#at least he's tidy and actually bothers to dress for the office unlike the last guy

[cultivating-wildflowers]

🐻

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 7/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

Margaret’s father brings the Aigle fabrics that afternoon, Margaret herself following with a tin of ham in hand and a baguette swaddled in a dish towel under an arm. You’ve sat at the worktable in the sewing shop since returning home from the resale shop, ledger and every cent to you and your mother’s name arranged around you, the money squirreled out from the hiding places around the house. The majority of it had migrated to nooks and crannies in your bedroom, where you thought it��d be safe after the tea kettle purchase, but now that you have waved the bank bills and letters under Mother’s nose, you don’t see the point in hiding.

There’s no point in hiding anything anymore; when Margaret lingers in the sewing shop after you direct her father to place fabric on the great wooden racks designed to hold rolls of fabric bolts—only two of the fifteen holder pegs hold the last few yards of the same, tired fabric—rubbing the damask between her fingers, you don’t bother to gather up the money or slam closed the ledger. You can feel her curious eyes shifting over you, over your furious scribbles on the ledger lines, but can’t bring yourself to care anymore because, God, you’re tired. So tired.

“I gather you’re in a bit of trouble,” Margaret offers, nodding to the great black mess you’ve made from crossing out, rewriting, and crossing out again, trying to calculate how to parse out the savings, the bleeding ink a confusion of mismatched, half-formed numbers.

Leaning back, patting the open stool at your side in invitation, you reply, “A mild way of putting it. Mother bought the most expensive fabrics from Aigle with money we desperately need.” You had found the Aigle catalogue Mother ordered from, the postal order form at the back neatly snipped out, underneath a mouth of knitting you’d been meaning to tidy for weeks in the sitting room. If only I hadn’t procrastinated, you think.

Sliding into the seat next to you, Margaret asks, “Why…why would she do that?”

Biting out a hot sigh, you shake your head, allowing for precious time to process the question and construct a reply that didn’t smack of anger, bitterness, and all of your carefully guarded plans for the future—for you and your mother’s continued survival—wasted on a frivolous hunch and rumors traded innocuously, probably said only to fill a brief silence. Your eyes drift to the wedding photo Mother keeps on her sewing station’s workspace; she and your father look out at you, rosy cheeked from the tinter’s blush, but beaming as if they could see you, see how their daughter has turned out and aren’t repelled by who they see. As if you haven’t failed your father’s memory, failed to protect your mother.

Because is it truly your mother’s fault? You hadn’t shared the hardships of financial ruin with her; she’s suffered bouts of fatigue and withdrawal for months now, and rarely dresses for the day except on Saturdays. She still reels from the loose of your father, and you had tried to mitigate her grief by protecting her from the harsh realities you decided to shoulder alone; you minimalized her allowance of struggles as if she were an infant, not a fully-grown, competent woman��a seamstress, a businesswoman, and a mother. Nibbling your lip, your eyes flick to the ledger, to your fingernails stained black at the beds. How could she? you think, correcting it to: how could I?

“Well,” you begin carefully. “She was so used to ordering fabric to have on hand when orders came in, so a customer might be able to feel the fabric and be able to more properly visualize what the final product will look like.” You leave out that Margaret, herself, was supposed to be said customer. Though it’s a dearly kept secret, one Margaret and her father have only confided in you and your mother, Margaret Clayton’s mother had been the bastard daughter of a rather morally-weighted duke. Which duke of where, Margaret hasn’t dared tell you, but when Margaret’s maternal grandfather laid on his deathbed, a great oppressive guilt for never acknowledging or legitimizing his daughter bore down on him and he requested an inheritance be established for her. Margaret’s mother barely outlived her biological father leaving her, her father, and the inheritance. Yet, it is wartime, and no matter the fabulousness of hidden wealth, you doubt even Margaret would be fanciful enough to think a luxury like Aigle fabrics justifiable.

Who would think such a thing? Oh right, you internally correct, my mother.

Margaret’s frowning now. “Seems silly to me, not that I get a say in the matter, of course. Surely she would have puzzled out that spending that kind of money isn’t a smart investment considering your, uh, situation.”

From the mouth of babes, you think. “Well, I don’t think she was thinking straight, really. She’s been tired and sickly for such a long time that I, well, I didn’t tell her the full extent of our problems.” You wave your hand over the ledger. “I couldn’t put this on her; it didn’t feel right.”

Something in the way your voice dips, something in how you duck your head to hide the shame graying your cheeks, makes Margaret’s breath catch and she speaks with more heat than expected. “And you’re putting this on yourself, aren’t you? Shifting all the blame off of her and onto yourself.” She sticks up a finger when your eyes flash to her, your mouth popping open to cobble together a weak protest. “Don’t even try—I know what you’re going to say and, yes, I agree it’s not entirely fair to put everything on your mother, but really!” In her indignation, she seems to fluff, an offended owl. “How could she not see you’ve been wasting away? That all your coats have magically lost their liners overnight? It’s positively negligent of her, not to mention shameful and entirely unfair to you. You’ve put so much weight on your shoulders, and she never bothered to ask if you wanted help carrying it.”

You click your tongue, more out of a sense of duty to your mother than actual disagreement. It’s horrible of you, you inwardly scold, but you can’t help the smoldering flicker of embers Margaret’s words stir in your chest, kicking up the heat of the coals and warming your chest, your toes, your numb fingers. Though a betrayal to your mother, you allow yourself this fraction of validation: someone comprehends and legitimizes the fears you’ve locked so tightly in your chest. You never thought you’d be able to articulate them, so long have you forced yourself to remain mute. With how Margaret looks at you intently, every unspoken worry, shut-away concern comes unbound from you, and you talk through the afternoon and well into the evening. Margaret stays the night, sending for food to be sent over from her home and you don’t protest or worry over owing her. Instead, you talk, she listens, and you dare to believe her when she clasps your hands and whispers: “It’ll be okay.”

. . .

Shifty does something he never does: he sends a telegram to confirm you’re still meeting at the tea shop on Wednesday.

Truthfully, you hadn’t planned on going until you found a loose pence piece floating around a drawer of thread spools and figured it’d be the last tea you’d attend anyway. You had to tell Shifty the cost isn’t manageable. Yet, you reason, the found pence piece had never been factored into your accounts and would be used to do a courtesy to a friend. Shifty deserved to be told, face-to-face, you couldn’t meet anymore.

Yet, you think, staring down at the telegram, sectioned off in neat creases after inhabiting your pocket since yesterday morning, when you received it, I was going to lie to him. Admitting to Margaret, your oldest friend, the ugly truth had been an act of faith; confessing to Shifty seems an act of further self-sabotage. But the telegram acts as a physical reminder of Shifty’s goodness, how he has confided his worries in you over tea and sewing lessons, and you hadn’t placed that same trust in him. Before, you could at least cling to the consolation that you never lied to his face; he never asked why you only drank one cup of tea, always refused to order additional cups or food, but now you’d be blatantly spinning a web, fearing his reaction to the truth.

But do you fear seeing his kind, pitying look directed on you more?

Could you stand knowing you’re chiseling your place as his pitiable English friend—the sad, dour little friend he’ll mention off-handedly when he returns to the United States, that he’ll recall fleetingly when his friends reminisce over their months in Aldbourne? You can’t keep food on the table, can’t handle your own survival; what would a self-sufficient country boy like Shifty think of that? He provided meat for his family with his rifle in the depths of the Depression, he’s making a name for himself with his marksmanship; surely he would see your floundering failure as deplorable?  

