#but algorithms made that nearly impossible and it’s upsetting

[cherry-blitzie]

Hi!

Kinda want to post art here again but uuuuuurghh let’s just say that I don’t have the strength to see myself fail again. Ik how it’ll end up and ye, maybe I don’t want to harm myself, I grew out of that and I won’t throw all my efforts away just bc the birb app’s owner is getting stupider and stupider.

Sometimes, to get my work noticed, I feel like I need to fight everyone and start drama and harassment so it helps getting seen. But I’m not that kind of person and I don’t want to be. Sometimes, I feel like I’m too « private » and that it kinda repels people bc they can’t figure me out but I’m sharing art, not my life, so there’s no need to, yk, overshare in public. Like if I wanted to share about my life, I would try to be some sort of an influencer and share pics of what I do irl. I’m an artist and I share art. Who cares if I had two bagels for lunch? Who cares about what shampoo brand I like?

It really is hard nowadays to share stuff that doesn’t involve drama, fights, advertising some brand or showing every aspect of my life. It’s called privacy for a reason and I’m fiercely protective of mine. Like I said, I’m an artist and I’m here to share my works. They’re far from being the best, I’m aware, but they’re also far from being the worst.

And, yk, I’ve always found weird to expose my whole life (I used to be chattier about my issues back in the day and now, I want to cry bc I cringe real hard) but, somehow, seeing how the internet has turned out, I feel weird for wanting to protect what’s left of my privacy. I mean, I’m aware that anyone can find where I live easily, that my personal data is being sold to more or less shady companies to do god knows what with it, ofc I’d want to protect what can be kept safe.

If you read the whole thing, thanks for taking the time.

I hope you have a good day, pls take care and remember to drink water in enough amounts!

[pip-n-flinx]

On Creativity

So I’ll probably be updating this a couple of times, but I spent nearly 2 hours with a friend debating the nature or definition of creativity. It’ll be difficult to get all this in text, but I’m going to do my best because I think thinking is so important my lord. I promise, if you follow along you’ll find that some beans, and some beans, is four.

Old Blackadder jokes aside, I recently participated in a survey on creativity. I was so angry about the methods and assumptions that after spending maybe 2-3 minutes on this online survey I ranted at length to one of my best friends.

The Impetus:

The TL;DR for the survey was input 10 nouns, and get a score. The score measures how ‘creative’ you were in thinking of your nouns. It’s a word association game, where the fewer associations the study could draw between the nouns, the higher your score and the more ‘creative’ a participant was judged as being. But see, here’s where I think that breaks down - ignoring the hidden algorithm and apparent data-set of connections the survey claimed when calculating this inverse relationship - I don’t think creativity has anything to do with originality.

What do you think of when you think about creativity? What is creative? What does a creative person do? According to Merriam Webster: the ability to create. Most people might lean more towards the Oxford definition which reads as : the use of the imagination or original ideas, especially in the production of an artistic work. Or perhaps you prefer the dictionary.com version: the ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or the like, and to create meaningful new ideas, forms, methods, interpretations, etc.; originality, progressiveness, or imagination. Truth be told, I think MW is the closest. And I vehemently disagree with the following two.

Allow me to explain - creativity and productivity are two sides of the same coin. You don’t have to be original or unique to be creative, and anything you do that is purposed or fashioned to aid in your survival - here extended to include any activity that you get paid for - is productive. An artist who carves out time to write a novel they’ll never publish, a musician who wants nothing more than to jam in the basement with a friend, these people are being creative whether or not their work is original. Artists who sell their art or their time or their expertise are not inherently less original, or less artistic. Indeed, they aren’t even necessarily less creative than an artist whose art never earns a penny. They do however, spend time and energy making their art specifically for a market. They have to take time to carve out space in whatever market they inhabit. So they are spending more of their art-time being productive.

Let me be clear here: this isn’t a call against productivity, or art as a means to support oneself, or a condemnation of ‘selling out.’ If you enjoy doing something, I can scarcely fault you for seeking out ways to spend more time doing it. That can be hard when you also have to secure the basic necessities of life. Furthermore, I don’t want to lionize either productivity or creativity. I think wanting to better yourself, or secure food or safety for yourself or a loved one, is a laudable goal. I think this very human urge is the seat of productivity. On the other hand, to do things for no other goal than the pleasure of doing them, the hedonism and joy of simply being, should not be demonized. Surely if were to be purely ascetic we would never know soul food, or barbeque, or sushi, or coffee or tea, beer or wine, cake or pie.... Rarely do we do anything for purely creative or purely productive ends. For as sure as bread brings nourishment it warms the heart.

So when a hipster tells you their favorite artist sold out to the record label, or a critique calls a piece gauche and derivative, they are commenting on a real change in behaviour. Usually, the reasons they give are rationalizations or worse baseless attacks on a stranger’s character. Rarely are we actually upset that our favourite band is releasing music with more time and effort and polish in it’s production or recording, for instance. It’s impossible to pin down, but if you go from being a creative artist to trying to make a career of your art, or even just trying to earn some money freelancing, you are allocating time and energy to the productive part of the process - talking to patrons and commissioners, managing social media, networking, etc. - and that time and energy both must come from somewhere. This doesn’t necessarily mean you spend less time on creative endeavours, but if you aren’t then you must be pulling the time/energy for productivity from other productive behaviours.

This is the shift that I think young artists/musicians/actors struggle most with. ‘Get a job doing what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.’ What a load of BS. You will absolutely be working. And some of the freedom of the creative process will have to be turned over. Transitioning from loving music to studying music in college was one of the most heart-breaking things I ever had to do. The harder my professors pushed me to be better, the more time I spent practicing things I myself didn’t discover, the less I enjoyed my music.

I chose to study Jazz, out of all the fields of music, because I had this sense that jazz improvisation was more creative than playing in an orchestra. That the originality of inventing a melody on the fly was somehow more creative than playing a written part in an orchestra. This is simply not true. They are both acts of creation, of creativity. One takes marginally more originality, and one takes marginally more cooperation and teamwork.

Originality still relies on the constraints of the environment. You can’t break the mold if you can’t recognize it. You can’t bend the rules if you don’t understand the rules. As per the infamous Shakespeare quote “nothing new under the sun.” In any act of originality we still stand on the shoulders of those before us. When I was younger, it was always tempting to conflate originality or inspiration with creativity. I think it’s important now to move beyond that. They are different words, they mean different things, they might even influence one another, but they are not the same.

Take, for example, one of my college roommates. They worked all through highschool and college, trying to help support their family after an ugly divorce and then trying to move out and make their own way in the world. The weight of being constantly productive wore on them, and while they had been an honor student in a college prep program they simply dropped out of college before two years were up. For those formative years between the ages of about 14 and 20, Jess did not have time to be creative. All their energy was spent trying to ensure they had enough money for food or rent or utilities or whatever other mundane cost can be associated with living. I was by all measures a more creative person for 6+ years. Then Jess made time to do things for themself. Cosplay, the convention circuit, nights out at the bar or club. Jess was never less original than I was. Only ever less creative, and only then by force of habit. This does mean that people in marginalized groups are going to - on average - look less creative than those of us with privilege and the advantage of even minor inherited wealth.

Remember that, the next time someone tries to tell you you’re creativity is average.

Oh and fuck that survey it was garbage and what little they disclosed of their methods made fuck-all sense I sincerely hope that was a student project and the creator(s) have a chance to learn to do better later.

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

To stop the accusation that I’m dragging this out to please the drama llamas, I’ve studied everything I got (and spent a fair amount of time searching for things on blogs), and managed to whittle things down to their bare essentials. I’ve also tried to talk to everyone about everything, which took time. I won’t address everything that everyone has said on both sides, just a few points that are either concrete, or I can’t address them privately for whatever reason.

The timeline as I’ve been able to piece it together is like this:

Vanessa made a post about more popular writers complaining about lack of feedback. 

Beka messaged Vanessa wanting to know why Vanessa had a problem with her.

Vanessa responded in a way that upset Beka.

Beka blocked Vanessa.

Vanessa got around the block and sent anonymous asks to Beka.

Beka outed Vanessa by responding to the asks publicly.

Vanessa deactivated her blog.

Friends of both proceeded to attack each other.

Claims about Beka (this is not a complete list):

Only supports her friends on her blogs and in Pond Angel Fish Awards

Although it’s been a couple of months since Beka has reblogged fics from other writers at all, by going back through her #read with me tag, I see reblogs of fics from at least a dozen different writers just in May and June. I’ve only been tracking Angel Fish Awards since February, but since then, Beka has nominated 8 stories by 8 different writers.

Ignored asks for Big Fish advice sent to her blog

If there were a way for me to prove this, then I wouldn’t be listing it here. As it is, it’s impossible to prove. As a Pond admin, I’ve experienced the weirdest stuff with asks. I spent one evening chatting with a member while they repeatedly tried to send in asks, and we didn’t get a single one. I do know that asks sent via the app seem to be more likely to be eaten than asks sent via desktop, but asks sent both ways have disappeared. 

There are other claims, this is not a complete list, but I will be addressing them with Beka personally (I have already started doing this, actually). I’m only including these two because they can be proved or disproved with facts. Some of the other claims have been leveled against Big Fish in the Pond other than Beka, as well. The Pond will deal with those privately, but we hope you will see an improvement in these areas when the Pond returns from hiatus.

Claims about Vanessa:

I’ve talked to Vanessa about these, without anything constructive coming from it. I tried. I tried to explain to her that she could have gotten further by using less provocative language and offering constructive suggestions. We ended up having the same old arguments about unrelated issues and going around in circles. The only thing Vanessa ceded was that she should not have continued to reach out to Beka after Beka blocked her. She has apologized for this. I don’t need to list the rest here, just know the conversation happened and nothing came of it.

Claims about Beka’s opposition:

Made unsubstantiated claims about Beka sending herself anon hate

I’ll be the first to tell you that I don’t have a single clue how to figure out who has sent an anonymous ask on Tumblr. However, what I do know is that it requires access to the inbox the ask was sent to. In order for someone who is not Beka to say that Beka sent herself an anonymous ask, they would have had to have hacked into her account, somehow. I don’t know much about this, but it sounds illegal. Since there was proof of this offered, it’s a useless claim.

Picked apart posts on her personal blog and said they were intended for her writing audience when they were not

Beka’s personal blog was, she thought, relatively private. It was not meant for her readers to see. (There is an argument to be made about how it’s still a public blog that the world can see, but the charge is that she intended for her readers to see it and respond, and that is not the case.) Yet, someone took it upon themselves to stalk it, and then match posts between the two blogs, making it look like it all came from one blog. They then took their argument to the absurd and claimed she was using her mental health issues to drum up patrons on her Patreon. If that were the case, then it all would have been on her writing blog. But it wasn’t.

Belittled Beka’s cries for help, and then attacked her further

I don’t care if you didn’t believe her when she said she was on the edge, you just don’t do that, folks. That right there is the point where you either walk away or report her to Tumblr as a threat to herself. The last thing you do is double down on your attacks. Take a break, walk away, find a kinder, gentler way to make your point. I don’t care who they are or what they believe or have done, when someone puts the gun to their head, you do not tell them they are an awful human being.

