#bringing down the summit

[gravity-what]

E: If you wrote a sequel to Bringing Down the Summit, what would it be about?

I have three prequel’s in the works for Bringing Down the Summit. They all just kind of slowly go back through time of Guan and Chase’s loose partnerships. They are 1) the Serpents Tail 2) The Black Beetle and 3) Sibini but, I’m not going to lie, if any other Wu catches my fancy or if I just want to make one up for fun their might be more in this story set.

As for a sequel though…all I can imagine is the kids going back to their temple and telling Fung about what happened and Fung going ‘I suppose it is time you learned these things’ and Fung sending them back to Guan for more training, much to Guan’s distress.

Guan, in a fit of petty annoyance at the fact that this happened and partially blaming Chase for this development might drag Chase into said training just because but Chase spends the whole time ignoring everyone else but Omi.

[tojikai]

Permanent Mark⁺ : FORLORN

Grateful to @mikeyslvrr for commissioning and for the support~♡

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Permanent Mark Masterlist

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, death, mentions of pregnancy, implied suicide

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this alternate storyline imagines what could have happened if Y/N had faced a different fate.

He's merely a ghost, beseeching to be haunted by your echoes.

I’ll make things right. I shouldn’t be too late, right? My Y/N and I will be fine. The moment she wakes up, I will apologize. I’ll tell her I messed things up. That I made the wrong decision. That I’m coming home with her. That I’ll never leave again. 

We’re gonna make it. 

We’re gonna make it. 

We’re gonna make it. 

“She didn’t make it.” 

Satoru’s steps halted. The world halted. He's been pacing back and forth in the hospital corridor. Despite the chaos of the people coming in and out of the hospital, the voices bouncing on the white walls, and the cries of families who want nothing but to go home with their loved ones, the ticking of Satoru’s wristwatch is still the loudest. 

It felt like every second added another boulder on his shoulder, making it harder to drag his feet on the tiled walls. Rie looked like she’d been awake all night when they’d only been here for a couple of minutes. Satoru could almost feel the blood behind his eyes, his nerves waiting to burst and he would be covered in it. 

Covered in blood, drenched in guilt, weighed down by regrets.

The doctor’s words reverberated inside his head. The roof of his mouth felt strangely hot as he heard cries behind him. Then, he was tackled to the ground. He didn’t even try to fight back, he just welcomed each blow that his best friend threw on his face, growling “You fucking bastard,” He could hear Rie screaming and his vision blurring as he struggled to stand up, “Y/N, let me see my Y/N.” It was an incoherent murmur as he tried to get to her door.

He was a bit dizzy from the blow and his knees were too weak to fight back. He felt like a bird with tied wings as two people restrained him from going to the room. Satoru could tell that his nose was bleeding but this is nothing compared to losing you. 

The irreversibility of his mistakes is now staring him right in the face and he has no choice but to stare back.

He can hear Suguru cursing him out while his tears bring forth realizations: Your parents were inside, after a long time of absence and months of separation from you, this is the first time that they’re seeing you again, not even breathing. The last thing you’d remember of them was how they never cared, neglecting you until you lost colors.

And Satoru… the last thing you'll remember of him will be his anger, his hatred, and the pain he caused you by turning your years of love into dust. The last thing you'll remember of him will be how he put someone else above you, even though he was the summit of your world.

The last thing you’ll remember is being unloved. By your family. By the man you love. 

Satoru tried to claw his way past the arms that were holding him back, begging for just a glimpse. He cannot believe that it’s true unless he sees you. But even if he does…his brain and his heart wouldn’t allow him to believe it too. The next thing made everything impossible for him as he lost strength in all of his limbs and eventually blacked out.

“Y/N.” He called out one last time before closing his eyes. 

—---------------------------------

Earlier

You can hear your sobs, and your heartbeats are like loud knocks in your ears. You sped up, vision spinning but this is nothing compared to the throbbing pain in your chest. You want to go as fast as you can, believing that maybe then your wheels would burn and dry all the tears that are running down your face. Everything around you was softened by the pools in your eyes.

Even the setting sun looked like a watercolor painting before you, the second brightest thing in your world.

You bit your lip to control your sadness from spilling out. You want to block out the words he said to you, you want to forget how he looked at you there. How those eyes you still love so much now look at you with such reproach, almost disdainful. Even at that moment, they still look so vibrant, enough to color a town. You let out a strained gasp, grasping your shirt as you come to a realization:

You will be stuck in this monochrome box as he paints someone else’s home. 

Before you knew it, the sun had disappeared and there was only darkness in front of you. You blinked away your tears but it didn’t work. Where am I driving? You asked yourself but it was too late to hit the brakes. For a very short moment—a split second even—your flesh trembled before you heard a loud crash. 

And then there was nothing. The sun was eaten up by that darkness in front of you and engulfed you along with it. Your body doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You hear voices but the sound is distorted when they reach your ears. You couldn’t move. Slowly, you felt like you were sinking to the ground. The noises were getting faint and you could barely feel your heartbeat in your chest.

You slipped in and out of your consciousness, each time more chaotic than the last. There was the sound of the siren and a white dancing light pointing directly into your eyes. You can barely feel the air entering your lungs. Am I dying? You wanted to ask but your body was too numb. 

If you are, this is going to be your second death today. 

—---------------------------------

“Just let me be with her for a bit, Ma'am. Please,” Satoru didn't stop the tears from coming as he begged your mother. He knows he doesn't deserve it; he doesn't deserve to mourn you but there's nothing he wouldn't do. After everything that happened at the party, it all felt like a nightmare to him; something so unreal that up until now he still refuses to believe it.

His mother was with him during the burial, as he begged on his knees for a last moment. But your parents weren’t as soft as you. Even as he looked into your kind father’s eyes, he couldn’t find an ounce of pity. Why would he feel sorry for the man who tore his daughter apart? Out of all the hurtful things your mother has said, your father’s last words to Satoru are the ones that scarred him the deepest. It will haunt his ghost til its next life:

“I hope your guilt doesn’t consume you as completely as my daughter’s love for you did to her.”

Finding out about your pregnancy was another knife, twisting in his chest. The fact that you never found out was another bullet to his heart. So, you weren’t the only one he abandoned that day. Your heart wasn’t the only one he broke. It wasn’t just your own sadness you were carrying inside you but the unborn future’s lamentation too. 

Til the very end, the people looked at him as nothing but a man with clean hands and a blood-stained shirt. “Come to think of it, even in her last moments she saved you.” Suguru spat at his face when they ran into each other during the funeral. The main reason for the accident was your alcohol intoxication. But Suguru knows too damn well why it all happened.

The only one that wept with him was the sky. The thunders screamed the same accusations at him. The people will see his cries as tears of guilt but no one will understand how his heart died with you in that hospital bed. No one will know how the things he did will forever sleep with him under his pillows, hammering words into his head.

Rie is a strong woman, watching him on his knees, bawling his eyes out as he screamed his love for you to nothingness. She’s a tough woman, entering his room only to hear him label his relationship with her as a mistake, wailing for a do-over. She’s a brave woman who holds him in her arms, whispering her love for him only to be answered with murmurs of I’m sorry’s.

Rie is strong, but a month is too long to stay with someone who will forever yearn for another.

She was hoping for him to stop her, maybe just ask her to give him time, it wouldn’t have mattered how long but he never did. “I’m sorry.” He said, nodding as he traced the mouth of his cup. “Will you be fine?” She asked, first, out of concern and second, to allow a bit of time in hopes that he’d change his mind.

“No, but it’s alright.” He spoke, eyes void of emotion. They almost looked more grey rather than blue now. “Whatever that has happened is on me. I shouldn't have even let it happen.” She knows that he’s not just referring to the accident. His blunt confession of how his relationship with her was a mistake sends a chill down her spine and an ache in her entire being.

How could he so openly tell her that he regrets being with her? 

She guessed it was a small price to pay for taking part in breaking someone’s heart. And the larger bill was outside, lurking as she was faced with whispers in every company she tried working on, the continuous ringing of the numbers she called, and the neverending hours of one-sided conversations with her friends.

The rust of guilt will eat away at her bones as she tries to crawl back to where she came from.

Shoko was never the one to hold grudges. But for the longest time, she couldn’t talk to Satoru. She’d find herself spending most of her free time with you, even if she never got answers. Then she’d leave again like she always did before. If she regrets something, it’d be not being to be with you as much as she should be as a friend. Her job doesn’t allow for much time for rest.

Just like how it doesn’t allow enough time for mourning. 

“You need to start continuing your life. You’re just insulting Y/N being like that now.” She looked away as she lit a cigarette. She called Satoru over to her clinic today, worried about how his mother called her crying when he wouldn’t answer his phone. It’s almost been a year since your passing and she could barely recognize him. 

“Do you know where Suguru is?” He asked, voice hoarse as he licked his cracked lips. Shoko was grateful that his mother chose to take over his business. It’ll only fall down with him like this. He was breathing but barely alive. “Do not try to talk to him.” That’s the only thing she said, but Satoru already understands.

Suguru didn’t want to blame his friend when he was obviously devastated too. But hearing the doctor’s words that day, the first thing he thought of was that if Satoru hadn’t provoked it, you wouldn’t have left and driven drunk. He’d sound selfish if he said he was the most crushed of them all but how else does he cope with a loss of a love that never began?

The last time he’s been to your grave was on the burial day. He never went back again. He thought that maybe if he didn’t see it as much, his mind wouldn’t think of it like that. Maybe his mind wouldn’t remember your death. Maybe he can fool himself into thinking you’re just somewhere far away, working at your mother’s company.

“You don’t get to feel sad. You don’t get to feel sad as much as I do. Not when you already killed her before she even died in that accident.” He pulled at his friend's collar as tears streamed down their faces. “You don’t get to feel sad after what you’ve done, Satoru.” Suguru fears that even after years, he’d still feel resentment for his friend.

“If you weren’t planning on treating her well, you should’ve just let me love her instead, Satoru.” He let his shirt go along with the emotions he was hiding. “If you weren’t planning on keeping her, you should’ve just left her alone.” He whispered, stepping away as he turned his back to him, regaining his composure. This man is grieving too, he reminded himself.

The grief was heavier than the sea of blue in his eyes.

He looked so drained, like he died along with you and maybe he did, because staring into his eyes, Suguru couldn’t find his best friend anymore. When confronted by the uncontrollable materialization of the consequences of their actions, humans deteriorate from the inside.

He wanted to hug him, to cry with him, and let him put some of his heaviest feelings on him but he couldn't. “Live well, Satoru. Y/N wouldn’t want you like this,” He sniffed, running a hand down his face as he turned to his friend again, tapping his shoulder before stepping out. 

It’s so hard to feel bad for someone who brought the tragedy upon themselves.

Years will pass and Satoru remains the same, an empty skeleton of who he was before, a vessel of memories and the love you generously left, a cage of regret, guilt, and suffering that he harvested from bad seeds that he planted. “It shall pass,” The doctor said, passing him a blister pack, “You’ll feel better with time.” It just makes him want to laugh. The man doesn’t understand that what he needs can’t be found in this world.

He would lie awake for hours, with exhaustion gnawing at him but still his eyes remained stubbornly open. Reality was punishing him by keeping him awake, blocking out his only means of escape and portal to you. Drinking wasn’t a solution, it was more of a problem. There was this one time that he drank so much, he thought he was seeing you. 

His mother found him on his knees, his forehead touching the floor as he begged you to come back, apologizing to the air as his tears hit the tiles of his house. It’s no use, you will never come back and even then, his hallucinations of you were inanimate, unmoving, and cold. 

He gazed at a jar filled with wilting flowers on the table—some had lost their color, while others were on the verge of fading. Standing up, he fetched a new one in his jacket’s pocket and cut off its stem before carefully placing it with the others.

These flowers came from the bouquets that he left on your grave. Each time he’d visit, he’d take one flower with him and keep it in this jar. It’s his way of coping, thinking that he still has a piece of you with him. It felt both comforting and painfully inadequate. Satoru doubts that anything will ever change in his life. Even if each person on Earth introduces someone or something new to him, nothing will fill the void.

Satoru wondered if you saw him as others do: merely guilty, not genuinely in love. It’d be another blow to his already beaten-up heart. Listening to the ticking of the clock, his shadow cast on the wall of his room. The quiet was eerie; it had been for years. This house had lost its colors long ago. 

It is during these times when he remembers how you’d spent sleepless nights together, just soaking in the presence of one another. Maybe if he sleeps, he’d dream of how you used to rest your head on his chest. Taking the last of his pill, Satoru stared at his ceiling one last time.

As he closed his eyes, he prayed to wake up beside you. 

Permanent Mark Masterlist

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer — Part Eight

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: some sexually suggestive content, just friends on a boat and az and reader being down bad for each other.

Word Count: 3.7k

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It had been eight days since that moment on the beach, since that kiss with Azriel that had profoundly shifted something within you. Many more had been shared since then, quiet ones on the balcony at night, stolen ones in the house when the others would disappear around the corner. While neither of you had voiced it aloud, there seemed to be a mutual understanding that what was between the two of you, whatever that was, would stay just that— between the two of you. 

But you were struggling. 

You found everything Azriel did irresistibly attractive, found yourself constantly fighting the urge to kiss him, to touch him and run your hands through his hair. It was embarrassing how your heart fluttered around him, how everything he did made you melt. Whether it was the way he brushed his hair back or something as simple as what he was doing now: cutting fruit and packing it into a container.

You leaned over and snatched a piece of pineapple. Azriel tried to swat your hand, but you were quicker, bringing the sweet fruit to your mouth as you settled back into one of the barstools.

"No more," Az said with a feign serious expression. "These are for the boat. Feyre's orders."

You gave him a mischievous smile and Az shook his head, realizing that any attempts at authority were futile. You slid off the stool, walking around the counter to stand next to him. The faint scent of his cologne drifted into your senses and you fought the impulse to bury your face in his white shirt and inhale deeply.

"I've been thinking,” you began. 

Az raised a brow, offering you a quick side glance before he continued cutting the pineapple before him. "You're always thinking."

You cracked a smile. “I’m actually glad we didn’t kiss at Summit."

Az ceased his movements, placing the knife down carefully as he turned to face you with a slight frown. "Why?"

You gave him a look. "I mean think about it, Az. Did we really want to have our first kiss while I was wearing a shirt that said ‘I made your dad a bottom’?”

The corners of his lips twitched upwards. A few seconds later, he smiled, a small laugh escaping through his teeth. "That fuckin' shirt," he said, amused. He quieted for a moment, eyes running over you in a contemplative motion. "I think it would've been perfect.”

You frowned. "Really?"

After sharing your first kiss, you found yourself thinking back to every single moment with Az, noting the smallest of details you never bothered to think hard about before.  It was almost laughable to think you’d almost convinced yourself that you were delusional about this crush of yours, that Azriel didn't reciprocate those feelings. You could’ve been together even sooner. 

But what you'd just told him was true. You were beyond grateful that your first kiss happened the way it did. You were sure Az was, too. But he enjoyed messing with you— and he'd gained more confidence in it over the week.

Az nodded, a smile still playing on his lips. "Hell yeah. Humor like that is attractive."

A flush rose to your cheeks. “So you think my humor is attractive?”

He grabbed your hands and pulled you to him, interlacing your fingers as he looked at you. Really looked at you. "I think you’re attractive,” he murmured.

The flush deepened, spreading warmth across your skin. You tried to come up with a witty retort, something to brush off the way his words made your heart race, but nothing came to mind. You smiled at him, a sudden shyness creeping up on you as you looked down at your interlaced fingers. 

"Did you know," Az said, pulling you even closer. “I always told myself I couldn’t like someone funnier than me.”

You met his eyes again, the hazel color glowing in the sunlight. It was pouring in from the window behind you, giving you a clear view of all of the colors mixed into the golden brown. 

“What happened?" You squeezed his hand. "Am I just worth breaking your rules?”

"No, we got lucky," Az said with a casual shrug, his smile widening into something more mischievous. “I mean, it's a close call, but I’m still funnier. Good thing, too, because it would've been a shame otherwise.”

You scoffed, your mouth falling open in mock offense. Azriel's grin stayed plastered to his face. You attempted to pull back from him, to take your hands out of his hold and make a dramatic, joking spectacle, but Az didn't let you. His grip on you tightened, still gentle, but firmer, keeping you close.

“I’m way funnier than you," you huffed. You tried your best to keep a stern face, a look of betrayal. But the corners of your lips twitched upwards, anyways, and Az caught onto it immediately.

"Funny-looking, maybe."

Another scoff, a sound that bordered a gasp, left your mouth. “Oh really?” 

He nodded in challenge. You leaned forward, tilting your head up to him with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. He raised his brow at the movement. “Because I seem to recall you thinking otherwise. What were the words again…that I’m always beautiful?”

Azriel chuckled, the sound low and warm as it washed over you. He shook his head with a playful eye roll, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

"Yeah that's right. I have a good memory too," you said matter of factly.

Az guided your hands to his waist, and you instinctively drew closer, your arms encircling him as if it were second nature. He cradled your face gently, tucking away the stray hairs that had escaped your ponytail behind your ears.

His voice dropped to a soft murmur. "Alright," he said. He reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek in a gentle, almost absent-minded gesture. "Maybe you're funnier."

Your heart fluttered, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you.

Until you heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

You separated quickly, Azriel managing to place a quick, sweet kiss on the top of your head. By the time Mor turned the corner, Az was back to cutting the fruit and you were standing beside him, the small of your back pressed against the kitchen counter as you leaned against it.

“Hey, guys,” Mor greeted, her eyes darting between the two of you with a bright smile. Her gaze settled on you. “Wanna help me pack the car?”

“Yup,” you replied, pushing off the counter. You managed to swipe another piece of pineapple from the container as you followed Mor out of the kitchen

Azriel let out a sound of protest. You flashed him a grin over your shoulder, the sweet taste of victory—and pineapple—on your tongue.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness might have been wrong. Because money bought Rhysand’s family this boat, and this boat, drifting in the middle of the open ocean, was bringing you a kind of happiness you’d never felt before. 

You breathed in the fresh, salty air, savoring the way the wind cooled your heated, slightly sunburnt skin—it was developing into a nice tan, you told yourself. Though Mor, with her endless supply of tanning oils, was shades ahead of you. It was Cassian, however, who had the deepest tan now, followed closely by Rhys and Azriel. The three boys were practically golden.

Azriel cutting fruit this morning was attractive. But Azriel shirtless, tanned, and helping Rhys drive the boat? It had been downright sinful.

“I love my life,” Mor said, a smile on her face as she adjusted her sunglasses. “I’m so glad we decided to go somewhere near the water. We could do this every weekend once we move. Imagine spending every Saturday out here, just us and the ocean.”

Feyre let out a content sound of agreement. 

A familiar twinge of guilt bubbled up inside you.  You needed to talk to Mor soon. Every day that passed brought more clarity that this group plan, that a gap year then law school, wasn't what you wanted. You wanted time to explore, to get to know yourself and your passions before diving into another commitment—and before taking on even more loans. 

You'd forgotten about your main stressor, about how you might destroy Mor's dream of staying close and living out those idealized post-college years together. You were sure all of them were bound to be disappointed, to be sad that you wouldn’t be around them. But Mor– Mor would be hurt. Maybe even betrayed all over again. You didn’t want to see that face again, the one she wore when you told her about you and Eris. 

It surprised you how easily you’d forgotten about that stress, how quickly Azriel had a way of distracting you, of making everything else seem far away. You hadn’t thought about your guilt in a week, hadn’t thought about your ex or the crushing weight that your future tended to hold. 

“Okay,” Mor said with a clap of her hands. “I think it’s time we get in.”

“Yes, please,” Feyre replied. “I already feel like I’m frying.”

Mor looked at her for a moment, narrowing her eyes in thought. A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. “Five bucks if you pants Rhys. Just warn me before so I can look away.”

Feyre contemplated for a moment. Then a smirk equally as devious as Mor’s spread across her pinkened cheeks. “Deal.” 

Feyre turned to you.

“You’re not going in?”

“In a sec,” you said, holding up your bottle of sunscreen. “I need to reapply.”

She gave a nod of understanding, but Mor paused, looking over her shoulder. “Need help?”

You shook your head, letting her know you'd manage alone and watched as she and Feyre walked towards the back of the boat, held hands, and jumped into the cool, welcoming water. You wished you could stay in the moment with them just a little longer, but your mind had already kicked into overdrive, that small inkling of guilt opening a dam of stress. 

You let your thoughts wander as you reapplied your sunscreen, gaze unfocused on the clear horizon before you. Just as you let out a huff at the awkward angle of trying to reach your back, Azriel appeared beside you, his eyes meeting yours before they fell to the sunscreen bottle. Without a word, he gently took it from your hand. “Here,” he said. "I got you."

You gave him a smile. Azriel’s hands moved across your back, each press of his fingers sending that butterfly in your stomach fluttering.

The thought of how many others had felt that same warmth, the same tenderness, crept into your mind. A flicker of jealousy flared up—who else had he touched like this? Who else had felt the gentle brush of his fingers?

You shook your head slightly, forcing yourself to rein it in. It was silly, you knew that. But still, the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that this moment was yours, that the feel of his touch was meant for you right now. There was no need to let those pesky insecurities ruin it. It had been four years since the first time you met Az, since that first crush developed. And here he was, sharing these moments with you now. That had to mean something— it did mean something, you told yourself. The past, and whoever happened in it between those years, didn’t. 

Azriel’s fingers dipped just beneath the strap of your bikini top, spreading the sunscreen along your warmed back, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You felt a blush creep up your neck.

“Wandering hands there?”

His voice took on that familiar, playful tone as he responded, “You’ve been spending a lot of time in the sun today. I have to make sure you’re fully protected.”

You hummed. "Good thing I have you, then."

Azriel leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “And this bikini really suits you. It makes you look…” He trailed off, his fingers tracing a slow, light path down your spine. You shivered. Finally, he whispered, “Well, let's say it makes my mind wander.”

Your breath hitched. You’d always known that Azriel, when the moment called for it, could be as cocky and smooth as any of the boys. He got away with it because he was quieter, less assuming. But experiencing it firsthand, especially from a grown, more self-assured version of him, left you feeling boneless, like your knees would give out at any sly comment. This wasn’t the shy, hesitant Azriel you’d met freshman year—this was a man who knew exactly how to work you.

There'd been some moments over the past week, small kisses that quickly escalated into heated, heavy makeouts, but it had never gone further than that. A casual dry hump here and there had only left you both frustrated and wanting more. 

It was almost impossible to find those stolen moments with a house full of busybodies and nosy friends. And when you did, all you wanted was to savor every second with Az, to let those quiet, intimate moments stretch on without worrying about someone bursting in and demanding your attention.

To say that you were hyper aware of everything he did, of his touch and how close his body was, was a sore understatement. You turned to catch the grin he was trying to hide as he capped the sunscreen. He knew exactly what he was doing, enjoying this little game you’d both been playing—seeing who would fold first and find an excuse to steal a kiss. Before you could form a coherent sentence, Azriel leaned in and placed a soft, secret kiss on your shoulder.

And then voices called out your names. Az stepped back, a grin still on his lips, equal parts smug satisfaction and tender affection. “Better not keep them waiting, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Mhm. But I think you should sit down and take a minute. We're boating, not camping. You can’t be pitching a tent in front of everyone."

His brow furrowed, eyes momentarily flicking down to examine himself before a faint flush crept up his neck. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. 

One point for you.

You gave him a teasing pat on the chest and turned to walk away, but Azriel’s hand shot out, delicately gripping your wrist. He pulled you back toward him and then his mouth was on yours. Instinctively, your lips parted for him, a small moan leaving your lips as he slid his tongue in. You reached your hand up, fingers aching to tangle themselves in his loose curls. But before you could, Az pulled away, leaving you breathless and dazed as he flashed a triumphant grin. 

Another round of voices called your names, the sound of Feyre’s commanding whine reaching your ears.

“Y/n! You’re missing all the fun!”