Gnawing on your lip, allowing your feet to carry you along automatically, you cross the town square and push into Roseanna’s teashop before you can decide which route—truth or lying—would cut you up, splinter and facture your heart, more permanently in the end.

Shifty surges to his feet at your entrance, a hand swiping down his already-neat brown hair, while the other hand worries at his cap. The sight of him—so nervous and fidgety, unlike you’ve seen him since that first meeting in the post office—steals the air from your lungs, leaving you deflated, stunned, and somehow more grounded in the present. You’re startled from the depths of your roundabout thoughts, struck by how young Shifty looks as he tries on a small, earnest smile for size and waits for you to join him at the back table.

You try to return that smile as you weave through the sparsely populated tables of the teashop. Your instincts scream at you to check your appearance—to ensure you coat lays properly, your scarf isn’t lopsided—but you dare not take your eyes from him. His hands find yours, holding both between his and his cap, as if warming you, when you’re almost to him, his impatient step bridging the remaining distance between you. “Good, you’re here,” he breaths out, a heavy exhale betraying his relief, as if there was a possibility you might not come at all. Your brows bunch.

“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask, trying to keep your voice mild; trying to act as if his relief doesn’t send a whistling pain plummeting through you, or how you know that pain will make your decision—lying or telling the truth—all the more impossible to make.

He shrugs, the gesture sheepish. “I don’t know; I was just worried.” He pauses, eyes staring at your hands in his, as if catching himself, and he hurriedly releases you to wave at the table, already set with flatware and water glasses. “Uh, um, why don’t you sit down? I already ordered your tea; you always get the same thing so I figured…” He loses momentum, falling into a befuddled silence as you slide into your chair and he sways his weight from one foot to the other, as if wanting to pull out the chair for you and temporary lost when you seat yourself.

Studying how he carefully deposits his cap on the white tablecloth, gathering his pant legs as he sits, you note the determination hardening his eyes, the slight crease darkening between his eyebrows, and when he sits fidgeting for a dragging moment, a squirming uncertainty begins to nibble at your insides. “What’s…what’s going on, Shifty?” you volunteer in a squeak. Perhaps, if you weren’t so aware of the slickness of your palms, buried and hidden in the holds of your skirt, of how a faint film of sweat builds along your hairline, you might be self-conscious of how wobbly and weak the question is.

“Well, um,” Shifty mumbles before pausing, clearing his throat. Taking a sip of water, he squares his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height, and begins again, “Well, I wanted to talk to you about something real important today, which is why I cabled you to make sure you were coming.” Cold seeps into your fingers and toes, clawing and inching up from the digits and along your limbs. Is…is it possible to call off a friendship? you think, dread drying your mouth and quelling your sweat into a frigid clamminess. “So, um, I’m a paratrooper, as you know. When I joined up, some of the perks that the recruiting officer pitched to us was that I’d be fighting with the best but also that, because I had gone through more training, I’d be getting paid more. And, well…”

You want to prompt him, he looks so lost you squirm to help, but you’re adrift in his conversational direction. His mouth works at words, his concentration on your face turning palpable, a pressure against you, but you’re powerless to help. The tea arrives, Roseanna glancing at Shifty’s face and withdrawing faster than usual, not lingering to cluck over you both. Taking a formative swig of tea, Shifty continues: “Well, I can only have my paid differed to someone who’s a member of my family. I’ve been sending some to my Ma and Pa back home, but I really don’t need the half of it I’ve been keeping; the Army pays for everything so…” He trails off, eyes searching yours, a light kindling there, hopeful you might fill in his meaning and spare him from articulating the rest. Yet, your brain refuses to follow the only optional thread of reason; it’s too improbable to even entertain.

Shifty sucks in a lungful of air and says in a rush on the exhale: “So, um, if I were to get married, I could offer a nice amount of money for my wife to live off of, and…and I like to think I’d make a good husband while I’m at it.”

“Oh,” you choke out, tearing your eyes from his face, pretending great interest in the lazy coils of steam rising from your tea, fingers reflexively clutching and releasing the heated porcelain, letting it sear the pads of your fingers and dancing them away when it becomes too scalding. “Well,” you manage, not really sure where your words are going. “I, um, congratulations, Shift; who’s the lucky girl? Do I know her?”

A choked noise startles you into looking back at him. His face is entirely pink, but he wears a crooked smile, trained solely on you, and you realize—“Oh. You—? You mean—?”

“Well, yeah,” he replies, gusting out a laugh. You wish you could bottle that laughter to keep forever. “I can’t believe that—I mean, y/n, you’re the only girl I—err, well, uh.” He ducks his head, bashful. “I know you’ve been facing down some money troubles, but I figured you being you would only ask for help if you needed it—that you knew you could ask for my help if you needed it. But then Maggie told me about what happened with that order…” He shrugs. “I had to do something.”

The bubble of elation in your chest pops. “Oh,” escapes on your breath, more disappointed than you intended. He’s offering marriage for financial support, as an act of kindness and of course he is, you think; Shifty is a good friend—a great friend—of course he’d go to any lengths to assist his friends. Even if means tying himself up in a marriage founded entirely on finances. Still, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, and you can’t harbor any resentment toward him for your own disappointment. He’s only trying to help.  “Oh, Shifty,” you begin. “That’s awfully nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be right, marrying you just for your wages. I…I just couldn’t…” You shake your head. “I can’t do that to you; I appreciate it, but I’ll find my own way.” Leaning across the table, careful to avoid upsetting the teacups, you clasp his hands. “I promise.”

Negotiating his hands under yours, flipping them, to grasp your fingers in return, Shifty replies, “I can’t let you go through this alone; you’re…I feel like…I’ve never…” He hesitates and you remember how he swallowed down words last week, in the final moments before heading back to barracks. It had been a casual moment made earth-shattering, as you watched some revelation brimming in his throat, his mouth, just as you do now. Now, as you did then, you feel as though you teeter on the edge, suspended in anticipation for whatever he might say. Then, he settles on: “Um, you’re my friend. I can’t let you do this alone.”

Squeezing his hands, allowing the disappointment that he couldn’t bring himself to say whatever it is he intended slide off of you, you reason, “And you’re a wonderful friend for even suggesting it, but it’s me and mother’s problems. It’s all a mismanagement of money that was never accounted for when the atelier first opened. My parents…they took out so many loans, made investments, all in attempt to grow their business, thinking they’d pay it back by 1945. Back then, in ’37, we were one of the few families doing well; large orders, star-studded clientele, the whole works; we would have been a success if we had the foresight to know a bomb would fall through the atelier’s roof.”

“And now you’re paying for the mistakes of your parents,” Shifty concludes, the closet to bitterness you’ve ever heard in his voice. “It’s not fair, y/n; you shouldn’t have to go through this alone. I mean, look at you, you’re one girl and it’s a lot of pressure to put on your shoulders. I don’t know how you’ve done it so far—you’ve been so brave, and strong, but…but, maybe if you don’t want to marry me, we could work something else out—”

“But that’d still be taking your money; I don’t want handouts, even if they are well-intentioned and you don’t expect me to pay them back!” you interrupt, taking your hands back, because something in how he spoke—like he wants to protect you, fight for you, as if he has the right to do it—makes all your frustrations over your feelings for him, and the financial ruin, and your life whirling away and out of your carefully-maintained control, synthesize into heated and sharp words, forged and shaped into a cutting edge. “I don’t have much left, Shifty, but at least leave me my dignity.”

tag list: @gottapenny, @maiden-of-gondor, @wexhappyxfew, @medievalfangirl, @higgles123. @mayhem24-7forever

[nationaldvam]

After the New Year a few years ago, I bought myself a copy of Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It wasn’t a book I actually felt I needed; if anything, I’m almost annoyingly tidy already, a veritable Roomba of a human. I’d moved fifteen times in the decade since I’d turned 18, each time trying to shed whatever I no longer wore.

