#center sealing bag making machine

[tparker48]

Request from Anonymous

Evening had arrived as the streets of the neighborhood began to quiet down. Cars pulled into their driveways, people from inside heading into their homes. In a car resting inside a garage, would be a man named Hogan. He yawned as he got out of the car, tossing his safety cap to his workshop tool table near the front of his car. He dragged his feet toward the main door, and the cold breath of the air washed over him. The corners of his construction gear bulged into his arm pits, the sound of tears seething from his shoulders. He lowered his bag toward the wall, and his body became lighter, like a boulder had just been lifted from his back.

“One down, now I just gotta get these..” He sucked in his gut, grabbing the zipper of his uniform as his stomach bounced across his waistline. Sawdust splashing into the air, casting its particles into the sunlight as they danced from the laundry room window. He took to his pants, and let out a satisfied grunt as he kicked his boots off. “That’s better.”

He kicked the leathery shoes next to the washer machine, tossing his clothes into the opening as he walked bare into the living room. He grabbed his headset from the living room table and put them on. He crashed to his stomach on the floor, his console turning on along the shelf. After hours of work, what better way to unwind than through quality gaming.

He crashed to his stomach on the floor, his console turning on along the shelf. "Let's see what the boys are up to on deathwatch."

He flipped through the screen to his game, turning on his microphone as he searched through the lobby.

—--------

An hour had gone by since Hogan started to relax, enjoying the peace of enjoying the peace of with his online friends. The screen flashed with chaos as effects danced around the frame, Hogan’s call outs booming through the acoustic’s of the living room. But  another chaos brewed in the shadows, as a small pair of eyes peeked from the folds of a crumpled towel. Inside, would be Peppe, staring at his hubby’s backside.

“He’s finally home.” he said, a low giggle escaping from him. “Took longer than expected, but at least it gave me time to prepare.”

He dug into his pocket and fetched a tiny piece of gum, unwrapping its plastic blanket as it overtook his chest. He folded into a cubed shaped ball, and chewed at its end until the entire thing fit into his mouth. He savored the fruity flavor filling his mouth as he slinked out from beneath the towel, the smell of gas fumes polluting the air as the giant soles raked through the fibers of the carpet. 

He crept faster, the path narrowing as it centered toward Hogan. A mountain of hairy muscle rose before him, the elastic fabric over the mounds spreading atop like a blanket of snow.  After many times of venturing to his ass, he got tired of the view. It reminded him of being on an island, guarded by a musky volcano as it swayed overhead. He’d think he’d feel bad pranking his hubby all the time, but damn did it feel good to watch him squirm. And with an opportunity like this, it was too good to pass up.

He approached the crease between Hogan’s legs, the lining of crack rocketing over the bubbled ridge. He stepped upon the bulk of his crotch, sweat oozing from its surface like a leaking sponge. Must’ve been working hard out there on the construction, he thought, even after an hour of cooling still his backside was wet.

“Typical, Hogan. Big guy’s certainly not making it easy.” he rolled his eyes, gripping into the white fabrice along the left leg.

He clung to the bushed of hair, pushing into the thick borders sealing the mounds inside. His foot creased into a loose fold, warmth from beneath the fabric against as the smell of fresh sweat poured into his nose. He puffed his nose to ease its stinging sensation, continuing his climb aboard the mounds.

Sausage fingers reached from the other mound, piercing the lining of his crack Peppe dragged to the center. “Damn sweat’s going in the wrong places.” Hogan said, sliding his now glistening palm from the crack.

"Easy horsie, can't have your rider bucking off with the reins." Peppe whispered.  

He climbed to the top of Hogan’s ass and caught a glimpse of the horizon. A slope met before him as it climbed to a meaty neck above, the Tv screen flashing behind Hogan’s frenzied hair. He cherished the view for a moment before digging through his pocket, pulling a bulky string from inside. He opened his mouth and stuck the end of the string against the sticky mass, molding it with his tongue to ensure it was secure.

 Phase one of his great prank was complete, now it was time for the main event.

He approached the top of the elastic fabric, peeling a corer for himself as he tucked his feet inside. He shimmied himself between the mounds, watching the warm flesh rise as they spilled over his chest. Hogan’s fingers returned, stamping just a foot from Peppe as it stirred in place. 

“That works.” He said, shimmying the rest of his body as he slipped beneath the surface.

 The damp fingers wagged above as he dove into the mounds, flesh molding his body as they swallowed the light. Strands of hair snagged at his limbs, the scent of dry cement reaping his nostrils as sweat dashed into his clothes. After all was said and done, he had to remind Hoga to take a shower. Any more scents added to his musk and he’d be a walking gas station. The hairs thickened as they spread into him like a brush, revealing a red puckered star as it winked with sweat. It blew kisses as Peppe wisped past its folds, cushioning at the bottom as his foot sank between two soft boulders. 

“Target acquired,” He spat the gum from his mouth. “and just enough hair to strap on.”

He placed the wad against the ridge of the hair taint, cherry picking bunched hair as he molded them into the gum like clay. Hogan’s  legs shuffled, scooping Peppe close as he planted against the warm testicles.  

"What’s this guy teabagging for? Our team won that fair and square! Let me get a crack at him, I'll give him some nuts he can teabag!"

“As competitive as ever” Peppe mumbled, peeling from the damp skin. He spun a portion of the string to anchor Hogan’s hairs. They sprawled out like a row of vines, their sweat soaked surface brushing against him as if it were a paint brush. Before long, the task was complete, hairs wrapping around the gum as if they were holding it up. “Like a bouquet of smelly vines.” he patted at the top of the gum.

He crawled toward the bottom of Hogan's balls, the dampened fabric appearing as it stretched behind him. Peppe followed its path until it curved upward, taking to the thick hairs covering the mounds as he crawled back the way he came.  They slid through his fingers, his body cast back down as he tumbled into the mustache covering his anus. Its bristles tickled his nose as he swatted them away, grabbing a handful in a bunch as he climbed up its length. 

“Yeah that’s right, take all these nuts!”Hogan roared, his own thighs moving as the sac below squished into the fabric. 

Peppe fought its sway, gripping harder at the strands of hair as he reached  toward the slanted lighting of the crack. He slithering his palm back into the cool world of the living room, shimmying the rest of him through the caked mounds before Pulling the rest of the rope out of his pocket.

“Alright..that’s my workout for today.” Peppe wheezed.

 He climbed back to the top of Hogan’s waist, and looked to his head. Still he faced the Tv screen, even after traveling through his underwear. Just what he was expecting, and now it was time to retrieve the fruits of his labor. Wrapped the end of the rope around his wrist, the line straightening as it darted beneath the fabric like an anchor.

“Oh ho, prepare for a sting of your life Hogan.”

"Well done guys, we managed to pass that squad without setting them off. Too bad we can’t say the same for you..”the mute icon appeared on the side of the screen,Hogan batting an eye backwards. “..Peppe.” 

He froze at his words. “Huh?!”

 the string tightened as he yanked him beneath the underwear, like a fish caught on a hook as he burrowed through the mound of flesh. The dimmed space greeted him once more, his face dragged along the hairs resting in the bubbled valley. From what took minutes turned to mere seconds as he was dragged beneath the bulk of the testicles, fingers fiddling at the string as if it were a spider retracting its web. His back clung to the wad of gum at the taint, the fingers taking to his side as they jammed him beneath the muscular boulders. He gritted beneath its weight, the clammy skin spooning his ears as they acted as restraints on his head.

The ground shifted as  fingers pulled the waistband apart, Hogan’s face peering inside. "What do we have here, a munchkin taking a dip in my underwear."

Peppe shuffled a fold from his mouth. "What gave me away?"

"Come now, as many times as you explored my body, don't you think I would know if something complex was in the way?" He dwindled a finger through his pubes decorating the round spheres between his legs, swirling a patch of Peppe’s into the mix. "Hair pulling. Tsk, you gotta do better than that, dumpling."

"What can I say? It's a classic."

"Uh huh, charming. You know you're getting  punished for this right? I missed a lot of shots because of your meddling. Naught, naughty." He squeezed his legs together, Peppe’s lips smacking as they puckered like a fish. "Unfortunately we’re still in a game, so consider this a taste of what’s to come."

His smile disappeared as the waistband clamped at his waist, a gust of musk washing into Peppe before the thighs shifted, and  Hogan’s weight pushed at his back. "Hubby! Come on, you can’t be made at this face. You can’t do this to your dump-" a solid surface cushioned his chin, the bulk of the giant testicles plonking atop his head. “pling..”

A soft chuckle vibrated the walls. "Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy, hun. No matter how adorable that face is."

Taking the slow route huh? Just like him to toy with him slowly. Peppe rolled his eyes forward,wiggling his head to relieve pressure from his chin. Sloshing muffled from the orbs cupping his face, like giant silos filled to the brim with water. Its body heat grew hotter as its muscle flexed, the shaft knocking out of place as it drooled into the white fabric. He was getting off at my capture, and he called him the naughty one.

But even caught, he wasn’t going to give up just yet. He shifted his gaze into one of the orbs, inhaling the dried sweat coating the skin as he leaned his fingers to his jacket. He pulled the bottom of the fabric from his pants, shedding from its layer as he pressed it into the clammed ceiling. He gazed into the maw of the musky cave, the loose skin sagging as if were going to collapse. 

 There wasn’t enough room to pull the string, but he wasn’t without options as he looked to the flexing muscle.  He laid upon his back, taking a handful of the soft skin as he pulled himself upward. The humidity between was rough feet, his skin skidding against Hogan’s as it peeled off like a sticker. The skin only grew firm as he reached the stem of Hogan’s cock, its barreled underbelly cushioning his chin. After moments of climbing, he sighed as the ever growing pressure slipped from his feet, the bag of sac collecting as the length of the shaft rested upon him.

He planted his feet upon the balls, and Hogan shifted. "What are you doing down there?"

"Putting my plan into motion. I'm gonna make you submit to your dumpling!" Peppe declared.

"Sure. And just how are you going to do that."

A smile crept along Peppe’s face, a foot peeling from one of the testicles. "Creativity." He spread his toes across the bulging testicle, and wiggled them into the tender muscle. He added his other foot, and pressed it to the other as he marched over them. 

A groan rumbled through the air, a thigh thrusting and a clunk came from outside. “Mmm..kneading my balls huh? Bold, I’ll give you that, but it's gonna take more than a few foot rubs to get me to cave.”

"That's for sure. This is just the appetizer." He cradled his limbs to the corner of the member, holding it against his body as if it were a body pillow. He worked himself beneath its underbelly to the top of the shroomed head. Its flesh radiated with warmth greater than the balls below, a salty stream spilling upon his shoulder as it guzzled from the slit. He ringed his fingers between its lips, the stream widening as it spilled at his neck. "You know the thing about being small? You can reach just about anywhere?"

He wiggled a palm over the slit, and jammed it inside. Its creamy fluid lubricated his arm, driving it to his shoulder as the lips clamped onto his shoulder like a sleeve. He plunged his other hand inside, and began to twist them through  the soggy folds as it trailed through the tight opening of the shaft.

Hogan’s body bucked, a sharp moan piercing the air as the sounds of buttons clacked from above "Oh..ff.."

Peppe's eyes became starry eyed. "Gotcha now."

He wormed more of his body toward the front of the underwear’s pouch, clinging his feet to the puffed edges as they peeled the hood away. The muffled grunts turned to purrs, Hogan’s entire waist beginning to thrash as if it were in a trap.

"Still thinking about surrendering?" Peppe giggled with excitement, grinding his elbows to circle the rest of his arms between the tight tube.

A digital voice announced that the game paused, the sound of a controller toppling to the side. "Give me 2 minutes,boys." Hogan's voice boomed, the space shifting as. Gravity tossed Peppe atop the bulging cock.

The inner tube tightened his arms like a vice, its girth nudging between his legs. The fabric yanked off and light blurred his vision, forcing Peppe to wince as his eyes raced to adjust. His gaze eventually relaxed, As Hogan’s met his, peering from the mountainous torso  high above.

"Now you done it, dumpling. You managed to make me cave?”

"I did? I mean yeah, I did! Take that, Hubby.” He declared, but looked up to a smile peering across his face. “You uh..you aren’t mad are you?”

“Me? Not all. In fact, I'm ecstatic.”

“You..are?”

“Yeah..” He replied. A palm raised beneath him, clasping at the center of the shaft. It pumped at a steady pace, getting stronger as it gripped at Peppe’s arms. “I get to do punishment early.”

Oh shit. Peppe tugged at his arms to get them free, shimmying his shoulders to lighten the pressure, but a suction locked them down, the cock’s throat pulsing as they tucked his arms together. Fingers curled around his back, hoisting his lower half into the center as it tilted toward the cock slit. He wrestled between the thick fingers, a thumb pressing his head into the lips as they  gummed the sides of his cheek.

The thumb trailed over his neck to the rest of his body, plunging Peppe deeper into the urethra. He was caught in the pull of the suction inside, guiding him through the tight crawlway of the tube as seed lathered into his side like lotion. The tender walls manhandled his body, thrashing him about in its attempts to gobble him up. The lips slipped higher, funneling to the tips of his toes as he sunk deeper. The cool air left from his feet, and the shaft became alive as its walls tenderized his body.

Outside, a lump traversed through the cock's underbelly bulging, sliding down at snail's pace as it flattened against Hogan’s twisting palm. He gritted his teeth, pumping harder to knock the protruding bulge from its spot as he massaged its soft ridges as it parted the walls inside. It bobbed over the base of his shaft, a finger tilting it for Hogan to see for himself. With a simple clench, the bulge launched and it plunged past the surface of his crotch, its form wisping through his inside as it curled down to the meaty low hangers throbbing below.

The World was dimmer in this region of Hogan’s body, the waves of muscle squeezing him like toothpaste through the tubes. He couldn’t move his body, his blood rushing to his head as he tried to face upward. He doubted it’d help with the surrounding fluid, gunks of slated goo lathered his face, sending his senses ablaze as his head began to swirl. The wall hugged closer as an opening arrived, his head smothered as  more salty fumes spewed into him like a ventilated shaft. 

He found himself in a round chamber, white goo secreting from the walls as they collected into a large body at the bottom of the fleshy dome. 

"Your balls?” He shouted, the sphincter encircling his neck. “Who shoves their love life into their balls?"

“Consider it a special treatment just for you. I was going to just shove you into one of my boots, but then you went and got me hard.”

Lumps caved from the walls, and the chamber became slanted. The white goo rose like a roaring tide, submerging Peppe’s head beneath its surface. It shrouded like a fog, the pink walls near him blurring with white smudges.

“Quite the load isn’t it dumpling? All thanks to you.” 

the tight tube squeezed at his body, rocketing him into the milky mess as he flailed to the surface. He inhaled the tainted air, splashing to keep himself afloat. "Okay, foul play! You’re playing dirty, how am I supposed to have fun in here?"

“Sorry, hun, that’s not my problem. You’ll just have to sit in timeout like a good boy.”

 The chamber flipped once more, spiraling Peppe  from wall to wall as if it were a tube mixer. He felt nauseous as he dunked and emerged from its gooey surface, his efforts to cease derailed as his palmed slid from the soft wall. It was only when the pool flipped to the ceiling did the swirls cease, and it crashed atop of him.

Hogan’s laugh vibrated the walls, crusts forming into the seed as it rocked in place.. "Ready to call it quits?" 

"You..can't possibly think..I'd give up after that." Peppe panted, his head spinning amongst the seed.

"Yeah I thought not, you’re too stubborn for that. Ah well, perhaps a little marinating will teach you to behave yourself." The chamber swayed as steps rang through the walls, the fluid jumping as it crashed upon a solid surface. "I'm back boys, what I miss?"

Peppe groaned as Hogan faced his attention elsewhere, his head bobbing against the milky waves as he tilted to the ceiling. He looked to the shriveled star in the ceiling, seed squeezing from its folds like a wet rag. That was his way out of this filled chamber, but it was too out of reach to grasp. He pawed at the doughy walls for leverage, hoisting upon the soft lumps to escape the milky pond. But their surface melted upon contact, spilling him into the seed once more.

“This is getting me nowhere, how’s a guy supposed to move when everything around you is muscle?” He tried again to reach for a fold, its surface slipping into the fluid as it glossed the wall beneath.

A moan erupted from above, the walls caving as waves splashed him in its epicenter. He resurfaced, looking to the walls as they battered the fluid along his borders. “He felt that?” He puzzled, swimming to the wall behind him. 

He smeared a layer of gunk from the lumpy surface, cupping his palm to split its flow to the rest of the seed. When clear pink muscle appeared, he pressed his fingertips into the soft wall, twisting it as it sunk breath its surface.

The walls shook again, and Hogan’s moans returned. When it finally settled, a smile crept upon his face. To think Hubby’s sweet spot would be right at the source of it all.  He swam closer to the wall, tapping his foot at the submerged flesh. When soft ground touched his toes, he shifted his legs into a running motion, his feet pattering against the muscular wall.

A sharp moan echoed the walls, Waves splashing in the seed. "What are you doing now?" Hogan's voice muffled.

"Improvising." he turned himself toward the wall of flesh, grabbing a handful as seed lubricated his hands. The chamber unraveled, globs of gunk slamming against the opposite wall as it crashed at the ceiling before it pattered onto his shoulders.

Hogan’s grunts turned to whimpers as the folds compressed and expanded,it battered its contents. "Stop being.. a brat." he strained, the walls beginning to pulse..

The seed’s current grew stronger, sweeping Peppe from the walls as he swirled around the rim.The walls compressed, and the ceiling closed in as the sphincter spasmed in place.

"Almost there, just one more push.." he assured himself, clinging to the corner of the folds to continue his efforts.

 The once spacious chamber shrunk to the size of a quarter, a mere gap separating Peppe from the chamber’s quivering lips. He massaged its folds to the best of his ability, the substance overtaking his arms as they splashed about his wrist. The walls squeeze closer as the fluid reached his chin, forcing him to tuck his nose close to the salty folds. 

"Here goes nothing." he managed to muster, taking a breath as he kissed into the center of the sphincter.

He sunk beneath the seed’s surface, suspended in the middle of the sac as the walls surrounding him became restless. Hogan’s grunt's grew louder, distorted as they became strained. Hard thumps shook the chamber, and the star above winked before it opened its entrance like a floodgate. A suction dragged at his body, pulling him against the widening entrance. Its lips barely passed his shoulder, the current flowing through his armpit as he held his breath.

A watery slosh echoed the chamber, before Hogan’s roar overwhelmed it.

---------------------------------------------------

Hogan’s body tensed, the controller in his hand slipping to the pocket of the couch. He stared weakly at his seed soaked palm, its grip still stroking his shaft as his hips bucked. "Can’t.. Hold it in..I.." he choked on his words, his head launching back into the cushion of his sofa. 

His hips locked, and seed erupted from his cock. Its warm fluid flowed like lava from an active volcano, a creamy stream filling his shorts as another drenched the corners of the chamber. He huffed as he regained control of his body, looking down to his member. its meaty length throbbed against his inner thigh, satisfied as it returned to its flaccid state.

In his weak stare, he looked to his bulging sac, the swollen orbs drooping over the side of the couch. "You kinky bastard.." he huffed softly, staring at the right nut that rocked slowly.

Inside, the pond had all but drained from inside the chamber, reduced to a hollow husk as fluid dressed the walls in webs. Stuck against the ceiling, Peppe remained, smothered by a wad of gunk as it dripped to the bottom of the chamber.

"I told ya..I wasn't finished." He smiled weakly, peeled from the ceiling as if he were a sticker. The chamber softened his fall, as it rocked slowly.. "How'd your game go?"

Hogan looked toward the screen, bits of his fluid dripping from the corners of the frame. Banter boomed from the microphone, gamertags from both his team and the opposite team flashing,

"Eh, they’ll.” he said. "Really wanted to get that streak. Was gonna get it too, until a twerp decided to get frisky.

"oo bummer." Peppe said. “Guess it goes to show you can’t shove something in your balls and not expect consequences.”

A flick shook the testicle. "Don't be so high and mighty, Dumpling. You're still in punishment time. But since you saved me the trouble of unloading in there, it’s only fair you do your part in making it.”

“You want me to make the pool all over again, didn’t you just climax?” Peppe asked, picking up a soft huff from the walls. “Wait a second, you’re not trying to get me to build up all that just for you to enjoy it personally?”

“I..I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s simply a fitting punishment for a brat like you.” he said. “Just be sure to rub them deep. So..so I’ll know if you’re doing your task.”

Peppe places his hands at his hips. “Uh huh, sure.” he traveled through the mush  of seed toward the wall, reaching at a palm as he scratched at its surface. The chamber jostled in place, heavy thumps returning as they shook the walls.

“Oo..just a little to the right..”

“Do you want me to pleasure you with both my hands, Hogan?”

“Yeah..Er! I mean no-”

“Hah, gotcha. You’re totally into this!”

“Why you little-..this is supposed to be punishment. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this!”

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere. If I’m gonna be put to work, I might as well have fun with it, right? Oo! Now that I think about it, this space is just enough to bounce around it.”

“Dumpling, I forbid you to even try- Mm! No stop-mm..eassy in there!”

[gasha40k]

After the completion of an incredibly boring actual multi-month process, I’ve finally sat down and scalped through the entirety of my Sprue Mountain(TM), leaving me with a massive pile of loose plastic and a lot more space in my bedroom.

Contained within these veritable and disorganized bags is a disparate bank of bits, including a lot of Primaris Crusader Squads, Tzaangors, Tau, Thousand Sons, Chaos, Bloodletters, Necrons, and more. It’s incredibly unlikely that I’ll find a use for all of these, but it’s better to have and not need than to need and not have.

Moving on, around 6 months ago I tried making my first Redemptor Dreadnought, which was a horrible mistake. The custom bits were expensive and riddled with inappropriate Templars iconography, the shoulders were built incorrectly, and it was posed poorly. I ended up selling that first Redemptor to my brother, whose Cobalt Lancers now use it as a backup Dreadnought.

(My first Redemptor, after having been fixed and re-posed by my brother)

Since then, however, my kitbashing skills have improved pretty substantially, and as I gear towards competitive play, the need for an actually viable Dreadnought grows. It’s strange to have an Astartes collection in late 9th without at least one Redemptor Dreadnought, after all. Due to all this, I decided I’d give the Redemptor kit another try, and I think it went a lot better this time around!

(The posing on this motherfucker was so difficult for no reason)

Entombed within this monstrous Dreadnought chassis is Bladeguard Sergeant Turles Galahad, who would become perhaps the Chapter’s first Redemptor Dreadnought. Serving in the Indomitus Crusade, Sergeant Galahad was an infantry leader and melee combatant of remarkable potential, his path combat prowess leading him down the path of an eventual Captain promotion. Unfortunately, this shooting star’s burning trail was extinguished long before he could see substantial glory, as his potential was cut short with his life by a scattered shell fired from the barrel of a malefic Chaos Predator’s main gun.

(One billion purity seals as is Thunderbearers standard practice)

The Techmarines attending to Brother Galahad anointed his Redemptor with the most holy of rites. As his relic shield failed him in his first life, they chained it to his coffin so as to protect him in his second. His master-crafted power sword is chained to his shoulder as a reminder of his expert swordsmanship, when he could still wield a sword.

(Blessed macro plas and fashionably blessed shoulder cape)

Shortly after the chassis’ anointment, Galahad was reawakened and set upon the battlefield. It is said that, upon his first awakening, Galahad’s macro plasma incinerator didn’t stop firing until he was recovered by the Chapter’s Techmarines, despite overheating numerous times. The constant, infernal ochre glow of the Dreadnought’s main weapon lead to him being nicknamed “the Burning Star,” and his incinerator being blessed thrice by his Techmarine retainers. Since the end of the Gale Sicane, Sergeant Galahad has grown quiet and somber, his waning machine personhood marked by a signature lost moroseness, unlike many of the Chapter’s other holy Dreadnoughts.

(10th Captain Vanion Sullist, Master of Reconnaissance and Priest of the Divine Kill)

Speaking of kitbashing, I was finally able to finish up my cool Phobos Captain conversion. I’m really proud of this model! The greenstuff work is quite messy because I’m very inexperienced, but it serves its purpose, I believe.

Regarding design choices, Sullist’s master-crafted instigator carbine is a custom, holy, artificed weapon, whose usage is reserved exclusively for those Astartes in Vanion’s position of the Chapter’s Chaplaincy, that being the Priest of the Divine Kill. What is that, though?

The Thunderbearers worship the holy sanctity of the bolter, viewing bolters and bolt technology as vessels of mankind’s fury. As such, much of both the Chapter’s ideology and way of war is centered around wielding as much overwhelming firepower as possible. There are, however, those Astartes that prefer to channel the Emperor’s rage into singular, precise strikes, as opposed to wielding it as a whirling storm. Those that follow this more controlled ideal follow the Divine Kill Doctrine, and the Priest of the Divine Kill is the Chaplain who oversees the spiritual health of those following said doctrine. As a fun fact, the vox-antenna on his backpack links him to every squad that follows the Divine Kill, including Eliminators, Reivers, and many other Phobos units. The channels between these troops are often nothing more than ceaseless encoded incantations, quiet litanies supreme death from the mouth of 10th Captain Sullist.

(Captain Sullist and his Chaplain buddy)

That’s all that I have for now. Next post will have some Intercessors, and a bit of bookkeeping. I will paint minis again someday, I swear.