Azriel gave a playful nod towards the sound. "It's rude to keep people waiting, Y/n."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You had no idea how your friends managed to swim for this long, how their limbs weren’t beginning to tire from treading in the water. You were back on the boat now, the towel beneath you already soaked from your earlier dip in the ocean. You stretched your legs out, letting them dry in the sun, and leaned back, closing your eyes for a moment.

The boat rocked gently and you opened your eyes to see Cassian climbing back on board. He shook off the excess water like a dog, then plopped down beside you with a sigh, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased, bumping his leg against yours.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Maybe. You tired already?”

“Please,” Cassian scoffed, “I could swim circles around everyone here.”

You chuckled softly, sitting up properly to take him in. You scanned his face for a moment. “I actually do like your mustache, by the way.”

Cassian grinned, a spark of mischief in his hazel eyes. “Not to be cocky—” He paused, then corrected himself with a smirk. “Actually, to be cocky, I think I look fly as hell with it.”

“You do,” you agreed, the corners of your mouth quirking up. "Not the words I'd use, but you do."

“I got the Y/n seal of approval,” he replied, his grin widening. "Nice."

“You’re getting attached. How are you gonna shave it off?”

During one of his recent arguments with Morrigan, in which she'd brought up her disgust for his facial hair once more, Cass had told her that she'd only have to deal with it for another month before he'd shave it.

Cassian shrugged, running a hand over his wet hair. “I’ll rip the band-aid off, I guess. Cut my hair too.”

You frowned. Cassian's hair had been the same length for the entirety that you'd known him— apparently, it had been the same since he was a teen. He took great care of it, trimmed it on a schedule and used only the best products. It was strange, almost impossible, for you to imagine how he'd look like otherwise. You'd never really thought about what ROTC looked like for him, never really absorbed the reality that Cassian would be clean-cut and proper in a few months' time.

“Dress and groom standards?”

He nodded, letting out a small sigh. “Yeah. When school starts again, I’ve got to meet them. No more mustache, and my hair’s gotta be short.”

You studied him for a moment, his usual carefree expression tinged with something more serious. “But your hair is you,” you said softly.

Cassian glanced at you, his eyes searching yours. “I mean, it’s my look, but it isn’t me. I’m me.”

You nodded slowly. His words sunk into you, burying themselves deep in your stomach. You faintly recognized the feeling, knew that you'd think back on his words at a later time and analyze what they meant for you. 

Cassian always seemed to do that, drop some life-altering advice to you without even realizing it. He never got enough credit, you thought. For how smart he was.

“But actually,” Cassian continued, his voice dropping a bit, “I’m thinking of leaving ROTC.”

Your eyes widened, eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking out at the water. “I’m gonna.”

“But you’ve dedicated so much time to it."

You thought about your own situation, how you were terrified of making the wrong decision and wasting precious time— how that fear seemed to exist right alongside your relationship with Eris and whatever it was you now had with Az. That fear had existed for you for as long as you could remember. You always saw things through. Even if you were miserable, you pushed yourself. You wanted to prove that you could do hard things, even if those things didn't help you— because you'd already dedicated the time.

You fell victim to the sunk-cost fallacy more often than you cared to admit.

But Cassian wasn't you.

He only nodded. “And it was great for me then. It gave me structure, purpose. But… not so much now. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

He spoke so casually, so disarmingly so, that it didn't seem as if he was referring to something he'd been preparing since his high school days, something that was supposed to lead him to a very specific, very tailored future.

"It's that easy?"

Cassian turned to you with furrowed brows. "What? Leaving ROTC?" He shrugged. "Not really. I definitely have to go talk to a lot of people, see where it leaves me before graduation. But it'll work."

You shook your head. "No, I meant like… it was that easy for you to make a decision to leave?"

Cassian gave you a look, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if puzzled by your question, as though the answer was so obvious that he couldn't quite grasp where your perspective had diverged from his own.

"I mean, yeah," He replied. "Funnily enough I learned that from ROTC. Thinking over important decisions, and knowing how to frame them, is important. But also knowing how to make quick decisions in high-stress situations is equally valuable. The more you think, the more you overthink." He raised his eyebrows knowingly at you. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You rolled your eyes playfully. "I'm not that much of an overthinker."

Cassian snorted. "Please. You are, and you know it," he teased. "You and Az," he continued, shaking his head with a smile. "Always in your heads. How do you have so much to think about?"

"I got a big head, I guess," you quipped with a grin. "Size really does matter."

Cassian smirked, nodding in approval. "It sure does," he said with a suggestive wink, the mischievous glint in his eyes making you roll your eyes again. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he hoisted himself up and reached a hand out to you. "Cmon. The sea calls to you."

"Okay, Moana." You said with a laugh. You took his hand and he tugged you up with surprising gentleness.

"Y'know I love you, right?"

You blinked, taken back by the sincerity in his voice. Another smile blossomed across your cheeks. "I do,” you replied.

"Good." Cassian's grin widened and before you could react, he scooped you up in a bridal carry and tossed you into the ocean. 

You broke the surface, sputtering and wiping the water from your eyes. Cass was laughing, but your focus was behind him, catching sight of Azriel stealthily climbing back onto the boat. With a swift movement, he shoved Cassian overboard, earning a surprised yelp that echoed across the water.

“Where the hell did you come from, man?” Cass yelled as he came back up. 

Azriel shrugged at his question and his gaze fell to you. 

"Spy." You mouthed. He just grinned, shaking his head slightly before diving back in.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: reader is so me bc i, too, would become feral after finally kissing az. like that mf is soooo sexy doing the most casual things and he knows it. anyways this was a fun lil chappy of them and some sweet dynamics. reader is our resident overthinker and as someone abt to graduate college, she’s so valid

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon 

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

As always, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[blueiscoool]

Remains of Andrew 'Sandy' Irvine Who Vanished in 1924 Found on Mount Everest

The foot, boot and sock thought to belong to Sandy Irvine, who disappeared during George Mallory's 1924 expedition to climb Mount Everest, have likely been found. They could be a vital clue in unraveling an even bigger mystery.

Remains believed to belong to a British explorer who vanished more than 100 years ago while climbing Mount Everest have finally been found.

Andrew Comyn "Sandy" Irvine, aged 22, disappeared along with the mountaineer George Mallory in June 1924. The pair were attempting to become the first people to scale the world's highest peak.

It's still a mystery whether they succeeded in their goal before they died. Mallory's remains were discovered in 1999, which were missing a photograph of his wife that the climber had planned to leave on the summit. Irving, who had been carrying a Kodak camera that may have recorded a possible historic summit, was never recovered. The summit was officially first reached 29 years later, when Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay scaled Everest from its south side in 1953.

Now, a National Geographic documentary team, including the Oscar-winning director Jimmy Chin and the climbers and filmmakers Erich Roepke and Mark Fisher, have found what they believe is Irvine's foot.

Encased in a boot and wearing a sock stitched with his name, the foot was discovered on Everest's Central Rongbuk Glacier, further down the mountain from Mallory's remains.

"I lifted up the sock," Chin told National Geographic, "and there's a red label that has A.C. IRVINE stitched into it."

Irvine and Mallory were last seen on June 8, 1924, as they set off to scale the summit. One of their expedition teammates, Noel Odell, reported spotting the two near the second of the mountain's three steps as two tiny black dots. One of the dots broke past the skyline during a brief parting of the clouds, then they disappeared.

Mallory's body was found less than 2,000 feet (600 meters) from the summit by the U.S. rock climber Conrad Anker. Mallory's remains were tied by a rope around the waist and had injuries suggesting that the pair had fallen while connected together.

By searching near these remains and scouring the glacier for clues, Chin and his team located the boot melting out of the ice.

"This was a monumental and emotional moment for us and our entire team on the ground, and we just hope this can finally bring peace of mind to his relatives and the climbing world at large," Chin said.

The team sent the remains to China Tibet Mountaineering Association, which is responsible for climbing permits on Everest's northern side. The find was also reported to the Royal Geographical Society, which organized Irvine and Mallory's expedition, and Irvine's great niece and biographer, Julie Summers.

"I have lived with this story since I was a 7-year-old when my father told us about the mystery of Uncle Sandy on Everest," Summers said, as reported by the Guardian. "When Jimmy told me that he saw the name AC Irvine on the label on the sock inside the boot, I found myself moved to tears. It was and will remain an extraordinary and poignant moment."

The Irvine family has volunteered to take a DNA test so that the identity of the remains can be conclusively determined. Meanwhile, Chin and his team will continue to search for more artifacts. If Irvine's camera is found and it can prove they scaled the peak, it could potentially rewrite history.

By Ben Turner.

[xoxochb]

⋆·˚ ༘ * to love a soul

warnings: none pairing: cupid! percy jackson x psyche! reader a/n: I’m so genius for this tell me I’m a fucking genius

the most beautiful girl in the village, praised yet never loved. your looks claimed to be more appealing than even aphrodite herself. if this was the case then how come you couldn’t find love? how could your sisters less seductive than you find husbands and start a family while you’re left better admired from afar?

many boys approach you. they only want one thing, you know if it but you wouldn’t allow it. you yearned for love, true love. It was a shame they could not feel the same for you. your sister, calliope enters your family home, a smirk on her lips. she walks over to your sitting self

“It is sad that you sit at home”

you continue cutting your vegetables, your eyes not once being taken off your knife. when you stay silent in return your sister continues speaking, “you are of age for a husband. it is pathetic you take care of the house yet you have nobody to take care of”

“If you came here to insult me then leave. I am busy”

“you should be busy finding a husband. many boys have told me of their love for you, why won’t you let them love you?”

you sigh and place the knife down, forcing yourself to face your sister. “they do not love me. they only wish to bring me to bed”

“this is why you will not find a husband. you are a disappointment to the family” your sister remarks before returning to her bedroom

you avert your eyes back to your previous task and wait as the rest of your family trickles in for dinner

ੈ✩‧₊˚

aphrodite was unhappy. how could a silly girl possibly have gotten more compliments on her looks than the very goddess of beauty? she would not allow this, she would never allow this

“perseus!” she calls from her throne. soon after a dark haired boy appears

“you called?” percy asks, standing before his mother

“my dear have you heard of the beautiful mortal? the one who is dared to be compared to I?”

percy shakes his head. “no, mother”

“well now you have. I would like you to make her fall in love with the most vilest of men, will you do that for me, my dear?”

the love goddess takes her son’s face in her hands as he agrees to her request. she kisses his forehead gently

“thank you, my dear. do not make me wait”

“I will not mother”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

your father was angry. at your grown age you should have been married with children by this time and it was unfortunate that such a lovely girl had not chosen anyone yet. he seeks out help from the oracle of delphi. apollo had told him that you, dressed in a black dress should be brought to the summit of a mountain to be left alone. a winged man would arrive and take you as his wife

your father returned home late in the night and woke you from your slumber, in your groggy state you sit up

“father? what is it?” you take notice of his worried demeanor, yours beginning to appear similar

“you must leave”

your brows furrow. “what do you mean? It is late”

“I have gotten news you will meet your husband”

“husband?”

“yes, yes, come”

your father grabs your arms and hauls you up from your bed. “you must wear a black dress, do you have any of the color?”

“I do”

“then hurry. I will be waiting”

he hurry’s out of your room and you’re left alone again. you scavenge through your dresser until you come across a dark dress and quickly you change into it. you scurry out of the house and before you know it you’re left at the summit by yourself. you sit on the ground and wait, soon falling back into slumber

when you wake the sound of clear stream fills your ears. your eyes open met with gold columns, silvers walls, and floors of precious stones. a god’s palace it must be. you stand up, seemingly dressed in a silk nightdress. your fingers trace the delicate walls, admiring the beauty of the room when a voice speaks to you:

“the palace is for you. do not be afraid. take a bath and we will honor you with a great dinner”

you turn to find the body belonging to the voice but nobody is near. you frown and take notice of the bathroom door opening on the opposite side of the room. you look back once at the wall and head to the bathroom for your bath

when you finish another dress is settled onto the bed, a soft shade of pink. you assume whomever the voice belonged to must have left it out for you. you clutch your towel closer to your skin and look around again, seeing no one before dressing and leaving to the dining room; a beautiful feast had been set up for you. that evening you ate well that night and went to bed with a full stomach; sleep came easy to you

ੈ✩‧₊˚

a kiss to your shoulder woke you up. your eyes flutter open, but nothing is to be seen

“I am sorry for waking you” the voice says and you feel lips on your shoulder again

“who are you?” you whisper into the darkness

“your husband”

“you are a god?”

“yes”

you roll on your back eager to face him but you’re met with only dark; you pout. the god takes your arm in his grasp, and starting at your fingertips he kisses up your arm, your neck, your jaw, then connects your lips. you sigh in contentment but the kiss ends too soon

against the lips of the god you inquire, “will you come back?”

“I will never leave”

you smile. when even the god leaves you can’t help the warmness permanently staining all your systems

the following nights the god visits you while you slept (although you woke every time). though you never did see the appearance of your lover. the more time you spent at the palace the more you admittedly missed your family. you ask the god to have them visit, he replies saying they are allowed to visit but you aren’t to be influenced by them or your relationship would suffer a great deal

the visiting of your sisters was unpleasant, envy radiating and pooling out with ever word. they admired the palace, jealous you had gotten treated better than they ever could have. when they were leaving the played a trick on you

“do you know what I heard, sister?” calliope asks you

“what?”

your other sister, amalthea speaks, “he is a monster. that is why he doesn’t allow you to see him”

calliope nods in agreement “yes, how could you sleep with such an awful creature?”

“he is not” you defend

“have you seen him?” asks amalthea

you shake your head

“very well. we will be leaving now”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

the following days you couldn’t help but think about the lasts words your sisters has told you. what if it had been true? you had been deceived! you did find it odd your lover had never showed in daylight, but only the darkness of the night. you made a decision- you would light a candle and enter his bedchambers while he slept. if he was a monster you would kill him, if he was a man you would let him live

you snuck in quietly, eager yet worried for what you might discover laying on the bed. your heart nearly pounds out of your chest, your palms get sweaty. you at last hold the candle above your lover and you thanked the gods for the sight you saw. a beautiful male sleeps peacefully, although dark hair unruly from tossing. you send a single prayer to the gods and when your eyes open you see the god had woken from the light of your candle

he looks at you once before leaving the room, you follow behind crying out pleads of forgiveness. your lover turns around and faces you

he says, “love cannot live without trust” before flying into darkness

how stupid had you been! your lover was the god of love and you broke his trust. you cried for days and days, searching for him but found nothing. without knowing what else to do you went to the temple of aphrodite and asked to see her son again. aphrodite, still jealous of you had not allowed you to be let of easily. she asked you to complete three tasks for her

the goddess showed her a dune of many seeds. “the first: you will separate all these seeds before this afternoon or you are not to see perseus again”

alas, you began separating the seeds, tears streaming down your cheeks. the ants saw your despair and helped move the seeds. aphrodite, angry fell to her bed and decided your next task would be impossible to complete. meanwhile, percy was not allowed to leave his room, where he was mourning your betrayal

after you first task was complete aphrodite came to you again

“can you see those black waters?” she points to a river in the distance and you nod “that is river estige. fill this bucket with its water”

you descended to the river. the rocks were slippery and steep and the water rushed through abruptly, only a winged creature could approach. and indeed an eagle came to your rescue, it felt sympathy for you struggling to capture water. It seized your bucket and filled it with water, returning it back to you

aphrodite appeared to you again, telling you that you had not completed the task without help, leaving you for another task. you were to visit the underworld and ask persephone to drain a little of her beauty. obediently you did so. the path was treacherous but you managed. when you arrived you stood before the spring goddess and asked her to complete your task. she gladly helped an drained a little of her beauty. you took the box back from her hands and went to bring it to the love goddess who was furious

“I will never let you go!” aphrodite yells, “you will always be my servant, do remember that foolish mortal”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

percy found you weeping in his mothers garden. he approaches you slowly, sitting beside you, allowing you to cry in his arms and in your vulnerable state you let him

“I am sorry” you muster out

“it is okay. please do not cry” percy requests, running a comforting hand up and down your back

“It is not! I betrayed your trust”

“your redeem yourself. you completed all the tasks my mother put upon you. If anything you were only curious, I do not blame you”

“are you sure?”

“I am very sure, my love”

from that point on you hadn’t been harassed by the love goddess. as a wedding gift zeus had granted you immortality, making you the goddess of the soul. he handed you an ambrosia square to seal the deal. you had been happy to live in the palace with percy and it was seemingly okay with his mother who had the attention back on her now that you had been married. all peace was restored at last

[dizzy-n-busy]

[can (and most likely will) contain SOME poly hcs!]

« Shaw Pack headcanons »

° • ° • ↓ • ° • °

Younger David and Darlin' had a 'platonic confession' - as Milo and Asher put it - with each other (they confessed that they were besties for the first time)

Younger Darlin' was hella touch starved and tried avoiding it at all costs bc it made them feel weird; Darlin' now is constantly being touched and completely immune to it

Angel and Asher are VERY touchy feely, love language of physical touch havin asses

David and Baaabe are the cooks of the pack - Baaabe also makes snacks for pack meetings bc David's too preoccupied (Milo and Sam are good sous-chefs !!)

Sweetheart loves buying things and going to expensive ass restaurants with the pack (they're restricted for special occasions bc the pack doesn't want them going broke)

Angel and Baaabe met each other in college but never found out each other's names till later

Everyone is immensely protective over Sam (esp during pack meetings)

Sam and Darlin' stay getting cuddled and clinged onto bc they think that they're outcasts

Milo learned how to stitch at a young age so he could personally tailor some of his clothes shorter; he was embarrassed to get them done professionally

Angel likes wearing short clothes/bottoms so when their shoes untie, the pack's literally dolphin diving tying it for them so they don't have to bend down

David gets called 'mama duck' and he literally hates it

Someone always records whenever they all hangout for memories (I'd say Baaabe, David or Sweetheart)

Darlin' and Sweetheart are menaces when it comes to pissy chrissy, they love intimidating him (Darlin' looms over him and Sweetheart jumpscares him with cloaking)

Milo has a daily skin care/shower routine which is oddly complex

Angel spams the gc with David smiling when they catch him in a photo or to lighten the mood - everyone loves it

Angel got Asher hooked on cheek kisses (or vice versa)

Movie nights or sleepovers/camping go crazy

The pack has, at some point in time, all fallen asleep on or next to Sam (he's too comforting for his own good)

It's always Milo vs Asher till you bring Darlin' into the picture (2 against 1 and they still lose lmao)

Baaabe literally obliterates everyone at arcade games

David has his last name tattooed on the back of his neck; he says how they'll be his demise /j

Sweetheart stress cleans (twinninem)

Baaabe gives fantastic pep talks

Darlin' takes Angel out whenever they struggle with sleeping and don't wanna bother David (Asher sometimes goes too)

Sweetheart is the go to for missing stuff, they always manage to find it somehow

Sam lets the pack play with his hair

Angel got David to match fits ONCE and they were literally vibrating in excitement

The amount of 'embarrassing' old pack photos and videos that David hides is FEDERAL

Darlin' gives really nice hugs

The werewolves all shift and form a cuddle party, it's very cute (many photos for evidence)

Angel likes riling Darlin' up when their shifted and gets chased like a bat outta hell - they have literally mounted the rest of the pack tryna get away

Sweetheart always gives the pack's shifted forms head kisses before and after rubbing their heads

David won't admit it but he loves hanging out with Sam on the sidelines while everyone else is playing around (shifted)

Darlin' got assorted matching piercing with the listener mates (angel bites for Angel, gages for Baaabe and either a tongue piercing or snake bites for Sweetheart)

Milo gets picked up a lot for some reason - it only slightly pisses him off

They were all matching for the Summit, I might draw it to show what I mean

Sweetheart and Milo LOVE making and holding eye contact, they like how it flusters ppl (they always win staring contests/j)

Angel's super into interior designing, they interpret it thru minecraft bc I said so

Group therapy goes crazy/lh

I have so many thoughts abt them, I might have ta make a pt2 💪💪

• ° • ° ↑ ° • ° •

[mysteryshoptls]

NRC Master Chef Finale

"There is no end to the culinary road"

I don't normally take requests for chapters from events, but I liked the descriptions of the students that I was planning on doing this outtro anyway. Please enjoy.

[Kitchen]

Head Chef: Right. That finishes up the prep work we need for tomorrow.

Crowley: Good evening!

Head Chef: Oh hello, Headmage. What can I do for you so late at night?

Crowley: Well, currently the Master Chef course is ongoing, is it not?

Crowley: I thought I would ask how the students taking the class are faring.

Head Chef: The students? Hmm, well…

[shows Silver, Deuce, Ruggie, Epel, and Jack]

Head Chef: Some do the best they can, even if they had a hard time learning.

[shows Ace, Idia, Leona]

Head Chef: Some are coachable, since they try to find ways to make it easier on themselves.

[shows Trey, Jamil, Floyd]

Head Chef: Some already have highly impressive cooking skills.

[shows Malleus, Cater, Vil, Ortho]

Head Chef: Some are still unaccustomed to cooking, but have a certain spark.

[shows Kalim, Lilia, Jade]

Head Chef: Some go beyond what the recipe says and creates their own spin on the dish.

[shows Riddle, Rook, Sebek, Azul]

Head Chef: Some read into every last detail of the recipe to reproduce it as faithfully as they possibly can.

Head Chef: …There are many different types of students, just off the top of my head.

Crowley: I see…

Crowley: Well, in truth, I have received many complaints from the students and professors that we've had as judges saying things like, "This isn't edible at all!"

Crowley: I was wonder what could possibly be going on… But it seems as though this course brings forward very individualistic personalities.

Crowley: Ah, that being said, of course we've also received compliments as well!

Crowley: I especially find that we don't receive as many complaints in the latter half of the course. Perhaps it shows how much the students have improved.

Crowley: And of course, all of this is thanks to our splendid chefs.

Head Chef: No, not at all.

Head Chef: It's thanks to the hard work of the students who have been taking this Master Chef course that everyone else is happy.

Crowley: Is that right! Fufufu, well, I should have expected such excellence from those attending this academy.

Crowley: I'm sure this means that the students who took this Master Chef course all came to understand just how important food is.

Crowley: One day, when they've become great mages, there can be no doubt that they will look back on this course and be eternally grateful.

Crowley: Please keep up the good work for tomorrow as well.

Head Chef: Of course! We'll make sure that everyone at Night Raven College knows just how fun and worthwhile cooking can be.

Crowley: ...Sooo… By the way, I'm feeling a little peckish, would there be anything that I could have as a midnight snack…?

Head Chef: Is that the real reason you came down to the cafeteria!? Hmph, and here I was astonished that you actually were asking me something so profound at first!

Crowley: NOT AT ALL! BUT EVEN IF IT WERE, IT'S YOUR FAULT THAT YOUR FOOD IS SO DELICIOUS!!

Head Chef: Well, I suppose, then… Heheh. Cooking can be hard work, but…

Head Chef: Whenever I can see people happily eating something I've made, it quickly revitalizes me.

[The Master Chef intro movie plays, except it is Crowley speaking]

Crowley: "Food," the very foundation of life.

Crowley: Clear oceans, majestic mountains, tender earth.

Crowley: Accept everything nature provides, and use it to nourish yourself.

Crowley: If you so will it, knowledge and valor will be bestowed upon you.

Crowley: Move forward! Never look back! The culinary road is foreboding and grueling.

Crowley: However, when you finally reach the summit, it will all be yours to claim.

Crowley: The crowning achievement―

Crowley: THE GLORIOUS TITLE OF MASTER CHEF!

Crowley: There is no end to the culinary road…

Crowley: Continue to do your best next time, as well. I'll be cheering you on!

Requested by Anonymous.

[the-badger-mole]

Destined

Zuko hated the idea of destiny. It seemed that nothing he actually chose for himself really mattered. Did anyone ask if he wanted to be the Fire Lord to lead the country out of war? Did anyone care? No, it seemed they did not. When he tried to talk to his uncle, he got nowhere. Iroh empathized with his nephew-of course he did- but it was not his destiny to lead the Fire Nation. No, his destiny was a tea shop where he could make small talk with his regulars.