I bought Kondo’s book mostly as a ploy to get my boyfriend, Rob, to clean out his nightstand. Our courtship had been a steady reclamation of his less-tidy space by my relentless wave of tidiness. (Whatever’s going on in Marie Kondo’s brain that makes her say “I love mess!”, I have it, too.) His nightstand, though, was The Place He Put Things. A place I ached to clean.

The book arrived, and after weeks spent suggesting he read it, I finally decided to live by example. I did as Marie Kondo prescribed: I emptied my closet and bureau into a pile on the living room floor, separated their contents into a peak of jackets and a peak of dresses. One by one, I picked items up and asked myself whether they sparked joy. If they didn’t, into the discard pile they went.

I didn’t take me long to see it, what the discard pile was. It was only the skirts, only the dresses, only the flowers and lace and sparkles. It was everything I’d bought hoping that some colleague might say: Isn’t that cute?

I burst into tears, shame filling me entirely, and then I laughed about the fact that this book had made me cry, this silly, stupid cleaning book.

For months — well, years — I’d carried around a stack of telling moments in my mind, ones I’d shuffle periodically, ones I knew told me something but something I didn’t want to acknowledge to myself, let alone admit. For example, there was this one moment back before I’d quit my job. I had worked at a start-up media company. It was the sort of office that looks fun and has fun snacks and there’s pressure to dress up on fun holidays like Halloween. One Halloween, I’d come as Ace Ventura.

After lunch they were giving prizes to those who’d really gone above and beyond costume-wise, myself not included. I stood in the crowd next to a colleague who’d come dressed as her boss. Earlier her costume had gotten a big reaction, though, because it was her dressing as him: sneakers, jeans, glasses, of course the hoodie. Everyone laughed. Now we were standing around, drinking booze, eating sugar. I told her I liked her costume and she looked embarrassed.

“I feel so awkward. Don’t you feel awkward?” she asked.

I didn’t get what she meant.

“Dressing like a guy!” she said.

“Oh,” I said, and without thinking added: “I always dress like a guy for Halloween, or at least a lot of the time.”

(I mentally flipped through prior Halloweens: My first costume, at age three, an authentic lederhosen. In elementary and middle school, I’d dressed as a male nerd, a male tourist, Charlie Chaplin. When I was in grad school in Iowa, in my mid-twenties, I’d won second place at a roller derby halftime costume contest dressed as Justin Bieber. When I said “Justin Bieber” into the judge’s mic, someone in the crowd shouted, “That’s a chick!”)

“That’s funny,” I said to my colleague, “I haven’t noticed that before.”

Which was funny, because just getting dressed, day-to-day, I struggled with, always. Most mornings my bedroom floor would be lost beneath tops and skirts pulled on and torn off. I’d apply eye makeup or lipstick, then remove it, then change my mind again. I’d pause at the door and cringe and end up back in my room, eyeing the clock, and pull the shirt from the day before from the laundry. It had always been like this.

Back then, I was always sweating. At work I sweated through shirts and cardigans and sometimes jackets, too. If I thought about the sweat it seemed to get worse. In the summer especially I’d go hide in the bathroom a while, wait until the whole joint was empty so I could crouch with my pits beneath the hand dryer. Sometimes I told myself little lies about how I was getting better, generally — getting better at having style, getting better at faking confidence.

I knew deep down this was all a fiction. If anything, I sensed I was getting worse at even leaving the apartment. It grew harder to dress for work; I eventually wore the same few items over and over: a black maxi dress, lace-up sandals, a jean jacket to mop up sweat.

But then I sold a book, and realized that to finish it, I had to quit my job. This meant no more office or coworkers. It meant I didn’t have to leave the house at all. This idea — never having to dress for work again — was appealing for reasons I still couldn’t quite explain.

Now with no office to go to, I rarely dressed, and if I did I wore sweatpants. The days I did go out, for an appointment or a meeting, I might force myself to dress up. Tripping down a cobblestone street one afternoon in heels, I wondered who the hell I was trying to fool.

I eventually ran out of the one makeup item I still sometimes wore, red lipstick, and now found myself incapable of making the trip to Sephora to buy more. The place had always make me melt with nervousness, but now, so unpracticed at being in public, I felt somehow incapable of going inside. I finally convinced a friend to come with me. I found myself trying to explain to her that doing something like buying lipstick was very hard for me. I don’t think she understood what I meant. I don’t think I understood what I meant.

A few days later I wrote about the lipstick incident in a blog post. I published it hurriedly, before I could talk myself out of it. In the post, for the very first time to anyone, I acknowledged what that day I termed “my gender stuff.”

A month later, kneeling and sobbing before my Marie Kondo discard pile, it felt silly, sure, that this book is what had finally done it, but I also couldn’t unsee my actual preferences: so much of the feminine clothing I owned did not spark joy.

I donated it all. I hung and folded the items that remained: flannel shirts, baggy jeans, t-shirts. I had kept a few dresses and heels and feminine winter coats, ones that had seemed really special when I’d bought them. I knew Marie Kondo wouldn’t have approved of my choice to keep them. Each day I passed them and they stared right back at me.

During the months that followed, I steadily shed feminine things. One day, all my makeup: gone. Another day, all my earrings: gone. (My ears had been pierced when I was two!) I tried to do as Marie Kondo said and thanked these items for what they’d given me. I guiltily threw them out, and then felt wonderful.

One August day, I donated the last of my heels and dresses, the ones that had once been my absolute favorites. I happened to run into someone I knew in line at the thrift shop, and he offered to take my box of things to donate. I put them in his trunk and watched him drive away. I didn’t say to him, nor could I have articulated, that I was throwing out the last of me pretending to be a woman.

Walking away, I felt joy, an almost ridiculous joy. I also felt terror, like when a cartoon has walked off a cliff and is standing blissfully on air.

A few days later, Rob and I happened to be flying to another city on vacation. I packed a mostly empty suitcase. When we got there, I said, I’d force myself to go shopping.

Rob knew I’d gotten rid of a lot of my clothes, and I’d begun to talk about gender, but, like me, he didn’t know where I was going with any of this.

The first store was GAP-like. To my left were waifish white mannequins wearing blouses and skirts, cashmeres and scarves; to the right were slightly bigger ones in belted khakis and button downs.

I walked straight ahead, wanting to turn right but afraid. I broke left through the dresses, feeling immediately disappointed in myself, Rob following behind.

I swerved back to the right, hurriedly walking through the men’s things now, wondering if anyone was on to me. I looked at a pair of pants, willing myself to pick them up. How would I ever figure out my size? How could I ever work up the nerve to walk back to the dressing room? I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out. I marched back out the glass doors, with Rob behind me.

We found a café and I cried and tried to tell him some of my story, the first I’d ever told anyone any of it, really. I recalled being three and learning my bedroom walls were painted green because my parents had expected me to be a boy, a fact I had always loved. I recalled how the nickname I’d had since birth, Sandy, was a name for boys and girls both, another fact I had always loved.

“For as long as I can remember, this is who I’ve been,” I explained to him: internally not-female, or not just female, though I didn’t know what this made me instead.