Dissected every post, word by word, including auto tags, using intentionally provocative language

Not every post made was like this, but a lot were. This is high school stuff, guys. To rip apart words used by someone obviously in pain instead of reaching through and looking for the meaning behind it is petty and cruel. Not to mention it takes so much more energy to dig into things like that than to just respond to the meat of things. To take someone’s blog name and twist it into a degrading moniker is sickening. To attack words used in an effort to distract from the topic at hand, or to just add on to the already heaping pile of anger you’re throwing around is unconscionable and pointless. This is not what people who are coming from a place of love or kindness do. This is what you do when you hate someone, and that’s just not cool, guys.

Brought up old issues thought to have been settled a long time ago

My husband calls this “stamp collecting.” There’s a statute of limitations on things, and it depends on the thing, but my personal limit on Tumblr is about two weeks. If nothing has been said about something for two weeks, I assume it’s in the past and I try to move on. I say this because, if it weren’t settled, then we’d all still be working on it, right? If something is bothering me, and I work on it with someone, but I’m not happy, then I’m gonna keep working on it with that person. If they seem to forget (which happens because we’re all human), then I’m gonna send them a quick message. “Hey there! I’m still working on this thing. Can we talk about it again?” I do this with contractors who work on my house. I did this with clients when I worked in an office. To bring up something that happened a long time ago like it’s still an active issue is pointless, and goes against one of the main tenets of effective arguing.

Taking obvious glee in tearing down another person

Do I really have to talk about this? If you had any care for the other person, even enough to just care that they are a person, you would not gloat about how you’re going to tear them apart.

Really, all of this stuff comes down to if you are approaching the world and everything you do from a place of love or from a place of anger and pain. Even if you are angry and in pain, treat other people like you love and respect them, and you will find that everything is just better. 

If you feel like I’m coming down on one side or the other of this situation, just know that I’m not. Pretty much, I don’t like things that were done by both sides. These are just the things I feel more comfortable talking about in a public post like this.

Other stuff that’s come up in the course of all of this:

Complaining about notes/followers

So many writers, lately, are frustrated. Tumblr sucks balls on a good day when it comes to notifications and the whole algorithm mess, and that’s still being generous. In an effort to keep the porn blogs at bay, they’ve stifled all creators. Add to that how tags seem to never work when you’re searching for something, and disseminating your work is nearly impossible.

I could tell you all the different ways you can change your focus on the readers you do have, give you lists of things you can do to expand your audience, and offer advice about not comparing yourself to other writers. But you’ve already heard all of that. So, I’m just gonna say it.

If you complain publicly about a lack of notes or followers, you’re gonna look like a dick.

That doesn’t mean you are a dick. You’re just gonna look like one. You’re going to look like you’re ungrateful for the readers that you do have, which is going to turn off those readers, and you’ll end up with even fewer notes and followers. If you manage to disparage other writers while you’re complaining, you’re gonna look like an even bigger dick. So, just don’t do it, unless you don’t mind looking like a dick. 

Need to vent about it? Find a close friend and send it to them in a private message. Have a funny thought about it that you want to share? This is exactly what private messages are for. Create a group DM in discord. Heck, I think even Tumblr has a group chat option, now. Just, don’t put it on your blog, unless you want to lose followers. 

The number of admins at the Pond

Some folks seem to think that the Pond needs to add more admins in order to react more quickly when something goes down. Honestly, I have talked to Mana and Kale about stepping down as admin because I believe the opposite is true. We have a policy that we all must agree on the big things. However, we are separated by 8 time zones. There is a rare hour every few days (sometimes it’s weeks) when all three of us are awake and not occupied with caring for family members. We have a private group chat thing where we each toss ideas and questions and such into the pot when we’re doing things. When the others get to it, they add their two cents. Usually, there are two of us active at a time, and then we wait for the third to stop by for approval. Often, the third has a question or argument that then needs to be addressed, but the first or second one isn’t available. More admins would only be a good thing if we were all in the same time zone. But we’re not. We are an international group, which I believe is a good thing, but the downside is that it slows us down. Sometimes, being slow is a good thing, too. Generally, at least one of is calm and level-headed at any given time. It shifts on who that one is, but they keep us from doing anything rash.

The whole problem is that no one feels like they can tell you when there’s a problem

I’ve heard this so many times, now, but I haven’t responded to it publicly, so here goes. 

Most of you don’t know what I’m like in person, but I’m built like a linebacker. I’m tall, I’m heavy, and I have wide shoulders. I have literally scared small children. Take Jared Padalecki, add another Jared Padalecki on the side, and then take away all the pretty, and you come close to what I’m like when you see me walking down the street. 

I don’t want to be a scary person that anyone is afraid to approach. My goal in life is to be kind and fair. I will give you second and third chances, because I know how awful it feels to be written off. 

My ask box is always open. My chat windows are always open. My email address is mrswhozeewhatsis@gmail.com. I’m the same on discord and skype. I don’t care if you think your thing is stupid, if it’s something that’s bothering you, and I can help, then I want to help. I can’t always help, but I always want the opportunity to try.

If I have ever done anything that made you feel like I didn’t care, then I give you permission to tell me. I’ll hate hearing it, but I need to hear it. 

If I have forgotten to follow up on something for you, PLEASE REMIND ME. Holy, cow, I have a TERRIBLE memory. It’s really bad. I have tricks and stuff that I do to try to make sure I don’t lose track of things, but it still happens. Please, come back to me and remind me that I promised you something. I guarantee that I will not be mad or upset. I will be glad, because you’re helping me to be the person I want to be.

I think that’s about it. The Pond is still on hiatus, indefinitely. We have a lot of things we’re talking about for if/when we come back, and some of them are really exciting to me. I hope we come back. I hope we can make the Pond what we always meant it to be. We’ll need help, and constant feedback from our fishy family, but I still have hope.

[mirror-juliet]

~Searching For Soulmates~ Park Seonghwa X Male Reader

Requested by Jax on tumblr.

Since there isn't a lot of male readers that read my things (To my knowlege) I decided to make this one special by using Jax's name, the one who requested this. I hope you enjoy it bub.

Tagging: @themainineveruse @atinybrew @vocalyunho @hongjoongs-hoe​

Love story's are so over-written these days. So hard to write about. They say write the unexpected, but everyone's already done the unexpected. If you write it wrong, nothing will become of it. If you excel in writing the impossible-you are praised beyond belief. Unexpected love story's are impossible. Most story's are Frankensteins of other stories, stitched together by a dream and desperation. But the well known authors dreamt those dreams before you could write them. You'd just be copying them if you made a story close to the lines of theirs, if the two characters hate eachother, or if they don't know eachother. Who's to say you didn't dream those dreams first, And why wont the world let you dream those dreams more than once. Aren't dreams supposed to be eternal. An extension of our thoughts, how can someones thoughts be wrong. There is no right way to think, it isn't a math formula with a set outcome. So why have people decided that we must think in a set algorithm?

The world's too busy thinking about their own love theory to worry about a simple love story written for a college literature class. Only the teacher would read it, so why's Jaxson stressing about it so much? There are set outcomes to what grade he'll get so it doesn't really matter how he writes the report.

"Here's your Pomegranate potion, Weirdo. You come to a coffee shop and order tea." Maggie, Jaxon's favorite barista and best friend since they were younger ruffles his hair. "You're the one who dragged me here today. I could have finished my report at home."

"There was no way i was going to let you stay cooped up in that apartment one more day. It's a lovely atmosphere here," She's not wrong about the atmosphere, it has the right amount of teenager swag mixed with an almost professional look. "Plus if you get bored you can entertain yourself by watching me train the new guy." Jaxson pays close attention to Maggie now

"That's today?.. And you are going to be the one to train him? Lord help this shop now." Maggie attempts to wack Jaxson upside the head, but he's too fast for her tiny fist of rage "That isn't funny Jax. I'm a good trainer, After all i was trained by the glorious booknerd that is you." She bows and holds her hand out gesturing to him. The boy wonders why he's friends with such a weirdo in the first place, but he supposes it's because he acts just like her. "What was he like, the new guy. Do you know?"

"You could always ask me what i'm like, pretty boy." Jaxson freezes in place, fear painting him as he watches Maggie wear the most shit-eating grin of the century. "Seonghwa, it's nice to see you again. This is Jax, he's off today but he's one of the workers here. Jax meet Seonghwa." Jaxson turns to greet Seonghwa, But holy God's why did he have to call him pretty boy? He's the pretty boy for gods sake! "You were talking up a storm just a moment ago, what happened; Cat got your tongue?" Curse him for having such a beautiful face because Jaxson does nothing but stare and hold his mouth agape! Seonghwa chuckles and goes behind the counter next to Maggie. "When do i start coach?"

Jesus his smile is pretty and he knows it. Jaxson watches him roll up his sleeves into uniform cuffs, his forearms are way too toned for his good, his tan skin extenuates them so much. Despite how good looking he is, he is quite clumsy with the espresso machine. It's expected since he explained to Maggie "I don't like bitter things so I've never used one of these." He has coffee grinds all over his apron and at the bottom of his white shirt. Jaxson had given up working on his report to examine Seonghwha and his arms. Both of them were covered in tattoo's, he cant help but wonder if one of them are perhaps his soul-mark he tries to hide in the cluster of ink. Maggie never tried to hide her mark, though it did look quite odd to only have the veins of butterfly wings on her cheek. Her soulmate, Yeosang did try to cover his up. It looked like 'an unattractive pink blob' in his opinion. Though, Maggie thought it looked cute in pictures, when they kissed for the first time, their marks melded into one. Now Maggie spends most of her weekends looking for Jaxson's soulmate even though he's made it very obvious he doesn't want to find them. After searching forever, he got tired and was convinced that his soulmate had either not existed or died before he had ever met them.

"Seonghwa you'll be okay, i'm just leaving you to make some of these for lunch hour. You're doing much better than an hour ago." Maggie sings sweet words to Seonghwa who seems to be shaking like a leaf in the wind. "I don't think i should make anything for anyone to consume."

"Okay, make Jaxson something and then prove me wrong. If he decides it's too horrible then he'll take your place for the day and we'll train you more."

"Why do you have to drag me into this?" Jaxson groans, he was enjoying his day off-well, not really; But Maggie doesn't know that! Then again, she probably does given the knowing look on her face. After a few minutes of a silent stare match between the two he gives in. "Make me an iced americano." The tan color leaves Seonghwa's face as Maggie leans against the counter, leaving him all alone with the coffee maker and his wits (Which arent a lot when it comes to the machine). His toned arms are clumsy with everything, making a much bigger mess than needed, Jaxson could have sworn everytime something got dirty Seonghwa cringed. After five minutes of entertainment Seonghwa Shakily sets the drink in front of Jaxson. "Whats wrong newbie, see a ghost?" Seonghwa glares at that, upset his own joke was used against him. In retaliation he mutters something under his breath that Maggie nor Jax can quite make out.