Bitterness got him nowhere, though. Zuko realized that on one level. On another level, he wasn't even twenty yet, and he was already finding grey hairs from the stress. He loved his country. He loved it enough to shudder at the idea of the power vacuum that would form if he should ever abdicate. The throne, he'd realized long ago, was his destiny. Sometimes, destiny felt like a shackle.

Katara felt like a prisoner. She loved Aang. Of course she loved him. She wouldn't be here if she didn't. He'd chosen the Southern Air Temple as their home, and she'd loved being introduced to his culture. Truly she had. But Katara also wished that Aang would be more open to incorporating more of her culture, too. It wasn't like everything the in the Southern Water Tribe had to do with bringing animal products into the home. Katara had given up her warm furs and hearty stews. For the most part. She still partook whenever she was home, which was oftener than Aang liked, but not enough for Katara. She felt like a foreigner in the wide halls of the air temple. Especially since the Acolytes had taken residence.

The Acolytes were a particularly sore point for Katara. The way they fawned over Aang hit the back of her mouth like a bitter melon and made her jaw clench. Aang swore up and down that she didn't need to feel intimidated by them. That once she'd gotten used to the way things worked around the air temple, she would feel much better. And she would get used to it. She had to. It was her destiny to be with Aang forever. He was the the powerful bender she was supposed to end up with. That's what Aang kept reminding her when she brought up how uncomfortable his relationship with some of the Acolytes made her. That's what he said when he failed to stop them from making comments about her being the Avatar's First Girlfriend, or from sticking their noses into her business about the few Southern Tribe artifacts she kept in her own room. So what if they happened to be made of bits of animals? She wasn't going to get rid of the ram seal horn her father and brother painstakingly carved for her, or the fur parka her Gran Gran sewed for her no matter how many disapproving looks she got over them.

"We'll figure it out," Aang often told her. "You and me are destined, so it has to work out."

Destiny felt like a weight. Duty more than inclination steered the ship, but maybe the ship would be better dashed against the rocks and sunk to the ocean floor.

It was completely by accident that they discovered they felt the same way about destiny. Zuko had been looking for a place to hide from the foreign diplomats attempting to corner him into discussions he was far too overwhelmed, and they far too many drinks in to discuss at the opening banquet of the sixth annual Summit. He found Katara had not only discovered his favorite hiding place, but had set up camp with an assortment of grilled meats on a stick- a Fire Nation specialty that had until Zuko's reign been more popular among the populace than the upper class.

"Sorry," Zuko said, already backing out of the secluded balcony.

"For what?" Katara asked. "This is your home. You have more a right to be here than I do." She had a point, Zuko had to admit. Not out loud, but still.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he told Katara.

"You haven't," she assured him. She gestured to her meal with a rueful smile. "I just didn't want Aang shaking his head at me while I ate. I don't mind having company... Or would you rather not have company?"

"I didn't really want company," Zuko admitted. "Not of most people here. But I wouldn't mind yours." Katara smiled and slid her plate towards him.

"I'm not going to be able to finish all of this on my own," she told him. "My eyes were bigger than my stomach this time." Zuko took a skewer awkwardly and sat beside Katara.

"Is Aang really that bad that you have to eat meat in secret?" he asked half-joking. Katara rolled her eyes.

"Killing animals just to eat is wrong!" she mimicked his preaching tone. "How would you feel if it was Appa or Momo you were being served?"

"Sorry I asked," Zuko chuckled. "I won't tell about your secret meal if you don't tell that I'm hiding from King Kuei."

"Well, he is very intimidating," Katara chuckled.

"You laugh," Zuko said dryly. "Have you ever been cornered by him? The guy can never just get to the point. He has to talk around the issue in circles until I want to scream at him to just spit it out. But I can't do that because I'm the Fire Lord." Zuko scowled off into the distance and took an aggressive bite out of his skewer.

"If it helps," Katara said hesitantly. She cleared her throat. "If it helps, I think you're doing an amazing job."

"Yeah?" Zuko smirked at her. "Glad someone thinks so."

"I'm sure a lot of people think so," Katara insisted. She turned towards him and held his gaze. "Zuko, you're doing an amazing job as Fire Lord. I'm glad it's you who ended up on the throne."

"I know, I know," Zuko scoffed. "It's my destiny."

"No," Katara said slowly. "I think...I think it's more than destiny. I think you were the right person for the job because you chose to be."

"Is that what you think?" Zuko asked, raising his brow at her. Katara nodded firmly.

"What is destiny, anyway?" she asked. She sounded strangely emotional. Zuko eyed her worriedly. Katara held a skewer in a grip so tight, Zuko was worried the stick would snap. But she took a breath and found a wavery smile.

"I think what makes you such a great Fire Lord is the fact that you care," she said. "Maybe it was your destiny to lead the Fire Nation, but it's who you are that makes you so good at it."

"You think so?" Zuko asked. Katara nodded firmly.

"Just because you're destined for something doesn't necessarily mean it's supposed to be something good. I think..." Katara frowned and thought for a moment. "I think maybe someone's destiny isn't supposed to be good. After all, it seems like Ozai was destined to be Fire Lord. At least for a little while. Even the war must have been destined. So if destiny can be good or bad, then maybe it's up to us to decide which it's going to be."

Zuko had the distinct feeling that Katara wasn't just talking about his destiny as Fire Lord. This felt more personal. This felt like a moment for him to say something profound. He had nothing.

"Not everything is destiny," he tried, hoping that he could help her with whatever it was that had made her so morose.

"How do you know which is which, then?" Katara asked. Zuko shrugged. He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the stars.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe...maybe trying to identify destiny is a mistake. Maybe...it's more important to try to do what's right. Even when it's hard."

"But how do I know what's right?" Katara huffed, and leaned back against the wall beside Zuko.

"i don't really know." Zuko chewed his lip pensively. "When Uncle told me he wouldn't take the throne, I thought it was a huge mistake. I thought he was the best fit for it. After all, of the two of us, he was actually groomed for the part. But after I took the throne....? I don't know...It didn't feel right immediately. It still doesn't feel right to me sometimes, but I did it. At the time, I resented uncle for not at least taking the throne until I was of age, but now that I've been Fire Lord for a few years, I get it. Uncle...he is a good man, but he did some terrible things. He's tried to make up for it, but it was never going to be enough. Not enough to expect everyone to be comfortable with him on the throne. I get it now. I think me taking the throne was the right thing to do. It has been hard. It's been lonely, too. But it was the best call either of us could make.

"But you didn't know it was right when you did it," Katara pointed out.

"No," Zuko tapped his finger thoughtfully on the flagstone. "I don't think I was completely sure that I was the best fit for Fire Lord. I still think Uncle would've been the better choice, history aside. I think there are a lot of much smarter people who probably deserve to be here instead of me. But I also know that there wasn't anyone who had a shot at taking the throne who would care about reparations to the other countries, or about rebuilding for the lower classes. I love my people, Katara, and I think...I think that helped me figure out what I needed to do, even if I don't always like it. I almost never like it."

Katara blinked hard against the tears that had suddenly sprang up in her eyes. She reached out for his and squeezed it tight. She knew how hard leading was for Zuko at times. He did it gracefully, though. He did it fairly, and she could see the progress the Fire Nation had made under him. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it was substantial. If only she could feel that, at least. If only her destiny could make her feel half so accomplished.

"I wish I didn't know what my destiny was," she sighed. "Maybe if I felt like I had even as much choice as you have, I'd feel better." Zuko shot her a strange look. He had so many questions, but none of them felt appropriate. Instead he sighed and scooted closer to Katara.

"Maybe you need to focus less on what you think your destiny is and focus more on what you feel is right," he said. "I know you. Your sense of right and wrong is...well, it's unshakeable. I trust your judgement, even if you don't. If you were making the right choices, you wouldn't feel this conflicted. Even if your choice made you uncomfortable, if you thought it was the right one...well, you wouldn't be on a balcony alone eating secret yakitori." Zuko held up a skewer and waved it at Katara. She laughed and pushed his hand away.

"What if I make a choice and it's the wrong one?" Katara asked.

"I don't see that happening," Zuko said, grinning at her. "But even if you do make a mistake, I think you're smart enough to fix it. I'd help you, if you wanted. And so would Sokka and the Chief. So would all of us." Katara flinched at that. Zuko pretended not to notice.

"What would you do if you didn't know your destiny?" he asked. Katara sat quietly for a long while, looking thoughtfully across the garden below. She absently ran her thumb over Zuko's fingers.

"I think ...I think I'd like to go back to the Northern Tribe," she said. "To finish learning healing from Yugoda. Then I'd like to go the Foggy Swamp and learn swampbending. Then I'd like to find every copy of Southern style bending scrolls I could get my hands on and learn that, too."

"Then you should!" Zuko insisted. "Do that. I'll help when I can. My grandfather kept things from every nation he could. I'm having everything organized and sent back to where they came from. I'm working on the Earth Kingdom now, but I don't have anyone to help sort through all the Water Tribe artifacts. The job is yours, if you want it.

"Are you serious?" Katara gasped. Zuko nodded with a grin.

"I was planning to ask your father to recommend someone soon," he told Katara. "Maybe it's your destiny to do that, for whatever it's worth. I mean, it's an important job, but it's not a long one. Maybe six months to a year. But maybe it'll give you a chance to think about what you want. What you think it the right thing for you to do."

Katara considered his offer for a moment. Her initial reaction was to insist that she couldn't do that. That Aang needed her. But she bit her tongue and thought. What did Aang need her for? She cooked his meals, kept the Air Temple tidy, and kept his diary for him. It was important to keep the Avatar on task, but was it right? Was it right for her?

Soon, all the points in favor of it presented themselves. Sure keeping the Avatar on track was important, but reclaiming all of the Southern style bending she could? Learning everything she could about waterbending? The thought made her heart ache with a longing she'd almost forgotten how to feel. If Aang really was her destiny, he'd understand why she wanted to do this. After all, he was also working to reclaim Air Nomad culture.

It was tempting.

It was tempting.

It was...

"I think..." Katara said slowly. She cleared her throat again and turned to Zuko. "I think I'll do that."

"Really?" Zuko's face lit up.

"Really," Katara said, nodding once sharply. Then she smirked at Zuko. "You're going to get sick of having me around."

"Never that," he swore. "Never, ever that."

[jyeshindra]

Astrology Basics

I had a brain blast and decided to break down what all of the planets mean in tropical astrology. I try to use one word that I feel applies to the planet the most and let that be the guide, then a metaphor example to further explain the signification.

SUN: your ability to grow as a person (and what you grow into)

AUTHORITY. relating to personal power, authority, self expression, and independence. if you were King, how would you rule? where would you rule? what’s a priority to you? where was your personal power found?

MOON: your emotional nature, your perspective, your mind.

INSTINCT. Moon comes naturally to you. What were drawn towards, who we are drawn towards, what experiences we create naturally for ourselves. Moon is felt. Moon is experienced.

Moon is the mother, so it's a tender position. It feels true and can be a source of incredible strength. It represents nurturing and our needs as humans.

ASCENDANT: your physical body, central theme of your life

PHYSICS, but in this case we study YOUR motion through time and space!

how that motion impacts other people

what YOU pursue and HOW (chart ruler)

MERCURY: communication style, what the mind will be drawn to. interests and hobbies. mental processing.

INTELLECT, the mental powers and capabilities of a person.

developed through information, listening, exploring interests, communicating.

you witness the intellect in communication.

Do you listen more than you talk? What do you talk about? What captivates your mind?

VENUS: Relationship style. how you are with romance and intimate partners. your personal sense of beauty/values. your “perfume”. what pleases you

BEAUTY, a combination of qualities that pleases the senses.

Related to our earthly experiences, our pleasure driven functions.

Your quality of beauty, what you find beautiful, who you find beautiful, what pleases you, who pleases you.

MARS: Commanding style. personal sense of ambition, passion, anger, excitement. sexual personality. driving force.

how would you drive a car? are you blasting music? are you smoking? are you playing hymnals? what about road rage? where are you going?

Mars in Taurus might be taking their time, enjoying the scenery. There may be air fresheners in the car and snacks. They're headed to a brunch or to a hair appointment. Mars in Sagittarius is probably on a bike and on their way to go hiking!

SEXUAL, not necessarily pertaining to sex. Think of it more as a matter of instincts, passion, and pursuing that which we are drawn to. How is your passion expressed? How is it expressed within an intimate contact? How does it drive you towards your ambitions? How does your body perform the work?

These next planets have more of an external influence on our persons.

JUPITER: where you find blessings, where you are lucky. where your god-given talents and abilities manifest. your sense of spirituality and faith.

ABUNDANCE. Where we experience abundance we can have a sense of spirituality/faith around it. Jupiter in 4H may receive much through the family or through the mother and have a very faith-based relationship with them. Jupiter in the 3H may have a natural gift for speaking and writing. These are the gifts that bring them abundance and blessings. Jupiter in the 5H Libra may have a lot of faith in their children. They may believe in fighting for children's rights or defending children.

SATURN: where you encounter restrictions/limitations. where you need more structure and patience. where some of your deepest fears lie. karma in the form of tests.

THE SUMMIT/GAUNTLET. Saturn is the mountain we have to climb and it may take a while. Gauntlet also works as a good metaphor too, as Saturn can feel like a series of trials and tests, each one more difficult than the last. However the bounty that awaits you? Mastery, competence, and maturity. Saturn has a sobering effect, like the air on top of the mountain. It's clear and crisp.'

And sometimes those trials we face feel familiar. We encounter people from our current past, souls from past lives, circumstances we did not master in previous incarnations. It can feel ancient.

URANUS: where the LIGHTNING strikes

innovation and insight and ingenuity

where you tend to rebel

where sudden changes and upheavals will come

your innovative spark, if uranus is the lightning bolt of inspiration you are the conduit. what you produce is what makes you “unique”

NEPTUNE: where the MIST sets in

where you face a lot of deception, mystery, and confusion.

where a sense of magic dwells. the inexplicable

where your “dream” lives

where you connect to something greater

PLUTO: where POWER and TRANSFORMATION lie

here you must go into the underworld and take what is yours

where you’ve lost power, where you feel out of control, where you feel TOO powerful. power struggles in general

how and where you evolve

where you may endure trauma, loss, and change

South Node: past life patterns, area of former mastery, what you’re used to. where you may suffer loss or become detached. the point through which you find spiritual liberation

North Node: you feel a pull in this direction, “destiny coded”. where you can become obsessed and lost. where you may create something entirely new for yourself. another point of spiritual liberation and detachment.

Just from knowing Rahu (NN) and Ketu (SN) in Vedic, I believe that we must find a balance between South and North nodes and develop conscious awareness of the pulls from both nodes, lest we be swallowed whole.

BONUS ASTEROIDS:

CHIRON: Childhood wounds, trauma endured when young. where a great bit of healing will be done in your life. you learn to live with this and the lessons associated will be your gift to share.

LILITH: how you’ve been outcasted. where you feel shame. you rebel at all costs here and may lose favors because of it. another aspect of sexual personality

[lostgirlmuseum]

Maced

Maced

Summary: You think someone’s following you and you mace them. Turns out it’s just Bucky. 

A/N: this is my first ever fic im posting, so please be gentle with me, I know I have a lot of growing to do. This is just for fun!

Words: About 1k

Bucky x Reader

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

“Stay back!” You screamed, spinning lightning fast and unleashing the spray into the perpetrators eyes.

“DAMN IT!” The man screamed, bringing the heels of his gloved hands to his eyes. “God! Fucking hell–” he roared, falling to his knees. 

That’s when you finally realized who this man was. 

“Bucky!” 

“Fuck! What the fuck!?” He ignored you, groaning as he rested his forehead on the concrete ground.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it was you! Why were you following me?” You waved your hands around apologetically, but the damage had already been done.

“I wasn’t following you! GAH– what kind of fucking mace is that? Christ, oh my, fuck!” 

“It’s homemade!” You cried, unsure of what to do. You had never seen Bucky so distraught and helpless before. It was an odd sight to see such a large man all but rolling on the floor in pain.

His nonsensical curses and mumblings continued, his hands still clawing at his eyes.

“Cmon Bucky, I live right around here, let me get you inside and then I can help you.” You pleaded, about to pat his shoulder but deciding against it. He was writhing in pain and you felt guilty enough, worried that even touching him would make it worse.

He didn’t give an intelligible response, but he did make the effort to start standing up, albeit slowly.

You asked him if you could guide him, to which he just grunted, and you took that as a yes. Holding onto his side, the two of you walked thirty feet to your apartment building. Luckily, the elevator was already on the ground floor, so you were able to go right up to your floor.

After helping him flush out his eyes at the sink, you led him to lay down on your couch. You took a seat in the chair across from him, worriedly watching for any signs of renewed irritation.

“Listen, I’ve been pepper sprayed before, but never like that. What the hell was in that?”

“It’s best if I don’t tell you.” You insisted sympathetically. 

He just groaned. You quickly tried to hide your smile.

“Listen Bucky, I really am sorry. I was walking home and I noticed someone was following me for a long time, but it was too dark to make out that it was you. I just panicked.”

“I was on my way to my apartment.”

“I thought you lived with the Avengers?”

“I did, but I decided recently that it would do me some good to have a little bit of normalcy, like having my own apartment, away from Stark tech and the chaos.”

“Oh.” It was silent for a moment. “Which apartments?” You asked casually.

“The Summits on Plum Street.” 

“I guess that’s why you followed me for so long.” He looked up at you in question. “That’s where we are right now.”

“I didn’t realize you lived here.” 

“I can’t believe I maced my new neighbor.” You laughed. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s fine, at least you were trying to protect yourself.”

There came a lull in the conversation, to which you decided to check on his eyes again. You walked over to where he layed, and asked him to “let me see.”

He looked at you with his gorgeous blue—although, red rimmed—eyes. Like an ocean in hell. Or. Something. 

“They’re looking a little better,” you politely nodded, standing straight up after realizing you were getting a bit too close.

“Are you lying?”

You didn’t answer. You thoughtfully tapped your chin.

“I think I may have saline drops in a cabinet somewhere…” 

You wandered off to a cabinet, and came back with a small bottle. 

“Do you want me to do it for you?” You asked sweetly.

“I think I can do my own eye drops,” he responded, a hint of judgment lacing his tone at you even suggesting that.

You threw your hands up, signaling you’d back off, and handed him the drops. You sat back in your chair and stared off out the window. 

A minute passed before he begrudgingly spoke up. “Can you help me? Please,” he quickly added.

You obliged without a single word, already heading to wash your hands, but he still felt the need to explain. 

“It’s harder than I expected. Each time I see a drop coming, I close my eyes. I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay,” you nodded, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. You leaned over him, and looked at his poor eyes again.

“Tilt your head back, and look up.” You instructed. 

He did as you asked. 

“Do you want me to hold your eyelid, or do you?” You asked, realizing you should probably give him a choice to make him more comfortable.

“You can do it.”

“Okay.”

You gently pulled down below his right eye, the rest of your fingers resting on the side of his face.

“It’ll be quick,” you soothed, before doing a quick countdown and squeezing the bottle.

“Good, now the other one. Keep looking up for me.” You quickly switched hands and did the same to the other side.

“Now close your eyes and hold right here, just for like a minute.” You explained, lightly pinching the corner of his eyes. He copied your movement.

“That wasn’t so bad.” You stayed seated next to him, silently observing the details of his face. You’d never been this close to him for long enough to admire without him seeing you. The slight wrinkle between his eyebrows made you smile, as did the slight pink hue of his cheeks. Have those always been that color?

“Feel better?” You said once he peeked open his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“Good.” 

AN: I hope the ending isn’t too abrupt, I just felt like writing a short little thing. Thank you so much for reading, it means a lot to me. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d love a like or reblog or comment, but no pressure. ❤️ 

[jisokai]

If you cross the river (will the fighting end?)

Contrary to what granny once said, Kita thinks he won't ever truly know who you are. You are the one who waits by the river, watching as he scrubs dirt from fresh carrots and dirty shovels. You are the one whose presence lingers like mist over his skin when you part. You are the one whose eyes he always feels, at every moment—the eyes granny reminds him of when they wipe the floor or prepare a meal together.

You are the one who knows that it does not matter, that he would still perform his rituals and hold unwavering conviction even if you were not there. Because he is Kita; he is Shin-chan—repetition, perseverance, and diligence is how he lives...because it simply feels good.

You are the same, committed to your duty to watch him from the moment you were pulled from the glory of a summit. And he is committed to being watched by you.

shinsuke kita x GN reader character study for shin, reader is a river/rain spirit, themes of disaster, mentions of dying/minor character death, fluff and angst, slow burn (i think), slight spoilers for haikyuu!! timeskip 20.3k words | oneshot, complete

notes: This fic is set around the premise that Kita's gran lives in the mountains of eastern Hyogo, just above Osaka. I have his parents living in the city while Kita is cared for by granny until it's time for him to start school, around 6 years old. He goes to Osaka during the school year and no longer spends time in the mtns. Since canon doesn't offer a whole lot of information, I took liberties with the setting and backstory to fit the plot of my fic. I hope this can help negate any potential confusion! + (It's another fic spanning childhood to adulthood. With a magical reader. I am unfortunately not able to escape my own tropes.) + shoutout to this fic for inspiration

ao3 option

One moment you are a carefree being, gleefully running along a series of falls wedged along the mountain summit. The sun is setting and you are soaking in the glory of the day: with swaying leaves and shimmering droplets, and the last bit of light streaming through pockets of trees.

The next you are falling, rolling, bumping your way through the water. A current sweeps you away without warning, your vision goes dark, and you have left your place above the sun to land in the depths of a looming valley. You have to carry onwards, knowing there is no going back, so you search for the one who brought you here.

There is a dim light beyond the bank. It seeps from the open screen of a traditional-style house, illuminating the wooden beams and eaves from behind. It's a bedroom, with a small boy dutifully putting his futon down for the night, smoothing out the bumps and lining the base to be in its exact spot. He has salt and pepper hair and you think he is the youngest old person you will ever see. He never looks your way, but you sense that he knows you are watching.

So you watch, now that you're here.

"Granny, who's that?"

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, a thin arm clutching him tightly against her hip. Her eyes slowly move from his face to his finger pointing towards the water. She can't see what he sees: another child, waist deep in the gentle rapids, mysteriously faded—like a mist lingering instead of wafting to the sky. She smiles gently when she understands, bringing a hand to pat his hair softly.

"You'll learn when the time is right, Shin-chan."

She knows how this story will go.

Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.

Kita's life is built upon the small things he does everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.

Someone is watching over you.

Rain streams down the mountain gullies and pools in the river at the center of the valley.

The sun rises. Over and over and over again.

Childhood

The morning light streams through open screens, crawling up the veranda and into the adjacent interior. It’s the beginning of June—cleaning day, the tatami mats moved aside for inspection and rotation while Kita and granny scrub the wooden floors together. Foam bubbles from the rag when he wrings it out, excess water trickling into the bucket. He wipes it across the floor of their living room, watching carefully as the wood darkens slightly, but not too much, leaving shiny streaks and stray bubbles behind. He smiles to himself gently.

A grin tugs at granny as she watches from the opposite side of the room. It was Shin-chan’s own decision to clean with her today. He gave her no reason as he simply said, “I’ll help,” when she grabbed her bucket and rags. He already started pulling the mats aside, then struggled to move the table in the center by himself. Granny chuckles to herself at the recollection before returning her attention to the floor, her section a little lighter than Kita's.

He looks to her side and the faintest crease appears between his brows, a slight purse of his lips. When he wrings out his towel again, he pulls the ends a little tighter before bringing it back to the floor with a new gentleness. The result brings the twitch of a smile to his mouth. It makes him feel good.

From outside, he hears the rustling of leaves, creaking as bamboo sways in a light breeze, and the scrapes of shrubs against the house. The morning is cool, bringing in air that will hopefully linger as the day drags on. The only chatter comes from the birds, quick raps of storks in the river and singing sparrows in the trees. Kita feels a warmth, one from inside, as he listens. Focuses.