“I love you,” he said, “I support you.” He seemed less surprised than I’d have guessed he be. What fear I had that he would love me less if I were honest about it all was quickly dissolving.

I finished an iced tea. I felt better.

We resolved that I could try going into a second store. He held my hand. I nervously felt along the side that had masculine things. The woman behind the register was wearing a ballcap herself and didn’t seem bothered. I went into a dressing room and tried on item after item. Every time I emerged, Rob beamed.

I couldn’t afford to buy much of anything that day, so when he took out his card, I didn’t stop him; I’d never felt so grateful.

That evening, we went on a date. I wore a new button down, trousers, Oxfords. We moved down the street, his hand in mine, which was shaking, so terrified by the question of what we must look like to others.

Nobody much noticed, or if they did and cared, they didn’t show it. This, I’ve since learned, is often the way of things.

Before that night, I realized, I had never before been both “dressed up” and comfortable.

“You look hot,” Rob said, and unlike how I’d always reacted to such sentiments, I didn’t want to swat away his compliment like a gnat.

The best feelings are the converse of this cisgender othering: the moments of communion, however brief, I share with other queer and trans people out there in the world. Like last June, I walked down Sixth Avenue during the NYC Dyke March, one body in a long splay of bodies, bodies with voices, bodies with drums, and I felt, for the first time ever, like I was surrounded by my peers.

That year I didn’t leave the apartment much because there was always work to be done, and because what would I wear? Because what was I even doing? Because sometimes I’d cry so hard.

I had learned words for myself, words like nonbinary and trans, but I couldn’t yet imagine saying these words about myself to anyone. Trump was elected. The apartment was high in a building with a terrace. I’d stand on it barefoot and study the traffic on the avenue below.

That year I read books — books for the book I was writing, but also books about gender, books I’d finally let myself get after years of not buying such books. When I finally read Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl, I reflected a long time on my choice of Halloween costume that time at work, Ace Ventura. Serano reminded me that the entire plot of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective turns on the “reveal” of a transgender woman. At the movie’s climax, Ace outs a trans woman for the “fake” that she is — literally spinning her around to show her tucked genitals — at which he and everyone else vomits profusely, including Dan Marino and the Dolphins’ mascot, a dolphin.

I recalled other transphobic — specifically transmisogynist — cultural artifacts that attracted me when I was younger, realizing in fact that so much of the comedy I loved growing up hinged on the joke of crossdressing: Mrs. Doubtfire, Monty Python, Little Britain. Also the joke of gender non-conformity, in the case of It’s Pat. I probably loved these things both because they brought up the topic of gender, which did greatly interest me, and because they shamed me, bullied me away from acknowledging my own truth.

Sometimes I would be forced to leave the apartment. I’d put on new clothes, ones that made me feel a flutter of pride. Friends wouldn’t recognize me. Strangers would stare. Or they’d call me “sir” and I’d be stunned but also unsure whether I wanted to correct them. I also felt that these were the first times I’d ever dared to show myself honestly to the world.

Sometimes I’d run into someone I knew — a girl from back home, a guy from grad school. I’d see them avoid my eyes, sure that they didn’t know me. I’d feel hurt, and then I’d see them realize, say something like, “You got a haircut.”

Sometimes I’d have to attend some event or occasion I hadn’t since the change, like a job interview or funeral. Attempting to dress, I’d fall apart, totally lose nerve. Rob would stand with me, tie my tie, wipe my tears. At that funeral, some relatives didn’t recognize me, and others thought I was my brother. But then they did see it was me.

“Sandy!” they said. After, I’d feel a supreme relief, like at least now they know, even if they don’t get it.

I worked up all the courage I had and made an appointment at an actual barbershop. For years I’d gone to a salon that smelled like chardonnay and chemicals, pretended the whole time I wasn’t having a panic attack.

In the barbershop the men didn’t seem to notice me. I got the cut I wanted. I exited feeling something like pride, rubbing the buzz on the back of my neck. Walking through the park on my way home, I stopped and did something I’d never much been tempted to do before, which was post a selfie. I shook with nerves.

I never used to picture myself in middle or old age, but now I do. That began happening after I came out. Another new thing I started to feel was that I love myself. Not just how I look, my haircut, my style, though I do love those things. I now love my body itself to an extent I’d never have imagined was possible. Before I hated everything about me, body included, totally, powerfully, if for reasons I couldn’t quite spell out.

Presenting myself now, in a way that’s honest about how I’ve always mentally straddled the gender divide, I also feel the cruelty of gender-segregated spaces more sharply. I hate the TSA and avoid changing rooms. Cis women in bathrooms sometimes look shocked or horrified when they see me, or they make frowning remarks (like “This the men’s?”). I contemplate going into men’s rooms but frankly, I’m too scared of men. If I’m being honest, I avoid being in public still, as much as I can.

These days, I’m called “sir” and “ma’am” with equal frequency. Sometimes people think I’m male at first and then realize I’m not, usually when I talk, and sometimes I then see a wild anger in them. In those moments, I feel my vulnerability. Though in other senses I feel safer; I am no longer constantly catcalled, as I was before — that drumbeat of male violence, muffled. All the time I feel how arbitrary these categories are. All the time, I know this is all just about power.

Some who see me now are excited about my apparent difference. In a restaurant, a waitress ran over, grinning, nearly shouting, “What are you?”

The best feelings are the converse of this cisgender othering: the moments of communion, however brief, I share with other queer and trans people out there in the world. Like last June, I walked down Sixth Avenue during the NYC Dyke March, one body in a long splay of bodies, bodies with voices, bodies with drums, and I felt, for the first time ever, like I was surrounded by my peers. I felt really quiet that day, like no words would work. I still find myself unable to describe that feeling of having community. Suffice it to say, it sparked joy.

I’m 31 now, and living a life that a few years ago I couldn’t have imagined. My book’s paperback calls me Sandy and they/them. Rob and I married and moved to an old farmhouse in the country. I now have two floors of rooms to tidy. I often wander delightedly for hours, scrubbing and straightening and vacuuming cat fur and flies and once, with a whoosh — to my great surprise — the skeleton of a baby mouse.

Rob and I write out our chores on a big spool of brown paper by the fridge, to ensure we contribute evenly. I am proud of us, of him, for how we’ve managed to share the responsibilities of maintaining this home. And yet, through all this change, a constant remains, bulging with wires and papers and who knows what else, the one place I’ve accepted I’ll never tidy: his nightstand.

[soaimagines]

Third Love

Request: Imagine dating Jax for a while, Tara comes back and you and Jax fight.