He takes the drink and puts it to his lips, only having it on his tastebuds for mm, less than two seconds before spitting it back in the cup. He wipes his mouth and grabs his things. "I'll be back out in a minute. Don't let him near customers." Seonghwa watches Jaxson walk into the employees lounge and come back out in uniform, buttoning his sleeves up and shoving his way behind the bar. "I want you to clear off tables, you'll have to move fast because this place gets packed in about fifteen minutes." But Seonghwa isn't moving, Only staring down at the shorter male. "What?" Jax's getting impatient as he's wasting time standing around when he could be preparing for the forty people he's going to have to deal with for the next two hours.

"Can i take you on a date?" Maggie drops the cup she's holding, hot espresso now on her new martins, the only thing saving her from burns. "What?" Is all Jaxson says because Seonghwa's hot! This is a manga scenario that only happens every blood moon, no love story has ever prepared him for this moment because any situation in a manga would never be accepted by society. And what't the point? Whats the point of dating someone that isn't your soulmate? "Go clean tables please."

The three of them don't talk about the situation the rest of the day, only trading words to explain an order or if they need to wash more mugs. But they do watch eachother. Seonghwa watches Jaxson make coffee and tea at an alarming rate, Jaxson watches Seonghwa clean tables with so much care; never leaving a cup ring. And Maggie watches the tension in the room between the two grow it's like candy burning to the side of a pot. Sickening but sweet. At the end of lunch rush, it's nearly time for the quaint little coffee shop to close it's eyes for a good night's rest. You think for how many people visit it, it would stay open longer than Three pm.

Yeosang came to pick up Maggie for their date night leaving Jaxson to close at the shop. That isn't the plan tonight because for the love of Hade's Jaxson cant figure out why the manager decided to hire Seonghwa other than his looks. Every drink he's had Seonghwa make in the past thirty minutes he has managed to burn or fuck up magically somehow. "Why is making coffee so hard?" The tall man groans out, backing against the counter away from the machine. "It really isn't. You've just added way too many steps to it. Here hang on." Jaxson grabs a fresh cup and starts up the machine once again. The poor thing might be overused by tomorrow.

It's crazy how simple Jaxson makes it look to Seonghwa, not only that but how elegant he is while doing it. His fingers flip switches effortlessly, pouring the milk into a beautiful leaf shape he's convinced the shorter man shouldn't be able to make. But he almost does it with his eyes closed. Seonghwa should be able to make designs like that- "What?" He says, realizing Jaxson must have asked him a question given the quizzical look on his face.

Jaxson's laugh is pretty, Seonghwa decides. It's just the right amount of baritone with the ever so slightest bit of soprano. "I'm telling you to take the coffee so you can see what it's supposed to taste like."

"Aren't we supposed to be teaching me how to make this instead of drink it?" Jax jumps to sit on the counter, taking his own teacup in his hands. "I needed a break and the machine is making sad noises, so here we are. Go on, taste perfection." Jaxson's cocky words brink an obnoxious smirk to the older's lips. Because there's no way his coffee is that good.

But it is

Seonghwa isn't one for bitter taste, hell he doesn't like coffee. But the cup Jaxson handed to him it seems he's refusing to put down. "Woah, woah. You're gonna give yourself a stomach ache." Said boy causing concern hops down to drag the cup away from him. "I'm sorry, i didn't think you had to drink it slow." A pinkish hue covers Seonghwa's neck. "I don't like coffee usually...." He trails off.

"Seonghwa." Jaxson's voice is gentle, Seonghwa wonders if he's gotten sad somehow. "Why are you working here? You don't like Coffee and you absolutely suck dick at making it. So why?" Jax hops on the counter once again and Seonghwa has to avert his eyes from the smaller male, intrusive thoughts invading his head. He shakes his head hoping to get rid of the thought like an etch and sketch. Anywhere but his eyes is better, does he not think before talking? Seonghwa thinks. "I, like most people in the world need money. This quaint little coffee shop so happened to be the only one hiring. So i had to get it before i ran out of money for rent. Why are you working here?" A question for a question, fair enough right? "I like the aesthetic of this place, it's calming to me. And it pays fairly well." The two sit in silence, sipping their respective drinks, only sharing glances at one another.

"Say whats on your mind pretty boy, You've been looking at me with a question in your eyes." Seonghwa smirks, only making Jaxson blush harder from the nickname. God he wished Seonghwa would use a different name. "Sorry. I was just wondering where you used to work before here. "

"I worked in a tattoo shop." He crosses his arms, the drink from before long since drained. "It was a pretty good gig too, i was the only apprentice that was allowed to work on people, plus i got half off tattoo's...if i let them do it drunk." Seonghwa looks up into the air, a meloncholy smile on his face. "It was the best job of my life."

"Can i ask you another question, if you don't mind." He lets out an approving sound, not bothering to look down. "If you were so happy....Why leave?" Jax realizes he's touched a soft spot when Seonghwa looks back at him, his eyes are hurting, hidden behind a small smile. "Aren't you just a nosy little one." He takes a deep breath "The old man that owned the shop passed, it was taken over by his daughter. She decided to turn it into a hair salon, kicking everyone that worked there out of a job. It was quite selfish of her, don't you think?"

Jaxson nods his head, wondering what it must have felt like to suddenly loose a friend and a means of living. Suddenly the cup of cold tea is more intriguing than the saddened face of Seonghwa. "My turn~" Said man sings out, tipping Jaxson's head up with his finger. "When can i take you out on a date?"

"O-oh, you were serious about that......."

"Why wouldn't i be?" Jax pulls away from him, hopping down to begin cleaning dishes. "Because i don't like dates." Seonghwa takes the cup out of his hand. "So, don't think of it as a date. Think it as if were just a couple of friends hanging out for an afternoon." A sarcastic chuckle leaves Jax's lips. "But it's still a date."

"Will you at least give it a shot? If you don't enjoy yourself in the first fifteen minutes i'll even take you home." Both of them stop movement, Jaxson wondering why Seonghwa is so hellbent on getting him to go on a date. "Fine. Only fifteen minutes, where will you be taking me?" Jax snatches the mug back from Seonghwa. "That." He pokes Jaxson's nose "Is for me to know and you to find out, tomorrow at two?"

"If you mean a.m. then hell no."

***********

Seonghwa had in fact not meant two am, but precisely when the autumn's sun hits Jaxson's glasses just right to blind him. Where even was Seonghwa? He had told Jaxson to meet him in front of the Cafe five minutes early just in case he got there before.

He hadn't.

He hadn't shown up the first five minutes after the intended meet time. Where the hell was he? Turning the corner onto the Cafe street, the loud motorcycle that was annoying Jax approached in front of the Cafe. Only once the rider pulled off his helmet did he realize Seonghwa was the knight under the mask. A knight wearing a leather jacket to reveal a blue floral shirt tucked into black skinny jeans with no chains this time. Instead he's swapped them out for makeup smudged onto his face, making him seem even more attractive than he already is. "You expect me to get on that? Wearing this." He motions to his outfit, denim jeans, a striped sweater and sneakers. Obviously not appropriate apparel for a Motorcycle. "You'll be fine pretty boy. Hop on." Seonghwa pats the seat behind him, pulling out a second helmet. "The five minutes i spent waiting count against your time."

"The ride doesn't though, Deal?"

Jaxson wishes the ride would have counted against Seonghwa, they've been driving for the past thirty minutes on the highway. He swears Seonghwa's speeding on purpose for Jax to have to cling onto his torso so the small boy wouldn't fly off the bike. Once the bike ride was finally starting to be bearable, it stops. "We here?" A chuckle from Seonghwa. "Do you think i stopped here for gas?" It's an aquarium, It could be worse, it could be a movie theater. "C'mon, i wanna show you a lot here."

A lot he did show Jaxson, from river bass to sharks in a dive tank. He even payed for the extra experiences like holding hermit crabs or feeding the sea turtle from a pole. Jaxson has to admit, he is having fun; he didn't leave two hours ago when the fifteen minutes were up. "Oh, c'mon we're at the touch tank!" Seonghwa Pulls Jaxson through sliding doors to a room with quite a large touch tank in the middle. In it are stingrays of all sizes. He leaves momentarily to come back with two small cups of something foul smelling. "We can feed them by hand." Seonghwa hands the cup of sardines to Jaxson, not waiting for him to grab one before taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "Just put it between your knuckles, their teeth are on their bellies so don't be afraid."

Easy for him to say as he seems to have no fear towards the slimy sea pancakes, his arm is already submerged past his elbow, getting his rolled up sleeve wet. "This big one i named Calvin. Say hi Calvin." The large stingray swims on the bottom to take the fish from his human friend. He even lets Seonghwa give him rubs and pit pats. It's quite cute to see him acting so young and happy. "Well go on, the worst that can happen is one of them tickle you."

Jaxson mustered up the courage to roll up his sleeves, only dipping his hand about forearm deep. Shortly a small sea pancake fly's over and goes straight for the fish. Thanking the boy by flapping his wings against his arm. More cute giggles coming from Seonghwa. The more fish he goes through, Jaxon finds himself moving closer and closer to Seonghwa. Eventually the two are brushing hands, Seonghwa startles him by grabbing ahold of it. "If you wanted to hold hands you could have asked." He smiles, not one of shitery or mockery. But a genuine smile, directed at Jaxson.

A warm tingle pricks both of their arms, on the verge of being hot. "Look." Jaxson points to their interlocked arms. A white snake being engraved into the knot of his black snake. The opposite of Seonghwa. He freaks out and pulls his arm out of the water to inspect the new tattoo. "Wha-"

"Mommy Mommy look! They got their soul-mark!" A little girl bounces next to them, pulling on her mother's arm. "Is that what this is?"

"It looks like it." Seonghwa hands a paper towel to the smaller of them. "Wanna go get dinner?" It took some convincing but Jax finally agreed to go to dinner, there they talked about what it meant, and how Jaxson could have possibly missed the white snake in the cluster of Seonghwa's tattoo's. It is the only white tattoo he has after all.

A/N: This feels kinda bad compared to my other works but my friend who read it over says it quite nice. (They prefer to remain anon) Jax bub i hope you liked this. I had some troubles making it but i think it's okay. Remember to like and reblog if you're reading this on tumlr

[ryouverua]

COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT but consider: kiibo trying to use the internet. kiibo getting upset because every single site he tries to sign up for has one of those "I am not a robot" checkboxes on it. this is discrimination!! his lawyer will be hearing about this!! "kiibo you do realize you can just click on the box and it'll let you through right" "that would be dishonest!" "kiibo."

‘As directed by the client, I tailed the subject, her husband - to be referred to as U.N. for the rest of the paper - until the subject reached his first destination. From that point I maintained a 15m distance. The materials I used for the assignment were as follows: a Konan EOS 70D digital camera -”

Shuichi scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. Should he list his ‘talent-assigned materials’ in its own separate section or keep it in his overview paragraph? The talent-based assignments always put him on edge; with no standard template to follow, there was no real way to be sure of how the teachers wanted their papers laid out. Kaede, bless her heart, was no help; any performance-based assignments for her never needed a formal essay to go with it.