He thinks it could be praise, from the spirits that are watching.

It’s still morning when they finish, the mats brushed and switched with the ones in the closet. After they return the table to the center of the room, granny quietly thanks Kita for his help. He only nods in return. Quiet Shin-chan. He thinks he’ll read until lunch, or maybe help some more if granny plans to work in the garden.

She interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s go for a walk, to Fujiwara-san’s.”

Kita's brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods. Granny sometimes likes to visit the neighbors, though without any clear pattern or schedule. He thinks she might be doing it for him, so he can talk with other kids his age, especially with his sister always gone to a friend’s and his baby brother in the city. He would rather read, but agrees regardless since it’s granny asking.

They slip their feet into sandals and start down the path along the river, towards the right. Kita reaches for granny’s hand and she smiles down at the top of his hair. They walk slowly along pebbles and dirt, accompanied by the sound of water rushing next to them. Eventually they approach a bridge, granny having to grasp the railing as she walks up the steps. When she reaches the center of the river she pauses, a ritual, to watch the water run by.

“Fujiwara-san said he has exciting news,” granny offers in a delayed explanation. Kita doesn’t respond. 

Granny takes another minute to step down on the other end of the bridge and continue walking. They go left, towards the house that sits opposite of theirs. It takes slightly longer with the incline, but it’s quaint and Kita feels no hurry.

The house is open when they arrive, doors aside to let the last cool minutes waft through. There’s nobody home, however, and Kita looks up to granny curiously after they step onto the exterior veranda.

She only offers a smile as they wait a few moments. His attention is diverted when he hears the thumping of footsteps, small and quick, getting closer. They’re followed by Fujiwara’s muffled voice, worried. Kita's hand tightens in granny’s as he watches closely.

Out runs a child, his age, tracking dark footprints along the tatami mats from the back entrance. Not just with dirt, but smudges of mud, smearing on the woven grass. His chest tightens at the sight and he has the urge to scold, to clean the mess, but then he feels eyes on him and—

That watchful gaze he remembers clearly, despite only seeing it once, years ago. A gaze he still feels everyday, most intently at night. You are grown, but only as much as he is. And you’re…real. With a weight and embodiment, a person instead of a misty image on the river’s surface. You’re also brighter, both in appearance and spirit, as you put a small handful of grapes (fat and crisp and green) into your mouth (skin and seeds included) and chew quickly before swallowing and smiling widely at him. 

Again, Kita wants to protest the sight, tell you the skin is dirty and you can’t eat seeds, but the words are trapped. Something is tugging at his chest—something other than his apprehension, something that makes him want to physically step forward.

But then Fujiwara-san is rushing in, though not very quickly. He’s another old-timer in the village, with crinkly eyes and little hair remaining on his head, paired with a thin physique and hunch in his back. In one hand he carries a woven basket, filled with more bunches of grapes, shiny and wet. In the other is a wooden cane, pale with a reddish tint—Kita thinks maple. The old man never needed one before, and Kita wonders what’s changed.

He looks back to you, the one change he’s aware of.

“Shinsuke-kun,” his thoughts are interrupted by the call of his name. He hasn’t been listening, he realizes, and he turns his attention to the grandpa. “This is one of my grandchildren. My daughter has been busier with work lately.”

Kita, for a third time, wants to protest. He’s met all of Fujiwara-san’s grandchildren before, and if he hadn’t, granny would have certainly told him about another five year old. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t, and so he watches blankly. You are smiling at him the entire time, with a joy he doesn’t understand—at least, not entirely.

(There is a tightness in his chest at the sight of you, like it wants to expand beyond its capability. He’s not sure what that means.)

“Have some grapes!” you exclaim in a soft voice, thrusting the bunch towards him. Two fall from the force of your sharp movements, and he watches as they roll on the ground, leaving another stain. He doesn’t accept them, just continues to stare at the mess.

Granny fights a smile as she encourages him. “Let’s try some Shin-chan.”

He wants to say that he’s already had them before. He knows they will be delicious and crunchy and refreshing, especially now that the heat is rising with the sun. He knows that Fujiwara’s grapes are the best, and now two have been wasted and splattered on the tatami. Instead of reprimanding you, he reaches his arm out to take the bundle. Since granny asked.

His eyes widen when you then crouch to pick up the fallen fruit from the floor and eat them (skin and seeds included) without so much as wiping them off.

Who are you?

The faintest tug on his hand makes him turn to granny, who’s pulling one off the bundle he’s holding to give it a taste. “They’re delicious as always,” she says. “I’m surprised it’s such an early harvest.”

Fujiwara smiles, eyes crinkling further. “Snow came early this winter,” he reminds her.

She hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The weather has been quite unusual this year.”

Unusual, Kita wonders to himself. Because of you.

You smile at him again and that inexplicable tightness arises in his chest once more. He frowns, the first genuine frown of displeasure today. His mind tells him to ask granny if he can go home, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, to want and not want something at the same time. His frown deepens.

Kita thinks his time at Fujiwara-san’s is excruciating. Kita is also hesitant to leave when granny says it’s time to go. He misses a knowing smile that rests on her face as she tugs him gently, watching as he glances back during their walk home.

You are nosy. Kita was already aware, given he could feel you watching him at every moment, even when he can’t see you. But you are nosy when you are physically near him. And you are around him often now, nearly every day for the past week. Whether you simply show up at random or granny is pulling him along to Fujiwara’s, Kita learns that being around you is inescapable, inevitable. 

At the very least you aren’t noisy, just curious. At granny’s you quietly hover whenever Kita switches tasks or activities, a ghost floating over his shoulder. Once you’ve fulfilled whatever interest you have, you keep to yourself in your own part of the room. You’re helpful in the garden, for some reason, but you make him grimace when you pull a carrot directly from the ground and take a bite, dirt and all. You don’t help him wash the harvest, just crouch next to him by the river water and watch his hands diligently scrub.

You are, however, incredibly messy. It’s as if you don’t even register what a mess is, mud and leaves and water following you everywhere. Always. Trekking through the door with bare feet, smudges of grime trailing behind, sometimes with dripping hair—undried hair—that leaves dark circles and puddles on the mats and wood.

Every time it happens his chest flares with irritation, that urge to scold you. But granny is near, so he says nothing and instead looks at her intently. Granny only ever smiles back, sometimes handing him a towel and reminding him that he can help, if he wants. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why the adults haven’t explained it to you, surely Fujiwara-san can’t keep up with the cleaning he must have to do to house you. If Kita and granny always have to scrub your mess after you visit, Fujiwara must be mopping every hour. Sometimes they clean when you’re here, while you just sit and watch, only to dirty the floor again the following day.

After a week of this passes and you show up again, uninvited and with your bare feet leaving mud on the veranda, he caves.

“Don’ come around here if yer jus’ gonna make a mess,” he says firmly—but also quietly, wary of granny’s proximity. Why do you always enter through the veranda anyways—not the genkan, where the mess would be easier to contain?

You don’t appear deterred, smiling as you hold up a basket. “I brought you grapes, Shin-chan.”

He blinks. “That’s kind,” he admits, “but I don’ want ‘em.”

“Well I do,” Granny’s sweet voice says from behind him. Kita tenses when he hears it, turns to look at her guiltily. Her calm, smiling face makes him uneasy.

He starts to protest, those disagreements he felt a week ago, since the moment she wanted to go to Fujiwara’s, bubble up together. “But gran—”

“Shin-chan,” she cuts him off. Her voice is gentle and soft, but holds a different kind of firmness that Kita can’t deliver. One that makes him listen, because he has to.

“It’s okay,” you say, interrupting the conversation that would have followed. You’re still smiling, unfazed. It flames Kita's annoyance, while calming his nerves. Again, he doesn’t understand these feelings. “I’ll go home if Shin-chan wants me to.”

The boy’s eyes widen at that, heart plummeting as if he’s done something wrong. Why do I care? he immediately wonders. Maybe because granny is watching over his shoulder, or because Fujiwara-san seemed so happy to have his not-actually-grandkid (Kita is still certain) around his house. He doesn’t know what home you’re referring to, Fujiwara’s or the city or…somewhere else. Regardless, it would be easier if you went back and let them rest, granny especially, since she must be tired from the extra chores. He still hasn’t answered, caught between wanting to agree, waiting to disagree. He’s not sure which part of him wants what.

Instead of caving to his irritation for a second time today, he sighs and says, “It’s fine…jus’ wash yer feet.” He realizes he’s resolved to clean up after you so granny doesn’t have to. What is he doing?

“Okay,” you say easily, smiling. That relief fills him once again, and he can only stare at you, as if explanations for that feeling in his chest will surface if he looks hard enough. They don’t.

“Here are the grapes,” you assert, raising them in front of you. He hesitates, staring at them in accusation after he finally grasps the handle of the basket. Then you say: “Okay, bye now!” and run off the veranda, your bare feet landing in the dirt and carrying you along the trail and across the bridge.

Kita watches you with a pained face, and he realizes his free hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for you. He scowls and forces it down. Then he turns to granny. She’s smiling at him, he can sense it’s with amusement. He wants to ask why you left, if you really are going home, wherever that is. But he can’t, not when granny is giving him such a look.

“Stop cleanin’ up after others,” he tells her instead. Granny blinks, wondering why she’s being scolded now, too. “I’ll do it. Jus’…jus’ rest.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re a good kid, Shin-chan.”

Kita doesn’t think so. Not right now, with the way you ran away.

“Some people need time to learn the ways we live,” she continues vaguely. “Not everyone comes from the same place.”

He wonders why someone from the city would run around without shoes, through mud.

That inexplicable relief returns when you stand in the outdoor veranda the next day. He still doesn’t understand why he would want to see you, maybe for the confirmation that his words did not actually send you away—that granny and Fujiwara-san can continue to enjoy your presence. Regardless, he stares pointedly at your feet, the dirt clinging to them.

“Sorry,” you say, with the tact to at least look sheepish this time. “I washed them at Jii-chan’s, but they got dirty again.”

Kita is too stunned to react. Do people from the city not understand how shoes work? Or water? Dirt? He sighs, attempting to find his patience, as he tells you to stay put while he leaves. He grabs two pairs of sandals from the genkan and re-enters the veranda. He slips on one pair, then ushers you to follow him down the steps to the spigot.

“Rinse your feet,” he instructs. You do, poorly, but he supposes he can only ask for so much. He puts the second pair of sandals on the ground and tells you to step your feet in after you rinse. It’s an arduous process, but finally you are mostly clean and in the sandals. He then walks you to the entrance of the genkan and tells you, “Enter here. Wear those shoes when ya visit and put ‘em—” he points to a cubby, “there when ya come in.”

You are smiling, always smiling, when you reply. “Thanks Shin-chan!” Then you kick off your sandals and toss them into the cubby. Kita's chest flares again with displeasure at your haphazard treatment of his things. Suddenly you grab his hand and pull him inside, and all he can think is that your skin is cold. He can’t find it in himself to comment, heart racing as he stumbles and tries to slip off his slides before you tug him to the main room. He watches as your undried feet leave dark prints in the tatami in front of him—he thinks of the mold that has probably started growing under them since your first visit.

He passes granny as you pull him through the rooms. He gives her a wide-eyed look, one that tries to ask for help. She only smiles.

Kita feels a little bad for his outburst, once a few days pass and he understands that you aren’t intentionally helpless. You enter through the genkan, with relatively clean feet. You’re careful when you eat after he points out that you tend to make a mess. You help clean, when he asks you to. You still leave crumbs around and wet patches, you scrub too hard sometimes and other times not enough, but you try. And Kita finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

You just don’t know things.

The more he ruminates on your…unfamiliarity with the world, the less sense your story makes—the city story that Fujiwara-san told him and granny. It’s obviously not true, but it also has to be, if everyone believes it. Someone from the city wouldn’t look so surprised that their feet collect dirt. He recalls that evening a few years ago when he was only two, when he could see you in the river. He thinks about the never-ending feeling of being watched. You’re from here, from him.

It becomes apparent why you’re here, why you hang around him at home and linger in his presence. One night he wakes up hours before sunrise. He struggles to re-enter his slumber and curiously opens the screen facing the river, to gauge the time. The mountains loom behind the image of a small figure on Fujiwara’s veranda. You, offering a little wave.

He doesn’t react, just watches as you swing your feet. The moon sits high between you, illuminating the river below, the mist that lingers on its surface. He wonders if you’ve always been there, why he never saw you until a couple weeks ago.

The spirits are all around us, in every living thing. Granny’s voice calls from his memory.

As he watches you, the river, he wonders what defines a ���living thing”— if it’s breath or blood or growth. Something else entirely. He thinks the river breathes; it absorbs the air when it bubbles over rocks. Its blood is the water itself. It grows in its own way, banks expanding and collapsing, body winding and pooling, collecting life, collecting stories and history. He’s curious about your story, why it’s part of his.

He closes the screen and goes back to bed.

Shinsuke is not the kind of person to ask unnecessary questions. Even as a child, he keeps those curiosities within, assuming they’ll be answered eventually. Like granny said, You’ll learn when the time is right.

So he doesn’t ask, instead infers. Analyzes and assumes. You aren’t the same. Throughout the summer, as you spend time together, you are always asking. Asking and smiling. Sometimes they’re necessary questions: how to properly wash a dish, or where to set a gift of vegetables. Most of the time they’re unnecessary, asking how Kita is feeling, what he thinks of the weather. Sometimes they’re downright invasive.

“Where are your parents?” you ask him one hot July day, laying in the main room. Kita is fanning himself and wondering why you aren’t sweating.

“Osaka,” he says curtly. He hasn’t seen them in a while, hasn’t thought about them either.

“Do you miss them?” You ask, nosiness unsatisfied.

He shakes his head, no unnecessary response. He likes it with granny, always misses her the few times he’s gone to the city.

You hum, like you heard his unspoken answer. He thinks that’ll be the end of it. It isn’t.

“Your hair must be a mix of theirs,” you say plainly. “Whose is grey?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.” They both have black hair, the same with his sister who’s never home and his baby brother in the city with a nanny.

You’re surprised. “Oh. Do you know whose it is?”

He shrugs, uncaring.

But you smile for some reason, with genuinely joyful eyes. “Maybe it’s your gran’s,” you say happily. It makes him blink in surprise, mystified. He inhales, chest lighter. “It’s cool how that sort of stuff happens.”

He can’t look away from you, your smile that pierces right through him.

That night after his bath, he looks at himself in the mirror, intense, searching in a way he’s never done before. He sees the traces of his mom in his eyes and his lips, his dad in his nose. Both of them at the tips of his hair, that lower section by his neck. He continues to stare, looking for granny. He sees the way she influenced the nose he got from dad. He sees the way she claimed his hair, cradling his head and framing his eyes and cheeks. He wonders what it means, to be chosen by the traits from a generation before.

When granny says goodnight, Kita puts his arms up for a hug. She’s warm, always is. His head nestles into her neck, his threads of grey and black hair tangling with her sea of silver. He doesn’t know what it means; he is a five year old without the vocabulary to articulate the tightness in his chest, something akin to longing and fear. He is a five year old incapable of grasping what it means to be alive.

Only a couple days later, Kita catches a new perspective of you. 

You are barefoot in the genkan and Kita is ready to scold you, this one he knows is deserved after all he’s taught you. Before he can, you speak.

“Come with me today.”

Your hand is outstretched and inviting, but Kita is apprehensive, not sure what you mean. Before he can ask, granny speaks from behind him. “Go on, Shin-chan.”

He frowns and looks at her. Neither of them know what you’re talking about, where you even want to go. But granny looks calm and assured, without a worry in the world.

You don’t wait for an answer, grasping his hand when he’s still turned away and giving it a tug. He feels that same chilliness on your skin, one that makes him think you might be sick. He manages to protest long enough to step into his slides before you pull him out the door. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs to the side, the heat of July not yet settled in the valley. The sky is a bright blue, populated with innocent fluffy clouds, white and rolling in the breeze. A group of sparrows sing in a shrub you two pass, and a toad leaps off the path to get out of your way. Kita inhales deeply, the air humid but clean.

“Where’r we goin’?” he manages to ask, quickening his pace to match yours. Your hand has loosened its grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“The forest!” you cheer easily.

His eyes widen. The forest? He’s been to the forest before, to pick bamboo shoots and tea leaves with granny, but he’s not supposed to go without an adult. Does granny know? Why would she let them go by themselves? These are necessary questions, he thinks, and yet he swallows them down and lets you take him without protest.

You are fast despite being barefoot, rocks and sticks seemingly unnoticed as you dart along the path. Kita follows along diligently, stumbling only a few times. He wishes he wore his athletic shoes instead of the sandals. He glances back to the house, studies the way it shrinks from the distance. The two of you are still on the southern side of the river, not yet crossed to the northern mountains, where granny takes him.

Kita decides that he likes running like this, despite the heat and his shoes. It’s a gentle jog, with a destination in mind, his hand in yours as you lead the way.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just follows you up and along the path until the two of you reach its end. It’s the first time Kita has seen it, the way it stops before a rock face that climbs up a mountain west from his house. He looks down the path, into the valley from the incline.

He looks back at you, waiting for an explanation for what to do next. You don’t offer one, walking to the bank of the river. To get in the river, he realizes, and for the first time since leaving granny’s he tries to pull away.

You turn back to him, smiling softly. “Trust me, Shin-chan,” you say.

He’s not sure why he should, why he did, to let you take him all the way out here in the first place. Because of granny’s encouragement, he thinks. Go on, she said. Did that mean all the way? To the ends of wherever you wanted him?

You have turned and continued down the bank. Kita does not try to escape your grasp, letting you pull him along.

The water of the river rushes over his feet, cool and surprising. It runs up his ankles, his shins, his knees, and finally his thighs. You are leading him forwards, upstream and past the rock face that marks the end of the trail. His toes bump rocks covered in algae, slipping and wavering as he wades slowly. You, however, are sturdy, never faltering with your sure steps.

You approach a pile of rocks, scrambling over them to bring yourself back onto land. You help hoist Kita after you. He pauses when he steps onto the forest floor, the softness catching him off guard. He looks down to see reddish-brown piles of pine needles coating the ground, dotted with lush bundles of ferns and patches of vibrant moss. The land rolls gently, small and soft hills of fallen pine covering rocks and dirt and life. A mist lingers from the proximity of the water, the sun pulling the moisture into the air. The scenery is dark, quiet from the hazy canopy above. Kita inhales deeply in attempt to regulate his exhausted panting, the essence of wood and mint taking over him. He is in awe, not used to being swaddled in pine. The forests here are mostly a mix of leafy trees, oaks and maples and chestnuts, with pockets of bamboo. Not secret havens of sweetness and tang.

You tug him along, bouncing through the fluff of the soft ground. He follows, eyes wide and soaking in the scenery, wanting to memorize every moment. You show him your enchanted forest, its mysterious darkness splattered with occasional sun that manages to seep through. He spots a white hare leaping away, watches birds flutter from the trees. At one point you guide him to cross the river on a fallen tree, green with moss and bundles of young sedge. Behind your skipping form he walks carefully, arms outstretched for balance.

His heart freezes when he steps down onto the other side, catching sight of a grey wolf waiting its turn. He clutches your hand as the creature steps forwards, two smaller ones following. They look at him blankly before leaping onto the natural bridge, continuing their own journey without looking back.

When he turns to you, you are smiling, and tug him forwards once more. The sun starts to stream in, brightening as pines transition to those oak and maple and chestnut trees. The ground is no longer soft, but firm dirt and clumps of rocks, leading to one larger slab of jagged earth that juts out from the mountain entirely.

You step out into the sun and he follows, taking in the view in front of him.

He is not at the peak of the mountain, maybe halfway there, but the outlook forces him to understand the vastness of the valley. He can see the large span of the mountains as they roll and crawl in the distance, his house a small square along others. The river is more apparent, winding intensely down the mountain and softening into a gentle curve next to the village. He can see crop fields and the road that has taken him to Osaka before.

You speak, the first time since bringing him into the water, “Some people climb mountains to look from above. I like when I still feel inside of it, can still see what’s happening.”

Kita thinks he understands, remembers the way the mountains from his house are like a promising wall, a guardian. How the depth of the valley cradles him. He thinks of the hare and the birds, the wolves, the journey here striking wonder and awe into his heart. He recalls that feeling of being watched, your gaze always near.

The sun approaches its peak in the sky, nearly noon. It illuminates the valley, brings light into the forest behind them. Kita watches it light up your face, already bright from your joyful expressions.

“Happy birthday, Shin-chan,” you tell him, taking him by surprise. He forgot, in the excitement of the past hours with you. Granny gave him some books this morning as a gift. You’re giving him the forest. His smile is small and reserved, but it’s the first time he offers one back to you.

He thinks he understands now: what you meant when you said home.

The sight of your back with a hand pulling him along defines the next year. After you show Kita the forest, he trusts you wholly, no doubt that you will look after him. He is happily tugged again and again into that realm of magic. He encounters more animals—badgers and pigs, bears and herons. In the winter he sees foxes and macaques. The river freezes and snow becomes the new carpet of the forest. You don’t shiver either, he learns.

You take him to the summit once, so he can see the view. The pine transitions to a highland, bald of trees and instead coated in grass and shrubs. It’s beautiful, a clear day when the entirety of the valley is visible and he can spot granny’s home, how it sits across from Fujiwara-san’s. When he looks up, there is only the blue of the sky, not a single speck of cloud coverage. They stay until dark and watch the Milky Way span across the blackness of night, its subtle hues of pinks and blues, the way meteors shower down in flashes.

He watches life rise from the ground when the weather warms once again, as seedlings sprout and newborn animals wander through the land. Flowers bloom, coating pockets of earth in the full spectrum of light. He is witness to deer learning to walk, stumbling awkwardly over roots and rocks. He sees the other clumsy ways animals go about the world, how a sparrow drops its worm, how a duck trips and rolls into the river behind its mother. He collects these moments in his memory, happy to observe, solely to understand.

And you observe him, because Kita knows that is what you are meant to do. He still doesn’t know who you are, or why him, but he feels your eyes constantly. He doesn’t admit it, but they are comforting.

On the days you two are not parading in the mountain, you are still usually in each other’s presence. Kita no longer reads while you look over his shoulder or sit on the other side of the room. He reads to you, the books granny rents him from the library. You like to lay on the veranda while he sits and swings his feet, paying close attention to pronouncing the words. He still cleans up after you, since you never fully get the hang of doing things yourself. It’s only crumbs and small puddles, untidy blankets or cushions, an untucked chair at the table after dinner. He finds himself volunteering to take granny’s extra harvest of leeks to Fujiwara-san’s, under the pretense that he wants her to rest.

He walks there briskly, and stays for an additional hour. You have a lot to say, your nosiness still strong even after nearly a year.

“Jii-chan told me you’re starting school soon,” you say, eating one of the leeks. He watches you chew the entirety of it, uncooked. Some water squeezes out and dribbles onto the floor.

“In April,” he replies. April is two weeks away. It’s when he’ll go to Osaka. He’s supposed to stay there for the week leading up to school to prepare. He gets the sense that you’re leaving too.

You don’t look sad, and his shoulders feel tense when he notices. He’s not sure why.

Kita doesn’t ever ask unnecessary questions, but right now he is compelled to ask you many things. Sometimes it seems like you understand what he’s thinking, but you never respond unless he says it outright. As a result, he never gets to know.

He surprises both himself and you when he asks, “Are ya goin’ to school, too?” He already knows you aren’t.

You shake your head. He wants to ask why, wants to ask if you’re going somewhere else. He wants to know if you’ll be here when he comes back during break. He wants to figure out why you came in the first place.

Another question: “Are ya goin’ home?”

You nod your head this time. He watches you, thinking you’ll return to the pine forest. You shake your head when he thinks it, and give him the reprieve of elaborating. “The river.”

He frowns, confused. The river? You were always in the forest, guiding him along its greenery. He thinks about how he has to wade upstream to enter the forest in the west. He recalls the memory from years ago, a child in the water watching him. 

