going to be?

The writer in me is rolling their eyes.

(there’s an whole essay under the cut) ((I really hope these cuts work on all platforms, if not I am sincerely sorry; it’s like a thousand words long))

Ok, so the first three games were a fairly standard blank-slate FPS protagonist. Play as an armored super-soldier fighting to save Humanity from the Monsters, with a Sexy AI Sidekick and some Battle Buddies. Not what I'd call high art in gaming, but I can understand its popularity and the enduring appeal of a simple, straight-forward "if it moves shoot it" style of play. No escort missions, no puzzles, really no boss battles requiring tricks and analysis. Just "if that didn't kill it, keep shooting or use a bigger gun."

Writing-wise, there's not a lot of characterization but overall Indications that MC is well-recognized, well-liked, has a sense of humor and a camaraderie with his co-workers, is pals with his Sexy AI and is a generally level-headed person-shaped brick. It's an early 2000's Military FPS, it's not about the characters, it's about role-playing as an indestructible military hero who always saves the girl. It's the game equivalent of John Carter of Mars-genre action hero stories (books, not movie.) This does not absolve it of the crime of woman-as-sexy-or-dead, but it is par for the course.

So on to game #4.

This game was released in late 2012, in a post-Mass Effect gaming market. #4 has a ME2/3 feel to it, which makes sense. They're both very popular flashy scifi action games with similar graphics/design feel (and with Sexy AIs but that's another conversation about the literally unreal 'idealization' of womanhood in a male-dominated creator/created space!)

It opens with the storyline revelation that MC is a brainwashed and conditioned child-soldier, alleges he's got some issues with performing basic human functions and clarifies that Cortana's existence is the "band-aid" applied to that problem. On the MC side, Cortana's expiration date has passed and she's fragging out, giving MC a personal reason to want to get home. This combines to give the player a sense of urgency- if Cortana dies, it's not just "sad," it's "MC will lose his band-aid and all his humanity will bleed out." This is also I think the first time the POV is, narratively-speaking, third-person (we know things MC doesn't or couldn't know) instead of solely first-person (I'm not counting Arbiter’s story as breaking first-person, as it's still limited to player character POV.)

As a Writer, here's my issues:

- MC is given a traumatic backstory as a brainwashed child-soldier to what? Justify a damaged emotional state, as if emotional wounding and isolation isn't a very common, very human point to reach after having experienced and participated in war at any age? Justify being unable to function without Cortana’s hand-holding? And then the game never goes back and addresses that opening cut-scene.

- Cortana's existence had a built-in, known expiration, but she was still (retconned?) created to provide MC his primary band-aid. Either this was extremely short-sighted of the Spartan R&D team, or MC likewise was expected to expire on the same timeline. There's no talk of planning ahead for this problem that would render an extremely expensive asset fundamentally useless. (ok there’s Cortana’s “they’ll pair you with someone else but it won’t be me” line, but that isn’t exactly smoothing the transition any.)

- We the audience/player now know Cortana's death will have personal, negative repercussions on the MC's health outside of grief and trauma over loss of a friend and partner. She exists solely for his benefit, and must continue existing for his benefit, and the plot's urgency driven forward by his need to continue benefiting. It's not about saving Cortana, it's about saving MC. This would be fine if her character existence was framed as "computer service program," but it isn't. Prior to this game, narrative and gameplay repeatedly tells the audience she's a character and not just MC's security blanket.

- The above, coupled with her "stock naked lady sexy" design, has Implications of how the writing team figured they could fit a female character into their narrative. So far we have A) woman who fails to complete a heroic sacrifice and is shot in the back and dies pointlessly, B) woman whose visual and intellectual existence is tailored solely to benefit the MC and has no autonomy outside of that existence and C) woman as 'fallen mother/evil crone' who perpetrated the brainwashing on the MC. (Female Spartan in the mammoth got a whole three lines; female scientist with a bag of nukes? She… died pointlessly.)

(I swear I did not intend this to be an analysis of female roles in the Halo main game franchise but hey, my first memorable introduction to the FPS genre was Mysteries of the Sith where, playing as female jedi Mara Jade, you save the guy by making him acknowledge the value of a non-romantic peer relationship! That game was made in 1997.)

For Cortana, in 1 I got the impression she was a shipboard AI like EDI in Mass Effect, not an AI specific to MC. Her characterization feels like it's been shifted each game from a warship AI capable of coordinating fleet-wide maneuvers and going toe-to-toe with Guilty Spark to a cowering captive of Gravemind needing physical rescue to a Pocket Pal for MC to cover for his emotional shortcomings and inability to interact with technology more complex than "a button."

Having an AI programmed to be essentially a therapy dog or social caretaker, and exploring the complexities of that role related to the invisible and unquantifiable damage violence visits on the human body and brain would be a very interesting story. An AI designed for coordinating war on a massive scale who despite "winning" each battle finds its platform systematically reduced until the only "ship and crew" left are just one person would also be an interesting story! Why are we left with "my girlfriend's dying and I'm going to starve because she's the only one who knows how to cook."

tl;dr: the opening cutscene was detrimental to the plot, characterization and world-building. The game would have been fine as a story about a soldier coming to terms with his best friend’s inevitable death while trying to save the planet, and would have preserved Cortana’s game 1 identity as an autonomous AI who lost her ship and partnered up with MC of her own free will. The ending of “we saved each other, if just for a little while, and will grieve but will continue on” would have been stronger IMO than “I’m going to save you-I’m going to save you-NOPE.”

#text post #long post #long text post #long ass essay text post writing rant #also why does she get more naked with every game #I mean I know why from a revenue standpoint but what's the in-world justification #here let me beat what I'm sure is a very dead horse because I'm eight years late to the party #don't worry there's a tl;dr in there at the end #does anyone else remember the AI in Flubber who fell in love with the MC and then gets mashed and copies herself?#because that was a more satisfying character arc #Ardea Plays Halo

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animebw · 4 years ago

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Binge-Watching: Welcome to the NHK, Episodes 20-22

In which goodbyes get us existential, life’s meaning is what we make of it, and Misaki finally becomes a compelling character.

Hard Goodbyes

Yamazaki has never been my favorite character in this show. He’s abrasive, sexist, stuck up his own ass, and representative of the worst of nerd-dom obsession. And his exit from the show doesn’t change that for me. There was a chance for him to turn things around with his big “I’m actually an otaku pervert” confession, but then he’d rather double down on being an unlikable prick rather than take the risk of fostering a genuine human connection. I guess it’s easier for him to play the villain than accept he’s capable of more than that, especially when it makes a convenient excuse to cut all ties with his old life. But it was still a shitty, cowardly thing to do. And it’s clear that for all his bluster, he’s not fully satisfied himself with the way things went down. He was going to vocational school, learning to be a programmer, setting out on his own! But now, he has to move back to the life he ran away from, taking up his family’s ranch despite all his attempts to break free from it. It can’t help but feel like surrender for him, and it’s no wonder the shame of that choice bursts out in self-destructive ways. If nothing else, he remains an accurate depiction of how sad the otaku life can be if you let it consume you.

But there’s one thing he says right before heading out for good that really sticks with me: ”A drama has logical progression, emotional catharsis and a resolution. Our everyday lives are just filled with uncertainty and fear.” It can be tempting to try and fit our lives into a fiction that makes sense, give it a satisfying arc with a worthwhile resolution. But real life is never as simple as that. Real life stops and starts, comes and goes, zigs and zags and doesn’t give a damn what would make you the happiest. Real life just, well, happens. There’s no grand enemy to defeat, no conspiracy to unravel, just a series of somewhat connected events that dole out reward and punishment with completely arbitrary systems. And as we approach the end of Welcome to the NHK, pretty much all its characters have to come face to face with that truth. The dreams and fantasies they invented to justify the way they viewed the world, the fictional stories they spun to make sense of their lives, a crumbling by the wayside, leaving them with nothing but the messy, incomplete, unsatisfying reality of life itself. And it’s up to them to decide how they react when they’ve got nothing left to guide them but themselves.

What Is Life?

For Sato, the question of what to do with his life is a particularly loaded one. He’s been able to distract himself by working on this gal game with Yamazaki, giving himself a project he could strive to complete. But now, that project’s done, leaving him with the weird feeling all creatives get when they finish their art and realize there’s nothing left but to surrender it to the world and see what happens. Yamazaki’s gone and left most of his stuff with Sato, an everpresent reminder of an immediate connection he no longer has. He’s still unemployed, still depressed, and he’s pretty sure he’s got no talent for storytelling as evidenced by how the finished game actually turned out. His life is completely open before him, with no expectations of what he should do and no experience to make that decision easier for him. He is, in a way, truly and utterly alone, the god of an empty universe where he’s the sole resident. But all the divine power in the world can’t restore the comfortable holding pattern he was just in. Even when he fantasizes about the same old conspiracies, his appliances don’t have faces and personalities anymore. They’re just refrigerators, couches, alarm clocks, lifeless objects that offer him no answers. So what the hell is he even supposed to do? What kind of life does he even want to build? What kind of life could he build? He’s staring ahead at a blank slate of 60 more years of life, and he has no goddamn clue how to color it in.

Under such circumstances, it’s no wonder Sato’s thoughts turn existential fast. When it comes down to it, what’s even the point of life? Humans have been trying to answer that question for ages, coming up with everything from gods to reincarnation to breaking free of the Matrix to leaving behind something for future generations to value. But at the end of the day, it’s all temporary. Everything fades. All lives end, all history passes into oblivion, and nothing truly lasts forever. By the time the light of the stars shining now reaches up hundreds of thousands of years into the future, the game Sato slaved so hard to make will be completely forgotten as if it never existed. Yamazaki saw his entire life planned out for him and tried to run from it, scared that these meaningless milestones would be all he ever amounted to, but becoming a software developer wouldn’t be a perfect solution either. Hitomi’s genuinely happy to be getting married, and that happiness scares the hell out of her, because she has no idea what her life will be when she doesn’t have an eternal foe to rage against anymore. On a long enough time scale, their lives will all amount to the same thing: a blip of cosmic dust among countless similar blips, left behind and never touched on again. How do you live like that, not knowing if there’s even a way to make your life mean something? How do you live when all you have to live for is, well, life itself?

Future Ahead

The answer, it turns out, is simple: you live. In good times or bad times, you simply live, and you keep searching for the things that make you happy. Our lives are too small to worry about the cosmic significance of trends of hundreds of thousands of years. All we have is the short time span we’re given; if there must be meaning to life, let’s find it there. And as we come to a close, we see the characters start to find themselves in the liminal space of life, between resolutions and new beginnings just like the turn of a new year. Yamazaki literally burns his old life to the ground and begins to find community in his new rural environment. Hitomi is going to become a mother. And even as Sato keeps fantasizing about a steamy affair that brings him and his old crush together at last, he finally accepts it’s not going to happen. Their lives are too complicated, too divergent, to be solved with such a shallow attempt to stave off ennui. And in the end... he’s happy for her. With no qualifications or self-pity. He’s genuinely happy that Hitomi has found her own happiness in life. And considering the person he started this show as, that’s an incredible improvement.

And right before Hitomi exits the picture, she leaves us with one last ray of hope: a reminder that time goes on. The future occurs whether we’re ready for it or not. These times may be hard, but they, too, shall pass. Perhaps in ten years, we’ll have our shit all figured out. We’ll live lives that give us meaning. We’ll spend each day happily. And when that time comes, maybe we can meet again, secure in the people we’ve become, and reminisce about the fears and uncertainties we used to have. It’s a genuinely beautiful sentiment, and the swirling lights of the city behind them sell that understated poignancy more than any visual flair this show’s attempted thus far. Today is a day of endings, but also new beginnings. A day to leave behind what we can no longer take with us, take stock of what we still have near, and walk forward anew, into a future both terrifying and hopeful. The world doesn’t need to beat us down. We can ride its tides wherever they end up taking us.

And with everyone else walking their own paths... there’s just one more character who needs to come to terms with the changing tides approaching.

The Nightmare Girl

Yes, at long goddamn last, it’s finally time for us to dig into Misaki and what makes her tick. It only took until the end of the goddamn show for her to break free from her position as Sato’s relentless support system, but better late than never. And to the show’s credit, it actually seems interested in the honest-to-god consequences of completely devoting yourself to someone else. Misaki’s been Manic Pixie Dream Girl-ing her way through Sato’s life for the past twenty episodes, but what we come to understand in this final stretch is that as much as Sato was relying on her, Misaki was relying on him much more. As long as he was this pathetic otaku shut-in for her to play mentor figure for, she could imagine she still had a purpose. “Saving” Sato was as much a project for her as the game was for Sato, something to distract her from her creeping suspicion that her life doesn’t actually mean a damn thing and nobody needs her. She needs Sato to need her, she needs to be the only one he can rely on. Because if he doesn’t need her anymore, well, then no one does. And she’ll be nothing but a girl all on her own, with nothing to give her purpose and no reason to keep living.

