#cackled when it cut back to the parents bc i was sitting there being like damn did mom and dad leave yet or

[whoslaurapalmer]

so i never do this but i put a lot of thought into really specific details about the structure and scene layout of (the three-part folding mirror) and i really really really want to talk about it so here are some of my notes and some general commentary 

-the crux of the fic, at least the way i had envisioned it, is what vfd does to family, how it becomes biological family vs the family created by vfd

-what vfd did to specific families: -physically separated the calibans -morally separated the denouements and the snickets -somehow brought the anwhistles closer together

-in terms of ramona and olaf, ramona was there to stress the distinction of biological family vs. vfd family but also how they’re so inextricably intertwined with each other, and olaf, this is harder to tell bc he doesn’t have a point of view here, but olaf is scoping out potential candidates for his personal group of firestarters – his own sort of “family” (ramona bc she’s a duchess, ernest because he has a similar line of thought, josephine because her husband is working with the mushrooms, the white-faced women because, well they wind up in his troupe and I have very vague headcanons about how that happens)

-related; the reason frank asks olivia about miranda at the end is because, at that point in the fic, frank feels so terrible about what he said to ernest that he’s trying to reassure himself that his family is still okay because (dewey’s right) at least they’re together, compared to the calibans, who haven’t seen each other in years. it was one of the first ideas I had when I was jotting ideas down in april and it stuck with me the whole way through. I really wanted it in there. I went back and forth before I got to this plot, though, on whether or not frank or ernest would be the one asking it. but I think it fits frank. -(ahahahahahaha the kicker being that miranda really was at the party the whole time and olivia didn’t recognize her) -anyway 

-the parallels in the fic were: -the denouements start the fic together, and end the fic alone (by being honest about how they feel about each other) -the snickets start the fic relatively separated, and end the fic together (by being dishonest about what happened during the party) -the denouements start the fic by playing their game, and the snickets end the fic with theirs -frank is mistaken for ernest, ernest is mistaken for frank -frank pretends to be ernest on accident, ernest pretends to be frank on purpose -dewey has never slammed a door in his life; towards the end of the fic he slams the tray -i….think that’s all of them. I think

-character-wise, jacques and frank both see themselves as the people holding their families together; when in fact for the denouements, it’s dewey, which I think is clear in this, and for the snickets it’s lemony, which is less clear here? but definitely something I agree with -dewey and kit see themselves as the most ‘normal’, and they both have relatively solitary positions of acquiring information -ernest and lemony clearly both vibe on a ‘question vfd’ wavelength -i was also interested in kit and ernest, as siblings who feel stifled by an older/perceived older sibling, and dewey and lemony, who are sometimes unnecessarily protected by their siblings because they are the youngest/perceived youngest -this doesn’t show up in the fic bc olaf’s parents are still alive, but I thought ramona and olaf were also interesting foils re: reacting to their parent’s deaths

-some narration notes: -frank never refers to ernest and dewey as his brothers, except in the scene where he argues with ernest. because frank doesn’t necessarily see the split of biological family vs vfd family but has definitely swayed more to vfd family -ernest and dewey always refer to each other as brothers. -similarly, frank refers to the members of vfd as associates, most everyone else refers to them as friends. -ernest refers to vfd as strictly VFD because he’s distanced himself from it, while everyone else calls it ‘the organization’ -frank doesn’t swear even in his narration when he’s thinking them and not saying them because it’s, still his narration. he still wouldn’t quite completely say the words. (oh, he’s like gansey, like that. the raven cycle is still on my brain. i had so many scene sketches where ernest and frank were way too callous to each other bc they kept coming out like ronan and declan.)  -kit’s line at the beginning is “someone in this very room has betrayed us” which is jacques’s line from the building committee meeting in unauto. the clock saying wrong afterwards is because the someone who really betrayed them (lemony) isn’t in the room. 

-the costumes, which i did decide very arbitrarily: monty: clearly a snake. olaf: sigh. wolf ramona and olivia: oh, there was actually a slight distinction that just no one notices because none of them have looked at an insect (and also because describing clothes properly but succinctly is the hardest thing. i've written fic for a long time!!!!! i did my time in block paragraph clothing description hell!!! it haunts me!!!!!!!!!!), but ramona was the butterfly and olivia was actually a dragonfly. their masks are roses because, well 1) I thought that would be cool 2) butterflies and dragonflies land on flowers…. jacques: the boxwood, but a lion otherwise. josephine: ocean widdershins: the octopus with the pirate hat jacquelyn: the gold star suit (because gustav said she should do it for a play on. star. like. actress star.) miranda: uranus’s moon named miranda. it was very vague and I put that in the fic before I decided to have her in the little scene with esme. and then i thought i would put her in that scene too. gustav: phantom of the opera.  haruki: tree frog hector: tree (not because of haruki’s costume but because i literally could not think of a damn thing for hector to be) lemony: uhhhhhh I had vague ideas he was. a cloud or something. like a stormcloud???? couldn’t pan out though. I like him in grey anyway. kit: I really just wanted her in red. with a big cape. and i spent so much time mentally deciding if i wanted her to have glasses or not in the archives that i forgot to mention her mask. everyone has one i swear to god  white faced women: did anyone recognize that was them? :) it’s not mentioned in any way at all but in my head they were all dressed identically as flappers

esme actually doesn’t have one, because I, forgot, to give her one. I’m taking suggestions. 

-references to lyeekha’s fics: -“that which is essential is invisible to the eye” is what frank says to jacques at the end of edge, and also the title of their snicket/denouement series  -it initially wasn’t in there, because I was worried it wasn’t, like, in the right tone, re: what happens in edge vs how I was interpreting jacques and frank? but i liked it a lot. so i put it back in.  -“frank quit smoking, but you didn’t” is a reference to frank smoking at the end of rigged  -guess the guest and the clock alcove are from the end of fragments, with dewey and ernest watching hotel guests. this is my favorite thing in the whole world and something i actually keep forgetting is not canon because it is SUCH the perfect beethoven parallel  -kit’s tattoo, which I was specifically imagining as the giant bombinating beast tattoo from ink on her back, which is definitely not around her neck but that was the only spot of skin she was showing so it was available and my thought was, it was kind of a low-cut in the back dress, and she was wearing the cape to cover up the giant tattoo on her back because beatrice was not there to cover it up with makeup (also bea picked out the dress.) (bea: if I can’t be there you have to make a statement) (kit: I have to what) -lemony being a “powerful, mythical figure” to the sugar bowl gen was actually something I wrote a long time ago, back in 2013, and I put it in the fic because I thought it fit, and then happened to reread double edged VERY late into the rewriting, literally THE DAY after I wrote that line in, and i saw a similar line of thought, and I was like “*cooper voice* sometimes you just get lucky ~ ” -jacques being in a lion costume, from the masquerade outfit sketches

additionally – -yes I am still cackling about ‘angel of my apple’ -angel of my apple -ANGEL OF MY APPLE  -writing olaf is constantly like, he can say the funniest fucking things. and then turn around and say the absolute cruelest shit and the balance can be difficult.  -but, angel of my a p p l e 

-i can’t believe that out of all the people here, frank and jacques are the ones having the most semi-successful romantic relationship. well, ramona and olivia, too, but frank and jacques actually kiss so good for them -i know it was very vague and it’s because writing romance is physically embarrassing, but yes that last line was supposed to be them kissing, i’m so sorry 

-undercover underwater was a last-minute addition because I didn’t want to take the time to try and google something real and good because I didn’t have the time. my guilty pleasure is super shitty hallmark murder mystery movies (I like good murder mysteries as well, thank you.) and my mom’s been reading terrible murder mysteries during lunch (where I was sitting across from her, also eating lunch, but also hiding behind my laptop and writing the fic) so I just came up with undercover underwater on the spot, but my mom came up with the tagline. it was originally ‘sleeps with the fishes’ (especially because i love the godfather movies which also, clearly has a very big stress on family vs The Family) but I thought ‘diving for the truth’ was funnier. -my mom and my brother (who has no interest in shitty murder mysteries, but loves to verbally smack them down with me re: their predictable tropes) and I decided that the plotline was something like, single woman scuba dives and keeps running into stuff (you know, hidden treasure, dead bodies, the like); her love interest drives the boat; her overbearing family member is an aunt; this is definitely like, book four in the series. there’s probably twelve books or something. (she goes on vacation on like book six and still finds a dead body, come on it practically writes itself.) (she probably owns a little fish tank......it’s a small sunny beach town.........etc etc.........) (it’s so easy to do this.)  -oh, fixer upper is the worst hallmark murder mystery series, murder she baked is the best. in my opinion. 

-dewey and lemony were supposed to have an actual conversation at the hors d��oeuvres table but every time I tried to put lemony in earlier he just wouldn’t work. it didn’t feel right. so he got saved for the reveal. -but i’m still delighted by the idea of lemony literally doing the shot of gazpacho.  -dewey uses a spoon because he doesn’t have the composure or the guts to do a shot of cold soup  -lemony was also supposed to have a scene with kit and one with jacques, i’m pretty sure, to lead up to the gazpacho conversation and the commiserating re: siblings. but again, didn’t work out. so then dewey had to fare alone in the scene. -oh!! the line about how lemony hides, in the least likely places, was actually something that was in my initial write of lemony’s scrapped pov of my ellington fic. jacques being responsible for sending olivia to the hinterlands was from a scrapped jacques fic.  -steal from your unused fic. 

-because I had to take scenes with lemony out, I had some, gaps in the night that I had to fill in (especially because this is a party more people are there than the snickets and the denouements), so that was how esme, the herpetology squad, and olaf and josephine came to be. (also olaf needed to show up again somewhere else otherwise he kind of, disappeared awkwardly, I thought?) -also because initially there was going to be a scene of bea and bertrand, elsewhere, but I wanted to keep the fic contained to the hotel, because one of the ideas I wasn’t able to put into the fic all that much was the sense of the hotel being its own world -oh, bea and bertrand don’t know that lemony used them as cover. the assignment they were working on instead of being at the party? planning the opera. the scene would’ve come right after ramona and olaf’s conversation. -the herpetology squad not only serves to highlight that people can’t tell the denouements apart (part of the foreshadowing that ernest would pretend to be frank), but was also me roasting myself because writing like a million different characters I had never written like this before had me very concerned about if their characterization was consistent, specifically for kit. (specifically, her with dewey.) also defining a character down to one base trait can be helpful when writing and creating characters, but for people no it’s not ideal. -haruki’s estimation of the denouement’s traits were not how i was mentally keeping track of them, because i definitely do do the ‘one base trait’ sometimes, but i had a lot more going on when i was thinking of them -but yes dewey is kind. in the way that bertrand is kind, but bertrand’s like, way more smooth about it. 

-lemony does not have his own pov because, for me personally, I can’t fathom writing him in any other way besides first person, and it just would not do to have one scene out of the whole fic not in third person. unless he was secretly narrating each scene, which, he clearly was not. i would’ve had to do it in a whole different style. 

-i love that dewey and kit are like ‘ahaha we’re the normal ones though’ and their normal conversation is them literally going ‘hey these creepy fish are AWESOME THOUGH’ -i looked at so many fish. for hours.  -ALL BECAUSE I came up with the phrase ‘oceanic intrigue’ as a fun phrase and decided I had to commit my soul to it and never look back. -oh, the fairy shrimp are really very cute though. and i think the cookiecutter shark is, fucked up but a neat little guy. 

-i’m eternally going to be laughing about this too  kit: where the fuck is frank frank: /three floors down, making out with jacques

-oh!! 40-49 is unassigned in the dewey decimal system (which I googled. many, many times.), and was previously biographies. there’s another section for biographies now, but because biography was the closest I could come to like, some sort of, identity category, I thought it was more fitting if it was the section that used to be biography but was now as blank as frank felt.

-dewey is the one responsible for the clock sounding like it does. he just thinks ‘wrong’ is a fun word. that, and frank recognizing jacques by sound, were from my earlier scene sketches for this when i thought this fic was going to be much, much shorter. 

[roozilwalib]

Comfort jily

bc honestly they are my comfort couple and when I think about jily and their essence I just imagine comfort

When Lily got the news she felt the world shift beneath her. She sat silently in a state of shock for a moment, clutching the letter in one hand. For a minute she was transported. She forgot she was at Hogwarts eating breakfast with her friends, beginning to prepare for their next set of exams.

For just a moment, she was eight again. She and Tuney were still best friends. She didn’t know what magic was. Her mum called her and Petunia inside because dad was home from work and it was time for dinner. Lily and her sister ran inside to give their father a hug, and then sit down for dinner.

But as little Lily raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth, seventeen-year-old Lily’s fork clattered loudly onto the Gryffindor table. Pairs of eyes whipped up to the ruckus and Lily briefly registered a light hand on her elbow.

“Lily, are you alright?” She thinks the voice was Marlene, but the world around her was turning to static and before anyone could comment on the tears already streaming down her face, Lily was up and gone out of the Great Hall, letter still clutched in hand.

She didn’t notice all of her friends sitting silently in shock for a moment. Nor did she notice the first person to get up and go after her.

All that Lily could focus on was the fact that she couldn’t breathe. She was trying so hard but it felt like her lungs were betraying her. Every intake burned in her chest as it scraped through her bronchioles. Every outtake was a loud shudder that shook her ribcage. She couldn’t get enough oxygen.

She stumbled her way into an abandoned classroom and sank to the floor against a wall, too caught up to worry about locking the door. With her knees to her chest, elbows on knees, and her face in her hands, she tried desperately to fight for the air her body needed.

But with every breath, a new memory forced it’s way through her consciousness, which only caused her to sob harder. Right when she thought she could pass out, she vaguely heard the rattling of a door and footsteps approach.

By the time the figure was at her eye-level, Lily’s eyes were blown wide and her fingers were tangled roughly in her hair. She could see a mouth moving in front of her but the static covered up any sound. There was a flick of a wand in her periphery and her breathing became slightly easier. The tears didn’t stop, but her brain seemed to be getting more oxygen and her breathing wasn’t as ragged as before.

There were hands on her shoulders and she started to make out the sounds of a familiar voice.

“Evans—hey—can you hear me?” James asked, a bit frantically, Lily noticed. She nodded her head in response and James let out a sigh as he nodded his head along with her.

“Oh, thank Merlin. I’ve been practically yelling at you for the past five minutes.” Lily merely let out a sniffle in reply. She didn’t have a witty remark—or any reply, really. Lily noticed numbly that she didn’t feel like she had anything anymore.

This realisation caused her to break into another fit of tears, burying her face in her elbows. James scooted to sit next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into his chest. Lily allowed herself to be comforted by the dark-haired boy. She didn’t know what to do, she felt so lost, but James was warm and whispering comforting words in her ear I’m here, it’s going to be okay, I’ve got you. His presence grounded her.

James stroked Lily’s back soothingly and never let up on his grip on her. She didn’t know what she did to deserve this. She’d always been so mean to James. Of course, there were times when he definitely deserved it, but there were also times when he didn’t.

When Lily quieted enough for James to feel comfortable speaking, he delicately pulled away enough to cause a whimper to fall out of Lily’s mouth. James’s heart broke at the sight of her. She looked unbelievably devastated. He could only wonder what the letter said. He softly tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and ducked his head to meet her eyes. Cradling her cheek in his hand, James asked softly,

“What happened, Lily?” Her bottom lip quivered and she could do nothing but thrust the letter in front of him. He took it carefully and read the words that caused Lily to spiral. Her parents were dead. He didn’t bother to read further because he had enough information to know what caused Lily to feel like this and all he cared about was fixing that.

James pulled her into his arms arms again and rocked her as she began to cry again.

“I’m so, so sorry Lily. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s hurts.” She cried out. Her fists were twisting his sweater and her entire body leaned into him, desperate to crawl into the warmth that was James Potter and never come back out.

“I know it hurts. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do whatever you need.” James allowed himself to plant a firm kiss to the top of her head and held her close.

“Just please don’t leave me.” She whispered. James shook his head.

“Never.”

For the rest of that day, James stayed true to his word. He skipped his classes and instead accompanied Lily to the dorm room. He tucked her into his bed and snuck down to the kitchens to grab her any comfort foods he could get his hands on.

When he made his way back up, he found Lily sitting in front of the fire, parchment in front of her and quill gripped tightly. She appeared to be fighting for words.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He tucked a stray hand behind her ear again (a habit he seemed to be forming quickly).

“I, um, I’m trying to write to my sister,” she croaked, “but I’ve realised that I don’t even know her current address.” She gave a watery laugh. “Isn’t that ridiculous? My sister. My—my only living relative hasn’t spoken to me in years, and I have no idea where she lives!” She laughed hysterically and James scooted closer to her.