[electrasev5nwrites]

Ninja Daily: Vapors 64

Aiko fought her way through a miserable hangover and rather perplexing memory blackout to make her new apartment something closer to habitable. The first thing that she did was dig out the thick curtains she had purchased and cover every hint of sunlight she could manage. It had been creeping in to stab at her eyes, and she didn't fucking appreciate it.

Of course, she was still half-asleep, so it wasn't until they were all up that she realized she had put the kitchen curtains in her bedroom and vice versa.

'I can deal with that later,' she decided sullenly.

Her early dismissal from her shift at the detention center had given her an extra day to get her apartment in shape, but it was hard to appreciate that. Thinking that a shower might wake her up, she stripped off her clothes from the night before, wrinkling her nose as she realized they smelled like smoke and sake. Ugh.

It wasn't until she was actually in the shower that she realized, "I left my bag at the bar." Aiko groaned, letting her head clunk against the teal colored tiles that made the shower wall. Feeling a bit dumb, she eventually crawled out of the hot water and wrapped herself up in one of the enormous green towels Ino had picked out for her. It reached all the way to her knees. Red hair still plastered to her skull, she sneezed pathetically in the chill of her apartment and considered her options.

"I could wear my dirty clothes, be naked forever, wash my dirty clothes, or sneak back into the house and grab the first thing I find," she mused. She didn't even have a washing machine in her new apartment—there was a mutual laundry room. Clearly, she couldn't count on that option, even if she'd wanted to hang around naked for two hours.

As it was, it was an obvious choice, although it might not have been if she had forgotten to put a Hiraishin tag in her old bedroom. Naked as the day she was born, Aiko tugged on what she thought had to be the right seal (and experienced a brief moment of terror that she could have misjudged and gone to one of the boys).

"Oh, thank god," she mumbled when her eyes managed to register the familiar sight of her old room. The sound of talking in the hallway made her ears perk up, and she momentarily considered the explanation she would have to give for showing up in her old house naked, wet, and a day before she was supposed to be back from her assignment. Talk about awkward. Besides, it was far too bright to linger here. Carefully, she slipped across her wooden floor as quickly as possible and pulled open her top drawer—and grimaced, cringing.

'That was unexpectedly loud.'

She froze, eyes wide. Maybe no one heard?

"Did you hear something?"

Hope was for suckers. Aiko stuck a damp hand in the drawer and clenched her fist around literally the first thing she felt an instant before she tugged on the seal singing to her from her new apartment's living room.

"That could have been awkward," she said to no one, dropping her towel carelessly and unfolding her loot. Then she groaned. "Son of a bitch."

Well, what Kakashi didn't know wouldn't hurt him. She'd gone too far to go back now. Without bothering to fully dry off, she unfolded the soft material of Kakashi's navy shirt and pulled it over her head unceremoniously. The pants were just as poorly fitting as she remembered—dragging on the floor by half a foot even when she pulled it up on her hips higher than what felt natural.

"Stupid jerk with stupid long legs," she sighed, doing her best to roll the legs up and pushing the sleeves up her arms.

'I don't have to accomplish that much today,' she promised herself fervently. The original plan had been to get everything done in one day, so she was already ahead of schedule. Somehow she managed to push herself through putting away the box of dishes that had been brought over before she had to slump down on the floor and hold her head in her hands.

Bang. Bang.

Aiko forced open one eye and glared sullenly in the vague direction of the door, but the person on the other side didn't seem to care. "Oh, fine," she sighed, crawling across the floor on her hands and knees and bracing herself against the wall to pull the door open.

A sheepish-looking Yukimasa was fidgeting on her stoop.

"Uh, hi," she said stupidly. "Do you want to come in?"

He shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I brought this over." With an oof, she caught the oversized bag her captain tossed at her. "Sorry about that, I only realized that it might seem creepy that I could both track you and replicate your chakra signature when I'd already retrieved it from the lockers."

Aiko stared blankly up at him, dropping the bag on the floor inside her door. "It should have occurred to you sooner," she said flatly.

Yukimasa flushed, a hand twitching as if he was suppressing the urge to fidget. "Ah, yes." He cleared his throat. "I was wondering…" Green eyes darted either way down the hall, and he self-consciously looked down, apparently not noticing the hand that wandered up towards his right shoulder blade. Her eyes widened in comprehension.

"Are you trying to ask me what happened last night?"

Hopefully, he looked up at her. "Are you saying that you remember what happened?"

"I don't know, that depends on what you think happened," she deflected.

They narrowed their eyes at each other, neither willing to spit out what had to be said. Stubbornly, Aiko refused to look away.

Yukimasa was the one to give in with a sigh. "Look, do you remember why the hell I have a tattoo of the Hokage in lingerie on my back? Not that I'm complaining." He trailed off. "Well, I'm complaining a little," he added darkly. "I think she might actually kill me if she found out. But now I can't stop wondering if she really does own those panties."

"You too?" she breathed, eyes wide. "With like, the green jacket falling off her shoulders and nothing else?" She gave a stupid grin.

'In retrospect, the pigtails are hotter than I'd realized. Will have to take a good look the next time I see her.'

He slumped. "So… that's a no. You don't remember either."

"Sorry," she shrugged, genuinely disappointed. "At least we're brave drunks?" He looked majorly bummed. Her brow furrowed. "Hey wait, how long have you been up? Shouldn't you be cringing somewhere in the dark?" He certainly looked tired enough.

Yukimasa gave her an odd look. "I took painkillers."

'Oh. Why did that never occur to me?'

She cringed away from the way that he seemed to snicker at her. It wasn't that funny. She'd never had a hangover before. She didn't even have painkillers around. This was a different kind of pain—normally, soreness, cuts, and even minor broken bones could be powered through. But this affected her balance and cognitive functions.

"You should go drink some water and take a nap," he advised dully. "I'll see you later, then."

"Yeahhhh," she drew out slowly, feeling a bit nauseous at the idea of consuming anything at all. Still, she politely closed the door behind him and sullenly trudged to the kitchen. He was probably right, after all. With the water turned all the way to the cold setting, she leaned under the faucet to lick up at least a glass's worth of water. It didn't seem to help her headache at all, but she considered it enough of an accomplishment to justify crawling back under the covers.

She woke up what must have been another eight hours later, feeling roughly a hundred times better. Somehow, she stumbled through the pitch-black to the light switch. The clock above her stove told her that it was ten at night—not exactly the conventional time to get up and start getting ready for anything, but Aiko couldn't be bothered to care.

"The store will still be open," she muttered to herself, shoving her feet into her boots and tucking the loose edges of Kakashi's pants inside. "Probably, anyways."

As it turned out, it closed for the night at 11:30, so she rushed through her list of what she would need for dinner the next night, as well as other household items she had forgotten about. Bless their hearts, Sasuke and Naruto had agreed to haul over the two couches she had held at the furniture store sometime in the afternoon, and she'd hoped to be mostly done with everything else that needed to be done.

Once she had all her groceries put away, she finally tackled the piles of junk in the front room, unrolling the gold-colored rug that would cover most of the floor. Painstakingly, she dragged the furniture Naruto had helped her carry over into place, putting the little table in the kitchen and the three side tables on top of the rugs, leaving space for the squooshy blue couches she'd ordered. They were empty now, but she dutifully put the vases Ino insisted were a vital part of home decoration on all available surfaces.

The night passed much the same way—she dug out enough quarters to toss all her packed clothes in two of the washers downstairs, made bread dough from scratch, and made several silent trips back and forth between her old room and her bedroom clutching whatever she could hold to put around the house. As it turned out, it didn't seem very different at all to Hiraishin while she wrapped her arms around her dresser than it had when she used it alone.

'I am the laziest piece of shit there ever has been and ever will be,' she thought with some amusement as she used her most powerful technique in order to get her dresser in just the right position. Oh well. When it was clean, she shucked Kakashi's clothes and pulled on black slacks and a long-sleeved shirt from her packed laundry, tossing the loose clothes she'd used as pajamas onto her bed for now.

Bang.

Aiko jumped a little, already halfway to the front room where she'd heard the door slam open. 'Did I really forget to lock it after Yukimasa came by? I slept with the apartment unsecured?'

Not that locks were really much of a deterrent for shinobi, but still. That unnerving thought aside, she relaxed a little when she saw it was only her old housemates, led by Naruto. "Er, good morning," she tried, giving a reflexive glance at the covered windows and making a guess.

Karin gave her a grumpy look. "It might have been, if someone's chakra signature wasn't driving me nuts all damn night by popping in and out of the house. Did you leave your window open or something? It's not like you couldn't come and get your stuff during the day."

"Oh. Right," she said a bit sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think I'd be keeping you up."

Her brother pushed his way into the apartment, rolling his eyes at the bickering redheads. "Be grumpy later, you two. Didn't you have something to ask Aiko about?" The three girls glanced at his back for a minute as he made a bee-line for the kitchen and started digging around for something.

"Tea is to the left of the sink," Aiko called over her shoulder.

Naruto gave a sleepy grunt in return. "I was hoping for coffee, actually."

She scrunched up her forehead. "Uh, I think the grounds are on top of the fridge." Then she cringed at the sound of something crashing to the floor.

"Found it!" he called back cheerfully.

Hinata shuffled uncomfortably, drawing Aiko's attention back to the other girls. Suddenly, she thought she knew why this exact group was on her doorstep when she'd only been expecting Naruto to come by early to help. They'd been invited, but Karin and Hinata hadn't seemed inclined to come to team dinner when they were already invited to Naruto's silly 'family' dinner two days later.

'Methinks I know what this is about.'

Keeping her thoughts off her face, Aiko gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry there's nowhere to sit." She collapsed cross-legged on the rug and patted the floor beside her. "I'm a poor hostess, I know."

"It's fine," Hinata demurred quietly, coming to sit on the rug as well. Karin settled, making them into a rough triangle.

"We came to ask you a favor," Karin said abruptly. "Just hear me out, okay? I thought that we should finally make Hinata an official member of the family and offered to adopt her in. I didn't think it was going to be a big deal, but it turns out they we're running into a paperwork problem because that would mean we'd have too many ninja in one family and we're supposed to declare as a clan, which sounds easy but even though I'm the oldest I'm told that I don't have the authority to make that decision and that you'd have to agree to take a council seat or something and-"

"That's fine," Aiko finally interrupted, wanting to cut Karin off before she ran out of air. "What do you need me to do?"

Karin and Hinata exchanged mildly incredulous looks, as though they hadn't expected this conversation to be particularly easy. "Ano, you'd have to fill these out." With a sigh, Aiko took the papers from Hinata's hand and started scanning them over.

The only problem she had with this was that sharing her last name could come back to bite Hinata in the ass when it inevitably got out that Aiko was a Hiraishin user. 'The least I can do is get a tag on Hinata so I can keep an eye on her,' Aiko decided. But… she'd already promised Tsunade that she wouldn't tell anyone else in the meantime.

She shrugged off any guilt at the solution that occurred. If she gave Karin and Hinata a safe version of the seal, they wouldn't be likely to suffer adverse effects from association with her. When Hiraishin became public knowledge, she could apologize. Until then… well. Aiko just had to be able to touch them for an instant, somewhere they wouldn't generally be looking while channeling chakra, in order to leave a hidden seal.

"Got a pen or something?" Aiko asked absently, not really that absorbed in what she'd been reading. The paperwork wasn't so bad. Without looking to see who'd offered it, she uncapped the pen, stuck the lid between her teeth, and set about signing and dating on various lines, as well as writing Uzumaki as the prospective clan in the clearest handwriting she could manage at the top. "What about the adoption form?" When it was proffered, she went about copying the information that had been filled in on the rejected form and authorized it with her signature. "There you go. You can drop that off, right?"

Karin nodded dumbly. "Well, that was easier than anticipated."

Aiko shrugged. 'I would have eventually said yes even if Tsunade hadn't told me to. Hinata would have to have red hair to be more qualified to be an Uzumaki. Kami only knows she's stubborn enough to fit in.' She didn't say that, of course. "Why would I say no? Hinata's basically family already. If some stupid paperwork makes it official, I'd have to be really lazy to put it off."

"R-right," Hinata blinked, looking down. It was a gesture she hadn't seen in a while, so Aiko frowned.

'I probably shouldn't call her out on it. This is a much bigger deal for her than it is for me.' She felt almost a little bad for being so nonchalant about something that affected the other girl on a profound level. 'I'm kind of an asshole,' Aiko sighed. 'I was only thinking about this in terms of what it would do for me with that stupid council thing.'

Feeling uncomfortable, she leaned over to give Hinata a one-handed hug across the shoulders… surreptitiously planting a Hiraishin tag on the back of her neck as she did so.

'One down, one to go…' How hard could it be to touch Karin before they left?

"Right." Karin fidgeted, looking between the other two. "Do… Do you need any help with your apartment?"

"That could be nice," Aiko agreed gratefully. "I was thinking I wouldn't worry about much beyond what had to happen to make the front rooms habitable."

Karin nodded knowledgably, hauling herself up to her feet and poking around the apartment. "What are you doing with the spare room?"

"No idea," she snorted honestly, following to peer at the room that was probably intended as a second bedroom. "Maybe it'll be Mitsuo's?" That reminded her… "By the way, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm instigating a 'no snake' policy in the apartment. They drive the dogs nuts."

"Fair enough," Hinata chimed in, leaning against Karin's side. Aiko casually brushed against her cousin's side, tapping her hip and giving it just a kiss of chakra. There, done.

The taller redhead nodded distractedly. "Yeah, it's your house. So. Were you thinking about going on a run for household stuff you'll need? I'll contribute, a lot of the stuff at the house was yours originally."

"That'd be nice," Aiko agreed, running her hand through her loose, slightly tangled hair. "I have towels and shower stuff, but I'll need dish and hand soap, as well as more laundry supplies. House shoes, too, for…" She trailed off, making a face. "A lot of people," she concluded sullenly, looking at the redhead who would definitely not be party to shared house shoes.

"Flowers for those vases," Hinata chimed in, looking around the room. "And at least one rug for the entryway."

"One for under the window," Karin added. "Kami only knows that she's not going to stop doing that."

"And I think I've been relegated to carrying heavy things," Naruto added tolerantly, face nearly hidden behind an enormous mug giving off steam.

"What else are you qualified for," Karin shot back with a smirk. "It's not like even Aiko would want you to pick out decorations."

"I like orange," Aiko chimed in mildly. "And Naruto's taste is just fine."

Karin's hand hit her face. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." The twins gave her a rare, mirrored smile.

While the girls went on a grocery run, Naruto wandered off to harass Sasuke into helping move bookcases across town. He was definitely not pleased about it, but somehow he'd been bullied into manual labor, as Aiko noted when she came back hauling the decorative pillows that were apparently essential.

"We're leaving your movies at the other house, right?" Sasuke cut in before anyone could say anything else.

"Yeah, not much point in moving them when I don't have a tv in here," Aiko noted, dropping the pillows on the floor with a whumph. "Can we go get the couches now?"

After all the work that went into it, dinner went surprisingly smoothly. By team seven standards, anyway. Mostly that meant there wasn't a single Akatsuki in sight or a hint of political intrigue. Unfortunately, there were inter-team problems. Naruto and Sasuke just never left, instead settling down to wrestle and argue in the front room. Naruto seemed a bit flustered and uncomfortable when Yamato showed up, but hell didn't really break loose until Sai showed up at the exact time he had been told to.

"Nyah, who the hell is this guy?" Naruto pointed rudely, smirking slightly. "He looks like slightly less girly than Sasuke. Did you get that cut-off shirt from Ino-san's closet?" He got an elbow to the gut for that one from Sasuke, but he really didn't understand his mistake.

'It's not a good idea to show even a hint of hostility or weakness around Sai,' Aiko noted. Yamato seemed to have had a similar thought. He had perked up and was watching as intently as she was. They weren't disappointed. Sai tilted his head slightly, plastered on a face smile, and addressed his next words to the room at large.

"I see, you must be Naruto. I didn't realize Dickless's girlfriend was this ugly." He swiveled to look at Aiko, managing to miss the way Sasuke turned faintly green and Naruto flushed red. "Is Ugly Girlfriend a good nickname?"

"That's a great one," she agreed gamely, ignoring Naruto's betrayed expression. "Tea?"

Aiko ended up having to play peacekeeper all night, with a half-hearted assist from Yamato who seemed to be out of his depth. The two of them probably spent too much time glancing at the door and wondering where Kakashi was, but no one else seemed to notice. Sasuke and Naruto had managed to mostly unite against the new threat. Sai, on the other hand, was clearly getting irritated with the constant inexplicable hostility. His barbs got sharper and sharper in an attempt to regain the dynamic he'd expected to have with Sasuke, but Naruto took them as a personal offense and squirmed in on what had worked relatively well with just the two of them.

'Boys are so dumb sometimes.' Yamato gave her a slightly frantic expression, as if totally lost for words or ideas on how to curtail what had somehow evolved into a three-way eating contest. Of course, Sai was cheating with ink mice carrying away rice and vegetables when the other two looked away, leaving them completely infuriated and baffled as to how he was keeping up while calmly and politely eating.

She just shrugged, indicating that she didn't know what to do either.

Situation will improve in future, she signed lazily in ANBU standard. It wasn't meant for conversation, but it could do in a pinch. Sai's sharp eyes seemed to catch the motion, but he didn't comment. Yamato's response was a rather doubtful, optimal outcome.

"Perhaps we should help washboard clean up," Sai interrupted, putting down his bowl and chopsticks.

Aiko had a sudden vision of Sai and Sasuke finally coming to blows using chopsticks while Naruto tossed plates at them.

Naruto gave him a baffled expression. "Washboa-" Blue eyes widened when Aiko gave a little wave as if to say, that's me. "Right," he said weakly.

"Don't ask," Sasuke murmured, elbowing him.

"Ah, I appreciate the offer, Sai, but I think that five people are too many to work in one kitchen."

Yamato nodded. "Why don't you boys have a team training exercise?" The three teenage boys stiffened, eying each other like alley cats. "Might work off some steam," he muttered not-quietly-enough to Aiko. She snorted.

"Right," Sasuke said decisively, climbing to his feet. "Thank you for dinner, Aiko-san," he stressed, pointedly looking at Sai as if to make a point about what he should use to refer to others. Sai stared back placidly. "I think Yamato's idea is excellent."

"Training ground six!" Yamato hollered after the boys. Then he looked at Aiko and flushed. "Ah, is it okay to leave you with the clean-up? I didn't think that through. The boys should probably be supervised so they don't kill each other, but I didn't mean-"

"Am I late?"

"Yes," they answered in unison without turning to look at Kakashi. He was probably pouting.

"I put a plate away for you," Aiko clarified, remembering just what a mess the boys had made of the front room.

"Maa, it's fine." He ambled into the room, closing the door that Naruto had left swinging behind him. "I'm not hungry. You see, I-"

"You suck," Aiko said bluntly, raising an eyebrow. "How is it team dinner if the one person who connects everyone else doesn't show up? This is your team."

He gave a sheepish smile, ruffling his hair. "Don't be like that. You see, I was doing some house-cleaning."

"Were you," Yamato said flatly, expression implying he thought that was a filthy lie.

Kakashi nodded, looking genuine. "And I realized I couldn't do my laundry. You see, I wash once every seven days, and I have eight sets of clothing. So I really need those back."

Aiko flushed, but Yamato looked like he was questioning Kakashi's idiotic story. She could hear the conversation as she hurriedly crossed the room to snatch his clothes off her bed.

"That doesn't make sense, senpai," Yamato argued. If she knew his body language at all, the tone meant that he'd just crossed his arms. "Wouldn't that mean you had seven outfits?"

She stalked back into the room, the clothes under her arm in an awkward bundle.

Kakashi was giving Yamato a look that implied he was an idiot when she came to stand beside him. "I suppose I don't know what you two do, but I wear clothes when I do my laundry," Kakashi drawled.

Yamato reddened, back stiffening like his spine had just been replaced with an iron rod. "I. Ah. Buh-" He cleared his throat. "What's that look for?" he managed to squeak.

Aiko assessed the situation with a quick glance, holding the clothes out for Kakashi to take. "He's wondering if we really do our laundry naked and that's why it didn't occur to us that he'd need those back in order to do his laundry every seven days." Her superior officer stiffened uncomfortably. "Now he's picturing it." Kakashi's lone eye twitched, and he avoided looking at them while he made a hasty grab for the clothes. "Now he's remembered how young I am, and is about to flee," she concluded easily. She didn't even get to finish talking before he'd disappeared in a shock of crispy leaves, fluttering to her wooden floor.

Slowly, Yamato turned to give her a mildly impressed look. "How'd you do that?"

"I've worked with him for years," she pointed out mildly. Plus, the power of suggestion. Even if he hadn't been thinking that, he certainly had when she'd pointed out the train of thought.

"Hey, wait," Yamato breathed, sounding a bit put-out. "What's so terrible about picturing me naked that made him run off?"

'Absolutely nothing,' Aiko thought. 'I bet it's a nice view.'

But they didn't have the kind of dynamic where she would move to reassure him about something like that. So instead, she pulled her features into an incredulous sneer that implied she'd just smelled something foul and gave him a pointedly slow up-and-down. Then she turned away without a word and left Yamato to the fit of self-consciousness that would undoubtedly spur. He sputtered incomprehensibly for a moment before he too left.

"Well." Aiko heaved a sigh, looking at her messy apartment. "That could have gone better." She blinked down wetness rising in her eyes. Somehow, she'd imagined that this would be more enjoyable and less stressful.

'Maybe beating each other up is what they need to learn to get along,' she hoped. 'and Kakashi will show up next time.'

That really had been disappointing. Granted, he wasn't a very sociable person, but she had thought he would know that he had been wanted there. He was just an ex-teacher to Naruto and Sasuke, and a temporary captain to Sai, but she and Yamato both considered him a friend. Glumly, she stacked dishes and began putting away the few leftovers that had escaped the purge.

Kakashi took a deep breath, unspeakably relieved to be in the comfort of his own apartment and not around subordinates who insisted on talking about being naked. That conversation had not gone exactly as planned. He really had intended to come to that dinner, but he wasn't used to time-sensitive engagements. No one had made him go and behave at things like that in a very long time.

Then he paused in his thoughts, lips turning into a slight frown. He gave another sniff, nose twitching. "What the…" Kakashi trailed off, lifting the clothes in his arms to confirm that they really did smell like Aiko. He shifted uncomfortably.

They didn't smell like clothes that had sat around unwashed for weeks. They smelled like they had been washed with her sickly-sweet detergent… and then she had re-worn them. Recently, too, and quite a lot. As pajamas, perhaps? Uncertainly, he balled the clothes up and tossed them onto the table.

Was that normal?

It was one thing for him to lend a comrade equipment or assistance on a temporary basis during a mission gone wrong. However embarrassing it was, things like that happened all the time.

It seemed like something else entirely for someone to apparently want to wear his things when there was no need. As a child, Aiko had always been physically affectionate, but she had withdrawn significantly in the past months and he had assumed she no longer desired that sort of reassurance from him. She was an adult now, one who didn't need his constant protection. Why else would she seek out reminders of him?

The safest course of action would be to avoid thinking about this. There was probably a good reason.

'I'll try to be less late next time,' Kakashi decided, dropping the first line of thought like it was a poisonous lizard. However odd it was, Aiko and Tenzou did seem to want him around. If eating their food and then fleeing would make them happy, he might as well give it a try.

Unprofessionally slumped against the wall in one of the painfully bland conference rooms in Hokage tower, Kakashi did his best to avoid noting the strangely uncomfortable atmosphere. He really wasn't sure why Tenzou kept giving him wounded looks, but his kohai apparently didn't feel like saying anything. He shrugged it off. It mustn't be important.

"I suppose it's time to call Aiko on over?"

Tenzou gave a sullen shrug, all but pouting.

His expression was openly conveying confusion, but Kakashi didn't dare ask. Some things were better left unsaid, though he didn't know why a mention of Aiko would apparently irritate Tenzou further. He pulled out the cold metal of his tagged kunai and lazily washed it in some of his chakra.

A half-second later, he was blinking down at a tousled head of reddish-hair attached to a rather short person in the same conservative black outfit as yesterday. Aiko yawned, flashing white teeth. "Hey, guys." Her gaze flickered to Tenzou, and amusement danced in her eyes.

As if in slow motion, he noted Tenzou scowl, finally pushed past whatever bit of self-restraint had been keeping him from a temper tantrum.

"You two hurt my feelings, you know," the younger man pouted.

It was sort of adorable, but he had no fucking idea what Tenzou was talking about. "Huh?"

"I would too look great doing laundry naked!" He hissed, hackles rising and eyes wide. Kakashi recoiled. 'I don't know what is going on, but I want no part of it,' he thought a little desperately.

A cough broke into their conversation, and slowwwly the two men turned to see the opened door that Aiko was already gazing at with a blanked expression.

"Thank you Yamato, for providing that thought to brighten up my work day," Tsunade drawled, raising one impeccably neat eyebrow at the ANBU. He meekly cowered, appearing to do his best to hide behind Aiko. It wasn't very effective.

At least the Suna ambassador seemed to be enjoying herself, even if the Kazekage looked a bit nonplussed by it all. "Hey, Gaara," she said in an undertone. "Can I borrow some money?"

Kakashi's ears perked up. Was this going where he thought it wa-

"Enough to commission a D-class mission," she whispered. Obediently, the Kazekage dug into his pocket and carelessly deposited a pouch into her hand.

"What for?" he murmured lowly. Kakashi's lips twitched.

"I'll explain later," the blonde whispered back, giving Tenzou a predatory look. Tsunade, who was definitely within hearing range, looked very amused by the exchange.