“I came from the forest,” you try to explain, “but the water’s my home now.”

Kita is reminded that he was born in Osaka, but would always rather be at granny’s house in the northern mountains.

It’s hard for him to leave granny’s, more than any time before. When the driver comes to get him and he squeezes in the back with granny, he looks out the window towards Fujiwara’s house. You sit on the veranda, waving while your legs swing. This time the sun is high in the sky and the river releases a blinding reflection. When the car drives away and he can no longer see you, his chest hurts.

Osaka does not make it easier. His mother coos at how big he’s grown while his father watches disinterested. Kita is shown his baby brother, now a toddler awkwardly walking around and speaking. Kita doesn’t know how to talk to him, but he tries. He says hello to his sister—who he hasn’t seen since she decided to stay in the city—when she finally makes an appearance at dinner. Granny stays for the meal and the night, and then leaves in the morning.

That night, the second one in Osaka, he cries while laying in bed. He isn’t sure why, the feelings simply overwhelming and in need of release. The squishy mattress in a raised bed frame doesn’t comfort him. He thinks about you, about granny. The mountains and the forest. The river. When he looks outside his window—a square of glass punched through plaster walls—he only sees pavement and blocks of concrete. Other homes, maybe with other children crying for reasons they can’t explain. There is no mountain in the distance or river running along the ground. The sky is hazy, no stars in sight. The only twinkling comes from his own eyes, his teary squinting blurring streetlights and windows with every blink. Each time his eyes close, for a moment he thinks he can see you.

If Shinsuke is one thing, he is malleable. He can fit himself into environments, his adherence to routine giving him a means of finding comfort no matter where he is placed. Responsibility grounds him, distracts him. He can redirect his energy to doing well in school, looking after his brother. These things feel good to him, to simply do them well.

Even though you are not with him, he can feel your eyes at all times. He is reminded of being at granny’s, her washing the floor as she tells him that the spirits are everywhere, always watching. He finds himself cleaning up after his brother, thinking of you. He wonders what you think, if you’re reminded of the same.

School is as alien as Osaka, with its concrete exterior and plastered walls. They are painted white and lined with large sheets of glass. They slide open, but only for students to shout at their friends outside, not to let the morning air in. 

In class, he sits quietly at his desk and listens to the teacher. He doesn't talk with other students or pass notes under the desk. He doesn’t even wonder about you, the feeling of your eyes always on him. He watches the teacher closely, diligently records the lessons. He watches other students, gathering first impressions and additional observations. He notices the way some of them doze off or scribble in their books. He sees the meaningful glances some make to each other, usually girls as they eye each other and specific boys in the class.

When he studies for his first exam, he thinks that he can feel you in the room with him. First looking over his shoulder—a cool breeze wafting from behind him, and then laying on his bed—the sheets oddly chilly when he goes to sleep. He remembers how you sat by him while he read aloud just a few weeks ago. He murmurs to himself as he reviews information, wondering if you can hear him.

Kita scores at the top of his class. He doesn’t feel anything when teachers congratulate him and other students whine. There is no pride in his chest or sense of satisfaction at the results. He thinks back to his nights studying, your presence lingering over him. It just feels good, he thinks, to do things well. The process of trying and dedicating himself to something.

He makes a routine out of it, delegating time after school to review material. It falls easily into his schedule, after dinner and before he readies for bed. He still has time to play with his brother, usually reading or offering him toys. His sister is always gone, either busy with club activities or friends. His parents get home late too, but they usually manage to have a full family dinner.

They’re eating quietly, having debriefed their days as they reach the end of their meal. Kita glances at his family, realizing that they’re different from the people at school. He’s known them for his whole life, people without first impressions and instead ingrained understandings. He looks at them intently, notices the way they eat, listens to the way they speak. He knows them intuitively, no running list in his mind to keep track of information. He is reminded of the time you asked about his hair, and he stares at his mom, then his dad. His mom’s hair is long and brown, artificially lightened from its original dark color. His dad’s is black with a sprinkling of silver from age. Kita wonders if his will do the opposite when he grows old.

There’s another exam the following week, this one for his science class. Kita is the first one in the classroom, watching students filter in. The boy who sits next to him—Daiki, tall and skinny—plops down with a sigh just a few minutes before the teacher is supposed to arrive.

“Gahh, I’m so nervous,” he says to Kita, laying his head on the desk. When Kita doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you?”

Kita shakes his head at that, not sure why he would be. He studied. 

When the results come back after a few days Daiki whines that Kita is a goody-goody, trying his hardest to get the teacher’s attention. Kita looks at his full marks and once again feels nothing. He thinks it is the natural result of his efforts. He wonders what you would say, if he could talk to you. He thinks you would ask nosey questions about his siblings. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Some kids try to be his friend, or at least try to talk to him. But he’s quiet, not very eloquent or forgiving with his words, and so they eventually leave him alone. He thinks about how you diligently stood by him, how you smiled when he scolded you.

When he gets home and returns to his room, it is exactly as he left it. There are no crumbs to sweep or puddles to wipe. His brother is out with the nanny, but he feels restless, the need to do something. He thinks he can get started on his homework early, pulling out his notebooks and folders. He can’t focus on the words, eyes skimming the pages without understanding. He knows that studying now is futile, and decides to continue later. He settles on bathing early instead.

His bath draws on, longer than usual. He finds himself pausing, getting lost in thought—though more lost in feeling, since his mind drifts blankly. He’s still restless by the time he finishes, but slightly relaxed. He stands to wrap himself with the towel and steps carefully onto the bath rug. Once he’s dried and his towel is secure around his waist, he leans over to pull the plug and let the water drain. Just as he grasps it, there’s a lurch of water that spills out and onto the floor. His eyes widen in disbelief and his chest flares with annoyance knowing he will have to clean the mess. He looks at the floor incredulously before turning back to the bath and—

His eyes widen further, mouth opening slightly at the sight of you—a misty figure over the water. You’re wearing a sheepish expression as you lean over the edge to assess the mess.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. Kita's disbelief increases at the sound of your voice. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

Kita slams the plug back down and stands to face you clearly. He feels the water pooled at his feet, but all irritation has fled his body. Instead he is filled with a warmth, a contrast to the coolness wafting from you.

“You made a mess,” he tells you, unnecessarily. You know that already.

“Yeah,” you say. You apologize again.

“Don’ do it again,” he tries to scold. His body wants to step forward, to reach you. He’s not sure why, and he frowns with skepticism.

You nod, then lift your leg experimentally. When it’s pulled above the water, there are no droplets falling. Instead, you appear airy, like the water sits around your body. You step out and onto the bathroom floor, successfully avoiding increasing the mess. You smile brightly at your success. Kita continues to watch, wondering if you’ll disappear, evaporate at any moment. You look at the water on the floor and then meet his eyes, smile turning sheepish again.

“I should mop,” you tell him, breaking him from his quiet spell.

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately. “Jus’...jus’ don’ go anywhere.”

You nod.

Mopping helps him calm down, perhaps needing a task to manage his agitation. You watch, and then follow him to his room once he’s finished. He dresses while you distractedly rummage through his things, then walks over to you at his desk. He feels a wetness under his foot and looks down, seeing footprints scattered along the floor. They’re light and clearly yours, and he ignores them, continuing over to you.

“You can go back to studying,” you tell him.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He’s not sure why, chest tight with anticipation.

There’s a knock at the door, mom’s sign that dinner is ready. The noise startles you and there is a poof, the sound of you evaporating into mist, wafting up to the ceiling. Gone. The only traces of you are those faint, damp footprints and few misplaced items on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, Kita feels a sinking disappointment.

Adolescence

Contrary to what he expected, Kita doesn’t leave Osaka during break. His parents think it would be good for him to have a consistent lifestyle. Kita doesn’t protest, but he can feel a heaviness in his stomach. He asks about granny, if he’ll see her soon. They tell him she will visit some time, and she does, though rarely. He thinks about the forest and the mountains, when he’ll see them again.

On the first day of fourth grade, Kita wakes up on time. He uses the toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes his clothes at his usual pace. As he splashes cool water along his forehead and cheeks, he is reminded of your touch and wonders if he will see you this morning. He often finds himself waiting, without realizing until a significant amount of time has already passed. You are irregular and unpredictable. It puts him on edge, that you might disrupt his perfectly crafted routine.

He is the first to sit down for breakfast and the first one to finish, everyone else but his mother just having started. He stands to put his dishes away and gather his school things when she rushes into the room. She’s fumbling with her shoe, trying to get it in place while collecting her things to fill her purse. Her face brightens when she sees him and asks about his first day, if he’s excited or nervous.

Kita shakes his head, neither. He’s been going to school nearly everyday for years now, what reason would he have to be nervous? What’s to be excited for?

He turns to leave, but she calls for him. She asks if he’s planning to join a club.

He shakes his head again, not sure why he should.

But his mother protests, “I think it’d be good for you to do a sport. You don’t exercise much, with all the studying.”

His father hums in agreement from the table and his sister stands to excuse herself. His brother knocks his bowl over, spoon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, Kita walks over to return it.

“Just try one, okay?” his mom asks. Kita nods in response before finally leaving. 

In his room, he gathers his books and school supplies into his backpack, double checking that everything is there. He slips it over his shoulders and then turns to the window. It’s translucent with a sheen of moisture from inside. He wipes it away and glances at the sky. It’ll probably rain, he gauges. As he steps away from the window to leave, he catches a glimpse of you in the reflection.

His first day of school is like any other, spent seated at his desk near the center of the room, watching the teacher, observing his classmates. He diligently helps clean at the end of the day: sweeping duty, not missing a single spot. Once finished, he changes his shoes and makes for the exit. Some students say goodbye, and he nods in return. He can hear the soft pattering of rain as he approaches the door, and pops open his umbrella before stepping outside.

The walk home is quiet, with occasional groups of students chattering by. Kita walks at his typical pace, unrushed. He hears his shoes tap against the pavement with each step, the plopping of raindrops above his head. The occasional car rushes by, veering aside to avoid splashing him. He runs through a mental list of what he needs to do for school, but it’s short given it being the first day.

When he’s only a few minutes from home, he hears splashing behind him, as if someone is running through a puddle. You, calling his name.

He doesn’t turn to look, but his steps slow while his heart speeds, giving you time to catch up. Within a few seconds you are by his side, your now-usual misty and translucent figure at his side. You smile when he glances at you, but he appears unfazed. You’re unbothered as you walk with him, light on your feet.

When he reaches the door of his home and unlocks it, you let yourself in first. He closes his umbrella and gives it a shake before setting it on the rack. While he removes his shoes in the genkan, he eyes the light trail of footprints you left on your way to his room. He leaves them, knowing they’ll evaporate before anyone else comes home. He stops by the kitchen, dumping a bag of carrots onto a small plate, and then he briskly enters his room and closes the door behind him.

He sees you laying on his bed and he feels an itch of annoyance, knowing the sheets will be damp. But he doesn’t say anything, instead setting the plate on his desk and sliding his bag onto the floor. You smile and ask how his day was.

This has become part of Kita's routine, your irregular visits. He walks through life with an anxious anticipation, waiting for you to come. He is relieved when you appear, but he is never entirely pleased. There’s a warmth in his chest regardless, one that reminds him of granny.

He wonders if maybe that’s why he accepts the interruption so easily, because it momentarily brings him home, his life in the mountains, granny’s voice telling him that someone is watching over him. He knows that someone is you. He wonders if granny knows about your visits, if you ever tell her about him.

His answers are short, per usual. But he talks about his classes, his classmates, how mom wants him to join a club. He knows that you know all this, but he says it anyways, gives into you.

“Do you know what club you’ll join?” you ask.

He shrugs. “A sport, since I should exercise.”

You nod at that, “It’s too bad the forest is so far away. Exploring is good exercise.”

Kita thinks about the forest often, seeping into his spare time when he’s not caught up in classes or the growing responsibilities of life. He’s heard from mom about wildfires in Hyogo, ones that spring at random in the dryness of summertime. Luckily nothing near home, but still within the province. He recounts those memories of rabbits and monkeys, remembers the flowers that are blooming right about now. He's curious if it’s raining, how visible the stars are tonight. These questions bring a pain to his chest, one he can’t explain, one that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he calls granny and the pain goes away. Sometimes it gets worse.

When you’re in his room with him like this, he thinks it’s a different pain entirely.

Eventually your questions lull and Kita knows that this is his queue to start his schoolwork. He doesn’t have much to do, though. Instead he wants to ask a question of his own. You can tell, and you wait.

He doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he never asks. As a result, you never answer.

A week later the school allows them to pick clubs. Kita looks at the other hopeful kids as they play rock-paper-scissors for a spot for the popular sports: basketball, football, baseball. He eyes the groups that are smaller, have less interest. The running club looks crowded, so he makes his way over. He still has to do a round of rock-paper-scissors, and he’s one of the three who have to find another option. To his right is another small group, and he asks to join without knowing what they are. Volleyball, apparently. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good, but he figures it’s only for the year and he can try something different in fifth grade.

Volleyball, it turns out, is difficult. He learns how to receive a ball, but it flies in the opposite direction of where he wants it to go. He watches the other players, trying to understand how to improve himself.

Volleyball, it turns out, is technical and requires a lot of practice to sharpen his skills. He diligently attends practice, two days a week for fourth-graders. The coaches appreciate his efforts, how he runs his full laps and takes every suggestion seriously. Kita finds that he just enjoys the process of training, improving his abilities and caring for his body. His legs feel tired at the end of the day and it reminds him of running through the forest. It reminds him of his efforts, makes him feel good.

Volleyball, it turns out, is the perfect distraction. From you.

It becomes part of his routine, filling in the gaps of time that he normally finds himself waffling in, waiting for you. He learns to walk through everyday as if it’s the same, just himself, but allows it to shuffle when you make an appearance. 

Volleyball helps as he enters middle school and your visits lose frequency. Your lack of presence, however, makes the feeling of your gaze on him even stronger. He feels it every time he’s on the court—though he only ever plays games in practice. He in turn watches his teammates, their ticks and habits. He watches his opponents, offers notes to his team about patterns and flaws in their styles. He’s not a powerhouse like the standout players, doesn’t have any exceptional talent, and so despite his hard work and consistent practice, he doesn’t play a single game, doesn’t even receive a jersey.

You ask him about it one evening, on break before high school starts.

“Are you going to join the volleyball club?” you ask, to which he nods. It makes you hum as you sit on his bed. He can see the wall behind you, how it darkens slightly from the moisture of your form leaning against it. 

“I hope you get the chance to play more,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t know why they don’t let you.”

But it means nothing to him, that sort of attention and recognition. He just plays to play the game, do the drills, learn the mechanics—to take care of himself. You know this, but you like watching him, the way he watches the game, moves with it, into it.

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing that you know what he thinks.

Instead of pushing further, you change the subject. “I’m not going to be able to visit very often,” you tell him. You sound regretful, and his chest is agitated. He thinks of the fires, happening at random across the country.

“I know,” he tells you. He could sense it, recognized the increasing infrequency of your presence. He wants to ask why, but he can’t get the words out, for whatever reason.

You look at him closely and say, “I’ll be around though.”

He nods at that. He knows.

Inarizaki is a prestigious school, known for academics and athletics alike. Kita makes it in easily with his grades, and joins the volleyball club despite knowing he will likely never play in a match. The coaches note that Kita is inexperienced in competition, but they know an asset when they see one. His skills are too sturdy, too well-practiced for Inarizaki to not take advantage of him.

During his first year, he hardly plays. Even so, he is the first at practice, one of the last ones to leave, and the most diligent athlete on the team. He runs the entire length of the track, finishes every rep during weight training, and completes every drill and penalty without complaint. The coaches find that he does not have star power—he is unassuming and ordinary—but he is exceptional in his efforts, and his efforts meet returns when it counts, when they need him on the court as his usual Kita-san.

Some of the older players tease him for his diligence, others admire him because of it. Everyone realizes that he pays no mind to what they think, only ever doing what he wants, what fits his values. He respects his elders even when he disagrees with them, but he is blunt with his fellow first years, unafraid to call out their behavior, especially if it contradicts something they’ve said before. Some say it’s rich coming from him, someone who only warms the bench.

Aran is the one who talks to him, one day in the locker room. A tense conversation between Michinari and Shinsuke unraveled earlier when Kita commented on how the libero attempted too many unpracticed receives in-game, that he should have stuck to underhand until he perfected his overhand off the court. Michi has a temper, and his frustration was pushed by the spiker’s comment. He shouted that Kita wouldn’t understand, that he hasn’t been put in a game, hasn’t had the opportunity to feel the pressures of expectation.

Aran lingered when the others filed out of the locker room—partially to make sure Kita was okay, and partially to suggest he cool it with the critique.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he offers. “Akagi-san gets bad nerves. He knows what he needs to do.”

“I don’t understand the point of being nervous,” Kita responds.

A machine, Aran thinks. This guy is a machine. He says as much, and thinks there’s truth to Michi’s comments, that Kita must not understand because he’s never played in a match that counted.

But Kita explains—that it doesn’t make sense if you’ve practiced the skills and know your capabilities. That it’s the same with eating, shitting even. He thinks Michi’s underhand receives are enough, that they have saved the ball from Inarizaki’s own powerhouses in practice. Why would he need to try anything else?

Aran’s eyes widen as Kita speaks, starting to understand his perspective. It becomes apparent that his criticism towards Michi was more of a poorly delivered compliment: that their first-year libero is enough as he is, that he could save them with the tools he knows—he doesn’t need miracles. This glimpse into Kita puts Aran’s teammate in a new light, recontextualizes his diligent attitude towards their training and the criticism he gives his peers. He trusts the process, knows that the results will follow suit.

Aran begins to notice how Kita fades to the back, his presence unassuming on its own. Kita does not play for recognition or adulation, he simply does what needs to be done. His diligence to get every ball in the air goes unnoticed when the flashy ace pulls an impressive cross against three blockers—a move that would not have been possible without Kita, committed behind him. But Kita doesn’t care, doesn’t ask for attention. 

Aran already held immense respect for his teammate, for his repetition, diligence, and perseverance. But now he feels a special type of awe when he watches him more closely.

Kita does not make a fuss of convincing others of his praiseworthy traits, but Aran takes it upon himself to point them out to his team, to give new context to Kita's seemingly harsh words. Slowly but surely, they will understand, too.

What Aran doesn’t know is that Kita feels like he has already been noticed and recognized, always has been and always will be, at every moment—by you.

(Your eyes continue to bore into him no matter where he is. They feel stronger the longer he goes without seeing you. Your visits are few and far between, but he has his routine, knows to follow it independently and let it shape around your irregularity.)

The following season, a handful of talented first years join, including a freakishly synchronized twin duo and a sly middle blocker. They fight with each other. Some of them cut corners. One particularly troublesome one likes to work himself through illness, inspiring misguided awe in other first years. Kita as a second year has no qualms scolding his teammates, now sometimes including his upperclassmen. The underclassmen pout and grumble while the elders know the intent resting behind his abrasion. 

You only visit him twice during the school year, both times at the hotel for nationals. The first is during the Interhigh National Tournament; he is sitting in the tub at the end of the day, running through his observations of other teams he saw, considering what would be useful to share with the others, to exploit. His head is resting on the ledge of the tub, staring at the blank ceiling as a canvas for him to visualize what he saw: bad crosses, a fragile ego, delayed timing for a back attack. He thinks about the team they’re playing tomorrow, the most imperative information to note. He thinks he should finish bathing so he can write it down.

When he straightens his head to look forward, he jolts in surprise, water splashing out and onto the bathroom floor.

You’re there, sitting on the other end of the bath in your misty form. Your eyes are wide, head turning to look at the puddles on the tile. Kita can’t even consider the mess, body tense at your proximity. He’s never been flustered around you before, never felt strange about his nakedness if you appeared after a bath. It’s been a long time since you’ve come from a bath. And this—this is a closeness and intimacy he has never imagined. You, sharing the water, right beside him. He is frozen when your eyes move back to his face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, and he recalls another variable to add to the situation: Aran, likely still in their shared room.

Kita shakes his head, not knowing what to say. “You—” he stutters, unlike him. “What’re ya doin’.” Ever since middle school you only appeared in the rain. He didn’t know bathtubs were even still a…vessel of transportation.

You smile. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Kita blinks, torn between the urge to scold you, the urge to reach for you, and the urge to make you leave before Aran learns of your presence. He finds it exhausting, the way you pit these conflicting pieces of him against each other.

Instead he tells you, “I probably won’ play.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re doing it right now.” The analysis of his opponents, you mean.

A sound at the door makes you jolt, the water softly rippling around you. It’s Aran, asking if things are okay. He doesn’t comment further, but he swears he hears the murmuring of voices.

Kita calls back that he’s fine, just about to get out and be done for the night. He gives you a look afterwards, a sign that you can’t stay. He wishes you could.

You surprise him by leaning forwards, reaching for him. He is suddenly swept into your chilly embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His body is tense, on edge from the intimacy, but he only feels your body above the water, arms and chest and head as it settles into his neck. Despite your cold temperature, Kita's body heats at the contact.

“I’ll see you,” you say, and then you are mist, dispersing into the air.

When Kita exits the bathroom, Aran thinks for the first time that he looks amused—a mirth settled in his eyes and his lips slightly quirked.

A few months later during the Spring High Nationals, you appear in his room, again shared with Aran. Luckily the spiker is out for the moment, allowing Kita the freedom to speak with you. He’s getting dressed from the bath while you flop onto his bed. When he finishes he stands over you, inquiring why you came.

“To wish you luck again.”

Where you’re laying on the bed, his hand hangs by his hip only inches from your face. He is called to reach for it, hold it gently. He’s not sure why but this visit makes him uneasy, like it could be the last. He wonders if these are nerves.

The sound of the key opening the door interrupts his thinking. You have already faded into the air by the time Aran enters, followed by the twins barreling their way past him.

Atsumu (the obnoxious) immediately makes for Kita's bed. He flops down onto it, not unlike how you did minutes before, but immediately tenses and shrieks. He rolls himself off, pushing Kita back from where he was standing, all while shouting, “Kitaaa! Why’s it wet—”

Kita thinks he should thank you, next time you visit.

You don’t visit again.

Rather, Kita goes home to you. He decides to leave for break instead of sticking around for club practice, a choice he’s never made since he started volleyball. Something in him calls to visit granny. So at the end of March he boards the train headed towards the north station, and then hails a ride to the village. Granny is home when he arrives, and she marvels at how tall he is, not having seen him since she visited in middle school.

He towers over her small figure, awkwardly hunching in a hug. Granny says that he’ll be a big help with his height, and over the next day she sets him to dust the high shelves and put away dishes. She comments that he can move the table in the main room all on his own, no longer small, five year old Shin-chan.

The ease Kita feels in himself when he is here, with granny in the mountains, is undeniably because this is his home. He is malleable, shapeable to the life he’s lived in Osaka, but this is where he should be. He knows that when he enters this final year of high school, he will be given a sheet that asks for his three career plans. With his grades and diligent work ethic, he knows that he can put himself on any path and make it work. But in this moment, in granny’s embrace, the warmth of a home lined with screens and tatami, Kita knows that he wants to be here, no matter what.

That night he lays out his futon, smoothing out the creases and carefully lining it to be perpendicular with the wall. He smiles, this routine of preparing his bed one of many things he missed in the city. Before he lays down, he is overcome by the feeling of being watched. He turns to the screens that lead outside, towards the river. He walks over and opens them, looking into the darkness of the night.

The moon hangs low in the sky—a crescent, a smile. It shines softly on the water, Fujiwara-san’s house behind it, and the form of the mountains beyond. You aren’t there, but the river is misty, a bluish haze settling thickly on its surface.

In the morning he decides to go for a run, an attempt to maintain conditioning while he’s gone from practice. He goes left—west—towards your mountain.