“Lily…” He started warily, but she cut him off.

“My only living relative!” This time she shouted. The laughing had stopped and the tears returned. Before either of them realised what was happening Lily’s body sank into his chest. James didn’t hesitate: he curled his arms around her and rested his chin over her shoulder, softly swaying left to right.

“My only living relative.” Lily whispered, so softly James wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t right next to her. “My entire family is just one person who hates me.” James stiffened at that and forced Lily forward to turn her around and lift her shaking chin up so she could look him in the eyes.

“Lily, I love you, and I know how much you’re grieving right now, but I need you to understand one thing for me, okay?” Brushing past his confession and the colour filling Lily’s cheeks, James continued,

“I know your parents have died and nothing can replace them. But Petunia is not your only family. You have Marls and Dora and Mary and Remus and Sirius and Peter and me.” He finished. He cradled the redhead’s puffy cheeks and wiped the tear streaks away.

“We may not be blood but we are your family. And we’re here for you, however you need us.” Lily nodded deftly and allowed James’ words to wash over her.

She closed her eyes and allowed new memories to infiltrate her mind. Studying with Remus, helping Peter with potions, giggling with the girls in the dormitory, Marlene helping Lily learn how to do a fierce dark lipstick, she and Sirius cackling over a joke only they understood, and James. Yelling at James, hexing James, hating James, befriending James, asking him for help with transfiguration, snuggling into his side, warm with fire whiskey.

With him right in front of her, James filled her senses and before she allowed herself to second guess anything, her hand shot out and pulled him by the sweater into a kiss.

It wasn’t a snog because Lily was tired and pretty sure she still had snot on her face, but it wasn’t just a peck either. Their lips slotted together slowly, and James’s grip on her face tightened. When she pulled back, she could hear James’ shaky breath.

“Lily…” he managed out.

“Thank you.” She replied softly, looking into his warm brown eyes. She hoped that James could tell everything that she wanted to say just from those two words. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for loving me. I love you too, so much. James nodded, eyes blown wide in shock and Lily let out her first giggle of the day, allowed the first smile to etch its way onto her face.

Lily allowed herself to sink into James and his warmth again. Despite his shock, his body reacted to hers and held her tight. James was so warm, Lily thought to herself. She wanted to wrap him around her like a blanket.

It wasn’t like everything was all of a sudden perfectly fine again. Lily’s parents were still dead and there was still a terrifying war going on outside, but James was right. Lily still had a family, and they would hold her when she cried, support her as she grieved, and fight by her side until the very end.

[phanlight]

Twin Flame

 .                                       ✧                   ✵                  ✧                                      .    ✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                 ✦                  .     ✴ 

thank u so much to anyone and everyone who’s stuck by over the years had it not been for ur constant support i would not be doing this rn not in a billion years also i hope i still remember how to write

this is gonna be v slow burn [like a big ol sage sticc] so I apologise for the steady pacing for a first chapter but I wanna set sufficient enough ~ foundations~ so things will pick up soon i promise lol

I digress ANYWAY have some magic

I literally don’t know what to describe this as I guess artist/mage/psychic!dan (if that isn’t a thing i’m making it one), bamf!phil (gotta stay tru to the roots), enemies-to-lovers, semi-surrealism, ethereal-surrealism (I s2g this is gonna be about 5 diff genres wtf am I doing)

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                            ✴

summary:

Dan isn't lost anymore. He's finally okay with being an explorer, not a seeker. Content with being a wanderer rather than a wonderer. His checkered luck often leads him to almost hear the laughter of Fate ringing in the sky, but he puts it down to entering the world on the Thirteenth night of June; a Friday full with the Moon. A time where forces higher than usual ripple through the atmosphere, through the night. But he’s okay with that. He’s become okay with that. He’ll look for the light in life, live for the sparkle on summer tides. He’ll find answers at the end of paint tubes and poetry books; get by on his own moral philosophies rather than those of a shattered system. But when he falls into a realm in even further ruins than his own, he himself shatters – and suddenly the cycle begins again. Seeking, wondering – lost down to the soul. But with destruction comes construction. With darkness comes light. With bad comes good. And to exist, they must co-exist.

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                       .     ✴ 

actual plot bc that said nothing about what acc happens: 

dan’s a lonely ass painter who loves crystals and one day finds a passage in an abandoned lighthouse that transports him into a spirit realm where he meets someone more lost than him. they don’t get on but for reasons they’ll have to.

.            ✴.                                  .                                .                 .✴              .     

.✴     .                    ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴                      .     ✴.

opposing forces, they attract;

yin won’t exist without its yang.

a sunless moon, a silent act;

in idleness it hangs.

galactic compounds in the skin,

harbour chemicals and cells,

particles, atomic, sub-

vibrate with polar spells.

the grounding force attraction

it ties every single bond.

becomes the gravity,

of life; existence as One.

.✴     .  - Love                                                                                               .     

                                                                                          ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴

                                                  ✴[AO3 LINK]✴

Dan stares at the pale tornado swirling inside the china. Seagulls cackle outside, as if in response to the disgusting abundance of milk.

Fuck this.

The ruined tea goes down the sink with a steamy slosh, and he chokes on the eruption of vapour that partially enters his lungs. Great. The universe has now given him enough to decipher exactly what type of day today will be.

He calls them his Horseshoe Days. He’d had one once – a gift from his grandmother. At the time it seemed something strange to give to a seven-year-old. He was at the age where he wouldn’t know what a horseshoe meant if one came hurtling down from above, bonking the top of his skull.

And it did once – well, nearly. It was only while dodging the thing falling from the shelf, only milliseconds away from meeting his forehead, he realised they might actually be as lucky as she’d promised.

That was, until perhaps, he placed it back on the shelf upside-down. His parents were both blissfully none-the-wiser when it came to anything outside the ordinary – the superstition veining back to his occult-practicing grandmother on his mother’s side (and skipping generation in the process, it seems). They saw a horseshoe as nothing more than a crescent of iron that for some reason sits in the kitchen, whichever way up. It was only once events later that day began to unravel in an unfamiliar manner did a bubbling suspicion of a correlation arise. Dan had vaguely remembered something about the blacksmith Dunstan and how a shoe upturn drains its ‘powers’, but it was only a crashed bike, scraped knee and flattened football later did he actually pay any attention to why his day might have been going so badly.

Well, eventually.  

The entire exchange sits still at the forefront of his psyche, each detail in sparkling clarity. He sees it now, even hears the voices.

“That’s why!” he’d burst out over dinner.

His parents had jumped in unison, and his stepfather elbowed over a glass. The table shone with a thin spread of water, trickling across the mahogany.

The hardness of Gerald’s voice is still nailed into the back of his memory. He used to hate it when he shouted.

“Jesus!” he’d have yelled, scrabbling around the table with a napkin. Dan remembers the kitchen towel surrendering immediately, from sheets to soggy mulch in seconds. He’d then have followed with a favourite catchphrase of his; “Do you have to yell like that?”

It was nothing they weren’t used to. He had a habit of sneaking up on everyone. ‘Feather-Feet’, his grandmother used to call him.

Dan remembers ignoring him, stretching up out of his seat and reaching for the overhead shelf. He doesn’t reckon an upturned horseshoe has ever made anyone this happy but he remembers feeling nothing but delight. It’s a bit of a backward attitude. “I knew I wasn’t just naturally unlucky!”

Being born on Friday the thirteenth certainly doesn’t help, despite giving every single birthday wish to a promise of better luck.

His grandmother used to say it was a good omen. Actually lucky; despite its reputation in amongst the ladders and scaffolding and cracked pavement tiles. The Thirteenth night of June, a Friday full with the moon, she used to muse, eyes bright with love. He misses her.

“What are you doing?” his mother had narrowed her eyes, watching her son reach for the horseshoe. When his elbow disturbed a spherical paperweight in the process and it began a bloodcurdlingly slow descent off the shelf, they flew open wider. “Careful! Mind my-“

He was already ahead of her, he remembers. Fingers clasped around the iron and flipped upright in a fraction of a second. In the other he outstretches his hand, feeling the paperweight plop into his palm in one piece instead of millions more. He‘ll never forget the sigh of relief from somewhere behind him.

He remembers the feeling. The weight of the crystal. The coolness of the cast iron. Saved antique in one hand, upright horseshoe in the other. The absolute thrum of electricity through his bloodstream. He remembers smiling and looking up. “See?”

“See what, exactly?” Gerald had then snapped, masking his panic with anything other than fear. “You nearly ruining our wedding present? A repeat performance of Aunt Nora’s teapot?”

He glanced to his mother, still completely ivory with shock. Her eyes are fixed on the swirled quartz as if it were seconds away from leaping off of his palm again by itself; under its own magic.  

“Did you not see that?” Confusion begins to seep into his initial delight. Were they even concentrating at all?

“I saw you being idiotic,” his stepfather had spat. Dan winces like he did fifteen years ago. The word still holds its weight, even now. He doesn’t know why.

“The horseshoe,” he’d tried to explain. “It wa-“

“I don’t give a shit about the bloody horseshoe!” he’d suddenly exploded. Both Dan and his mother jumped back in their seats.

“Gerald,” he remembers the softness of his mother’s tone, a diametric opposition of the echoes of steel his stepfather had the nerve to call an indoor voice.

“No, I’m sick of it!” he’s erupting now. Bubbling over the surface. A temper like a needle to an overfilled balloon. “He’s always flailing about. Knocking things over. Your mother told me about the vase, by the way,” he spat aside.

Dan’s stomach had dropped. She’d sworn not to say a word. She’d promised.

“You never know what the boy’s next move is going to be,” he continues. “I’m sick of it,” he repeats again, as if repetition be the highest form of emphasis. He snatched the paperweight but ignored the horseshoe, and Dan remembers how it had looked in his grip – the glass probably having more chance of shattering inside his big burly palm than the solid stone floor.

He vanishes and reappears two seconds later, marching back with a face of beetroot and a brow of iron, pressing a daggered glare into the back of Dan’s head. He could feel the warmth burning the nape of his neck, the stare scalding the skin.

“He’s not to be trusted,” he announced as if there were thousands of other ears also listening.

A delicate frown threaded its way across his mother’s brow.

“Wh-“

“Leave it, Penelope,” he’d cut her off before she’d even had a chance to finish the word, let alone the sentence. Dan used to hate the way he spoke to her. “If the boy wants to behave like a child, he’ll get treated like one. No more ornaments in the kitchen.”

Dan remembers thinking then it would kind-of be nice being addressed by name. Just once. Maybe. Gerald’s also about the only person capable of criticizing a seven-year-old for behaving like a child. Make it make sense, Gerald, he doesn’t say. And my name’s Dan, but you’ve probably forgotten that.

She’d thrown her son a quick sapphire glance; a gleaming silent apology. Dan’s heart had lurched at the glint of panic in her eye.

It lurches now. That absolute demon must have given her hell. He’d never been more thankful to see his mother out of a marriage. He was horrible.

And he couldn’t fucking cook. He even remembers what they were eating on the night because it was so inedible. He’s always detested mashed potato, and he’s certain Gerald knew this. He remembers stabbing the offending white lump on his plate during the sacred three seconds of silence His Lordship could manage before that cruel mouth of his opened again.

“Bloody cold, now,” he’d grumbled.

Dan remembers holding back a smirk. As if any amount of heat could make this cement any less torturous to ingest.

He’d briefly wondered if suffocation was in his hidden agenda all along. It wouldn’t surprise him. Death by potato has an interesting ring to it.

Anyway, the whole situation could have been history in under ten seconds. He could have had the horseshoe upright and the paperweight saved in three of those. Job done, panic over, back to dinner in the remaining seven. He imagines Gerald’s reaction had he spoken his mind at the time.

That was fifteen years ago, of course. Being seven, someone could have told him the sky was pink and he’d eventually believe it (maybe if it happened to be during a sunset). From that point onward he hadn’t exactly lapped up old wives’ tales, myths spinning into each other like silver silk, but his superstition remained a conscious glow in the back of his mind; going no further than avoiding three drains and ladders and watching black cats slink across his path with his breath held. Sometimes even whispering a quick wish when eleven lines up the clock (most days he misses, though).

He vowed from that very moment to save anything considered slightly out-of-the-ordinary for those who actually want to hear about it. Those who understand.

He looks at the horseshoe. It’s the same one – it always has been. Seeing three new house-changes and a hell of a lot of life, it sits, still – tightly nailed to the overhead beam of the kitchen. There’s no way it could slip now.

His eyes travel down from the horseshoe at the dazzling abundance of crystals lining and clustering every free available space surrounding the entire kitchen. He figures Gerald’s little ‘no ornaments in the kitchen’ law wouldn’t bode too well here. He’d scream in fear of the raw amethysts by the kettle. Sob at the sight of the glittering chunks of hematite by the sink. Shield his eyes from offending lines of onyx near the spice rack and the little malachite cluster by Rosa (one of many house plants). And as for the great big slabs of rose quartz and Himalayan salt on the windowsill, the glow of sunrise warming the atmosphere each morning; kissing the space with shadowy peaches and dusty pinks – well, his face would be an absolute picture. Priceless. He grins whenever he dusts, love bursting in his heart for each one and humming through every vein in his body. They make him feel like a proud father.

A short, sharp buzz on the countertop interrupts his thoughts. His consciousness snaps back into reality. Shit, how long has it been? Once he gets thinking about Gerald and everything he put his mother through he gets angry, and then half the day disappears and he finds he’s done little else other than stare at a drawer or a wall for the majority of it. It’s easy to get carried away. It happens when he thinks about crystals too.

You okay?

It’s Zema. Part-time housemate, full-time soulmate. It’s almost like he’d heard his thoughts; the voices so powerful they resonate externally. Part of Dan wouldn’t be surprised if he had – Gerald was certainly shouting loud enough in there.

Been better, he answers truthfully. Just made the worst cup of tea known to mankind

I wondered what all that clanking was

There’s a pause, followed by another quick buzz.

HSD?

Dan grins at the screen. Horseshoe day. He’d even remembered their abbreviation.

“H – S – D,” he’d once said. “It’s like LSD. But shitter.”

Dan had snorted. Zema’s about the only person who would compare having ‘one of those days’ to a psychedelic trip.

“Exactly,” Zema had said once Dan had told him this. “It’s not. That’s why it’s shitter.”

Dan hadn’t exactly agreed with him. He didn’t even think it was worth mentioning Horseshoe is actually all one word, but he’d gone along with it because HSD is a lot less effort to type and sometimes it’s good to have a code. Zema’s about the only person who knows about this. He doesn’t trust anyone else enough not to judge him when he tells them he’s basically superstitious, however blanket that definition may be. It’s probably not the correct term, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it. Drawn to the unknown? Like it matters either way. It’s not as if he’s particularly vocal about it. A twenty-three-year-old male, unusually innate occult-esque interests and a static, stagnant society don’t exactly fit together with jigsaw-like ease. Dan doesn’t know why. Dan doesn’t see what the harm is in allowing others to gravitate towards their own pleasures when the concept alone of interests and hobbies is entirely subjective. That’s the beauty of it, he finds. No two beings have exactly the same range, however similar.

Maybe the harm is that there’s no harm at all, and that scares him. The lust for destruction scares him. This planet scares him.

Something like that, he taps back, before pocketing the conversation. 

He gives up with tea involving milk and unlatches the wooden box neighbouring the kettle. It’s stuffed to the brim with teabags of spanning across the entire flavour spectrum.

He picks one up and presses it to his nose, inhaling. Ah, Jasmine.

He picks up another. Camomile and- something. He frowns. Lemon?

He puts it back. Can’t be. He finished the lemon last week.

He picks it up again and sniffs. Ginger, that’s it.

Nah, he tosses it back in for a second time. He only touches the ginger when he’s feeling jaded the morning after a night involving too much wine and not enough water (they happen more often than not).

He picks up another, inhaling the rich, fruity aroma. Red berries. It even smells like the colour red.

He puts it back nonetheless. Strawberries and- well, just about everything else with –berry tagged onto the end – just wouldn’t cut it right now. Ambitious Ribena, that’s what Zema calls it. It hasn’t really tasted the same since he said that.

He picks up another. Jasmine again, he rolls his eyes. He’s seldom ever in a ‘Jasmine’ mood. He doesn’t even know why they have so many – Zema barely touches it either.

He finally settles for a plain green tea. A bit of simplicity wouldn’t go amiss right now.

His phone buzzes again.

Don’t think I can’t hear that kettle. I’ll have a ginseng pls x

Dan huffs out a laugh. Cover blown.

We’re all out of ginseng.

Look under the sink.

Dan rolls his eyes and yanks open the door below him. Six boxes of the stuff stare back at him.