PART TWO COMING 😘

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s been said that we really only fall in love with three people in our lifetime. Yet, it’s said that we need each of these loves for a different reason. Often our first is when we are young, high school even. It’s the idealistic love; the one that seems like the fairytales we are all read as children. It’s a love that looks right. The second is supposed to be our hard love; the one that teaches us lessons about who we are and how we often want or need to be loved. Sometimes it’s unhealthy, unbalanced or narcissistic even. It’s the love that we wished was right. And the third is the love we never see coming. The one that usually comes dressed as all wrong for us and that destroys any lingering ideals we clung to about what love is supposed to be. It’s the love that just feels right. Maybe we don’t all experience these loves in this lifetime; but perhaps that’s just because we aren’t ready to. Possibly maybe we need a whole lifetime to learn or maybe if we’re lucky it only takes a few years. And there may be those people who fall in love once and find it passionately lasts until their last breath. Someone once told me they are the lucky ones; and perhaps they are. But I kinda think that those who make it to their third love are really the lucky ones. They are the ones who are tired of having to try and whose broken hearts lay beating in front of them wondering if there is just something inherently wrong with how they love. But there’s not; it’s just a matter of if someone loves in the same way that they do or not. And maybe there’s something special about our first love, and something heartbreakingly unique about our second…but there’s also just something about our third. The one we never see coming. The one that actually lasts. The one that shows us why it never worked out before. And it’s that possibility that makes trying again always worthwhile, because the truth is you never know when you’ll stumble into love. ”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You pulled into the Teller-Morrow lot and parked in your usual spot before sliding out of your seat and closing the car door behind you. The night was warm and the air was crisp, the sun slowly beginning to set and you walked across the lot, thinking to yourself how thankful you were to live in a place like this. Your footsteps echoed through the quiet lot, almost silent except the faint music coming from inside. The row of bikes was a welcome sight and you headed straight for the clubhouse doors. There was nothing quite like the smell of the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse and it welcomed you every time you opened those doors; a mix of cheap perfume, leather and cigarettes. And for the last two years, this place had become your home. Dating Jackson Teller wasn’t easy, but to be honest you didn’t want easy. Nothing worthwhile ever came easy and for you, Jax was worth the world. You saw him almost instantly, sitting casually at one of the tables, a beer in one hand and a cigarette pressed between his lips, his blonde hair slicked back from his face. A smile spread on your lips as you neared him and when he saw you approaching his face lit up. “Hey darlin,” Jax greeted you and gave his leg a pat, gesturing for you to sit. You obliged and sat in his lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulder before kissing his lips gently. “Hey yourself.” Chibs and Tig were sat at the table also and they both greeted you warmly. “How was your day?” You asked, absentmindedly playing with the folds of leather on his kutte. “Busy.” Jax smiled at you. He knew you weren’t digging for information on the club, you were just generally interested in how his days went and he admired you for not pressing him for details. You began to chat about your day, Jax asking you questions about work and neither of you noticed Chibs and Tig leave the table. Conversation always flowed easily between the two of you and even when you weren’t speaking the silence was comfortable. “You ready to head home?” You asked, stifling a yawn. Jax took a swig of his beer before speaking. “I’ve gotta wrap up some Club stuff,” He told you, shifting uneasily in his seat. “I might be late tonight babe.” You nodded and smiled. “Well I’d say I’d wait up but I doubt il be able to.” You said as another yawn came over you. Jax smirked and kissed you deeply. “I love you, (y/n).” He told you, his voice serious. You thought nothing of it and smiled back at him. “I love you too.”

~

The singing of the birds outside your window woke you before your alarm did, and you were thankful. The sounds of nature were a much more pleasant awakening then the nagging beeps of your alarm clock. You stretched your arms out and instantly noticed the empty spot beside you. You frowned slightly. It was unlike Jax to not come home. Even when he stayed late at the clubhouse he always made his way home, knowing that you worried when he wasn’t beside you. You checked your phone but saw no messages or calls from him. ‘He probably crashed at the clubhouse. It was a busy day after all.’ You told yourself and headed for the shower. After showering you pulled on your ripped black jeans and a grey tshirt and tied your hair loosely on top of your head before heading to the kitchen for breakfast. It wasn’t your day off, but you only had two meetings today so you didn’t need to head into the office til around lunchtime. You threw some bread in the toaster and made up a pot of coffee. It wouldn’t hurt to pop in to the clubhouse, you thought. Jax might have already headed out for the day but there was still a chance he’d be there and you wanted to ease your mind before heading into work. You quickly had your breakfast and tidied up the kitchen before grabbing your keys off the counter and heading for the door. Your house wasn’t far from TM and the drive there passed quickly. The lot was coming alive for the day, some of the guys around the picnic table, some in the garage working on bikes and you could see Gemma in her office. You parked in your spot and got out of the car.

“Mornin’ lass,” Chibs called from the table. “Morning!” You smiled back. You’d always gotten on well with him and he always made you feel welcome. “Jax inside?” “Aye, he’s in his dorm.” You thanked him and kissed his cheek before heading inside.

Jax was exactly where Chibs said; sitting at the desk in his dorm, cigarette between his lips, writing in that notebook he always clutched so tight. You leant against the door, unwilling to disturb him. You liked watching him write, he always looked so focused, like he was writing the secrets of the world. You never asked what he was writing, never wished to read his words; you didn’t need to. He had always been open with you and you’d never had secrets between you. However something didn’t feel quite were. You let him write in piece for another minute before you rapped on the door lightly. Jax lifted his head and smiled before blowing out his smoke and putting out the cigarette in an ash tray. “Mornin’,” Jax saidnas he stood and walked towards you. “Long time no see, Teller.” You smirked. You were pissed he hadn’t come home and hadn’t bothered to text you, but damn with a face like that you could never stay mad at him for long. Jax smirked and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry babe.” You raised an eyebrow and laid your hands on his shoulders. His hands held your waist gently. “That’s all I get?” “I’ll make it up to you?” He offered, a playful hint in his eyes. You laughed lightly. “You sound so sincere.” Jax smirked at the sarcasm in your voice and kissed you softly. “I’m sorry babe.” He told you again. This time you nodded and smiled. “Just come home tonight.” You told him. Jax nodded and you kissed him once more before turning away. “See you at home. For dinner.” You called over your shoulder “I’ll be there.” Jax watched you leave, a content smile on his lips as he watched you walk.

~

The house was so silent that you swore you actually heard the clock tick over. 9 O'clock. And he still wasn’t home. Your fingers rapped at the table impatiently. Fuck it. You thought. You hadn’t heard from him since you had left the clubhouse earlier this morning and after not coming home last night you were pissed. He could have at least had the decency to call. Now, dinner had gone cold and you didn’t really care; you always lost your appetite when you were angry. You glanced at the clock once more before grabbing your keys, pulled on your boots and marched to the door. You drove fast, barely stopping at the red lights and stop signs on the way and the tyres screeched when you pulled into the lot. Tig and Happy were sat outside and they eyed you curiously as you slammed the car door. “Everything okay doll?” Tig asked as you stormed across the lot. “Just fucking peachy.” You said. Tig nodded slowly and backed away, arms raised and you sat back at the table with Hap. You glanced past the dozen men scattered around the clubhouse, searching only for one. Juice was walking towards you, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket as he walked. You spotted Jax, sitting on one of the sofas, a pretty brunette beside him. She wasn’t a crow eater, that was obvious but you still felt a pang of jealousy when you saw Jax smile at her. “Juice, who’s that?” You asked as he neared you. He glanced around the room, following your gaze and stopped awkwardly when he saw who you were meaning. “Uhh I’m not sure (y/n).” Juice said and rubbed his neck. You crossed your arms and glared at him. He sighed. “It’s um. Tara.” He told you and flashed you a sad smile before squeezing your arm and walked past you. You nodded slowly. So this is why Jax had been acting strange; Tara was back. Goddamit. You knew about her, he had told you, Gemma had told you, hell half the fucking club had told you. She was his first love, the first girl to break his heart. It had been years since she’d left town and you hadn’t ever imagined she’d come back. You’d had a hard enough time adjusting to Wendy being around, but you’d come to realise there was nothing left between her and Jax. They had been toxic for each other, and they only kept in touch for the sake of Abel. She wasn’t a threat and you’d actually grown to like her. Tara was different. You’d never met her, you’d only moved to town two years after she’d left but you knew how much she had meant to him. And the fact that he had practically ignored you didn’t sit right. A part of you wanted to storm across the room, slap the bitch right across her cheek, and rip Jax into shreds. But you didn’t. You turned around slowly and walked back to your car.