Unfortunately for her, she’s been doing her job too well. Sato is getting better. He is starting to stand on his own two feet. He’s got long-distance friends he can chat with, a more stable mental condition, he’s better equipped to walk around outside. He’s still far from a functioning human being, but he’s getting there. And the better he gets at taking care of himself, the clearer it becomes to Misaki that pretty soon, he might not need her anymore. He won’t need her to cook and clean for him, he won’t need her for emotional support, he won’t need her to be a shoulder he can always fall back on. He won’t be dependent on a barely-legal high school girl to take care of him like an adult baby anymore. And Misaki has no idea who she could even be if not a barely-legal high-school taking care of an adult baby. In no longer using Misaki as a support system, Sato’s taking away Misaki’s coping mechanism for hiding from her worst fears. And there’s nowhere for those fears to go now but out, spilling from her mind all throughout her body. All he can do is cling to the desperate hope that somehow, somewhere, there’s a god or villain or conspiracy she can blame, that it’s not just life taking it’s course against anything anyone can do to stop it. Because with no one to blame her situation on, every scrap of rotten luck that passes her way might as well be her own damn fault.

I don’t know how she gets out of that. I don’t know what Sato can do to help her when he’s still barely capable of helping himself. I don’t even know what direction I want their stories to take at the very end. But for the sake of their futures... I hope she finds a way out. I hope she finds a way to be happy.

I hope, for her, life proves itself enough.

Odds and Ends

-”Shy... shy...” Ah, writer’s block.

-”That wasn’t the least bit shy!” Booze will do that to you.

-”Can I help with something?” This, though? This is sweet. I like this.

-”The snow will blanket over our sorrows.” Lol, okay then.

-Oh god, the poor cat...

One more to go. See you next time for the finale of Welcome to the NHK!

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #welcome to the nhk #welcome to the nhk!#nhk ni youkoso!#nhk ni youkoso

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slouchyslouch · 5 years ago

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My 2010s in Records.

10. My Bloody Valentine — mbv

Wrote about mbv on a separate piece.

9. Earl Sweatshirt — Some Rap Songs

Earl Sweatshirt’s Some Rap Songs is a record of mending and therapy. At the beginning of the decade, rap fans saw the 16 year old prodigy create the most technical and distinctive raps unheard of at that time. Yes, a lot of it was jarring and immature, but the potential was there. While debut mixtape EARL was a teaser and an introduction to his greatness, Doris was his reclamation to the rap game after a period of silence in Samoa. I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside in turn spoke for itself. Its morose disposition then made its way onto Some Rap Songs; not quite his masterpiece, but an accomplished period piece nonetheless. As one of the most highly acclaimed rappers in the world today, Earl spills his guts out on this diaristic tape about his relationship with his father and the emotional exhaustion coming from trying to amend it. On “Red Water,” he repeats the same 8 bars on loop as if caught in a recurring dream. “Papa called me chief / gotta keep it brief / locked and loaded I can see you lyin’ through your teeth” he raps in a fugue state, as if coming to the realization that his father was only there for those momentary times of convenience. It’s always difficult to write something that includes family and loved ones. There’s a sense of vulnerability you have to divulge in as well as a catharsis that fulfills one’s desire to let go of one’s agony. The beats on Some Rap Songs run on loose kaleidoscopic loops, production that Earl has mastered rapping over as his idiosyncrasies in his bars do best when complementing them. Thanks to the influence of his buddies Mike and Medhane, he’s learned to channel his eccentric flows onto those beats. “Riot” closes the record with the sentimental instrumental sampling jazz legend, and uncle, Hugh Masekela. It’s feels like a proper ending to Earl’s chronicle, but the events that have transpired will always be apart of his life. At the end of it all, Some Rap Songs will remain forever a tombstone of his anguish.

8. The Spirit of the Beehive — Hypnic Jerks

There’s no other dream pop record this decade that could top this almost-perfect album. The hushed vocalizations of Zach Schwartz and Rivka Ravede offer a quiet intimacy in the dreamscape that is Hypnic Jerks. The title in itself lends to the idea of being half asleep and half awake — to be in an altered state where the real and surreal are just two sides of the same coin. Tracks like “poly swim” and “it’s gonna find you” entrance you into that state of unconscious, while tracks like “can i receive the contact?” and “hypnic jerks” make an effort to wake you up from the sublime. Field recordings filter in and out between tracks, as if you were hallucinating the whole time. It’s when “nail i couldn’t bite” and “(without you) in my pocket” play out that you realize it doesn’t matter what state you lie in. Their lucid pop constructions reward repeated listens to the point of obsession in a somnambulant state. The record’s lack of acclaim only makes it feel like you’re in on a hidden secret. To this day, I am completely spellbound to its sorcery and have yet to unlock its mysteries.

7. Iceage — New Brigade

Back in elementary school, I listened to a lot of pop punk; the kind that was rapturously melodic yet cheesily done and overproduced (Think Blink 182 or All Time Low). Until I listened to New Brigade, I didn’t even realize what true punk music actually sounded like. Iceage was just fucking cool to me. Sure, they had the aesthetic, depicting bloody mosh pits and macabre rune art, but it was truly the music that broke into my spirit, shattering what I thought punk sounded like back in the day. I’d read pieces about their notorious live shows where they would play rapid 15-minute sets in the sunless recesses of Denmark, which only added to the band’s mystique. Upon listening to their debut, I felt musically fulfilled like never before. No more of the whiny, drawn out vocals from pop punk bands. Frontman Elias Bender Rønnenfelt had the kind of angsty drawl similar to Nick Cave’s when he played with The Birthday Party which offered a kind of obscene yet confident instability to his performance. Johan Surrballe Wieth and Jakob Tvilling Pless’s guitars have just the right amount of filth in them — an abrasive attack on your soul while Dan Kjær Nielsen’s drums are played propulsively in classic hardcore fashion — never meant decelerate. The record didn’t offer the tightest instrumental, but that was the point. Iceage have gone on to release tighter and more spectacular punk records consistently over the decade but their debut broke the ceiling of what to me punk could, and should, sound like. From the cathartic breakdown of “White Rune” to the triumphant “You’re Blessed,” New Brigade was the record that gave me that spark, the one that carried me to rotting heights.

6. Frank Ocean — Channel Orange

Channel Orange will always be a classic to my generation. From Grammy-nominated “Thinking’ Bout You” to the sweet and charming “Forrest Gump,” we surf through Frank’s psyche in smooth and effortless RnB. Frank Ocean’s vivid universe is one of vibrant summers and distant getaways. Its colourful motifs paint a pretty picture for us — pink skies, monks in moshpits, peaches and mangos, roofs of mansions, palm trees and pools, Majin Buu. Most people I know around my age know the lyrics to most of its tracks. They’re as infectious as any classic from the past decade. I still remember listening to “Sweet Life” by the beach with a friend before attending his concert on his first tour. Everything felt right in the world when he sang “so why see the world when you got the beach” as the waves crashed over the sand and the summer heat glistened over the ocean. During its release, he opened up to the world to reveal his love for another man in an affectionate Tumblr post. It gave us an appreciation into an artist’s vulnerable identity while breaking the door open for other artists to come out in their own way. Frank later released his masterpiece in Blonde/Endless and a plethora of brilliant singles from his radio show, but the stories and music from Channel Orange will remain forever timeless.

5. Solange — A Seat at the Table

“Fall in your ways / so you can crumble / fall in your ways / so you can wake up and rise” sings Solange, on the introduction to her restorative album A Seat at the Table. They’re words I try to tell myself in times of darkness. Solange just has that ability to let anybody express themselves through her music, to meditate on life’s injustices and pitfalls. It’s okay to be mad; it’s okay to rest and take care of yourself as much as you need to. We just have to rely on each other to get back into the fight. It feels like a lot of my favourite records from the past decade are imbued with themes of darkness and isolation. Fortunately, I still have Solange to let myself vent out those frustrations. Whether it’s the strings on the beginning of “Cranes in the Sky” that remind me to slow down or the horns projected behind Master P’s stoic orations that fuel my determination to keep afloat, A Seat at the Table plays like an instruction manual for self-care, black empowerment, and righteous activism. It’s consoling to know that I’m not alone in distracting myself from everything that’s wrong with the world today. 2016 was such an appropriate time for this record to be released. Solange gave us hope, grace, stoicism, and the ability to heal and recharge. A Seat at the Table may be a personal record to Solange, but as she sings on “F.U.B.U.,” this shit is for us.

4. Chance the Rapper — Acid Rap

It’s odd to say that my favourite rap record of the decade comes in the form of pop rap album Acid Rap. In making this list, I thought about the obvious greats in My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy or Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City. In the end, Chance’s second mixtape brought me more joy than any of those records did. It gave me the cringiest but most pleasurable musical moments with the homies singing along to tracks like “Cocoa Butter Kisses” and “Pusha Man.” Releasing it independently and as a free download, Chance’s spoken-word idiosyncrasies reveal themselves as classic pop rap gems by the end of the decade. Chance’s whole thing was just about pure positivity and having fun. The era of albums I could compare to it was during the release of Kanye’s College Dropout and Late Registration, a time when Kanye (sort of) envisioned the anti-stereotype in rappers, countering the machismo and toxic masculinity found in a lot of hip-hop now and back then (RIP old Kanye). Chance didn’t care about getting bitches or getting money. He just wanted to do drugs with his friends — to trip out on acid and go on a spiritual journey with all of us. Hidden beneath the positivity, Chance still creeps in a dash of realism and humanity on tracks like “Paranoia,” illustrating the life of gang-banging in his hometown of Chicago. It’s the earnestness in his raps that always pulls me back, the flourishes of piano when he raps “I lean back then spark my shit / I turn up I talk my shit / hope you love all my shit / I hope you love all my shit / IGH.” It turns out, as he declares on the outro, Everything’s Good.

3. Alex G — DSU

On DSU, time stops. The cult of Alex G is now cemented in indie rock lore at the end of the decade with eight albums full of hooks, dreams, and shattered spirits. DSU was the first record I listened to by Alex G, and remains my favourite by his despite him going on to release better conceptual records in Rocket and House of Sugar. No track can be skipped or listened to passively. With most of them springing under the 2–3 minute mark, ideas flow in and out without direction but coalesce into an impressionistic and breathtaking work of art. Hints of Elliott Smith and Isaac Brock echo in the duality of harsh guitar distortion and melodious pop hooks. Guitar feedback never felt so comforting as it colours the magnificence of Alex G’s composition. There’s a kind of deep melancholy in each track despite the ambiguous surrealism lyrics, a perfect winter record to listen to alone in your room or walk through the piles of snow in the night. Its murky yet lush production somehow reaches out to you, helps you drown in its depths and remain there for its 37 minutes. Whether it’s “Skipper” fully attuning you to its hushed presence, or the entrancing opener of “After Ur Gone,” I just feel like I want to close my eyes and immerse myself in there for as long as it allows me to.

2. Frank Ocean — Blonde

Frank Ocean’s Blonde arrived as a gift from the heavens. For five years, my friends and I have joked and memed about when the new Frank was coming out — whether it was even ever going to come out. Years after its release, it has evolved into the masterpiece that I’ve always wanted him to create. When Endless came out, I felt somewhat disappointed at the material — although later served as the perfect complement to Blonde — because of its lack of sensual pieces similar to those on Channel Orange’s effortless RnB and the latter record’s penchant for easy sing-alongs. Blonde in turn revealed a similar mood: the spacious vapour that fogged up behind Ocean’s intimate croon, the volatility in his voice that permeated your soul — it felt like an emotional load that was difficult to bare, yet something necessary that had to be experienced. I was just getting into my first intimate relationship when Blonde came out, and it’s made me realize how much I wanted to make that person happy, and that I couldn’t take any relationship I had for granted. I felt heavy after listening to this record. The sadboi hours memes ring true to its emotional weight. I would flutter to the arpeggios of “Ivy” as Frank sings “I thought that I was dreamin’ when you said you love me,” bop to the duality of “Nights,” and shed a tear to the wistfulness of “Godspeed.” I wonder how much shit Frank had to go through to even get any of these songs on tape. It’s okay. I like to think think that by the end of it all, Blonde was the catharsis he needed to spill his heart out.