"I think we can get back to negotiating subcontracts and mission exchanges later," the Hokage interjected, sounding for all the world as if she was referencing something much more professional than what his ears were telling him. "Gaara-san, you remember Aiko-chan? I'm sorry to surprise you like this, but I didn't want to discuss this in the open. Your seal needs to be replaced."

"Your Hiraishin seal," Aiko clarified, giving Tsunade an inappropriately dirty look. The Suna nin, who had tensed at what seemed like a reference to Shukaku, relaxed. "Can I see the kunai I gave you before?" As the male teen passed it over, she unconsciously tossed her hair over a shoulder. Kakashi wrinkled his nose as the motion sent a fluttery wave of her shampoo's scent into his face. "Thank you. Apparently, this version," (Kakashi suppressed a wince at the careless way she waved the kunai pointy-end-out) "is inefficient and that's why it taxed me to go straight to Suna. I want to give you two copies—one that's like this one," she explained easily. As she talked, her fingers lit up with blue chakra and she gave an odd little pluck at the seal, lifting the implanted chakra web up entirely and balling it up before tossing it over her shoulder.

It was a good thing no one was looking at him, because he wasn't hiding his surprise. When had Aiko learned to do that?

The actual seal looked completely unaffected, but he could tell that the lingering ink was devoid of the spiritual energy that had powered it. Almost lazily, the new Jounin pressed two fingers against the wrapped paper and let a pulse of chakra out that settled into the old seal paper.

"This one is functional, but it's something of a decoy," Aiko explained, handing it back. "So don't worry too much about keeping it secret. Akatsuki already knows Konoha has a Hiraishin user, so if they come for you again they will certainly look to take it from you. With your permission, I'd like to put one directly on you. It'll be invisible except when you channel chakra, so it should be somewhere that won't normally show."

Tenzou shifted uncomfortably. It might have been the conversation, or it might have been the unblinking way that the Suna kunoichi was staring at his abs with a contemplative mien. Understandable. His virtue could be in danger

"I see." The Kazekage didn't even hesitate. "I will allow it."

He felt his eyebrows shoot up. Really? That was it? Allowing someone else to put a seal on you was pretty dangerous. Perhaps he'd misjudged Aiko's decision to give the Kazekage one in the first place, if he really trusted her this much.

"Thank you," Aiko replied briskly, holding her index and middle fingers together as she raised her hand as if she expected to give him the chakra tattoo right there and then. "Take your shirt off."

Suddenly, the room was silent, still, and awkward. The girl rolled her eyes. "I did say it should go somewhere out of sight," she pointed out practically. "That means under your clothes. I suppose if you prefer you could take off your pants…" Aiko trailed off pointedly.

Tsunade looked like she was on the verge of evil cackling. "Why don't we give you two a bit of privacy?" She jerked her head at the door that connected the conference room to the attached kitchen, ignoring the closed door to the hall. "You can undress in the kitchenette, Gaara-san."

He cringed.

'I don't want to know,' Kakashi reminded himself, staring up at the ceiling and doing his very best not to hear rustling and Aiko's whispered conversation from the other room. At least the Kazekage's low rumbles were completely incomprehensible. When they returned a few minutes later, interrupting the stilted conversation that had erupted, Aiko looked satisfied and the Kazekage looked ruffled.

"Well, I suppose I'd better be going. Take care, you guys." Aiko raised a hand in a half-hearted goodbye and then was gone. He might have thought she'd been practicing her shunshin or substitution technique if there had been any debris at all.

Omake

'This makes two kage that I've reduced to eye candy,' Aiko thought, giggling on her floor the instant that she'd managed to escape. 'Maybe I should get a matching tattoo of Gaara. He'd like to be objectified on my back, right?'

She took a moment to picture it- he would be draped artfully in red silk, jaw tilted up, sand trickling down his body as he slouched with legs akimbo on a desert dune.

'Oh god. It must be done.'

She paused contemplatively. 'and maybe Terumi Mei with lava covering her naughty bits?' Aiko worried her lower lip between two teeth. 'I should ask Yukimasa if he'd want to continue the series with me. It can be our team thing.'

But that would be it. She didn't want the Raikage or Tsuchikage tattooed anywhere on her. Not unless their villages updated with newer, cuter models.

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What is Secondary Packaging?

Think of secondary packaging as the protector of your products. It’s the second layer that keeps your goods safe during transit and ensures they reach their destination in top condition. Secondary packaging also groups multiple products together for easier handling and shipping. Whether it’s overwrapping, outer packaging, or end-of-line packaging, it plays a crucial role in safeguarding products while improving operational efficiency.

Say goodbye to manual, labor-intensive packaging! Today, automated secondary packaging has taken center stage, delivering precision, faster output, and safer working conditions.

Why Choose Automated Packaging Solutions?

Automation is the future, and Nichrome is your gateway to that future. With automated packaging, you’ll enjoy:

Boosted Productivity: Achieve smooth, high-speed packaging operations without delays or inconsistencies.

Lower Labor Costs: Automation reduces manual labor, freeing up resources and cutting costs.

Organized Processes: Automated systems ensure orderly, efficient packaging every time.

Consistent Quality: Automation delivers precision, ensuring each package is perfect.

Nichrome’s Secondary Packaging Solutions

Nichrome offers a range of high-performance secondary packaging machines that meet the highest standards. From case erection to flow wrapping, here are some key solutions:

Case Erector

Nichrome’s case erectors tackle common challenges with corrugated boards. Our unique mechanism ensures cases are reliably opened and formed with precision, no matter the quality of the materials.

Flow Wrap Machine

For efficient pouch bundling, the Flexiwrap 700 is your go-to. It handles a wide range of pouches, up to 700mm in width, with speed and reliability.

Automated Case Packer

The Auto Case Packer is a fully automated solution that forms, counts, collates, and inserts cartons into cases, sealing them with precision. It can handle up to six shippers per minute, making it ideal for high-volume operations.

Automatic Baling Machine

The Flexibale 450 is a game-changer for bulk secondary packaging. Integrated with a primary vertical form fill seal (VFFS) machine, it requires only one operator to handle the entire packaging station, maximizing efficiency and minimizing labor.

HDPE Bag Filling Line Machine

Nichrome’s Flexibale SR is designed for maximum productivity with minimal manpower. A single operator can manage the entire packaging process, ensuring consistent output with minimal investment.

Horizontal Cartoning Machine

Nichrome’s Horizontal Cartoning Machine efficiently processes up to 180 cartons per minute, handling various packaging styles including tuck-in and gluing options.

Vertical Cartoning Machine

The Vertical Cartoning Machine offers a durable and efficient solution, processing up to 120 cartons per minute, with advanced features for precise and flexible cartoning.

Automatic Pouch Collation & Flow Wrapping

Nichrome’s Flexiwrap ST seamlessly integrates with existing form fill seal machines, offering automatic counting, stacking, and flow wrapping of individual pouches into retail-ready packs.

Conclusion: Package Smart, Choose Nichrome

In the fast-paced world of manufacturing, smart packaging is essential. Nichrome’s automated secondary packaging solutions not only offer protection but also optimize your operations, reduce costs, and increase productivity. Ready to elevate your packaging game? Nichrome is here to deliver solutions that pack a punch! Book your inquiry now and step into the future of packaging with Nichrome – because with us, your products are in good hands.

[spookysaladchaos]

Autoclave Bags and Pouches, Global Market Size Forecast, Top 17 Players Rank and Market Share

Autoclave Bags and Pouches Market Summary

Autoclavable bags and pouches are typically constructed from heavy-duty polythene or from heavy-duty polypropylene for tear and puncture-resistance. Autoclave or sterilisation bags and pouches are supplied for the secure containment of items intended for autoclaving, steam sterilisation, disposal or incineration. They are available either as standard bags, which need to be tied or taped closed after filling, or as convenient self-sealing pouches.

According to the new market research report “Global Autoclave Bags and Pouches Market Report 2024-2030”, published by QYResearch, the global Autoclave Bags and Pouches market size is projected to reach USD 0.26 billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 4.3% during the forecast period.

Figure.   Global Autoclave Bags and Pouches Market Size (US$ Million), 2019-2030

Figure.   Global Autoclave Bags and Pouches Top 17 Players Ranking and Market Share (Ranking is based on the revenue of 2023, continually updated)

According to QYResearch Top Players Research Center, the global key manufacturers of Autoclave Bags and Pouches include Thermo Fisher Scientific, Cardinal Health, STERIS, Greiner Bio-One, Corning, Interpath, C-P Flexible Packaging, DWK Life Sciences, Tufpak, San-I-Pak, etc. In 2023, the global top 10 players had a share approximately 62% in terms of revenue.

About QYResearch

QYResearch founded in California, USA in 2007.It is a leading global market research and consulting company. With over 16 years’ experience and professional research team in various cities over the world QY Research focuses on management consulting, database and seminar services, IPO consulting, industry chain research and customized research to help our clients in providing non-linear revenue model and make them successful. We are globally recognized for our expansive portfolio of services, good corporate citizenship, and our strong commitment to sustainability. Up to now, we have cooperated with more than 60,000 clients across five continents. Let’s work closely with you and build a bold and better future.

QYResearch is a world-renowned large-scale consulting company. The industry covers various high-tech industry chain market segments, spanning the semiconductor industry chain (semiconductor equipment and parts, semiconductor materials, ICs, Foundry, packaging and testing, discrete devices, sensors, optoelectronic devices), photovoltaic industry chain (equipment, cells, modules, auxiliary material brackets, inverters, power station terminals), new energy automobile industry chain (batteries and materials, auto parts, batteries, motors, electronic control, automotive semiconductors, etc.), communication industry chain (communication system equipment, terminal equipment, electronic components, RF front-end, optical modules, 4G/5G/6G, broadband, IoT, digital economy, AI), advanced materials industry Chain (metal materials, polymer materials, ceramic materials, nano materials, etc.), machinery manufacturing industry chain (CNC machine tools, construction machinery, electrical machinery, 3C automation, industrial robots, lasers, industrial control, drones), food, beverages and pharmaceuticals, medical equipment, agriculture, etc.

[midseo]

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[hairstyleforteen]

Why is water not allowed on planes?

In order to provide passengers and flight crew with safe drinking water, the US federal government implemented the Aircraft Drinking Water Rule. Why can't we bring water on a plane? The liquid ban was put in place after a group planned to blow up multiple flights with liquid explosives. Can you bring water on a plane? The second tip is to bring a reuseable water bottle.You cannot bring more than 3.4 ounces of H20 or any other liquids.You can bring an empty bottle, but there are some exceptions.You can fill it up on your way to the airport. What can you not drink on a plane? The Hunter College NYC Food Policy Center at the City University of New York and DietDetective.com concluded that "NEVER drink any water on board that isn't in a sealed bottle."Don't drink coffee or tea on the plane. What can you not drink on a plane? The Hunter College NYC Food Policy Center at the City University of New York and DietDetective.com concluded that "NEVER drink any water on board that isn't in a sealed bottle."Don't drink coffee or tea on the plane. Why water bottle is not allowed in flight? The officials of the Airports Authority of India were unaware that liquids over 100ml cannot be taken past security.An official said that half or one liter bottles are immediately taken away and thrown away. Can you take snacks on a plane? Solid food items can be carried in either your carry-on or checked baggage.Travelers can be told to separate their carry-on items from their carry-on bags if they want clear images on the X-ray machine. Should you chew gum on a plane? Don't chew gum to stop your ears from hurting.The travel doctor said that chewing makes us swallow more air.In turbulence or bumpy landings, it's also a choke-risk.You can sort your ears out more safely by wiggling your lower jaw and doing fake yawns. Why you should order a Bloody Mary on a flight? tomato juice tastes better in the air due to the noise level on an airplane, which influences a human's perception of taste, according to a 2016 study by a group of Cornell researchers published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance. Why should you put a tennis ball in your suitcase? It turns out that having one of these portable masseuses in your carry-on could prevent blood clot on long flights or road trips.You should also pack these things in your carry-on.Rolling a tennis ball stimulates blood flow and loosens up stiff muscles. Why is lotion not allowed on planes? The 3-1-1 liquids rule states that lotion is a liquid.The maximum size of lotion you can bring on a plane is 3.4 ounces. Why is it called 311 rule? Each liquid must be in a 3.4-ounce or less container, all containers must be placed inside one clear quart-sized plastic bag, and each passenger must have a carry-on bag. Why are water bottles not allowed on airplanes? It's difficult to tell a bottle full of water from a bottle full of a chemical that could be used to make explosives. What's not allowed on a plane? Prohibited items include fireworks, replicas of explosives, aerosols, any fuel, gasoline, gas torches, strike-anywhere matches, lighters, paint-thinner, bleach, chlorine and spray paint.Other explosives and flammable objects are not allowed. Where should you sit on a plane to avoid ear pain? It's the case if you have a window seat on the plane.Ear-friendlier seats should be booked from the middle up to the top of the aircraft and along the aisle. What should I drink on a plane? According to Grosskopf, a bloody mary, gin and tonic, Moscow mule, and a mimosa are all safe bets on flights.If you're not into spirits, a glass of wine can be refreshing.These cocktails are popular with travelers. Can you take unopened tennis balls on a plane? Tennis balls are small enough to fit into a bag and won't bother your neighbors.When performing a self- message, there are certain areas you should focus on. Why is water not allowed on planes? The liquid ban was put in place after a group planned to blow up multiple flights with liquid explosives. Can I bring gum on a plane? Regardless of which airline you are flying with, it doesn't matter.All airlines allow you to bring chewing gum in both carry on and checked bags. Can you take lube on a plane? You can bring a quart-sized bag of liquids, aerosols, gels, creams and pastes through the checkpoint.These are limited to travel-sized containers that are less than 100 liters. Read the full article

[allinmymincl]

drew needs a drink. preferably a frozen one loaded with sugar and caffeine and spat out of a tempestuous old machine that should've been upgraded at least two halloween franchise reboots ago. he wanders out of the convention center with his gaze on his phone, searching his contacts for someone to invite. he considers charlie because it'd be funny ... or zoya because she likes sweets ... maybe he'll invite them both ? drew is just about to fire off the texts when he hears his name, and his attention is torn from the task before he presses send. the furrow of concentration in his brow as he searches the crowded parking lot for a familiar face becomes an uptick of surprise when he realizes it was her. he grins ( which falters for just a moment as he watches them trip, and he tries to lurch — pun intended — forward to help, but doesn't do so quickly or gracefully enough in the slightest ) and stuffs his phone into his pocket with the texts still unsent. "uh ... " drew glances around, just to make sure that they were actually addressing him. there was no one standing near enough for a mix up to be likely, and he did bring a drawing to get it autographed at their meet and greet. "i feel like i know him, but sometimes my arms bend back." he grins at her again, and nods as he reaches into his bag full of merch and freebies. ( mostly freebies, some of which weren't supposed to be free, but drew had somehow made quick friends out of almost everyone he had met at the convention without even namedropping his dad or explaining his connection to the upcoming graphic novel being advertised so liberally around the convention that only halfway through the day it had started to get embarrassing. ) drew nods again as he slides his artwork out of the cardboard tube he had sealed it in to preserve it after he had gotten luna's autograph. "yeah, i am an artist. thanks." he feels his cheeks warm up at the compliment, which hardly ever happens but — they were in two scream movies. and x. she's wednesday addams. her mom is gale weathers. luna herrera is the definitive scream queen of the modern day. and she likes his artwork and remembers his name. he suddenly feels as though he might need that drink even more than he did a few minutes ago because he could totally pass out any second now. "i think you wanted to take a picture of the drawing ? but it might be kinda hard because it's all curled up now from being inside the tube. you need something heavy to weigh down the top and bottom so it lays flat, you know ? like paperweights or rocks ... or ... " he frowns as though he's trying very hard to think of some more. " ... sith lords ... or two slushies. oh hey, crazy coincidence ! " he's visibly struggling to keep the grin off of his face, one corner of his mouth twitching precariously. "i was just about to go get one slushie, and if you were to come along and get one too ... " he finally grins. " ... it'd have to be a group effort, but we just might be able to impress your artist friend."

status : closed / ( @allinmymincl ) location : a random horror con idk everyones going home

luna  had  only  agreed  to  attend  the  horror  con  because  she  thought  they'd  have  time  to  walk  the  convention  themselves.  they  were  excited  to  be  amongst  other  monster  enthusiasts  and  gawk  at  all  the  exhibits,  purchase  way  too  many  replicas,  and  geek  out  over  the  creative  minds  behind  their  favorite  genre.  instead,  they  were  nothing  more  than  an  attraction  themselves.  their  role  as  tara  carpenter  got  them  a  meet  and  greet  for  all  the  scream  fans  who  wanted  to  to  tell  her  how  much  they  hated  their  role,  loved  her  acting,  or  thought  they  were  gonna  die.  it  wasn't  much  different  from  the  online  discourse  she  always  found  themselves  tagged  in,  so  handling  it  in  person  (  with  security  guards  to  keep  everyone  moving  )  should  have  been  a  piece  cake.  they  even  found  a  monotonous  rhythm  to  it  all:  smile,  sign,  say  thank  you  for  the  gifts  (  if  there  were  gifts  ),  and  wave  goodbye.  but  they  hadn't  accounted  for  drew. she  thought  about  him  attending,  of  course  they  had.  this  was  someone  they  spoke  to  nearly  every  day  as  a  teenager  about  the  gory  details  of  a  latest  thriller  or  swapped  scary  stories  with  during  the  witching  hour.  if  he  had  the  opportunity  to  come  he  wouldn't  miss  it,  so  it  shouldn't  have  surprised  her  when  he  did  show  up  to  their  table.  but  it  did.  the  smile  she  gave  him  was  less  of  a  hard  outline  and  more  like  paint  splashed  on  canvas,  vibrant  and  making  itself  known  without  introduction.  how  odd  was  it  that  he'd  managed  to  find  her,  but  of  course,  he  hadn't.  not  that  version  of  them  they  wanted  him  to  find.  drew  didn't  come  looking  for  the  user  ghoulsandconchas,  he  came  to  find  the  actor  behind  tara  carpenter.  all  they  needed  to  do  was  smile,  sign,  say  thank  you  for  coming,  compliment  his  drawing,  ask  about  his  inspiration...━━━  they'd  gone  off  script.  it  wasn't  long  before  to  two  were  swapping  stories  and  opinions,  their  favorite  releases,  what  they  couldn't  wait  to  see.  the  autography  had  been  half  abandoned  and  the  picture  an  after  thought.  only  pulling  it  together  when  security  reminded  them  that  there  was  a  line  getting  longer  by  the  minute  behind  him. saying  goodbye  to  him  was  harder  than  they  thought  it  would  be.  she  hoped  he'd  somehow  know  something  was  off  and  make  his  way  back  to  her  booth.  they  swore  on  any  higher  power  that  would  listen  that  he  he  did,  she'd  tell  him  the  truth.  but  the  night  came  to  a  close,  and  he  never  showed  up.  she  had  her  phone  open  to  their  messages  as  they  headed  out  to  go  home,  contemplating  on  how  to  message  him  something  casual  about  the  con  to  see  what  he'd  say.  they'd  glanced  up  for  only  a  second,  and  there  he  was.  ❝  drew  !  ❞  his  name  dashed  off  the  tongue,  impulsive  and  without  considering  the  excuses  they'd  now  have  to  deliver  for  calling  out  to  him.  ❝  that's  your  name  right  ?  ❞  she  stammered  as  they  tripped  over  their  own  fit  a  little  while  coming  to  stand  beside  him.  ❝  you  came  to  the  signing  earlier,  had  that  really  sick  drawing  ?  i  just  wanted  to  ask  if  i  could  take  a  picture  of  it  to...━━  ❞  to  cherish.  to  look  back  and  remember  how  nice  it  felt  to  talk  to  you  outside  of  a  screen.  ❝  ━━  to  show  off.  i  have  this  friend,  also  an  artist  ━━  ❞  also  ?  is  that  something  that  tara  luna  would  know  or  only  ghoulsandconchas  luna  ?  ❝  ━━  if  you  are  an  artist,  i  don't  know  i  just  assumed  because  you're  so  good.  um...━━  what  was  i  saying  ?  ❞

[live-the-fangirl-life]

Stolen Stamps

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Stolen Passport Oneshot

“You took me on a trip just to break up with me so I stole your passport” - Prompt from @dailyau

I don't know where this came from, it just kinda happened, enjoy! Minor Chaolaena, Rowaelin endgame

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language

2494 words

*******

The faint hum of the air condition filled the meticulously organized room in the back of the post office.

“Ms. Galathynius,” A deep, accented voice addressed her.

Her gaze on the tall bookshelf in the corner jerked back to the man sitting across from her behind his desk. His hands were crossed, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing part of a tattoo that wrapped around his muscular arm. She tried not to watch as the muscles shifted as he leaned forward when he spoke to her.

“Can you please explain to me why you were trying to mail a very,” He paused, glancing at the messily-wrapped bundle on the center of his desk, “suspicious-looking package to the Adarlan embassy in Antica?”

Aelin opened her mouth to try to explain, but no words came out.

He raised a silver eyebrow and waited.

She sighed, “I swear, it’s not what it looks like.”

***

The cab ride to the airport was a blur. So was the flight, and the ride to her hotel. It wasn’t until Aelin locked the door of her hotel room and set down her bags, that the events of the day finally hit her.

Whether it was adrenaline or shock or relief, she couldn’t be sure. Aelin fell back onto the bed and rubbed her face, groaning. She thought back to that morning when everything had been fine.

Fine, not great, just fine. That’s how things always felt with Chaol, just fine.

Her brain was still working through what happened when she jolted up from the bed, eyes wide.

“Shit. What did I do?”

Aelin scrambled towards her purse and rummaged through it. She couldn’t find it; maybe she didn't take it. She turned the bag upside down over the bed and watched as her things fell out. She pushed aside her little paperback mystery novel, her lipstick, her boarding pass, she moved aside a wrinkled coupon and froze.

“Fuck.”

***

After wearing a track into the carpet with her pacing, Aelin decided to call Lysandra. It was going about as well as she expected.

“Lysandra, I did a bad thing.”

Aelin chewed her fingernail between her teeth, a bad habit she couldn’t kick when she was stressed, as she tried to tell her best friend what just happened. She was standing on the small balcony of her hotel hoping the fresh air would help clear her mind. So far, it wasn't doing a great job.

“Aelin,” Lysandra’s voice sounded amused through her phone, “This is you were talking about, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

Rolling her eyes, Aelin ran a hand through her hair. “I did a petty, horrible, impulsive, really bad thing.”

There was a long pause as Lysandra seemed to realize how serious Aelin sounded.

“Okay. Now I’m getting worried.” Then a sharp gasp, “Was it illegal? Have you been arrested? Are you calling me from a foreign prison?”

“Lys—” Aelin tried cutting in, she wanted to stop the hysterics before her friend’s imagination got out of hand.

“When you told me you were going on a trip with Chaol I thought you’d be spending time on the beach, not using me as your one phone call from a dirty jail cell hundreds of miles away!”

“Lysandra!”

“And where’s Chaol? Is he there with you?”

“Lysandra, stop! I haven’t been arrested, I’m not in prison, I’m fine. Actually, I’m great.” Aelin closed her eyes and sighed, trying to scrounge up some guilt but failing. “Actually, it's because I’m feeling great that makes what I did so much worse, because I don’t really feel bad about it.”

“Don’t scare me like that.” Her friend's voice echoed in her ear. “If you’re fine, then tell me what happened and tell me why you’re calling me at,” she paused and groaned, “six in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Aelin winced, “I’m still on a different time frame.”

“Still? Where are you now? Are you not in Antica anymore?”

“Slow down, Lys.” Aelin loosed a breath and ran a hand through her hair, “I’m back in Terrasen.”

“What? When did you get back?” Lysandra sounded confused, and Aelin couldn't blame her, after all, she was supposed to be in Antica for four more days.

“Today. Less than an hour ago. I’m at a hotel, I just needed to clear my head.”

After a moment of silence, Lysandra asked again, “Where’s Chaol? Have you talked to him about whatever this is? Not that he’d help much “Lysandra muttered the last part, but Aelin still heard.

Here we go, Aelin thought, “No. We broke up.”

“What?” Lysandra was definitely awake now. “Really? Oh, honey, I’m sorry if you’re hurting, but good for you, I never really liked him.”

“Yeah, I know.” Aelin barked a wry laugh, “He dumped me, actually.”

“He dumped you?”

Aelin barked another laugh, getting angry as she told Lysandra the rest, “Get this, that bastard invited me on this trip specifically to break up with me”

“What the actual fuck?”

“Yeah, and honestly?” Aelin took a deep breath, feeling a mess of emotions as she explained. “I can’t blame him.” She amended herself quickly at Lysandra's sound of protest, “I don’t mean about taking me on a trip to do it, because that’s fucked up, but I mean the actual breaking up part. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, it was more about who would pull the trigger first. Come on, Lys, you knew I was more excited to spend a week on the beach than to spend a week with him.”

Lysandra snorted, “Yeah, Ace, I knew that. I was hoping you realized that, too.”

“Well, I did. So, I left. I’m back in Terrasen, there was no way I was staying there with him any longer, that would’ve been too weird.”

Aelin could hear Lysandra’s coffee machine buzz to life through the phone and suddenly wished she had a cup of coffee. Once she figured this mess out, she’d go find a cafe.

“Right. Okay,” The brunette’s voice rang out, “let me get this straight, Chaol took you on a trip solely to break up with you, and now you’re back in Terrasen while he’s still on the Southern Continent. I’m still not seeing what exactly you did that’s making you freak out.”