The jog is peaceful, with March air cool and crisp against his skin. He is calmed by the sound of the water rushing next to him, running the opposite way. There are birds singing when he passes and a small hare jets by his feet. Running feels like a trip through his memory, recounting the times he tried to keep up with your pace, the adventures you went on together. He is running through the blue of wanderlust, along the breathing water and between the distant mountains, under the bright sky above him. He is running through the green of nostalgia, the lush vegetation, stalks of bamboo and solid trees, mostly oak and maple and chestnut, but occasionally the mysterious pine.

He is running to you.

It isn’t apparent until he reaches the end of the path, to that rock face at the foot of the mountain, and you are there—in the flesh—waiting in the river. The water is cold during spring, and yet you smile warmly, unfazed by the temperature. When he takes your hand to let you guide him through the water, through soft pine and hazy light, your touch is cool and refreshing against his—hot from exertion.His heart lurches at the contact, an inexplicable mix of tightness and lightness blooming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hollowing him out or overfilling him. It feels like hello and farewell all at once. There is a knot in his stomach, one that feels like nerves. It is exhilarating, magnetizing, like falling into you completely. He lets himself. He has no other option.

You come back with him to granny’s and have breakfast together. She doesn’t say anything, only calls you “dear” and thanks you for your help cleaning up. She does not mention Fujiwara and neither do you. Kita feels whole, sitting on the floor at this table.

At night you sit and watch as he prepares his futon. He looks at you and asks, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t sleep.”

He nods before getting up to turn off the light. He opens the soft blanket and lays down. He turns to you, hesitating. He wants to know if you’re staying, if you’ll be here all night. Part of him wants to invite you to lay next to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you curiously.

You are smiling over him, as always. One of your hands reaches to smooth back his hair and he softens. Even with your skin always cold, his body will forever warm at your touch.

These days continue and Kita feels light, enjoying time with you, as a person. His questions fade after he succumbs to focusing on soaking in your presence. It feels good, not unlike the satisfaction of completing his daily rituals.

He looks at you closely, the way you’ve grown with him. You are still smiling, still diligent in ways that he initially failed to see as a five year old. Watchful, joyful. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face, a small one that granny notices. You are smiling too, as you take dishes he’s finished washing and run a rag across their surface. You miss some spots, little droplets sticking to the ceramic. Some fly off and land on the floor and counter.

Kita is entirely at ease. It is quaint, quiet, content.

After a few moments, you suddenly pause your drying and turn thoughtfully, towards the river. Kita watches as the faintest furrow appears between your brows, your face both pensive and concerned. You drop the rag on the counter and step away. He stares curiously, still scrubbing a plate.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you say. Nothing else, no unnecessary information. 

Fear germinates in his chest, his heartbeat picking up speed. Granny smiles at him, reassured. He wonders how she retains her calm demeanor.

When nearly ten minutes pass and you don't return, Kita tells granny he’s going to check on you. She nods in understanding as he slips on his sandals and exits through the genkan. He spots you immediately, standing between the house and the river. You’re facing the northern mountains with a frown on your face. Kita realizes this is the first time he’s seen you anything but joyful.

You answer his silent question when he stands beside you, “There’s something wrong.”

“In the forest?” he clarifies. You nod, looking onwards. He watches you for a silent minute, the way you study the sky over the ridge. 

“I think…” you start. Pause. “You should leave, with your gran. And everyone else.”

Kita's brow furrows as he looks at you skeptically. You turn to him, eyes unwavering. You never look this serious. Always nosy, unnecessary questions. Lighthearted. Messes on the floor.

“Shinsuke,” you say firmly. He startles at the sound of his full name. “Tell everyone there’s a fire—in the northern mountains. I’ll try to keep it at bay, but it’s spreading. By the time they see it, it’ll be too late. If you can evacuate the houses on the other side of the river before it’s visible, things should be okay.”

He feels a strike in his lungs, like he’s gasping for breath. He wants to ask for details, but you’ve made it clear there’s no time. You are grabbing him, your cool hand holding his wrist, as you start towards the bridge in a run. He is momentarily brought back to his sixth birthday, running behind you as you guide him along the path to the base of a mountain—your mountain. He remembers thinking that running behind you was fun.

This time you are serious, almost panicked, bringing him across the river and pointing at the houses, which ones he should evacuate first. The ones with the oldest people. Fujiwara-san is one of them. You let go of his hand and run, sprint towards the base of the mountain. He feels panicked, wondering how long it’ll take for you to come back. What it means for you to keep the fire at bay. You fade away, the blue of distance settling between you two, mistiness.

The next moments are a blur. He knocks on doors and is greeted by elders he hasn’t seen in years, ready to exclaim at how he’s grown. Their coos are interrupted by his apologies, an explanation that he got news of a wildfire and wants to make sure people have time to evacuate. He suggests that they get into their cars and head east near the highway, and to wait for official advice for next steps. He says the words, but they don’t fully register when his mind is still occupied with the memory of you sprinting to the danger. The families look at him skeptically, but they get a move on when they remember this is Shin-chan, the quiet and good-natured village boy.

He makes his way down the homes to relay the news. He asks neighbors to tell the others, and to call emergency services. There are 26 homes on this side of the river, and by the time he knocks on half the doors, smoke hangs over the mountains. No fire is in sight, but the signs are there. It makes the next conversations much quicker, and he is relieved as he watches cars pile out towards the highway.

Suddenly an alarm starts blaring. The emergency intercoms spaced along the neighborhood release a sharp and repeating warning sound. A deep voice calls out between the noise, commanding evacuation. Kita's breath is labored from the exertion of running between houses, but his chest feels lighter knowing that his responsibility has been lifted.

By the time he crosses the bridge back to granny’s home, the sky has darkened significantly, black smog blowing along and spewing upwards. There’s the slight lick of a flame creeping over the ridge and he feels his heart begin to gallop. His stomach clenches roughly when his mind flashes with images of the western mountain forest, deer and wolves and rabbits and birds. Flowers and pine and ferns. He glances that way and sees that it’s still untouched, for now.

He runs inside granny’s, calling for her to get in a neighbor’s car, since she doesn’t own one herself. She stands slowly, at her elderly pace, and Kita is restless as he helps her exit the house as quickly as she can. He takes another glance at the mountains and his heart plummets at the sight. The fire has crept over the ridge, and he can hear the distant crackling as it runs forward. Kita's eyes trail down to a figure by the bank on the opposite end of the river and recognizes you. His chest constricts with relief and concern at the sight. He tells granny to walk down to the next door neighbor, to see if she can evacuate with them. He has to lower his head to her ear so he can be heard over the sounds of the sirens and the voice on the intercom.

He starts jogging towards the bridge, to cross it, but you yell his name. It’s loud and fierce, a demand to stay put. It has a firmness that forces him to listen.

His feet stop, now directly across from you. He can see your face, the intensity in your glare. You’ve never looked at him this way.

“Don’t come!” you yell, voice almost lost over the commotion.

Kita is frowning, brow furrowed and mouth open in disbelief. He doesn’t have time to yell back before you continue.

“You have to go, Shin!” You shout. Kitas chest is heavy, and his shoulders are rigid. The flames are growing closer, rolling down the mountain. There’s a gust of wind and it blows the smoke towards the village. He can feel the heat of the burning forest.

Suddenly there are popping sounds, loud like fireworks squealing and shooting through the air. He doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, what they mean. They don’t stop, ringing through the valley and compounding with the blaring alarms, the warning voice on the speakers.

Kita doesn’t want to leave. When he looks at you, the despaired expression on your face and the many layers of hurt—layers he doesn’t understand, has never understood because he never asked—he knows that he can’t leave you. He has to do something, he is restless, like a child waiting for something that has no regular pattern, no rhyme or reason to be there in the first place. You, visiting him in Osaka.

But you won’t have any of it. “GO, SHIN!” you yell, voice booming—akin to a clap of thunder. The popping and splintering noises grow louder, and it strikes him that they are from the bamboo at the base of the mountain, the moisture in their chambers expanding enough to turn into deadly explosives. He sees a flock of birds lift from the forest behind you and fly east.

He tastes salt—tears, rolling down his cheeks and through his open lips. His voice is choked as he yells back in a desperate attempt for you to leave with him.

“I’m yer burden,” he reminds you, face scrunched in pain. His voice isn’t as loud as it should be, for you to hear him across the river. But he knows you can anyways, knows that you know he means don’t leave me, I’m the one you’re supposed to look after.

You smile sadly. He can’t tell if you’re crying too, but he can feel the same pain on your end. Your voice is equally too quiet to be heard when you respond, but it rings clearly in his mind.

“But I’m not yours.”

Your gaze is looking behind him, beyond him. He turns and his eyes widen, spotting granny slowly making her way down the path. His stomach churns—she didn’t catch the neighbor driving away. She’s coughing, unable to walk at the same time. With the smoke blowing over and granny’s old lungs, she can’t carry onwards alone. Kita hears himself curse and he rushes to her side, no hesitation as he lifts her frail body against his chest. Her head lands against his neck—her hair soft against his—and she coughs another long fit. He knows he has to leave. 

He takes one last glance at you, then at the fire crawling towards the now-emptied homes on your side of the river. The heat is increasing, blowing towards him with more smoke and ash. Five deer appear from the woods behind you and run across the bridge. You are staring at him, urging him to follow their example. He knows that he has to take care of granny, but he thinks this is the most pain he’s ever felt, buried deep in his chest. It’s the kind of pain that comes from hollowness, recognition that something vital is missing and yet somehow life is forcing him onwards regardless. He doesn’t know why this tension is there, when there’s a clear job for him to do, to do well. His face pinches, another round of tears welling before he blinks and turns to run down the path.

In this moment, he summons that unwavering confidence he has in himself. Not one of arrogance, but from the knowledge of what he is capable of, what he does everyday without failure. He runs east along the river, clutching his grandmother close. He tells himself this is any normal day of training, running to improve his endurance for volleyball. He is running besides Suna-san, who’s looking for a shortcut. He is running behind you, on your way to explore the enchanted section of pine in the mountain.

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, seeing a mysterious child his age standing in the water. He asks who it is, pointing to a figure that granny can’t see. She tells him that he’ll learn one day, when the time is right.

He is sprinting down the same path, through smoke billowing over the valley erupting from a fire to his left, separated only by a river. Separated by you.

The honk of a car sounds behind him, a noise he barely catches with the sirens and the voices and the explosions pounding around him. He turns and sees the car of another neighbor, ushering him to get in. He veers to his left, letting the vehicle pull up beside him, and he yanks the door open, climbing inside with granny still against his chest. They lurch forwards as the driver steps on the gas and Kita guides granny to the seat beside him, reaching over to buckle her in. The interior blasts cool air and Kita is handed a water bottle.

“The fire department’s tellin’ people to evacuate to the next city,” the neighbor says. Kita nods numbly in response, unscrewing the bottle and helping granny take a few sips. She still coughs, but they’re smaller, less frequent.

With granny somewhat stable, Kita looks out the window to his left, facing the burning mountains. The car nears the ramp to the highway, starting up a mountain east of the fire. It gives him a clear view of homes being swallowed, Fujiwara-san’s one of the first.

Kita is breathless at the sight, reminded of everything these people will lose. He recalls what is already lost: the forest, the animals, the delicate combination of life that dwells in this valley. He thinks your mountain will be lost too, watching as the fire creeps west.

The popping sounds are dwindling, with the fire moving past the burnt bamboo sections and the car speeding away from the scene of destruction. But it is not quiet. There is a sudden clap of thunder that rumbles, long and gritty and deep. Kita watches as winds blow ferociously. Untouched trees sway while burning ones topple from the force. The sky is dark, a mix of smoke and storm clouds, though Kita isn’t sure when the storm began to form. He can see the water falling from the sky, blown at a sharp angle from the strength of the wind. It pelts over the mess of heat, releasing bouts of swirling steam into the air, to condense back into rain clouds.

As the car climbs higher up the mountain and the road, Kita watches the battle unfold before him. The power of rain as it fights the flames of red and gold eating the landscape. He watches the mist rising at the contact between elements, the water evaporating on impact.

He sees you in his room, that first time in Osaka when you were startled by a knock on the door. The way you went poof and disappeared.

They house granny in Osaka, taking over Kita's sister's room since she's at university in Tokyo. Kita is the one who looks after granny most carefully. It reminds him of caring for his brother when he first came to the city. He learns that granny’s house wasn’t caught in the fire. The river was an effective barrier and the rain came in time to manage any embers that had gotten blown over. The reports on the event stated that it was a miraculous storm, one that came from nowhere, completely unpredicted. It was an eventual downpour, enough to contain the fire within minutes and smother it completely in less than a half-hour. Footage from a helicopter shows the water rushing down the gullies and pouring into the river. With it carried embers, soot, ash, all piling together and flowing downstream. The next town down the river reported black water filled with sediment. A truck came in to deliver hundreds of cases of bottled water.

Aerial images reveal that nearly every house on the northern bank was claimed, only a few saved towards the east. He sees photos of the destruction. Your forest didn’t manage to escape in time, the fire stealing your enchanted pine. He wonders if you could have saved it if you didn’t prioritize his home.

There was one death: a backpacker, the person everyone believes is responsible for the disaster. Her body was completely charred, things almost entirely unidentifiable. Emergency services only picked out the metal of a stove—the decided perpetrator.

Kita has no time to grieve, with only a week before school starts again. After helping granny get situated in the house, he immediately goes to practice as a distraction. His teammates are appalled at the news, offering pats on the back and words of condolences, sighs of relief that he was lucky to leave in time.

But they don’t know what he lost. Not just the forest and the mountains, or the ability to visit his real home for months at the earliest. Even with the fire out there may be coals smoldering underground, or dangerous air wafting in the sky. The mountains won’t be green for at least a year, needing time for seeds to take root and sprout, needing seasons to accumulate rich dirt again. There’s no telling how long it will take for animals to return, birds to nestle back into shrubs or rodents to burrow again. The wolves and the deer are surely gone, evacuated to the next viable plot of land.

These aren’t the worst of his losses. What grasps his heart tightly, enough that sometimes he struggles to breathe, is the sight of you running into that smothering roll of flames. The loss of your eyes watching over him.

He dreams of fire, of heat and searing pain. His mind flashes with streaks of red and orange, billowing greys behind it. He hears the crackling of a burning forest and the popping of erupting bamboo. He wakes up panicked some nights, coated in sweat from the searing sensations he conjures in his sleep. In these moments he thinks it would help if he could be with you, your body always cool and damp, the sort of comfort that eases him, that could put out the fires of fear that grasp him.

A week later during practice, coach hands out jerseys. Kita is called first, given the number 1—captain. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to go to Aran. Nonetheless he takes the jersey and the title, and sits on the gym floor. He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he sees the teardrops fall onto the fabric, little spots of grey appearing where it was originally white.

He can hear Suna’s comment about the unfeeling robot showing emotion. He doesn’t care. He sniffles. There is a warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt the past two weeks. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, why this of all things brings him comfort.

He tries to explain while walking home with Aran.

“I tend to agree with the adults…that the journey is more important than the destination.” His words remind him of granny at home, the way her hair skipped over his dad and went straight to him. The ace turns to him curiously, not sure what he’s getting at.

“I am built upon the small things I do everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.”

He’s not good enough to go pro or make a living off volleyball. He just does what needs to be done, what fits into his routine—taking care of his body, cleaning up after himself, being courteous, and…volleyball. He holds up this jersey, looks at how it’s branded with 1, the captain’s number.

“Maybe this is just another result of the things I do.”

Aran blinks, stutters for a moment when he realizes what Kita is implying. “Don’t just—don’t sweat the small stuff! You don’t have to have some sort of logic behind your feelings!! If you’re happy, then you’re happy…that’s it!”

They hold eye contact after Aran’s outburst, and then Kita erupts into laughter. The ace watches his captain skeptically, not intending for his heartfelt advice to be amusing. His shoulders slump when he realizes this is the hardest he’s seen Kita laugh, ever.

Kita is reminded of all those times he couldn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was being drawn to do something he knew he logically didn’t want. All the moments he saw you and felt skeptical of the questions he wanted to ask, the embrace he wanted to pull you in, the warmth he felt in your presence—the way his brain and his logic denied him something he wanted, because there was no explicable reason for it. He thinks of the way you left, the way it hurt like no injury he’s ever lived through. He thinks of the lack of your gaze following him since just two weeks ago, the way he misses it but refuses to admit to it.

“You’re right,” he tells Aran.

By the time school is ending and he plays his final match, you are still not watching him. He feels the eyes of his granny and the eyes of his school on his back. The brooding eyes of Karasuno are on him when he is subbed for Aran in the second set. But yours are still missing.

He, however, has his eyes on his team the entire game, picking out their mistakes and what he knows is the misguided thinking behind them: Gin’s impatience, Atsumu and Osamu’s carelessness, Suna’s laziness. He stands behind them, the defense specialist who will receive the ball, and the one who’s eyes linger on their backs. He is watching them. He is like the lingering mist that wafts behind them, telling them that someone will see, whether they work hard until the very end, or let themselves succumb to their impulses. 

Kita has lived his entire life under your careful gaze. To cope with its absence, he has learned to become the omnipresent eyes backing up his team.

Adulthood

Granny always told him that someone was watching, and your gaze was proof. But at some point he realized that he wasn’t doing it for the spirits, that it didn’t matter either way. His work ethic would be the same even if you never saw him. This realization holds more weight when it is carried out in practice, Kita living his life with the same repetition, perseverance, and diligence in your absence. It makes him feel good, eases the emptiness. So he does it well, and he does it everyday.

He graduates at the top of his class, with grades that could get him into any university, launch him into any career he could imagine. And yet when the year passes and granny says she wants to return to the valley, Kita knows where he will go.

When he pulls into the neighborhood, his eyes are glued to the mountain. There are still trees and bamboo standing, though they are charred corpses. Debris of coals and fallen leaves litter the ground, coating the forest in brown and black. A light layer of green sits atop the earthy tones, sprigs of saplings and shrubs breaking the surface. Kita’s chest expands at the sight, a glimmer of hope.

There are only a few other neighbors who have returned, most still with family in the city. Kita speaks with some of them and gathers that they figure it’s a sign to leave the countryside—to better opportunities and a more convenient life. He wonders what will happen to this village if everyone decides to flee, who will take the land. Maybe the government will turn it into a Hyogo heritage site, a place people will flock to as a sort of pilgrimage. To see the brittle remains of homes and the earth’s attempt at recovery.

Kita knows that he wants to stay here, that granny does too. He’s not sure how it’ll work, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. His parents are skeptical, figuring that he’ll make an attempt only to eventually fold for a city job, but they forget that one of Kita’s life pillars is perseverance. He will find a way.

The way opens itself to him the following day. The April air is cool when he goes for a midday walk, crossing the bridge to the burned edge of the river. He trails along the slight incline towards the skeleton of Fujiwara’s home. There is only the charred foundation and a couple ragged beams standing upright, the rest collapsed into rubble. For a moment he can imagine you, running from the back door and into the front room with a bundle of grapes. He hears the distant whispers of Fujiwara’s protests as he follows slowly.

Kita walks to the once-veranda, experimentally standing on the elevated foundation. The charred wood creaks beneath him, but feels sturdy enough to hold. He carefully ambles along the collapsed room, scanning the damage. He manages to cross the house and reach the back exit, and he pauses at the sight.

The ground outside is similarly littered with earthy debris, patchy with occasional new grasses and saplings. Fujiwara’s garden is gone, no more grape trellises or rows of starches. But there is a small square, less than a tsubo, dug into the dirt. Kita knows what this sort of sunken patch means, has seen them in some of the neighbors’ backyards growing up, flooded and filled with lines of grassy crop. He steps carefully from the foundation of the house and curiously stands over the square, imagining the rice that would be planted at the end of the month.

He hears footsteps from near the house and turns to see Mayumi-san, the one who drove Kita and granny out of the valley during the fire. She looks healthy despite being in her seventies, carrying a shovel and a hoe as she makes her way over.

“Ah, Shin-chan,” she greets him. “S’been a while, good to see ya again. What’re ya doin’ out here?”

He bows slightly as he greets her and explains that he was exploring the neighborhood, since he only just returned. He asks about the rice garden.

“I was testin’ to see how it’d grow, since the ash can help sometimes,” she explains. “I came back early after the fire, n’Fujiwara said I could use his yard since he’s probably stayin’ in the city with his daughter.”

An excitement sparks in Kita’s chest, like something clicked into place. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he presses her. “How’d it do?”

Mayumi smiles, one that looks devilish and would be frightening if he wasn’t accustomed to seeing it. “Shit’s the best yield I’ve ever had. M’gonna try to dig a few more plots, maybe sell ‘em at the city markets.”

This is his way, he realizes. He sees the shovel in her right hand and hoe in the left and speaks before he can register the words. “Y’want any help?”

The rest of April is spent preparing the land with Mayumi and pouring over books on agriculture. He soaks in his elder’s expertise on the subject, in the abstract and the field. When the end of the month rolls around and the two of them begin sowing seeds, Kita thinks that for the first time since your absence that he feels whole. He is here in the valley, between your two homes, dedicating himself to the land that you led him through as a child. He thinks he can feel your presence while working, your hands misting over his, transplanting seedlings with him. The rains that come in are well timed, bringing rushing water down the mountain to flood the few squares of crops.

The days pass with granny, some quick and others slow. She does well in the village, with other people her age, though the company is sparse. Kita can sense that it’s hard for her sometimes, but like himself she is malleable to her environment, can make do as long as she has her routines. Her lungs aren’t as strong as they used to be, but she enjoys her walks and can maintain the chores—the ones Kita lets her.

When September comes in, Kita and Mayumi spend one sunny day harvesting. Kita wields his scythe carefully, the movement unpracticed. He grasps the dry stalks and runs the blade across the taut stems, bundling them on the ground to be collected. They gather the clumps and carry them to the house next to Mayumi’s—another neighbor who hasn’t returned since evacuation. 

Mayumi prepares a sheet across the main room for them to work on. Then they thresh the harvest, grabbing the bundles and smacking them against the floor, pelts of rice springing off the stems. Kita is reminded of water, of rain splashing against the surface of the river. When all the stalks have been emptied, they spread the seeds of gold with their hands, like smoothing the creases of a futon. The day’s work is over, now waiting for the crop to dry. They exit, leaving a few of the screens open to let new waves of dry air flow through.

Kita finds these processes fulfilling, like his own daily routine. It’s another series of tasks that can be learned and done well. The result is his own sustenance, something he can live off of and share with others. It tastes better, he thinks, once he’s experienced the entire journey.

He tells his old teammates that he’ll be in Osaka next month for the markets. They only have a few dozen bags to sell, but he wants to get his friends’ opinions.

The markets are energetic and amiable. Kita shares with curious shoppers the story of the valley, how the burned houses and their backyards left ash that the rice took to. People find the narrative compelling, and they buy the rice despite the hefty price tag. Other vendors are interested, some make purchases to try in their food. Kita enjoys the atmosphere, the way these people and their businesses are connected. He and Mayumi manage to sell all the rice they brought. It’s hardly a profit, but it’s promising.

The next day Kita is in the Miya’s home with the additional company of Suna and Gin. They talk about life, preparation for nationals, what they’re thinking of doing when school ends. Atsumu is going pro, taking volleyball as far as he can. Osamu is ending it here, contemplating career options. He says he’s looking for restaurant jobs; he wants to be a chef.

“Yer gonna be a farmer, huh?” Atsumu asks, laying back on the couch. “It suits ya, that simple life.”

Kita nods. “Knew I needed to take care of granny, that I was gonna be in the valley anyways. One of the neighbors was growing some an’ I asked to help—wanted to see what it was like. S’gonna take time, but we’re gonna try to get the land from the neighbors, see if we can apply for subsidies ‘cause of the fire. Then we’ll try t’upscale. The market yesterday was good.”

Gin sighs, “Ever the considerate and diligent Shin-chan.”

“The rice is good,” Osamu interjects. “It’d be good for onigiri.”