1. Tame Impala — Lonerism

At the end of the decade, seeing Kevin Parker as one of the most highly-touted producers and songwriters in pop music would be an observation if you had asked me a decade ago, when Tame Impala’s first record Innerspeaker — an expansive work of art that recalled 60’s guitar psychedelia — first came out. On Lonerism, Parker’s music evolved into something even more seismic and innovative in scope. As the name suggests, Lonerism is a product of disaffection, self-defeat, and isolation. I’d imagine it was as fulfilling to other music fans of a type to detach from the world and just get lost in another’s. There’s a part on “Keep on Lying” where an endless guitar solo is played in the midst of a dinner party being played out; that feeling of getting dragged to a party when you were just a kid but just wanted to pop your headphones on and refuse to interact with anybody. According to Parker, he put in the sample to make the listener feel even more alienated. It’s a powerful feeling that lets anyone listening to the record in on that vulnerable sensation. In spite of that, tracks like “Apocalypse Dreams” and “Elephant” still give us astonishing psych rock bangers while pop gems “Music to Walk Home By” and “Feels like We Only Go Backwards” demonstrate Parker’s guitar pedal gymnastics over vibrant hooks. Although Currents has skyrocketed him into the fame and acclaim that he undoubtedly deserves, this record will always be his opus in my heart. I’ve daydreamed enough times to the music where its world has settled into my subconscious. It’s a world that comes from genius, but it’s also a world that invites you in to escape from the idea of Lonerism itself, to have something shared with you in solitude.

#top 10 albums #tame impala #frank ocean #alex g #chance the rapper #solange #iceage #the spirit of the beehive #My Bloody Valentine #album review #lists #earl sweatshirt

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patrick-donovan · 5 years ago

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TEACHER | THATTIEMELT

WHEN: June 2nd, 2020.

WHERE: Thea Hudson’s house.

WHO: Thea Hudson & Patrick Donovan

EVENT: Thea invites Patrick over and lets him use some of her drawing materials and it kinda escalates.

PATRICK: Patrick hadn’t really slept for the past couple of days. It had mostly been because of the whole situation; he didn’t want to go to sleep, because he didn’t want to miss out on any opportunity there might have been, to go home. He was still not feeling completely safe with going to sleep, and had only gotten a few hours here and there. The thought of his parents having to mourn him, absolutely broke his heart. But it meant that he was getting grumpy. No sleep and no appetite made him irritated and even more frustrated that he couldn’t do anything about it.

Unfortunately for him, he’d ended up taking it slightly out on Thea. He hadn’t meant to be so grumpy, but it had just sort of happened; her pushing him to get a job and settle down on the island was something that had ticked him off. He knew he wasn’t in the right for saying some of the things he had, especially not after what Thea had been through, and he felt bad.

He’d just gotten out of the shower when Thea had messaged about the class assignment that Patrick hadn’t signed up for. He was too tired to even consider doing it, not sure if he was in the right mindset for doing such a thing; he was focusing on trying to get off of the island anyway. He’d gotten himself ready after that, and she’d soon invited him over after he’d protested about the way that everything was run, his homesickness, his lack of creativity - and he honestly didn’t understand why. He’d been complaining and yet she still invited him to come over. The girl was truly something else, and Patrick knew that.

Clad in a pair of black jeans, a white t-shirt and a blue denim shirt over, Patrick knocked on the door to Thea’s giant mansion, once again. He rolled up his sleeves as he waited for her to answer, softly biting his bottom lip in anticipation. She had that effect on him.

THEA: Thea had been struggling today to try to help Skylar as much as she could and also just trying to figure out how to get back into her Domme headspace after everything that was going on. It was definitely not the first nor the last time she would probably feel this way. But at the moment she was trying to be a Domme in a nonsexual way. Encouraging Patrick to get a job and not talk poorly, making sure to get Skye to find her hard limits during her recovery.

When she had messaged the male, she didn't realize he was still having these types of thoughts after he had been over yesterday and said nothing about them. It worried her. And she knew it would take time to adjust and figure out what exactly this island was, and the only she probably adjusted so quickly was because of her lifestyle back home and also her siblings being here. And so she figured she needed to show some patience with Patrick. She was hoping that coming over would help.

Thea was back in her everyday fashionable attire, a small skirt and tight top. She had told Skye that Patrick was coming over and she had told her that she would be in her room. Thea made her way downstairs when she heard the door and opened it to find him waiting. "Hey," she said calmly.

PATRICK: It wasn't the first time that it was sort of tense between the Hudson girl and him. There had been many arguments and fights over the past five years of them knowing each other - over silly little things that weren't even relevant. And usually, it was Patrick who would apologize and try to make things good again, hating that weird "distance" between them. But this was different; it wasn't a silly little thing that wasn't relevant. This was incredibly relevant. It was their lives. And Patrick didn't want that tension to be there now. He wanted it to be like yesterday, when his primary goal had been to cheer the girl up, get a laugh out of her and make sure that she'd smiled at least 40 times during his short visit.

He thought he was going to be on a high and float around on a pink sky, after she had kissed him, but his thoughts and brain had screwed him over on that one, when he'd laid down to go to sleep and thought about his parent's Sunday routine. He wanted to feel like he'd just won the lottery, again, but the thoughts inside of his mind were just too heavy.

It kind of disappeared when he saw Thea in front of him though. It was so easy to get caught up in her beauty; that was why it was so easy for Patrick to draw her. A small smile grew on his lips. God, it was so obvious how smitten he was with this girl. He walked up to her and moved in to give her cheek a kiss. "What's up?" He greeted her and pulled away to take a look at her, his smile still there. "Are you okay?"

THEA: Seeing him smile, she thought maybe he could get over this sadness. But she couldn't be with him 24/7 to help him forget that this place wasn't home. Thea missed home a lot too, but she also had a lot of privileges here that she didn't have back home. So, she couldn't quite relate to his sadness for the moment. Thea let him kiss her cheek before walking him a bit more inside to close the doors. "Not much," she said before looking over his expression as she nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just want you to understand, but don't know how I can make you understand. But right now, I think drawing might help relax you, and get you into a better headspace." She said as she gently took his hand. "Skylar doesn't feel like being social, by the way, sorry." She guides him up to her studio area where she had brought out her sketchpad for him.

PATRICK: It was all of the free time that Patrick had, especially when he was alone, that made him think about things; if he was distracted by someone or something else, he was fine. Which was why he so badly needed to paint or draw again. He couldn't take the loneliness and boredom, because it made his mind spiral out of control. He didn't want to feel that way, especially not around Thea. Back in New York, it had been so easy for him to just go and sulk alone whilst painting something, or sketching a random thing down in his book, and it had meant that he wouldn't take it out on anyone else. He couldn't do that here. At least not until his best friend had mentioned the supplies that she had. Thea was completely right. Drawing something would definitely help him relax. "I've always wondered why Van Gogh cut his ear off, y'know? It's making more and more sense to me, these days," His tone was teasing; he knew the original story. And Thea knew Patrick too well, to know that making art would help. He looked down at their hands holding. It had all happened so fast, but Patrick was grateful that he was actually moving into a territory with Thea, where they could share little intimate things like hand-holding and cheek kisses. "No, no, don't apologize. I can always see her, in a couple of days when she's had time to recover," Patrick said, alluding to the fact that he probably wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. He looked at the supplies in front of him; she had it all, but that was probably down to the fact that she had to sketch her designs. "Thank you for doing this, by the way; letting me use your things." He turned to her and smiled softly, his eyes locking with hers. "A knife can only do so much on a plate, it's not quite the same as a pencil or a brush."

THEA: She rolled her eyes, "Now you're being just as dramatic as ever," Thea shook her head before giving a small smile as she wonders what Skylar was doing up in the room she was in anyway. "Yeah, she definitely needs friends surrounding her," she agreed, genuinely worried for sister's well-being. It felt like Skye was saying something without saying anything when she had told her that Patrick was here. So, now she just would live how she would until told what exactly was wrong, if anything actually was wrong after all. Shutting the door behind the two of them so that way the noise wouldn't bother her sister. She watched Patrick take in the space as she smiled and gave a small shrug. There were two desks, one with her fabrics and sewing machine the other one for sketching. She grabbed the seat from the desk filled with fabrics. There was a half-finished outfit on the mannequin but still so much more space. "Oh, c'mon, why would I keep this away from you? I've got some watercolors and colored pencils if you want to have at those as well." She let her eyes look into his, "Well it's a good thing that I have both of those then," she gives a soft smile before standing back up to grab a few more materials out for him. "So, just draw what you feel and get your catharsis."

PATRICK: "Does that come as a surprise to you?" Patrick asked, a small smirk lurking on his lips. Thea helped him tremendously to feel better, but he knew that he couldn't rely on her. She was someone who had been there, in his life, for such a long time, and they had done so many things together, so she had become this beacon a positivity in Patrick's adventures on the island, reminding him of all the good things that were there. "How do people treat her here, do you know? Other than the whole Switch thing that's apparently offensive to someone," he paused, rolling his eyes at the thought. It was ridiculous. "She's not got beef with anyone, right?" Patrick asked her, biting down on the inside of his lip. That had been another thing that had kept him awake; worrying about Skye and the attack, if he was in any danger at all. He sat down at the desk with all of the drawing materials and was ready to just get going and actually make something now. "Just wait and see, I'm gonna create some magic here." Before too long, the pencil was hard at work on the paper, lines coming into existence, slowly letting a figure take form. Patrick's face scrunched up as he concentrated, his jaw clenching and unclenching as his eyes stayed focused on the piece of paper. The figure was slowly coming to life, and with one last line going across, Patrick breathed out, satisfied with his work. Then he ripped the piece of paper out and was about to give it to Thea. Maybe he shouldn't? Maybe it was for the best if he didn't. Clenching his jaw again, he made a decision to go against his doubt, and he leaned over to give it to Thea. It showed her sat with her head in her hands, clearly upset. He'd only seen hee like that once - when Skylar had disappeared, back in New York. She was so good at keeping it together and not show anyone her vulnerability, but that moment had struck a chord in his memory, and the image of her sat like that, in total despair, had remained.

THEA: "I suppose it shouldn't be at this point," she said with a small smile before she felt herself tense a bit when the conversation came to her sister. "I mean...she doesn't really like talking to most people in general." Thea gives a shrug and shake of her head, "Um not really, not that I know of, why?" She asked not seeing what the relevance was. But she decided to add, "You know, she would probably be a good person to talk to about being a Switch and helping you figure things out as a Switch," she adds not wanting to put Skye on the spot right now while she was still recovering, but thinking it would be smart for them to know they were in this together. Once she was done placing everything down, she laughed at Patrick's comment, "Alright, alright, let's see what you got." She said before watching him a moment as he was in the mode. She had seen that face various times and it was odd to see it now, in this whole different place. While she waited, she did a sketch of her own, a dress she had been thinking about for a couple of days now. She didn't quite finish it when she heard the paper rip out and she looked back towards him. She watched his hesitancy, confused as to what exactly he was worried about as he had given her plenty of his sketches before. Leaning over to take the paper she looked at it and her heart sunk as she looked at it. It made her look weak and helpless. She remained silent for a moment before giving it back to him. "Why did you draw that?"

PATRICK: Patrick had met Skye only a handful of times through Thea; it was inevitable since they lived together in New York, and Patrick sometimes came over. He liked the girl and her sass - it seemed to be a trademark of the Hudson sisters, and Patrick enjoyed that. He shrugged his shoulders at her question, that being the answer. "I was just wondering," yeah, wondering if they could somehow figure out who had done all of this and punish them for the crime that they had committed. And not punish them the way that Matthias had punished Patrick for not including titles when speaking to him. "I know that she can take care of herself, she's like you," his hand moved up to pinch his nose quickly, his gaze falling to the floor. "You're both really independent. Stubborn. But that's a given," a small smile lingered as he looked up at her after he'd said that. "But that's not enough for anyone to have a grudge against someone," Patrick knew that it came down to the whole Switch thing, everyone had said so themselves. It seemed like they were specifically targeted for some reason. "What's so wrong about being a Switch here?" He asked her, his eyebrows furrowing.

Patrick kept his eyes on Thea, wanting to see her expression. He knew that she didn't want to be seen in that kind of "negative" way, but Patrick found it beautiful. It resonated with him. "Because that's how I feel," he said, not hesitating that time. Maybe it was how she felt as well, after everything with Skye? He didn't know, he didn't want to just assume her feelings. But he knew that the hopelessness that her posture represented in that drawing was exactly how he felt about being on the island. Quietly, he turned back to the desk and started the next one. He could feel the tension and anger leave his body with each line he drew.