At that, Aelin flopped back onto the bed and flung an arm over her face, groaning.

“I know breaking up with Chaol is for the best, Hellas, I feel relieved. But at that moment, I was so angry. I was furious that he’d take me on this trip instead of just doing it at home like a normal-fucking-person—I mean, who takes a break-up vacation? Anyways, when I was packing my things to leave, I, kinda, sorta, took something of his.”

“Aelin…what did you do?”

Aelin looked at the foot of the bed where the remains of her purse were strewn over the blanket. Her eyes caught on two matching little booklets with gold seals on them.

“I stole his passport.”

***

“Ms. Galathynius—”

“Aelin, please.” She cut off the silver-haired man behind the desk.

The only change in his stoic demeanor was a small twitch of his lips. “Aelin. Can you explain what exactly you’re trying to mail, that looks like that—”

‘That’ being the layers of spare newspaper she found tucked away in her hotel room haphazardly wrapped and tied with the thread from the complimentary sewing kit, also from her hotel room. She hadn’t been able to find any tape. Aelin thought if she brought it to the post office then she could re-package it with actual materials, but she’d chosen not to unwrap it before getting there. An obvious mistake.

“—to an official, protected, government Embassy?” His voice was stern and his green eyes steady.

This looked bad. Aelin could easily admit that this looked really bad.

She placed her hands on his desk and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. “I can explain. It's definitely not as bad as I’m sure you think it is.”

He remained silent, watching her expectantly.

She caught sight of the nameplate on the side of his desk. “Mr. Whitethorn—”

“Rowan, please.”

Did he sound amused?

Taking confidence from that, she sat up a little straighter and said, “Rowan,”

His mouth quirked a little higher as she said his name.

Clearing her throat, she started again, “Rowan, you can open the package, I assure you it's nothing bad. It’s just a passport.”

One of his eyebrows rose skeptically, “A passport?” He asked doubtfully.

“Yes, a passport. That’s why I was trying to send it to the embassy. It belongs to my b—ex.” She stumbled over the last word, still unused to Chaol’s new title.

He—Rowan—looked even more intrigued.

“You’re mailing your ex their passport, but decided to wrap it in the most suspicious, threatening way possible?”

Aelin winced. “I didn’t have many options.” She chuckled, remembering trying to tie the string together in the hotel bathroom’s fluorescent lights. “I thought I could fix it once I got here, but I didn’t even have a chance to ask for materials before being escorted in here.” She waved a hand vaguely and looked around his office.

Rowan was fully smirking now. He leaned back in his chair and watched her for a long moment. “It is my job to confiscate suspect packages. Especially when those packages are being sent to, say, a government building.”

Leaning forward slightly she smiled and told him, “Well, you seem to be very good at your job.”

Gods, was she flirting? She and Chaol literally just broke up. But she couldn’t deny she was attracted to Rowan. Not with the way his pine-green eyes lit up with amusement or the way the muscles in his arms flexed when he shifted in his chair. Not to mention that tattoo; she was a sucker for tattoos—and she’d never told him this, but it always disappointed Aelin that Chaol never even considered getting any ink.

Good gods, she was flirting. And not very well.

Still smirking, Rowan leaned forward and asked, “Care to tell me why you’re sending your ex their passport?”

Was it her imagination or did he say ‘ex’ like it was the most interesting word in his question.

She couldn't stop the small smile twisting her lips. “I don't see how the ‘why’ of it is any of your business.”

Rowan surveyed her and Aelin tried not to blush under his gaze. She couldn't stop herself from comparing him to Chaol, he never made her feel this flustered with just a stare. Rowan's eyes tracked her face, tracked the way her cheeks heated, and she tried with all her might to fight the blush.

She wasn’t a teenager with a crush, she was a woman who knew how good she looked and was very attracted to the man whose eyes had not stopped roaming over her. She fought down the blush and flipped her hair over her shoulder, smiling charmingly at him.

He seemed to like it and his grin widened before putting on a faux stern face.

“I try to be as thorough as possible, Aelin,” Gods, the way he said her name made her toes curl. “It would make things easier if you explained why. I could finish my paperwork quicker, get this thing sent off, and we’d both be free of this passport and your ex.”

Wow, he wasn't beating around the bush. She liked it.

He sent her a slow grin, “I’d be able to take my break at nine, and go for a cup of coffee.”

The way he said the last part left no room for guessing what he meant. He wanted to take her out for coffee.

A small part of her hesitated, she had just broken up with Chaol. But on the other hand, he took her on a fucking breakup vacation, so screw him and she could do whatever the hell she wanted. And she wanted Rowan. She wanted to go get coffee with Rowan.

So she smiled, winked at him, and said, “I’m mailing it back to him because I stole it from him.”

Rowan’s smile faltered and he blinked.

“You what?”

“I stole it from him.”

He stared at her another moment before a chuckle escaped his lips and he was shaking his head but smirking.

“You stole his passport.” He sounded very amused as he wrote a note down, most likely for the report he’d have to file.

“Yup,” Aelin’s grin turned feline, “He took me on vacation to break up with me, so I stole his passport and left him there.”

Rowan stopped writing and looked at her with raised eyebrows, “He’s still there? You have his passport, and now he’s stuck,” Rowan glanced at his notes, “in Antica?”

Aelin laughed; a loud, cheerful, sound that filled the office and pulled a small grin onto Rowan’s lips.

“Okay, I’m sure you think I’m a bit crazy,” Her grin didn't falter, “but it was impulsive and as soon as I realized what I actually did, you know, kinda leaving him stranded there, I tried to send it back to him. I couldn't remember what the hotel was, so I figured the embassy would be a good choice given it's a passport, and he is from Adarlan.”

“He’s from Adarlan, you’re not?” Rowan asked.

Aelin smirked, “That’s what you got from what I said?”

He matched her smirk, “That's what I want to know.”

“No,” Aelin shook her head and glanced out the window in his office, “I’m from here, Terrasen is in my blood.”

It seemed like that was the answer Rowan was looking for. He smiled, wrote down a final note, and looked back at her.

“I think that’s all I need right now, Aelin,” Again, the way he said her name sent butterflies flitting around her stomach.

He stood up and she did the same, pulling her purse back over her shoulder. He walked around his desk and opened the door for her.

“Aelin,” Rowan’s voice made her pause as she stood in the open doorway.

“Yes, Rowan?” she looked up at him expectantly with a small smile.

“I take my break in half an hour, there's a coffee shop just down the block, if you want to hang around or come back then, I'd like to take you out for coffee.”

Aelin smiled brightly at him and nodded, “I’d like that. I’ll come back in half an hour.”

He grinned and held her gaze another moment before she turned to leave.

“Oh, and Rowan?” She turned back to look at him but saw he already—or still—had his eyes on her.

“Yeah?”

“You don't have to use express shipping on that, it's fine if it takes a couple days.”

The sound of Rowan’s deep laughter followed her through the doors.

*****

Taglist:

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[myelocin]

ij(y)&m | miya a., akaashi k.

synopsis: love is enough, until you think that it isn’t. to love and to lose; then whether to dive into the sea of ocean eyes or look into the skies in search of the sun.

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, longfic, happy ending, love triangle

wc: 17,500+

characters: miya atsumu, akaashi keiji

a/n: this is a commissioned piece by @23soong | i still can’t believe u trusted me w this giant fic but ilu i guezz

commissions | ko-fi

(April 16, 2021 | New York City.)

You like to eat cake.

The color lilac, ocean eyes, and the sky. The lyrics to Ayahuasca, and the hidden metaphors where the poem you uncover always looks like a different scenario than the next person. You know what you like, and it’s only this and that. Other days, when your reasoning is a little swayed, you suppose you can afford to think that you like this plus that.

It was a difference only you understood.

(—understand, you mean.)

(You always know what you understand.)

You like cake because you enjoy sweets, and that one shade of violet that borders right in between periwinkle and lilac, because it never looked like it was too much. It didn’t blend into the background like some of the warmer colors, nor make too much of a bold presence like the depth of scarlet. You suppose you like where you’ve always been, after all.

Being content with your own security had always been one of your stronger suits. There wasn’t a wall, nor a fortress around you, but even when you’re out in the open you felt okay. The shade in between lilac and periwinkle was enough because it was you.

Chocolate over cheesecake, because you’ve never been much of a fan, and that bakery down the end of street fifteen minutes away instead of the one right across where you lived. The windows were always tinted in the shade that gave away its age, but you suppose it was its charm. The old auntie who sits by the counter always wears her apron, even if all the pastries to be sold for the day were already prebaked and arranged on the front for display.

There’s an old comfort found in that auntie’s bakery, you think. You still don’t know her name, and you know she only smiles at you because you’re probably a regular by now. You know the pen she’d had clipped to her apron is the same one from eight months ago, probably never used, because the seal’s still intact by the cap. There wasn’t a table that you could call yours, nor a spot in the fall you would stare at and daydream on your rougher days. There was no music, to dull out the sounds of the world outside—but now that you actually give it a little more thought—that’s what gave you the most comfort.

It’s a known fact that when people tend to slip into a state of reclusion, they would search for a space in a world that they can cocoon themselves in. External factors, there, but ignored. Phone often switched to silent, where the spot they stared at along the cracks of the wall would show them a world they could live in—momentarily.

(And that was the problem—at least you think.)

A safe space, they say. And it had always been valid. When your sister would talk about the boy in her dreams who loved her under the rain, you can tell that she felt safe. Sometimes she looked a little farther away despite physically being with you in the moment, but she always looked warm—so you would just choose to sit shoulder to shoulder beside her, and let her be.

People worked differently; a simple this or that situation, and it’s always going to be like that.

Your comfort is just this.

Auntie’s bakery fifteen minutes away, where you’re some random seat inside because in all the years you’ve been coming here, you could never really pick a spot. The table by the window was nice, as was the one by the shelves. The AC hit you in the way you appreciate the most wherever you chose to settle, anyway.

A slice of chocolate cake on Mondays, then maybe again on Wednesdays, but Saturdays could also mean red velvet if you were feeling like it. The bells by the door sound out your entrance every time too, but even if one day there were gone, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having a constant was okay, but not necessary. You’re here because you liked their selection better than the one closer to your place, and that was that.

Auntie’s bakery wasn’t your cocoon that kept you away from the world, but you liked it that way.

You found comfort in taking a seat in one of the ten tables inside, and setting your bag on the chair beside you as you got comfortable. You liked moving your hair to the other side, and slumping your shoulders because you know you'd enjoy this little break you decided to give yourself.

You had chocolate two days ago, and even if there was a new option for carrot cake today, you still bought chocolate again. You can hear the conversation from the group of teenagers outside the window every time the doors would open and the sounds of the world outside would filter in. The sound of traffic and life was dulled by the walls, but not muted. There’s still no music in the bakery, and you can sometimes hear every time the auntie behind the counter would shift and tap away at her phone.

This was your slice of comfort.

You didn’t escape the world, but you find yourself still. There was an underlying of connection that you found with the world when you’d have your one slice of cake after a job well done.

So you like to eat cake, because you deserve cake.

You finish the schedule you’d set for yourself, written in bullet points from top to bottom—additional notes scribbled in the margins so you wouldn’t forget, and spreadsheets written so that you keep yourself in line.

You like to eat cake, because it’s a reminder that you’re doing your part as a little cog in the machine that is this world. It’s not escaping that gives you comfort, but rather, the reminder that you’re still in this world, and you’re doing just fine.

(So you deserve your cake.)

-

Until some days where you feel like you don’t.

-

Your childhood looked something like this:

Air conditioned rooms, sniffling instead of crying, and the lilac blooms outside your window. There’s a sky, infinite as she’s always been, that watches. Sometimes she cries, but in your corner of the world, it’s more common to see her smile. Sometimes you wonder what she smiles about, but 7 year old you liked to think that she smiled for the same reasons you do.

A cool breeze in the summer, and paper kites folded every sunset. Your dreams of ocean eyes every time you’re close to the shore, as if it’s a foreshadow to the future still to come, but you’d always only stand by the edge and watch—never wading too far in.

It wasn’t a fear of the water, nor the depth, but you just always had a nagging thought behind your head that the waves would never truly be for you. You loved the sun, and the sky too much to give in to the waves.

Perhaps it’s a metaphor for something later on in life; perhaps it isn’t. You’ve never been curious enough to try to think much about it.

Ever since you were young, your idea of love never changed much from your initial thoughts.

Love felt like it should just be what’s written under the bullet points of your life schedule. Love, supposedly, looked like ocean eyes and dark roots for hair. He’d be a little more on the reserved side, and would conquer the world with you.

People always tell you that love should conquer the world for you, but it felt like too much of a selfish dream. Your whole life, you moved with a sense of purpose in mind. You buy cake after a job well done, because you know you’ll only deserve it by then. You do things only because you’ve done certain things, and it’s always been as black and white as that.

(It works.)

You’re in high school and you sit next to your best friend’s boyfriend from seven to five. You have a circle that loves you as much as you do them, and you still treat yourself to slices of chocolate cake from a bakery down the street. Their cake has a generic taste, you think, but it could be better.

Still, you settle. Settling is okay.

The idea that things would always be just okay in the black and white was okay. Your everyday life, and routine, looked like this. The people around you act like this, and you—in return, feel like this.

You laugh when things are funny, then cry when they aren’t. You appreciate the notes you’d find in your locker: the doodles and scribbled reminders alike. The difference in the handwriting and color choice of the sticky notes only reminds you that you’re part of something that isn’t just you.

You will always love your shade of lavender, or lilac, or periwinkle, but you found sentimentality and love in shades of peaches, scarlet, greys, and serenity blue too.

Routine is the kind that looks more lax than rigid, because bursts of serendipity still find you anyway.

-

(March 13, 2015) Hyogo

Because it’s in your final year of highschool, where the idea of what it initially was is thrown right out the window.

Miya Atsumu.

Brown eyes that are the complete opposite of every hue of the ocean, and his god awful piss yellow hair.

When you meet him, there’s not much to romanticize about it. He sat a few seats away from where you are, and parked his bike purposely close to your sister’s by the gate. He raised his hand to the questions he didn’t know the answer to and would drag his chair beside your desk to say hello even when you’d turn away to focus on your paper during breaks.

Love was an abstract sort of thing, so you could guess that his peculiarity fits.

You were all the shades of lilac while he offered you the pale yellow of every sunshine you found solace in ever since you were young. The color on the opposite end of the color wheel, Miya Atsumu truly was your contrast.

He ate cheesecake and didn’t hide his face when he sneezed. He’d roll up his sleeves and fight the next person without thinking to talk it out first and scribbled his ideas from the center of the paper instead of listing them out from top to bottom, or left to right like you always did.

But he was the start.

“Hi, Len.” he said instead of the standard “hi, hello; what’s your name?” greeting, and it even if it baffles you how he got your name before you even had the chance to introduce yourself—you didn’t think you had it in you to be mad about it.

Third year highschool Miya Atsumu with the god awful piss yellow hair and black undercut smiled in the way that had the left corner of his mouth rising just a little higher than the right, and you were fucking hooked.

You didn’t show it at first, but you were hooked. He had the kind of lilt in his voice that you always thought was more endearing than attractive, and would often lean back in his seat with one arm slung over the back of his chair as he waited for you to finish up with your review for the day. He liked all the things you thought were okay at best, but he was who stayed.

Libraries were for those who found a little comfort and familiarity in the silence, and he was a wildfire. He fell asleep waiting for you as you studied, but would always have a whole lunchbox of soft snacks for you to munch on while you did your thing, checking off the bullet points of your list.

On Saturdays, he was the person waiting for you at the bleachers by the track field with a towel and water bottle, cheering you on as if he understood the sport. When you’d pass him, he’d wave, and holler at you like you just won even if you’ve just been running laps for warmup.

He was never a hello, because he was a whirlwind that caught you off guard straight from the start. Some would say this is like serendipity, and perhaps it is—he is—but you like to think that maybe he’s just part of the black and white of your life. You liked what you liked, whether it correlated with your plans or not, and it really was as simple as just that.

-

In high school you always liked to eat cake after exams. You liked chocolate because it was sweet, and you’ve always been the person who had a sweet tooth.

You write left to right, from top to bottom and keep your letters beside to eachother in print, because it makes sense.

Miya Atsumu, the boy who was the pale yellow to your lilac, was the one who offered you a pen when you’d misplace yours, even if he only had one with him in his bag.

And you liked him, you suppose, because you just do.

-

(March 13, 2020) | Tokyo

Miya Atsumu was blunt, and freeing.

He was the sky, and not the sea, but love—later on, became the realization that you’re just freefalling.

After the initial introductions, there wasn’t a point where either of you felt like you were still supposed to be somewhere else. Like something you didn’t know had even been out of place sliding into it, instead of clicking. The skies would open, not just for you but for him as well.

While you saw all the colors of the sun and of the golden hour, Atsumu saw the shades of lilac in the earth.

What becomes is the love that’s felt in the silence, and on the way home.

It’s your voice that he hears chastise him to put down the donut and share it with Osamu when he’d been planning to leave him a third of the last at best. It’s the four letters of your name that he scribbles in the corners of receipts mindlessly, but would still fucking deny it every time he’d get caught.

Atsumu and his bike rides to school, along with his habit of catching up to you just to get off and walk beside you if he sees you nearing the gates.

A silent sort of company in the morning beside someone who was basically known at the most perfect personification of what noise would look like if it were to be redesigned into human form.

True love, and serendipity he thinks, is this. It’s you and all the witty remarks you’d make towards him, telling him to go away, that he never ends up taking seriously because you’d be blushing red before he even gets a chance to react.

The reaction he comes is delayed, but the epiphany that it’s you who becomes the face to love, isn’t.

You were the who when it came to answering the who, what, when, where, why, and how of love.

The what was answered love. The when, is yesterday, when you spilled a little bit of your chocolate milk on your desk and cursed in the way he never would have figured you saying, and today, when you looked out at the skies and smiled your private sort of smile towards the palette of the sunset.

The where was everywhere. Love, as you, in the sidewalks leading up to the gates, and on that desk on the row ahead, diagonal to him.

The why, was this. (It was everything.) (Running, then leaping. Flying, then soaring.) (Everything.)

He finally finds truth to the poems he usually tended to ignore in love songs, but it was great.

And the how, finally, was answered with a shrug.

How did he love you? Atsumu would always shrug because he just does.

Always, always does.

-

Along with the high, comes facing the reality that you must also fall. For the longest while, you’re climbing, climbing, climbing¸ until eventually, there’s nowhere else to go but down. The real face of love looked somewhat like that.

It’s one foot after the other, and steps towards the sky. There’s no staircase with a solid ground leading up, nor wings clasped behind you to lift you up even with through the absence of a breeze. (But love had you flying.)

It’s seeing the sights you’ve seen your whole life not with a new set of eyes, but a new vantage point. Atsumu’s the sun, all the while you still felt as if you were the child forever glancing up towards it. They tell you to never look at light straight on, but his glow never had you blinded.

Atsumu gave you clarity, showcased on a silver platter.

You understood all the priorly misunderstood parts of your life, where it felt like a new kind of exhilarating. Like having knowledge at the palm of your head, the world became as infinite as it became yours.

(And yours alone.)

Your hands that only grabbed just what was yours were suddenly reaching too far in the cookie jar. Greediness has never really been you, but eventually the fall—your fall—from the high looked like crumbs on your hands and shirt, and the absence of what once was where it should still be.

Atsumu never said a word, because it never was that way.

Still, you closed your eyes while still in the air. The view was right there, and Atsumu was beside you through the climb, the high, and the period where you just glide, telling you to open your eyes and look but you only did—for just a fraction of a second.

It’s the heaven that sits above the clouds that terrify you, you think. The unspoken truth that was kept as a hush is suddenly right in your ear screaming.

“He’s holding you to the clouds,” it taunts, then continues, “—But what have you given him in return?”

Atsumu’s never heard the demons in your head, nor was aware of its presence in the first place, but he always seemed to just have a way of knowing what to say, exactly when to say it.

Like now.

He’s sat in the bleachers, high on life, while you’re high on adrenaline. Six thirty in the summers meant the sun was just beginning to set, so he smiles, knowing that you’ve always thought of this moment as yours.

(And his, he adds mentally, a whisper to himself—a validation that you are his as much as he is yours.)

Truly.

“Hi Lena,” he grins; one side quirked up higher than the other, and under the bloom of scarlet and amber, he’s beautiful. “What’s your name?”

You’re laughing, as if you don’t carry the weight of all your demons on your shoulders. Amber against your deep brown eyes, and he’s caught. Like always. Fucking entranced, like always.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you voice back, leaning close and laughing at the way he scrunches his eyes close at your sudden display of brevity. It catches him off guard every time. He loves it, as much as he does you—but he’s still a boy inside.

You laugh anyway, pressing a kiss on his eyelids when he keeps his eyes closed, and you smile, softly, when you notice the way his shoulders relax.

“What’s your name?” you echo, then you’re both laughing at the inside jokes that you admittedly could never get sick of.

“I really don’t know,” he stretches further, enjoying the ay the moment became not just yours, but also truly his, with just a couple of words and some laughs. “I just can’t remember, Lena, but what’s your name?”

You laugh, throwing your hair up in a quick bun, before taking the seat beside him.”Atsumu we sound stupid.”

You don’t turn to return his stare, but you feel his eyes on your profile before he even tries to make something off of it. He smiles, and you feel that too.

You’re beautiful, he thinks to himself. A thought that comes to him more frequent than remembering the kanji for his own name, and Atsumu knows he’s rooted himself way too deep to even try to think of letting go.

“Fuck the status quo or whatever that shit says babe,” you hear him laugh in return.

You’re both sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes towards the sun, and the world feels like it only exists to be yours. (and his.)

A moment, where in your eyes, it feels like it’s just (him) and you.

Just him.

Love, as just Atsumu, because he has a way of being your forever anything and everything. A whirlwind of some sorts; a spontaneous wildfire wrapped with the pretty shades of serendipity, and it feels so right.

It’s quiet, but it’s the nice kind of quiet. The demons in your head are hushed, but if you know they’re probably just slumbering, you’re still overwhelmed with a newfound sense of comfort. The source feels like it’s meant to flow infinitely, and you smile—until you don’t. You remind yourself the virtue of never taking more than you can bother to use, so as you turn your head, watching him soak in the light once again, it takes so much inside you to remember that and fight back the urge.

“Don’t you have practice tonight?” you ask, curious.

His sports bag was placed beside him, and it takes you a little while to notice that he’s decked out in his training gear. The time on your clock tells you it’s six forty five, and you’ve always known that practice started at five.

“I do,” he hums.

You turn in response, poking his cheek before pinching it. “Then go.”

Atsumu sighs, in a too-dramatic-voice for a man who was well beyond those years, but you suppose that that was just one of his charms. “Wanna stay actually,” he pouts leaning his weight against yours, to which you’re quick to groan at, nudging your shoulder to try to get him away.

His chin settles on your shoulder anyway, but his other arm is quick to anchor you around the other side, making sure that he’s still holding you up, more than you holding him up. Atsumu’s face is close to yours, as is yours. It’s a position he’s always liked. When he looks at you, he can see the little dots on your face that other people never could get to see unless they were this close. When you blink, you do it slow, like you’re savoring the sight in front of you, and his heart thrums in a tender sort of happiness because even if you never looked much like the sentimental type, he knows you well enough to know that you really are that.

Atsumu juts his bottom lip, like he’s tired, and you laugh.

“Tsumu, go.”

“Tsumu,” he counters. “—stay.”

“Actually,” he corrects himself, shaking his head. “Lena,” he smiles. “Stay.”

-

“You don’t have to do anything,” he adds. “Just stay.”

His words hit you before you could even try to pull your walls back up, knowing that it’ll hit a spot you aren’t exactly keen on confronting just yet.

Just stay, his words echo in your ear, and you suppose that that’s really all you could do. Moments like this where love overwhelm you the most has you fearing love the most, if you were being honest with yourself. There was a fear that comes with love, because at the root of it all, love will always just be a risk.

The higher the climb, the harder the fall they say. The more you give, the more the world will take. You look at Atsumu, who faces you with his pouted lips and sunset painted across two pools of baby brown. He closes his eyes and leans forward, knowing that you’ll kiss his eyelids before you even say it. Like the earth letting itself pulled by gravity, you’re beckoned towards the sun, falling into orbit as time—the human concept of it anyway—begins to move slow and all you can do is spin in circles and marvel at the being that is the light.

“I love you,” he says, and he’s honest.

What terrifies you is the honesty in your voice too, when you reply with an “I love you,” of your own.

The higher the climb, the more painful the fall, you think. When Atsumu opens his eyes and allows for the silence to remain and blanket the piece of the world that is yours and his, you see that you’ve already made it to the highest summit.

The more you give, the more the world will take.

But the thing is, you don’t know what you’ve given him. Your hands are empty beside his, but he holds them anyway. You’re so fucking in love and it terrifies you because what is the earth next to the sun? It stays in a distance so it doesn’t burn, but now, even as you’re face to face with the being that embodies the essence of the light and life itself—you aren’t burning.

Then it hits you.

He is your everything.

You gave yours, so what else could the world take other than him?

-

And because love also wields the power to make you more fearful than you are in love, you admit to yourself that you’re fucking scared. Atsumu says “I love you,” again, and holds your empty hands in his that holds nothing but still feels all the ways full at the same time. It’s suddenly hard to swallow, and you’re cold.

The summit is beautiful, but you are cold.

You close your eyes, walk forward, lose your footing, then just freefall.