Six??? he taps with one hand, grabbing a box and tearing the cardboard open with another. Really?

Didn’t wanna run out is all that follows.

He shakes his head, but lets the grin tug his lips.

Panic-buying tea now, are we?

Don’t start. You bought six crystals the other day

Ok that’s different. Mercury is in retrograde right now and we’re not taking any chances

What does that even mean

It means u need to stop buying so much tea

I’ll stop buying tea when u stop buying crystals

Dan smirks. He’ll be waiting a while, then.

He assigns Zema the age-old High School Musical mug. It was a gift from Axel one or two Christmases ago, and he imagines the Disney franchise probably didn’t have temperamental dishwashers in mind during the manufacturing process – the boiling steam had left the majority of the characters eyeless and Troy Bolton completely nose-less. He leaves it next to the kettle with texted instructions for Zema to leave the duvet cave immediately before it turns cold, but for what it’s worth, the other boy isn’t exactly famous for his pro-activity early in the mornings. He wouldn’t be surprised if it reached stone temperature before passing his lips. Judging by the lack of audible movement, he’d be safe in assuming he’s probably fallen back asleep.

He pads into the lounge with a steaming mug and a bookmarked copy of Le Fleur Du Mal; completely falling to bits and half of the pages contemplating a permanent escape. Despite his attempts, even the strongest duct tape couldn’t keep this copy together.

There’s something about a parallel translation that fascinates him. How meaning can so flawlessly transcend dialect. He wonders if Baudelaire had this in mind. Whether he knew his works would one day be read in languages far from his mother tongue. Did he know his own craft to be so acute, so fine, that whichever order, whichever laws of letters they’re under – the same meaning shines through? The same rhythm, the same senses, colours, emotions rippling through each sign and symbol? That’s poetry.

His eyes scan the neighbouring verse. Learning a bit more French would definitely help, that’s for sure. His own skill is rusted from years of neglect; having abandoned all hopes of igniting his love for such a beautiful dialogue after school had strode into his life and seeped all the joy and passion out of just about everything he once loved. He’s glad to have reignited that. It was years until he picked up a paintbrush again.

He’s only three words in before he’s interrupted by an all-too-familiar sound.

He rolls his eyes, peering over the edge of the pages. “What now?”

Two eyes wait for him. One emerald, the other azure.

“No,” Dan immediately answers.

The reply is longer, louder.

“Ugh,” his glance scours the ceiling for a second. “It’s literally been an hour, Vee. Where are you storing it all?”

The eyes answer with an innocent glitter, but Dan knows better. His eyes flicker back to the page:

What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul,

What will you say old withered heart of mine,

To the most beautiful, the best, most dear,

Whose heavenly regards bring back your bloom?

We will assign our pride to sing her praise:

Nothing excels the sweetness of her will;

Her holy-

Then there’s a gentle chirrup. He feels his heart turn to jelly. She knows exactly what that sound does to him.

“Venus,” he groans in defeat, elongating the ‘u’. He plops the book down next to him and hauling himself up from the sofa. “Only one, okay? No more.”

She slinks down from the stool, her stool – only about fifty years old and fraying at every single edge. What was once a delicate floral tapestry now existing as aged blobs in various shades of pastel. All four legs, previously smooth mahogany, are now a splintered beige from years of busy carving. He doesn’t understand how such soft paws bear such ceramic claws.

They’d tried everything. From cardboard and cereal boxes to actual climbing towers she would barely look at, let alone touch. Beds she ignored; choosing only Dan’s favourite satin pillow. And she’ll only ever drink water out of a specific pint glass.

“We’ve adopted a human, not a cat,” Zema had once said.

“It’s like she owns us,” Dan had agreed.

She’s trotting along the kitchen floorboards now, her tail high. She stops once she reaches the drawer under the crystal cabinet, throwing her human a demure glance.

“Alright, alright,” Dan catches her up, grabbing the bronze key. He’s thankful cats don’t have the power of thumbs. The world is already chaotic enough. 

He ends up giving her three. It’s those eyes, he tells himself in a small bout of self-justification. Those fucking eyes.

“Venus flytrap,” he mutters, running his fingertips along her silky back. “What are you like, eh? Where do you put it all?”

“Hollow legs,” a voice appears from behind him.

He almost leaves his own skin.

“Jesus!” he clutches at his chest. “What happened to the No-Giving-Dan-Cardiac-Arrest-Before-Noon rule?"

He whirls around to find Zema sat cross-legged on the marble surface just beside the sink, all silken robes and bed-beaten hair. A smirk gets bitten back under his teeth.

“I texted you."

Dan can’t quite believe the twenty-first century has come to this. Texting those who not only live in the same property, but are on the same floor.

They’re not actually too dissimilar in appearance – his head also home to a gigantic mass of thick brown waves, although in a darker shade to Dan’s own hair. His eyes stare back at him in a shade of gentle grey. Chameleon Eyes, Dan calls them; for they reflect their surroundings. He remembers how they looked when they’d first met that day at the beach – bright turquoise; matching the sky and the sea. He remembers how perplexed he been the second time they’d met and his eyes were suddenly a shining shamrock; sharing the glow of the grass. Then a gentle grey on the street under overcast clouds.  He’s always wanted to go into one of those rooms covered completely ground-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, in mirrors. His eyes would probably boast galaxies.

He’s shorter than Dan (a rare occurrence among his friends) and about fifty times as agile – something he and Venus have in common is their blatant disregard for actual furniture. Even she sits on a stool more often than he does. Zema the Lemur, he calls him.

“Because chairs don’t exist,” Dan mutters now, his tone soaked with sarcasm. “Christ, you’re worse than her,” he nods down towards their little family member, still fixated on the drawer.

She trots up to Zema, seizing the opportunity.

“Are you hungry, honeybear?” Zema coos, his eyes sparkling. He gets an emphatic ‘mew’ in response.

“Don’t be fooled,” Dan interjects quickly. “She’s had a bowl and two treats already today.”

“Those eyes,” Zema grins knowingly. Green flashes in his direction. They’ve noticed she responds to ‘eyes’ faster than her own name.

“Those fucking eyes,” Dan shakes his head in agreement. The eyes in question now dart towards him. Whenever ‘eyes’ happen to crop up in conversation between the two, she looks as though she’s watching a tennis match. Dan’s abdomen still aches at the memory of the night they’d made the revelation; both curled up either side of the room in tears of laughter at her light-like response. “How’s the tea, by the way? Not too cold, I hope?”

“It’s lovely,” he sips appreciatively. “Good mug choice. Always better when it’s from Troy Bolton’s brain. It’s like I can taste his thoughts.”

“I didn’t know Gabriella tasted like ginseng,” Dan says. “Cut her open and she bleeds the stuff.”

Zema smirks. He holds the mug up, examining the worn surface in all its glory. “Looks like someone already has. God, this thing’s falling apart,” he thinks aloud, bringing himself ear-to-lip with the partially eroded character. “What happened to your nose babe, eh? Did it fall off during basketball?”

“Troy Boldemort,” Dan mutters immediately. Zema all but chokes, droplets showering the countertop.

He loves mornings like these, mornings where neither of them have any prior academic engagements and they can just sit and talk for hours about – well, anything, really. The final year of University boasts a monumental amount of focus and preparation and just a general resounding ‘oh-shit-this-is-actually-real’ feeling that apparently never really goes away; not even after you graduate, according to one of his cousins.

For Dan, nothing has really felt real since he was about fifteen, so it’s not something that particularly bothers him. He could just do without that ten-tonne workload.

“So what are you up to today, then?” Zema swings his legs over the edge, giggling as Venus begins an attack on his slipper. “Anything exciting?”

“Not much,” he sips thoughtfully. What can he do today? It’s been so long since he’s had a free day he’s forgotten how he spends time on his own terms. “Might get another painting done.”

“Paint me,” Zema beams, carding a hand through his fringe.

“Oh yeah?” Dan raises an eyebrow. “How the fuck would I go about painting your eyes?”

“Paint me in a field,” Zema continues. “And a beach. I wanna see-…” he hesitates. “We need to go to, like, a strawberry field or something. I wanna see if my eyes would go red.”

“Just smoke some pot. Then you’ll be halfway there.” Dan says, before hesitating. “Anyway, if we went to a strawberry field it’ll be mostly green. The strawberries are only the berries.”

“A poppy field, then,” Zema says.

He literally has an answer to everything. Dan rolls his eyes.

“One day,” he finally affirms, and the other boy grins. “In Spring.”

“I’m glad you’re painting again,” Zema says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you do anything creative.”

“Tell me about it,” Dan mumbles, taking another sip although the tea’s losing its heat. It’s always the case when talking to Zema – the rapid, quick-fire pace of every conversation leaves barely enough interval to drink (that is, of course, unless it’s alcohol). “It’s been so long I doubt I even remember how to paint.”

“I highly doubt that,” Zema fires back, gulping more tea and placing the ghostly mug beside him.

“How about you, then?” Dan gulps down the remaining liquid before it has a chance to grow any colder. “What are you doing with yourself today?”

“I’m off out,” Zema stretches, his voice slightly strained. “Need to be at Eddie’s by ten. We’re doing the bass today.”

They’re two of a wide circle of musicians playing in each-other’s orbit. Zema’s never anywhere without his guitar, Axel the same with his saxophone (Saxel, he’s often referred to as), and Eddie would be the same, he imagines, had he not chosen the piano as his instrument of choice. He bites back a smirk, picturing him struggling with a rope, trying to drag his enormous Bösendorfer Grand onto a train for a gig. Thank almighty Yamaha for the existence of keyboards.

Dan winces, his eyes flickering to the clock. “You’re cutting it a bit fine, then.”

Zema’s own eyes flash towards the time. “Oh, shit,” the remaining tea gets swallowed in seconds and the ghostly mug falls into the sink with a steely clatter. “I’d better go.”

“Nothing they’re not used to I imagine.” Dan smirks.

“Don’t,” Zema cringes, grabbing his bag and shooting down the corridor into his own room. “They brought up my punctuality only the other day,” his voice continues. “Fuck, Dan. Why do I do this to myself?”

“Alarms exist.” Dan calls after him. 

“It wasn’t even that,” he reappears holding a handful of guitar picks and a capo, shoving them into the front pocket of his case. “I decided to stop off on the way. Never in my life have I seen such a queue for the drive-through. It was ridiculous.”

“At least they got a couple of fries out of it.”

Zema stares at him. His expression speaks for itself.

“Okay. Well at least you got a couple of fries out of it.”

“Cold fries. And a melted McFlurry,” he mourns, hauling his guitar over his shoulder and looking Dan dead in the eye. “Word of advice, Dan. Never try eating ice cream while you’re driving. It doesn’t work. There’s a time limit.”

“There go my plans for the day,” Dan scoffs. “I don’t even drive.”

“And it’s about time you learnt, eh?” Zema grins. “Give your bestie a break from all that parallel parking. It’s doing my head in.”

“If it means getting you to places on time, I’m more than happy to,” his eyes flicker to the clock. “You have nine minutes, Zee.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Zema groans. “I’m doing it again. I’m going, I’m going-” he flusters around, filling both arms up with various belongings.  “Can you grab my keys for me? They’re on the plate.”

The Plate, Dan smirks to himself. Keeping vital belongings within reaching distance of the door, it’s the porcelain base to everything – keys; both car and house, cards; both debit and SD, alongside an ocean of lighters, loose change, semi-important receipts, and a Pizza Hut flier that had been there when they moved in. He remembers the delight they’d both shared upon discovering the possibility of five-pound large pizzas – crushed immediately by disappointment upon realizing the flier was from 2006.

It’s filled now to the brim with such a pile had it not been for Zema’s obnoxiously large keyring collection it would have taken him an age to locate them. He grabs them by the ‘Amsterdam’ pipe-shaped bottle opener.

“There,” he thrusts them into his hands with a jingle. “Now go.”

“Lifesaver,” Zema clutches them, slipping out of the door. “I’ll see you around five, yeah?”

“See you,” Dan grins, watching him jog to his vehicle. “Safe journey. Don’t drive through anything this time.”

The look he receives tells him all he needs to know. He watches the smaller figure amble up the road to his car; a battered blue thing with a collage of stickers plastering the rear. It was a seventeenth birthday gift; four metallic walls capturing four years of freedom. Despite having known Zema for only two of those four years, they’d already ridden up and down the country in it; halfway back home they’d had to make an impromptu visit to a tiny town somewhere along the south coast due to a faulty tire, but that ended up being one of the best decisions of their lives.

Because had they not set foot into the first tavern they’d walked past whilst the car was being repaired somewhere up the road; a crooked, old thing with bookshelves for walls and a resident cat asleep on the stool, they would never have been served by a bartender with a nose ring and hair the colour of moss (Dan remembers wondering how someone can suit such surroundings whilst simultaneously looking so out of place). They would never have stuck up a conversation about the clock on the wall and discovered it was an original nineteenth-century piece passed down from Germany, and the bartender would never have noticed Zema’s obsidian pendant and asked him about its origins. They wouldn’t have spent the remains of the afternoon sunk into the floral upholstery, swigging ale-upon-ale with this vibrant character as the sky loses the light before reality dawns and they realise they came here with a car that needs attending to.

He still can’t believe this was how they met Axel. All three of them have evolved so much since then, all grown in each other’s orbit.

(The rapid blossom of the butterfly effect has never failed to astound him. It never will.)

The fade of the engine introduces a silence he hasn’t heard since seven a.m. His smile seemed to have travelled along with the car; with Zema. Shit, has it always been this deadened without him? The quietness cuts into his eardrums, growing sharper and sharper the more he strains; searching for something, anything – a whisper of a tree, a yelp of a dog, a-

He paces away from the front door, finding comfort in the soft pad of his own footsteps. The floorboards groan with every movement, and he’s thankful for the noise.

He can never find his way back to sleep upon awakening on a Horseshoe day. It’s the tell-tale sign for him – if he claws his way out of a biting nightmare bathed in sweat, scrabbling around the duvet until his fingers touch cool amethyst, rough and raw, he knows there are challenges waiting for him.

He doesn’t know why it happens. Or how. He’s only ever tried to explain the whole thing to Zema a handful of times and even then he doesn’t really get it, doesn’t really understand how he can just know something’s about to happen before it does, just feels the flames underneath his ribcage, anticipation burning the embers red.

“You ought to get on those Beta-blockers,” he’d once told him through a mouthful of raw bagel. Several crumbs fell to the floor, something Dan viewed as a skill if not anything; uncooked bagels are near impossible to eat that messily. “They helped me when I started getting those anxiety attacks. No way would I have survived college without them,” as he took another bite, more crumbs parted ways.

“I don’t think the buckets of coffee every morning particularly helped,” replied Dan, before adding, “and every evening.” He’d stopped then, frowning. “And wherever else in the day you can- okay, that’s not the point. It’s not the same as anxiety,” he paused, the corners of his mind struggling to describe something so utterly inexplicable. “It’s-… different. It’s never constant, it’s not like that.”

As he reminisces, he feels the jolt.

Something’s going to happen tonight. Today. Sometime.

That is all he’s absolutely certain of. That an event is around the corner, and that it’ll happen sometime within the frame of the day. Good or bad, positive or negative, it’s the same spike in his gut, the same blade of intuition cutting into his senses. Such a skill sits somewhere on the fence between a blessing and a curse.

He makes every effort to swallow the feeling down, place it anywhere but the absolute forefront of his psyche, and treads upstairs. If there’s one thing he’s learnt during the years of having to contend with this (whatever ‘this’ is), it’s not to dwell on it, not to feel it too much. Whatever happens, will happen. No amount of thinking, feeling, sensing, will change that.

As far as superpowers go, it’s a pretty shit one to have, he thinks. Enemy, up ahead. Wait, it might be a friend actually. How close are they? Fuck knows. We might be waiting a while, but it could be any minute now. I know they’re coming though, trust me.

It would be useless.

He reaches straight for the art supplies as soon as he opens his bedroom door, grabbing as many paints as the laws of physics operating his satchel bag will allow. He relies on oil for today’s medium, seizing handfuls of small foil tubes spanning the entire visible colour spectrum, all thoroughly crinkled with use. A couple of sponges leap into the leather (stained, but he doesn’t have the capacity to start his cleaning ritual right now. Cleaning one art supply leads to another, and another, and then ‘just one more’ until the day sits partially behind him and all he’d have to show for himself is an empty canvas and two very wet sleeves), along with a healthy selection of paintbrushes, and the remaining dregs of his paint thinner (he really ought to get some more. He keeps forgetting.).

He releases a breath he didn’t know was taking up his chest. He’s actually ready for once. Wow.