THEA: Thea gave a small nod as she adds, "She may be able to take care of herself, but it doesn't mean she shouldn't have to do this all alone, but I know that's not what you meant." She gave a small smile as he complimented her resilience, letting out a little bit of a laugh. "Yes, it's just in our DNA," she agrees before turning a bit more serious. She shook her head and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Hey, the people who think that it's wrong? They are the ones who are in the wrong. They're the problem. They think that just because Switches weren't one of the original marks you could have and it's only about Doms and Subs in a relationship that one person can't be both. And they're stupid and I hate them." She said as she started to feel a bit more anger about what happened to her sister, but tried to release that tension as it wasn't going to help Patrick.

When he told her that the reason he drew it was because it was how he felt, she felt her heart hurt as she leaned forward a bit and kissed the side of his forehead. "I'm sorry, Pattie," she said softly as he goes back to drawing. She once again also turns back to her own sketch, figuring out what type of material she would want for it as she erased a few little details and corrected them.

PATRICK: "Yeah, no, definitely not. It's a good thing that she's got you, Thee," He told her. She probably knew that already, but he wanted to tell her. He was so proud of her, how she'd gone out of her way to make sure that her sister wasn't alone at any point in time, making sure that she was safe in her home, and seemingly dealing with crap from other people on top of it all. It was a lot, and he wanted her to know that she'd done an amazing job. She was using her stubbornness for something that benefitted both of the girls. Patrick listened to her as she explained. It didn't make sense to him, how people could care about something so much that they would harm another person. To Patrick, compassion was one of the most important things in life. His lips went into a straight line and he shook his head in pure anger, disappointed that it was such a problem. "But, it means that I could potentially offend someone, just because of my preferences?" It was the kind of danger that Patrick couldn't be bothered to deal with, it wasn't anyone's problem but his own, and it didn't make much of a difference to anyone else's life. Knowing that someone had taken it personally and almost like a threat to them, and then taken it out on poor Skylar broke his heart.

Thea's kiss was welcomed. He didn't want her to feel sorry for him, because he wasn't the type of person to be pitied, but the kiss caused a wave of reassurance through his body; he knew that, even if he didn't have his family, he did have her. She was important to him. He appreciated the gesture. "You don't have to apologize," He told her softly, his dark brown eyes finding her hazel ones. "This is helping, a lot." He said, gesturing to the art. He was really thankful that she'd let him use her things for now, until he got a job and a steady income to buy his own supplies.

Patrick's style when drawing was more realistic, than when he painted; they were considered to be abstract expressionism, and he was moody and aggressive when he painted. Drawing was different. He paid attention to details in his drawings, and while they were quicker to do and didn't require a whole lot of brain power, it was good practice for him, and it stimulated him in ways that only sex really could. Looking over to his side, Patrick took in Thea's features as she sat there. The way her jawline curved sharply, her long eyelashes curling upwards, her round cheeks and those damn lips; they were red and full, and something that Patrick wanted to feel against his own again. If he tried hard enough, he could still feel the way his lips had been buzzing, when he’d walked home after their make-out session.

After a while, Patrick had produced yet another drawing, this time of Thea in the moment, and the way that she had been concentrating on her own work. He once again ripped the paper out and placed it on the table. He was getting pumped about feeling creative again. Leaning over, Patrick peeked at the work that the girl was doing. He looked serious as he said, “That fabric makes me itch, you’re not getting me into that,” He joked deadpan, but wasn’t able to hold it for much longer and soon enough cracked a smile. He got up from his seat and walked up to stand behind her, his hands moving into her hair as he pulled it back gently. Then he leaned down, his lips almost ghosting her ear. “But you can get me out of this.” He whispered, referencing to his clothes. It was a typical Patrick-move.

THEA: Thea felt her anger starting to get to her about the whole subject as it had a few nights ago. It made her want to punch a wall and burn down houses and break shit and even then it wouldn't have been enough at the moment because her sister was not okay and the guy who did this to her still could be out there. "Fuck the people that are offended by your mark, Patrick. They mean less than nothing. Don't go near them if you can help it," she warned him as she wanted to leave the subject at that.

She said gently, "I know I don't have to apologize, but I wouldn't want anyone to feel the way I felt that day or any of the worst days of my life." Thea commented as she kept her eyes on him. She gave a small smile, rubbing at the back of his head for a moment before nodding, "I'm glad it's helping," she said to Patrick as she felt a proud feeling of at least she was doing something right.

After a bit more time of perfect the look of the lace on the dress she thought that maybe it was done and with perfect timing too as she heard the sound of paper ripping once again. She looked over at the drawing with a smile. Patrick had sketched plenty of similar things of her, probably to the point that he could fit a whole art gallery with them. She had kept all of them in a shoe box in her apartment. If she was having a bad day she would look through them and it would help. She wondered what happened to that box now.

She saw that his eyes wandered over to her sketch, and she looked up at him and said in a matching tone, "Well then it's a good thing it's not for you," Thea retorted before she watched him get up, feeling his presence now behind her, his hands moving through her hair. She felt the heat of his body move closer towards hers as he whispered in her ear, telling her to take off his clothes. If Thea was a Submissive, she would have melted, yet she was not and she turned her head to look at him, "I promised my sister it would only be kissing today."

PATRICK: Patrick hated the discrimination that existed. If he absolutely had to be sucked into a pocket dimension, couldn't he have been sucked into one where all these social problems didn't exist? He didn't want to talk about it anymore, he knew that nothing good was going to come out of it, unless he found a way to revolt against all of it, and even then, he relied on hope that it would actually work, and that he wouldn't get punished. The latter result seemed to be more possible than anything else. "I won't. I'm good at taking care of myself, and I don't plan on getting hurt by anyone."

Smiling softly, Patrick almost purred at the feeling of her hand at the back of his head. The way she touched him made something within him feel more alive. Like she'd turned a switch on and electricity was flying through his body. He was a big fan of that feeling. She had a way of making him feel comfortable and safe. "You're helping," He softly corrected her, smiling.

Slightly disappointed that his flirting wasn't working wonders on the girl, he had to remind himself that she had been immune to his charms from day one, for several years. Not everyone would melt under his touch, and he knew that, but after years of pretty much getting what he wanted, it still felt like a slap in the face when he got rejected. Shrugging his shoulders, he moved to kneel down beside her. "I'll happily take what I can get," He said, remembering how her kisses had been one of the highlights of the past couple of days. He want content with that decision, so he leaned up, one hand on her knee and his other hand moving up and under her hair and to the back of her head to pull her in for a deep kiss, finally connecting his lips with hers.

THEA: She was thankful that they didn't have to talk anymore about it. And once Patrick had finished his first painting he was starting feeling better. A small smile went on her lips as he corrected her statement, letting him her know that the act of painting wasn't the only thing that was helping, but that she was in general helping him. Thea let out a small sigh of relief at that.

But it wasn't until after the second painting that he started to get a bit antsy. Thea watched over his expression and grinned as he knelt down. "See, you are starting to get the idea a bit," she teases at the way he was on his knees. Although she felt a bit odd with him him trying to take charge. She leaned forward to kiss him in return. Her hands moving to his shoulders as she slides her tongue instantly into the kiss, thinking of the drawings he had just been doing for her as she makes out with him.

PATRICK: There was this give-and-take relationship between the two of them that made sense and worked. He'd tried being there for her, when she'd found out about Skylar, and now, she was there for him, letting him do this thing and helping him express his thoughts and feelings. Granted, he'd only drawn two pictures, and they were both of Thea, he figured they were both a good representation of what it was like for him, at the moment. She'd been more supportive than he could ever have dreamt of.

But there was still that adjustment that he had to make to the whole thing. She was a Domme, and he knew that. She wanted to be in charge, and he was flexible, only really caring about pleasing her and doing what she wanted, so she could be satisfied. But he also wanted to show her how grateful he was, how much he'd missed her, even if it had only been a couple of days they'd gone without speaking to one another. He wanted to let her know that he had this love and affection for her, and that he had a hard time expressing that outside of art and sex. That was why he had kissed her and initiated this make-out session. That was why he muttered the next thing. "Teach me?"

With a sharp intake of breath, Patrick felt her tongue against his. He felt a flutter in his stomach, and the skin on the back of her neck felt like silk under his fingertips. He moved his hand to cup her cheek, as his lips danced with hers, and his body leaned further and further into hers, wanting, no, needing to be closer with her.

THEA: Thea was enjoying kissing him, he told her to teach him and it was all she could do to rip off all his clothes right now and teach him a lesson on being a Submissive sexually. But Thea also felt like he may need a lesson on what it meant to be nonsexually too. She didn't know how to reel this back in. He already knew her as a friend, as equals. But now she would have to figure out how to discern between the two. She was able to do it with Kurt, but then again they were never sexual. Thea thought how it was a good thing that Patrick and her had not been sexual yet. "Do you want to be my little bitch?" She murmured against his lips.

She sat in her chair still, enjoying the fact that Patrick was on his knees as she was happy to kiss him, but Thea only pulled her lips away when she felt that need to breathe. But then she looked down at him. "If I teach you, you have to listen and take in what I say. Understood?" She said while looking down at him, "You have to learn how to be good."

PATRICK: Patrick had always enjoyed being dominated in the bedroom; it rarely happened, because of the people that he slept with were naturally submissive to him, when he initiated things, but the few times that someone had taken charge, he'd been absolutely ecstatic. To hear Thea speak to him like that was new and something that he didn't expect, but he didn't hate it. Even if they were just kissing for now, he couldn't help but find it incredibly hot - whatever she wanted to do with him, he would do. He nodded into the kiss, happy to oblige. "Please," He sighed. "Make me your bitch."

Both of his hands had moved down to her thighs, slowly rubbing them. The fabric of Thea's skirt slipped out of his fingers every now and again and he could feel her soft her skin was, but he didn't dare to go under her skirt, not when she'd wanted them to stay at a safe level, and just kiss. He looked up at her, his smile having faded as he listened intently. "I understand. I'll be good, Miss Hudson." This time, he didn't have a problem with saying it, because this was different. This was him being willing to learn, seeking it out, and not being forced to do anything that he wasn't ready for.

THEA: She kissed with even more passion as he seemed to want to learn what it really meant to be in a Dominant/Submissive styled relationship. Thea had expected at some point he would figure it out, but it was a lot sooner than she had expected. Thea was definitely collecting Switch bitches now it seemed. The only thing she was nervous for now was how this might affect their friendship. But it was obvious they were bringing things to the next level anyway as she had her tongue in his mouth.

Thea felt his hands and tried her best not to feel wet, but her body couldn't help but reacting, but she wouldn't show that to Patrick. She wouldn't indulge him with that quite yet. When she looked over his face, a smirk rising on her lips, "Good bitch," she said softly before standing up so she was towering over him. "Now, before every scene starts, a Dominant will ask for you safe words, your hard limits, and sometimes your soft limits. Tell me yours."

PATRICK: To go from friends for so many years, to suddenly kissing and now to him being Submissive to her was a drastic change. He hadn't seen it coming at all, but he didn't mind it. It made him focus his energy on that, instead of him being stuck on the island. There was still a huge amount of fear that this was ruining their friendship. It was one of the things he'd thought about when he'd returned home after their first make-out sesh. He didn't want to lose Thea, and while he figured that they were both adult enough to completely destroy their friendship, he was still absolutely terrified about what would happen. Patrick was normally really chill, and took things one day at a time, not one for worrying about things in advance, but with Thea it was different, because he actually valued their friendship a lot.

She looked so powerful as she stood there in front of him, her long and lean legs right there for him to touch and kiss. But he didn't. He remained calm, following her orders of keeping it strictly to kissing. "My safe word is 'Voodoo'. I don't do anything that involves bodily fluids, like watersports, scat or vomit," He let out a deep breath, his eyes raking over her body. He wanted to touch her so badly, he could feel his fingers itching to do so. "I might be okay with letting you peg me at some point, but not today, Miss." Licking his lips, he moved his eyes upwards to finally connect with hers. "How can I satisfy you?"

THEA: Thea looked down at him as she gave a nod as she listened to his words. She moved to pet his face a bit, a bigger grin moving across his face as he told her he would be interested in pegging. "Well, I do enjoy getting my dick out for special bitches," she smirks as she moves her fingers to stroke under his chin for a moment as she shook her head. "Well, we won't be doing anything sexual today, but don't you worry, I'll keep that in mind. I think your heart might explode if you saw me naked, so we'll work up to it." She teases Patrick a bit before sliding her hand down the side of his face. "I want you to think of a title that you would like to call me while you are my Submissive, that is your first task."