The scary part is, even if you do that, you know Atsumu will just think of it as an adventure and jump right after you—riding the current with you, even though you’re venturing into what’s unknown.

Still, you close your eyes.

You pull the parachute first, imagining that you’ve hit the ground before the winds would even get to you.

-

(March 13, 2021)

The funny thing about heartbreak is, Atsumu thinks, is that you recognize its presence before you see its face.

He felt you fading.

Fading from something, but it never fathomed to him that it was from him. You never pulled away when he held his hands, because he made it a point to consciously remind himself to wipe them clean beforehand every time so he supposes it wasn’t that.

“Are we okay?” he asks anyway, when you’re in his car, staring out the street that’s a couple ways from your house. Six-thirty’s already passed, and the skies are in shades of grey instead of the marmalade and amber the sunset always brings.

Atsumu’s voice is a break in the atmosphere, that you think wasn’t tense, but the way his voice quivers in the way only you can point out has you thinking otherwise.

You swallow.

“We are.”

Atsumu exhales, and at the way his voice seems to sound a little more amplified than usual, you realize that the engine’s turned off. Regardless of the nagging voice in your head to stop dragging this out, you turn away anyway.

You love him, and love to love him. You love kissing his eyelids when he naps on your thighs and associating him with the little things just because.

(You turn away, prolonging the inevitable, because you don’t want to associate him with the end—just yet.)

You think to yourself that you don’t deserve this—him—because he deserves better, but you want to have just one more bite. Fists clenched in the pocket of his hoodie you wear that still smells like him, and you want to cry.

Atsumu sighs again, tired. When you look at him, he’s already staring at you, for god knows how long now, and you wince because he looks exhausted.

“Are we?” he asks again, and when you open your mouth to try to find a couple words to string together as a reply, nothing comes out.

“Lena,” he says, and his voice is loud.

He’s only been whispering this whole time, and you’re aware of that, but it’s still loud. His car’s in park; the engine’s off, and when you shift your position from side to side to try to find your place, you can hear the fabric ruffle against each other.

“Len,” you hear again. “Lena.”

“Talk to me,” Atsumu says, and you’re baffled at the way that his voice sounds like a plea.

“I am talking to you,” you mumble. You shift again, but you’re still not comfortable; you don’t want to look at him. You don’t think that you deserve to look at him.

But his voice still comes to you, soft. He’s saying your name; again and again, but it still sounds like a fucking plea. Your shoulders shake, but you still it before he notices. The bullet points that come after the list you write left to right, from the top going to the bottom doesn’t give you an answer as to why he’s fucking pleading.

“Please look at me,” he’s whispering now. (Still loud.)

What is there to plead for?

“What’s wrong, Tsumu?”

“Babe, you gotta talk to me.”

The zipper drags across the plastic of the door, and makes a sound. Internally, you flinch right as you shift your position again because you’re still not fucking comfortable.

You look at him, then blink. He’s staring at you, desperate for words you don’t have, and suddenly your hands feel so empty.

What do I give you?

He shivers when a breeze floats in through the window, while you don’t. Then you blink again. Right, you think. This is his jacket that he gave you. He’s sitting beside you, at 23:10, half an hour away from his apartment, knowing full well there’s traffic in Tokyo regardless of the fucking hour.

Your thoughts, a battle between what can I even give you? and look at what you’ve given me.

“Tsumu I think this is it,” you suddenly whisper, the feeling of being so out of place finally dawning on you.

You keep shifting, uncomfortable in your position, because you’re not supposed to be here. You buy yourself a slice of cake after a job well done, but when you look at Atsumu—what have you done?

What have you given for you to receive so much?

His hoodie’s still warm, and your fingers clutch onto the fabric.

Atsumu stares at you, and even if you want to look away, you can’t. He holds your gaze like he’s held your heart for years now, and you know this won’t be a situation easy to break out of. His grip had always been solid despite the lack of bruises that tell the world of its presence.

“I think,” you sigh, swallowing down the urge to say it’s a joke, to take back your words.

“I think—“ you say again, but hesitate. Atsumu watches you nod your head, the look in your eye so far he doesn’t know if he can catch up by now. You’re whispering your words, the most of what you say phrases he can barely even understand, but he listens to you anyway.

You want to cry again, the tightness in your chest increasing tenfold, and the feeling of discomfort reminding you that you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t deserve this slice of cake, but you’re greedy.

Balled fists, hazy thoughts, and you’re cracking. You aren’t breaking, but you’re cracking.

The fallout is the same.

You nod your head again, and Atsumu watches, his eyebrows scrunched up and drawn together, as you seem to arrive at a conclusion without even letting him in the conversation. The haze clears from your eyes, and by the looks of it you’ve already rooted yourself someplace you don’t even want to stand in.

He tries to say your name, but you’re still shaking your head.

Then you’re shrugging off his jacket. Atsumu opens his mouth, still fucking confused because what are you doing?

You held his hand yesterday and kissed his eyelids goodnight three fucking hours ago.

“What are you doing?”

You hear him, but that’s all there is to it. You know you should be listening to him, but only the definition of the words register in your head. The meaning to be deciphered in the situation remains unseen, when the only thoughts in your head revolve around the fact that your hands are still so empty.

You think about what he says, though.

What are you doing, Lena?

He watches you unzip the zipper from the front, and hear the audible click when you unbuckle your seatbelt. He’s still watching, mouth parted in the silence in disbelief at what he thinks is the goodbye scenario he’s always avoided thinking about. You’re leaning forward, then it’s the left arm out before the right.

A breeze comes again, and even if your eyes are elsewhere, you catch a glimpse at him from your peripherals as he’s shivering—again. Frustration bubbles up in your chest, welling up into tears, but you don’t cry.

You remind yourself that you shouldn’t cry.

Balance was what kept the world in orbit, so therefore, you must only take, if you give.

Rewards are reserved for accomplishments, but what have you fucking offered?

Atsumu’s given you the world, but you still face him with empty hands and just an I love you.

Love was your certainty and your lifetime kind of truth, but what else is there? When Atsumu tells you he’s all yours, it’s enough, but when you do—why does it feel so little?

You take the risk, then the plunge, and look at him. When he blinks, and keeps his eyes shut just that while longer, you have to fight the urge to kiss his eyelids like you’ve always done. His hoodie’s folded on your lap now, but you still smell your honeydew on it.

How many times does he have to wash it to get the smell out? you think.

Atsumu swallows his words, his retaliations, because he knows you’ve anchored yourself before you even hit the water. If you had always been anything—other than the fact that you are always his everything—it was the fact that you are resolute.

So he lets you speak.

He already offers you his love even though he looks at heartbreak in the face.

And it’s your face he sees. Faraway eyes, your shoulders tense, and a shiver that makes your fingers tremble in the slightest. He sees every detail play out in slow motion, and even if his heart is hammering in his chest, just as yours probably is, he thinks to himself—you’re beautiful.

You, as the face of love from the hello, and still you, the face he puts to heartbreak as he listens to you say, “I think I have to let you go.”

‘Let what go?’ he thinks. When you let go of something, it’s to get rid of the bad—the dead weight.

Was he the dead weight?

“It’s for the best,” you say. (For your best, you think.)

“I don’t think we can keep doing this anymore.” (I don’t think I can keep doing this to you anymore.)

“I think this is the best for us.” (For you.)

“What—“

“Tsumu,” you say, cutting him off. Your voice doesn’t quiver but your hands hidden from his point of view clench then unclench.

“Atsumu,” you say again, this time with a smile. It isn’t forced, because you don’t think that you ever had to force a smile for him, but at the sight of him watching you, heartbreak written across his face, your heart can’t help but crack in the same pattern.

It runs a little deeper, you think. The kind of deep where you aren’t sure if even the scars will fade overtime.

“Lena—wait—“ he tries to interject, but you’re already opening the door and walking outside.

He knows your look when you’ve decided, and he knows that it looks something just like this. Still, he bites his lip, hoping that this would just blow off come daylight. He knew you had always been the type to feel the things that come, but never really dwell on it enough to process it. There was hesitance when you accepted things from others, and it never escapes his line of vision when you’d just duck your head a little lower when you didn’t have anything to offer back.

When he says I love you, he means it in both the verbal and in the silent way he tries to communicate with you.

Like leaving traces of himself in every little piece of everything, so that it’s there for you to have and just know.

“I love you,” he says again, and again.

In the silence, but you don’t hear it. On the walk home, you feel it but you turn away.

 -

This is the painful part of love, you think. You know that you’re frustrated, and that everything you hate which unfortunately comes with love is brewing so strong in your chest, that no words come out.

You tell yourself that you’re mad, but when you look at the mirror you turn away.

“My name is Lena,” you say, and you begin. In the world—or your world at least—chaos is swirling so in order to find organization for it, you close your eyes and center your thoughts on the first fact to keep you grounded.

“I like to eat cake, when I deserve it, because I still am victorious,” you say, then add, when a flash of pale yellow comes to mind, “—sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you say, then turn the corner to walk into the kitchen so sit at the table. You remember the slice of cake you bought this morning, meaning to save it for tonight, remembering that you just finished your exams after cramming for nearly two weeks.

In hindsight, you really should have expected it though. Your sister did mention that she just started her period the day before, and usually you never minded when she ate a couple of stuff that wasn’t yours—and you know this is isn’t the reason why you’re crumpled down on the kitchen floor with one fork in hand and no cake in the fridge, but you are.

You’re crying, and flustered, and the words that come out of your mouth sound more gibberish than coherent. You think that you’re saying Atsumu’s name, beside an apology, but truth be told you’re letting yourself go and blank out.

The cold air from the opened fridge hits you on your knees, and you really should be getting up by now to shut it close before your sister comes home and pokes at you for it, but you really can’t be bothered to think about caring.

This is the fall that comes with love, and what was taken was what you were given.

It’s you who gave him back, because the thoughts in your head are busy telling you that even if love was enough—was it really?

Were you enough was the ugly question you don’t face, so you close your eyes and convince yourself that you’re crying because of a fucking slice of cake and not because of the sun.

You ignore the memory of walking home, and still feeling Atsumu’s presence watch you with eagle eyes as he slowly drove with you down the sidewalk – “just so I know you’re home safe, at least give me that.”

-

Give, you think.

There was nothing that you had given him, and Atsumu had deserved something even greater than eternity itself.

-

It’s in the same hour of that same night where Miya Atsumu, who wore red eyes and slumped shoulders, that was standing outside the bakery an hour and fifteen minutes away from his place, wondering which kind of cake you’d like the most out of the thirteen in the display.

-

(September 13, 2021)

Time moves at a weird pace.

Yesterday feels like yesterday, and today feels just like today. It doesn’t move slow, because you know the clock keeps ticking, but still you move. Sunrise comes before sunset, but you stopped looking up and watching the in-betweens colors before that final stroke of marmalade, or even five thirty’s golden hour.

Gold reminded you of the sun, so you looked away. Love had you blinded, and you wanted to look at the world with the lens of practicality instead of the colored ones this time around.

Atsumu was still around, for the most part of it.

Graduation came, then summer, and you know even without you he kept blooming. Towards the end of the year, right before graduation, you still saw the posters on the wall, and heard his name in the announcements. There was always a congratulations right before, followed by a “we’re proud of you,” that never flew past your line of attention.

He deserved it, you think.

Miya Atsumu deserves the whole cake, and not just a slice, because he continuously still gives—his good deeds going well past just the title of a job well done.

You, on the other hand, both kept your distance and thoughts in order in the beginning.

He still said hello when you passed by him in the halls. The awkward timeframe right after a breakup didn’t spare either of you too. With you, opening your inbox and rereading the old messages; debating whether you should just archive the whole conversation or delete it altogether, then seeing Atsumu typing something for a whole five minutes before the indication stops and a message is never sent.

Where you’re stuck wondering what he could have said, because you know Atsumu’s always been the type to not only wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather, shout it out instead.

You never fit that bill, but you (love)d him anyway.

If you were being honest—at least to yourself—it took long, before Miya Atsumu became just the name of a contact in your phone, the text history buried at the bottom. Seven months’ worth of texts piled above his last, “hey, i’m outside,” that you never could bring yourself to delete.

For a while, you think, you deserved that slice of cake.

Just a slice, and not the whole thing, but for that while—it was all yours.

-

(December 2021)

Akaashi Keiji didn’t come into your life until another three months after you shut the book and pretended you never read its contents. You say you know the end, but really, you never flipped past page 223 despite the book ending at 416.

The end was a page that was skimmed over, and never really read through. A dog eared fold on the corner, instead of a bookmark, for the sake of it sitting on the shelf, looking finished. In the moment, you know it isn’t finished, and you’ll probably stumble upon the book again at some point, later down in time, but perhaps if you give yourself enough patience, you’ll forget that it was left to be unfinished in the first place.

Miya Atsumu was a story you started, where you read the start in a third person POV, then left it midway when you took the reins and rewrote what you think the ending would be from a first person perspective.

I am not enough for you, you said. I will take off this jacket and leave it here, because I haven’t offered you anything.

I will leave, and let you go because you deserve more.

(But it’s I love you, as the thought, that still will always remain.)

-

You have your books and bullet point notes, the days after today written in a list: from top to bottom with just a couple of scribbles along the margins. Akaashi met you like serendipity used to dictate, and this new book started like how it should have.

“Hello,” because that’s how it should start. Followed by a “how are you?” because that’s usually the next thing to say.

The conversation’s light before it dives deeper, and you think to yourself that you like it like that because it follows order. Atsumu gave you half his bento box two hours after you first met, while Akaashi offered you a napkin and his extra fork when yours fell.

Often, your friends would tell you that it probably wasn’t a good idea to compare the dynamic of the two, and you agree because if you were outside this situation you would be advising the exact same, but when you do things from first person, a lot of things become that much harder just because.

This wasn’t love, nor was this the replacement of love, but you can’t help but admit that Akaashi Keiji was the prince charming you wrote about in your diary when you were a kid. He was the ocean eyed prince charming every teenager dreamt of, and this was the slowburn kind of pace that love should be.

Atsumu barreled into you and made himself be known as the yellow in the color wheel opposite of your purple, and even if it didn’t clash, nor blend, it had a presence.

You think to yourself that Akaashi was all the shades of ocean blue, while you were that kind of purple right in between lavender and periwinkle.  You could stand next to him at the train station, or be squished next to eachother in the train during rush hour, and people would take one glance and assume you’re together.

Situating yourself beside the shade next to yours in the color wheel felt right. Blue to purple, or purple to blue. It worked. Neither of you had to jump far, or take a leap across the wheel, but only take a step and you’re right there.

He wasn’t love, but you didn’t let yourself think that he could be.

It’s two more years of this until your master’s is done, so you suppose reading a side story wouldn’t hurt much.

Only that this side story was getting a little more complicated than you initially just planned out. You jumped into this story without the thought of grabbing a bookmark, and Akaashi Keiji had been the type of person you knew hated dog eared bookmarks.

“What are your thoughts about this?” he asks you one day though, so completely out of the blue that it has you whipping your head to the side to stare at him, wide eyed. You’ve known him for a while now, and he was okay. Perhaps just the word great, at best, because whether you looked at this from a first person point of view or a third, your words would still be the same. Objective thoughts led you to thinking of coming to a conclusion based on the rubric of your childhood, and Akaashi fit the bill.

Maybe not your bill now, but he still fit it.

Akaashi Keiji was who your should have been prince charming looked like, with the ocean blue eyes and poetry for words.

Even though he asks you that now, when you’re seated in the passenger seat of his car parked outside your apartment building, you still can only bring yourself to just blink. You stay true to the fact that you are surprised, and you do admit that, but that’s all there is to it. Nothing feels like it’s leaping out of your chest, and there’s no flutter of anything in your stomach.

His words register in your head, but so does confusion.

“This?” you parrot, trying to find meaning through the limited context he provides.

Akaashi nods, hands still at 10 and 2 on the wheel, while his foot hovers over the brakes. You can see that the car’s in park, but he’s tense. He lets a couple more seconds pass—that felt like it was stretching a lot longer than what it really is—before inhaling and turning to face you.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking like he’s saying it to himself rather than towards you. “This,” he confirms, then after it looks like he convinced himself, he looks at you, and nods again.

You stare at two pools of the sea, that immediately has you wondering if it’s either the Atlantic or the Pacific. Your feet that had long been digging into the warmth of the sand on the shore are suddenly hit with the first cold kisses of the water, and you’re caught.

“This,” you sound out, and by now you’re already well aware of where the conversation’s headed. The both of you still skirt around the words anyway, the silence quickly settling in.

He’s breathing in and out, steady, and tapping his finger against the steering wheel—steady. You’re sat beside him wearing a jacket that’s always been yours, and the AC in his car is just the right kind of cold. When you shift, you’re not exactly comfortable enough to want to stay, but you aren’t uncomfortable to the point of wanting to leave right away either. The space between the both of you feel appropriate, and you know even if he leaves later, his place is only a ten minute drive away.

Convenience, you think; it’s an appropriate word to describe this.

So you turn to face him.

Ocean meets earth, and you’re aware of the cold waves touching your ankle now. You’re nodding your head when you hear the click of his seatbelt unbuckle, then keep your eyes on him when he leans close.

It’s like staying on the edge of the shore, hesitant for the long while, before the moon beyond the daylight loses patience and calls for the tide to favor the yearning of the sea as it grants the tips of its waves to reach further inland.

From your seat, you watch as the ocean comes to you.

Your hands are empty, still, but you did finish that paper two days early so you suppose a slice of something is okay.

“This is convenient,” he finally hears you say, and Akaashi wants to say something else, but he shuts himself up when he sees you finally look at him, like you found an answer to a question that’s boggled with your head for a while now.

He knows there was always something unanswered that bothered you, but he never had it in himself to breach past the boundary the both of you had situated right in the middle just for the sake of asking.

He was curious, but they did say that curiosity had its ways of killing the cat.

Akaashi doesn’t want to be killed—and because he didn’t want this to be killed either—he chose to keep his silence.

Still, he still has it in him to hesitate. The moon can only push the tides so much, and the water will only go so far to where it rarely ventures before it must recede back to where it should be come daylight.

It’s daylight that you yearn, and he sees that.

A faceless kind of sun—that he can only guess is the answer to all the questions he knows you still have.

What’s above the both of you is the gleam of moonlight now, he reasons, so he goes as far as he can and waits. You’re still standing by the shore—still sitting completely still—until he watches you break out of the hesitation laced with your thoughts, right as you move.

“What are we doing?” he hears you whisper, so Akaashi begs for the moon to push him forward just a little closer.

(He hopes you don’t pull away.)

“We’re doing what’s convenient,” he offers, a set of words strung together at the very last second that he knows is just a crafted lie, then prays for the best.

You’re nodding your head, and you give yourself just those few more seconds as you weigh your thoughts, deciding what’s still okay and what isn’t.

You think back to the bullet points of your journal, and mentally recite the facts written in an organized list.

You like to eat cake, and treat yourself a slice after a job well done, because that’s only when you deserve it. You (love)d Miya Atsumu for a whole novel of your life where the reason fell under just because instead of the specifics you try to fit in places for the sake of accuracy and detail. Miya Atsumu was the sun that was always with the sky, and you were never blinded even if you did always stare at him directly in the eye. (Next to that part is always a quickly scribbled why—but you don’t know the answer to it just yet.)

(You say you should really be getting back to it later, to fill in the blanks, and give it some closure—but you aren’t ready for a closure.)

(You aren’t ready to open page 223.)

Then next on the list is Akaashi Keiji. You had two classes with him and went to the same university for your masters and the most you know about him is that he likes his coffee with just a splash of caramel. He lives just a ten minute drive away from you, and he’s okay enough to share a laugh with on weekdays and breakfast with on weekends if you had class together that day. He’s okay with 7am lectures, even if he did have bags under his eyes, and he’s the type to always carry a bookmark with him or at least just a scrap of paper to fit in between the pages because he hated the idea of just folding the corners as substitute instead.

It’s not that he’s convenient, but rather this is convenient.

You got along well, and you suppose that you’re comfortable enough with the ocean to wade deep within it and still not drown.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you hear him murmur, so you take a step and wade in a little deeper.

Ankle deep, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt as you shift and fully face him.

Ocean blue, and the waves are swirling, swirling, swirling—you’re pulled in. Waist deep, and the water’s cold enough to wake you up and remind you that it’s fine. You’re fine, and you can breathe; you aren’t overwhelmed, and when you stretch your fingers and try to feel for the sand beneath the waves, you can still feel it. There’s a certain security found in being grounded, then you’re thinking to yourself that whatever this is, is okay.

You try to stare down, and face the waves, and will yourself to not think of the sky.

There’s no daylight, and the sun slumbers, so the waves around you heed to the call of the moon and move back and forth, in motion, but still, around your waist.

So it’s you who buckles your knees in waist deep water and pull yourself under.

It’s the feel of the water, cool and not exactly cold that greets you, as you push yourself forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt before pressing your lips against his.

Akaashi sighs against your lips, as if he’s already discovered the ending to a story he conceptualized himself but never really had the courage of writing out.

He’s kissing you right back, and it feels good—for the moment.

You try not to think of the nagging feeling that pokes at you again and again, saying that the warmth of the sand under the sun in daylight feels much more like home than the cool feel of the water.

-

You’ve always known to yourself that there was the undeniable contrast between Akaashi and Atsumu.

Comparing the two wasn’t a bright idea—it was stupid, if anything, and didn’t help with shit, honestly speaking. (You always were honest to yourself.)

Akaashi hummed his praises, and never was the type to really shout them out. He called you when he’d pull up to your building, instead of wait outside the door and surprise you with a couple pieces of chocolate and a cheesy grin that you swore to hell and back you hated to boot.

Atsumu was everything unpredictable and freeing, but Akaashi was predictable in the way that eventually grew sentimental. He, alone, had forever been great. You knew well that there was so many things he could take pride in, and never bothered to hide your compliments when it came to his achievements, because you knew he deserved the recognition.

Akaashi spoke to you in metaphors, while Atsumu told you like how it is. You admit to yourself, that even if there were some days where you liked the challenge of trying to understand what was written underneath the underneath—the days where you just wanted to hear it as it just is were just as equal.

For the next few months after the first, time still moved okay. Sixty minutes was still an hour, while twenty four hours was still one whole day. Whether Akaashi’s hand was on yours, or if his lips were on your neck in the car, time still just moved.

Your heart skipped a couple beats, when his thumb would always caress the corners of your lips before and after he kissed you, and your cheeks would bloom into all the shades of scarlet when he’d whisper your name in between the kisses that never felt rushed.

But it was just that.

You felt the rush of what love was supposed to be—the hype that it never failed to bring—in the car.

At 11PM, in the parking lot of your apartment building, the height of love thrived on the fumes of serendipity for an hour or two every couple of nights, and would trickle fast when you’d open the door and tell him goodnight.

Atsumu was goodnight, my love, with the cheesy smile and your montage of eye rolls but secret blushes when you’d turn your back and make your way inside your house. Akaashi, on the other hand, you think is just your goodnight, then go, because at the end of the day—because of convenience—the both of you are somehow dragging out the goodbye.

So you part from him, wipe your lips, and try to ignore the way his thumb lingers just a little longer on the corner of your lips. You turn away when the look in his eye turns softer, because it shouldn’t, and pretend like you didn’t just see the shift the both of you have been trying to get away from.

Just two years, then goodbye, you tell yourself.

This isn’t love, Akaashi thinks to himself, hand on the wheel and foot on the gas pedal instead of the brakes. He watches you walk past the hood of his car, the hand that was just balling up the collar of his shirt only moments ago raised to give him a goodnight wave as you walk past, and shit, he thinks.

He still smells honeydew even after you’ve shut the door, and he can’t help but notice how silent the car feels despite the low hum of the air conditioner blasting inside his car.

Akaashi sinks into his seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, before he sighs his deep exhale.

“Ah,” he mumbles. “Shit.”

This wasn’t supposed to be love.

-

If there was one thing he excelled at above the rest, and kept as a constant since day one, for Akaashi it was playing it safe.

This route was set to be the one he’d take when he’d drive home, because it was safe. Traffic was inevitable in the city, but this on had the least turns. A couple stoplights, and some convenience stores would be in every corner as well as a gas station at every couple of miles was convenient.

Safe, like choosing just plain vanilla for his cake flavors ever since he turned old enough to pick out his own cake, and safe, like just a splash of caramel in his coffee to lessen the bite of espresso.

You were what challenged him to walk a little ways outside the circle he’d always deemed as safe.

He didn’t run away from it, on the other hand, because he realizes that it’s curiosity that made him take the bait. You weren’t just the girl who shared a couple subjects with him and wrote her notes in the same order, the letters written in print instead of scribbled with questionable cursive.

Truth be told, it was before he even took the risk that night and begged for the moon to let him reach just a little further in the shore for him to unconsciously begin redesigning the face of love into the contours of your face.

You looked like love.

What it could just possibly be at the start, until he waded too far into the shore for that thought to turn into the beginnings of certainty.

And when Akaashi Keiji was certain, he took no time in looking for somewhere to bury his roots as deep as he can possibly go in.

It started with noticing that some weeks you prefer red velvet over chocolate mousse, then making a mental note to himself that you prefer the bakery on the east side of campus than the one on the west. You never made too much conversation with the teenagers that worked there part time, because he understands that there’s never really a point in doing that when you could just be on your way, but he took note of how you’d smile a little more towards the uncles that trimmed the hedges on the garden outside.  

In his eyes, not only did you look like the textbook definition of love, but you also looked like his dream of what love is supposed to be.