Breakfast is crunched in seconds, accompanied by two planet eyes and a mass of black fur.

“Vee,” he mews through a mouthful of toast, his eyes rolling. “I’ve barely even started mine.”

Her expression doesn’t falter, her gaze only glittering more. He lasts two more bites before caving in and heading to the cupboard. Her paws are feathers; silent little things, but he doesn’t need to hear her (or even see her, for that matter) to sense she’s trotting along behind him – tail in the air and eyes to the sky. He awards her a third treat, internally self-justified by his forthcoming absence for the rest of the day, and watches as her nose delicately pokes the pea-sized thing before accepting it with much grace.

“What is it about you, eh?” he scratches the very top of her head, loving the way her eyes close in response and a deep purr begins rolling. “How do you do it?” his tone is weirdly devoid of rhetoricism. “All you domestic cats do is sleep and ask for food.”

He hesitates.

“I mean, that’s not all you do. You knock stuff over. Both solid and liquid. And scratch things up. And sleep on important documents. And make me late for things sometimes,” she purrs louder – almost solid confirmation cats can understand humans. Of course that would please her. “Yet we love you unconditionally,” his fingertips travel behind her ears and she leans into his touch. “All you have to do is exist.”

If only that were the case for humans.

His toast is cold by the time he returns to it, but he doesn’t care. He wasn’t particularly hungry to begin with – he doesn’t have Venus’s appetite. They should have named her Jupiter instead.

Binning the remains, he slings his art supplies onto his back and reads the weather through the net curtains. It looks fairly promising; the sky slightly overcast but showing no immediate threat of rain – they’d fallen victims to a heatwave not long ago and then a raging storm the following week.

September is often precarious; not quite summer, but not yet autumn. The sun smiles at him but he makes a mental note to pack an umbrella just in case.

✵

His concept of ‘perfect beach weather’ is a bit weird.

His perfect beach weather welcomes a threat of rain. Embraces stronger breezes. He doesn’t care if there’s a cloud bigger than the sky heading in his direction. As long as it’s comfortable enough to sit and paint without the wind claiming just about everything he arrived with, he’s happy.

When he looks out of his window towards beams of warmth, that’s forest weather. That’s lay-in-sunlight-pools-and-read-the-tree-trunks weather. When whites and greys cut the sky, that’s when it’s time for the beach.

This beach is his home. His sanctuary. The only surroundings that actually manage to cut through the thickening tar of anxiety coating his soul, the sound alone of the hissing waves setting him free of any spikes of fretful darkness still latching onto him.

Here he can think.

Feel.

Be.

His eyes match the horizon. Solitary. Still. He doesn’t understand how an element moving so fierce can appear as nothing but a perfectly straight line.

Then again; Jupiter’s a raging mass of storms and still the perfect sphere remains. As for Saturn.

He whips out his sketchbook, the A1 pages immediately making friends with the breeze. He eventually claws the pages into a surface at least half-sketchable, the paper sheets cutting through his gentle grasp as he tries to wrestle with giant flaps of paper, great white veils. The definitive opposite of a bat, he concludes decidedly. He’s probably a good ten minutes into this whole endeavour before the thought of whipping anything colourful out crosses his mind. His hands hurt now.

He starts with the greens. He always does. Touches of evergreen, of shamrock and a blue-tinged teal make their way onto the palette first. He takes a tiny amount of the brightest and begins creating a dusty emerald sky, the bristles massaging the canvas with gentle strokes. He’s never seen a green sky before. He’s seen skies spamming across the entire palette of the planet’s warmth, all rubies and vermillions and even violets. But never green. Green seems to stay on land, he finds. Maybe the trees will be blue.

The trees end up purple. He’s painting what he can see right now; a thick smatter of bushes lining the top of the cliffside. The forest. His forest, he secretly calls it, already hearing ‘you can’t own a forest, Bezos’ from a mini Zema somewhere in his mind.

He’s painted this view, this vast stretch ahead of him, so many times he found the shades to be somewhat restricting despite the sun making all the difference – indigo in the rain and a glittering turquoise in the summer light. So he’d swapped the cool palette for warmth one day, and fell in love with the idea of a ruby ocean. The sands had become a dusty lilac; something that had later appeared in a dream of his. The sky he’d kept to its natural shade that day – a gentle grey; accentuating the heightened colour of the other two.

It was like a fuse had exploded inside him after that. He’d come home from the beach with armfuls of half-damp paper; all thoroughly watercoloured at first – before experimenting with the oils and the pastilles upon realisation that soluble paints and rain-threatened skies do not mix. He’d branched out; grasping at all ends of the visible colour spectrum; knocking on every door, pushing every possible boundary. Rockpools became crystals, the shores began to sparkle – really sparkle; once he figured out how to paint with glitter correctly, - and colours began to multiply. Soon there were three colours in the sky – the gradient fading one into the other and often bearing complete contrasts; reds eloped with greens and purples entangling golds.

He’d combined just about every colour; primary, secondary; tertiary – but never attempts to create the same shade twice. It’s more fun that way, he decides.

He reads the horizon. The line of beach huts are still just as colourful in reality as on paper, so he’d taken to embellishing each door with swirls of gold using his thinnest brush. The shadow of the overhanging clouds looks to have deepened the ocean’s bed, and he wonders just how far the floor of sand slopes down. How many miles of ink until he reaches the earth. He’d swum countless times (some while drunk, thanks to a team effort involving Zema’s persuasion and his own impulsive nature), but never dared to venture anywhere past the Lighthouse a stretch of metres away from the shore.

Dan doesn’t quite know when it became derelict. How long it’s been since a beacon pierced the night with neon light; guiding the lost and the found, the leavers and returners. There are no windows; only wooden squares where light once seeped through – but the Widow’s Walkway still remains weirdly open in the air, the iron cates curling up at the top.

Some say it’s been months. Others longer. Having only lived in this town for the generous part of two years, he has no real clue himself – but every new crack on the surface, every new splinter of wood or peeled paint, doesn’t go unnoticed. However long it’s been, it’s definitely no longer in use.

It’s taken many forms on his papers, behaving slightly different with each medium. He once even took to disregarding colour altogether and using only black ink and silver glitter; each curve, dot and line finely constructed. That one, he must admit, was a personal favourite. He’d turned every crack into a vein, pumping midnight blood into every inch of the tower. Every chip of paint revealed a crystallised surface underneath – its inner beauty begging to see the light.

He adds colour today – but always acknowledges its signs of time. If it’s cracked up there, it’s cracked on the page. If he strolls by one day and there’s a chunk of brick missing; a gaping hole in the surface, he wont lie to the paper.

He’ll just cram a million stars into the space.

His eyes sink back into his own page. The violet trees have a teal cliff to sit upon, and today the sea is a concrete grey – not too many shades off exactly what he’s seeing right now.

It’s another different combination of colours; a new one, but there’s something missing. He reads the page, eyes darting between his creation and his surroundings.

He looks up, bending his neck and staring at the clouds until his eyes water. They glide over him, over them, over everything, like glaciers in the sky. The beautiful thing about just a slight threat of rain, is the sheer metamorphosis they seem to undergo a priori. He sees one turn from Yoshi into an ice cream. One that starts off as a squashed Darth Vader before growing a tail and turning into a seahorse. Another that begins as a boot, considers turning into a palm tree, before finally joining up with another and becoming the Cheshire Cat. A couple that look like skyships. And one that looks exactly like Appa, much to his absolute delight. Even down to the horns.

An idea grips him with such force he jumps, elbowing his paint water into the sand. Punished by Karma for being creative. Great.

He grabs his lightest pastels and reads the emerald sky again.

One sweeping motion, and there’s now a moon; a glowing crescent against the green hemisphere.

Two soft strokes, and there’s a surrounding haze. He softens it with the very tip of his finger, and feels something flood through him. Yes.

Three quick dots of white, and a belt sits in the sky. After another dozen more, a shield. Then a bow joins.

He’s grinning now, inspiration thrumming through his veins like a current.

After seven more, there’s a plough (Trough? He can never remember which one it is. More like the fucking saucepan. Or square with a tail.).

Completing painting after painting in colour after colour, how has this idea never occurred to him before? He should even include a couple of planets, he thinks as his pencil scrapes in a suggestion of Saturn.

Two moons later he grins at the page, sparkling with new celestial life. He throws his eyes up to the sky, wondering how inhabitable the earth would be had his interpretation somehow become scientifically correct overnight one day.

He tries to imagine a sky with three moons. Scarily large asteroids. Comet trails scarring the atmosphere.

Then his smile vanishes and his eyes return back down to this A1 universe beneath him. Tries to chow down the growing realisation that inhabitability is probably inevitable anyway with the way things are headed, and that the problem is down here, not up there – and he dabs in a small Pleiades. Up there is safe. Under the watchful eye of the Seven Sisters; that’s protection.

Aliens are probably avoiding us on purpose. Who can blame them?

[bigbrotherlouis]

the bag of chips scene from 'i ate you up the day we first spoke' for the director's cut meme!

whoohoo i actually loved writing this scene and i’m so glad someone asked about it yeeee

(director’s cut meme)

everything eases back into normal. tk picks nolan up for practice, because nolan’s car is inexplicably always out of gas, (this is true, i read an article about it somewhere) and ties nolan’s ties for him on game days, and follows him into his living room to eat all the good snacks nolan hides on increasingly higher shelves.

“how did you even get those?” he asks when he comes out of the washroom and finds travis eating illegal all-dressed his mom had sent down in his last care package. he’s pretty sure they were hidden, like, on top of the cupboards this time. he literally had to throw them up there. (food, when you move countries, is a really big deal. i always want to keep the mutlicultural aspect of a lot of hockey players in mind, because i was a young multicutural person in the united states, and home foods is usually a good way to do it. all-dressed are pretty distinctly canadian, and my cousin gets her parents to send them to her in california, so i borrowed that from her. also i liked the image of TK climbing on the counters to try and get at a bag of chips.)

tk shrugs and crams a handful of chips into his mouth. “smart thinking.”

“those are mine.”

“i don’t see you eating them,” tk says smugly and nolan thinks about it for precisely point two seconds before he launches himself at the sofa. (no thoughts, head empty)

it’s a familiar ritual, this one. tk cackles, going limp so he can noodle off the cushions onto the floor, the bag still clamped in his hand. he scrabbles backwards until he’s out of reach of nolan’s admittedly long arms.

“sucks to suck, babe,” he gloats, except nolan is not emphatically giving up, those are his chips, and he’s not going to let his idiot of a best friend eat them all. tk grunts when nolan lands on his lower half, hard, and pins down his legs so he can’t escape. he sits on tk’s knees and ignores the yelling. (travis “has never shut up once in his life” konecny strikes again)

“mine,” he says savagely, snatching the bag out of his hands. tk huffs, shoving at his legs.

“it’s rude— not to— share— fuck, patty, what are you doing in the gym?”

“some of us don’t skip leg day.”

“yeah, well, some of us aren’t built like a fuckin’ ox,” tk complains, as if he’s not just as in shape as nolan is. “i can’t even fuckin’ pinch you because you’re wearing jeans.”

“now who’s the smart think—  fuck!” (not you, pat. not tk either but still not you.) he shouts, flinching and rubbing at his side. that pinch is definitely going to bruise. tk uses it as a distraction to roll them, nolan’s shoulders thudding painfully against the floor, and straddles nolan’s stomach with his thighs. there’s another struggle but tk gets hold of nolan’s arms, pins them under his knees so nolan’s fists are at his sides. he’s effectively trapped. (too many nolans but what do you do when writing m/m. also this isn’t specific to this scene, but especially in hockey with all its nicknames, i like to write people’s internal narrative with whatever name they probably think of themselves as. that’s why nolan isn’t pat/patty here, and why tk is usually not travis)

“still me,” tk says, grinning at him with undisguised glee. he works the chips free and sits up, putting his weight just under nolan’s ribs so all the breath gets knocked out of him for a second.

“fucker,” nolan hisses, trying and failing to wriggle his way out. “what the fuck, teeks?”

“that’s what you get for not growing up with brothers, bro. gotta fight to survive. survival skills.”

“bud, you don’t even know. sisters have nails and they’re not fucking afraid to use them,” nolan says, his best murder glare in effect. he probably still has the scars in some places. (i know i do) tk snorts.

“sorry, i don’t see you scratching me here,” he says.  

“let me go and i’ll scratch you up real good,” he threatens and then his brain catches up with his mouth, his face going red as he realises what he’s maybe implied. “uh.”

tk doesn’t take the obvious chirp, just raises an eyebrow. there’s a considering look on his face, one that makes nolan want to squirm more and it settles somewhere down deep in his stomach. (so i wrote this scene because i needed a turn for both of them, relationship-wise. iirc, there’s been a few places where tk’s interest might be noticeable, but nothing super concrete for pat or for the reader. meanwhile, on tk’s side, he needed clear signals that pat’s into him before he tries to tell him again.)

“uh,” he says again because his brain is just fucking offline and his arms are still locked under travis’ legs and travis burns hot because nolan can feel it against his skin, through his t-shirt, and this is all going to get incredibly, incredibly awkward in about three seconds. (unfortunately, i love a good run-on sentence to build tension) he’s pretty sure popping a boner because a teammate is sitting on you is, like, not something you can get away with by laughing.

tk shifts, sitting up the tiniest bit, and reaches out the hand that’s not currently occupied with the fuckin’ chips— probably all crushed to hell now, anyway (foreshadowing!! also strategic last mention here so we know that tk is still holding them, and then they aren’t mentioned until the shoe drops for optimal dramatic effect) — and brushes his fingers against nolan’s cheek. he traces the blush from his cheekbone carefully down his neck, pausing to thumb at his jaw, and then bumps his fingers against his collar, where it disappears down into his shirt. (i really liked building the tension here. also this is fully just projection bc i would love to touch patty’s blush once in my life)

“you’re glowing, pat,” he says, so soft, and it makes nolan go redder. he glowers at a spot by tk’s ear, unwilling to look him in the face and see whatever is written there. (would tk actually tell nolan he’s glowing? probably not, but fictionally it gives the reader a good picture of what nolan looks like to someone else. i didn’t want to overuse red-- which didn’t quite feel like a strong enough word-- or blush, so glowing it was.) tk hooks his index into the collar and there’s a moment when nolan thinks he’s going to pull it down, see if his blush goes all the way down his chest— it does, if he’s embarrassed enough. it’s fucking terrible— and he turns his head away, dragging in a breath through his nose. he’s, like, so incredibly fucked that he can’t even think about it without going dizzy. (you’ll probably see this a lot if you look for it in my writing, but i like to add in a “like” or something similarly bro-ish when things get particularly emotionally fraught, to keep it more realistic. also i think it’s funny. anyway, i like the contrast of tk not being able to take his eyes away from something he wanted and nolan not being able to look at it. characterisation, wahey!) it’s better to just not look.

of course, it’s the exact opposite of what tk wants.

“hey,” he says. “look at me.”

nolan refuses, a muscle ticking in his jaw. (this is hot to me idc) tk lets go of his collar to pull on his hair instead, just a little tug of a piece by his ear, and nolan can’t quite bite back the punched-out sound that he lets out. (also hot.)

“look at me,” tk says again, an edge to his voice, and nolan does. tk won’t stop until he does, he knows that well enough. (another look at their dynamic and how well they know each other) he lifts his chin, just a tiny bit, because he’s not going to do anything without a fight. tk’s hand tightens in his hair and it keeps him in place, nailed— ha— to the floor. (i write for the people whose brains make inappropriate jokes at the wrong moments) he couldn’t move if he wanted to, watches helplessly as tk leans down.

the hope in his chest is so thick, nolan thinks it might actually smother him, stop his heart. he’s breathing fast and shallow, almost on the verge of panting, and jesus fuck, isn’t that embarrassing. he’s so desperate, he could squirm with it and he briefly remembers travis months ago, writhing on his very rug and how much nolan wanted to help. he can smell snow again, sharp in the back of his nose. (this does the double work of calling back to an earlier scene-- ya girl loves a good callback-- and also building the anticipation some more. the snow reference reminds the reader that this is still a werewolf au, even in the midst of this. also, once when i was like fifteen, i read something about how to write kisses/romance and it talked about picking one or two aspects of the kiss to focus on-- breathing, hands, the feeling of someone’s mouth, etc. i still use that advice.)

tk shifts his weight and nolan has enough time to think holy fuck, is this happening? before travis fucking konecny upends the bag of all dressed-flavoured crumbs all over his face. (OKAY a lot going on here! it’s one of my favourite moments, really. first of all, here’s the resolution of all the chips talk! sure, i could’ve just abandoned them, but the subverting of expectations was a lot more fun and the story still wasn’t quite ready for them to kiss yet. second, this is tk chickening out. he had two choices and he chose violence. or, like, the buddies option, which is amusing to me because this is not buddies, boys. finally, the full name was necessary to convey nolan’s disappointment and anger, as was the full description of the chips. nolan is upset, and he’s going to notice these things, and that shows up in his internal narrative.)