~

It was 2.37am when Jax pulled into the drive way. He parked his bike and swung his leg over before resting his helmet on his handle bars and heading towards the front door. The kitchen light was still on inside and he walked slowly, his head hung low. His footsteps were light as he walked up the steps and he opened the door slowly and closed it before him. His shoes thumped against the carpet as he licked them off and he pulled the leather off his shoulders and laid it over the back of a chair before heading into the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw you sitting at the table, a half bottle of whiskey and an empty glass in front of you. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You’re still up.” “Couldn’t sleep.” He nodded slowly and fumbled with his rings before pulling out a chair and taking a seat opposite you. “I’m sorry I’m late babe, things with the club have been.. busy.” You nodded and lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured some into your glass. Jax sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “It won’t be like this all the time darlin, things have just been busy. It’ll die down soon and I’ll be-” “I came to the clubhouse.” You interrupted. Jax stopped, his blue eyes fixed on you but you didn’t meet his gaze. You twirled the glass in your hand, letting the whiskey swirl around before taking a sip. “How longs she been back, Jax?” He was silent for a moment before he spoke. “A few days.” He told you. You nodded slowly, your face cold. “Do you love me?” You asked. Jax reached across the table to grab your hands but you pulled them away. “I do, (y/n). I love you.” “Do you love her?” You took another swig. Jax sighed. “Look it’s not that simple, I-” “Yes or no.” You interrupted. His gaze lingered in you but you only stared at the glass in your hands. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, (y/n).” You scoffed. “Then what the fuck does it mean, Jax?! You blow me off cause your ex is back in town?” “I needed time to think.” Jax said, his voice calm. “To think?!” You yelled. “To think about what, Jax?! She left you! It’s been ten fucking years! But you need to think about it?” “I didn’t think I’d see her again, it threw me.” You scoffed and downed the rest of your glass. “I was gonna tell you, I just needed to figure thins out. Me and Tara, we got a lot of history.” “What did you need to figure out Jax? You’ve moved on! You’ve moved on with me! Or have the last two years meant nothing to you?!” “Of course they meant something!” Jax yelled back. “I love you!” “Bullshit!” You threw the bottle of whiskey at the wall behind him, barely missing his head and the glass shattered to the floor. “If you loved me you wouldn’t have blown me off to see her! You would have told me straight away! You wouldn’t have lied to me!” You screamed, your fists shaking with rage. “I am no ones second choice, Jackson.” You grabbed your keys and pushed past him, heading for the door. Anger was seething through you and although you could hear Jax yelling after you you couldn’t make out his words. The rage was blinding, and you didn’t notice your knuckles whitening as you gripped the steering wheel. You didn’t notice the row of flowers you crushed beneath the tyres. You didn’t notice the tears streaming down your face. You didn’t notice the red light beaming in the street. You didn’t notice the truck. No, you didn’t notice it. Not til it hit the side of your car, and everything went black.

[emilyplaysotome]

Part 7 - About Last Night

Down the Voltage Rabbit Hole is an ongoing story about our MC, who could easily be anyone in voltage fandom. She woke up in hospital bed only to discover that she’d somehow been transported Voltage universe:

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Part 7 - About Last Night

For the third time in four days, my head pounded, except this time I only had myself to blame.

I should have ensured that the meal ended before the cake, before the wine, and before my resolve had been shaken. If I’d been strong enough to end it when I should have, I would have been waking up in my own bed right about now, instead of the bed in Soryu’s penthouse. 

Reflecting back on it now, the entire night had been designed to seduce me. Similar to the MCs of this world, I too was unable to turn my nose up a delicious meal - especially one that was free. 

Back home, my friends and I had what I fondly referred to as “our restaurant club”, which consisted of a monthly get together at the latest up and coming (or high end) New York City restaurant. We’d splurge far beyond our means in the shared interest of tasting the best NYC had to offer. I had dined on everything from the nine-course chef’s tasting menu at per se, to Mario Batali’s down-to-earth pastas and pizzas at Otto, and as a result, the opulence of the spread Soryu had prepared for us was not lost on me.

The entrees ranged from familiar Western comfort food that he had no doubt ordered to put me at ease (such as hamburgers, french fries, and pizza), to Japanese delicacies (in case I was feeling adventurous) which he walked me through, such as namako (sea cucumber) and fugu (blowfish sushi). It was fairly miraculous that I had been able to resist at all, considering the fact that while I had been working hard to convince myself that Soryu as a man was not “real” in the sense I required, the food very much was. 

The one silver lining of last night had been that I’d at least had the good sense to keep things platonic...other than the part where he held my hand and we gazed into each other’s eyes...

...Barf. 

How had I allowed myself to get so swept up in the moment? It wasn’t like me...although, when I began to think about it, kind of was. I chalked my inconsistent behavior up to my inner Gemini, who caused me on occasion to transition from calculating and deliberate to whimsical and careless.

I lay in bed, eyes not quite ready to be opened, as I oscillated between scolding myself and attempting to justify my actions. I told myself that in the grand scheme of things, hand holding was fairly inconsequential considering it was something grade school children did without second thought. The more I thought about it, I began to feel pretty confident that I could play the entire night off without any hurt feelings. 

After all...he’d asked me to have dinner with him and then decide. Just because I’d decided to sleep on his offer, didn’t mean I wasn’t ultimately going to take him up on it.

Once I’d worked this all out in my head, I rolled over, opened my eyes, and almost screamed bloody murder.

Soryu was curled up next to me, sleeping soundly, which was odd because I knew for a fact that he had not been there when I went to bed the night before. Sure I had been drunk, but I hadn’t been the kind of drunk that I’d been with Hiroshi.

I reached my hand out and gingerly poked his cheek as I sat up, creating some space between us.

“Yo, get up.”

Groggily he batted his eyelashes at me as his eyes adjusted to the morning light, and he smiled that kind smile which had the power to render me helpless if I wasn’t being careful.

“Good morning.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” I said forcefully, putting my emotional walls back up. “Why are you in my bed?”

He rubbed his eyes, as if he were a little boy, and innocently said, “Honest mistake. I was pretty drunk last night.”

I knew that was a lie. Soryu Oh didn’t get drunk. Soryu Oh was a man who could hold his liquor. He was just making an excuse to get close to me, and I needed to do what I couldn’t bear to last night and push him away.

“Oh, well....thanks for everything, but I’d like to live in employee housing now.”

I found myself unable to make eye contact as I said the words, so I don’t know what he actually looked like when the reality of what I said sank in, but I’m pretty sure it must have been heartbreaking to witness. Like the coward I was, I stared at the covers until he left the room, closing the door behind him. I could hear him speaking with Eisuke in the other room as I got dressed, making good on his promise.

I knew it was all my fault, and I couldn’t tell what was making me feel worse - my hangover or my actions. 

It didn’t matter though. I couldn’t sit here forever, wallowing in my poor choices, so I forced myself to get up and began to gather what few belongings I had.

Once everything I owned was present and accounted for, I looked at the empty suite and said a silent goodbye to it, which I knew was illogical on my part as I’d be back to clean it in the days to come. I recognized the fact that I felt a bit of gratitude towards this room which had offered me a bit of comfort in what had otherwise been a traumatic few days. As it sunk in that I would never live here again, my overly sentimental feelings towards the penthouse began to make sense - not only had I developed an affection for the space, but also the man who inhabited it. 

Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, my guilty conscience went into overdrive, and instead of vacating the room I found myself rummaging through the suitcase I had just packed. I found the small piece of silk fabric Tauxolouve claimed was a thong, and left it under Soryu’s pillow.

I started to leave again, but then began to worry whether or not it would be too hidden. In order for my sins to be absolved, I needed Soryu to find the thong and return it to me in the way I predicted he would. 

After staging the balled up thong in a few different locations, I finally settled on the corner of the bed that we had shared last night. Convinced that the contrast created between the black silk and white bedding would set my plan for redemption in motion, I took one last look at my carefully art directed thong, and left the room.

Kenzaki allowed me a half day to get settled in my new digs and I have to admit, living alone again was pretty awesome. The room itself was as I’d expected - a small studio apartment that would have felt claustrophobic to anyone who hadn’t been conditioned to deal with small spaces. Fortunately for me, New York City real estate had prepared me for such a room, and I quickly felt at home. 

The room had all the necessary furnishings provided, and it had seemed that either Soryu or Eisuke had instructed whoever prepared the room to include a few sets of bedding, in addition to a television, and laptop. I didn’t have much stuff, so it was a fairly easy move for me, and after no time at all found myself moved in. I glanced at my phone and saw I had a few hours to kill before I was required to be in at work. There was a lot I wanted to do, but if I’m being honest, it was hard to think about anything other than Soryu. 

Obviously he had gotten under my skin, which bothered me, since I logically I acknowledged that none of it was real. Everything he did, and everything he was - it was all an elaborate ruse to get me to fall in love with him, and what made me even madder was that it had only taken a few days to for me fall under his spell.

Was I that pathetic, that starved for attention in my old life, that I would allow myself to fall so quickly for a man that I knew was an illusion?

I sighed, mulling it over in my room, half-euphoric with an unfamiliar love sick feeling, and half-disgusted by how weak I was.

After an hour or so of wallowing on my new bed, I decided to attempt to be productive by adding phone numbers (if available) to the places I planned on visiting. Once that was done, I found myself on the phone with the Sanno Corporation, setting up a date to tour the office, followed by a few more calls, including one in which I impersonated a concerned parent in order to visit the grounds of Seishun High School. Before I knew it, I’d set up several appointments and it was time to go to work. 

I put on my uniform, and for the first time, in a very long time, worried over whether or not I looked ok.

“I’m here to clean!” I exclaimed cheerfully as I entered the lounge.

I’d been procrastinating a bit - handling the suites first, full well knowing that the entire group was present. They were in the middle of planning the upcoming auction, and spoke about it freely with the understanding that I possessed no knowledge of hotel’s shady dealings. Their candor surrounding the discussion of the auctions surprised me. Considering they had only known me for a few days, it struck me as odd that they would speak so freely about their plans in my presence. Perhaps they figured that I was insignificant, or that their fragmented manner of speech made it unlikely that I would put together the clues that hinted at the hotel’s dark underbelly. Regardless, it still felt rather careless to me.

With the bidders completely engrossed in their conversation, for the first time since I’d arrived at the Tres Spades, they ignored me completely. I took advantage of this opportunity to go about my business (hurriedly tidying as the room magically reset itself) while attempting to inconspicuously listen in. 

As Eisuke alluded to disposing of someone who had begun asking too many questions about the ins and outs of the auctions, I stole a glance at Soryu and reminded myself that he was a bad man, in charge of a dangerous, underground crime ring that murdered people on a regular basis. Just because this world felt familiar and safe to me, didn’t mean it actually was. I had to operate with caution moving forward as it seemed entirely possible for me to perish in this world, just as it had been in mine.

“You wouldn’t want to date John Wayne Gacy or John Gotti,” I whispered, trying to convince myself, “and you definitely don’t want to date him.”

My time spent cleaning went quickly (as it usually did in this world), and with the exception of Eisuke asking Soryu fairly pointedly if he had a date for the auction (he said no), very little happened.

Actually...that’s an over simplification. They talked about an upcoming heist, murdering at least two individuals that they felt posed a threat to their auctions, and wanted Kishi to look into Soryu’s file at the station, as Eisuke was concerned by the Ice Dragons’ recent drug activity arousing the MPD’s suspicion. However, as a woman who was desperately trying to control matters of the heart, Soryu’s lack of date for the auction jumped out at me more than the terrifying reminder that I was literally working for criminals.

I was about to excuse myself when Eisuke called me over and asked me to make him a coffee. I protested at first (that’s not really a maid’s job), but soon remembered how futile arguing with Eisuke Ichinomiya is. From there, the orders started coming in - a tea for Baba, juice for Ota, bourbon for Mamoru.

Only Soryu stayed silent, and followed me to the drink cart to prepare something for himself. I got to work, as did Soryu, and after a brief, uncomfortable silence he broke it by asking, “Did you settle in ok?”

“I did, thank you.”

“I...you left this.”

With that he thrust the thong I’d left behind into my hands.

I’d done it as a favor to him - as an apology for treating him so poorly when he’d been nothing but wonderful to me. He didn’t realize it though, but he would soon enough, and I knew exactly what I needed to do from here.

“Oh gosh,” I said, pretending to be ashamed. “How embarrassing.”

I made sure to not pocket the thong as fast as I would have normally, because I knew like a moth to a flame, Baba would appear any moment.

“Is that what I think it is?”

He obnoxiously patted Soryu on the back and for once, I felt in complete control of the situation.

“Baba,” I pleaded quietly. “Please...don’t tell the other guys. Okay?”

I made sure that the insinuation we'd slept together came across loud and clear. I watched Baba’s face quickly transition from disappointment to a sort of smugness that could only be meant to antagonize Soryu. It occurred to me that I had triggered something in this universe that changed Baba’s role from a potential love interest to a mischievous, fun loving, tension breaking side character. 

He nodded with a wry grin, and trotted back to the couch, taking what would most likely be a permanent seat next to Ota.

While he did this, I pretended to be relieved, but in actuality knew that the second I stepped out of the room, Baba would reveal what I had hinted at to the rest of the men, and all Soryu needed to do was go along with it.

Soryu didn’t understand this though. He stood before me, red faced and clearly befuddled. Just as I’d done with Hiroshi, I lightly touched his shoulder and got on my tiptoes, bringing my lips close to his ear.

“Feel free to go along with it,” I whispered.

“Go along with what?”

“You know…” I trailed off and gave him a suggestive look, which caused him to turn a bit redder. “Consider it my farewell gift to you. We’re even now.”

Soryu’s eyes widened slightly, as he came to grips with what I’d done. 

I watched as the wheels spun behind his eyes as he realized that I’d left the underwear behind on purpose, and blushed an even deeper shade of red when he realized that I knew what the rest of the men knew, but never said - that Soryu Oh was a virgin.

Sure, he was many things, but being a virgin was the one thing that the bidders, should they ever want, could hold over his head. It was something that he found to be a bit embarrassing, as a 28-year-old man, and a gangster no less, who was constantly surrounded by sex and illusions of sex.

I’d put two and two together fairly quickly, between Eisuke’s initial certainty that lodging with Soryu would make me most comfortable as a woman with a boyfriend. Eisuke had made it clear that day out of all the bidders, Soryu would never touch me, and when I’d pressed him, insinuated he’d never seen his friend in all the years he knew him touch a woman, so it was doubtful that he’d start now. 

My conviction only grew after Soryu told me about his past - having never been in love or casually dated. Since he’d also expressed that he’d never patronized a prostitute, it was clear that his sexual experience was limited to whatever he did on his own time, without the mess of a flesh and blood woman that he’d lose interest in “after she opened her mouth” as he had so bluntly said that night.