It is, it turns out. After three years, Osamu decides to leave the restaurant he started working for out of highschool and open his own onigiri store. Kita is their main rice supplier, and a customer who never has to pay. They have classic flavors in the beginning: tuna mayo, pickled plum, ikura. When Kita comes with his next delivery, Osamu sits him in the dining room and has him try new options. The former captain takes his job as taste-tester seriously, his diligence appreciated by the former spiker. They decide that the shrimp and beef flavors are ready to be sold, but the chicken needs reworking.

Kita gets into his truck that evening and drives home. The sun sets by the time he enters the valley, winding through roads in the black darkness. When he arrives at granny’s and exits the car, he sees that the sky is beautifully clear. The Milky Way spreads itself over the northern mountains, where life is still recovering, slowly but surely. He takes in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet noise of the night—soft rushing water from the river, chirping insects, occasional wind.

He notices the blinking lights that cross the expanse of stars: planes and satellites. He sighs, remembering a time when he could sit on the top of the mountain and witness an unobscured view of the sky, taking up the entirety of his visual landscape.

Suddenly there is a shooting star, the most intense he’s ever seen. It’s a bright flash of light, he thinks for a moment white and orange and pink, that darts from the east and disappears as it curves west. Its trajectory gives the illusion that if it touched the ground, it would land on your mountain, that special enchanted forest.

After a few more minutes of watching, of relishing the awe, he makes his way inside. Granny is asleep, so he heads straight to bed.

When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in years—since that fire crawled along an entire mountain and you left to put an end to it—he feels the prickly sensation that he’s being watched.

Life doesn’t change with you watching him. Life didn’t change when you stopped. It’s something he knew, something you knew. He carries onwards, his routine of life, one that he does well and does everyday. He and Mayumi expand the fields again, creeping their business along the length of the river. Kita slowly takes on more farm responsibility, knowing enough to work independently when Mayumi needs to rest with increasing frequency. Granny is similar—she likes to help sometimes, with the easier work, but her lungs still struggle, never fully recovered.

It’s a beautiful morning, with cool air entering the house and light diffusing through the shoji. He can hear the birds and the rustling of leaves outside when he wakes, blinking away the lingering visions of orange and red from his dreamscape. He opens the screen towards the river while he puts away his futon and prepares for the day.

Granny isn’t in the main room as per usual. Kita pays it no mind, assuming she’ll be in soon. He makes breakfast and waits for her. She doesn’t come in on time. Kita stands to search, thinking she may have missed the time.

He enters her room and sees she’s still sleeping. He crouches over her to gently rock her awake, but there is no response. At that moment he realizes she is not breathing, not making a sound. He freezes, feels his heart plummet. He carefully lifts her hand from under the blankets—still warm—and checks to see if there’s a pulse. It’s quiet, flat.

He moves slowly, processing, sitting back on his heels next to her. His throat is tight and his chest—it’s hard to breathe. He shakily inhales through his nose and holds her hand in both of his. There’s a stinging behind his eyes and suddenly he is crying, weeping openly as he holds onto her. Death is the logical consequence of living, one of the only certainties of life; knowing this does not make Kita’s loss any less painful. While the hurt sits heavily in his chest, there is a growing spark of gratitude for her, that they were able to spend the beginning of his life and the end of her’s together.

Granny’s passing brings her closer to Kita, in a way. He feels that there are now two pairs of eyes on him, watching over him. When he looks in the mirror and sees his grey hair, granny’s hair, he thinks that he will always be a piece of her living on, that it’s his duty to live earnestly for her. He makes a shrine for her in one of the rooms of the house, placing her urn in the center. It is a beautiful grey clay, narrow and unglazed. A black thread ties the lid to the body.

She becomes another part of his routine, sitting before her remains and her images with his hands clasped and eyes closed.

Life goes on.

A month later he is in the field, tending to his crop. It’s late in the day, when the sun is near setting. The pink of the sky reflects onto the flooded beds, interrupted by sprigs of green. He inhales, appreciating the scenery, before exhaling and continuing his work. When he looks up a moment later, he is frozen by the sight.

There’s a wolf, large and grey, like the first one he saw as a child in the pine forest. He is not afraid, but in awe. A wolf returning means there’s prey: rabbits and deer. It means the forest is recovering, that creatures are finding their way back. He takes in the strong figure of the predator in front of him, sturdy and confident. A movement flashes in his peripheral, three pups catching up. Shin notices that one is nearly white, standing out from the others. He thinks of himself in Osaka, with his relatives.

When the pups catch up, the mother turns away and carries on.

Kita finishes his work before the sun fully sets. A light rain begins, clouds absorbing the vivid hues of sunfall, and he hurries to collect his tools before crossing the bridge home. The drizzling turns into solid pelting by the time he makes it to the empty house. He turns back briefly, squinting through the water collecting in his eyelashes, to see how long the downpour will last.

There’s a figure, at the other side, and his eyes widen in shock. He drops his tools and takes a few hurried steps closer, searching for confirmation.

Through the rain he can see you, standing at the other bank. You are smiling, he can tell, with your shoulders pulled upwards as if embarrassed. He thinks he is dreaming, that this is impossible. You, in flesh and bones, standing in front of the remnants of Fujiwara’s once home. He does not realize that he is smiling back, eyes crinkling and collecting water—his own tears as they spill—and grin spanning impossibly wide. His chest feels like it’s lifting, floating him in the air, to you on the other side.

Suddenly you are running forwards, not towards the bridge, but down the bank, to cross the water. Kita’s face flashes with concern and he starts down his own side, slipping through the mud. By the time he reaches the shore you have swum halfway across, long confident strokes despite the speed of the current. Kita marches forward, water touching his waist when he finally reaches you. He grabs your outstretched hand and tugs you into him, engulfing you in his chest and arms. You are as cold as the water surrounding him, but his body explodes with warmth at the contact, at finally being with you.

His heart races as he clutches you close, in an iron grip that refuses to relent. He thinks he hears you laugh against him, and he chokes out some strangled mixture of a laugh and sob. The water makes it hard for him to stand steady, so he brings one arm beneath you to lift you from the sediment and carry you to the bank. There he sets you down and grabs your waist firmly, staring at you with disbelief. You are smiling with all the glee in the world, eyes nearly closed by the force of it.

“I made it, Shin-chan.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks of the shooting star and the wolf, the rice fields filling easily without additional irrigation.

You lean forwards and wrap your arms over his shoulders, clutching him close. His arms come around your waist and he thinks he can recognize his feelings: relief and homecoming. There is a fullness, one that is close to painful, a pain he had been living with for years in your absence. He pulls you up the bank, to bring you into the house. He leaves his tools out, to be dealt with tomorrow, and goes straight for the genkan. 

You try to protest when he passes the spigot, “Shin, the mud—”

But he doesn’t care, kicking off his boots to be cleaned later. The mixture of river water and mud splatter on the tile of the genkan, leaving brown puddles and smears. Kita removes his socks and drops them behind him, letting his clean feet be the barrier between himself and the floor. He carries you to the bathroom, to deal with the mess together.

At night you are in his room, watching him set up the futon. He looks at you to ask, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s share.”

His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He nods quickly and pushes the blanket aside for the two of you. He clutches you close under the soft comforter, your head slotting snugly in the space of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, the chilliness, but it coats him in warmth. He can feel his heart still racing, never fully calmed since seeing you. He feels those questions and thoughts bubbling up, words he always found unnecessary to say. Something about this moment lets him release them, lets him be curious about you.

“Didn’t know if I’d ever see ya again,” he says quietly, into your hair.

You nestle your head further into his neck. He can feel your lips against his throat as you speak. “It took a lot from me, the fire. Always need time to recover.”

His hand comes up to cradle your head, smoothing through your hair.  The image of the rainstorm flashes before him, the way the clouds swarmed from a previously blue sky to pour everything it had—everything you had—to put out the fire. He remembers the awe he felt, the sublimity of the view from a car fleeing the scene.

He doesn’t dream that night, his mind like an empty gulley, letting the soothing rainwater rush through him.

He cleans up after himself in the morning, retrieving his tools and mopping the genkan. It takes a while, though, interrupting his work several times to check that you are still in his room. You haven’t risen by the time he finishes making breakfast. A panic sits in his chest as he enters to wake you. You are still asleep, and he relaxes when he sees the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers.

He sits on his knees beside you and gives your body a gentle rock. Your eyes peel open after a moment of stirring, and you are already smiling. Kita thinks it brightens the room more than the sun streaming in, that life is breathed into him from you.

You notice the granny’s shrine at breakfast. After assisting with cleanup, you ask if the small urn is all the ashes he has of her. He shakes his head and shows you the drawer in the display, where a box lays with the majority of her cremated remains.

“I wasn’ sure where t’put her,” he tells you.

You have an idea.

Only a few minutes later the two of you are exiting through the genkan, dressed for a day in the woods. Kita has a backpack on, the box from the shrine tucked safely inside. He lets you take the lead, turning left down the path and towards the western mountain. He is reminded of his sixth birthday, running to the end of the dirt road for the first time, panting to keep up with you. This time you are calmly walking hand in hand, in no hurry. Kita squeezes yours tightly, a necessary action to express the feeling in his heart.

You smile at him, and bring his hand to your mouth, kissing the back of it. Kita inhales in surprise and you watch his ears turn red, giggling at the sight.

When you two reach the end of the road, the rock face is still standing sturdy. He can see burned trees standing at the base, your mountain not untouched by the disaster. However, like the other forests, it is recovering, hope sprouting in the form of ferns and saplings. He sees a rabbit scurry away and a soft smile crosses his face.

You head first down the bank and into the water as usual, him following with his hand in yours. The cool water creeps up, only up to his knees now that he is grown. The water is easier to navigate in his adult body, and he effortlessly steps up the rocks to the forest floor, ones he used to scramble over on his hands and feet. The ground crunches beneath him. There is a patchy layer of pine needles—short ones—spreading along. The ground is not fluffy from decades of accumulation, but it’s a start. Small saplings bring bursts of fresh green, prickly when he brushes against them. The ferns hide beneath them, avoiding the scorching sun.

History repeats itself as you pull him forwards, along the river and through the early rebirth of the enchanted pine forest. The fallen tree that once served as a bridge is miraculously intact, though the top is scorched and he feels unsteady walking to the other side.

Wandering through the forest is another type of home. He hadn’t taken it upon himself to explore since returning, not wanting to disrupt the delicate healing of the ecosystem. He trusts you, though, and the path you’ll lead him to experience the land without damaging it further.

He notices that you are taking him to a section that he hasn’t been often, not a regular spot during your times together as kids. But it makes sense when you arrive at the small clearing and he sees the massive pine from his memory. It is thick with twisting branches, sturdy. Some of them are blackened from the fire, but others are coated in fresh needles, long and green, waving gently in the wind. He is surprised he hasn’t seen this miracle before, from the house. Maybe the distance obscured the view.

Kita walks slowly to the base of the tree and looks up towards its canopy. He can see the contrast of the charred and ashy sections of trunk against the rich brown of its healthy, resilient branches. The green shines brightly against the black and grey, proud of its revival.

He shrugs his backpack from his shoulders, understanding that this is where granny should be. He lowers to his knees before he unzips the bag and carefully removes the box. It’s a light wood, with tan streaks running along the grain. Pine, he thinks to himself in disbelief.

He slowly unlatches the box and sets it on the bed of brown needles near the trunk. There’s a plastic bag inside, tied with a simple overhand knot. He undoes it gently, slowly unfurling it to roll open and over the edge of the box. It’s the first time he’s looking at her remains, he realizes, and he notices that they are grey, grey ash with clumps of small black coals.

You watch as he moves slowly, cupping soft remains in his calloused hands.

“It’s like your hair,” you say.

He cries, letting out soft, ragged breaths between quick inhales. His weeping lasts the entirety of the time it takes him to spread the ashes at the base of the tree, where it meets the ground. When he finishes you crouch behind him and wrap your arms around his torso. He continues to cry. You feel it, his chest heaving with grief and mourn, love and gratitude. He brings his palms to his eyes to wipe the tears, but they continue to fall, splatter the earth beneath him with feeling.

You listen quietly as his sobs fill the space between rustling leaves and distant cooing birds. Eventually you take one hand from his torso to rub his back slowly, soothingly. 

His noises eventually lull, quieting to the occasional sniffle. He gently pushes the bag into the pine box and then slowly closes the lid and does the clasp. He returns it to the backpack with careful, practiced motions. Your arms release him when you sense he wants to stand. He turns around to face you, you and the valley below.

He watches you closely, runs his eyes over your face, eyes and nose and lips. He wants to memorize your soft smile, the way it warms him like the sun.

You bring your hands to his cheeks, their coolness refreshing after crying so heavily. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, soaking in the contradicting ways you make him feel—this tug between heat and cold. He feels you press a kiss on his temple, then the other. They’re smeared with the grey ash and black coals, transferring the dust onto your lips. He sighs, in peace, and brings his hands to cover yours. 

When he opens his eyes once more, he looks behind you through the space between the trees, to the valley below him, spanning wide. He is reminded of the thousands of years it took these mountains to form, the thousands of years it took for the forest to grow on top of it. He knows that the fire he witnessed was not the first to rage across the land, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes in the growth and change that has developed in the past few years, sparkles of hope in a collapse of despair. He recognizes that the destruction is an opportunity for something new, for him to be part of building the next beautiful forest that will rise.

He has lived for what feels like forever, and yet an entire life lays ahead of him. A life with the forest and the mountains and the river. A life with granny’s spirit watching over him, her hair and remains guiding him forwards. A life of working the land and growing something for himself, for others.

A life of unnecessary questions, ones he struggles to ask. A life of inexplicable feelings, ones he’s learning to let in.

A life with you. Here.

i know i said minor character death and then killed granny,, she's a minor character in haikyuu!! but she is a main character in my heart

anyways here's the afterword

[cecilioque]

[Lost Humanity]

Caelum is constantly weighed down by something he can't name. At times it manifests as discouragement or cynicism. It would be all too easy for him to just give up on people and isolate himself. Good thing Emerson is there to ground him and remind him that the future he fears is not a fact set in stone, but merely a possibility. And if we get caught up on the worst potential we lose sight of the wonderous things that could be.

It is all too easy to look at the future and see something dark and empty...but it isn't. We do what we can to do good, to bring attention to issues, to work towards a better future. It is a little light amidst the darkness. And while it can seem like a drop in the ocean; great storms made many rivers and broke down old mountains. Within the hopelessness, there will always be good and kindness, good people, and progress.

Emerson belongs to @fronomeeps . They are the main character of an indie game in development called Star Summit.

[vegafan69]

─ 🎧 :: redacted audio characters' mini prompts !! › if all of them were on a vacation together ‹　

✮ david / damien ;; mom friend. constantly checks if everything is okay. brings additional items (hand sanitizer, wipes, bandages, period products for the people with periods, condoms if milo happens to feel freaky, etc). gets so mad when something goes off, or if someone gets lost or not on time.

✮ asher ;; messes around and might accidentally lose his passport. turns out david or baabe holds it for him. they probably decided to hold his passport from now, not letting him lose it anymore ✮ milo / gavin / guy ;; purposely goes around to fuck with their group leaders or for some freaky times with their partner. gets yelled at but do they look like they gaf 😭 most likely wouldn't lose anything cause their partners are all holding their stuff. ✮ huxley ;; bag holder. i mean look at all that meat and muscle. "hey, i can carry that!" "do you need help?" he's just trying to be a helpful guy :3 would be best friends with the unempowered people

✮ lasko (ugly ass twink) ;; "ohmygoddoihavemydeodorant" "dear i think something's missing" just won't stfu until someone reassures him. i'm the pilot btw and i WILL throw him out mid-flight.

✮ aaron ;; probably wouldn't care if he lost something as long as it wasn't too precious. he's more concerned about the time of the flight. he gets really pissed at late flights. he can take it out on me tho :3 ✮ vincent (before the summit) ;; offers to pay for all the tickets, even offering the shaw pack first class seats. the pack refuses- yk what they are a bunch of humble losers i would take that seat asap. sugar daddy vincent solaire? hewll yeah spoil me!!!!!!!!!

✮ sam ;; "darlin', delays are common. calm down." tries to calm his pissed ahh mate down. refuses to sit in first class but does anyway cause vincent paid for it already :p

✮ vega cause i'm nosey and i want to include my man ;; has no idea what's going on. would use his magic to make the crying children and lasko stfu. can sit on a flight for hundreds of hours. my man my man he love me :3 /ref

taglist : @mokozroach @deezbignutz @huxleaf @infinitelovewiithoutfulfilmentt @ilovealotofwomen @annahxredaxted @jaxfart @heartf0ul @breezysuffers @laskosprettygirl @everything-redacted00 @darlin-collins @youeverjustseeadog

[accio-victuuri]

from this article about wang yibo’s new show with discovery channel 📝

Discovery Channel's latest masterpiece "Exploring the Unknown" officially announced that Wang Yibo's first outdoor exploration full record

Produced by Warner Bros. Discovery and exclusively broadcast on Tencent Video, Wang Yibo's outdoor exploration documentary program "Exploring the Unknown" has officially been announced. Starting from August 31, the 12 episodes will be updated twice a week on Tencent Video. Actor and singer Wang Yibo, as the initiator of the program, will follow six Discovery Chinese explorers to start an outdoor exploration journey deep into the polar regions. Cheng Er will be the special interviewer to explore Wang Yibo's mental journey and personal growth in participating in the program.

It is the first outdoor exploration documentary program that Wang Yibo has participated in. The program unites six top survival and outdoor experts in China: Lao Xue, a jungle survival skills expert, Zhou Peng, a leader in China's mountaineering community and the first mountaineer to win the "Asian Golden Piolet Award", Wang Hao, an extreme explorer who focuses on cave exploration, Zhou Fang, a natural documentary director and senior underwater videographer, Abang, a world-class rock climber and rock climbing instructor, and Wu Xinlei, a former member of the French special forces and desert survival expert. In the 12 episodes of the program, they accompany Wang Yibo to six extreme geographical destinations such as snow-capped mountains, deserts, islands, and tropical rainforests to complete the exploration mission.

Through real-life footage it presents the audience with the entire process of natural wonders, exploration challenges, emergencies, and outdoor fun. In the trailer, Wang Yibo follows the explorers to extreme environments such as snow-capped mountains and tropical rainforests, and embarks on outdoor challenges such as rock climbing and waterfall rappelling, showing a strong learning ability and sense of skills. When exploring the snow-capped mountains, Wang Yibo faced altitude sickness, quickly adapted and handled it calmly, and successfully reached the summit; when rock climbing, he faced the danger of the rope falling off, but he still did not give up the challenge... His determination and attitude to overcome adversity, his passion for love and exploring the unknown, show the vitality and vigor of young people.

The program not only presents the process of young artists exploring the world, but also focuses on exploring the spiritual world of explorer Wang Yibo. Through six exploration themes, Wang Yibo constantly challenges his physical limits, explores the boundaries that the body can reach, discusses topics about growth among young people, and shows Wang Yibo's attitude and thinking towards big topics such as living, ups and downs in life, fear, and loneliness. Each challenge brings him one step closer to his true self. Contemporary young people can project their own mental state into the program and follow Wang Yibo on a journey to find inner answers and inner strength.

[glittergelpensblog]

Shadow and Song (Azriel x Reader) Part Two

Part two! Thank you so much for all of the support for part one! I have so many ideas for this series and can’t wait to see where it takes me :)

Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 2,577

Part One

It wasn't until you felt Elain's hand on your back that you finally let go of Feyre.

"Mrs. Laurent, draw up some tea and bring it to the drawing room." Elain spoke.

Mrs. Laurent looked like she wanted to do no such thing, glancing between the three of you. It was with one final glare to Feyre that she turned around and made her way to the kitchen.

_____________________________________________________________

Elain and Nesta sat on the opposite side of you and Feyre. Everyone quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to find out what made your sister return home.

It was she who finally broke the silence, "Where is father?"

"In Neva," Nestas voice was sharp. " Trading with some merchants from the other half of the world and attending a summit about the threat above the wall. A threat I wonder if you've come back to warn us about."

You drew in sharp breath. A threat above the wall? Why hadn't Nesta mentioned that to you? Why didn't she tell you anything?

"Whatever the reason, Feyre," Elain spoke softly. "We are happy to see you. Alive. We thought you were--"

"I never thought that." You sent a look to Elain before your gaze met Nesta's. You knew it was coming, knew the look in her eyes.

But before she could snap back at you, words bound to be as sharp as knives, Feyre pulled down the hood of her cloak down.

Elain's hands immediately began shaking, teacup rattling in her saucer. Your eyes widened as you took in your sister. Her slimmer figure, her taller stature. Her ears.

She was Fae.

"I was dead. I was dead, and then I was reborn--remade." Feyre's voice shook.

Elain set down her cup and Nesta angled herself, the movement barely noticeable, between them and Feyre. Her hand slightly stretching out, as if she wanted to take you behind her as well.

Feyre did nothing but hold her gaze with Nesta. "I need you to listen."

You were silent as she told her story. She spoke of the trials Under the Mountain, about Amarantha, how the red-headed witch had killed her, and then how the other Fae gave her back her life. She briefly mentioned leaving Tamlin and her new life in the Night Court. Her job with the High Lord. She explained why she was back. The threat at the border. Hybern. What she needed you to help her with.

You knew Feyre was different the moment you saw her. Yes, she was beautiful, almost glowing. But you knew something was wrong. You saw it in her eyes, her tight lipped smile. You felt it in the way she barely hugged you back. The horrors she endured, they had changed her, had taken her warmth.

"You--you want other High Fae to come... here. And... the Queens of the Realm." Elain's soft voice was nearly shaking.

"When?" you asked, not bothering to look at your other sisters, your gaze only on Feyre.

"Find somewhere else." Nesta spat.

Feyre turned to face Nesta, getting ready to speak again.

But Nesta wouldn't allow her. "Find somewhere else. I don't want them in my house. Or near Elain. Or near Y/N."

"Nesta, please," Feyre begged, "There is nowhere else; nowhere I can go without someone hunting me, crucifying me--"

"And what of us? When the people around here learn we're Fae sympathizers? Are we any better than Children of the Blessed, then?"

"Because they cared so much about us when we were starving!" You snapped. "When we were nothing but a poor, dirty family in a rotting cottage? Why do we care what they think when they never cared for us?"

Nesta ignored you yet again. "Any standing, any influence we have--gone. And Elain's wedding--"

"Wedding?" Feyre blurted, eyes scanning Elain's left hand, the dark iron wrapped around her finger.

"In five months," Nesta said. "She's marrying a lord's son. And his father has devoted his life to hunting down your kind when they cross the wall. So there will be no meeting here. There will be no Fae in this house."

"Do you include me in that declaration?" Feyre's voice was quiet, the answer found in Nesta's silence.

Your mind was a blur as you took it all in. The Fae are what took Feyre, what had taken many lives before hers. They would cross the wall to torture, to kill, the Beddors a recent wound still fresh in your Village's mind. But the Fae had also saved Feyre, gave her life. If they truly were as bad as human's thought, then why did Tamlin spare Feyre's life? Why did the High Lords resurrect her?

"Nesta," Elaine spoke again, "If... if we do not help Feyre, there won't be a wedding. Even Lord Nolan's battlements and all his men, couldn't save me from... from them. We keep it secret-- we send the servants away. With spring approaching, they'll be glad to go home. And if Feyre needs to be in and out for meetings, she'll send word ahead, and we'll clear them out. Make up excuses to send them on holidays. Father won't be back until the summer, anyway. No one will know."

"There is no other way." Feyre held her gaze with Nesta.

"We'll send the servants away tomorrow." Nesta said.

"Today, we don't have any time to lose. Order them to leave now."

"I'll do it." Elain stood, brushing off her skirts.

"I'll help," You joined, following your sister into the kitchen, mind racing with a million thoughts. You would never get Feyre back, never the way you thought you would. You would never live together again, never have her head against your shoulder as you played the piano late at night. There was no way she could come back, not with her new found life.

You pushed back the tears in your eyes as you approached Mrs. Laurent.

______________________________________________________________

"Why didn't you tell me?" You asked Nesta.