“got ‘em,” he crows over nolan’s sputtering, letting himself get bucked off onto the floor. nolan wipes furiously at his face, all his feelings a confusing mix of horny and angry and confused, all with the thick overtone of humiliation.

“you’re a fucking dick,” he says and it’s flat, but tk is gloating too much to care. (he’s not, he’s trying to cover, but nolan’s too embarrassed to realise)

“you should’ve seen your face, pat.”

nolan glares daggers at the carpet, the chips spread out everywhere. it’s going to be a bitch to clean up. tk had better help. (makes sure the punch landed, and to give a final resolution.)

he leans against the sofa and waits for tk to tire himself out, listening to the laughter and trying not to get too angry or, like, cry. his neck feels hot, prickling uneasily. he rubs at it with his hand, startles when tk kicks him gently in the ankle. (in order for tk to not come out of this looking like an asshole, i needed him to make up his obliviousness by being observant in other times. and in order for tk to notice patty being mad, i needed to give patty actions that could be noticed, like not laughing along with the joke)

“sorry if i made you mad,” tk says quietly, all the giggles finally worked out of him. “you looked tense (no shit bud) and i thought it would make you laugh.”

it’s not tk’s fault nolan thought he was gonna, like, kiss him. (”like” again, to break up a too-honest moment) it was a dick move but tk doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, so: “it’s fine,” he mumbles and shrugs his shoulder. “it was funny.”

tk preens for a second. “i know.”

“you owe me a bag now.”

“i’ll buy you a family-sized pack. i’m sure they’ll ship it down here, amazon or ups or somethin’.” (patty’s attempting to be normal and tk is attempting to make amends.)

nolan nods and scratches at his face, tipping his head against the couch cushions. (little motions like him scratching his face aren’t super necessary for like plot or development, but it helps humanize characters and i like to add them in whenever i can, as long as it’s not overkill. they can also be helpful in pointing to emotional state without directly saying it.) it’s quiet for a few seconds, just the sound of them breathing heavier than usual, and it would be so normal. should be normal, by all counts, but nolan still kind of wants to crawl into a hole for while. wants to push tk out of the apartment and eat ice cream and google ‘how to stop a crush,’ like his sisters used to do when they were upset. he’s already googled it, a few days ago, and there was nothing but maybe someone’s offered good advice since then. (people make an impact on you, and family even more so, and i always like reminders of how close nolan seems to be with his sisters. also, it’s funny.)

tk flicks him on the wrist. (this is something that tk does consistently through the story, and even though it’s not super important to this scene, it establishes a behaviour in the larger story. that’s important too!)

“pat,” he says and it sounds it’s not the first time. nolan blinks.

“yeah?”

“i just asked you if you were hungry.”

“oh. uh. no, not really,” he answers truthfully. tk wrinkles his nose.

“do you, like, have anything in your fridge to eat?”

“mm, probably not.”

“typical,” tk mutters under his breath, as if he ever has anything regularly stocked besides protein powder and bacon. (protein rich foods that are easy to eat after a full moon, or after a workout) at least nolan has eggs pretty consistently. (also a protein rich food that’s less easy to eat after a full moon, but are easy to make when you aren’t a werewolf) “wanna go get sushi?”

nolan thinks about it. shoves his sweaty hair behind his ear and considers going out to their favourite place and pretending he’s not still fucking mortified. and, like, a little turned on. it makes him nauseous. (i get such physical reactions to emotional things that i write everyone into having them) 

“no,” he says. he’s not facing tk but he can still see him deflate, his shoulders hunching over. “i don’t— no.”

“okay. that’s… okay.”

“i think i’m getting a migraine,” lies nolan. “think i’m just gonna lay down.”

“do you need me to stay with you? keep you company?”

nolan’s shaking his head before tk even finishes the thought. “no, trav. i’m fine, i promise.” (the trav here works as a signal that something isn’t right! it’s why tk looks at him for so long in the next line.)

tk studies him for a long minute, his eyes searching the side of patty’s face presented to him. nolan keeps his expression as blank as possible and stares hard at his feet.

“text me if you need anything,” he says finally, the words coming out slow and gentle. it’s a lot to handle. “i’ll come back.”

“i know. i will.” he won’t, but that’s not for tk to know. he doesn’t move when tk goes out the door, squeezes his eyes shut when the door doesn’t slam into its frame, (tk’s taking care of him, still!) and decides to leave the pile of crumbs to deal with later. (the climax of this scene happened a while ago so this is another little reminder of what happened, just so it’s solidified in the reader’s head after the longish comedown. i end scenes a LOT like this-- two actions, and then a callback-- because they’re simple and effective, and usually sound great!)  /fin

ahh thank you so much for asking!! this was really fun to, like, process through and remember my logic for! i was actually really nervous writing this scene, because i knew the tension and the break had to be PERFECT for it to land right. but i do like how it turned out so at least there’s that. ily!!

[nickmuch]

c.z.k - high school (part 1)

PART 2 / PART 3

Note: another day, another nothing-to-do-at-work-so-imma-write moment! This time for my baby z bc why not. Also, this ended up being WAY longer than expected. Wrote nearly 5 pages, but that’s what happens when you’re bored

I walked down the hallway quickly. The bell would soon ring and I really didn’t feel like being late to class. Again. On my second official day on this new school. So, I picked up my pace thinking it was a good idea, but oh boy was I wrong. Keyword: boy.

Suddenly, I bumped into something and fell down. When I looked up, I saw a tall boy with pretty tan skin. He was beautiful. His hair was twisted into dreads and pulled together by a baby blue scrunchie to securely get them out of his face. He had mesmerizing deer eyes, his lashes so long and beautifully curled. And his lips. Oh god, his lips. Slightly pouty and parted. A hand was stretched out in front of me. He spoke first, making me abruptly stop staring at him and turn my gaze low.  “You good? Did you hurt yourself of something?”. Grabbing his hand, I allowed him to help me on my feet. “Erm … no, it’s all good. Sorry, I wasn’t really looking because I- “. The ring of the bell interrupted me. “- was gonna be late to class. And now I am” I finished. He gave me a quick nod before slowly making his way down the other side of the hall, probably already wondering what stupid story he had to tell his teacher for being late.

“Honestly, if you are allowed to skip, then I am too”. Startled by the voice I turned around just to be met by my friend Edwin. Beside him, a boy with glasses and tousled dark hair waved at me shily. We weren’t even really friends yet. My parents were no longer here so his mom decided that as the daughter of her best friend, I should stay with them from now on instead of a shelter or relative I didn’t even know. Truth be told, I hadn’t seen the Honorets in years since my mom used to always visit them on her own during her business trips to New York. However, they made me feel welcome and home quite immediately, so I didn’t feel uncomfortable with staying with them. At first, Edwin protested a little bit because me moving in meant that he had to room with his two little siblings, so I could have his.

“Edwin and friend of Edwin, go to class”. Rolling my eyes, I tried to make my way down the hall. “Mrs. Robertson won’t let you in her class now anyways. She doesn’t tolerate tardiness” his friend spoke. “And you are?” I asked kind of annoyed. “Oh, that’s Brandon” Edwin chirped in. “And we” he gestured between the three of us before locking his arm with mine and the other with Brandon’s. “Are going to enjoy this beautiful free lesson”. And thus, we reluctantly followed him into the empty art room, so he could finish his painting while Brandon and I just mingled around, occasionally saying a thing here and there.

“Ed, I am hungry! We’ve been in this room for hours now. Haven’t you finished your painting by now?” Brandon complained. I just agreed with an exaggerated nod of my head. “Ugh, fine! You guys are too uncultured to understand the true beauty and excitement in this. An artist needs their time and full concentration to paint a masterpiece and-” he rambled without an end on sight.

“Is he always like this? I’ve only been here for a week and most of my time was spent with the kiddos anyways”. His friend laughed and answered with a genuine smile and nod. “- but since it’s time for lunch now anyways and I am starving, I think it’s time for a proper break”.

Happily, we jumped up and dragged him behind us to the cafeteria. After getting our food, they slowly made their way towards a table in the back of the lunch room. Three guys were already sitting there talking and when we got closer, I noticed a familiar face. My cheeks burned under his heavy gaze. “Guys, this is my friend I told y’all about” Edwin turned to them to fully introduce me. “… so this is Austin” he pointed to the boy with the anime backpack on his side of the table. Austin gave me a quick smile before the shorter boy with a base cap on his head spoke up. “I am Nick. Nice to meet you”. He shook my hand firmly and sat down.

“And this is –“

“Zion” the boy from earlier interrupted Ed. “Uhm, yeah. This is Zion. Thanks for interrupting, man. I am totally used to this by now” he complained about his friend, which made the rest of the group laugh. Everyone, but me and Zion. His eyes never left mine when I sat down between Ed and B. It made me feel nervous to have a guy stare at me like that. It wasn’t even a staring, but more like an observing. I felt like he didn’t like me, though. His gaze made me feel uncomfortable and like an intruder to their group. Shaking my head slightly, I tried to join the conversation between the other four. “This party will be massive!” Nick exclaimed. “It’s the beginning of the school year, everyone will go. Trust and believe!”. Brandon and Austin seemed so hyped about it already, dragging Nick into their own little conversation to plan everything for the upcoming night. “We’re going, right?” Edwin asked me precisely.

Honestly, it was really nice and cute of him to include me in everything and making me genuinely feel like a part of his family and friends. He had even introduced me as his “twin sister from another mister” to our teachers. Our math teacher was very confused by it and asked Edwin how that was even possible, to which he only answered with “Mr. T! With all due respect, but you’re asking too many questions, sir. She’s my twin sister that used to live somewhere in Canada or something, ion even know. T’was Canada, right?”. He didn’t even give me a chance to answer him. “Doesn’t really matter. What matters is, that she’s here and she’s here to stay! And we might not look alike and she might have a different last name”. This made me cackle. “But! She’s still my twin sister and that’s all to know”. Mr. Toya seemed to regret even asking by the way he had already dragged Edwin out of his class in hopes of making him stop talking.

“Sure” I answered him with a soft smile. It was clear that they wanted to go and I didn’t want to be the party pooper by saying no. “Great! Aye yo Z, you picking us up by 8 then?”. That’s when I noticed that his eyes were still on me. Zion nodded shortly without ever breaking eye contact.

Later in the evening I found myself in Edwin’s room – or how he liked to call it “the twin closet” since more than half of it was full with boxes of mine and also his clothes. He sure had more things to wear than I did, though. “Look, if you wear this white crop t-shirt” he rummaged through a box of mine. “And this silky thingy here” he was holding up my darkish red silky jogger pants. “Plus your white air force one’s and this dope black fanny pack” he handed me all the items. “Then, you won’t overshine my fit and we gucci”. His smile was so dangerously serious that it made me not want to mess with him when it came to outfits. So, I just gave him an “Okay”, and got up to get dressed in the bathroom.

Even though, I didn’t feel like going, I still found myself in the backseat of Zion’s car quietly humming along to the Drake and PARTYNEXTDOOR song that was playing. It was nice and chill rather than too loud and hype on our way to the place. The boys didn’t even let him finish park the car before running off to god knows where in the house. “I guess it’s only you and me then, tonight” he said. I was okay with this, even though his presence did make me feel nervous since I couldn’t really read him as easily as I could with the rest of PRETTYMUCH. Apparently their 5-person-group had a name due to the fact that he used to over-use the word back in middle school and thus, it just stuck with them from then on.

“Z! Over here!” A girl with long and straight dark hair waved from the other side of the front yard. Her black dress was cut low in the front, complimenting her curves perfectly. With her heels-clad feet, she tried to make her way over to him. “Shit, gotta go! You on your own, I guess”. He rushed over to her before she could reach us, giving her a tight hug and leaving me all by myself in a foreign neighborhood of a foreign city with foreign people surrounding me. Great.

I spent most of the night in the kitchen, drinking some soda out of a blue solo cup. A couple hours had passed and three drinks later, I found myself wandering around the big house trying to find the bathroom. The one on the ground floor was obviously occupied by some horny teenagers, so I went upstairs. On my way down again, I heard faint music playing from one of the rooms.

Curiosity took the best of me and even though there was a high possibility I was going to walk into a couple trying to have fun, I still decided to open the door. To my surprise I didn’t find anyone in there trying to do the deed, but instead I found Zion sitting on the edge of the bed. One hand playing with his cup and the other gripping onto his phone securely. He didn’t even notice me with his eyes lowly staring at his feet.

“I sure hope it’s just some water you’re drinking”. His head shot up, tensing, before letting loose once he realized it was just me. “It’s coke. No alcohol. I don’t really drink”. He gave me an all over look before motioning for me to sit down next to him. The bed was small, so our legs were touching.

“What happened to your lady friend? Why are you chilling here all alone?” I wanted to know. After all, they did seem very familiar earlier. “Asya? Nah, she’s just a good friend of ours. A bit like a little sister”. Understanding what he said, I nodded and just continued to aimlessly look around the room. “And for the all alone part” he spoke up after a while. “I don’t feel like partying.”. “Yeah, same” I breathed out.

“Tell you what?”. He looked up with his full attention on me now. “You seem stressed and I think you might need someone to talk to that’s not part of your little PRETTYMUCH group” grinningly I said. With my hand I pushed his chest to make him lay down on the bed. Zion obliged and I waited for him to get comfortable before grabbing his phone to play another song. “Now tell me”. My head rested right next to his and my body was pressed right on him. Every inch of my left side was touching him somehow. “I’ll start then if you want?” I figured it would be easier for him to open up that way. With that, I told him about it all. From the reason I ended up in New York to Edwin’s glorious idea that I would be his twin. “I should’ve known. Edwin and his egghead always on some weird shit, I swear.” He had said in realization. Also, I let him know about my worst and best childhood memories, or the first time I tried to sneak out and how my dad caught me. Basically, everything that came to my mind.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s hard for me to talk about feelings and stuff” he finally said after I was done talking. No more stories were left to be told, I think he knew me better than I knew myself by now.

“Oh, so you like someone? Feelings and all?”. Patiently I waited for him to answer. This time, it was me who searched for his eyes to lock them in place with mine. For a second, I could feel him stop breathing. The soft voice of Bryson Tiller took over the room.

“There’s a time and place for all this

This is not the place for all this

Is there a reason why you’re saying all this?

And can we talk about it later?”

His gaze flickered between my eyes and over my face. “Maybe”. He licked his lips nervously. “Kinda. Or maybe not. I don’t know”. He grew more and more anxious by the second and I was sure he thought he was doing a great job by keeping a poker face, but really he was horrible at it. I could finally read him and to tell the truth, I didn’t mind what I found out.

Now, my heart started beating faster and doubt was slowly taking over me. Yet, I still said “Then find it out. Just take the risk”. With one last inhale of air, Zion took all of his courage and leaned in, capturing his soft lips with mine. It felt different, but a good different. A different I could get used to. My hand cautiously crept up his arm, delicately going up and down while we found a steady rhythm. A small moan escaped his lips. I silently prayed to god and begged him to make this moment last forever. He didn’t seem like a stranger to me anymore. It was as if we’ve known each other longer than we really thought, but at the same time this was crazy. All of this was crazy. Yesterday, I didn’t even know the name Zion existed. And yet, here I was, him kissing me and gripping my thigh. (I’ve been listening to Phases on repeat for days now, can you tell?)Promptly, he pulled away with full force. “I can’t, I mean we- we can’t! We shouldn’t” he bursted out. “Edwin is gonna be so disappointed in me when he finds out”. I wanted to silence him and say how that wasn’t true, but next thing I knew, the door flew open revealing – of course because the universe wouldn’t let me kiss a cute boy in peace for once – Edwin. Behind him the other three reluctantly followed like lost puppies. “So, I put two and two together and my senses did not betray me! I had a feeling y’all were up to something nasty in here!”. With a sigh, he was interrupted by Austin. “He’s lying, someone saw how first Zion and later you went in here. And for some odd reason, Eggie is playing protective brother”.

“Okay, so whatchu tryin’ to tell me is that we goin’ home cause Ed had some to drink and you need my car?”.

“… Yep”.

Zion abruptly got to his feet, pulling me up with him in the process. The ride home was actually quite peaceful. Nick and Brandon fell asleep, all cuddled up while Austin tried to stop Edwin from drunk texting some random girl he hadn’t talked to in years. We drove them home, one after another left. When we arrived at the Honoret house, Edwin was quick on his feet. “I need my bed” he mumbled, rushing into the house.