It’s supposed to be looking at someone, doing something so mundane, and realizing that having a name beside you written in a book that was supposed to just tell your journey wasn’t all that bad—at all.

And all it took was a Sunday morning, on the twenty first of some month he can’t quite recall in the moment, for him to catch a glimpse of you making your way to the library with a cup of what he knows is just boba in a coffee mug in hand. The sky behind you looks like it opens, as if there’s something with it that’s always been with you, and even though you’re at a distance—in his eyes, you’re glowing.

You smile at the uncle who’s trimming away at the hedges to your right, then right before you make a turn, you’re raising your hand as a good morning and giving him a smile.

And fuck, Akaashi thinks.

He holds a heart that beats, where for the moment it’s not because of the fact that he still needs to breathe.

He’s okay, and this is okay.

He thinks to himself that there’s a chance, because the both of you work. So it just means to say that this, can too.

“Okay,” he exhales, the whisper more as a reassurance to himself than to anyone else. The world covered in daylight slumbers at his words, and as he stands, his own schedule in place, he wishes for the blessing of the moon to push him with the tides back into the shore again.

“Tonight,” he texts you, instead.

“I’ll pick you up tonight.”

-

(March 13 2022)

In shades of grey, Akaashi Keiji loves you.

Grey car, oceanic yes that look grey under the stormy nights you’d always meet him in, and the rainclouds of tonight blending the skies into the muddled shades of one palette. Making out in his car, a couple times a week, because even if he wanted to hold your hand and kiss you out in the world—you always did pull back.

But he has this, and for an hour and some minutes, has you.

Your palms on his chest, where his breaths are huffed out and fucking heavy. There’s smoke out the engine, the air conditioner’s blasted in just the way he knows you like, but it’s those hazy eyes of yours he could never read that stare at him.

Or towards him, rather.

Akaashi thinks to himself that it’s always looked as if you mean to be staring at someone else other than him, living through the moment that was somewhere else but here. He knows love is meant to be screamed at the top of his lungs, so he tries to at least do that.

He’s never really thought the rest of the world should know, because all he really wants is for you to know.

Words don’t come out, and his hands are under your shirt before they even try to run through the skin of your neck like he usually does. Cold palms flat against the curve of your back, and you’re confused. Akaashi’s staring at you, breath held as he holds onto your smell of honeydew for as long as he can like it’s the lifeline he needs. Your eyes are even hazier, looking like you’re even more lost, and he’s frustrated.

He kisses you again, pulling you flush against him, until eventually you’re pushing at his chest when the center console begins to dig into your skin a little too much.

“We can go upstairs?” he usually tries to suggest, and now, looking at your red lips and mused hair, he wants to ask the same question again, but because he thinks he knows you like the back of his hand, he also knosws that you’ll just wave him off with a half hearted no chuckled out instead.

This is just a pit stop, and he knows. He is just your pit stop, and even if the agreement was the same on the flip side, it bothers him that he fucking knows.

“Someone will see us,” a thing you say, because he’s just your for now.

Akaashi Keiji, in your head, is going to be your almost mistake, almost enemy.

(And you don’t want to hate him. It’s not that his limbs have been too entangled with yours for you to come up with that decision, but rather, it was just how you just didn’t want to hate someone you shared slices of your truest you with.)

��Someone will see us, Keiji,” you warn again, ducking a little when a group of people make their way out of a building and head in the general direction of their car.

Akaashi knows that you’re aware of the tinted windows he had installed just two weeks before, and that they fucking worked, so why were you still hiding?

What is there to hide?

So it’s him saying, “I don’t care,” that lights a kind of flame in his gut. They travel up to the veins, reminding him of their existence.

It’s a risk, he thinks. He holds your face in between his hands, shaking. You allow yourself to finally tremble with him, because broken has been the only side of you that he’s ever known.

Akaashi’s frustrated, again, because watching you watch him in the dim—despite the haze of your dark brown, he still tries to jump at the chance that perhaps this could be love.

He wants to know what you look like in every shade in between black and white. There’s a lot of pastels and violet blended in with your choice of wardrobe, so it fits.

Akaashi wants to hear the sound of your voice at twenty three, and not just at a zero or a hundred. He knows your heart breaks a little more when October 5 around the calendar, but he wants to know why.

“Someone is going to fucking see,” you’re hissing now, but you still don’t pull away.

Akaashi knows he’s just the getaway car, but he still keeps his foot on the pedal, always ready to go when you are.

He sees the look in your eye and recognizes the tendrils of goodbye before it’s even completely thought out from your end, but he shuts his mouth, swallows his own doubts, and kisses you like you’re his.

(For tonight, you are.)

(Under the moonlight; away from daylight; within the waters, ever drowning in the depths—you’re his.)

So Akaashi locks his doors, starts the engine, and kisses you again and again and again and again like the world within this little space is all the world will ever be. He drowns out the voice in his head that tells him to pull away; to push you and himself away, because this isn’t okay—but tonight he is selfish.

“I don’t fucking care,” he repeats; in between the kisses and the façade.

“Lena I don’t care.”

You don’t understand, but at the same time you do.

You’re still kissing him anyway, and leaning into his touch. You only look at him when he opens his eyes, to pull yourself back into the water and away from the memory of daylight and sun and fucking sand because not yet—you think. You don’t want to think about the word deserve, just yet. There’s a fire that’s been lit in your veins, and the world feels like it’s kicking you off of somewhere again so you could just soar.

It’s not the same, the voice in your head cries.

And it’s not.

Love, is Miya Atsumu and daylight. He’s the whole tier of cake always put on display that you mean to buy, but never do because you feel like what you carry with you would never be enough. He’s the masterpiece against the skies, against the backdrop of your world, and he deserved nothing short of the greatness that he is too.

Akaashi’s lips are on your neck, where he mumbles your name, once, then twice, but never enough to feel like he’s endgame. There will never be a number to match to that what could be enough, you think, so you let it be and leave it at that.

Akaashi Keiji isn’t a secret, but you still shield whatever you have from something. You think you shield it from the sky, but some days has you feeling like it’s really meant to be understood as working like the other way around. He’s kissing you, still, then when his lips move to kiss the side of your forehead you still.

You know he means to leave a kiss on your eyelids, but you keep your eyes wide open—staring at him. It’s the ocean blue, but you’re not being pulled away, swept out to sea this time, because there’s no current. Within the depths, you see a reflection of the skies that always watch, and the clouds above look like they mean to weep.

Your toes hit the sand underneath the waves, and you take one step back—closer to the shore.

You’re not there, yet, but you’re headed there. Akaashi looks at you, looking a little more broken than whole, and while there’s an apology at the tips of your tongue, he beats you to the punch by saying “What’s wrong?”

He knows he’s asking a question he knows the answer to, and he probably shouldn’t be doing that, because it will only bring more harm than good at this point, but he says it anyway. At every chance that falls on his hands here he can at least try to make his presence be known, to root his name and him into the grounds of your earth, he’ll do it.

Pinpricks that poke and prod at his chest before they dig a little deeper, and a whole lot fucking deeper when you turn away from him and pull away, taking with you your traces of honeydew and love.

“Nothing,” you answer. A lie. You both know, but neither of you confront the clear sins of the other. “Nothing,” you say again, solidifying your answer.

The list comes reappears in your head, and the facts that you’ve been gathering lay themselves side by side beside you in the most cohesive order.

You like to eat cake when you did something worth celebrating for. Fact.

Your name is Lena, and there’s a lot about the lyrics to Ayahuasca that sends you spiraling. Fact.

Fruit tarts over cheesecake, because even if you didn’t mind cheese all that much, cheesecake felt weird. Fact.

Miya Atsumu, forever and always; spring to winter, will always be love. Fact.

You let him go because he deserved better. Fact.

You mark the pages of a book you haven’t finished reading by folding the corners of the pages into the little triangles resembling dog ears instead of buying an actual bookmark, while Akaashi Keiji, does the same. Fact.

Your truth is that even if he stares at you right now, with the eyes of a man in love, you know that the sinking feeling in your stomach is the fact that you think as if he’s just meant to be with you in the moment, but not after it passes.

“Keiji, I’m sorry.”

-

It’s the way you looked as you said the words instead of the words itself that sticks in Akaashi’s head the most. He’s up, awake at 2 in the morning, tossing and turning in bed, frustrated. There’s a misplaced sense of anger inside, but he knows it isn’t towards you.

He isn’t angry at himself, nor you, nor the two fucking words that sounds like a consolation prize if anything.

Akaashi sits up, back against the headboard and ponders to himself if this is the kind of extremity Bokuto had to face whenever he was going through the motions. It’s the kind of fire that bubbles up but never explodes. First, he remembers. Then, he’s angry. Next, he’s swallowing down the words he wants to say because the problem is—he doesn’t know who to say them to.

He could call you and ask what your fucking deal was, but he knows that’s out of pocket. Your deal had always been the black and the white. He knew you as someone who appreciated it most when things fell into what was in accordance to the list you always write in order. It’s always been either this, or that, and he should have drilled it into his head at the very least.

Then after those thoughts eventually settle into his head and accumulate into a pile in front of him, the anger that already had rose to the neck area suddenly simmers down.

Then, finally, Akaashi realizes, as the exact moment settles in—he’s just tired.

He’s a little sad, and tired. Slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and thoughts a whirlwind of just you, you, and you.

This wasn’t part of his norm, he thinks, but he thought you were. He thought all there was to you were boba or juice shoved in a coffee mug and friendly hellos to the uncles who trimmed the hedges. You were the color lilac despite having a love for all the shades found in the rainbow. There was probably a semblance of love, in your life, before him, but he knows that inn this part of your life—he was bound to meet someone who’ve had endings of their own.

He sighs again, realizing the truth that he doesn’t want you to be just an ending for him to reminisce over with a group of strangers some time later.

And of course, Akaashi Keiji was the type to demand answers, because it’s only minutes later here he finally makes up his mind, standing up in a rush and picking up his phone as he dials your number, the digits memorized despite your contact having been long saved.

You don’t pick up after the first ring, but it’s only two am and he sees your game activity on discord so he knows you’re up. He’s tapping his foot, a little impatient, but because tonight he made the abrupt decision to suddenly be selfish—just this once—he didn’t care.

The second ring still rings, but there’s silence. Your status changes from online to do not disturb, and by the third ring, he hangs up, and grabs his keys.

-

To be fair, you did count down from ten to one.

Akaashi’s at your door before you can even say hello. He doesn’t look like he’s lost much sleep, taking into consideration the fact that you already are well aware of how little he even sleeps, but it’s you who leans by your door and says hello anyway.

He shifts in his place, left leg supporting his whole weight before the other. You watch, somewhere between amused and indifferent as he parts his lips once or twice, shutting them close each time before he eventually just settles with looking away and murmuring, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“To make out?”

He looks at you, then sighs. “Just wanna talk.”

-

And to be fair on your end, even if he did say that, there really isn’t much talking going on. The both of you are only wearing your pyjamas, just a couple hops away from going to bed—until this—obviously. He’s driving around the street of the neighborhood park nearby in circles; the one with the two stoplights on either ends, and just one corner as the only way that lead to your house, while his route was the turn a couple more ways ahead.

He misses the turn to your home every time. It’s a fifteen minute walk at best, and truth be told, if you were already sick of this, you would have long gotten off and started walking already, but you suppose that tonight you were a little more patient.

There’s a lot of factors that have to deal with Akaashi being patient with you too, so you could guess that it’s safe to assume that this was just a give and take situation.

You give him your words, while he gives you his.

He gives you his time, then you give him his.

There’s a balance that needs to be maintained, so while he gives you silence, in return, you do the same.

Until he breaks it, saying, “What happened back there?”

“It is what is is, Keiji,” you hum, head turned to face the window to your right.  

“We were working out,” he reasons, and you widen your eyes, looking at him, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought we had an agreement, Ji,” you retaliate.

“We didn’t say anything, Lena,” he scoffs.

Scoffs, you think. Then it fucking dawns on you that he was actually already wading in the deep end, too fast, too hard.

You shake your head, always having been resolute with your decisions, as you were transparent with your intentions. Akaashi, on the other hand, seemed to just squint right through it and look at the mirage instead of the actual desert that was right there.

“But it was still said,” you tell him, and when he stops the car near the sidewalk just to gawk at you, it really fucking hits you that he was way too deep in something that was only waist deep in hindsight.

“That’s what you think,” Akaashi tells you, but he doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound tired either, so it messes with you in a weird way to realize that this is just his truth.

“I can’t tell you what you can and can’t think just like how you can’t be putting words in my mouth that I never even said, Keiji,” you bite back, flustered and frankly a little appalled at the bluntness off his words. When you stare at him, you try to give it some reason that maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he just had a bad day and was spewing shit out of his mouth at best, because at the moment, absolutely nothing is making any fucking sense.

But then he’s sighing, tired. The back of his head thumps the car seat headrest when he leans back and loosens his grip on the wheel. The streetlights flicker, but stay, while the stoplight with the corner that has your turn on it signals yellow.

You bite the bullet and turn to him, but still slow yourself down.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean—“

From his peripherals, Akaashi sees the stoplight further up ahead that leads to his turn blink from green to red.

He pauses.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m—fuck. Fuck, okay,” he continues, pausing to rub his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Len, I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

“I think,” you begin, exhaling, and frankly feeling a little more worn out. “I think we were looking at different stoplights this whole time.”

Akaashi laughs, finding it a little out of your character to be speaking in metaphors, especially knowing that that was always his sort of thing. He nods, anyway, a little past worn out, and just fucking tired at this point. It dawns on him that it is three in the morning, and he’s pulled you out of your apartment just to try to find a common ground in something that had been completely one sided from the start.

You’re yawning, in your spot just beside him, but you still look at him anyway with blinking eyes that look more sleepy than anything, but he supposes he’d rather take that kind of look over frustration or sadness.

He fights the urge to tuck in the strand of hair behind your ear, looking away when you blink a little too long, because he knows that his lips will never find a home against the skin of your eyelids he knows he’ll still periodically think about from time to time when nostalgia decides to visit him a little later down the road.

He remembers his stoplight’s at red.

“This kinda feels like a breakup,” he laughs anyway, giving himself this little bit to stay in the moment and pretend like car rides with him, and you, will still be an okay thing for tomorrow.

“Does it?” you smile, slowing down, and thinking of yellow.

Yellow.

He smiles, but doesn’t say a word, and the conversation ends just like that.

“Let me drop you off at least,” he says, and you shake your head, eyes cast towards your stop light as the countdown to green begins to tick.

“I think I wanna take a walk.”

“At three AM?” he prods. “Alone? In Tokyo?”

It hits green, and you stifle a laugh, a little drunk on the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t make you feel like running, but rather, soaring, instead.

“Yeah,” you snort. “At three AM, alone, in Tokyo.”

He knows he probably should have said something to at least get you close enough so that your building can be seen, but by the looks of it, your mind’s already long made up as you open your door, and walk out, shutting the same door softly behind you. Akaashi’s quick to lower the windows on that side, tilting his head as you do the same, leaning down give him a little smile.

“I really don’t mind dropping you off just so that I know you’re safe,” he says.

“And I really am okay,” you laugh, waving him off. “No need to be so nice, I just probably broke your heart.”

“Probably’s an understatement,” he laughs, but waves you off when you look like you’re about to say something.

“Why are you being nice to me? I didn’t do anything to you,” you laugh again.

Then you watch as Akaashi shrugs, smiling the kind of smile that you think he does when he’s alone as he looks at your stoplight turning to green ahead instead of the one on his. “You don’t need to do anything for anyone to get stuff, Len.”

“—You really don’t.”

-

It isn’t as much as looking at heartbreak straight in the face, Akaashi thinks to himself. It was really just a matter of pulling his head out of his own ass and realizing that the first look of a break of his mundane isn’t what fate has in store. Serendipity works weird, he realizes. People say it’s the happily ever after you’re supposed to be craving for, but he realizes it’s a lesson.

You were a lesson, to which the exact words he can’t exactly have a solid grasp of as of now, but he knows in time he’ll find them.

The reality of heartbreak is that it just comes, for the sake of being there. It doesn’t trickle slow, or give a warning. In his case, Akaashi realizes that it’s just there because it’s the result of something.

He’s driving down a street, passing your turn, where he has to peel his eyes away at the sight of you walking past a no U-Turn sign, because it just hits him that you were never for his to cradle to begin with.

There’s not much about you, but he can just about tell that you look like the kind of woman who holds on to the best kind of book, shoving it away during the best part, because you’re afraid of the inevitable that the story will still end.

He taps at his steering wheel, coming to another stop at the red light of his street, where he turns on his signal to turn to the right when he’s given a go. For a moment, his eyes flicker towards the passenger seat, where you were just hours ago, in the exact same moment where he was high on something and thinking that the world was just made of 2.

Akaashi looks at heartbreak in the face, but it’s just fragments of you, and a couple sentences he can’t connect to each other, and just like that he knows that this little slice of your life will just be a piece of a puzzle he isn’t a part of.

It’s okay.

It will be okay.

But right now the light’s red, and he allows himself to feel that it isn’t. He tells himself that it’s not because he isn’t enough, but rather, he’s not enough for the kind of fulfillment you were looking for. Perhaps love and happiness looked like the skies, and not the seas, because that would explain why most of his memories with you always involved you facing the clouds, as if caught in a daydream.

Akaashi laughs to himself, a little dryly, when the lights turn green and he’s easing off of the brakes. His world will always be in motion, and he’ll always be headed towards something—but right now he thinks of the moment as a metaphor that he’s heading out of something.

Out of the first phase of love; where it’s just an idea and not exactly it.

He was the getaway car, but it was okay. In shades of grey he supposes he’ll always see you, but perhaps one day he’ll find the perfect shade of orange to let the blue in his eyes finally come into a full bloom.

-

It’s in the exact same moment that you pass by the no U-Turn sign that you’ve always just ignored on your street, where a lot of things hit you.

First is the memory of Atsumu.

At first, you feel bad, because you know you probably just walked out of a situation that had to deal with you breaking a heart instead of healing it, but your truth had always been your truth and there was no point in sugar coating something whose end was prewritten right from the start.

So you shake away the thoughts, and remember Atsumu again.

It’s undeniable, that who he was had always been your truth regarding what love would always be. Miya Atsumu as the gold to your lavender, and even if the color wasn’t just your neighbor in the palette, standing beside him fit.

It fit, but just saying that it does doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

The No U-Turn sign stares at you in the face, so you stop.

You’re standing in the sidewalk again, like all those years ago, and even if you’re pretty sure that you just broke a heart only some moments ago, the only name running through your head in the moment was Atsumu’s.

Love was as ugly as it was beautiful. Selfish as it was selfless.

No U-Turn, so you keep walking.

You pull back from the waters, and ignore the moon, and stare at the skies, pretending that you’re in the presence of the sun where the sky that blankets your side of the world is bathed in the colors of daylight. Every shade of the sky saturated, where the sun looks more of a gold than a blinding yellow.

You laugh, briefly recalling the time when he decided to let you be with the spiral of your thoughts, and it’s tonight where you come into a full realization that he only did that because he knew this was the something you needed to go through yourself before even letting him in.

Your thoughts drift, and you look up to the sky, searching for the big ball of light, because in your heart, you’re calling for love. You’re alone in the streets, at three in the morning just loitering around in your pyjamas that don’t match in any angle, but love is what drives you to keep walking home.

No fucking U-Turn, and it hits you like a damn truck.

Miya Atsumu will always be the love that you’ll still find in the silence. In every shade of yellow and gold, and every walk home. He’s the presence—or a fucking entity, you laugh to yourself—that drives slow next to you who decides to take it slow and just walk home, talking the long route on the sidewalk.

There are streetlights that glow in the distance like fireflies, and you’re suddenly thankful for the burst of light.

Light, like your Atsumu, who will always be the face of your love.

You don’t know if you deserve it, but it truly had to take reading a damn side story and coming into terms that the most you could ever give the rest of the world was an honest I’m sorry.

“You don’t need to do stuff for anyone to get stuff,” you hear Akaashi’s voice chorus in your ear again, so you smile to yourself, not exactly changed, but a little enlightened at most.

Change and acceptance doesn’t happen overnight, but like love, who came into your life like a rush, epiphanies also held the nature of just arriving without warning.

The tears that begin to dribble down your face afterwards worked sort of like that. You recall sitting on the floor of your kitchen, tears on your hands, down your cheeks, on the floor, and on your shirts. You told yourself again and again that you were crying because of the cake and not because of how unkind you were to yourself, because even if your hands were empty—you know that word is only subjective at best.

You’re walking down the streets now, along the streets with the lights that look like fireflies at three am and you could just feel Atsumu smirking beside you if he was here.

Tears that feel warm, but it’s liberating.

Nothing strikes you one minute, only to change you a whole 180 in the very next because it just doesn’t work like that, but what does stay is Akaashi’s words. They swirl in your head again and again, like a broken record that has you realizing isn’t playing such a bad song at all.

Love is as selfish as it is selfless.

You loved Atsumu selflessly, but now you want to hold on to a semblance of him again—albeit it just being a memory, for now, and love with the intention to take.

It’s to accept, he would correct you, if he was there, but then again, those will always just be the words that you are yet to hear.

But for now you walk along the sidewalks and reminisce. You reminisce the view of the summit, and the feeling of being so high up. You think of Akaashi and the ocean blue eyes you thought were just great at best, and whisper another apology into the universe you pray will deliver your words to the rightful ears, because right now, you just want to love selfishly.

There’s a book on your shelf with a dog eared bookmark on page 223, and you think that tonight you’ll pull it out and at least dust the cover.

When you look in the mirror, you know that you’re in love and that fact alone is as undeniable as the truth that your name is Lena.

It’s okay to be in love, and a little broken, and it’s okay to eat a slice of cake just because.

You’re crying still, when you stumble out your door again, Atsumu’s hoodie around your frame, as you drive to that only bakery in town, forty five minutes away, because you know that they sell the best kind of red velvet.

The funny thing about epiphany is that once the smallest bit of it strikes you, it keeps coming. Reality is messy, you think, and your eye opening moment doesn’t happen like how it does in the books where every moment plays out one before the other in perfect order.

There’s a method to the madness that is life, where the order is called spontaneity because the very nature of it is to defy just that.

Serendipity that’s always found you through the face of Miya Atsumu and the amber skies that were yours and his every six thirty. Eyelid kisses and I love you, just because. Climbing from one straight to a hundred, and even a fucking thousand that quick because love is as much of a whirlwind as it is a slow burn.

You tell yourself time and time again that all you do is take without giving, but at this point it’s the universe that wishes for you to understand that there is no such thing as ever giving too little.

Love, as selflessness and purity will keep giving because even if you open your hands and offer it nothing, it will only smile back fondly, telling you that you are always deserving—as you are.

You surpass the word enough—as you are.

You are loved—as you are.

There will always be someone who will sit behind the door and eat cake with you in the silence.

-

Right now, it’s just you, but you make do anyway.

You’re in the driver’s seat of your car, frankly a mess, primarily because of three things.

The first, you’re finally feeling everything you’ve told yourself you shouldn’t be feeling—all at once. Second, the cake is really good, and you don’t feel guilty about eating it this time around.

And third, the auntie selling you cake commented that there was a gentleman just last week who wore the exact same kind of jacket that you’re wearing, buying all thirteen flavors of cake and taste tested each one on the table by the window. She asked him if he was waiting for someone, and apparently he’d always say that he is, but she was just taking her time getting caught up in a little something, but “she’s worth the wait,” he’d repeat.

“She’s worth a lot of things, so waiting a little bit is okay.”

Apparently he would buy everything but cheesecake, even if he did stare at the piece a little longer, looking like he wanted to try.

You’re crying at the thought that there was still a piece of him that was all you, even after all the one sided conclusions you didn’t even talk him through with.

“Okay,” you say, whispering to no one but yourself in particular. The container with your one slice of red velvet is on your lap, while there’s an unopened one that’s the mango cheesecake you would never in a million years order, in the passenger seat of your car.

“What do we do now?” you say again, looking at the reflection of yourself in the reflection of your windshield.

You’re nodding your head, the words to write beside the bullet points in your head already listing themselves out in a neat line, written in print. You shake your head afterwards, for the first time without the presence of anyone really, overwhelmed with all the things you thought would be your end, showing you all the epiphanies you’ve been pretending you never saw all this time.

There’s a comfort found in listening to the sound of your own sniffles in the car, your own arms around you like the anchor Atsumu’s have always been, and just like that you break down again because not only are you in love with him, you’re also giving yourself the kindness your soul has been needing to realize that you need to love yourself just as much too.

It’s not easy, but it’s tangible.

Accepting love, as the selfless something, and not just a factor that worked like the give and take system was also not right here, but in time you’ll be right there with it where it’s tangible.

“I’ll eat cake today, just because,” you finally say, and at your first bite of red velvet, the weight of your demons lessen just a little bit.

 -

April 16, 2024 | New York City, USA

-

Miya Atsumu has always thought to himself that love worked in an oddly sadistic way. It came without explanation, stayed without boundaries, then would just fucking up and leave like it didn’t just build a whole world and there would be no consequences.

Thankfully for him, love was the one thing that never left.

He saw you through a myriad of what you think are your lessons, and Atsumu smiles at every candid memory of you.

He saw you think to yourself that you were falling for ocean eyes, then saw you again, a few months after what he assumes was the fall out, at your graduation.