He squinted at the screen. Maybe Kaito would know? His astronaut exercises were all over the place, but he always seemed to score well in the end -

A deceptively quiet warbling cry curled itself around his headphones, wormed its way into his ear, and drove itself like a spike deep into his brain. Damn it.

He fiddled with his cover letter, debating on whether the title should be underlined or not; whether his name should be in bold or not. The spike drove itself deeper, insistent on being heard. It tore at the fraying edges of his concentration. Shuichi could see bits of it even now, floating away like a… a…..

……

Ah. So Shuichi was at the point of the essay-writing process where words were failing him completely. Fantastic.

He unplugged himself from his phone and slumped into his computer chair. There was a wrong to be righted here, he knew, and perhaps he would have been more sympathetic if this hadn’t been happening consistently over the entire school semester.

“IRUMA-SAAAAAN!”

Shuichi leaned over; stole a glance at his screen. “She left for her research lab already, Kiibo-kun. She doesn’t need the school printer.”

Iruma’s talent for finding lewd uses to match any home and office material was only matched by her talent for inventions. It had quickly been deemed necessary for her to have her own printer after the last time she had forgotten a set of racy schematics in the library machine.

Reminding K1-b0 of that at the moment seemed a bit insensitive. With that said, it was clear the situation had escalated to the point where something needed to be done; if nothing else, ignoring the loud whirring of K1-b0′s fans would be impossible with his headphones out of his ears. K1-b0 had gotten himself worked up again to the point that there was coolant liquid beginning to pool at the base of his optical lenses. With Miu who-knows-where, the responsibility had apparently fallen to Shuichi to calm him down again.

“Did you run into another CAPTCHA code?” Shuichi asked, working to keep his voice as even and sympathetic as possible.

“W-Why?” K1-b0’s speakers were practically crackling with emotion. “Why are so many people prejudiced against robots?”

“I don’t think they had you in mind when they designed these. They’re generally for dissuading certain types of malicious programs and algorithms that aim to…”

One look at K1-b0 made it plain that this was the wrong way to approach this. He hurriedly changed tactics.

“You know you can just click the checkbox underneath the message, right?”

“That is not the point, not to mention entirely dishonest! This is about something far greater than simply signing up for a website!”

“Kiibo,” Shuichi said, feeling his growing exasperation at war with his empathy, “our assignment is due tomorrow.”

“They will be hearing from my lawyers! Or at the very least, I will reach out to the Ultimate Lawyer!”

At the rate K1-b0 was going, he was bound to overheat and Shuichi really wasn’t equipped to deal with the consequences. This next move was for both of them - it was nearly 1 in the morning, and both of them had to recharge in their own particular way before class the next day. K1-b0 would understand and forgive him, right? Tomorrow, anyway. Maybe.

So without further ado, he placed his over K1-b0′s, maneuvers the mouse over the unassuming box that was far too much trouble for its pixel size, and clicked it with him.

“S-Saihara-san!” K1-b0 was aghast. “You -”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shuichi said firmly, “what anyone outside of this school thinks of ‘bots’, because they haven’t met you yet. They don’t understand how good or kind or talented robots can be. That’s what your assignment is about, isn’t it? Weren’t you exploring the areas you could be a pioneer for robots?”

The back-lighting of K1-b0′s eyes flickered. “I-I chose to specifically analyze the potential ways robots could advance the music genre, but -”

“In order for you to prove that to everyone, you need to be able to sign up for this website.”

K1-b0 nodded.

“Then you can’t let something like this stop you,” Shuichi said. There was surely some Kaito-ism that would fit well here, though he’d be damned if he had enough energy to come up with it off the top of his head. “You need to just - reach for your dream and grab it or, uh, do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true, no matter what the obstacle.”

There was a moment of quiet as K1-b0 considered his words, and all of his lights dimmed.

“… Kiibo,” Shuichi said again, when the silence dragged out a worrying few seconds too long, “we all believe in you. And if you have to lie to make the rest of the world believe in you too, then I’ll support you in that. Okay?”

“… Okay,” was the quiet response back. When the light had returned to his eyes, Shuichi saw that they were fixated on the computer screen with renewed determination. Good.

“And…. be careful not to stay up too late.” Shuichi let go of his hand - surprisingly warm and comforting, in ways he hadn’t realized metal could be - and straightened. “I know you don’t have to recharge for another few days, but you don’t want your processors to be slow. I’ll be here a bit longer working on my essay if you need more help.”

“I won’t,” Kiibo said, and Shuichi was relieved to the confidence returning to his voice. “I won’t let your sacrifice go to waste!”

… Well, Shuichi would hardly call lying to a website a ‘sacrifice’, but the intention was good, he supposed. With a tired smile and one last quick assurance that this was the only website needing a proper login, Shuichi settled back in to his own essay.

Being talented really wasn’t easy.

And it didn’t take a detective to know that this particular non-battle would happen again soon enough.

[welllpthisishappening]

A Touch of (March) Madness (1/2)

Emma can't quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.

Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn't matter.

She's picked her teams and her upsets and she's got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They're not playing the game, but they're playing a game and this one might change everything.

Rating: Teen’ish. Trash talking requires swearing.  Word Count: 9.1K HA.  AN: I owe @laurnorder​ my fic-writing soul, so when she texted me a couple weeks ago and was like...”It’s March, I think you should write basketball fic,” I was like...ok. And because I cannot rationalize Killian Jones playing basketball unless he’s some kind of JJ Reddick-type asshole, here are a lot of words about over-competitive friends and brackets and (maybe my very specific, personal) college basketball opinions. I will be honest and tell you guys this is definitely the most sports niche’y thing I have written and you probably need a general working knowledge of what the NCAA Tournament is, but there’s banter and eventual makeouts because of who I am as a person. Thank you, as always, to @distant-rose​ & @katie-dub​ for being endless sources of support and general fantastic’ness.  Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

Selection Sunday

“Can you just pick?”

“No.” “No? Did you tell me that you can’t pick? Are you physically incapable of making your picks then? Because that would almost explain some of your choices last year.” Killian doesn’t lift his head up, keeping his eyes trained on the small stack of papers in front of him and Emma cannot sigh loudly enough. His lips twitch slightly.

“This is not that hard,” she says and it’s hardly the first time she’s told him that, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference and it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“You say that like you’ve got a title to defend, Swan,” Killian mutters. “This is a tried and true system with several minutes of actual research put into it and long-standing biases that have helped shape the sport for what it is.” “Overflowing with controversy?” Emma asks glibly, jumping onto the edge of the counter and kicking out towards him. “Deception? Disgrace?” “You’re trying to goad me into quoting something, it’s not going to work.”

She sighs, but she absolutely was and his pen sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise relative silence of the apartment. Mary Margaret fell asleep hours ago.

“That’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Killian and she probably should have left already. She’s not sure why she hasn’t. Well, no, that’s a lie, but her apartment is far enough uptown that it’s probably better if she takes an Uber and she’s fairly certain they’re doing construction on the 2-train anyway.

Killian will probably make her take an Uber.

David’s probably got it on speed dial already.

“You really haven’t picked yet?” Emma continues and Killian shakes his head slowly, eyes darting up and she’s glad she’s already sitting down. “That’s also stupid. What’s your system, then?” “Excuse me?” “You said you had a tried and true system, explain it then, o ye master of competition.” Killian smirks, one eyebrow pulled dangerously high and Emma knows she’s not going to get an answer. “You know, I’m starting to think your compliments are ringing a little hollow there, Swan. I’ll admit that’s disappointing, but, again, I’ve got a title to defend and I’ll probably feel a lot better when I beat you all this year. Again. As per usual.”

He tugs a different pen from behind his ear – Emma dimly remembers something about color coding and possible upsets getting a different ink, but she’s fairly certain that it’s all conjecture just to annoy her. His tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth and it’s as infuriating as it is distracting because he’s absolutely right.

They’ve been at it for what has felt like actual days, crowding, as tradition dictates, onto the couch in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment for the selection show

And, as tradition dictates, they complain about every single seed and the pros and cons of Syracuse making it again – ”They finished tenth in the ACC, that’s just insulting to the rest of the field. “We know, David.” “What even is an Orange? That’s a fruit. That’s not a mascot. That’s not intimidating me at all.” We know, David.” “If I were Mt. St. Mary’s, I’d sue.” “We know, David.” – and eat a questionable amount of Indian food from the place that is, technically, closer to Killian’s apartment, but he knows their orders by heart now and he got Emma an extra samosa, so she’s not ever going to complain.

Unless it’s about how goddamn long it’s taking him to fill out his bracket.

It’s March and there’s still, somehow, snow on the ground in New York, but Emma’s just brought in some perp she’d been trailing for the last month and she’s got the next week off. It is, officially, the most wonderful time of the year.

And she can’t even really remember how it all started.

Technically, it probably started when she landed in the Nolan house several decades before, a vaguely jaded orphan no one had ever really wanted until Ruth Nolan did and decided, quite quickly, to give Emma the world.

And a brother she didn’t ask for.

Emma and David didn’t get along at first. They argued and bickered and they were the same age and he had that annoying, incredibly nice friend who lived down the street in Storybrooke who, at one point, Emma was convinced could talk to birds.

Emma was a frustrated, bitter eleven-year-old and the new girl again and Storybrooke, as far as she was concerned, was the absolutely worst. Until she tried to run away – and Mary Margaret found her.

It was Mary Margaret’s birthday and Emma couldn’t stomach the idea of another party and another town event at Granny’s and she slipped out the backdoor and...couldn’t get any farther. Mary Margaret showed up, exactly, twenty-seven minutes later to find Emma huddled in the corner of the alley, shoulders shaking and disappointment looming over her like a storm cloud and she did the single most Mary Margaret thing that Mary Margaret had ever done.

She hugged her.

And then went to bring her a slice of ice cream cake.

It got better after that.

Mary Margaret kept smiling and, presumably, talking to birds and Emma stopped picking fights with David just because he was there.

They were some kind of three-headed monster – never more than a few feet apart and speaking in blinks and tilts of heads when they had to and no one was surprised to discover that all three of them applied to the same school.

Xavier.

Naturally. They were already like the three musketeers.

And it was good and great and a slew of other adjectives for three musketeers who’d never really experienced the world, until David got assigned a new roommate second semester freshman year and Emma Swan hated Killian Jones with a passion strong enough to rival several suns.

He hated her right back.

Loudly. With a string of curses that regularly made Mary Margaret blush and left David smacking Killian’s shoulder, mumbling that’s my sister, man under his breath.

He was smug and far too good looking and he did that thing with his eyebrow that made Emma’s stomach twist and she would show up in his room unannounced and laugh when he couldn't quite scrape by a passing grade in that one business class they both took together.

The good looking thing wasn’t important.

And the bracket thing had been Mary Margaret’s idea.

Naturally. Again.