PATRICK: Patrick let out a light moan at the feeling of her fingers. It felt like they sent sparks through his body, and he was melting under her touch. "And I'm a special bitch?" Patrick asked her, a soft smirk on his face. He wanted to hear it, even if she'd implied it. He was almost drooling at the thought of her being naked, and it really wasn't fair that she was just dangling it in front of him. What the hell was he supposed to do with the growing boner in his tight jeans? He couldn't just whip out his dick and jerk off right then and there, that didn't feel right. Instead, he snapped out of it and paid attention to the Domme. "Just the anticipation of it..." He started out, biting down on his bottom lip softly at the thought of it. "Well, let's just say that I'm glad that I jerked off in the shower, before coming here. If I hadn't, then there would've been a major cum stain on these jeans right now." It wasn't because he had problems in that department - no, Thea would've heard about that from her friends if he did. It was more a testiment to how fucking sexy she was. He hummed lightly and leaned into her touch. "I do enjoy calling you Miss, even if it didn't seem that way a couple of days ago," he said, referencing to his stubbornness about not wanting to give into any control. "Would it be okay if I called you 'Miss'?"

THEA: She looked at him for a moment before giving a very light slap to his face, "That is yet to be found out yet, my sweet bitch." Thea said teasingly as she looked down at him, seeing a bulge start to form in his pants at even the mention of her naked. "Yes...anticipation," she said eyes his groin before letting her slowly come between his legs and run up his crotch before bringing it back to her other foot. "Oh is that so, little bitch? Tell me what you thought about while you were jerking off in the shower," she let her eyes meet his as she watched him like he was a kitten rubbing up against her touch begging for more. Her thumb rubbed against his lower lip as she thought, "Hmm, I was thinking more creative, like 'my muse'." Her eyes glinting with joy and power all at once.

PATRICK: The slap took him by surprise. God, if he had known that she was like that, before coming to this island, he would've tried way harder to get into her pants. His smirk turned to a surprised smile, his mouth slightly open. Who knew she had it in her? It wasn't long before the smile on his lips turned into a genuinely surprised and perfectly shaped "O" and he gasped. The sensation that he felt on his crotch made him almost fall over, and he had to put a hand on the floor in order to keep his balance. Why were jeans so fucking stupid and always in the way? He wanted to be free of them. He could barely think straight, having difficulty getting an answer out. "I- hnng..." He was lost for words until she finally stopped teasing him, and he let a deep breath out, not knowing he'd held it in. Then he straightened back up and looked up at her again. "I was thinking about you," his voice came out in heavy breaths and he licked his lips. "And that little red dress that you used to wear, whenever we went out with the group. And how it'd slide up... That, mixed with your kisses and you straddling me." Patrick revealed, not caring that he was sharing all the details. He saw the expression on her face and how it'd lit up. He liked seeing that. "You're right, 'my muse' is 110% better. I apologize."

THEA: Seeing how he reacted, she could tell he was turned on and that only made her more excited. Thea watched his facial expression change almost instantly as her foot went between his legs and she could see just how easily she could tease him. Seeing how he couldn't even focus as she felt him up. She felt herself tingling between her own legs, but she would deal with that later. Right now it was about torturing Patrick. Thea gave a nod as he spoke. "Oh really? Were you a naughty bitch? Would you peek to see if I had anything on under my dress? I bet you enjoyed that, the feeling of me on top of you. Who knows, maybe the next time that happens it'll be because you're inside me," she teases him as her fingers go from his lips into his thick hair. "That's what I thought, bitch." Her hand moved to the back of his head, tugging at his hair to bring his head up more, "Do you enjoy how I'm talking to you?"

PATRICK: One moment, he had been quietly drawing, trying to get his mojo back after feeling frustrated and angry, and now, he was on his knees, so incredibly close to begging for some sort of release. Nodding, a slight blush crept up on his cheeks. He hadn't actually meant to look at her and check, but there had been times where it had been obvious to him; those were the nights where he would also feel a little jealous, knowing that she probably planned on going home with anyone, but him. "I liked it when you wore the black thong," he admitted, still wanting to show her a little bit of respect. He'd enjoyed it when she'd gone commando too, but he was still a gentleman, and he wanted to show that, despite it not being very gentleman-like to say. "I truly hope so. My hand is great, but if your kisses are anything to go by, then you're even better. Perfection, even," Patrick mused, already dreaming about the moment where he'd be inside of her. God, he hoped that'd be soon! He groaned quietly when she tugged on his curls and he moved up slightly. "I do," He groaned out again. "I do, my muse. I love it."

THEA: Thea could see just how excited he was for her. She raised a brow as he mentioned her thong and knew exactly what he was talking about. She actually purposely wore it knowing it would rile Patrick up, especially letting it ride up her body when it was in view of him. The brunette slid her hands away from him and towards her skirt, sliding the cloth up her body slowly to reveal a black thong, "You mean this one?" She grinned before letting the material fall back down again. Thea gave a small shrug before saying, "I've been told I've been the hottest sex someone has ever had on multiple occasions." Thea smiled at the small noise that came from his lips. Loving the new name he was calling her, and the fact that he enjoyed feeling having her be in control only made her think that this could work out. "Good bitch," she said as she let go of his hair and went back to normal Thea. "And that's just a little taste of a lesson of me being a Domme." She said with a sly grin.

PATRICK: Patrick watched as Thea's hands moved up her legs, her skirt following. He didn't blink or look away, or anything; his focus remained on the girl's legs. His breath hitched in the back of his throat when he finally got a peek of the black fabric, barely covering anything, and it had to take him everything he could to not just grab her, push her down on the table and have his way with her right then and there. But he didn't. He was going to be a good boy, and submit to her. "Yeah, that's the one," he told her, swallowing hard. And then it was all over again, thankfully. Another second of seeing that, and Patrick would've leapt up immediately. "I believe them," he managed to croak out, not sure how he hadn't started touching himself yet. He was quite impressed with himself. And then all of a sudden, she switched back to normal, and Patrick almost got a little bit sad. He'd enjoyed it. But he also knew that it couldn't continue, if she wanted him to just stay kissing her and do nothing else. "Fucking hell, Thee," Patrick sighed and let himself fall back onto the floor. His cock was twitching in his pants, he could feel it. A hand went to rest on his forehead as he closed his eyes for a second to take it all in. "That's so fucking hot," he told her, before looking up at her from his position on the floor. "But what am I gonna do about this mess?" Patrick asked her, pointing to the bulge in his jeans. He needed a release, it would just be pure torture if nothing happened.

THEA: She felt so evil but yet so good all at once as she teased her friend by showing off her underwear. He was malfunctioning and it was all just so delicious. He could barely talk or even think it seemed like. Although she was surprised at how well he was controlling himself. Even though she could tell he was eager from his facial expressions and his words, the way he stood still, it made it even more aware how obedient he could be. But she could tell if she went any further he might have a stroke. A laugh left her lips as he went to the ground. She saw how hard he still was and looked down at him with a nod, "It is right? You were really good. Very good self control." When he asked her what he was going to do about his boner, she grinned before she expertly slid off her black thong coated with her own anticipation and tossed it down at his face. "Suffer," she said teasingly as brought her foot down towards his crotch and rubs up against with a bit of pressure.

PATRICK: Patrick wanted to show Thea that this was worth it, that he was worth it. He knew that she may have had her doubts about him being a Submissive, but he figured that had been because he'd put up a fight earlier, with both her and Matthias. He didn't like being told what to do, he didn't enjoy being controlled - unless he asked for it. Unless he actually wanted that, then there was no way in hell that he wasn't going to rebel against it all, just a little bit. But he was proud of himself when she praised him. He could be very obedient when he wanted to be. Before he knew it, she was peeling off her underwear, and then it landed on his face. His hand moved up to it, but he didn't remove it. Instead, he took in the sweet, delicious scent that was Thea. "You smell amazi-" he groaned out, interrupting himself when he felt her foot on his crotch. "Fuuuck..." He hissed and closed his eyes, his breathing harder. "Please," Patrick moaned. "More."

THEA: Thea was watching him on the ground, watching as he inhaled her scent and it only turned her on more. His reaction to her foot only made her even more excited. But, she had promised her sister that it wouldn't be anything more. She had teased Patrick so much now, yet she enjoyed the thought of making him leave with a massive boner. Her foot pet up against him once before she took her foot away and said, "Alright, alright, I expect to see you soon as I know you'll most definitely be wanting more." She smiles down at him, giving him a wink.

PATRICK: His eyes rolled to the back of his at the sensation. Though there were two layers of fabric between her foot and his dick, the pressure that she was putting down on it was enough to make him moan out. He wanted to grab something, needing to hold onto something, so he couldn't help himself when his hand found her calf and his fingers wrapped around it. It wasn't to remove it or take control, he just needed to support himself on something. And then all of a sudden, it was over. Her foot was off of him again. He groaned, absolutely frustrated that he wasn't getting a release. A heavy puff escaped his lips as he sat back up straight and looked up at her. "You're definitely going to be the death of me, Thea Hudson."

THEA: He was practically writhing, and Thea felt his hand come up to her in pleasure and she just really couldn't help herself with teasing him. She could see his frustration and laughed a bit as she watched him collapse once more before sitting up. She gave him a little pout at his words, "Aw Pattie Melt, I'm sorry. Like I told you, I promised Skye." Thea held out a hand for him to take to stand back up again, not wanting him to leave just yet, but also knowing if he stayed any longer she absolutely would be fucking him.

PATRICK: Patrick accepted Thea's hand, and stood back up, finally getting to look right into those hazel eyes of hers. He was still trying to catch his breath after what had happened, but he was calming down slowly. His dick, however, was not. It was still eager to escape the prison that it was encaged in. He heard her words, and knew that he needed to just go home and masturbate, like he'd previously done. She was making his balls blue, that was for sure, but it also made him want even more. He just had to be patient. "I get it, don't worry," Patrick told her, a soft smile. He understood, but that didn't mean he wasn't suffering. "I'm gonna go home and...take care of things," Patrick teased, leaning in to kiss her lips. He bit down on her bottom lip, smirking. "I might send you a picture." And with that, he pulled away and turned to walk towards the door.

THEA: She smiled as she looked back at him, letting her fingers linger with his a moment before taking her hand away. Glad he wasn't being pushy with her, because that would have totally turned her off. She was surprised to how well this experiment had gone, and was looking forward to testing his limits even more as he learned his role. She let out a small laugh as he said he was going to go take care of things. When he bit on her lower lip, her hand moved to smack his face as she knew that would turn him on. "You better, bitch." Thea murmured as he started to leave, she cleared her throat, "I believe you're forgetting your present." She said scooping up the thong that was on the ground and dangling it in front of his face.

PATRICK: The slap made him groan at first, but then grin. She really wasn't helping the situation, and now he had to walk all the way back with a huge boner. Something about it turned Patrick on though; knowing that she had the control over him. He was already looking forward to the next time he would be seeing her; even if it didn't involve any foreplay or other sexual antics. Hearing her, he looked over and saw the thong. Another grin grew on his face, and he walked back, delicately taking it away from her. Leaning in, Patrick still wore the grin, and growled lightly before pecking her lips again. "Call me."