This left me and Zion alone. Shily, I dared to turn my head towards him trying to see the expression his face held. “You know …” he began. His voice sounded a little shaky, yet it didn’t stop him from saying what was circling around in that precious head of his. “I think we can. And I think we should”. The smile on Zion’s face was contagious, I couldn’t contain myself from smiling back. Before walking to my front door, he gave me a long chaste kiss on the lips leaving me dizzy and occupied with my own cloudy thoughts.

“I think so, too” I whispered to no one in particular but myself while drifting off to a much needed peaceful sleep.

NOTE: I legit wrote all of this today in like idk 3 hours?? Whew chile, but it was worth it because I passed some time. Only two more hours left at work and I have nothing to do. Might start writing another imagine to pass some more time.

[derryhawkins]

mike gets a video camera

some cute headcanons involving mike recording the losers!! also this is kind of got hella long so sorry haha

oKAY so let’s get started…

mike gets a video camera one year from his family on his birthday, and the first thing he does with it is take it to the losers so he could film them all goofing around.

the first thing you see is bev up close to the camera with richie making weird faces, bill yelling at them both to back up as mike laughed at how weird they looked, and eddie’s hand in between their faces flipping the camera off.

bev & richie finally move away and mike faces the camera to stan, who tries to move away but bill and eddie keep him in place. ben is standing beside stan looking awkward as ever but smiling nonetheless.

“we are the losers and we do dumb fucking shit,” mike says to the camera after turning it around to face him, almost like he’s talking to someone. “helL YEAH WE DO” - richie

he has a plan of sorts but no one needs to know that sshhh

the video goes to just show them playing a card game in bill’s living room and eddie yelling at richie about cheating before cutting off.

from there on out mike makes sure that the camera is fully charged and he takes it with him whenever all the losers hang out. they all question it but mike is like “i want to film richie doing embarrassing shit”. it’s a partial lie.

the next video he takes is when they’re at the quarry.

he’s filming them jumping off the cliff and into the water from below. he zooms in on everyone and makes sure he gets them all when they jump. when it’s his turn to jump, he races up there and bill films it.

it’s a bit shaky but that’s ok.

the next shot is them all shouting in the water for a few seconds before it zooms in on bev & ben talking. bev kisses ben’s cheek before swimming away.

cue the ‘oh shit oh shit oh shit’ from mike as he secretly gets it on camera. (he shows richie, bill, stan, and eddie later) (they all f r e a k o u t).

there are other short little videos of richie making jokes and eddie telling him to fuck off/stan declining his hi-fives; stan being a fucking savage back at richie or anyone who pisses him off (aka other kids at school who try and make fun of bill’s stutter) (they all had to defend bill at least once & everyone except the bowers gang soon realized that ‘oh fuck ok can’t mess with the Losers’). other short ones are of beverly telling ghost stories, or ben reading poems out loud, or bill playing the piano. just the tiny little things they all do. there’s a short video of mike singing that ben and richie got one day that mike decided to keep.

but the next long one mike takes is when they’re halfway through freshman year of high school and they’re at the barrens.

it starts off with mike zooming in on an obviously flirting richie tozier and an oblivious eddie kaspbrak by a tree not too far away. then mike moves the camera to stan and bill just a foot away from mike. stan’s on his back pointing to the clouds talking about the different shapes and bill is on his back, too, but staring at stan with a fond smile. then mike moves the camera to bev and ben who are sitting and holding hands. they say they’re not dating but tbh everyone knows it’s buLL SHIT

then mike turns the camera to himself and is like “i’m fucking seventh wheeling, i need a girlfriend”.

but then the next thing mike knows, richie is walking around laughing like a crazy person with eddie over one shoulder as the boy yells to be put down.

“i don’t want my face near your fucking ass, tozier!”

“but i have a great ass eds, even your mom said so last night!”

mike got it all on camera, thank god.

bev shoves them both in a stream near by and everyone laughs their asses off. but then bev gets shoved in by stan, who gets shoved in my bill, who gets pushed in my ben, who gets pulled in by eddie, and mike is laughing as he’s recording the entire thing. later once he’s dry, bill takes the camera from mike and records mike being pushed in the stream by richie and bev.

one of mike’s favorite videos is when they decided to do karaoke night together on the last day of summer before sophomore year. during the day they just hung out and he got a few funny/cute moments before they went to bill’s place and sent up a karaoke machine in the living room. bill’s parents were gone on a trip and wont be back until the next day and georgie was at a friend’s house so it was all good.

it was clip after clip of everyone singing badly to popular songs at the time.

richie and eddie sang africa by toto together, forced by bev. they didn’t want to do it bc “it’ll be gay” “exactly, you two fucking wanna kiss each other so go fucking do it”

cue a blushing reddie and cackling stan

but then stan and bill were blushing when ben and mike made them sing I Wanna Know What Love Is

bev and bill did a duet, too, but they weren’t ashamed at all surprisingly. mike did one by himself before he did don’t stop believing with richie and bill, bev recorded it.

they all sang Eye of the Tiger together at the end. mike propped the camera up so it wouldn’t fall and actually got them all in the frame. it fell over near the end, but thats only because bill was like “fuck it” and kissed stan and the two boys literally fell on the couch. mike didn’t bother telling them he got it on camera.

two days later he recorded everyone acting shocked when richie and eddie said they liked each other and started dating like a month ago.

“THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION” - Stan and Bev acting shocked.

he still talks to the camera about how much he loves his friends and narrates likes a story teller whenever someone is doing something Very Dumb or Embarassing. everyone questions him still but he’s like “it makes the video funnier, leave me a l o n e” (it’s for his Plan that he started when first started the videos ok?)

mike gets a serious girlfriend in his junior year and the losers all come over to his house to help get ready for their first date. ben records it all and mike tells him to put the camera away but he doesn’t listen. mike’s grandpa comes in at some point and ben gets him on camera staring at them all for a moment before excitedly telling them that the girl was here.

richie squealed but denies it. “rich, it’s on vid-” “shuT uP EDS”

there’s a video for every birthday party for each of the loser’s.

there’s a video of them all getting ready for prom at richie’s place because his parents were the only ones not home to yell about them being to rambunctious.

there’s a video of each of the homecoming dances, too; and prom.

there’s a video after prom where they’re all a bit tipsy, maybe high, sitting in a diner and all eating quietly with the occasional giggle or way too deep 2 AM thought from one of them.

there’s a video of graduation + them getting ready for graduation. mike got his family to record them walking down to receive their diplomas. they all hang out after at the quarry and there’s another video of them all jumping off the cliff in the same order when mike first recorded it.

throughout college, they’re in different places but they get together enough for mike to record whenever they do.

there’s one video of him yelling “HOLY SHIIIT” and richie yelling “fUCKING FINALLY” as he zooms in on a ring on stan’s left hand. then he makes it zoom back out so he can get both bill and stan’s faces and they both look so happy, mike actually starts crying.

there’s a similar video of stan and beverly doing the same thing to mike and his girlfriend, now fiancee a year later.

and another similar one with bill and ben doing the same thing a few months later as the camera zooms in on eddie’s left hand before going to both richie’s and eddie’s faces.

once again, it happens with ben and bev, and eddie and mike’s now wife say “HOLY SHIIIT” and “fuCKING FINALLY” for benverly.

and you guessed it, he has a some footage of each of their weddings!!

throughout the years they still hang out, even with their little forming families, and mike starts introducing every kid that comes into the picture and still they’re like “mIKE WHY THE FUCK DO YOU TALK TO THE CAMERA LIKE THAT”

they f i n a l l y find out why when they’re all about in their forties and mike insisted on them all coming to his place, just the seven of them plus his wife because she became an honorary loser when they noticed how in love she was with mike.

mike had found out a way to do a video montage of them all.

“ok ok so we’re going to go see my best friends in the entire world!” video and much younger mike told the camera as he rode his bike. “they’re amazing.”

he took the first footage of them jumping off of the cliff and voiced-over their names and what they were like before it went to the next video he took of them all. they were all confused about where the very first video of them was, tho. mike told them to just watch.

they’re favorite songs were playing in the background the entire time

anytime someone knew was introduced mike would pause on their face and a voice over would say their name and all of that shiz

the video montage basically showed all of their times together from middle school to just a few prior with their families and kids. mike’s wife laughed at the video where they were getting him ready for their first date. beverly shrieked when she saw that he got her kissing ben on the cheek. richie threw a pillow at him for the first few vids of him flirting with an oblivious eddie. stan and bill loved the ones that mike got of them, though, bc they were honestly cute.

after going through all of the kids of the losers, video went back to the very first video he took.

bev let out an ‘o shit’ at suddenly seeing her and richie’s younger faces so up close to the camera with eddie’s hand flipping them all off. richie busted out laughing.

once that video was over it went to bev’s son and richie’s and eddie’s two kids doing the exact same thing. (mike told them to do it). then it panned over to one of stan’s and bill’s kids trying to leave with bev’s & ben’s daughter awkwardly standing beside them and mike’s two kids blocking their way from leaving. it was basically a little replica of what their parents had done.

then at the end, the screen went black before saying “may the 2nd generation of the Losers Club have as much fun as we did”

mike’s and his wife’s kids both have video cameras of their own so they can do the same thing

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

Okay I also have so many Thoughts on Rise so if you want someone to rant to, I’m definitely here lol

My official Thoughts™

Okay so first off I’m pleasantly surprised I didn’t hate it as much as I was expecting? Lol I didn’t wanna watch at all because it seemed too dramatic, like something I would’ve eaten up in high school but I’m too tired to deal with these days. But my mom made me watch it with her and it definitely wasn’t as bad as I expected lol

What…was UP with the camera work????? I was loosing my mind over it omfg. Sometimes normal, sometimes shaky, and we had like three or four dramatic documentary zoom-ins ala Parks and Rec or the Office??? Why was that happening??? They were all in dramatic moments but it was so fucking funny I couldn’t handle it.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, when the coach asked ‘are you a teacher or a director’ and Josh Radnor was like ‘well, both’ and then it zoomed in on the coach as he cut off ‘Actually, no, you’re a teacher’. Like. That was clearly supposed to be dramatic but it was PEAK comedic timing. My mom and I were cackling we almost missed the rest of the scene omfg

That principal is a mess??? Giving one dude the drama department just because he doesn’t like the other teacher, and then???? Approving the show before he READ it???? Allowing a coach to try to bribe a kid’s bad grade away???? What in the Lord 

What….is with the troupe….of the Athlete having to pick sports or theater. Like literally what is that. It happens too often and I’ve never? Seen it happen in real life? Like I know you can’t apply your life experiences to everyone else’s but as someone who also went to a sports crazy high school in small town PA like….the senior sports™ boys went out for the musical every year??? Like every year there’d be at least 7 or 8 football or basketball or literally whatever players that were like ‘You know the fuck what, I’m a senior, I’m doing a musical now’ lmao. It was never dramatic or anything. Being in a play isn’t going to ruin someone’s sports career 

Okay so auditioning for a musical…doesn’t….work….as extra credit??? They wanted his grade raised and he wanted the kid in the show. The actual play the musical is based on has been picked apart and analyzed as a piece of literature so many times….so I could see “If he does my musical and writes a report on the play, I’ll give him extra credit” or something to that effect but just. ‘Audition and all your Problems will go away’. Lord What. 

WE’RE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS SIMON KID.

Okay. Okay. The kid…is stereotypical ‘gay high schooler’ and we all damn well know that. Not my complaint. The thing was, bumping him down from Melchior to HANSCHEN made it SEEM like he was only getting cast as Hanschen because he’s The Gay™, because frankly, considering they were struggling to find boys, I would’ve initially put him as Moritz, from the brief scenes it seems like he could handle Moritz’s songs??? Moritz is the third lead and like, the fan favorite character, you’d wanna cast him pretty quick. And THEN they bust out he has a ““““““Very Religious”““““ family, like….really. Really. We’re doing that. Okay. Fine then. I can sit here and pretend I’ve actually met a homophobic Catholic person before if they’re at least gonna handle this well. But THEN. THEN. OKAY. We got that trailer for the full season at the end of the show and the kid playing Ernst said ‘Do you feel something when you’re with me’ and now….I see exactly what they’re doing….They’re having this kid play Hanschen while in real life he’s going to be in an Ernst-like situation….That’s so fucking cheesy and I haven’t yet fully decided how I feel about it??? I’m already tired tho. Anyway if someone hurts that boy I’m gonna go down to NBC with a baseball bat and start swinging. I can get in no problem. Just making that known.

Auli’i Cravalho….,,,we Stan

Her plot line seems a little muddled and Peak Dramatic right now but that scene near the end with her mother???? GIRL. KILL THEM.

Listen idk who the hell is playing the football player (Robbie was it?) but I already love him with my entire heart but like….the scene where he just started rapping at the pep rally….no one Does That lmao. Although I appreciate that he’s a lot less conflicted about joining the show than other athletes caught in this troupe before him? He was a little hesitant but it wasn’t Over The Top (looking at you, Troy Bolton). He seems really cute tho. I was Worried when he started rapping ‘All That’s Known’ but then he slid into actually singing and he was so good!! 

LMAO when they were doing the song montage and all they could do for ‘Totally Fucked’ was “BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH” I was cracking up

I liked that they appear to have established the football player is into the shy girl BEFORE they do the show. Like, it’s still cliché as all hell, but at least it’s not like ‘I never noticed you were pretty or a cool person before the stage lights were on you’ type deal bc that’s exhausting.

My mom was cracking up when Simon was telling his Religious Parents™ about the show at the dinner table aasdfgh like yet another clearly intended to be dramatic scene turned funny by the camera work and editing but also like it was so….like my mom isn’t familiar with Spring Awakening itself but she’s familiar with a lot of other ~~~edgy~~~ shows bc I’ve either been in them or gotten her to see them with me and like. I’ve worked in and on shows with kids who’s parents were SUPER against the shows material and the roles their kids played but no one ever like….stopped their kids from doing it??? And like his parents being against the stuff in the play is like….the Point of the play? And also if he already knows the script he’s already been Exposed to it, so it’s not like keeping him out of the show is gonna keep him pure or whatever?? Idk I really just don’t get why they’re bothering with that plotline tbh

Rosie Perez is always so over the top and I am always so okay with it

On that same branch though like…I know Josh Radnor loves giving impassioned speeches…but who….talks like that? Lol. Just everything he said sounded like they were trying to hard for that Big Dreamer Life Changer Teacher troupe you know???

Listen I GET why that one girl would be mad because she usually gets the leads but also….Ilse….has the better songs???? Like if someone cast me as Ilse I’d fucking cry I literally want to get a tattoo for the ‘I Don’t Do Sadness’ song bc it fucks with me so much lmao. ALSO…..I’m very interested in the whole thing with Auli’i character’s mother sleeping with her father and her thinking Auli’i is a ‘whore just like her mother’ since Wendla is the tragically innocent character in the show who was too sheltered to know anything about sex and Ilse is a victim of incest who dealt with it by acting out sexually….like it’s definitely not the same as what I’m expecting them to do with the reversed Hanschen/Ernst storyline but it’s interesting to see the parallels between them since they’ve clearly had very different upbringings when it comes to mature issues like that

Speaking of tho, Auli’i struggling with ‘Mama Who Bore Me’ until she had a big fight with her mom and can suddenly belt it to hell and back……come on

Let Me Tell You How Much I Cringed When The Teacher Outed Michael To The Entire Cast

Like, dude….you know that only like yourself and one other student knows he’s transitioning and he didn’t even tell you himself….Like yes he auditioned for a male role but he signed with his birth name like…The teacher had that list before rehearsal he literally could’ve just pulled the kid aside and asked him what he wanted to do??? I’m glad they didn’t film any of the other kids, like, caring or being weird about it though. That might be a delayed plot line but they all seemed relatively accepting so that definitely made the whole situation a little more bearable to watch

OF COURSE the lights kid is homeless….because there wasn’t enough drama

Don’t get me wrong like it’s definitely an important issue but that’s my problem with shows like this, they just Pile Everything On to the point where it’s so much like…

And then he took the kid home which we all saw coming but like, did you see the wife’s face??? He has a cell phone, he could have at least called to warn her. Their marriage seems stressed, they’ve got an emo ass son Going Through Some Ambiguous Problem That Has Lead To Drinking, and now they‘re moving a homeless kid in on top of it like. It just feels less like ‘real life’ and more like ‘how much drama can we pile into this for views’ and also it was a lot for literally the first episode? 