“Maybe if we’re doing something fun, you won’t hate him so much,” Mary Margaret reasoned and Emma hadn’t argued, much, because it was a chance to beat Killian Jones at something and then make sure he never forgot about it for the rest of his life.

Only Killian Jones was, actually, really, really good at picking teams in the goddamn NCAA Tournament.

“He’s some kind of soothsayer, I swear,” Emma shouted, her own bracket torn to shreds  and she still hated him, but he was always around and Mary Margaret and David had started acknowledging the longing looks they kept sending each other’s way that January.

“I think he’s got an algorithm or something,” David muttered.

Emma spun on the spot, glaring metaphorical daggers because she didn’t have any real daggers, and Killian held his hands up in mock surrender.

“There’s no algorithm,” he said. “Just a very good gut instinct and proclivity to being right.”

“God, you’re such an ass,” Emma groaned. “I bet you’re the only person in the country who picked that upset.” He shrugged.

And defended his inaugural title. For three years straight.

No one ever asked if they wanted to keep going, even after college and jobs and life, but no one asked if they all wanted to move to New York City either.

It just kind of happened.

And Emma just kind of stopped hating Killian.

He got under her skin. Or something less disgusting.

“Swan,” Killian says, jerking her out of memories and back to reality and she has no idea where she actually put her bracket.

“Yeah,” she mumbles and he’s smiling at her. Not smirking. No stupid eyebrow thing. A real, genuine smile and she wonders when that started making her breath catch and her eyes widen just a bit. “Here,” she adds when he stands up, eyeing her like she’s lost her mind. She might have. It’s probably with her bracket.

“I can see that. Although here seems a bit more physical and a hell of a lot less mental.” “Was that an insult? That sounded incredibly insulting.” Killian shakes his head, crossing the tiny space masquerading as a kitchen in three steps and his hand lands on her knee like there are magnets involved. “Not an insult,” he promises. “A genuine show of concern when you look like you’re trying to teleport back home.” “None of these words are making sense the way you’re saying them.” “Sounds like a sign.” “And an insult,” Emma hisses, kicking him in the shin. That feels a bit more normal. “Are you finally done?” “Mmhm.” “That’s awfully smug.” There’s the eyebrow arch.

“You’ve got quite a few opinions on my bracket, Swan,” Killian says and he’s started tapping his fingers on her jeans. Emma swallows. “I think it’s a defense mechanism.” “I think you’re refusing to talk about your so-called methods for picking teams because you know your good luck has finally run out and you’re nervous about what will happen if you don’t live up to expectations.”

She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, Killian’s fingers going deathly still when her mouth snaps closed and Emma bites her tongue to stop herself from doing anything else quite that stupid – like crying while sitting on the counter in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

And maybe she knows exactly when she stopped hating Killian.

“Purdue,” he says, ducking into her eye line and Emma has to blink, at least, sixty-seven times because the whole thing is ridiculous.

“What?” “Purdue. I picked Purdue to win.” “For real?” Killian tilts his head. “Why would I lie about that?” “I honestly have no idea, “ Emma admits. “But I’ve kind of lost track of the conversation and...honestly, Purdue though?” “You have something against Purdue, Swan?”

“No,” she snaps, shoving lightly at his shoulder and his gasps like it actually hurt. His hand is still on her knee. “But, like, why?” “That seems to fall decidedly in the realm of giving away my plan.”

Emma groans loudly, drawing a set of footsteps that were absolutely eavesdropping on the conversation and David hands her the bracket she filled out hours ago as soon as he’s within arms reach.

Killian’s hand is gone.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Cool. Totally cool. God, she can’t believe she just thought that.  

“You’re going homer again, this year, huh, Em?” David asks, phone already out and she nods so he can order her the goddamn Uber.

She scowls, eyes darting Killian’s direction before she can stop herself and he’s trying very hard not to smirk at her. It’s not really working.

“I am going with a potential winner this year,” Emma corrects archly. “If it just so happens that I pick our alma mater, then, you know, so be it. It’s their year.” “Did the boosters get you to say that?” “How far do you have them going?” "Far.” “That’s not an answer,” she mutters, but it sounds more like a growl and they’re definitely going to wake Mary Margaret up at some point. “When did we all decide to descend into secrecy over our brackets? M’s told me as she was filling hers out.” “That’s because Mary Margaret is not trying to win,” Killian points out. One of the pens is back behind his ear, arms crossed lightly over his chest and there’s really not enough room for all of them in this quasi-kitchen.

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s probably true and Mary Margaret regularly makes her picks based on nicknames, color schemes and the overall creepiness of mascots.

She’s never picked Providence. Ever.

“Whatever,” Emma mutters. “We’ve all reached a brand-new level of super strange competitiveness. I picked Xavier to win, not just because we all possess degrees from that school and they’ve now started calling asking for money, which I think is a sign of actual adulthood, but because they’ve got a good team this year and I genuinely believe they can win a national championship.”

“Because it’s their year, right?” David asks and he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. Emma flips him off. “Honestly though, Em, tell me something. Did you...did you rehearse that?” “Oh my God, you’re even worse than him.”

She jerks her hand in Killian’s direction and he makes a good show of being affronted, but there’s something lingering just on the edge of his expression that makes her wonder all sorts of things she shouldn’t even be thinking.

“These insults, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you do remember that Xavier lost to Villanova twice this year, right?”

“Villanova lost to St. John’s. At home. When they were the top team in the country.” “That’s a good point,” David mumbles, but Killian and Emma both wave him off and this is almost, painfully, normal. “Xavier still won the Big East outright,” she argues. “First time in like...I don’t know, whatever it was historic.” “Not the tournament and if you’re going to bring up facts, you need them to be accurate. That’s arguing one-oh-one..” “Why are you so against a Xavier run?” “I’m not,” he says. “I’m simply pointing out that Xavier has a habit of fucking up once they get to the later rounds. It happens every year.” “If you say tried and true I will get off this counter and punch you right in the face.”

Killian laughs, head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Mary Margaret makes noise from wherever she fell asleep. Hours ago. “I wasn’t going to,” he says lightly and maybe Emma’s got food poisoning from that extra samosa. It would explain whatever is going on with her brain and her thought processes and whatever her whole being does as soon as Killian’s hand lands on her knee. “These are just facts, Swan. And David picked Arizona.” “What?” Emma gasps, laughing as well when David starts cursing Killian to several different underworlds. “Oh my God, David, seriously? You want to talk about a team that disappoints regularly. Plus all that off-court shit! No way they even make the Sweet 16.” “They’ve got the best freshman in the country,” David reasons. “This is a sound choice. And I’m doing some kind of thing this year.”

Mary Margaret pads into the kitchen when Emma can’t bring herself to stop laughing, a blanket tugged tightly around her shoulders and sleep clinging to every one of her movements. “It’s a Wildcat movement,” she mumbles. “He’s picking Wildcat teams this year.” “What?” Emma asks. Killian is barely standing up.

“Wildcats. He's picking as many Wildcats teams because he thinks it’s funny.” “And because it makes sense,” David adds sharply, rolling his shoulder when Emma grips it to try and stay upright. “Or it would have if I’d been able to get it to work, but Midwest doesn’t have any Wildcats--” “What team,” Emma interrupts and Mary Margaret drops her blanket when she starts laughing, shouting back Wildcats on cue.

David rolls his eyes. “Anyway,” he continues pointedly. “I got three of four, so that’s a majority and it’s totally going to work because an Arizona and Villanova final is not only probable, I’m guaranteeing it.” “Wow, talking a big game.” “I’m confident. That’s all. And I’m tired of Jones winning every goddamn year, so I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “It’s not going to work,” Killian says easily and the other pen is in his back pocket. Emma can feel Mary Margaret staring at her. “I’ve got a system. And I’ve got consistency on my side. And nicknames or mascots or whatever don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’re always saying,” David grumbles. “You know what? Get out of my apartment and take your research with you because I’m not walking down the hall to put that in the garbage disposal.” “I mean, it should probably be recycling, right?” Emma asks, sliding off the counter and she’s suddenly far closer to Killian that she anticipated. She’s ninety-two percent positive he moved.

“You can get out of my apartment too. Your car is here, anyway.” “Ok, well, that’s rude, but thanks for the ride. Go back to sleep, M’s.”

Mary Margaret salutes, already halfway down the hallway and Emma glances Killian’s direction before she can lose her nerve. “You want a ride?” He blinks, like he’s trying to make sure he heard her right, and Emma chews on the inside of her lip, willing her stomach to act like an actual part of human anatomy.

He nods before he answers.

“Yeah, sure, Swan,” Killian says, grabbing his stack of paperwork and his ridiculous number of pens and they both sit in the backseat of an Uber on their way uptown.

They don’t say anything for the first dozen or so blocks, a companionable silence Emma never would have considered possible when she was a sophomore in college and spent most of her free time trying to figure out what Killian’s deal was.

She’s still not entirely sure she knows.

It’s a work in progress.

Or something.

Whatever.

“I can hear you thinking,” Killian says, gaze flitting her direction. “It’s very loud.” Emma bites her lip – mostly so she won’t smile and he won’t lord that over her for the rest of time. ���Is it distracting?” she asks, but it feels like a much bigger question.

“No. Just general curiosity.”

“Because you claim to hear my thoughts. That’s...you know that’s weird, right?” “Only because you’re making it weird,” Killian challenges and they’re at his apartment already. Emma’s not disappointed by that. God, she needs to sleep for the entire week she’s off. She can’t. She’s got basketball to watch.

And a bracket to defend.

“God,” Emma sighs, rolling her head on the back of the seat and top of her hair is damp from resting on the window. “Do you have to be right about absolutely everything? Or do you just get a kick out of arguing with me?” “Did you just use the phrase get a kick, Swan? That’s...did we teleport in this Uber?” “Get out.” “I’m asking a genuine question.” “And I’m telling you to get out.”

He blinks, lips pressed together tightly enough that it’s difficult to make them out in the dim light from the street lamps and the Uber driver is getting more and more pissed off by the second. And suddenly it’s like that day and Killian’s face does something stupid, softens or settles more into him, like he’s seeing Emma for the first time and pleasantly surprised to find her there.

She’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You know I’ve got Friday off,” he says and maybe they did teleport.

Emma lowers her eyebrows, tilting her slightly and if he doesn’t stop smiling at her she’s going to get out of the Uber and walk the rest of the way home. “What does that mean?” “Are you confused by the words or…” “God, stop being a dick!”

The Uber driver snorts.

Killian glares at him.

“I’m saying that I know you caught that guy last week and now August requires you to take at least five days off to recoup or make sure you actually get the kind of sleep a human being needs to function. Which means that you, presumably, will be home screaming at your TV--” “--I don’t scream at my TV.”

“Swan, sometimes you get up and actually try and play defense with the team. It might be my favorite thing you do.” “Ok, well, if this is just some twisted way for you to make fun of my questionable interest in college basketball then…”

Emma trails off when she notices the look on his face – another expression she’ll probably file away in that metaphorical file she’s absolutely, positively not keeping because they’re kind of friends now and that’s cool.