#f2f002 #[ thea : muse & adonis ]#f2f

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bettsfic · 6 years ago

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reading advice (for writers)

you know those posts that are like, “remember when we used to read books and now we all have no attention span because of the internet.” then there’s the very contrived advice that’s like, “if you want to be a writer you have to read”??

well i think they’re completely true but they also really suck, and we of the youngish adult writers of 2018 have it pretty hard, especially those of us in fandom who enjoy reading fanfic more than original fic because it’s mostly tagged properly and possesses the emotional catharsis we’re looking for, pretty much guaranteed.

that said, i think it’s really important -- whether you write fanfic, ofic, or both -- to read traditionally published work, in part because it can help better inform your fanfic, but also because it will help develop your writing overall. and if you’re interested in ofic, it’s pretty much a necessity to read.

so, i just graduated from an MFA program in creative writing, and contrary to popular opinion, the MFA does not actually teach you how to write. it gives you space to write, and mostly, it teaches you how to read as a writer.

so here is everything i’ve learned about reading as a writer over the past two years:

you do not have to read anything you don’t want to read

part of the problem with “read everything you can!” advice is that there is a lot of stuff out there, and a ton of it doesn’t jive with your interests. moreover, there’s a kind of pressure to read the Classics just to say you’ve read them when in fact a lot of them are boring, irrelevant, and dare i say overrated. so here is me giving you permission: you don’t have to pick up Hemingway or Faulkner or whoever else to be a good writer. life is too short to force yourself to read dead white dudes.

if a book doesn’t grab you by the first 10%, put it down

this is what has helped me more than anything else as a reader, because i found i would commit myself to a boring book and then never want to read it, so i would stop reading for months at a time. so, when you pick out a book, go to the last page and check the number. promise yourself you’ll read 10% of the book. 400 pages? read to page 40 and ask yourself, “do i really want to turn the page? if i put this book down, would i want to pick it back up again later?” if the answer is no, return it to the library or wherever you got it. try the next book in your pile. your TBR list is long; be merciless.

but if you want to make it look like you read the book...

commit to 25%. then go to the wikipedia article, read the plot summary, and fast forward to the last 10-15 pages. bam. you’ve more or less read the book. bonus points if you watch the movie, too. so if you’re really committed to reading Ulysses or whatever but you don’t want to slog through it, you can digest enough to be able to hold a conversation about it in a few hours and move on with your life. you can even pretend you enjoyed it and found it a formative reading experience that helped shape your understanding of the work of fiction, really, absolutely groundbreaking, etc etc. this is especially helpful if you find yourself anywhere in the literary sphere because other writers will expect you to be familiar with the canon.

read selfishly and take tools from everything you read

when you read anything, even the stuff you don’t like, ask yourself, “what tools can i take for my own writing?” let’s say you really love the plot structure -- write it down somewhere so you remember to try it out for your own story. if you love the lyricism of the sentences, find a few sentences you really like and jot them down by hand, inspect what about them makes you love them so much. steal aspects of characters you admire, pacing, conflict, stakes. steal as much as you can without stealing the words themselves. you can even use this for things you don’t like by rephrasing the question: “what is it about this story i would like to avoid in my own work?” pivot every single thing you read to be about you and your writing. take notes. mark up and highlight your book if you have to. reading as a writer is not a passive activity but an active one. you’re not being entertained, you’re learning. so let published works teach you.

carve time out of your day to read

at 7pm every day, i put my phone down and pick up an actual physical book. this is my personal preference -- i have no beef at all with ebooks, but honestly, i get so tired of staring at lit screens all day, and paper books without the distraction of my phone is such a nostalgic feeling for me, back when i was 14 and the library was my second home and if someone wanted my attention they had to call me on a landline. if you had the same upbringing, dedicating some time to read a physical book will do you wonders. if ebooks are your thing, it’s still important to schedule reading time for yourself, not as an obligation to uphold, but as something to do that’s good for you and that you enjoy.

write letters to your favorite authors!!

seriously. if you love a book, let the author know. they will not be annoyed or upset. they will be thrilled. it’s a good way to network with other writers, and it’s a great practice of literary citizenship.

when someone recommends a book to you, ask why

this is something i’ve only recently learned to do, as someone who gets book recommendations pretty much constantly. if the person knows you decently, i don’t think it’s out of line to ask, “what would i specifically like about this?” because then that will tell if you if the person is only recommending it because they like it, not because they think you’ll like it. if the person knows your writing, it’s fair to ask, “how is this book in conversation with my work?” so you have a head start in the kinds of tools you’ll want to take from it.

follow your aesthetic instincts

as a writer, honing your aesthetic will always be one of your highest aims, which means constantly seeking out writers whose aesthetics you admire and analyzing what it is you admire about it. “aesthetic” is kind of a vague term, but it refers to your overall vibe -- the things you write about and why you write about them. my aesthetic is more or less “midwestern class warfare meets sexual identity crises with a lot of dark humor,” so i tend to look for other writers who share facets of that aesthetic and i inspect what’s working for them, where they publish, what their influences are, etc. i try to read both within my aesthetic but also far outside of it too. for example, i love historical fiction but i know i’ll never, ever write it. but i appreciate the aesthetic, and i can take tools from it like dedication to detail, internal conflicts, etc.

read short fiction (please)

this is my personal plea. short stories are a great way to find authors whose work is in conversation with yours, so that you can then go check out their novels with a good idea already of what you like about them. short stories are all over the internet via literary and genre mags. they’re a much smaller commitment than novels and tend to have just as much emotional impact (if done well) as novels. more importantly you’ll always have recs for your friends, and it’s a lot easier getting someone to read a 6k story you enjoyed than a 60k novel.

resources

don’t have time to read but like to listen? try the new yorker fiction and writers’ voice podcasts

like marking up books but don’t want to buy them new? check out thriftbooks (my favorite site on the internet -- the link here will get you 15% off!)

finished a book you like but don’t know what to read next? try what should i read next

want to stay apprised of the goings on in the modern literary community? subscribe to the lithub newsletter and arts & letters daily, two newsletters i’ve been subscribed to for years

as always i’m glad to answer any questions! happy reading!

writing advice tag

#writing advice #dow17 #dow18 #bookblr

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theory-talestelltalesss · 6 years ago

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∙ Parallel Hearts 1 ∙

Idea:

AU where Taehyung is a former street artist who sells Van Gogh imitations in Paris that gets him in trouble.

Description:

Her is a docile perfectionist art student who is unsatisfied with the course of her life. She meets Taehyung, a beautiful and free-spirited boy who sells Van Gogh imitations to pay his tuition for art school. They have something that the other lack. Her needs Taehyung’s creativity and Taehyung needs Her’s painting skills in order for them to produce great paintings. Her is the better painter but Taehyung is the better artist. One day, they wake up and the other is nowhere to be found. Both of their pursuit is to use their paintings as clues to find where the other is. Along the way, they learn more about each other and uncover a dark past.

You can read more details of the fic HERE if this is your first time. Or you can just read it and be surprised! Enjoy!

- TT 🌹

Chapters: | 1 | 2 | - (Fanfic in progress)

CHAPTER 1: THE MEETING

(6.9K words)

Her lived in the same town as Van Gogh when he was alive and where he was most inspired. It was a quaint little town in Arles, France. She grew up passing by the same places that he saw and painted. Although Her idolized him, it bothers her that she can never be as close to a painter as he was, no matter how hard she tries.

“Doesn’t this look weird? The color scheme? The textures? I don’t know what it is but it doesn’t look right!” Her complains every time she tries to create her own style inspired by Van Gogh.

Whilst Her is tremendously knowledgable about Van Gogh’s techniques, she can never break her style of being realistic whenever she paints. She never had the opportunity, no, the capability to fully release herself in her works. She always had the tendency to draw things as they are and never let her imagination run wild. The more she tried to be imaginative, the more realistic her paintings got. She can never steer away from it, and being a perfectionist never helped her either. In fact, it only made it worse.

It was not even just the paintings that bothered her that she couldn’t follow. She also couldn’t follow the life he lived. Of course she doesn’t want to starve and be a vagabond with a mental illness, but Van Gogh’s life was full of events, both good and bad, that she rationalizes eventually manifested in his beautiful paintings.

“I would rather die of passion than of boredom - Vincent Van Gogh,” Her reads in her book as she swipes the letters with endearment.

Although her parents see her talent as a gift from grace and supports her to hone it, they have different plans on what she should do with it. Her’s family owns a furniture store called by their last name– ‘Le Lune.’ Beds, lamps, cribs, tables, dressers, decorations– they sell everything. The dream was to expand and build more stores in other cities. However, most of the designs of the furnitures lost its appeal as the trend changed over time. Eventually, the business started declining.

When Her moved to Paris 7 hours away from home to go to college, the plan was that she would design the furniture after graduation. She knew what her future looked like. She has to redesign almost everything and help out with the family business. Perhaps even hand-paint or hand-craft some parts of the furniture to create a niche for the family brand name. A personal consultation for corporation interiors was also another idea if the business ever gets successful enough.

This plan frustrated Her because her passion is not in Interior Design – it was in Fine Arts, just like Van Gogh. As she is docile, timid, and filial, and who has deep respect for her parents and the family business, Her yields to their wishes for the betterment of the family. Plus, a job after graduation never hurt anybody.

What am I going to do with a Fine Arts degree if I can’t feed myself?

Café Terrace at Night in Arles, France by Vincent Van Gogh (1888).

The grass smells freshly cut with drops of water clinging onto its edges. The sculptures of flirtatious cherubs run across the field. The different colored flowers dance along the periphery of the bushes, neatly assembled at the curbs of the pathways, welcoming spring delightfully.

Although the atmosphere of the outside world is full of life, Her’s inner mind is in a grim state. She goes to a place outside of school whenever she feels exasperated or disheartened about her life and that place is the Panthéon. The Panthéon is a museum, or even precisely, a mausoleum for people who were the most notable citizens of France. Some of the people buried there were people of the arts she also adores.

It was the closest place from school where she can get inspired. Whenever she sees Victor Hugo’s name on the wall, she smiles, remembering his lovely works of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, or of Les Miserables, which are now made into films and musicals. Whenever she sees Saint-Exupéry‘s name, she wonders how his simple ninety-page work of The Little Prince resonated within so many hearts around the world.

In every corner of the Panthéon, there is something to lift her spirits. Every corner except one. As of the moment, Her is not in the mood to be cheered up, but she’s in one of those moods to make some kind of catharsis – and staring at the Foucault pendulum does just that.

With a heavy heart, she walks over to the giant pendulum that hangs within the massive arches, centered in one of the intrados of the Panthéon. An awe-inspiring mural of the celestial sky and of the divine surround the wire that holds it afloat in the ceiling. A ray of the gloomy twilight falls down at it meters below to softly give it a subliminal spotlight, and convey it as one of the staple objects in the museum.

“…the Foucault pendulum is a simple device named after French physicist Léon Foucault and conceived as an experiment to demonstrate the Earth’s rotation. The pendulum was introduced in 1851. Today…” the tour guide says to a small crowd of foreigners.

Ever since she knew what this pendulum was for, she cringes. Not because of its function, but because it’s a sad reminder of herself.

Like the pendulum’s sway and its momentum in the air, Her’s life is already meticulously calculated as it swings along the numbers of the dial. With each dip at the bottom is her journey towards a goal until it reaches the peak of its momentum, and then it starts again. Her life has become routine and mundane from day to day since the start of college. She knows exactly where she will end up, she know exactly when, and fleeting from plans are just interpreted as irresponsible.

“My perfect parents would be disappointed in their “perfect” daughter,” she whispers to herself. “Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t I just go off and lead lives like…like Victor Hugo, where I can go to Belgium in a whim, or…or Saint-Exupéry, and fly off to some island, or Van Gogh and go to 20 cities if I want?”

After some time internalizing but despising this sad fact about the course of her life, she opposes the thoughts intoxicating her mind and stop moving her eyes with the pendulum, closing them for a moment to give herself a relief of thought. She lets go of the circular railing she didn’t even realize she was gripping until her palms turned ivory.

As she opens her eyes again, the pendulum peeks at the periphery of her field of view but her eyes chose to focus on something else…or someone else.

Her sight lands on a boy on the other side who is inside the railings of the pendulum, kneeling on one knee as he watches the pendulum with a curious concern. If her eyes are not enough resisting her will to steer them away, her ears decide to do it as well when they somewhat malfunction in transducing signals of the crowd of tourists leaving the area.

She thought for a moment that he was part of the marble statues of the historic rulers behind him. But as she stares longer…no, he is breathing and human.

The low glow of the light from above teases a hint of the hills of his handsome features. His light jade eyes that follow the pendulum obediently are striking and almost menacing. His dark ashy blonde hair is rugged and out of place under a newsboy hat with unruly bangs trying to stretch down his forehead and neck. The ends land comfortably past his commanding eyebrows and flirts at his nape, almost past its crook. A turtleneck coats his neck layered with a button-up that flows down his body, presenting him with a disheveled look.

Her finds herself captivated that she forgets to be curious as to why he’s inside the railings guarding the pendulum, or why he looks worried, or why he holds the railing with a hand that looks like it’s streaked with paint and the other props him on the floor as he kneels down.

H-He’s so beautiful.

Her finds herself captivated, for he didn’t have the beauty that celebrities on TV or models in magazines possessed. He has the kind of beauty that reminisces of an old soul. The kind of beauty that stands the test of time…timeless– like an old painting people would want to preserve for years, decades, centuries, or even forever. Not a carve of the statues or stroke of paint in the museum, even made with impeccable skill and control, do not have the force to distract her from his coincidental beauty.