From behind me I could hear snickering, and I watched as Soryu’s face relaxed. He gave me a small nod, to the point that anyone else who hadn’t been watching us closely would have missed it, and with that, he walked back to the couch carrying the drinks I’d prepared for everyone.

I left room, quietly closing the door behind me, with a clear conscience but my heart aching ever so slightly. This was for the best. I needed to keep moving forward. I didn’t have time to pine over Soryu Oh right now. 

I needed to get to Conte before I missed the dinner rush.

To be continued…in Part 8!

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[salamoonder]

Dark Side | [ch. 2]

Logan wishes everything was objective and the logical choice was clear.

Wordcount: 1.4k

Warnings: themes surrounding terminal illness

A/N: I’m not totally sure if Logan is autistic or just has autistic tendencies...? Either way he’s fun :)

|| Read it on AO3 ||

Logan’s late for his last lesson. His room is perfect, as always. All his craziness--various fidget toys, Rubik’s cubes, stacks and stacks of notebooks and papers from his slew of never ending projects--is confined to his desk. His riding clothes are hanging right in front of him, washed, ironed, crisp. Even the edges of the sleeves on his polos are aligned with each other. His breeches are organized in a gradient, and everything slopes up to the right with his pants on the left and everything else on the right. According to a book he’s read on the Japanese art of minimalism and tidying, it leads the eye upward, makes you feel more uplifted. And like every other perfectly arranged bit of his room, it only draws more attention to the fact that inside, his head is a disaster area.

Logan sits down on his bed and grunts in frustration. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave. Of course he wants to go to Riverpoint. But his points of interest are not aligning very well. He doesn’t want to leave the stables, therefore he doesn’t feel like going in the first place, because it will only bring the leaving closer. He wants to go to Riverpoint, but he doesn’t want to leave anything else behind- this whole thing is so frustratingly illogical.

In the end he snatches a polo and a pair of riding breeches from his closet without looking, dresses and brushes his teeth and hair in record time, and drives to Magnolia’s instead of walking.

He makes it with two minutes to spare till the actual lesson. Nowhere near enough time to tack up Starburst, but at least he’s here.

“You’re late,” says Magnolia, smiling as he walks into the barn. She’s leading Starburst by the reins and looking exceedingly cheerful for someone whose student has just been late for what is probably the first time in years.

“I apologize,” he says. She hands him the reins and walks over to the gate of the training ring.

“It’s alright,” she tells him. “I figured you probably had a lot on your mind.”

“I...do,” says Logan, leading Starburst over to the mounting block. “I’m going to miss this,” he admits, and the words feel rough over his tongue. He’s not one for admissions of emotion, even if it’s the most basic of expressions.

Starburst seems happy to see him. It’s been a while since he’s been able to ride regularly, and Magnolia doesn’t have many students. She’s a responsible caretaker but sometimes there are weeks when the horses just aren’t exercised enough.

Magnolia still makes him feel like he’s about five, correcting his posture and telling him to make sure Starburst is paying attention, counting out beats as he posts. She lets him jump at the end of the lesson, and Logan can’t resist just a tiny smile when they complete the course all the way through the first time. Starburst had been perfect.

He does it a few more times, then dismounts and leads Starburst back over to Magnolia. The gelding snuffles at his hair and Logan reaches up to pat the messy star on his forehead.

“I’ll be sad to see you go, Logan,” she says, and pulls him into a tight hug before he can say anything. He’s surprised, but not too surprised to return the hug. He smiles at her awkwardly. “Thank you. I’m...sad to go.”

Magnolia has another private lesson to get ready for, so Logan untacks Starburst alone, brushes him, spends a few minutes trying to untangle his tail, puts his halter on and then turns him loose in the paddock. He sticks around for a while, nosing Logan over for treats, and Logan goes back into the barn to grab him a couple. The gelding lingers for quite a while after he’s eaten them both, and Logan perches on the gate and strokes his nose.

He’s so glad there will be horses at Riverpoint, but it won’t be quite the same. None of the horses there will replace Starburst. And he has no doubt that none of the instructors are going to replace Magnolia. She’s practically his aunt. Drops by every holiday with a plate of cookies and talks to his mom about him the way a preschool teacher might; proud and exasperated and fond.

Logan jumps off the fence. His mom. He’s been here far too long. He looks around for Magnolia to wave, but she’s deep in her next lesson.

The drive back is lonely.

Logan’s not even sure he remembers what lonely feels like, but it hits him when he gets in the car. Time to forge a new identity, time to put home aside.

His mother’s washing the dishes when he gets back.

“Mom, let me,” he says, gently elbowing her aside and taking the plate in his hands. He hasn’t even bothered to change.

“Logan-” she protests, frowning even as she dries her hands on a dish towel and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m not completely helpless, you know, dear.”

“I know,” he says indulgently. “Just...let me do this, alright, mom? Last night here and everything.”

She sighs. “You’re going to be one of those men who stays up till three am at the office, aren’t you?”

Logan shrugs. “If I end up working an office job, and I deem it productive, I don’t see why not.

She shakes his head. “You’re quite impossible. Dinner’s in the fridge, I’ll be in the living room.”

Logan does some thinking while he finishes the dishes. He’s been thinking for days, of course, about this particular subject, but he never wanted to bring it up. His mom is stubborn, and proud, and he doesn’t want to insult her independence.

But the idea of leaving her here in this dead end town while he goes off to college burns in the tips of his fingers like the lingering sting of grabbing the handle of a hot pan. His mom’s been sick for years now but it was always a background thing before. He didn't have to think about it every day before. Now every deadline for him, everything he has to look forward to, is dampened by the reality of knowing that every second brings them closer to...to.

Well.

Logan supposes he'll just keep on hoping.

The dishes don't take long; it's just the two of them and neither of them like to let them pile up. He joins his mother in the living room even though he still has things to pack. This is more important.

She's watching food network.

“Mom?” he asks during a commercial break.

“Yes?” She's hardly paying attention.

“Mom, I…” he clears his throat. “Mom.”

He hasn't rehearsed this at all, which is unlike him. Looking back, he supposes he was just hoping that it wouldn't be necessary. That there'd be some kind of miracle cure or that Riverpoint would send out a second letter: “Sir, we regret to inform you that your acceptance letter was sent in error and you have not, indeed, been accepted to Riverpoint. Please accept our condolences and best of luck finding an alternative school.”

It doesn't matter that he has about twenty safety schools; he elects to ignore that for now. Being rejected just would've made things easier. Then again, when has Logan ever liked things to be easy?

His mom is staring at him now. He clears his throat again. “Mom, I just want you to know that I can still stay, if need be,” he says in a rush. He's scared that if he doesn't get it out all at once he won't say it at all. His mom’s eyes widen and she places a hand on his knee. “Oh, honey,” she says, “I wouldn't dream of it. You staying here for my sake after you got into your top school? I'd never forgive myself.”

Logan keeps trying to protest, but his mom fixes him with a severe over the glasses stare and he shuts up. It feels disrespectful to keep going.

They finish watching Chopped in silence. Logan goes up to bed bed after that first episode ends; he still has things to do, after all.

She's shorter than him now. She has been for years, but it still doesn't feel right.

Logan carries the last of his bags and boxes out to his beat up Toyota and goes to bed. The moon is too bright for him to sleep properly with the curtains of his window open, but he leaves them open anyway. He wants to be aware of his last night at home.