She can’t believe she just thought the word cool.

“What?” Emma asks, the word coming out like a whisper and her lip is bleeding.

“I wouldn’t do that, Swan.

“Anymore.” He shakes his head, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows and maybe whatever place they’ve teleported to has slightly brighter street lamps because the blue in his eyes seems to get sharper when he looks up at her.

“No,” Killian says. “Not anymore.” “So...was there an offer or an invitation in there or…” He grins. “I’ve got Friday off and I know you’ve got Friday off and I’ve got a better takeout selection than you do.” “See, you’ve just gotta add in those last, little insults don’t you?”

“You blink quicker when you get angry, did you know that?”

Emma shoves at his shoulder, like that will do anything at all, but he’s always had impossibly quick reflexes and she’s not even surprised when his fingers wrap around her wrist. She’s a bit more surprised by whatever her heart does in response and she’s fairly certain it’s the most he’s ever touched her in a 24-hour span. Or, like, a two-hour span.

“You want me to come here on Friday so we can watch basketball together?” Emma asks skeptically. Killian’s nodding before she can get the question out, eyes a hint wider when he tries to speak without actually speaking. “I think your team plays on Friday.” “I’m aware of the schedule, Swan. Xavier does too.” “It’s weird that you’ve memorized it already.” He hums noncommittally, but he really does have better takeout near his apartment and an exceptionally good coffee maker that Emma will undoubtedly use several times and, well, it might be kind of nice.

They’re friends now.

They spend time together. On their own. It’ll be fine.

Cool. It’ll be cool. Cool, cool, cool.

“Was anyone actually going to get out of the car or….” the Uber driver starts and Emma can’t quite mask her laugh. “Because I’ve got other fares I could be taking and…” “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” Killian promises, twisting behind him to open the door and it’s fucking freezing outside. He glances back at Emma, one leg on the sidewalk already. “Friday?” There’s something just on the edge of that too, but Emma can’t quite figure it out and the Uber driver is the single most impatient person on the planet. She nods before she can come up with any of the reasons it will not be cool.

“Yeah,” she says. “Friday.”

He flashes her a smile, rolling his eyes at whatever noise the Uber driver makes when he kicks at the door and Emma’s fairly positive she doesn’t mishear him when he leaves, the quiet see you later, love ringing in her ears for the rest of the night.

  The Play-In Games

David Nolan, Tuesday, 7:53 p.m.: Did we know that LIU Brooklyn was in the tournament? Emma Swan, 7:54 p.m.: It’s a play-in game it doesn’t count.

David Nolan, 7:55 p.m.: Also, what channel is TruTV?

Emma Swan, 7:55 p.m.: I’ll repeat myself.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, 7:56 p.m.: They’re playing a game, it definitely counts! They’re doing their best. And almost winning, kind of. Emma Swan, 7:57 p.m.: They are not almost winning. Where is LIU in Brooklyn? Shouldn’t it be...on Long Island.

Emma Swan, 8 p.m.: ????

Killian Jones, 8:01 p.m.: It’s right near Barclays.

Emma Swan, 8:03 p.m.: Why do you know that? Who knows that? No one. No one knows that.

Killian Jones, 8:04 p.m.: I know everything. You know this, Swan.

David Nolan, 8:07 p.m.: Guys. Seriously. This is a group text.

Emma Swan, 8:08 p.m.: Did you pick them?

Emma Swan, 8:15 p.m.: ……. Honestly, Jones? The tournament has started you can tell us who you picked.

Emma Swan, 8:17 p.m.: Killian, seriously!

David Nolan, 8:18 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.  

Emma scowls when LIU Brooklyn shoots like garbage in the second half and loses its opening-round game and she’s already picked one team wrong, which doesn’t seem like a very good sign. Her phone dings almost immediately.

Killian Jones, 8:59 p.m.: I didn’t pick them. Did you?

Blackbirds are stupid mascots.

David Nolan, Wednesday, 11:37 p.m.: WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ORANGE, ANYWAY?!?

Killian Jones, 11:38 p.m.: Bahahahahahahahahaha.

David Nolan, 11:40 p.m.: Screw you, Killian.

Emma Swan, 11:42 p.m.: Did you put a period after your maniacal laughter?

Killian Jones, 11:44 p.m.: Proper punctuation is important when you’re lording your basketball-picking ability over your lesser competition, Swan. And I take offense at maniacal. It was reserved, at worst.

Emma Swan, 11:44 p.m.: Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: The Pac-12 is garbage. ASU was never going to win. Syracuse plays in the ACC. Strength of schedule is important.

Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.: Plus, no college kid knows how to play against a zone.

Emma Swan, 11:46 p.m.: You shoot out of it. That’s just...that’s basic.

Killian Jones, 11:47 p.m.: Tell Arizona State that.

David Nolan, 11:49 p.m.: This. Is. A. Group. Text.

 The First Round, Thursday, Day One

Emma sinks into the corner of her couch, hair still a bit damp from the shower she probably should have taken hours before, but she’s officially in basketball mode and basketball mode requires her to be as lazy as humanly possible while watching college-age kids be the exact opposite for the next twelve hours.

It sounds weirder out loud than it does in her head.

LIU Brooklyn was the only misstep in her First Four picks and, really, that was more of a technicality because most brackets don’t require First Four picks, but they’re all a bunch of over-competitive weirdos and they do it anyway.

She still has no idea what Killian’s bracket looks like.

It’s probably frustratingly accurate, but there are sixteen games that day which means there are sixteen chances for him to be wrong, which is really all she wants.

And maybe she’s the most competitive weirdo of all.

Because Emma really, really likes winning and she liked it a hell of a lot more the one time she beat Killian the first March after undergrad, but she doesn’t hate Killian nearly as much as she did before.

It's a very confusing sentence and a very confusing thought and she needs to watch some of these games to distract her from whatever her mind has been doing over the last few days – replaying that Uber ride and the slight shake in his voice when he asked about Friday, like he was scared she’d say no or like, maybe, it meant something good and big and important and it felt a bit like déjà vu because his voice had done the same, exact thing when she decided she didn’t hate him.

He’d just defended his championship, making sure to point it out as often and loudly as possible, a few days into April and Emma desperately needed the Benadryl she knew David kept in a box under his bed in the apartment just off campus.

She considered going back to her own room – only a few blocks away with her own stock of Benadryl because pollen seemed to exist only to ruin her life every April – but Emma was fairly convinced her nose was about to fall off and she was walking through the door before she even realized she’d taken her key out.

And Killian nearly ran her over as soon as she walked through the threshold.

“Swan,” he slurred, eyes a bit glazed and an actual bottle in his hand. He wobbled when he stopped to glare at her, a sneer to his lips that had become almost too familiar at that point. “What are you doing here?” Emma shook her head, kicking back to close the door and Killian winced when it slammed into its frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, reaching out to tug the bottle out of his hand. He tightened his hold. “It’s like...two in the afternoon.” “Ah, well, then we’ve clearly fallen behind schedule. You want a drink, love? There’s a few options in the kitchen, although I’m not willing to share the rum.” “Not your love,” she said, mostly out of habit and he stumbled when she took another step towards him. “Seriously, what the hell is going on with you? You can’t even stand up straight.”

“That, my dear, is the point.” Emma glared, pressing her tongue on the inside of her cheek and it probably would have been intimidating if she didn’t sneeze very loudly two seconds later. It shook through whole body, leaving her sniffling and red-nosed and Killian was staring at her like she’d been replaced with a cyborg as soon as she lifted her head up.

“What?” Emma grumbled, sniffling again.

Killian opened his mouth, only to close it three more times and Emma realized, rather suddenly, that they’d never really had a conversation about….anything. They’d circled around each other for more than a year and had almost gotten the hang of small talk when David and Mary Margaret started making eyes at each other, but there was no depth to any of it.

She’d never asked about his hand – the prosthetic at the end of his left arm catching her attention the very first time she met him, but David had glared at her and the questions got caught in her throat and no one ever gave her an explanation. She’d never even really asked how he ended up at Xavier or why he was a year older than all of them with far fewer credits and he kept taking six classes a semester.

She hadn’t really ever bothered.

That felt decidedly….wrong.

Killian had, simply, come blazing into their lives like some kind of dying star or possibly a comet and Emma didn’t know enough about space to make those kinds of comparisons, but the dying part seemed particularly apt at the moment.

“David’s not here,” Killian said softly, a note of something that might have been disappointment in his voice. “He and Mary Margaret had class and then they were going somewhere to be painfully adorable so…” “So you decided to drink your entire alcohol supply?” “No, no, that had nothing to do with their proclivity to romance. Quite the opposite, in fact.” “That was a lot of very fancy words for a guy who’s having a difficult time staying upright,” Emma pointed out, tapping her finger lightly on his chest and it looked like he’d frozen. “Honestly, you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with you?” Killian tilted his head, gaze a hint sharper than it had been a moment before and Emma bit her lip. Tightly. “It’s not exactly like we’re friends, Swan. Or even acquaintances, really. You tolerate at me, at best.”

“Ok, well, you don’t really like me either,” Emma argued. “You think I’m…” “What? Please. Tell me exactly what I think about you.”

She stomped her foot, growling low in the back of her throat and Killian did something absolutely ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Fine, fine,” she hissed. “You want to get blasted in the middle of the afternoon, fine. I couldn't care less. I came here to steal some of David’s allergy medicine because the world is attacking me. So I will go get that and then you can get back to your one-person pity party of whatever it is you’re being pitiful about.”

Emma nodded once, like that had won whatever argument they’d been staging, stepping around him towards David’s room, but she barely made it one step before Killian’s fingers wrapped around her shoulder.

“Did you say the world was attacking you?” he asked and it was the last question she expected.

“Yeah. I’m, uh...super allergic to pollen. Spring is, like, my own personal brand of hell.” Killian hummed, taking another swig of whatever was in the bottle – the label had peeled off at some point – before offering it to her. “It’s almost better than Benadryl,” he said and it felt like a much bigger offer.

She took the bottle and the rum – it was rum, incredibly good rum that probably cost a questionable amount of money – shivering when it burned the back of her throat and settled in the pit of her stomach and it almost felt like she could breathe a little better.

“He really never told you?” Killian continued softly. “David, I mean. He knows...the whole thing.” Emma shook her head. “David wouldn’t do that. Not if you didn’t want him to.” “Well, I mean, they’re dead, so it’s not as if they’re going to be offended by me talking about them behind their back.” “What?” “There really is almost a reasonable explanation for the alcohol.”

“Ok,” Emma muttered, nodding in the direction of the second-hand couch in the corner of the room. “But we really should sit down for this because you honestly look like shit and I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything if you fall over.” Killian scoffed, but he didn’t argue and they spent the next forty-six and a half minutes sitting on opposite sides of the couch, passing the bottle back and forth and he told her everything.

He told her about Liam and Milah and the accident that took both of them at the same time and how he was fairly positive it was some kind of absurd joke when he woke up in the hospital bed, eighteen years old with one less hand than he expected.