She then realizes that looking at him for too long beyond abuses normal courtesy and she should look away before he notices. However, she can’t seem to take his eyes off him. As she continues to stare, he seems to feel her eyes on him, and shifts his eyes to meet hers. Her blood rushes to her head, defying gravity, resisting to flow anywhere else in her body.

She tries to follow the pendulum again with her eyes, but they resist her. As if acknowledging her constant desire to look at him, he smiles at her, erasing the worried expression he had for a moment. As if playing peek-a-boo, the pendulum covers him for half a second, and reveals him again, only becoming more beautiful with each sway. She feels a fleeting wave of euphoria before–

SNAP! BOOM! “Mon dieu!”

The ball of the pendulum hits the ground with an echoing boom, disturbing the serenity, rolling off of the marbled floor, and trailing the wire that held it. Her abruptly wakes up from the spell and covers her mouth in disbelief that the Foucault pendulum, which has been swaying for years, just snapped from above. As an advocate for the arts and museums, she knows the gravity of the situation.

She looks back at where the boy was but he was nowhere to be found. A guard picks the ball up and checks it for any indentations or damages. Since it’s almost closing time, the museum is left with only a few visitors, and only a few more who are near the pendulum’s vicinity. The guard directs them away and commands them to give the area some space. Forced, the visitors, including Her, start drifting to other corners of the museum.

She walks without direction, only following the direction of a couple of people scattering from the area. Out of nowhere, she feels a tug on her long-sleeve, hurling her to face someone’s body.

“Whoa-”

She looks up and see the beautiful boy so close that she can almost see the branches of his light jade orbs. She notices more up close that his clothes and patches of his skin were tainted with random splotches and streaks of paint. He turns his head to the side and observes another piece of art she didn’t even notice was right in front of them.

“What a weird incident right?” he says in the direction of the mural. His voice is surprisingly baritone low and velvety that she feels it resonate her vessels.

She manages to voice out, “yeah…must have been an accident.”

“Some guy is proooobably in big trouble,” he chuckles.

“I mean…that pendulum has been swinging since it’s been here,”

“Not really, just since 1902. It’s been going back and forth between here and an art museum near here. You won’t even know which one is the copy anymore,”

“H-How do you know that?”

He looks at Her with a cheeky half-smile.

“I just read the sign that was behind you…when you were staring at me too much,” he shifts his head back to the mural, “Yeah, I’m aware I’m good looking,” he gives her a glint of his lip curved at one side.

So this is his personality.

For some reason, she feels anxious that this boy will soon get her first impression and she tries to find what to say to try to distract him from her impolite behavior. She also doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing a compliment after that statement.

“I-IIII notice you have paint on your hands. Do you paint?”

“Yeah, I painted this piece right in front of us,” he gestures complacently with a smile from ear to ear.

“What?” she looks at it again confused, “But this is Puvis de Chavannes’.” Being here at the Panthéon many times, Her’s come to know each and every piece.

“Ah, so you’re a lover of the arts too,” he says with a smirk as if she doesn’t look it. She feels this boy trying to toy with her and in her own safe haven nonetheless. She can’t help but feel a little violated by this new character in her domain, all of a sudden collecting pieces of her as if he’s a scientist gathering data.

He continues, “So what’s your favorite type of art?”

“I like…Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, why?”

“Ah…so you’re one of those…I’m guessing you like Van Gogh and all those other lunatics,”

“Excus–”

“Shh!”

He holds his finger over her lips and looks at the guards. Her figures the boy doesn’t have any concept of personal space demonstrated by his sudden behavior. He seems pleased with himself earning an aggravated reaction from her, as if trying to tug her from the confines of her usual docile and timid personality. His expression impish as he nods his head up and whispers,

“Be quiet and follow me.”

He takes her hand and dashes across the humongous platform, flying by histories of sculptures of French leaders, skidding on the intricate designs of the ivory marble floors, and passing by grand murals of glorious heroes and angels. She almost can’t keep up with the strides of his infinitely long legs with her shorter ones.

They go from pillar to pillar under the dome architecture of the museum, eventually reaching a dark opening framed with geometric details that uncovers a dark spiral staircase below. He lets go of her hand and goes down the stairs with ease as she pauses to think about going down.

“Come on, slow poke!” his voice vibrates the cold marble walls and she sees him smile like a child while looking above at her through the clefts of the stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” she tries to ask but is only replied with more of his steps. She tries to process her situation before she goes down.

Why should I follow this boy?

Even though she’s acknowledged he’s a little outlandish, there’s something interesting about him that draws her in and her curiosity grows with each ticking second. She goes down with prudent steps and catches up to him.

“Come on, haha,” he gestures to a small crevice.

How does this boy know where these are?

The boy moves with too much familiarity as if this is his home. Her realizes her ignorance claiming this museum to be her sanctuary, when in fact, there’s someone else far more acquainted to it than she is.

Eventually, they end up in the crypt, which is filtered with gloomy yellow lights, giving it an eerie vibe appropriate for its type of place. In the crypt lies some of the most notable French people who’ve contributed to the world such as Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Marie and Pierre Curie, and many more. Tourists are now nowhere to be found.

Coming to a halt in front of a dull door, he rustles his pocket around and pulls out some old-looking keys. Her’s eyes widen in shock.

“You work here?”

“Shh!” reminding her of what she should be doing. “You know, those powerful dead people are just over there. You don’t want to disturb their rest do you?” he jokes.

Her can’t help but notice that he seems to detect her unfaltering reverence for the place. Again, he gives her that smirk while he turns the key in its hole and her heart flutters in response. One more smirk, she thinks, and it might be ingrained into her memory forever.

He opens the door and inside are slews of paintings of Van Gogh. She becomes filled with joy when she sees them but it was only fleeting. As a lover of his works, she sees that they’re not authentic as soon as she scrutinizes the strokes. She also notices some are just patches of paint waiting to be filled with The Starry Night, or The Sunflowers, or The Night Café which made her nostalgic about the time she used to pass by the cafe in the painting every time she walked home from school back at in Arles.

The Night Café by Vincent Van Gogh (Year 1888).

She looks around and there are a couple of carts that lay askew in random spaces in the room that’s filled with different-sized brushes, half-empty tubes of oil paint, too-many-to-count paper towels, and various-shaped painting knives. The boy looks like this room just gave birth to him, all covered in paint like his mother.

“You can tell, huh?“ he scratches the back of his head and gives me a wink. Her’s body is churning with adrenaline at the moment, with her heart trying to calm down from running, and that unexpected wink pushes her heart above its threshold, forcing it to somersault. She nervously ignores it and tries to speak confidently.

“I can tell they’re not real. Figured since this is not their home. But why do you have fake Van Gogh’s everywhere?”

“Well, I made these,” he crosses his arms as he bites his bottom lip and looks around the room. “I sell them to people as imitations…some people are more gullible than others though,” he chuckles to himself and sighs, looking like he’s recalling a mischievous memory.

So, he’s a witty con artist.

“That’s a little sly, don’t you think?” she squints, trying to understand why a sly playful boy would be trusted with keeping a museum that require gentle care. It bothers her also since all Her’s life, she’s been an upstanding person, always following the rules.

“I’m a student at the art university here. I work here as a keeper and paint when I got time. The Panthéon can get exceptionally boring you know, so I found a way to make some extra bucks from dead time! Gotta pay that overpriced tuition, am I right?”

“…you don’t mean PCA, do you?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Of course PCA! Where else?” he chuckles. “Because…I study at PCA,” he looks at me with wide eyes. PCA, short for Paris College of Art – my art school. “Didn’t know we go to the same college.”

“All the more to trust you!! Now, since you’re an expert in these, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with these paintings, eh?”

“No, I’m not gonna help you do your evil deeds. Plus…” She looks at her watch, “I need to go home by 7:30 and catch the next bus to campus,”

“What about I show you a shortcut out, huh?” he takes out his keys and jiggles it in the air. “I know a way that will lead right to the bus stop! And you don’t have to see it that way. I’m interested to know some of Van Gogh’s techniques too! Take it like you’re lecturing me huh?…for educational purposes,” he raises both his eyebrows and looks at her with a comically coy face.

He has a way with words, I’ll give him that.

She looks around and points out his obvious flaws that she automatically sees. She eventually settles on a painting she sees the most mistakes in, The Red Vineyard. She remembers how she used to visit her first crush by the river when she was nine, Jungkook. He taught her how to skip rocks on the water and she taught him how to catch grasshoppers. Jungkook now works at a winery in another part of Paris that's being supplied by the vineyard back in their hometown.

The Red Vineyard by Vincent Van Gogh (Year 1888).

“You know, I lived here.”

“Lived where?”

“Arles. Where this painting was made. I used to play around by this river here,” she traces the curved shape of the river on the right side, painted with stubby but glistening yellow and blue shades. “Well my family, to be exact. Of course I live in the dorms now, but I go home on the holidays.”

“Interesting! It’s like you see the world in his eyes!”

“Hah-I guess,” Her timidly says as she’s reminded that even though they’ve lived in the same city, she will never be as half of a good a painter as him. Her then starts to converse about how to make the painting better.

“Well for these,” she takes the paint brush in her hand, “you have to take burnt umber with some carmine yellow, and mix them slightly on the actual canvas and not on your palette,”

She feels him get close to her face as they stare at an area of the painting together. As she continues to speak and demonstrate, she senses a small whiff of his saccharine scent and his shoulder softly touches hers while he eagerly observes her hand move in close proximity. She’s reminded of his nonexistent concept of personal space once more.

Her and the boy talk for a time about the process of how Van Gogh creates his pieces and she advise him of his techniques. She’s not sure where the conversation turned but he actually started teaching her some things.

“Well, can’t you wash first before you paint over it so it’s not noticeable? It would save a lot of time. Plus, you don’t even have to use oil paint, just use acrylic so it dries faster until it hardens so you get a good texture…”

She’s taken aback by his innovative ideas on using materials non-traditionally. In her time attending art school so far, even art class in high school back home, she has never heard of the peculiar techniques the boy talks about. Her curiosity piques how he’s acquired his knowledge. In addition to talking about paintings, the boy doesn’t think twice dismissing what he thinks are relatively preposterous ideas of their mutual professors that they forcibly instill on their students. Her finds it amusing and it makes her laugh the way he describes them.

Ever since Her was a little girl, she’s had the habit of inspecting things in great detail, preserving it in her memories as best as she can to draw it at a later time. She observes how the saturation of colors change on a surface of a bubble, or how the ears of people lose its opacity and become pinker when the sun hits it from behind. At this moment though, what she want to draw the most is the scene that is presented right in front of her— him. She even thinks that maybe one day, her paintings of people will be as good as how Renoir famously paints his if she uses his features as inspiration.

Luncheon Of The Boating Party by Renoir (Year 1880-1881).

“Professor Jacques? Pfffttt- More like Professor Color-Within-The-Lines!” he laughs.

She responds to the boy, giving him her ears at times, but she more or less lets him talk as she looks at him to try and memorize his face.

His eyes glisten as he speaks– so much engagement in them. However, the life in his eyes are almost… overshadowed by their tiger-like personality. So focused and striking in between his long lashes. His eyebrows are sharp and fierce. His nose is straight and tall. And its placement between his eyes? Really proportionate. His lips are…what’s this oil paint color?…like Permanent Rose? mixed with a little Cobalt Violet to make it almost cherry-like. They’re shaped peculiarly though…that it really lets him easily have this scowled look. Maybe it’s because the top is more plump than the bottom…His complexion is flawless- luminescent, you’d probably need a hint of Pale Cadmium Yellow- and…what? N-No trace of blemish..hold on, there is a scar by his right lip, but it really only adds character to his looks. Still….actresses must be endlessly envious of his skin. His- Wait…how long has it been?

“Oh my I’m going to miss the bus!” she exclaims as she catches a glimpse of her watch.

Out of nowhere, she hears a man with a croaky voice coming closer to the room.

“Taehyuuuung? Taehyuuung? Where are you boy?”

The foot steps come closer and the boy jolts up from his seat, taking Her’s elbow in his hand quickly.

“Shit, Monsieur Cosmo…” he curses under his breath. “Shhhhh! Come on!” he whispers sharply.

“What’s happening?”

“That’s my boss sweet pea! We have to get out of here! C'mon, you turtle! Run!” he sharply whispers back.

He takes Her’s hand to exit, closes the door, and turns off the lights as quietly as he could. Then they run quietly through the darkly lit halls, past multiple epitaphs and tombs of the buried. Her has no choice but to rely on him on where to turn through the mazes of the museum and he becomes her sight. He looks behind her and flashes a big peculiar boxy smile that Her never spotted when she was observing his face. Her mood at the moment is a hard contrast to when she was looking at the pendulum. Her lips curve up slightly and she quickens her pace as she tries to match his.