Who…has ever actually put on Pirates of Penzance….who has ever actually seen Pirates of Penzance….I’m not convinced it’s a real show lmao I laughed when he said he wanted to replace Spring Awakening with it what a JUMP

BURNING THE COSTUMES WAS SO FUCKING DRAMATIC ASDFGH WHO WOULD EVER?!?!?! I LOVED IT

Also though like why were they singing ‘I Believe’ for that part???? It definitely helped with the Drama And Aesthetic™ but it’s also. the rape song? Idk I think situation wise ‘Totally Fucked’ would’ve just been a better choice. They could have just done what the original broadway cast did on televised performances and changed it to ‘stuck’ lmao. Now, the moment definitely would’ve felt more….Glee-ish, with that song, so I guess they were trying to avoid that since this is a serious™ show but like again I just don’t see how ‘I Believe’ worked thematically

Also like the biggest problem this show had was PACING. Holy shit. This one episode felt like the entire season. Like literally…what else. What else can they do. These kids have apparently already been at it for weeks and are professional singers who have all the songs down for some reason. Like how many rehearsals do they have before the show??? Damn. They definitely could’ve slowed it down and dragged things out, it would‘ve felt a lot cleaner 

All in all tho….For a first episode I’d give it like a solid 7 or 8???? I’m interested enough to check out episode two but I’m also cautiously expecting to fall out of the show either because of the pacing or just them piling on too much drama just for the sake of it. What did you think???

[skyfields]

biography: holiday han

every girl has her place in the world, and yours is at your father’s feet. you are made to flit across cool marble floors in lavender dresses that catch the breeze, and like he owns everything else, your father owns you. the white-sand beaches, the clouds that paint the sky— it all belongs to your father, and so it belongs to you.

you’re expected to change your place from one at your father’s feet to one at your husband’s. he is decided for you at a young age. he is the son of a friend of your mother’s; the family he comes from is humble and not as affluent as yours. when you question why him and not someone richer, your father’s gold wedding band tightens around white knuckles and your mother’s red lips purse tight around a wine glass and turn away.

you learn that a place at your father’s feet is not the place to ask questions.

every little heiress with a social standing like yours is meant to be beautiful and cultured, and able to hold pleasant conversations with her husband when he wants it and entertain him when he needs it. you are no different. you haven't met the young man yet, but you are still below him, no matter how high above him you are in the ranks of society. and so your parents put forth all the best for your future husband, training your voice into that of an angel and your fingers into a single unit with the keys of a piano. they educate you for him, turning you into a clever young girl by the time you are five.

but clever doesn't necessarily mean well-mannered, and you demand the best and shiniest trinkets to be yours, and yours alone. your skin grows pretty and clear under the warm jeju sun, and you sip cool water in the lobbies of your father’s hotels. but enough is never enough, and you rage for more and more; perhaps it is attention you seek, because your parents simply refuse to give it to you.

they say that you are a problem. if you are a problem, then boyeon is the solution.

boyeon is ugly and knobby-kneed and beady-eyed and being paid a hefty sum by your father to strike the fear of god in you. all the other nannies have tried, and all have left your mansion with tear-stained faces and scratches along their cheeks where you slapped them and holes in their heart where you tear into them with cruelly honest words. boyeon, everyone insists, is different. you own everything but the sky itself-- but that won't stop old, cranky boyeon from putting you in your place. you discover so when your six-year-old hand reaches out and gives her coarse gray hair a mighty tug-- and the hag cackles at you, and lets the rest of her hair down, and dares you to try pulling harder.

effectively, boyeon is everything you fear you will become: ancient, wrinkled, and rigid, but she earns your respect faster than a whip when she towers over you with that disapproving gaze. no matter how much you beg or scream or threaten, she won’t give you what you want. in that sense, you want to be boyeon.

the clock ticks by and you spend most of your young years with boyeon. you don’t think she ever learns to care for you— you’re just another brat to her who needs to be straightened out, but she quickly becomes your world, and everything revolves around pleasing her and making her approve of you. when she pins your hair back into a curly updo and paints pink your pretty lips, her touch is gentle, not loving— but you can pretend anyway.

when you are ten, you are old enough to meet your future husband. he is handsome, but not gorgeous. courteous, but boring. four years older than you, he has a level of maturity that makes him tolerate you like you’re a child throwing a neverending tantrum, and that throws you off-balance even more than boyeon does. you’ve never been tolerated before. you’ve always been loved and adored like the princess you are (you ignore that boyeon has only barely tolerated you till now). you hate him immediately.

your complaints to boyeon fall on unattentive ears, for the woman has heard your voice too many times to care. eventually, she snaps at you as she always does, telling you that it’s ridiculous for you to judge the man before you even know him. still, you do not understand why your family insists that you marry this man when you turn eighteen— but when you see your mother gaze lovingly, longingly at his father in the way she never looked at yours, boyeon snatches the top of your head and roughly turns your eyes away.

the attention you crave isn’t given by this future husband of yours, nor is it given by your father and mother. only by boyeon, and she’s outgrowing you anyway. you seek release. you find it one day at twelve as you sit in a pretty dress, fanning yourself on the open air porch of your father’s sleek, white hotel. your friends surround you. they croon over your silky hair as they let it fall through their fingers and stroke the back of your milky hand as you recline, bored of listening to them marvel at how soft your skin is or how you ought to buy them a dress as lovely as yours so they can deserve to be seen beside you.

it is then that they enter: five girls who can’t be much older than you, strutting across the lobby with photographers and young men holding their bags. you are rudely abandoned by your friends as they shriek and run to take pictures with those girls and you stare alone, envy forgotten as you carnivorously drink up the sight of not one, but five girls who dare to be above you.

later, boyeon explains that those girls are a part of a famous girl group away on holiday, and that’s why they got so much attention. you want to do that too. you want the attention of all five to be on yourself. and what you want, you get.

you get your greedy hands on an audition at worldwide records and make it into the company on account of your voice, thanks to all the fine arts lessons your parents paid for. boyeon, in perhaps the only loving thing she’s ever done for you, signs the contract in place of your legal guardian.

for the first time in your life, you have something to work for, and your desire to be an idol becomes true in its passion. it’s the only thing you can call yours. you spend every day in their practice rooms, singing and dancing till your lungs give out— for once, you look in the mirror and see dark circles scored beneath your eyes, and you are proud of them.

the boy you are meant to marry reaches out, for you are fourteen and he is seventeen, and he does not wish to marry you when you are eighteen without knowing you at all. you are flattered that he wishes to get to know you beneath the hotel-chain heiress, but take a smug satisfaction that he doesn’t realize you won’t marry him at all. you will become an idol, and leave him in the dirt.

but your future husband is kind, polite, generous— his distant etiquette that bored you at ten makes your heart flutter at fourteen. you are falling in love, and boyeon looks at you in pity.

it is getting difficult to manage your time— you will stop for nothing to become an idol and garner this attention you so desire. but your fiancé has begun to give that attention to you, and now your heart is torn.

at sixteen, you are selected for the lineup of a group called luxuri. a group; not a solo act, which you had intended. that sets your decision: you will choose love over attention, and you will decline the contract to join luxuri.

you run to tell him once you decide. and as always, he is there, in the lobby of your father’s hotel— and he has a girl in his arms.

she is simple and plain and boring. her clothes are not expensive like yours, and her skin isn’t both moon-beamed and sun-kissed in the way yours somehow manages to be. she is obviously common, so clearly in the same lowly economic class as his. yet despite this, she is still taller and prettier and older than you, with a certain warmth emanating from her that you know you do not possess. he kisses her softly and bids her goodbye, love for her shining in his eyes. as she leaves, he catches sight of you and smiles that same polite, at-arms-length smile, and you burst into tears.

he did not love you. he thought you knew that. boyeon had told him of your idol dream and he had gone ahead and fallen for someone else, assuming that you would not fall for him in the way you did. he is regretful— he kneels at your feet and cries for how he hurt you. your heart aches— yet in the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done, you let him go, and tell your parents that you will not marry him at eighteen, and continue on with your contract for luxuri.

you debut with jewel at sixteen. the way you carry yourself is one that you are ashamed to look back on. without your beloved to temper you, you revert back into the same selfish, foolish, material girl who cares little for those around her. you are little more than a middle school bully, worsened by the adoring screams of fans who can’t see past the good-girl front you put up. you make a name for yourself at bc— and it isn’t a good one.

the way you treat your members isn’t much better— any kindness you show them is just enough to make sure they don’t flinch away from you on-camera. before all your labelmates, you flaunt your riches, your beauty, your talent— they are yours, the same way the sun and sea and sky of jeju all belong to you.

then in 2014 when you are twenty-one, boyeon passes away.

you hold her hand as she dies— you lovingly stroke the silver hair that you had pulled when you were six. the only person you care about looks you in the eyes and says,

“Han Jiae . . . you are a disgusting, hateful, selfish girl, and I wish I never loved you.”

she barely gets the words out before she dies, and you, rattled to your core, run from the room weeping. boyeon never had to stay with you so many years— she loved you, truly, but somehow hated you just the same. nobody can blame her. for every part that you are loved, you are two parts hated— and for that, you cut all ties and leave luxuri, leaving scandals in your wake.

you move to a small oceanside home in busan, where your father buys you a quiet, private beach in unspoken exchange for you staying away from him. there, you cry alone and stay away from rumors of why you left GROUP— if they had known the true reason, you would be ruined forever.

you learn to garden. you learn to cook. you learn to make money online, and learn to spend only what you earn instead of what you’re given. you learn to appreciate small things, like the beauty of the sunrise over the ocean, which you never would have woken up for before. you learn that your ex-fiancé married that girl from the hotel, and that boyeon had grandchildren who just started their first day of elementary school (you fund their studies anonymously and plan to do so well into their lives, and you open an education charity under boyeon’s name).

you learn the feeling of shame when you watch luxuri’s stages without you and realize that they never needed you in the first place. you learn that they are talented young women, far more talented than you ever were, and that bc is better off without you. you learn how rotten and wicked and ugly you were on the inside, and that everything boyeon was on the outside was you all along.

you learn the meaning of humility, and with it comes the fear of turning back into who you once were. you learn just how much you love to sing, and that attention is not worth having if you are stepping on others to have it.

the next chapter in your life begins when you finally manage to work up the courage to open your own little vegetable stall. you’re carrying a heavy basket of garden-grown veggies home for the day and looks up and— ohmygodinheaven that is the most beautiful man you’ve has ever seen in your entire life—

turns out it’s jeon hamin from hero.

it’s been so long since you’ve seen his face that you didn’t even recognize him for a moment. any thoughts of hiding how floored you is are totally gone when your eyes meet, and you can’t even duck for cover anymore. but loneliness is a powerful motivator— in a split-second decision, you calls out for him. you’ve gotten quite good at cooking; perhaps he would like to come in and have a bite?

time goes on and before you knows it, he’s proposing to you and you’re saying yes and he’s quietly paying for your dream wedding and people are screeching because suddenly, holiday han is back from the dead. your wedding is attended by his two sisters-- one of whom isn’t your biggest fan-- and victoria lee, your ex-leader. it’s victoria you apologize to-- and it’s victoria who says that perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind.

when you decide to return to the industry with all your new knowledge, you do so quietly as a soloist underneath starscape— you cannot bear to show your face to any worldwide artist, too ashamed of how you once were and too guilty of the pain you caused them.

you are too aware of kindness now. the monster is brewing beneath you, waiting to come out, and you fear it. you treat other starscape artists with all the compassion your husband shows you and humble yourself beneath them— even though you debuted before them, your years with luxuri are ones you wish to forget.

you fear that you will be poison to luxuri, but try not to concern yourself with the what-ifs. you are working hard to better yourself, working hard to become a better person who doesn’t care about the attention, but rather about the footprint she leaves in the ocean-darkened sand.

[skyfields2]

biography: holiday han

every girl has her place in the world, and yours is at your father’s feet. you are made to flit across cool marble floors in lavender dresses that catch the breeze, and like he owns everything else, your father owns you. the white-sand beaches, the clouds that paint the sky— it all belongs to your father, and so it belongs to you.

you’re expected to change your place from one at your father’s feet to one at your husband’s. he is decided for you at a young age. he is the son of a friend of your mother’s; the family he comes from is humble and not as affluent as yours. when you question why him and not someone richer, your father’s gold wedding band tightens around white knuckles and your mother’s red lips purse tight around a wine glass and turn away.

you learn that a place at your father’s feet is not the place to ask questions.

every little heiress with a social standing like yours is meant to be beautiful and cultured, and able to hold pleasant conversations with her husband when he wants it and entertain him when he needs it. you are no different. you haven't met the young man yet, but you are still below him, no matter how high above him you are in the ranks of society. and so your parents put forth all the best for your future husband, training your voice into that of an angel and your fingers into a single unit with the keys of a piano. they educate you for him, turning you into a clever young girl by the time you are five.

but clever doesn't necessarily mean well-mannered, and you demand the best and shiniest trinkets to be yours, and yours alone. your skin grows pretty and clear under the warm jeju sun, and you sip cool water in the lobbies of your father’s hotels. but enough is never enough, and you rage for more and more; perhaps it is attention you seek, because your parents simply refuse to give it to you.

they say that you are a problem. if you are a problem, then boyeon is the solution.

boyeon is ugly and knobby-kneed and beady-eyed and being paid a hefty sum by your father to strike the fear of god in you. all the other nannies have tried, and all have left your mansion with tear-stained faces and scratches along their cheeks where you slapped them and holes in their heart where you tear into them with cruelly honest words. boyeon, everyone insists, is different. you own everything but the sky itself-- but that won't stop old, cranky boyeon from putting you in your place. you discover so when your six-year-old hand reaches out and gives her coarse gray hair a mighty tug-- and the hag cackles at you, and lets the rest of her hair down, and dares you to try pulling harder.

effectively, boyeon is everything you fear you will become: ancient, wrinkled, and rigid, but she earns your respect faster than a whip when she towers over you with that disapproving gaze. no matter how much you beg or scream or threaten, she won’t give you what you want. in that sense, you want to be boyeon.

the clock ticks by and you spend most of your young years with boyeon. you don’t think she ever learns to care for you— you’re just another brat to her who needs to be straightened out, but she quickly becomes your world, and everything revolves around pleasing her and making her approve of you. when she pins your hair back into a curly updo and paints pink your pretty lips, her touch is gentle, not loving— but you can pretend anyway.

when you are ten, you are old enough to meet your future husband. he is handsome, but not gorgeous. courteous, but boring. four years older than you, he has a level of maturity that makes him tolerate you like you’re a child throwing a neverending tantrum, and that throws you off-balance even more than boyeon does. you’ve never been tolerated before. you’ve always been loved and adored like the princess you are (you ignore that boyeon has only barely tolerated you till now). you hate him immediately.

your complaints to boyeon fall on unattentive ears, for the woman has heard your voice too many times to care. eventually, she snaps at you as she always does, telling you that it’s ridiculous for you to judge the man before you even know him. still, you do not understand why your family insists that you marry this man when you turn eighteen— but when you see your mother gaze lovingly, longingly at his father in the way she never looked at yours, boyeon snatches the top of your head and roughly turns your eyes away.

the attention you crave isn’t given by this future husband of yours, nor is it given by your father and mother. only by boyeon, and she’s outgrowing you anyway. you seek release. you find it one day at twelve as you sit in a pretty dress, fanning yourself on the open air porch of your father’s sleek, white hotel. your friends surround you. they croon over your silky hair as they let it fall through their fingers and stroke the back of your milky hand as you recline, bored of listening to them marvel at how soft your skin is or how you ought to buy them a dress as lovely as yours so they can deserve to be seen beside you.

it is then that they enter: five girls who can’t be much older than you, strutting across the lobby with photographers and young men holding their bags. you are rudely abandoned by your friends as they shriek and run to take pictures with those girls and you stare alone, envy forgotten as you carnivorously drink up the sight of not one, but five girls who dare to be above you.

later, boyeon explains that those girls are a part of a famous girl group away on holiday, and that’s why they got so much attention. you want to do that too. you want the attention of all five to be on yourself. and what you want, you get.

you get your greedy hands on an audition at worldwide records and make it into the company on account of your voice, thanks to all the fine arts lessons your parents paid for. boyeon, in perhaps the only loving thing she’s ever done for you, signs the contract in place of your legal guardian.

for the first time in your life, you have something to work for, and your desire to be an idol becomes true in its passion. it’s the only thing you can call yours. you spend every day in their practice rooms, singing and dancing till your lungs give out— for once, you look in the mirror and see dark circles scored beneath your eyes, and you are proud of them.