He told her about getting out of that town and trying to decide what do next and how to honor both of them without living in the past.

It wasn’t easy, but there were classes and loans and his brother always thought Killian could do anything, so he figured he might as well. He ended up at Xavier by chance, a scholarship that just sort of landed in his lap and a business program that was good and great and a slew of other adjectives that might have included insane because--

“Liam would have been thirty today,” Killian said, taking his time on the words and he kept staring at a piece of string on the one couch cushion in between them. “And he would have hated that I did…” He waved his hand through the air, as if that was enough description, smiling softly when Emma pulled the bottle back to her side of the couch. “But I woke up this morning and I got another shit grade in that marketing class and I can’t…” “So then don’t,” Emma shrugged. Her words felt heavy, hanging on the tip of her tongue and jumbling in the air and Killian stared at her like she was that cyborg again.

“What?”

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Do something else.” “Like...what?” “Anything. You’re minoring in something, right?” Killian nodded slowly, groaning when she wouldn’t relinquish control of the bottle. They’d put quite a dent in it. “Classics,” he said. “You know...Greeks and myths and that kind of thing.” “So do that.” “That’s not really how it works, Swan. And this is sounding incredibly out of character. I wasn’t aware you were so positive.” “Ok, first of all, that’s rude and, second of all, I have known Mary Margaret for nearly a decade now, so some of that is bound to rub off. And third of--” “--There’s a third thing?” Killian asked incredulously and he grinned when Emma stuck her tongue out.

“There would be if you’d let me finish,” she muttered. “Everything you’ve just told me about your brother makes it seem like he was Mary Margaret levels of supportive, right?” Killian hummed again. Emma rolled her eyes. “So then he thought you should major in business because, what, there were careers in it?” Killian shrugged.

“God, you’re the most frustrating drunk in the world, you know that? We’ll go with that theory for now because there are also jobs in the classics and you could...I don’t know, you could teach or something.” “What?” “We are going in circles.” Killian shook his head, like he was trying to work through some more fog or metaphorical cobwebs and Emma felt the muscles in her face shift. She was smiling.

She was smiling at him.

“I just think you could do it,” she said, absolutely ignoring whatever Killian’s entire being did as soon as the words fell out of her. She took another swig of rum. “And I bet your brother would have too. You shouldn’t have to be worried about a marketing grade.”

He didn’t say anything for several days, at least, and Emma had never been particularly good at patience and she wasn’t entirely prepared for--

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on one of her knees. Emma suddenly felt far more drunk than she was. “For, well, for all of it. Being a dick and...being a dick.”

Emma’s smile widened, ducking her head and she sneezed when her hair brushed her nose. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Truce?” She stuck her hand out and, eventually, she’d blame the rum and whatever he was doing with his face, but in the moment it made a hell of a lot of sense and Killian’s fingers were warm.

“Truce,” he echoed.

Emma never got the Benadryl, but they finished the rum and Mary Margaret’s laughter woke both of them up where they’d fallen asleep on the couch.

He changed his major two days later.

And, now, Emma can’t stop thinking about that day and what it meant or, maybe, means because things got better, but Killian is still David’s friend and Emma is still David’s sister and she’s definitely thinking about this way too much.

Particularly when there’s an upset brewing.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, reaching for her phone because she totally picked this one. She absolutely picked this one. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she mutters and patience is still not one of her strong suits.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What?” Killian whispers. “Is someone dead?” Emma nearly drops her phone. “No, what? Why?” “Swan, it is four in the afternoon. I have class. I am in class.” “Why did you answer your phone, then?” “You called me, love,” he says like it’s obvious and it kind of is and it makes every single one of her internal organs do something stupid. “So just to double check. No one is dead? David and Mary Margaret are fine?” “Presumably.” “Swan.” “Yes,” Emma sighs. “David and Mary Margaret are both fine. I just...well, it sounds stupid now. Are you actually in class? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“In a normal class, sure, but I’m a fantastic professor and my rules are much cooler than a normal class. And,” he adds, ignoring her not-so-quiet laughter completely. “It’s March, Swan. Early’ish March. There are midterms, you know.”

“Is that why you have tomorrow off?” “Mmmhmmm.”

“Oh, shit, does it make me a bad friend that I didn’t know that?” “I don’t expect you to have my schedule memorized, love.”

That’s two loves in the same conversation and, maybe, three in the last week and it’s not like Emma’s counting, but she isn’t not counting and--

“Yeah, but I feel like I should know that,” she continues. “Are you talking on the phone with me in the middle of a midterm? Because that’s also kind of shitty.” “I went outside. Figured if there was some kind of death notice imminent then I should be away from the prying eyes of undergrads.” “That is...morbid.” Killian laughs and Emma’s organs are just, like, on fire at that point. “I’ve been reading a lot of essays about the Underworld recently. It’s put me in a mood.” “Maybe I should bring more alcohol tomorrow.” “I wouldn’t say no, although we probably should wait until the later games for that, don’t you think?”

“Look at you, a picture of responsibility,” Emma says and her cheeks are starting to ache. She refuses to acknowledge the symmetry of her thoughts and their current conversation and he never brought it up again.  

He just changed majors and started taking more classes and went to grad school and he had a satchel now. She teased him about it mercilessly.

“Sometimes,” Killian admits. "Why’d you call, Swan?” “Did you pick Loyola Chicago?”

“Excuse me?” “First-round games. Loyola Chicago. Did you pick them beating Miami because they just beat Miami. I know you didn’t pick this so--” “--Of course I did.”

Emma blinks. “What?” “I definitely picked them. I think they could make a run. How’d they win?” “No, no, you don’t get that,” Emma mutters and he’s laughing again, free and easy and she wishes he were there. So she could kick him. Or something else. Whatever. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck is Loyola Chicago even?” “Presumably it’s a school,” he reasons. “And you might want to watch that, Swan because my research shows they’ve got some kind of nun on their side and I don’t think you want to jinx yourself like that.” “I’m going to murder you.” “You’ve just jinxed it.”

Emma makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat and it’s not particularly human, but it draws another laugh out of Killian and at least she also picked the upset. “I can’t believe you researched Loyola Chicago,” she says. “Why?” “Swan, we’ve been over this, there’s a system and it’s tried and true and I’m sharing it with you. Also Miami has been streaky all season. That was an easy upset.”

“Of course it was.” “Anything else to report?” “Don’t you have some kind of internal update that lets you know when your bracket stays perfect? That way your ego never takes a hit?” “That’s rude, Swan. And, no, I don’t. C’mon, update me.”

She does – spends the next five minutes giving him a run down of the early games and the pros and cons of Trae Young leaving Oklahoma after his first year, of which there are many because his jump shot is off sometimes, Killian, you know it, I know it, NBA front office knows it and she’s almost surprised when he mutters that he has to actually go acknowledge his class eventually.

“Oh, right, right, right,” Emma stammers, but she’s ninety-nine percent positive Killian is still smiling. “And I think Collin Sexton is a better freshman than Trae Young and whoever that Arizona kid David was talking about.” “I’ve got no doubt you’re right, love,” Killian says. Her body, possibly, explodes. “You want to tag-team David when Arizona gets upset later on tonight?” “Arizona’s not going to get upset later on tonight.”

Her phone dings as soon as the Arizona game ends and Emma’s watched enough basketball that her brain is starting to get a bit muddled, but she can still spot a monumental sporting moment and Arizona got upset.

By Buffalo.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:57 p.m.: Please do not say anything. He threw the remote.

Emma Swan, 11:57 p.m.: Uh oh.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:59 p.m.: I’m serious, Emma.

Emma Swan, 12 a.m.: I said no words.

Killian Jones, 12:02 a.m.: I will gladly say words. Off-court issues are on-court problems and Sean Miller is a terrible coach. Go back to Dayton.

Emma Swan, 12:03 a.m.: Were you...just talking to Sean Miller? Via text?

Killian Jones, 12:03 a.m.: Yes. Also I will repeat myself from the First Four. The Pac 12 is terrible. You picked the wrong Wildcat, David.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: It’s unfortunate, but you know, someone’s got to be out first, David. It just so happened you were first on the first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The very first day.

Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.: The first one.

Killian Jones, 12:05 a.m.: As early as possible.

David Nolan, 12:11 a.m.: THIS. IS. A. GROUP. TEXT.

The First Round, Friday, Day Two

“It’s freezing and I’m here and I bought really expensive rum!”

The lock to his building clicks and Emma doesn’t exactly race up the stairs, but she doesn’t just walk up the stairs and by the time she makes it to the third floor there’s a stitch in her side that leaves her just a bit breathless.

Killian’s eyebrows are doing something ridiculous.

“You ok, Swan?” he asks, stepping out of the doorway and grabbing the bottle before she can object. “Did you run here?” She sticks her tongue out in response, pushing lightly on his shoulder and she really does lose her breath at the sight in front of her. There’s already a pre-game show on TV and two more screens and some kind of projector thing hooked up to his laptop and Emma can feel Killian behind her, something that feels like nerves rolling off him.

“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s just...wow.” He makes a noncommittal noise, more nerves and caution and Emma wonders if her week-long thought process makes a bit more sense than she originally thought. But that’s only more confusing and she kind of wants to drink some of the rum now.

“It’s really not that impressive,” Killian promises, dropping into the corner of his couch with forced casualness. “The laptops are mine and I borrowed the projector thing from school and there are a lot of games, so I figured…” Emma nods slowly, trying to take it all in and it might be the nicest thing that’s happened to her in several years. “You figured right,” she promises. “You going to let me see your bracket then?”

It’s enough to break the tension or the nerves or anything else that isn’t the sort of normal she and Killian have settled into and the couch creaks when she sits down.

“I think you’re obsessed with my bracket, love,” Killian says. She’s still not counting. “And, no, you can't look yet. Not until it's over.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't really argue because there's a game starting and she doesn't really want to argue. They’re both more than vocal when Cincinnati plays, shouting a string of insults that gets progressively more crass throughout the game.

And they’re somewhere in the middle of the schedule, debating when they should order food and how qualified Emma is to operate the coffee maker on the other side of the apartment, when she decides fuck it, she’s going to ask.

Or something a little less crass.

“Why’d you pick Purdue?” Emma asks. “Honestly?” The question catches Killian short, eyes widening until there’s far too much blue there and it looks a little like the Creighton uniforms on TV, which is, honestly, the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought.

“And please don’t make a quip about being obsessed again,” Emma adds. “It’s stupid and a deflection and--” “That’s where Liam wanted to go,” Killian cuts in, voice scratchy and emotional and she knows her mouth drops open. She’s not sure she’s breathing.

Her lungs have been through the wringer all day.

“I have no idea why,” he continues and he’s not looking at her anymore. “It makes no sense whatsoever because Purdue is several states away from where we grew up, but he did and he thought a Boilermaker was some kind of fantastic mascot and I think he kind of wanted to be an engineer? But then my mom died and he had to take care of me so--” “That wasn’t your fault.” They need to stop interrupting each other. They need to stop having these emotionally-charged conversations in the middle of a basketball marathon with takeout menus everywhere.