He’s definitely an exciting one.

All of a sudden, the boy stops in his tracks and looks around the perimeter, “YYYYoouu might have to catch the next bus,” his voice drags out.

“What?!”

Her’s perfectionist side overrides and she tries to explain the bus system, her responsibilities, her homework, and her schedule the next day that would all have to be rewritten if she misses this bus. However, he does not put his finger on her lips this time but he covers her whole mouth instead, trying to keep her silent.

“Ok, ok, here’s what it is, babe. There are guards everywhere and I can’t be seen, ok? And I know you don’t know how to get to the shortcut to the outside so you’re going to have to stick with me if you want to get there. Hidden. Got it?” Annoyed by the situation, Her yields inevitably.

Her and the boy run and hide from the guards, tiptoeing as best as they can until the guards lock the doors behind them. They wait in the dark a few times until the coast is clear and moving becomes safe again. There were a few times Her made a mistake, catching the attention of some guards, but the boy protects their every movement; tugging her away if a guard comes too close, or slightly pushing her into crevices behind some pillars or statues.

At times, they try to fit themselves in small spaces and he tries to hold her as close as he could to prevent their shadows from being seen. She tries not to think about the skin contact since she doesn’t know what it would do to her judgment that she most certainly needs intact right now.

Shoot, 7:30. I missed it.

“Well! I missed the bus. Thank you but there’s no point in sticking with you now. The guards don’t know who I am, so…I’ll just walk out the front door. Nice to meet you though,” she stands up from kneeling down and pivots her heels to walk away, but the boy catches her wrist.

“Can you be quiet?? And yeah you still need me, honey. Can’t you see? We’re locked in,” he reaches into his pocket and shows off his keys, “I’d give them to you but you don’t work here, do you?” he smirks.

With slight irritation from missing the bus and from Her’s clouded mind of thinking about rewriting her schedule in her mind, she completely forgets this fact.

“Now, stick to me,” he grabs her and embraces her behind the statue of Marianne and the soldiers, then again behind the miniature architecture plan of the Pantheon.

“I said stick to me…now,” the boy must have felt that she was trying to preserve some space in between their bodies. They become startled as a guard walks only a feet away from them and she can’t help but follow his orders.

In half a second, she places her feet in between his stance and presses her body against his. Her arms fold against his chest and her head burrows in it to flil the space. His arm encircles her waist and his hand clasps the back of her head as she feels a slight force to encourage her to press closer. After a second of monitoring the guard, he moves their bodies ever so slightly away from the guard’s movements and squinting gazes. She feels him hold his breath and she mimicked his movements. In the silence, she feels and hears his heart race like a horse from the suspense.

Geez, it must be around 120 beats per minute.

While stupefied in place, she realizes he’s strangely stealthy that it makes her curious to the point of concern how he’s very good at it. The lights then turn off and they hold their position for a few more seconds.

“This is terribly intimate for a first meeting, you know, especially in the dark,” she whispers with a tone as they wait until the rustling of movements stop.

“What? Do you want a kiss too?” he says sarcastically.

“I don’t kiss people I don’t know,”

“I do,”

“Stop joking around,”

“What? We’re in France. Ever heard of a French kiss?”

She ignores his comment as she checks her watch, wishing the hands would turn counter-clockwise.

Eventually, they reach a door and the boy opens them with his keys. Without a knowledge of what might be on the other side, he exposes the night with the lovely moon and the bustling faint sounds of the city outside. A hush of the spring-born wind brushes her skin as if to say hello, wanting her to acknowledge its presence. She turns and sees the bus stop just around the corner.

“The next bus will come in 30 minutes, don’t worry,” the boy assures.

He pants to calm his heart, lays down on the cold grass, closes his eyes, and concentrates on trying to catch his breath. His newsboy hat topples from his head and his long hair falls delicately on his forehead and around his face. Her can’t help but admire how the moonlight touches his features as she slowly sits down next to his body, also concentrating on slowing down her respirations. He peeks through his closed lid and closes them again.

“You know, you’re doing it again,” he says between breaths. “Oh sorry…”

“It’s not polite to stare you know. Even more so that I don’t know your name,” “Oh…my name is Her, Her Lune, you?”

“Well, if you haven’t figured from my boss shouting it out, my name is Taehyung. Taehyung Soleil,” he smiles with eyes closed.

After a moment of huffing, he sits beside her and picks on the helpless grass.

“I guess this is my way of timing out of work,” he naughtily chuckles under his breath, “I bet that old fart was going to make me take care of that pendulum that just fell. It was actually my fault it fell but…I can’t be bothered right now. It’s almost the end of work anyways,” he rationalizes.

“You did that?! That’s why you were running from the guards?!”

“I-IIIIII didn’t mean to ok? Heh…I’m supposed to check the clicker that lets the pendulum go back and forth without losing its energy but…one thing led to another and it snapped from the hinge. I’ll understand if he yells at me the next time I go to work,” he rubs his neck. Her's skepticism and first impression just became validated.

As they wait for the next bus, he then looks at the moon with endearing eyes. Her doesn’t realize it but she looks at him again, taking advantage of his ethereal beauty under a different kind of light. To her, his side profile looks as if all the Old Masters like Leonardo and Boticelli, who tried to capture beauty in Mona Lisa and Venus, had the wrong notion of beauty– that what she’s looking at right now, is true beauty.

Mona Lisa, who?

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Boticelli (Year 1484–1486).

“Her.” his deep voice stern and low. “One more stare and I might have to do something about it,” he bites his lower lip and furrows his eyebrows. She nervously tries to land her eyes somewhere acceptable but she only finds it to follow his gaze at the moon.

“So why do you like that whacko Van Gogh? I only paint his paintings because they sell,” he scoffs while he leans back, propping his posture with his arms. Her is unsure how to feel about his sentence. He’s dissing her idol painter but at the same, she’s glad he acknowledges that other people like his works. Plus, she’s amused by his rhyming nickname.

“Well, mostly because I can’t paint like him,” she discloses. “I know how he painted his works, I’ve studied it many times and if I have to do an imitation like you, I think I’ll do well. I just- but I can’t seem to make my own paintings like his. He uses such saturated colors and his strokes are unplanned but he somehow is able to take his decisions and pull it off in the end like it was planned in the first place. When I try to do it, it doesn't look as good or as professional as his,”

“So he’s a good bullshitter is what you’re saying,” he taunts and laughs. She gives him a generous glare. He annoys her but she can’t put a finger what it is about him that makes her not be put off. She guesses it’s his brutal honesty. It’s refreshing.

She continues, “Being in art school…yeah it’s great they give you a lot of techniques to capture perspective and blah blah blah…but what they can never teach you is how to be creative. And I can’t help but take those techniques too seriously…” she sighs heavily, “My paintings always come out unremarkable- bleak- but oh, professor gives me A’s!” she said with sarcasm as she lays in defeat and stares at the moon.

Her finds herself disclosing personal things about herself to this boy she just met that she wonders if she really is that unsatisfied with her life. With her timidity, she only tells her closes friends things as insecure as these.

“IIII don’t know Van Gogh as much as you…but I learned a thing or two about him in the time I’ve been imitating his works. He said ‘I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process,’” he looks into her eyes after his words reaches her ears as his hair catches the breeze of the night.

Her becomes stunned at his words. He’s never met anyone who knows something about Van Gogh’s life other than the usual trivia. How he’s able to recite a quote by him leaves her astounded and curious.

“T-That’s right,”

“Well, of course, hahaha…I love that quote ‘cuz it’s sooo funny. You know he really did lose his mind and him saying that just makes me think wow, he’s got some sense of humor,” he chuckles slightly in ironic admiration, “But you know, that’s not the point…the point is maybe you think too much and it restricts you from really giving yourself to your works. You’re supposed to project your feelings into your art, not your mind like what others think. We’re artists, Her. Our job is to convey emotions.”

“Wh-Ye-I guess,” Her’s never heard someone talk about philosophy about art before. She’s talked about life as an art student, but never about life as an artist.

“We’re supposed to give the audience what we want them to feel, not what we want them to think. Take the most famous painting in the world for example. The Mona Lisa. There’s so many things Leonardo did right in that one, but why is it so famous? It’s not because it’s painted perfectly. It’s because of that smile. It gives people an eerie feeling. It connects with you because it’s so…eughk damn eerie,” he shrugs. “Never really liked looking at that one.”

Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci (Year 1503–06).

“That’s really a new way of looking at things I suppose...”.

“Well have you ever just done something out of a whim? Like…you just do it ‘cuz it felt right at the moment?”

“I-I…not really…no…” she sighs, “I like to…plan things out. It’s how I grew up to be,”

“I guess now you know where the problem is…” he says as he looks back at the moon. “Your paintings are really just an extension of yourself. In a way, they’re you. If you say your paintings are unremarkable and bleak, then that’s probably how you are…unless there’s something in you that wants to change,”

Her is taken too aback by his response to the point that she’s at lost for words. No one’s ever really said it out loud before, not even her. His words are like a dagger to her heart but she can’t seem to reply or defend herself because deep inside her, she knows they’re utterly true. All she is able to reply back is a mixture of a frustrated groan and a sigh as she puts her arm on her forehead.

“Heh, now I see why you kept coming here just to stare at that boring pendulum all the time, looking all frustrated” he looks at the moon intently and she looks at him with wide eyes. “You’re like one of those people who cry and stare at the mirror when they do,” he chuckles.

“You know I come here often?”

“Yeah, I work here, Her. Of course I’ll remember my frequent flyers, especially the cute ones,” again he smirks at her. Well, now she thinks it’s ingrained in her mind forever. But then again, she notices he has a way of making her have mixed feelings about his words.

He just made fun of her self-pitying tendencies, but reveals I’ve caught his eye? Who is this guy?! It’s as if he wants be nice but his innate mischievous nature gets in the way.

“Don’t worry, we all have hard times,” he looks at the moon as if he’s time traveling decades through his eyes, perhaps recalling a serious time in his life. Feeling slightly comforted, Her reflects on his words for a time while she leave him in his memory.

Yeah, I guess my self-pitying tendencies are a little funny, ha.

Eventually, she finds herself looking at the underside of Taehyung’s jaw and even his nostrils from her position below as he loses his presence reminiscing. She observes the moonlight hit his face at an angle from below. She follows the trace of light with her eyes, trying to consolidate it in her memory. However, it was too late to retract her eyes before Taehyung looks back at her and rolls his eyes annoyed.

“Thaat’s it- You’re staring again. That’s more than three strikes I believe,” he slaps his hand on the grass by her head and hovers over her.

He replaces her view of the moon with his face, which is now only inches from hers. If the grass was someone’s skin, their skin would be indented with a big red mark from how much Her’s pressing against it to distance herself from the tip of his nose. His long hair falls down in her direction, framing the outline of her head. However, what is very astonishing and a little frightening is the big change in his expression. He looked like an angel from the moment she saw him, but now, he looks like the devil himself.

“Here. Take a good look!” he says sternly and angrily. His striking eyes pierce at her with eyebrows furrowed, only becoming scarier as she sees his pupils dilate and his nose flare. His jaw clenches and cuts the moonlight’s trace she was just tracing a while ago. She’d like to take him on his offer but his emanating vibe is unnecessarily terrifying. She understands why he could be annoyed by her by now but it seems as though she struck a very sensitive nerve by his radical reaction.

“I know I’m handsome, cute, hot, good looking, whatever you wanna call it. But seriously, curse. this. face! Lots of girls and teachers, even guys at the college have made me their model since day one, like I’m just some object to them but you know what? I’m not some disposable model. I’m a painter, just like them! This damn face overshadows everything else. I’d like to think I have a brain and some skills you know,” Taehyung looks at her with his piercing eyes until he rolls it back and closes them in frustration. He brushes his hair with his hand as he gulps down his next words, trying not to snap again.

“…I-I don’t think you’re just that…I think you’re a-actually smart” she stutters. She can’t help but feel there’s more to his story. How can anyone not like their good looks?

“Well…good.” she slowly sees the child-like angel in him resurface again.

Assuming the confrontation was over, she tries to get out from under him like a worm but he follows her down, trapping her between his arms again.

“Nuh-uh, sweet pea. You have to make it up to me. Come to the third wing studio tomorrow and I’ll think about forgiving you.”

A flash of the headlights of the long-awaited bus illuminates the side of his face.

Ch. 1 fin.

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