Feyre was still in the drawing room when you called Nesta from the hall, feigning that you needed assistance with getting something out of your Father's study.

"Why didn't I tell you what?" Nesta said.

"What Father was truly doing in Neva? That there was a threat above the wall. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Like you could've done anything," Nesta's voice was low. "There is nothing you could've done but worry."

"We could've helped, like we are right now--"

"Which we shouldn't be doing! We are putting ourselves in jeopardy--"

"As Feyre did for us," You glowered, "As she did every day in those woods, nearly freezing to death every winter. For us. We are helping Feyre in the way she helped us, in the way she kept us alive!"

"All of the servants have left," Elain's soft voice interrupted, saving you from the next cruel words to spew from Nesta's mouth. "Feyre said there are others here, for us to meet."

You followed Elain into the drawing room.

______________________________________________________________

Feyre entered the room, cloak gone, and you couldn't help but stare at your sister. This was her life now. She wore an intricate gown, probably worth more than you and your sister's gowns combined. Her body was adorned with jewelry, including a crown at the top of her head.

Behind her stood three men, the first, in the middle, seeming to radiate power, the High Lord, you assumed. His dark hair and fine black clothes contrasted with his violet, almost glowing, eyes. The one to his left seemed wild, ancient. He wore an outfit made of leather, adorned with glowing red jewels on his hands, chest, and shoulders, his dark brown hair almost reaching them. And he had wings, giant wings, almost like a bat's.

And to the High Lord's right was what had to be the most beautiful man you had ever seen. He was dressed similarly to the man on the left, wearing black leathers, but with blue gems rather than red. His face was narrow, sharp, expression calm as he looked at you and your sisters. His dark hair slightly covering his forehead, a strand nearing his hazel eyes. Like the other male, he also had large, bat-like wings.

You tucked your head down as Nesta stepped in front of you and Elain.

Feyre stopped a few feet in front of you before she spoke, "My sisters, Y/N, Nesta, and Elain Archeron." She paused, allowing you all to take in the men before you.

"Cassian," She gestured to the man on the left, then slightly turning to the right, "Azriel, and Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court. "

You stood silent, surveying the powerful men. The hairs on you neck stood, and your heart was pounding wildly in your chest. You tried to calm yourself. Though the were Fae, they wouldn't hurt you. They had taken in Feyre, cared for her. And they were here to protect you.

Rhysand bowed to you and your sisters. "Thank you for your hospitality--and generosity," A warm smile graced his features.

You smiled back at him, and the other two men. "It is nice to meet you," You fought to keep your voice steady.

Nesta looked at Feyre, then the men. "The cook left dinner on the table. We should eat before it goes cold." She said before she strode off to the dining room

You followed Elain out as she sputtered a "Nice to meet you" to the three men.

Nesta sat at the head of the table, Elain to her left, and you took the right. Feyre sat beside you and Cassian next to Elain, Azriel on this other side. Rhysand slid into the seat next to Feyre .

The two winged males struggled to sit, adjusting their large wings with the back of the chair.

"Would you like a stool?" You asked, noticing their efforts to remain comfortable.

Nesta scoffed at your gesture

"Thank you, but we'll be fine." Cassisan said to you with a reassuring smile.

Feyre was the first to open the dishes of steaming food. Everyone was silent as they began preparing their plates and eating.

Nesta eyed Feyre as the latter took a bite, struggling to chew.

"Is there something wrong with our food?" Nesta clipped.

"No," Feyre replied, reaching for her water, her face slightly tinged pink.

"So you can't eat normal food anymore--or are you too good for it?"

Nesta truly could not leave it alone for one night. You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

"I can eat, drink, fuck, and fight just as well as I did before. Better, even."

Your face became hot as you blushed at your sister's words, and you heard Cassian nearly choke on his water. Nesta just laughed lowly.

It was Rhys who intervened, attempting to diffuse the building argument. "If you ever come to Prythian, you will discover why your food tastes so different."

You didn't even know visiting Prythian was an option. Perhaps there was hope that you would be able to see your sister outside of the circumstances you were in.

Nesta's glare shifted from Feyre to Rhys. "I have little interest in ever setting foot in your land, so I'll have to take your word for it."

"Nesta, please," Elain whispered.

Nesta ignored her, looking at Cassian who was assessing her with a smirk on his lips. "What are you looking at?"

Cassian's brows rose, the amusement on his face gone. "Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while the other youngest dealt with sleazy men at the pubs, all while you did nothing. " Your face flushed at his words, not knowing what Feyre had told them of you. "Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall. Your sister died--died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don't expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make--and insult my people in the process."

Nesta ignored him and turned to Feyre, Cassian's face filling with rage.

"It... it is very hard, you understand, to... accept it," Elain spoke to him, "We are raised this way. We hear stories of your kind crossing the wall to hurt us. Our own neighbor, Clare Beddor, was taken, her family murdered... it's all very disorienting."

"We know you are not here to hurt us," Your voice was steady a you looked between the three men, "But it is rare we experience Fae who are to help and not hurt."

"I can imagine," Azriel spoke, the first you had heard his voice the entire night.

"Nesta and I did not know what to do, how to work or hunt. Our lives were taken from us overnight. We were scared, had received no training, we failed them. Both of us." Elain said.

Feyre turned to face Nesta. "Can we just... start over?"

It looked as if it took everything in Nesta to back down. "Fine."

"Can you really fly?" Elain took Cassian's attention from Nesta.

The rest of the dinner went well after that, Nesta being as civilized as she got while the Fae explained their magic, the Illyrian race, and "Lesser Faeries" or Cassian called them. The meal was ended with a discussion of the sleeping arrangements for the night, Nesta assigning you the task of showing them their rooms before they began working on their letter to the queens.

After you had given them the directions to their rooms, you pulled Feyre aside while the three men began their work, most likely eavesdropping on your conversation.

"I missed you," You spoke, gently grabbing Feyre's hand, "How are you, truly?"

There was a long pause before she replied, "I don't know how to feel... I don't think I know how to feel. What happened Under the Mountain, the horrors I had endured... I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy."

"Is it better, at the Night Court?"

Feyre breathed deeply, looking out the window, up towards the night sky.

"With Tamlin, it was like I was drowning, suffocating. Everywhere I went there were sentries behind me. I was never left alone, I couldn't leave the house. What happened Under the Mountain broke me, but living in that house, it felt like I was trapped under there all over again.

"At the Night Court, I feel... free, I suppose. There's no breathing down my shoulder, no one telling me what I cannot do, where I cannot go. What people think of what I do doesn't matter. I have a job, people to protect... but it doesn't feel like a burden, I don't know what it feels like..."

A purpose.

"What Rhysand said, about visiting Prythian..." Your voice was barely above a whisper, a dream you were too scared to say aloud, like telling one a wish so it wouldn't become true. "Can that actually happen, can I actually visit you there?"

Feyre struggled to keep the tears in her eyes, you were so full of hope, so full of life, of innocence.

She couldn't let you visit, not right now, with war so close. She needed you here, safe.

"Maybe someday in the future, when things are safe. When this war is done with. Maybe then, you can come see me."

"I would love that."

"I would too."

______________________________________________________________

Tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @waytoomanyteenagefeels @starryhiraeth @knmendiola @bionic-donut @caosfanblr @lena-davina @starriestarlight @younxii @starsdoulikedem @lucyysthings @esposadomd @naturakaashi @carolinaflicker @missusbarnes-rogers @vlysseve @lollipop974 @whydohumansss @spaxxxi

[mysteria157]

Chapter 2

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Word Count: ~3.6k

CW: More profanity, reader’s best friend being a brash pervert

Summary: Flashback chapter. That first day when you meet him, you’re bright eyed and ready to work alongside him, filled with so many ideas that will benefit the company. Him, Nanami Kento, a highly esteemed director that always made your stomach flip in desire. But it turns out, he’s not what you thought. 

Notes: Hi! Thank you all for sticking through. Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated but not necessary <3 I hope you enjoy reading!

Divider: @cafekitsune

Previous Chapter | Ao3 | Next Chapter

It Had To Be You Masterlist

Everything was always bigger in Tokyo.

With ten times more people than your modest city of Sendai, it was always a wonder when you got the chance to visit. It wasn’t like you didn’t have the means, but it was still too far for a weekend getaway so you couldn’t go as often as you liked.

Marketing agencies from all over Japan had gathered for the weeklong excursion to celebrate accomplishments, announce future ideas, and collaborate with one another to strengthen cross functional bonds. Your marketing agency was currently bringing in the most revenue, with the Tokyo branch sitting at the forefront. Naturally, they were given the opportunity to hold the annual summit of what intended to be the biggest event of the year.

For Ome, it was a chance to get away from her ‘boyfriend’. Normally, that would raise alarm for anyone else. But when she caught her boyfriend balls deep in his secretary after she tried to surprise him for lunch, leaving the city was better than setting his office on fire.

For you, it was another opportunity to network and get your name out there. The Tokyo branch was the headquarters for the marketing agency you worked for. Anyone who held any sort of higher distinction walked the halls of the building.

“You look fucking fantastic, stop fidgeting.”

You glowered at Ome, cheeks heating in embarrassment before smoothing down your ensemble for the 10th time in the elevator. A baby pink long sleeved mock top tucked into white high waisted office pants seemed like a safe option. You had your long spiral curls tucked away into a low bun, small stud diamond earrings and a modest gold necklace to complete the look.

“Did you spend all night trying to put that together?”

You rolled your eyes at her comment.

“No.” Yes.

“Stop making fun of me, I’m fucking nervous.”

She scoffed before walking in front of you, placing her hands on your shoulders. Of course, she looked gorgeous in her airy button up long sleeve shirt. Of course, she could pull off the skirt that stopped right at her knees and hugged every natural curve of her body. Her twist out was flawless and was pinned on top of her head, thick kinky bangs framing her face.

Natural African beauty wasted on a deadbeat boyfriend.

“Listen to me. You’re the smartest woman I have ever bothered to keep in my life, you’ve worked hard to get to where you are, you know who you are, and you know what you do. Be yourself and don’t try to be a hero. It’s annoying.” You snorted, smiling softly at her before wringing out your hands.

“Plus, you’re hot as fuck, if words don’t work just push up your tits.”

You smacked her hands off your shoulders, the action only making her chuckle.

“Don’t worry, your little office crush will definitely see that fat ass of yours.”

“Jesus Christ, Ome!”

Her chuckles ripped through the air as the elevator doors finally opened.

Being on the 48th floor of a 50 story skyrise definitely felt different from your office in Sendai. A simple receptionists desk was the first thing you both saw. Large and decorated with a fresh bouquet of roses, a woman with a name you didn't have time to learn and bright blue hair greeted you both and directed you past her. The small hallways leading away from her desk gave way to the rest of the entire office floor which was bustling with activity. It was so much more spacious than your own; intricately designed to have many cubicles up against the floor to ceiling glass windows and hallways leading to private offices and breakrooms separately. The center of the floor was open and complete with rich brown couches and a coffee table in the center to make for an open relaxing area for coworkers and visitors. The walls were decorated with minimalistic design, plants and flowers adorned corners and climbing vines wrapped around the cubicles. Even though everyone seemed to be so busy, it felt quite cozy for an office.

Jin rose from one of the couches when he spotted us, his pink locks like a beacon.

“You both look beautiful. Let me show you to the conference room before the rest of the team arrives.”

The Tokyo office had rented out a venue for the summit to house all their events for the week, but Jin wanted his team to actually meet with the branch a day before the festivities were set to begin. Today would just be a meet and greet on a more personal level. Even though that personal level would include various directors and the Vice President.

You smoothed your hands down your pants again as the looming anxiety slowly began to pull its way up your legs. No one looked your way as you walked past them, which should have been more than enough to calm you down.

“You’re looking pretty good from back here.”

Ome’s quiet voice mocked, her words curling around a good natured chuckle as her heels clicked on the floor behind you. You whirled around to glare at her, an elegant brow arching back at you in challenge.

“Quit it!” you hissed under your breath.

“Don’t frown, y/n. You don’t want your boo to see you so upset.”

You gaped openly at her before turning back around in silence, your face heating instantly. It’s not that Ome’s words were mean. They were blunt, just like her because you knew she was only acting this way to make you see how stupid you were being. You knew your stuff. You could probably walk into that conference room and take over if you needed to.

You were going to be fucking fine. And as far as the ‘crush’? It was completely illogical.

For all you knew, Nanami Kento had no idea you even existed.

The feelings were miniscule and stupid to entertain. He was serious in almost every interaction when it came to work. Monthly company video calls gave you a glimpse of the man behind the deep but distinctive voice. He was quick and to the point, never beating around the bush, and always one to express his disdain for open ended questions. He didn’t rise to his position out of sheer luck.

Nanami had never spoken a word to you. Never sent an IM to ask about project plan updates. Never called you on the phone to praise you on the last account you brought to the company.

But he had the most detailed reports you had ever read in your life. He wore odd glasses from the chances you could glance at him through the computer camera that always seemed to make your stomach flip. He seemed to be disconnected from the people around him but incredibly steadfast and involved with his work and the quality it brought to the company. Smart, efficient, and handsome as hell.

None of your current emotions made any sense.

Just a stupid teenage rom-com crush that would probably not have the happy ending of the guy finally noticing you and deciding to ask you out on a date.

But that didn’t stop you from putting together an outfit that was modest enough to show how professional you were but form fitting enough to show off your body.

If your words don’t work, show off your tits.

Dammit, Ome.

The cold air from the conference room shocked you out of your thoughts. The adjacent wall was complete floor to ceiling windows, brightening the large room and making it feel less sterile. The small group of people already present stood upon your entry and bowed gently.

“Welcome!” The voice was loud and gruff, the source a tall and well built man with sharp and rough features. Dark brown short hair that was shaved on all sides but spiky at the top, thick dark brown eyebrows and an even thicker mustache and goatee.

Stopping in front of you all, he smiled, the delightful gesture a sharp contrast to his serious exterior.

“Masamichi Yaga. It’s so wonderful that you all could join us today. I hope this week will be as exciting as we made it out to be in the itinerary.”

Jin shook his hand.

“I’m sure we will. The rest of our team should arrive shortly. For now, these are the two I told you about who keep everything smooth and efficient. Omelia Obeje, one of our Data and Analytics Specialists…”

Ome bowed politely, a gentle smile on her usually serious face.

“Pleased to meet you sir. Itadori-san likes to boast us both but,” she tilted her head towards you. “She’s the real brains of the team.”

You widened your eyes minutely, the anxiety that was sliding at up your legs now coming back alive to inch its way up your stomach with the intent to wrap around your throat. You bowed to cover your expression.

“F/n, L/n, sir. Jin and Omelia are incredibly modest, but I’m pleased to meet you.”

Yaga introduced you to everyone in the room. Everyone was polite and offered conversation, even going as far as to ask you about life in Sendai. But the brightest of the group were three interns that Yaga was doing his best to tutor. The most excited of the bunch, Itadori Yuji, was a stark contrast to his father’s calm and gentle demeanor. He bowed a little too sharply, his pink locks such an odd sight to see on someone else besides your boss. His friend, Kugisaki Nobara, took every opportunity to cut him off, speaking over him and lifting her chin with every exclamation as a means to assert dominance in the trio. The tallest was the most quiet, deep blue locks in natural disarray as he bowed politely and introduced himself in an equally quiet voice as Fushiguro Megumi.

You could feel your nerves settling slowly, and whatever body language you were giving off was enough for Ome to slide back next to you after a lull in conversation, quiet and withholding.

“You’re doing well.” She was teasing again but the hint of affection was enough to make you roll your eyes and smile at her. “Have you even thought about what you’re going to say to him?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, the question making your mind stutter as you scrambled for an answer. “You know…besides ‘Hello, my name is y/n. I’m the best at my job, I have a fat ass and I could rock your world if you let me.’”

You rolled your eyes for what felt like the 12th time of the morning, the corners of your lips curling up into a smile before you snorted at her.

“I’m serious, y/n. Any man would be lucky to even ask you out on a date. Be confident in yourself.”

That was the odd thing about Ome. As much as her words were blunt and cold, she could make you also feel like the best person in the room. At least she did with you anyway.

You hadn’t really had luck with relationships in the past. And it was simply because you never had the time. College was just as busy as high school. Your spare time was often spent on small hobbies, hanging out with Ome and other friends, and working part-time to pay your bills and stay ahead in every aspect of your life.

When you did entertain the thought of something with a man, it was always short-lived. You were too rigid with giving into compromise, too work obsessed, too busy thinking ahead and not living in the moment. At least thats what they told you. The one relationship that was long-term had ended so terribly that you didn’t leave your apartment for a month. So by the time you had graduated college, you were resigned to entertain a one night stand a few times a year and the comfort of your vibrator that never failed you.

Whatever words Ome was speaking to you at the time seemed to ebb into the background as a tall man—or probably the tallest man you had ever seen—walked up to you both. His snow white hair hung loose on his head, falling in layers and covering a fresh undercut. His face was soft, but his jaw sharp with full lips and smooth skin. But the most jarring were his eyes. Bright blue orbs that seemed to glow even in the sunlight, thick eyelashes that matched his hair color framed the exotic orbs as they gazed at you and Ome both. He was probably the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

He introduced himself as Satoru Gojo, Director of Product Management, and like all men who manage to breathe the same air as Ome, was transfixed with her immediately.

“Are you single?”

The question made you chuckle sharply. A high executive blatantly flirting with a colleague was ballsy. But he seemed like the type to do exactly what he wanted and give a shit about it some other time. Or just not give a shit about it at all.

Ome simply raised a brow at him.

“It’s only 8am, how very desperate.”

His bright eyes seemed to flash with mirth. “I’m just surprised there aren’t more people over here trying to talk to you.”

If it was an attempt to flirt, he wouldn’t get far with her.

“I hate vague innuendos and I’m not interested. Do you mind moving out of the way, Beanpole? You’re blocking the sunlight.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to not laugh as you watched Gojo gape at her in shock, confusion, and then outright joy as he smiled pearly whites down at her.

“You think I’m tall—”

“Gojo, bothering our colleagues is not the most logical way to spend your time.”

His voice made your stomach drop instantly, the hairs on the back of your neck rising but not our of fear as his tall frame stopped next to Gojo. He wasn’t as tall as Gojo, but you could hardly tell the difference. His blonde hair was fuller than you thought now that you could see him in the flesh, with locks combed back perfectly and parted along the side. The same odd glasses you remembered from video calls sat perched on his nose and you could just make out brown irises through his dark frames thanks to the sunlight. A hard cut jaw and cheekbones, and full lips pressed into a relaxed line made his expression just as serious as you remembered. A muscular but lean frame sat beneath a rich ensemble of deep tan slacks and a blazer, a navy blue button up with a spotted yellow and black tie.

Jesus fuck.

Nanami Kento bowed to you both, introducing himself as the Director of Strategic Partners. You knew. Of course, you knew. You had seen his fine print on many reports from recent projects next to Yaga’s name. To be so actively involved with the Vice President had to have been an honor.

After Ome introduced herself, she jerked her head in the direction of Gojo.

“Is he always this thirsty?”

“Unfortunately. Please ignore him.”

He shifted away from Gojo’s protesting form, eyes falling on you. You cleared your throat and bowed softly as you introduced yourself, willing your voice to remain even and smooth as you felt his steady gaze.

Be confident. You got this. Say something.

But before you could even open your mouth to utter another word, Yaga and Jin had called the room to settle.

You managed to avoid Nanami for most of the day. When he was in your vicinity to speak, it was always in observation as he watched others engage with you instead. Ome kept her mouth shut, too busy insulting Gojo at every opportunity that he managed to speak to her. It was intriguing to watch and even funnier to realize he was probably bringing her the most entertainment in a very long time.

Ome was having the time of her life, however your current source of stress lay in front of you in the form of mahogany doors. A gold name plate gazed back at you, K. Nanami.

After an hour of intense work that you were given the ability to draft, Yaga and Jin had practically shoved you out of their office with the documents and the opportunity to work closely with Nanami for the week to learn from his point of view. It was perfect for you. You could gain more experience and try not to have a heart attack in his close proximity.

You made it a point to avoid Ome on the walk down to his office but now you couldn’t deny her words of ‘encouragement’ may have been helpful in this moment.

You clenched the manilla folder in your hands, taking a slow breath before squaring your shoulders and knocking on his door. His deep voice answered from the other side, beckoning you in.

The inside of his office was warmer than you were expecting. The room was clean and crisp, a large bookshelf against the wall filled with texts that you would have to look closely at some other time. A tall and well cared for Monstera Deliciosa was growing in another corner under the bright sunlight, and his walls were filled with plaques, certificates, and artwork that had your mind racing with intrigue. His own desk was large for you but seemed to suit his tall frame. And he sat behind it, his blazer off and hanging on his deep red chair, elbow resting on his desk and his chin resting on his fist, Nanami sat. His stature radiated indifference and you tried not to let that shake you as you closed his door and walked to stand in front of his desk.

“Itadori-san and Masamichi-san thought it would be a great opportunity if we worked closely together this week. I look forward to working with you.”

He didn’t respond immediately, harsh eyes analyzing you to a degree that had your hands gripping the manilla folder a little tighter.

“May I have those?”

The large hand propping up his chin folded out towards you, long fingers crooking back towards him as a means to hurry you along. You gave him the documents, throat dry as you struggled for something else to say. He seemed to really…not want you here. And as excited as you were to be in his presence, the indifference was enough to second guess walking in here.

“While I understand Yaga and Itadori-san's intentions, I’m afraid having someone else working with me this week is not feasible.”

Immediately, you felt your blood run cold, your face falling minutely.

“I don’t under—”

“Having someone else working with me is not feasible. It’s a very easy statement to grasp.”

All hints of anxiety seemed to fizzle out immediately, your crestfallen face slowly shaping into a glower.

“I don’t think I’ve done anything to you to warrant this kind of harshness, Nanami-san.”

You tried to smooth out the expressions on your face. There was no doubt he could clearly see the anger on your face. You had done everything right, had been nothing but polite to him. Even if he was busy with work, this kind of reaction was completely unnecessary.

He pulled in a deep breath, broad shoulders rising with the movement as he looked away from you and instead flipped through the documents you had given him.

“I’ve already allocated the resources that I need for this week. Your assistance isn’t wanted. Perhaps Gojo can show you how things work, because I’m unfortunately quite busy.”

He managed to spew it all out without looking up from his desk, long fingers idly pressing against the paper to help guide his eyes as he read. Your assistance isn’t wanted.

The indifference in the room quickly gave way to tension, making your stomach clench and twist as the anxiety began to make itself known again.

And almost immediately your patience had worn out.

“I know how things work—”

“I mean no disrespect.” He cut you off again, flaring the anger in your veins. “This happens every year when Yaga tries to push someone into my office during the annual summit and I have to walk them through the basics.”

You clenched your fists against the sides of your pants, red beginning to cloud the edges of your vision. Walk you through the basics? As if you were an intern fresh out of college, desperate to learn but lacking any of the skills necessary to succeed.

You suddenly didn’t find him very admirable at all as he opened his mouth to speak again.

“I don’t have the time—”

“Saying it twice doesn’t make you sound smarter.” The harsh tone coming out of your mouth shocked you, but you didn’t let it show as you glared at him. “I can see that you’ve already made up your mind about me even though you’ve hardly said a word to me.” His eyes widened minutely before narrowing. You jutted your chin out toward the papers beneath his hand.

“When you’re done looking at the same word over and over, you’ll find the content schedule, marketing plan, and a partially drafted work agreement.” He gaze didn’t falter, but you could see the slight ruddiness in his cheeks. From what, you didn’t really care to try and figure out. What a stupid mistake this was.

“Don’t look so put out. I put it together and Masamichi-san approved them. That should check a few things off your list. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to see if Gojo-san has ‘something for me to do’”.

You didn’t bother to look at his reaction as you whirled around and walked briskly from his office, slamming the large door on your way out.

Like you said before. Your emotions towards him made no sense at all.

After all, this wasn’t a fucking teenage rom-com.