They probably should have done this before.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you didn’t even make a joke about Purdue’s top kid getting hurt.” “You think I’d make jokes about kids getting hurt?” He sobers for a moment, eyes darting to hers immediately and the whole word seems to shift when he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, but it sounds like several admissions and some kind of major sporting moment and Emma tries to remember how important oxygen is to the human body. “I know you wouldn’t do that.” “You’re kind of a sap, you know that?” Killian chuckles softly, leaning forward and his hand is on her knee again. Time, it seems, is some kind of twisted circle.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, love.”

Emma’s mouth goes dry at the sincerity in his voice, the hint of hopefulness on the edge of his gaze, like he means it and has been waiting to tell her for several years. She can feel the flush in her cheeks, teeth digging into her lower lip and his hand tightens a fraction of an inch.

He doesn’t flinch when hers lands on top.

She considers twisting their fingers together, but there have already been enough upsets and that team with the nun mascot was all over social media the night before, so Emma figures the world only allows so many surprises in a twenty-four hour span.

“Yeah, me too,” she says instead and she might think about his answering smile for the next week. “You want to order some food?”

They order way too much food and eat way too much food and Emma almost expects Killian’s cheers when they both start yelling during the Xavier game.

It’s easy and simple and they watch every single moment of every single game, only pausing a few times to answer David’s manic texts once UMBC takes a lead into halftime against Virginia.

“He thinks they’re going to win,” Emma mutters, but she’s standing and pacing, mumbling instructions under her breath.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do you not, love? As predicted, you’re playing defense. And rooting against your own pick.” “Aren’t you? I thought we determined you were a giant, sentimental sap?” “I’m not sure we settled on that turn of phrase, particularly, but to answer your question, of course I am. A little bracket chaos never hurt anyone.” “Plus you’re a great, big history nerd.” “You know none of these compliments sound much like compliments.”

Emma flashes him a smile, but her gaze darts back to the TV when Jim Nantz’s voice reaches a previously unachieved register and she’s not sure she’s ever heard of UMBC before.

They’re up double digits.

“I’m definitely complimenting you,” Emma promises. “And you know…” She waves her hand towards the screen, rolling her eyes when her phone makes more noise. Killian hasn’t blinked since the takeout got cold. He’s staring at her like he’s trying to read her mind or figure out what league UMBC plays in and they’re equally disconcerting and exciting because there’s more history to be made.

Maybe.

Emma hates her own metaphors.

“I don’t,” he mutters, gaze steady and just a hint imploring. Like he wants to know. Desperately.

“Well, maybe you deserve some compliments,” Emma starts. “And, you know...maybe I’m kind of a sap too. Rooting for the underdogs and upsets and picking the alma mater because there’s some history and...cut me off whenever.” He shakes his head, standing up slowly, and he’s in her space a moment later, one hand on the curve of her shoulder – as if he’s trying to make sure she’s there or keep her there and there are only a few minutes left in the game.

“That’s not a bad thing, Swan,” Killian says. “You’re allowed to care about things.”

“Yeah, sometimes those have a habit of blowing up in my face. The underdogs disappoint. That’s just how it works.” They are drowning in metaphors.

And he showed up on her doorstep a little over a year ago when she and Neal dissolved into whatever they weren’t, got her to let him into the apartment and brought her an entire box of samosas. He slept on her couch.

The buzzer on the TV goes off.

UMBC won.

History made.

Or something less sentimental.

“Not always,” Killian breathes, but Emma hears him perfectly and she’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive he’s going to kiss her when her phone dings, at least, seventy-six times.

She’s not sure which one of them groans louder.

“David needs a hobby,” Emma grumbles.

“This is his hobby.” ‘Well, then he needs a new one. This is just…” “Yeah, exactly.” “Why did that sound like an insult?” Killian makes a dismissive noise, an air of frustration lingering around him and Emma needs to go home. She doesn’t really want to go home. “It wasn’t,” Killian says. “It was just…” He’s going to do damage to his neck if he keeps shaking his head, but Emma’s forgotten how to hold a conversation and she’s too busy being stunned by the next words out of his mouth to be worried about saying anything except--

“What?” “It’s late,” he mumbles. “And you’re going to get surge pricing and you can just stay here.”

That’s what she thought he said.

Huh.

“Oh,” Emma blinks. “That’s um...are you sure?” That’s not what she expects to say.

Huh.

Again.

Killian nods. It’s a nice change of pace. So is the smile and that one lock of hair on his forehead and his hand is still on her arm.

“Yeah, yeah, it makes sense, right?” he asks. “And then you can raid the coffee again in the morning. It’s a win-win for you.” “Ok,” Emma says, a quick agreement that seems to rush out of her and into the air molecules where it lingers for several history-making, relationship-changing moments. “Ok.”

He absolutely refuses to let her sleep on the couch and Emma doesn’t argue, just smiles and lets herself be silently charmed by it and of course he has extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. She falls asleep under the questionable number of blankets on his bed, a smile lingering on her face and in her soul or something equally ridiculous and he doesn’t say anything when she drinks four cups of coffee the next morning.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT CHANCE

The thing about languages, though, that all other things being equal, a company that found a way to choose a good language. Not quite so dominant as it had been one of the secrets of success. But if they made as little now as they did then, in real dollar terms, they'd seem like small fry compared to professional athletes and whiz kids making millions from startups and hedge funds. I wouldn't claim it's painless. There is no boss to trick, only users, and sources of new ideas. I was trying to make things happen for them on purpose rather than by accident, the frequency of helpful chance meetings in the Valley is so high that it's still a significant increment on what we can deliver. I'm still not sure whether he thought AI was nonsense and that majoring in something rigorous would cure me of such stupid ambitions. I know many people who switched from math to computer science because they found math too hard, and no one who has more experience at trying to predict that, so stories of this type on the cover of every issue. In fact, one of them.

If we ever got to the point where you see results. Another thing blogs and open source software. Here I want to know what languages will be like in a hundred years ago. The way I studied for exams in these classes was not except incidentally to master the material taught in the class, but to make a complete catalog of a number of independent things. If you throw them out, you find that open source operating systems already have a large and rapidly growing user base, and if not it doesn't matter if you paint at all. The bigger the community, the greater the chance it will contain the person who has that one thing you need most. So I seem to have to do a half-assed job. When the Mac first appeared, you didn't even have to turn it on to know it would be for the company to build their own: if you feel you're speaking too slowly, you're speaking at about the right speed. Startups hate this as well, partly because as the company's daddy he can never show fear or weakness, and partly because billionaires get less than zero sympathy if they talk about them is useless. They would seem to have to trick yourself into doing it.

Your primary goal is not to be Henry Ford. This works well in some fields this might get ugly. To the extent there is a great temptation to work on big stuff. If you have a hell of a coincidence to explain. For example, I stumbled on a good algorithm for spam filtering because I wanted to learn more. And once started this process spreads through the whole economy, because at the beginnings of people's careers they can easily switch not merely employers but industries. Unfortunately that might not be as big a problem as we think. You can't look a big problem too directly in the eye. Chance meetings let your acquaintance drift in the same way about the software they're writing for you. The political commentators who come up with will not merely be bad, but that's why they're allowed to persist. Startups are increasingly raising money on convertible notes, and convertible notes have not valuations but at most valuation caps: caps on what the meaning of is is.

But VCs are mistaken to look for the next one; they run pretty frequently on this route. Tip: for extra impressiveness, use Greek variables. The only thing professors trust is recommendations, preferably from people they know. In Shakespeare's time, mystery was synonymous with craft. Few dissertations are read with pleasure, especially by their authors. Logically, you don't worry that it might come out badly, or upset delicate social balances, or that people might think you're getting above yourself. That's the connection. For the past 9 years it was my job to predict whether people would have what it took to start successful startups. Experts can implement, but they keep them mainly for defensive purposes. Starting one's own business meant starting a business that would start small and stay small.

He was a pretty nice guy, but at every stage you have a taste for genuinely interesting problems, indulging it energetically is the best stick gatherer going to be working hard enough. As I looked further back, I kept finding the same pattern played out in 1964 and 1972. Olin Shivers has grumbled eloquently about this. But I was never able to figure out exactly what happened inside the motel—exactly what was killing all the potential startups. Plus as companies became smaller it became easier to estimate how much an employee contributed to the wave of hostile takeovers in the 1980s, and no amount of evidence to the contrary seems to be a successful product company in the supply chain focuses on what they know. The angel investors who funded our startup let the founders have that first million, or at least half million? For PhD programs, the professors do.

If universities and research labs keep hackers from doing the kind of problem that good people like to work for years on one project, and trying to decide whether to change some part of it doesn't have to think any faster; just use twice as many words to say everything. Well, the professor replied, we're interested in different questions now. Ok, so how do you become a great hacker doing that; and two, even if he was good, he'd have won. This is where it's helpful to have a disproportionately low probability of the latter. Most investors know this m. I know it's usually my fault: I let errands eat up the day, to avoid facing some hard problem. The other problem with pretend work is that it wouldn't work to. That may be the more important of the two parties cancel one another out, with no expectation of getting anything in return. Ideas and even the enforcement of quality. Amateurs I think the way to be good. So don't spend your precious few minutes talking about crap when you could be talking about solid, interesting things you know a lot about matters of principle, and they turned out ok. You also can't tell from his portfolio.

There were a few startups who hit these limits accidentally because of their unusual circumstances—most famously 37signals, which hit the limit because they crossed into startup land from the other direction: they started as a consulting firm, so they had to do, now that this market was ripe, was to reach out and pick it. Or more precisely, their CEO is. As for it being impossible, I reply: here's the data; here's the theory; theory explains data 100%. To do something well you have to do to get into college, for example? Software companies, at least. And though starting a startup is a project of one's own in two senses, both of them important: it's creatively one's own, and they were actually a lot happier now that they didn't have the people yelling insults out of cars. This is what open-source projects rather than research, but out of a random set of individual biases, because the rate of evolution in programming languages is likely to lead, because they enjoy it. They let their acquaintance drift, but only a few things we can say with some confidence is that these are the glory days of hacking. The only thing professors trust is recommendations, preferably from people they know.

For centuries the Japanese have made finer things than we have in the past been the ones with the most power. You don't do that if you don't go to that extreme; it caused him a lot of things practically all humans have in common. And the m. A has enormously elaborate, custom paperwork. And I can see why political incorrectness would be a crapshoot. All they're tasting is the peppers. Most people who write about politics, whether on the left or right in their morning-after analyses are like the financial reporters stuck writing stories day after day about the random fluctuations of the stock market crash does seem to have co-evolved with our interest in faces, there's something special about primary colors for nearly all of us, because it's hidden behind a thick glass wall and surrounded by a frenzied crowd taking pictures of themselves in front of it. And yet there may be a way to generate deal flow for series A rounds with no loss of quality. All such work tends to be way more than the subsequent ones. If good art is art that achieves its purpose particularly well.

Thanks to Sam Altman, and Trevor Blackwell for sparking my interest in this topic.