You wore your cap the other way the first time, and he chuckles, snapping a photo from the distance—to which you rapidly turn your head towards his direction at—a feat of yours that he can never guess how it was made possible. He was there, from a distance, cheering when your name was called, and you walked to the stage. Lilac flowers and every slice of chocolate was something he dedicated forever to you, and every time he’d close his eyes before a serve he would lightly tap at his eyelids reminding himself that that will always be yours and his.

-

The future is where time moves slow, and then it doesn’t.

The demons are there, but you suppose that it’s because they’re sort of a lifetime deal. Somedays you’ll still look away from the slice of cake you’ve been meaning to eat after a job well done, but the better days also come right after the plunge where you’ll drive yourself to the auntie’s bakery located in the OK part of New York at three in the morning just because.

You were connected to the world, despite your demons, and it was okay.

New York had went from just a postcard on your wall to the skyline that greeted you every morning before you went to work.

The smell of coffee and the feel of sunlight at 9am. Love, as the something you can still hear in the silence, because it works just like that.

Silence, as the word that’s nothing more than the absolute contrast to what New York is, but it was you dulling even the noise that comes with Time’s Square to realize that this is the kind of atmosphere good for you.

-

And because serendipity works like a bitch, it really shouldn’t have surprised you when through the crowd, it’s still Miya fucking Atsumu who you see staring back at you like he’s found you far longer than you found him.

(Perhaps there’s more than just truth to that.)

You don’t think you want to cry, because the love that’s always been there still feels the same, and when you walk towards him, a pace like your usual, you feel weightless.

There’s a comfort about meeting smack in the middle, and you think that this is it. You gave your twenty steps while he gave his. Maybe some days he gives you a little more than just twenty, and maybe some days you’ll find yourself in bed, taking zero steps while he’ll go as far as flying some thousands of kilometers just to be with you.

You let serendipity be, as you stand before him, feeling like no time has passed.

A little over three years has passed, but see the same streaks of amber in his eyes of earth, and you think that love, also has a face that looks timeless.

And it’s this.

It’s you, and it’s him—in a city that uses noise that works like silence.

It’s New York and the sea of lights. Miya Atsumu and his dopey smile, that somehow still crossed more than just a couple oceans to a land foreign to him, and he still managed to come to you halfway, like a whirlwind.

An unprecedented presence that you welcome anyway, because love, you suppose, will forever be so many things.

It’s one face that one name that holds all of that though, Atsumu thinks.

He’s looking at you, where in his head he’s already laughing because your lipstick’s smudged on the left side, the culprit obviously being the piece of croissant looking a little lame in your hand.

“I love you, still, but I think you know that,” he says immediately, as if he’s just continuing a conversation.

(In a way he is; the last you talked to him, you never really heard a reply. You said goodbye and then you left, and Atsumu never got a chance to get a word in.)

And as if he read your expression, he laughs, hands low on his waist as he stands in front of you, present. “I wanted to tell you that then so I’ll say it now too I guess. My voice has got a little deeper so it probably has more effect now.”

You shake your head, already past the state of disbelief considering the rollercoaster that is your life. “It still has the same effect,” you mumble, croissant long forgotten.

You think that you want to cry again, but Atsumu’s grinning and you feel breathless.

It’s like mercy that greets you after you think you’ve done nothing but sin—you’re breathless but your lungs feel full.

So it’s Atsumu walking up to you, looking at you like you’re his daydream, saying “Hi Lena, what’s your name?” that grounds you back to the earth after freefalling from the summit.

The world has always looked different from the view at the very top, and even if you closed your eyes throughout the fall, there was a certain comfort you realize only now and that’s the fact that the whole time you were falling—it was the sky that held on to you and never let you go since.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you say back, closing your eyes when you lean in halfway as he reaches forward and pulls you the rest of the way, towards him—towards love, and towards home.

“I’m sorry I don’t have something with me right now to give you,” you mumble out anyway, and your heart bursts at the feel of his hand stroking the back of your hair, as his voice anchors you down again to keep you from floating right by your ear.

He kisses your eyelids, then your forehead, and the white noise of New York has you feeling both connected and safe.

“You’re okay,” he says. “You’ve always got me like how I’ve got you, and I’ve never thought there was anything more that I could try to ask for other than that.”

“You are everything that love will always ever be and that’s it for me, Len.”

He smiles, and while things still don’t fully click into place because healing has a habit of doing just that—you also let yourself feel the lightness of just this.

“You don’t need to do anything. I got you,” he says. “You got me too,” he reassures, and you believe him.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Hello Sorrow [Chapter Three] Run Sweetheart Run [Karl Heisenberg]

Run and hide … run and hide …

His words stayed with her like a menacing curse.

Irina ran, but she didn’t know where to go. The room was dim; air damp, reeking of iron and musk. She ran in what seemed like circles before coming to a breathless stop, regrettably aware that she had not escaped the same hole she had plunged down. How were her thoughts so unorganized? It was because of him; it had to be, watching her from above like she was a mouse in a game of find the cheese.

Her breath came out hot and heavy as she gasped for air. Was this a panic attack? Irina looked desperately around her. She yearned for a weapon; a door out of this place. But her mind was too jumbled. She could hardly think straight.

Breathe, she begged.

She needed a moment to concentrate; a moment without Heisenberg watching her to assess the situation.

Irina took a deep and uneven breath. Her throat was tender; head beating from the tension, but she felt better.

If only for a moment.

“Time is ticking away, darling. You don’t want to die at the starting line, do you?”

Irina shot a baleful glance in his direction. “Shut up.”

His voice wasn’t helping.

Laughing at her only irritated her more.

“Best of luck,” he stated.

Before he slammed the trapdoor closed, Heisenberg grinned, staring down at her scared, yet irked expression. “And sweetheart … don’t disappoint me.”

“Go to hell!”

The door came down with a bang; dust rained down with it. Thank god he left her alone.

Shutting her sore eyes, Irina took another breath and opened them, rescanning the grimy room. There wasn’t much in terms of weapons she could use; this room was void of scrap, and she couldn’t imagine tossing a cardboard box at Heisenberg.

Skip it. What’s next?

Waiting him out was an ignorant plan. Irina had no reason to trust that he’d keep his word and let her go once the game was over. Hell no. She’d take her chances trying to escape, then worry about fleeing from the village once she returned. First, she needed to find a map and locate the exits – this was a factory; there were bound to be many. Heisenberg gave her an hour; there was plenty she could do in an hour, like secure a sturdy weapon and attempt to remove the shackles from her wrists.

“I can do this,” she uttered in assurance.

There was no way he could search every nook and cranny to find her. This factory was enormous; it certainly looked enormous from the outside.

As she was pondering her next move a low rattling noise startled her. From the left, a shutter door opened, as if to welcome her into the next room. How generous of the prick to lend her a hand.

Accepting, Irina moved into the next room. But as she passed through, a high-pitched siren went off and the shutter began to come down, sealing her within. A warning light flooded her in bright red. Irina screamed in frustration and slammed her hands against the rippled metal.

“Fuck you! This is cheating,” she snapped.

The siren hurt her ears.

“And shut that damn thing off.”

Moments later, the siren went silent, but the warning light remained on – he was a comical one.

Obviously, Heisenberg wanted her to move onward. Returning back to the previous room was not an option.

Irina turned with an irritated huff and searched the room. It looked as if it were once used as a breakroom. An herb in a small terracotta pot sat on a table top in the corner; dust covered lockers and shelves rested against the walls.

And much to her relief, she saw a door.

She stepped away from the shutter and began to rummage around in the lockers. They were bare, apart from one that possessed a long-range flashlight. The lens was horribly cracked, but the battery was still good, albeit it took her several smacks against her hand to get the light to stop flashing in and out once she tested it.

It would do.

Before she progressed on, Irina uprooted the wilted green herb and stored it in her bag. Luiza taught her that the stem, when ingested, had curative properties; it wasn’t much and she wasn’t sure she’d even need it, but having it was better than not having it.

The door led her down a set of narrow steps. Irina had to use the cold brick wall as a support, because the bright red warning lights above were on, ominously blinking. She was nervous she’d miss a step and fall on her ass. When she reached the bottom and opened the door, she stood in complete shock, having been led to the beating heart of the factory.

Her stomach twisted and churned in dread; this place was much larger than she thought.

The shrill hum of the machines vibrated in her ears as suspension conveyors moved heavy materials in sharp angles from one empty station to the next across the production floor; massive pumpjacks rotated on screeching cranks in rapid succession, hissing and shooting steam.

Tears gathered in her scared eyes. It was horrific; the worst sound Irina had ever heard, like a howling mechanical beast.

I’m going to die here.

Absolutely not. She was going to beat this game.

Irina eased towards the broken railing and looked down. There was another floor beneath the one she was on; the smell of murky stagnant water below made her pucker her nose in disgust. How far did she go down?

She decided not to dwell on it long and continued across the platform to the end where the floor branched into three areas; two were sealed by doors and the other was an open lift. Her heart hammered in excitement, and to improve her mood, she saw an extensive map of the factory on the wall near the door in front of her.

Irina hurried into the lift, finding the worn service panel. B4 was lit up; a glowing circle beside it. She wondered if B4 was the floor she was on, considering the fact B5 was written on the last button.

“Please let this work,” she uttered.

Her life depended on it.

But first, the map – in case she was wrong – then perhaps she could find a way to break the shackles around her wrists.

According to the diagram she was in Materials. To leave she had to make her way up to Storage; seemed easy enough.

Irina grinned and went through the door across from the lift cart. Her keen eyes caught sight of something against the wall. It was a model of the factory – though not exact – with rotating mechanisms. Did Heisenberg make this? It was rather crafted.

She watched in wonder as the golden trolley car moved back and forth on its automated track. Reaching out to touch it, she noticed the base on which it sat was a barred ossuary that held the crystallized remains of a human inside it. Haunting, yet beautiful, Irina wondered if it were valuable.

Perhaps she’d take it and see if the Duke might buy it from her. But how would she free it? There appeared to be no button or padlock on the ossuary; nothing but a dented space made for something round.

As she was searching for other methods to open the casket, she heard a strange noise over the whisper of the machines outside. The sound was almost familiar, yet she knew she had never heard it here before. In the village maybe; a cart.

It suddenly occurred to her what it might be. Irina darted back onto the platform just in time for the cart to disappear from the floor she was on. In horror, she watched as the buttons on the outside lit up to indicate the floor the cart was being called to. At Storage it stopped, then a second later it began to descend again, passing up floors 2 and 3.

Is it time?

No damn way had an hour passed. Heisenberg was cheating.

He led me here. The entire time he knew which floor I was on, because he fucking led me here.

He lied to her; he never intended to play fair. And she was a fool to trust him.

Irina ran. She busted through the remaining door in a panic and rushed down the steps, fleeing down a hallway bathed in red. At the end of the hall, she found herself in another room. An automated door sat in front of her, red light on the hull. But once Irina tried to wrench it open, she learned that it was locked.

Why wouldn’t it move?

“Open … please open.”

She tried all she knew to do, but the door remained shut. Tears stung her eyes as she banged weakly on the metal. The palm of her hand struck the bulbous red light and a final last idea came to her. Perhaps if she broke it the door would short circuit and open. It was worth a shot.

On a mantel piece to the right of her, she found a rusted hammer. The splintered wood dug into her tender skin as Irina yanked it from its hook. Standing back, her arm extended and she swung at the light, hitting it dead center. The lens fissured, webbing out, and with one more potent hit, the glass broke, spraying sparks and hissing in protest before the metal latch gave and the door opened.

“Could have been an easier way to do that then breaking my damn door,” a voice said.

Irina jerked in fear and glanced over her shoulder. Heisenberg stood behind her, duster and hat missing from his person. But over his arm he carried a large sledge hammer; its handle was wooden, but its massive head was made of fused helical gears and metal scrap. How was he able to carry such a thing?

“Shame,” he added. “You only held out for about ten minutes.”

She gave him a heated glare. “The hour you gave me isn’t over yet. There is still time.”

“Afraid not. Your time is up.”

His hammer smacked the floor with a deafening crack; its metal face scraped the concrete, shattering it.

Irina tossed the claw hammer at him and ran – whether it hit its mark or not wasn’t her concern.

“That’s the spirit,” he taunted.

She scurried up sets of stairs; across steel grate platforms and down dark halls with nothing but her light to lead the way, until her legs ached and her breath poured out thick and hot.

It hurts, she complained.

At last, she stopped, coming to rest in a heated workroom with an x-ray film board and a furnace used to make castings.

Was there anywhere safe to catch her breath?

Irina sighed and moved around to the other side of a workbench to a door on her right. It was bolted, but with a lock pick she opened it and wondered in, locking it from the inside.

Sitting on the floor, she took an uneasy breath.

She had to rest.

Just a moment.

But something slumped to the floor near her, moving in the dark. Irina shined her light on the area and to her horror, a monster stood. It’s arm, wired to an auger roared to life.    

Irina screamed.

[tooruluv]

Kei Tsukishima x F!Reader ( part 6 )

❝ they were the sun and moon, destined to be together but only ever totally meeting once every hundred years or so. ❞

description: in a world where you only see color when you're in love, you've grown frustrated of the greyscale. but falling in love with someone you barely know was never something you planned. and, him not returning the feelings definitely wasn’t planned.

genre: soulmate au... except not quite. everyone is born colorblind. you can only see color once you fall in love (and it grows brighter until you see full color as the love grows). however, that doesn't ensure a lasting connection. it simply means that love exists in that moment, until it doesn't.

word count: 1,595

warnings/notes: i apologize for the delayed update! finals kicked my ass. but! here it is!! last part is the last part (which is crazy). hope you all enjoy~

prev | next (final)

“  why do I keep on coming back for more if all that you do is shut me out the door ” - bittersweet, greer

┏━━━━━⋇⋆⋆⋇❦⋇⋆⋆⋇━━━━━┓

The friendship blossomed between you and Kei Tsukishima. Cue the montage of getting him to laugh and study dates at his house. Cue the montage of corny music as the two of you subtly messed around instead of focusing on the fundraisers. Cue the montage of you growing closer with a bright filter.

You thought that if you managed to become his friend, his second in command, the colors would start to fade. Because by then, he was a friend. And friendships are marked with a stamp and wax seal. 

You didn’t know that friendships are the easiest to fall in love with. 

You woke up on the wrong side of the bed one morning. 

You were irritated beyond anything, a simmering anger that you tried to suppress as you got ready for the school day. The bright colors in your bathroom only seemed to piss you off even more. 

And, to make you even more angry at everyone and everything, Kei Tsukishima didn’t notice at all.

You were internally raging, and he didn’t say a word. Sure, you weren’t expressing your attitude to him. But as your second, he should know. Put a hand on your shoulder or flick your forehead and tell you to calm down. Anything but the silence you were receiving.

Even Yamaguchi got you an extra juice box, claiming that the “machine gave him two”. No it didn’t.

You glared at the stupid fucking board behind your homeroom teacher, letting your mind wander. Your life was so fucking annoying. 

First, you fall in love with some guy you barely knew. Then you voluntarily spend more time with him and his entire team. And, to top it off, the colors only grew as you grew your friendship with the blonde boy.

You could barely see the grey filter anymore.

When Tsukki just up and left after class instead of waiting, you felt your eye twitch.

“She’s not in a good mood today, you know.” Yamaguchi said, walking beside his best friend. “You should say something to her. She’ll be in a better mood if you do.”

“What would me talking to her do?”

Yamaguchi shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s in love with you, I’m sure whatever you do or say would make her feel better.”

During your blooming friendship with Tsukki, you found yourself at his house a lot.

You liked to quiz each other on random things, study for the next quiz, or do homework. You know. Things that nerds do.

You spent the entire weekend there, hanging out and getting to know the man you were in love with. 

You never spoke about the almost kiss.

“Do you want to play catch with me?” You offered. You were lying on his floor, feet up against his wall and body exhausted from sitting up all day.

“Play catch with you?” He turned around in his desk chair, facing your figure on the ground. “With what?”

“I always have my glove and a ball in my bag. All you need is a glove.” You perked up, twisting your head to see him. “And I know your brother has one.”

“Okay so next question. Why?”

“As a break.”

“I’m not going to play sports when I don’t have to. Why, when all we do is practice anyway?”

“It isn’t practice. It’s a break from our studies. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Fun.”

“Yes, fun.” You pushed yourself up. “C’mon.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“Tsukki, c’mon. Please!”

He ended up playing for hours.

You sat in the grass, throwing the softball up and watching it come back down. Usually, practice would calm you down and stop you from throwing a tantrum for very long.

All in all, it had been a shit day throughout.

You woke up in a mood. You could get over that. But then, your teacher called you out specifically for something you didn’t even do. You got a test back and had a lower grade than you should have received. Your lunch was ass. And, to top it off, your coach yelled at you in front of the entire team. 

You wanted to burn through the grass and sit in the center of the earth.

Not to mention that the one guy, the one person that you wanted to talk to, hadn’t spoken a word to you the entire day.

It was as though he was deliberately ignoring you. Going out of his way to avoid you, even.

You sighed as you stared at the sun.

You put on a fake smile for volleyball practice. Tsukishima noticed. How could he not notice when your eyes didn’t have their usual glow?

He tried to focus on the stupid volleyball club, do the drills and keep up with the team. 

But he kept glancing towards you.

You sighed as you cleaned up the last ball. Hinata and Kageyama were still going at it (Hinata’s frown quickly vanished after you rejected his ask of you to stay). You rolled your shoulders to crack your back. Being angry all day really does put some weight on your shoulders.

You started to leave the gym, carrying your softball bag and your backpack, when a body appeared next to yours. 

Tsukki.

“Come with me.” He said.

“Oh, so you are talking to me?” You bantered. 

“Yes.” He pushed up his glasses. “Come.”

And you did.

You followed him for a while, never asking why or where you were going. The amount of trust you had in this boy was insane.

You ended on a hill. It was out of the city, pretty distant into the suburbs, and you couldn’t hear the sound of cars or anything other than the occasional bird.

It was dark, but you could see clearly.

Tsukki sat down first, leaning onto his arms in the grass. You followed suit, silently sitting beside him.

“I come here when I’m in a shitty mood.” He said after a while. You shoved your bags aside. “It’s calming.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful during the summer.” You said, gazing where the flowers are wilting. 

“It is.” 

“The flowers are yellow, by the way.” You told him. “Well, they’re dying so it’s more of a mustard or burnt yellow. But they’re yellow nonetheless.”

“Like my hair.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, like your hair.”

A pause. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked, turning his head towards you. 

“For taking me here. Even though you knew I was frustrated.”

“I knew you were kind of pissed since you walked into school.” Tsukki said. “I just didn’t want to somehow make it worse, so I kept my distance. Yamaguchi scolded me about it earlier. I figured this would get you to smile at least.”

He was closer to you now. Your thighs were touching.

“Well, thank you.” 

He was leaning in. The second time this has happened and you still couldn’t control the rapid heart beats in your chest. He was just going to wipe dirt from your shoulder, or maybe he was going to push your hair back. Maybe, if you were lucky, he was going to hug you.

Your eyes were open when he kissed you.

As his lips touched yours, you tasted mint. You only took a second of surprise to kiss him back, grasping at his neck to keep him close.

His glasses never got in the way.

Tsukki kept his hands to himself; but because of the height difference, it was a bit like he was leaning over you. The wilting flowers surrounded the both of you as you moved together.

You were the one to pull back, catching your breath. He did too, as if composing himself.

“Tsukki?” You bit your lips, still tasting him. 

“Hm?”

“Do you really not see color?”

There was a moment of deafening silence. You could hear buzzing in your ears. His eyes shifted between yours and you couldn’t define the emotion behind them.

“No.” He turned his head back to the hills. “I don’t.”

tag list: @vhskenma​​​​​​​ @elianetsantana​​​​​​​ @mini-eggs-reads​​​​​​​ @ysasian​​​​​ @hhwanggu​​​​​ @i-stole-your-juice-box​​​​​ @definitelynotbianca​​​​​ @denkithunder​​​​ @smuttyanimeslut​​​ @yourlocalbabybird​​​ @theydy-madamonsieur​ @expiredbananamilk​​ @sunandtsukki​ @babyoomi​

[themedicalstate]

How to Use Masks during the Coronavirus Pandemic

What kinds of face coverings work for protection against COVID-19? How do you use them safely? A series of simple steps outlines the answers

Update (11/11/20): On November 10, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention updated its guidance on cloth face masks to add that they can protect the wearer as well as prevent that individual from infecting others.

Any mask worn for day-to-day protection against COVID-19 is going to be imperfect, at least for now. Supplies of N95 respirators—the most effective mask type—should find their way to those in daily close contact with infected people. This requirement leaves the rest of us reusable cloth face coverings and single-use paper surgical masks. (The latter are also in high demand for frontline folks, so if you’re looking to buy, try to acquire fabric masks.)

“These are not going to be perfectly efficient,” says Kirsten Koehler, an occupational and public health expert who studies personal protection at Johns Hopkins University. But they can still help limit the virus’s circulation, especially if they are worn by those infected with the novel coronavirus—many of whom may be asymptomatic. “We’re trying to prevent spreading disease to other people,” Koehler says. “Hopefully the mask is helping to protect us, too.” Even with our faces covered, she adds, we should continue to perform social distancing and isolation. A handful of best practices can help make the most of our imperfect personal protection.

How to Wear a Mask

The mask should fit without gaps and fully cover your nose and mouth. Take special care to ensure a snug fit across the bridge of the nose. If your mask doesn’t have a flexible wire built in, you may be able to MacGyver a pipe cleaner, a tie for a coffee bag or another object into the role.

Are there special precautions bearded individuals should take? Koehler doesn’t think so. “None of us are getting a perfect seal around our nose anyway,” she says. “It shouldn’t make that big of a difference.” If the mask is on correctly, air will pass through it rather than around it. Your breath will probably make it feel kind of humid and “swampy” inside.

When to Take a Mask Off

There is not a lot of data on how long a mask can be effectively worn. According to the World Health Organization, a face covering should be replaced when you have breathed through it enough for it to become damp. That effect is only likely to happen after several hours: For a trip to the grocery store, one mask will probably do. If you will be out longer, bring a spare if possible.

How to Take a Mask Off

How to Clean a Reusable Mask

Placing a cloth mask in a paper bag immediately after taking it off has two purposes: the container isolates the mask from accidental handling, and the paper allows it to dry out. Before wearing the covering again, let it sit in a warm spot—still in that paper bag—for two or three days. The science here is nascent, but one study found that the coronavirus reaches undetectable levels on fabric after two days. And after a week, levels were undetectable on the insides of surgical masks, though they remained detectable on the outsides. Koehler recommends setting the paper bag on a sunny windowsill or in the natural oven of your car because the virus becomes inert faster at higher temperatures. Alternatively, if you have your own laundry facilities, you can pop a used mask straight into the washing machine with the regular laundry. A bag for washing delicates will keep mask ties from making a knot of the whole load. You can also wash a mask by hand: soak it in bleach suitable for disinfection for five minutes and then rinse it thoroughly. Face coverings should be decontaminated after each use—so have a few on hand if you are going out more often than your decontamination schedule allows.

How to Keep Your Glasses from Fogging

For the bespectacled among us, the foggy-glasses struggle is real. And in general, it means your mask isn’t fitting super well. If the material were tight across your nose, air would not be leaking from the top in the first place. Here are a few ideas to improve that fit:

Tissue: A piece of facial tissue tucked between the glasses and the mask can both push the latter into a tighter fit and prevent exhaled vapor from rising.

Tape: A bit of medical tape across the top of the mask can hold it more securely to your face at the cheeks.

Soap: A little soap on the insides of the lenses can keep fog from forming. One paper recommends dousing the inner surface with soapy water and allowing it to air-dry. A pinky nail’s worth of liquid soap, rubbed directly onto the insides of the lenses, is another option.

Materials and Effectiveness

The science on mask efficacy is spotty. A few laboratory studies have examined how fabrics protect against particles of different sizes. They were mostly done in the pre-COVID-19 era to examine air pollution and the flu. But the medical gold standard—a randomized controlled trial of masks in daily use—is difficult and has ethical concerns, because it would require knowingly exposing people to pathogens or pollutants. That said, the existing lab studies have helped teach researchers a lot about how particles interact with fabrics and paper.

Are paper or fabric masks more effective?

One study compared fabric and paper surgical masks’ ability to filter air pollution. Researchers examined the materials under a microscope and found fabric had a more open structure with bigger holes—often larger than the droplets believed to transmit the coronavirus. These droplets cover a huge size range: they can be wider than 100 microns—big enough to see as they fly out—down to the submicron scale.

Another study found paper masks were more effective than cloth ones at protecting against the flu. But there is more to consider than material. Fabric masks are typically sewn with two layers, which helps them trap more particles than a single cloth layer alone.

In general, even if paper face coverings are more effective, they have a shorter lifetime than cloth masks. And they are in high demand. Although the supply of surgical masks is starting to rebound, Koehler still advises the use of cloth ones. “We want to make sure that medical personnel have access to the supplies that they need,” she explains.

Okay, so what should I look for in a cloth mask?

Whether you acquire one from someone else or make it yourself, there are a few things to pay attention to. The fabric should be high-quality and tightly woven. In woven fabric, the fibers cross at right angles, whereas a knit’s structure involves tiny V’s of thread. Look for a right-angle weave and avoid knits. A tight weave—such as one you might find in a fancy pillowcase—blocks most of the light if it is held up to a window. These are, of course, difficult properties to assess when buying online.

The shape of the mask should fit your face well. Rectangular coverings usually have a length of wire built into the top so they can be molded to your face, while those with a curved design rise up over the nose a little more.