the boy you are meant to marry reaches out, for you are fourteen and he is seventeen, and he does not wish to marry you when you are eighteen without knowing you at all. you are flattered that he wishes to get to know you beneath the hotel-chain heiress, but take a smug satisfaction that he doesn’t realize you won’t marry him at all. you will become an idol, and leave him in the dirt.

but your future husband is kind, polite, generous— his distant etiquette that bored you at ten makes your heart flutter at fourteen. you are falling in love, and boyeon looks at you in pity.

it is getting difficult to manage your time— you will stop for nothing to become an idol and garner this attention you so desire. but your fiancé has begun to give that attention to you, and now your heart is torn.

at sixteen, you are selected for the lineup of a group called luxuri. a group; not a solo act, which you had intended. that sets your decision: you will choose love over attention, and you will decline the contract to join luxuri.

you run to tell him once you decide. and as always, he is there, in the lobby of your father’s hotel— and he has a girl in his arms.

she is simple and plain and boring. her clothes are not expensive like yours, and her skin isn’t both moon-beamed and sun-kissed in the way yours somehow manages to be. she is obviously common, so clearly in the same lowly economic class as his. yet despite this, she is still taller and prettier and older than you, with a certain warmth emanating from her that you know you do not possess. he kisses her softly and bids her goodbye, love for her shining in his eyes. as she leaves, he catches sight of you and smiles that same polite, at-arms-length smile, and you burst into tears.

he did not love you. he thought you knew that. boyeon had told him of your idol dream and he had gone ahead and fallen for someone else, assuming that you would not fall for him in the way you did. he is regretful— he kneels at your feet and cries for how he hurt you. your heart aches— yet in the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done, you let him go, and tell your parents that you will not marry him at eighteen, and continue on with your contract for luxuri.

you debut with jewel at sixteen. the way you carry yourself is one that you are ashamed to look back on. without your beloved to temper you, you revert back into the same selfish, foolish, material girl who cares little for those around her. you are little more than a middle school bully, worsened by the adoring screams of fans who can’t see past the good-girl front you put up. you make a name for yourself at bc— and it isn’t a good one.

the way you treat your members isn’t much better— any kindness you show them is just enough to make sure they don’t flinch away from you on-camera. before all your labelmates, you flaunt your riches, your beauty, your talent— they are yours, the same way the sun and sea and sky of jeju all belong to you.

then in 2014 when you are twenty-one, boyeon passes away.

you hold her hand as she dies— you lovingly stroke the silver hair that you had pulled when you were six. the only person you care about looks you in the eyes and says,

“Han Jiae . . . you are a disgusting, hateful, selfish girl, and I wish I never loved you.”

she barely gets the words out before she dies, and you, rattled to your core, run from the room weeping. boyeon never had to stay with you so many years— she loved you, truly, but somehow hated you just the same. nobody can blame her. for every part that you are loved, you are two parts hated— and for that, you cut all ties and leave luxuri, leaving scandals in your wake.

you move to a small oceanside home in busan, where your father buys you a quiet, private beach in unspoken exchange for you staying away from him. there, you cry alone and stay away from rumors of why you left GROUP— if they had known the true reason, you would be ruined forever.

you learn to garden. you learn to cook. you learn to make money online, and learn to spend only what you earn instead of what you’re given. you learn to appreciate small things, like the beauty of the sunrise over the ocean, which you never would have woken up for before. you learn that your ex-fiancé married that girl from the hotel, and that boyeon had grandchildren who just started their first day of elementary school (you fund their studies anonymously and plan to do so well into their lives, and you open an education charity under boyeon’s name).

you learn the feeling of shame when you watch luxuri’s stages without you and realize that they never needed you in the first place. you learn that they are talented young women, far more talented than you ever were, and that bc is better off without you. you learn how rotten and wicked and ugly you were on the inside, and that everything boyeon was on the outside was you all along.

you learn the meaning of humility, and with it comes the fear of turning back into who you once were. you learn just how much you love to sing, and that attention is not worth having if you are stepping on others to have it.

the next chapter in your life begins when you finally manage to work up the courage to open your own little vegetable stall. you’re carrying a heavy basket of garden-grown veggies home for the day and looks up and— ohmygodinheaven that is the most beautiful man you’ve has ever seen in your entire life—

turns out it’s jeon hamin from hero.

it’s been so long since you’ve seen his face that you didn’t even recognize him for a moment. any thoughts of hiding how floored you is are totally gone when your eyes meet, and you can’t even duck for cover anymore. but loneliness is a powerful motivator— in a split-second decision, you calls out for him. you’ve gotten quite good at cooking; perhaps he would like to come in and have a bite?

time goes on and before you knows it, he’s proposing to you and you’re saying yes and he’s quietly paying for your dream wedding and people are screeching because suddenly, holiday han is back from the dead. your wedding is attended by his two sisters-- one of whom isn’t your biggest fan-- and victoria lee, your ex-leader. it’s victoria you apologize to-- and it’s victoria who says that perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind.

when you decide to return to the industry with all your new knowledge, you do so quietly as a soloist underneath starscape— you cannot bear to show your face to any worldwide artist, too ashamed of how you once were and too guilty of the pain you caused them.

you are too aware of kindness now. the monster is brewing beneath you, waiting to come out, and you fear it. you treat other starscape artists with all the compassion your husband shows you and humble yourself beneath them— even though you debuted before them, your years with luxuri are ones you wish to forget.

you fear that you will be poison to luxuri, but try not to concern yourself with the what-ifs. you are working hard to better yourself, working hard to become a better person who doesn’t care about the attention, but rather about the footprint she leaves in the ocean-darkened sand.

[perpetually-jungshook]

SorryNotSorry

(How to Change a Fuqboi- between the lines)

Word Count: 2.1k

Request: @baekinacupoftae​

Ok so I’ve read the fboi series… THEY WERE LIT despite being frustrating bc why the cliffhangers? u make me wanna cri. Nah, jk. But if you do have time, a sequel/closure would be nice. Only if you want to :) *whispers (especially Taehyung’s)

A/N: So! I have officially made a fan theory for my own story! Does that make me conceited? 🤔 or just a proud author? 😂 Haha~ This story comes from an “all one main character” timeline/theory for the Fuqboi series. I also included Jackson cuz why not? 😉 enjoy and as always, make sure to pay attention to details 💖

The light sprinkle of spring rain had ceased a few hours ago, but the damp smell still floats into your olfactory system with a vengeance, especially as you walk out of the department store for the last time, clutching your coat tighter around your frame. Thankfully, Namjoon hadn’t been scheduled to work today, so you were able to clean out your locker in peace.

Submitting your two weeks notice had been easier than you thought, especially with the excuse of “I’ve decided to focus on school” sitting on the tip of your tongue. It wasn’t a lie. You’ll be transferring to a different university this fall, but now you’re completely free.

Free to do what? Besides spend more time on campus, you aren’t exactly sure. Forget Namjoon? Yes. And his petty, disgusting denial of his true, selfish identity. Forget Yoongi? Yes. He was only a one time mistake you made because you were so desperate to get away from…

Taehyung.

The name sends a wave of nausea through you, forcing your body to double over as you reach your car. You swallow hard around the urge to dry heave, refusing to cry. Still, the memory strikes you hard like a punch.

You tapped your pencil against the surface of your desk, trying to concentrate.

Annotating poems was one of your least favorite things, but your literature class demanded it, so annotate you would. Maybe.

The loud buzz of the dryer gave you just the excuse you needed to abandon the task momentarily. With too much enthusiasm, you emptied it of its contents, suddenly deciding that pristinely folded clothes were a top priority.

This load of laundry had been a mix of yours and Tae’s. The two of you shared a hamper, after all, and the duty to empty it out often fell on you- not that you minded. Living at his parents’ house rent free was compensation enough.

As you made your way through the pleasantly warm pile, something unexpected made you stop.

A pair of lacy red panties.

They definitely weren’t yours, and this observation began the chronic downward spiral. Where did they come from? Taehyung? He couldn’t have…? Not again. Could he? Even after MONTHS of being faithful? Usually you tried to classify these thoughts as benign, unjustified unease. But this time, THIS TIME, you had something solid, tangible evidence to ignite your anxiety.

You hadn’t caught Taehyung cheating for months. You barely even saw him LOOK at other girls since the compromise. But this? The underwear of another girl?

Anger flared in your system just in time for the front door to open. You could hear it along with his deep voice, which called out, seeking you, “Baby, I’m home. How’s the homework? Will you be done soon or do you want to…?”

His question trailed off as he found you in the living room, pinching the article of clothing in question like it was a creature about to bite, yet also an object so fragile that it would shatter with the slightest movement.

Taehyung’s boxy smile immediately dropped when he saw the expression on your face.

“Baby, that’s not…” he started, but you raised your hand to cut him off.

“Please don’t speak to me right now.”

“But I didn’t-”

You placed the underwear down on top of his pile of clothes, shaking your head, “I gave it everything I had, Tae.”

“I don’t know-”

He seemed genuinely perplexed, but something inside of you had already broken.

“I just… need to leave,” your voice sounded hollow even to your ears.

“I don’t know where those came from,” he blurted, raking his fingers through his hair as the severity of what you said dawned on him. “Really, honest to god. Are you sure they aren’t yours?”

You didn’t even take the time to respond, picking up your pile of clothes to go to your room. Following, but giving you a few steps of space as if he wouldn’t dare CHANCE touching you, Taehyung started rambling.

“They could be my mom’s,” he offered desperately, voice cracking as you began sifting through your closet and drawers, starting a small pile on the bed. “I- I haven’t done anything. I promise- I SWEAR.”

You wanted to listen to him, to hope, to forgive, but you COULDN’T. Whether or not any of what he said was true, whether or not he HAD actually cheated again… you were done. You had given him everything. Your time, your heart, and later with the compromise, your virginity. Yet none of that could heal the wound of mistrust he’d inflicted. He’d made you feel cheap, like a slut, an enabler who knew her boyfriend had a history of sleeping around but STAYED ANYWAY.

So you had to do it. You HAD to leave. The waiting, the wondering, it was all too much. You couldn’t trust him, no matter how much you thought he loved you. Or worse, no matter how much you thought you loved him.

That had been half a year ago.

You take a few deep breaths, steadying yourself before climbing into the driver’s seat. Your fingers find your phone and dial the first recently called number.

Jackson picks up on the second ring, “Dude, I’m a little busy?”

“Sorry,” you sigh, resting your head against the steering wheel. “I just wanted to make sure you left the door unlocked.”

“Oh,” he clears his throat, “I MIGHT have forgotten… But I’ll be home in like twenty minutes, okay?”

Seven months and he still hasn’t found the spare key.

Living with Jackson had been third on your list of preferences, but it beat other options like staying at home or at Taehyung’s. Jisoo, your first choice, already has five people living in an apartment clearly meant to comfortably fit one. And Chaeyoung’s parents hate you for reasons you suspected have everything to do with her constant complaining to them about your “toxic” relationships.

So here you are, crashing in a two bedroom condo with your “third” best friend.

Needless to say, you don’t really get out much.

You pull up to the curb, lucky to find a parking spot in this mess of a complex, and with heavy limbs, practically drag yourself to the correct door just as Jackson’s shiny black truck haphazardly screeches to a halt. He tumbles out of it to sprint toward you, key raised like an Olympic torch.

Judging by the redness of his eyes, he’s either high or drunk, but this isn’t anything new.

“I got it! I got it,” he stumbles up the few steps before shoving the key into your palm. You can suddenly smell the alcohol on his breath. “There. No harm no foul.”

“Thanks, Jackson,” you sigh, giving him an awkward pat on his ridiculously muscly shoulder. “I’m glad you got someone to drive you here too.”

“Oh right,” he spins on his heel, abruptly yelling at the driver, “Just park it anywhere.”

You watch the truck lurch forward and roll down the street at an unsteady pace. Unsure what to make of it, you shrug and unlock the door, letting Jackson stumble in first, massive smile spreading across his lips.

“So, Namjoon or no?”

The name sends a prickle of irritation through you, “No.”

“Dude, I’m telling you. You should’ve just asked him to fuck.”

An angry blush colors your cheeks, “I didn’t WANT to fuck him.”

“Right, you had Yoongi for that.”

And this is why you don’t want to live with Jackson.

Despite the comfortably warm temperature, you suppress a shiver, namely because you know he’s right. Yoongi was just the consolation prize for the gap that Taehyung had left in your heart and Namjoon was the desperate attempt to fix your self image. Even so, you’d prefer not to think about it.

“Will you STOP?” you huff, throwing the keys onto the small table near the door.

“Sorry,” he cackles, giving your arm a humorous punch that (probably unintentionally) HURTS. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you to your stupid books.”

Sometimes you swear that if you hadn’t been friends with him since before he turned into a grossly typical “bad boy” in high school, you would’ve never spoken to him in the first place.

Still, at least he wasn’t a fuckboy.

“Wait, want a cig?” Jackson offers as he pulls the pack from his shirt pocket, flannel buttons off by one near the middle.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“Eh, someday you’ll try it.”

You trek down the hallway to your room- well, less “your room” than Jackson’s storage closet that happens to have a bed in it. Walking around stacks of papers, boxes, and other random CRAP, you throw yourself down on the mattress, letting your book bag drop to the floor.

What you wouldn’t give for one of Taehyung’s thermoses full of homemade noodles.

Your heart aches.

Flipping open one of your textbooks to distract yourself, you stare blankly at the words, eyes skimming across them but brain absorbing none. You decide to give up as soon as you hear the front door open and an unfamiliar voice saying, “I left the truck in the parking lot down the street near the liquor store. There weren’t any spots open.”

“Did you hit anything?” Jackson asks in his easily identifiable slightly raspy voice.

“I may or may not have backed into a shopping cart…”

It isn’t unusual for one of you to have friends over. What IS strange is the fact that you have no idea who is speaking. Your friend circle is very small, consisting of Jackson, Jisoo, and Chaeyoung. Your housemate has a few regulars that frequently stop by too, Mark, Jaebum, and some guy they call Bambam- who you’ve always suspected is their weed dealer.

This voice is too soft to be Jaebum, he’s too talkative to be Mark, and Bambam never stops by unless all three are in the house. This leaves mystery guy peaking your interest.

You abandon your textbook, slipping off of the bed.

“Dude really? You backed Marci into a SHOPPING CART?”

“Marci?”

“My baby, my ride, MY BEAUTIFUL TRUCK.”

“Jackson, chill.”

“DON’T TELL ME TO CHILL.”

Classic Jackson, screaming, but not actually upset.

“Why did I let someone drive who doesn’t have a license?”

You stop in the hallway, leaning against one of the walls, content with observing. The boy with Jackson is beautiful to say the least. Smooth features, hair pulled up in a snapback, kissable lips, dark eyes, killer smirk-

Smirk?

That’s when you realize you’ve been staring… and he’s been staring RIGHT BACK.

A blush floods your cheeks, but you decide that because you’ve already been caught in the act, there’s no point in trying to hide yourself.

“You MADE me drive because I wouldn’t let you leave intoxicated,” the boy says, amused, but not breaking eye contact with you. Oh no. He’s hot and he KNOWS it.

“Ah, that’s right,” Jackson nods, tapping his finger to his forehead, big grin plastered all over his flushed face. “I’m so smart and responsible.”

You decide to not remind your friend that the reason he’d had to leave the party was because he failed to unlock the door.

“Definitely…” mystery guy trails off before clearing his throat. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

“That’s cuz I don’t,” Jackson laughs, glancing over his shoulder to follow the boy’s gaze. “She’s just a good friend who needed a place to live.”

Sometimes, you loved Jackson’s obliviousness. Other times, it bothered you immensely. Why wouldn’t he introduce you formally?

Mystery guy’s kissable lips form into a small “o,” and he cocks his head slightly, finally letting his gaze wander away from your eyes- only to explore the REST of your body. Heat shoots straight down to the pit of your stomach, making your legs weak.

Jackson seems to get momentarily confused, then scoffs, “When you’re done eye-fucking her, let me know and we can go get food.”

Unabashed, the boy nods, “Sure thing.”

Your friend wanders past you toward his room, letting the door close behind him and leaving you alone with mystery guy. Something pinches your throat, slowing time to a hazy halt, each breath teetering on the edge of possibility. The tension in the air is palpable and with each step he takes toward you, a pleasantly uncomfortable knot in your stomach tightens.

For a moment, you forget Namjoon, Yoongi, and…Taehyung.

He stops only two steps away, catching your hand in his to bring it up to his lips with another terribly beautiful smirk.

He kisses the knuckle of your middle finger gently, voice dropping to a whisper, “Well hello there, love. I’m Jimin. Who might you be?”

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

EOPQ 12: So in what order (chronologically) do the Volumes occur? Think you can piece it together? 😉

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