To make your own covering, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s Web site has several designs for different levels of crafting skill. Designs for curved-style cloth masks are fairly widespread as well.

Experts recommend the public should avoid masks with built-in valves. They are designed to release air when the wearer exhales, reducing humidity but also allowing unfiltered breath to exit the coverings.

Are masks for the protection of the wearer or those around that person?

Both. They are most effective at preventing an infected mask wearer from spreading the virus to others. But ideally, they can also provide some protection against incoming virus-laden droplets.

Droplets evaporate as they move through the air, so they are biggest when they are first coughed out. Because cloth masks are more effective at blocking larger particles, they are most efficient at stopping the spread if they stop the droplets at their source.

Have we proved that masks themselves significantly help? Or do mask wearers tend to simply be more careful in general?

Randomized controlled studies have shown mask wearing is indeed effective against the flu, but such trials do not currently exist for masks and the coronavirus. “The evidence isn’t always as perfect as we would like it to be,” Koehler says. “Based on the aerosol science, we know that the masks are going to help reduce the transmission of these particles. Can it be 100 percent effective? Maybe not. But can it help? I think so.”

By Katie Peek (Scientific American - Updated 11/11/2020). Images by Brown Bird Design.

[glitterge1pen]

To Wake Up To A Mailbox Filled With Letters Only From You

Iwaizumi Hajime x reader, sfw, fluff, word count 2,071

It was driving him insane. The notes, envelopes, and pieces of paper started appearing at his desk on February 1st. They were tucked away in the cubby and made him incredibly nervous. Whoever was doing this to him was going to really, really make him lose it.

It was nice knowing that someone liked him. Even if he didnt know who it was, it was a good feeling. The only downside was that he had to keep this from you and Oikawa for as long as he possibly could. You two were Iwaizumi’s best friends yes of course, but this was too much.

If Oikawa found out he would stop at nothing to figure out who it was, the teasing would be brutal. If you found out? Iwaizumi didn't want you to think that he had feelings for anyone else, even if you werent dating he didn't want to put that idea into your head. Not only that but anytime romance or dating was brought up with you around he got nervous. Even watching Ryan Gosling movies with you was incredibly difficult. The conversation felt like walking on landmines when it came to yours or his love life.

The first day it was a purple foam heart the size of his palm. Covered in stickers, glitter glue, and in the center was a picture of him playing volleyball. It was from the stands, he could tell the photo had been zoomed in, but he was up in the air on the court. There was no message on the note other than some sharpie bubble letters that said “hottie”, he didn't really pay attention to it. He assumed it was Oikawa messing with him like usual. But when Oikawa made no mention of it he knew that it wasn't his friend.

That night at home he tucked the heart into his desk drawer. He lay in bed trying to imagine who would have made such a thing for him. Since it had been in those somehow taunting bubble letters he couldn't decipher it by handwriting. He did think the “hottie” thing was funny though. The list of people who could have left him the silly little message rattled in his mind.

He knew that he wanted it to be you. He wanted you to do something cheesy, cute, and cliche like that for him. For you to like him so much that it wouldn't bother you to do things like that. It would be your nature to give him gifts and say stupid things to him that made him laugh, that made his chest feel warm.

The next day he was surprised to see another note. He managed to slip it into the cover of his notebook without anyone seeing. It took everything in him not to peek at it during that first class. He knew for sure now that it wasn't Oikawa because they had walked to school together that morning.

It was during lunch that Iwaizumi took out the note to look at it. He had went out to grab drinks at the vending machine. Away from the prying eyes of his friends he opened the front of his notebook. This second card was much more traditional in style. Red construction paper, with white frilly lace on the edge, a mostly straight line of glitter glue outlining the heart.

This one had a picture of a bunny and text that read “some bunny loves you” , another picture of him had been doodled on so he had bunny ears and whiskers. This picture was not from volleyball and he couldn't remember where it had been taken. It was a little creepy but he cared more about who was sending these to him.

The following day he was looking forward to going to school. He wanted to see if he got another note. Even if he didnt know who was sending these, it did feel nice to know that someone could be interested in him. He had spent many valentines sharing the fruits of Oikawa's good looks. It was a good feeling to know that he could receive the same type of attention.

He did get a store bought card that day. It had a picture of a bumble bee and it read "bee my valentine and you won't get stung. A piece of candy had been taped inside the card. After that it was a cootie-catcher with all kinds of pick up lines buried in its folds. There were two more hand made cards that were covered in stickers, shiny tape, glitter and gel pen.

It was halfway to Valentine's day now. Iwaizumi woke up on the seventh of February wondering what type of card he would get. None of the other cards he had gotten helped him decipher who was sending these to him. It was once again at lunch that Iwaizumi snuck off to peak at what had been left to him. Today it had been a plain white envelope with a heart sticker sealing it shut.

Iwaizumi was expecting another bad pick up line but was instead met with an actual typed up letter. Whoever had written this actually, genuinely, liked Iwaizumi. He had this dumbfounded swirling feeling in his stomach. One of dread and excitement. Because he knew exactly what the letter was saying. The letter was true to the way he felt about you. And this letter wasnt from him to you. He didn't know who had written this.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had not seen Oikawa and Hanamaki run up behind him.

"What is this?"

Oikawa's voice had a mischievous ring to it and before Iwaizumi can properly respond the envelope had already been taken from him. His fingers ghosted the traces of the paper, trying to grab it back but missing it by inches. Hanamaki put his arms around his shoulders locking him into place. Iwaizumi was more desperate now as he tried hurling insults at Oikawa.

"Oh my god, oh my fucking god"

The look Oikawa had on his face was of pure joy. A smile spread over his face and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Who wrote it! Come on tell me who your new lover is"

Oikawa sung that last part. But now Hanamaki was interested in the letter and upon reading it he had the same reaction.

"I don't know who wrote it"

Hanamaki scoffed.

"What are you kidding?"

Iwaizumi looked at his friend confused. But Oikawa launched into a rapid fire question session with Iwaizumi.

"Wait you're telling me you have been getting these for a whole week now and you didn't say anything to me! Your dearest friend!"

Oikawa feigned injury at this, falling back into Iwaizumi as they walked.

"I didn't want to deal with it, plus I don't know who is writing these and maybe they don't want anyone else to know"

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

You had been doing your best to not tip off Iwaizumi that it was you leaving him the notes. But you were rather disappointed at his lack of reaction. You didn't expect him to suddenly be walking around like a love sick fool but he appeared no different to you. You still walked home with him and Oikawa, you had eaten lunch a few times since, everything was the same.

It was after school and you were waiting outside the gym for Iwaizumi and Oikawa. On days they had practice you hung around in the library finishing up homework or browsed through the books. The door to the gymnausm swung open, you greeted Hanamaki but were halted by the extra devilish grin he had. You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed by his antics.

"What did you do now?"

You ask teasingly.

"Me? I haven't done anything"

He was faking innocence.

"Really?"

You say, raising an eyebrow.

"It's funny though, because, I think thats its you whos been up to no good"

You're taken aback not sure what he's getting at. He drops the sarcasm for a second letting out an exasperated sigh.

"I know about Iwaizumi"

You pull on his arm leading him further away from the gym.

"Did he tell you it was me? Does he know? He hasn't said anything-"

He cuts you off.

"Slow down, that idiot is way too dense to know you like him back"

Hanamaki covers his mouth at that, knowing it wasn't something he was supposed to reveal to you. But you lit up at his words.

"He likes me back? But you said he doesnt know whos writing the notes"

"That's because he liked you before you wrote him that letter...wait did you say notes? There's more than one?"

You felt your face heat up in embarrassment. So you explained what you had been doing. The notes for each day. The entire time you spoke Hanamaki had an expression that was somewhere between disbelief and bemusement. You were about to ask Hanamaki about Iwaizumi some more when said boy walked out from the gym.

You let go of Hanamakis wrist, not realizing you had been holding onto him for so long, to wave at your other two friends. They started to approach you but you waved them off.

“Go on ahead I’ll catch up!”

You turn to Hanamaki once again. More serious than before.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You help me out with essays all the time, that letter you wrote him sounds exactly like you”

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

The next day Iwaizumi was not able to focus. He had received a bouquet of suckers and lollipops. Each adorned with sharpie and a terribly corny phrase like “99% Angel” or “Lover Boy”. Oikawa had of course taken one of these for himself. Saying that Iwaizumi owed him. They were walking home without you today, you said you had needed to help Hanamaki with some homework. But that was exactly what had been bothering Iwaizumi .

The night before when you and his friend had been out in the dusk alone. Your hand on his wrist. You looked flustered, and Iwaizumi could only recall a few other times you had been blushing so intensely. What had you been talking about with him? It was driving him crazy that he didn't know, that you were off with him now.

“Where are the rest of them?”

Oikawa asked, grabbing at Iwaizumi's bag. Iwaizumi pulled out another sucker from his coat pocket but Oikakwa was not satisfied.

“No, the rest of the valentines cards and letters, I wanna see them, you can't hide those from me forever”

Wide eyed Iwaizumi doesn't know what to do or say.

“Those are private property”

But Oikawa knows his friend well, and it was not long before his request was granted. Reluctant and embarrassed Iwaizumi allows Oikawa to shuffle through his desk drawer where he has stashed his paper treasure. Oikawa of course photographs everything. When he reaches for the one valentine with the bunny pun he stops.

“Isn't this photo from that movie night we had a couple months ago?”

“What? No way it was only me, you and…”

His words stayed caught as whispers in his mouth. Oikawa was right. It was hard to tell because the white wall behind Iwaizumi in the photo could have been so many places, but he did remember wearing that shirt. You took that photo. It was you.

“Hey, you know you have to make them a card now right?”

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

You and Hanamaki had been trying to sort out some sort of a plan. You were originally going to confess to Iwaizumi face to face on Valentine's day. But you wanted to do it immediately now. You didn't want to drag anything out or confuse Iwaizumi by not telling him that it was you. There was only one more day until Valentine's day and you couldn't decide if it was worth the wait anymore.

The morning was brisk and a bit cold. You were shedding off your coat, opening your locker you saw an unfamiliar shade of pink. It was a paper heart. Similar to the ones you had made for Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi. You recognized his handwriting. It read;

I feel the same. Meet me after school tomorrow to talk. Can I call it a date if we get food? Check yes or no.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N: Did I plan this out at all? No. Did I edit this at all? Also no. But this idea was rattling around in my brain and I needed to get it out. Its a little Jem and The Holograms with the whole “omg surprise its me the person you're in love with and also the person who flirts with you a lot and makes you confused” ALSO I LITERALLY HAD NO IDEA HOW TO END THIS ONE????? so sorry if its more muddled than usual

[midseo]

Water Plant, Manufacturer in India

Manufacturer, Supplier, and Exporter of Reverse Osmosis Plants, RO Plants, Industrial, RO Water Plants, Commercial RO Plant, Reverse Osmosis System in Navi Mumbai, India.

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[bookandcranny]

Shortwave Radio

Why he decided to leave behind a perfectly good astral cluster and go sight-seeing on a spinning ball of dirt in this great cosmic nothing of a solar system is a mystery to the entire family, but it’s been almost ten years now and so they’ve all had no choice but to conclude that he’s not coming back any time soon. 

The right thing to do is to support him in it, so says tender-hearted big brother Hercules, and if that means jumping through a few hoops to attend some strange human ceremony in this hot and lifeless wasteland, then that’s simply what they’ll do.

summary: Five siblings from the stars come to earth by invitation of their estranged little brother, who’s only request to them is that they take a road trip across the American southwest and try to learn to see this planet the way he sees it.

content warnings: dysfunctional families, carsickness, strong language, fear of abandonment, and accidental misgendering of a nonbinary character

length: about 7k words

also, have a playlist!

🛸🛸🛸

On a particularly sticky day in late July, a black minivan rolls up outside Gruber’s Convenience somewhere in the vague liminal world of the i-110 out of El Paso. Shimmering like a mirage the vehicle comes to a stop and five figures shuffle into the station. Working the counter is a greasy-faced teenager who calls himself Benj, though according to his nametag he’s Benjamin until the end of his shift.

If he weren’t intentionally ignoring the group that just walked in, resenting the loss of quiet and the cool air that just escaped with the chime of the door, Benj would notice a few things about them. For one thing, while they all look quite different, all five of them are wearing the exact same clothes: pale blue t-shirt, gray jeans, plain white sneakers, not a toe scuffed or sullied by the dust they kicked up coming in. They’re perfectly inconspicuous outfits, but too new, too deliberate in their banality. 

The people in the clothes have much the same effect. They’re collections of ordinary, aesthetically pleasing parts assembled as if at random, almost uncanny at the wrong angle. Not supermodel pretty, but perhaps stock photo passable. One of them keeps touching things. Just, touching them. He trails his fingers over snack cakes and little pouches of corn nuts with an unreadable expression. Three of them are clustered together in front of the drinks fridge speaking in hushed tones. 

The last one of the bunch is hovering in the corner making eyes at the shop’s resident mascot, Garfield, an uncreatively named tabby cat who’s taken to sleeping on a box underneath the AC unit. The cashier does notice her (he thinks she’s a her) if only because she’s kind of cute, in a straight-laced camp counselor kinda way. He’s already building up an idea of her in his head, every atom of it more false than he realizes.

The Christine or Sydney or whoever reaches down and gives the cat a poke, which turns into an experimental stroke. 

“Mrph?” says Garfield, like cats do.

“Mrph?” parrots the... Liz maybe? No, not quite, he thinks. Garfield blinks at her, yawns. She withdraws, looking half offended by his indifference.

“Don’t take it personal,” Benj says. “He’s not very social.”

She looks at him for the first time and he reevaluates his earlier assessment. Eyes too pale, too far apart-- not ugly per se but definitely not worth the possible write-up he’d get for flirting with a customer.

“He’s the owner’s cat,” he babbles, scratching his chin and looking anywhere but at her. “Or so they say. Honestly I think he just showed up here one day and no one could get him to leave.”

Before she can reply, one of her matching buddies comes up to the register and dumps an assortment of snacks onto the counter. It’s a baffling, eclectic pile, but like any good retail worker Benj has long since learned not to examine anything too closely.

“Road trip, huh? Where are you guys headed?”

The radio behind the counter has gone all staticky. He fiddles with the antenna.

“Visiting family,” says snacks guy. His voice is soft and monotonous, a stark contrast as the guy’s built like a US SEAL. 

Benj looks from face to face. “All of you?” He’s having a hard time believing any two of them are related.

He nods, once. A stiff, decisive shake of the head. The crackling of the radio is getting worse. Benj turns it off.

“Will that be everything, sir?”

Another nod. 

“Herc, wait!” One of the man’s supposed relatives comes up behind him and shakes him by the shoulders. “Hercules, look at this.”

He slams a book down on the counter, one of the cheap paperbacks Gruber’s pedals between the condoms and the first-aid kit stuffings. The cover reads, “The Chest from The West” and features a heavily airbrushed model in a cowboy hat and unbuttoned flannel shirt.

“What am I looking at?” Herc asks.

“Get this too. I want to read it.”

“Why?”

He opens his mouth but whatever he’s about to say, Benj doesn’t really want to be present for it. He quickly scans the book and throws it cover-side-down into the bag. Let them work this one out on their own, hopefully somewhere else.

“Your total’s $29.75” He spins around to shake the radio, which is somehow now back on and blaring louder. When he turns back, the register is telling him everything’s been bought and paid for. Guy must be lightning quick with a credit card, he thinks.

“Huh. Guess you’re all set, man-- sir.” He hands them their bags. “Have fun at your family thing.”

He flashes the big guy a thumbs up. He looks strangely staggered by the gesture and replies haltingly, “Thank you. You also, have fun.”

“Come on, sibs,” the more energetic one chirps. “Cass? Cass, come on.” He drags his sister away from the cat, who’s just starting to warm up to her. “That’s you, remember? Let’s go.”

They don’t get any gas from the pumps outside. Benj is pretty sure he saw the testy looking one with the ponytail shoplift a bottle of off-brand cola, but he isn’t paid nearly enough to care. At least after they’re gone the radio starts working normally again.

Hercules drives, though it’s not so much driving as sitting in the driver’s seat and telling the van to go. Earth machines are simplistic and easy to manipulate. Slow though. Cass is riding “shotgun”, as is apparently customary for the navigator. Andromeda, Zeta, and Camelopardalis share the backseat, where the formermost is rehashing the same tired debate with the latter.

“We need to work out a better earth name for you,” he insists. “Myself, I’ve been doing some research and I’m thinking about going by ‘Andy’ from now on.”

“I’m not calling you that,” says Zeta.

Camelopardalis asks, “What’s wrong with the name I have?”

“It is a bit long,” Cassiopeia agrees. “A shorter one would help you fit in better.”

“Speaking of fitting in, something else has been bothering me. What’s your gender supposed to be?”

“My what?”

“You know, your gender. We all picked one.”

“It’s almost like you didn’t read the brief,” Zeta says, instigator that she is.

“It’s almost like none of you read the brief, that I took the time to write specifically to help you all acclimate to earth culture.”

“Zeta, don’t upset Cass,” Herc scolds.

“I’m not upset.” She turns in her seat to stare pointedly out the window. There isn’t much to look at, just miles upon miles of rolling desert interrupted by the occasional billboard or truck stop, all crawling by at a snail’s pace compared to the sort of travel they’re used to. Not that she’d recognize the analogy. She misses the cat.

Camelopardalis fiddles with their seatbelt. “Which one are you again?”

“I’m a ‘man’,” Andromeda recites. “Earth men are known for their physical prowess and carnivorous diet, they live in cave environments, and often congregate in packs called ‘fraternities’.” He waves the gas-station novel in the air. “I’m going to research their habits and perfect my persona. By the time I’m done with this I’ll practically be a local.”

“I don’t know… Zeta, what made you decide to be the other one?”

“Flipped a coin.”

“Women,” Cass informs them. “Can be most commonly identified by their long hair, fastidious hygiene habits, the use of traditional face paints to accentuate the eyes and lips, and by fleshy protrusions of the upper torso. Any of these traits can indicate an earth woman, though none are necessarily required.”

They throw up their hands. “How is that helpful at all then! Zeta?”

“What do you want me to do about it? I didn’t invent them. Hercules, are you sure these ‘snacks’ are safe to eat? They have a strange texture.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” He punctuates the point by reaching back and grabbing a cream-filled cupcake off the pile. He tears the plastic with his teeth and eats half of it in a single bite. He barely tastes the thing, but he’s hoping if his siblings follow his lead their mouths will be too full to whine at him.

“Yeah, Zeta, don’t be a bitch.” Andromeda opens a pack of mini donuts, albeit more gingerly, and pops one into his mouth.

Cass whips her head around. “Where did you learn that word?”

He holds open the paperback and points to a page.

Austin hesitated. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. What if I fall?”

Derek chuckled manfully. “Don’t be a bitch, city boy,” he teased. Then he placed his large, calloused hand upon the small of Austin’s back. He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t ever let you fall.”

The navigator leans over the center console and tries to snatch the book away but he dodges swiftly, clutching it to his chest.

“That’s foul language, Andromeda Alpheratz.”

“Earthers use this kind of speech with each other all the time. It’s a sign of familiarity and affection. You guys need to be less formal if you want to blend in.”

“If it’s meant to be an insult,” Camelopardalis wonders. “Why would they use it to convey affection.”

“Because they’re brutish, unevolved lifeforms,” Zeta sneers. “‘Blend in, blend in’. The rest of you can worry about blending in with the apes. I’m only doing this for Perseus.”

“We’re all doing this for Percy,” Hercules says in a chastising voice that makes even Zeta shrink down in her seat. “So can we please agree to be somewhat civil and not make this trip more painful than it needs to be?”

There’s a murmur of general agreement and peace is restored, however temporarily. Camelopardalis clears their throat.

“I still don’t really understand why we couldn’t land directly at Perseus Nine’s coordinates.”

Cass huffs, blowing a dark curl out of her face. “For the last time, Percy specifically requested we partake in the human ritual of the ‘road-trip’ for this last portion of our journey. It’s the same route he traveled the first time he came to earth, and apparently holds some sort of sentimental significance. It’s important to him we experience the same pilgrimage. For some reason.” 

She adds the last part under her breath, knowing full well the others will still hear her. They can hear one another when separated by countless miles of empty space, their voices resonating from star to star, clear as a bell. Compared to that, the close proximity of a rented minivan is stifling. There’s an uncomfortable intimacy to it, these crudely assembled physical forms pressed together, bloated and heavy with all the trappings of humanity. Sweat and road dust and gravity cling to Cass like an over-warm coat and she longs for the cool estrangement that comes so easily in the void of space. It’s tough to be a star-dweller away from her star.

“The reasons don’t matter,” Herc declares, and his word is as good as law here. He is the eldest of them, though the concept of seniority is abstracted somewhat by the literal millennia they’ve all lived through.

Percy is the baby, as well as the black sheep of the family, so to speak. (His actual moniker among their kinfolk roughly translates to “the dissonant note”, a scathing insult for those who knew what it meant.) Why he decided to leave behind a perfectly good astral cluster and go sight-seeing on a spinning ball of dirt in this great cosmic nothing of a solar system is a mystery to the entire family, but it’s been almost ten years now and so they’ve all had no choice but to conclude that he’s not coming back any time soon. 

The right thing to do is to support him in it, so says tender-hearted big brother Hercules, and if that means jumping through a few hoops to attend some strange human ceremony in this hot and lifeless wasteland, then that’s simply what they’ll do.

“At least we can check one more stop off the list,” Zeta quips. “What’s next?”

Cass checks her itinerary. “We are to visit one national historic landmark, one ‘tourist trap’-- whatever that means-- followed by a stop at ‘Diane’s Diner’, home of the world’s best pie. After that, we can head straight to the meet-up location.” She glances at the clock on the dashboard. “We’re a little behind schedule but we should make it right on time as long as there are no unexpected delays.”

An hour and a half of driving later, Andromeda throws up corn chips and mini donuts all over the back of Herc’s seat.

They pull over on the side of the road. The desert sand is just beginning to give way to sparse yellow grass, brittle from the sun. Herc steadies Andromeda, looking viscerally displeased as he finishes emptying out his recently manifested stomach.

Camelopardalis frets through the whole episode. “We’ve all been eating the same food, except for Zeta. If it’s poisonous, one of us will be next.”

“It’s not poison, it’s carsickness,” Cass sighs. “Honestly, I’m starting to think none of you even looked at the brief.”

“Zeta, look in the back for something to clean up with.”

“Why me?”

“We’re going to lose so much time…”

“Would you rather hold him?”

Andromeda retches.

“Do you think Percy would care if we skipped a couple stops?”

“Cassiopeia Sigma,” Hercules begins sternly.

“Alright, alright. I’ll figure something out.”

Fortunately they’ve happened to stop within walking distance of something called The Trinity Site, according to the map. Camelopardalis and Cass go ahead to check another stop off the list while Zeta and Herc clean up the van and make sure Andromeda isn’t actually dying. (How embarrassing, to be a quasi-immortal astral being only to perish at the hands of a tainted twinkie.)

They wander from the roadside, following the map and occasional signposts, and shortly find themselves standing in front of an ominous looking stone obelisk with a bronze placard affixed to one side.

Trinity Site: Where the world’s first nuclear device was exploded on July 16th, 1945

There’s more but Cass stops reading. Camelopardalis asks her to explain what the plaque means by nuclear device-- they’re familiar with nuclear power as a concept, fission and fusion, ideas not far departed from the system of energy exchange that sustains their natural bodies in the heart of their stars-- but goes pale when she goes into the relevant applications of said devices.

“Wonderful,” she grumbles to herself as she snaps a few photos of the monument with a disposable camera. “I’m sure Percy will be thrilled.”

“Excuse me.”

The pair turn to see a man in a colorful button-up and khakis and a woman with a day-old sunburn peeling off beneath the straps of her tank top. 

“Boy are we happy t’see the two of yous. Couldja take our picture real quick?” 

The woman holds out a camera, a significantly more professional piece of equipment than the one Cass is holding.

“Oh, sure,” Cass replies. She’s nervous as she takes it from her hands. She’s never encountered this sub-species of human in her research before, and finds it difficult to parse the woman’s peculiar dialect. Both of them are smiling, but they’re also showing a lot more teeth (and a fair bit of gum) than she thinks is normal. A subtle threat?

Nevertheless, she fumbles with the camera for a moment before managing to take a decent snapshot. The man wraps an arm around his wife’s waist and she slots herself in against his side.

“Ope, wait, let’s do a silly one to send to Marsha and the kids. Were my eyes closed? No? Perfect, you’re a doll. We’ll leave you kids alone now.”

“Sure,” she says again, feeling out of pace.

“My nephew wears his hair like that,” the man says without segway. He’s talking to Camelopardalis, they realize. “It’s very… hip.”

They touch their hair. They hadn’t given it much thought before, might not ever have if he hadn’t pointed it out. It’s nice, they think.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

His expression flinches into a puzzled frown. Cass smacks their arm.

“Sir! Thank you, sir.”

After they’ve walked away Cass gives him another jab for good measure.

“His hair was longer than the other one’s,” they complain. “And the chest was sort of fleshy. How was I supposed to know?”

“We’re lucky you didn’t cause an incident. Earthers carry weapons in this part of the world.”

They rub their arm. “I don’t know, they seemed nice.”

Still they give a fleeting glance at the plaque behind them and argue no more.

They return to the van, now blessedly puke-free. Andromeda is looking better too. They all pile in and almost immediately Camelopardalis misses the freedom of being able to move without touching somebody. It may be their imagination, but the car seems to be moving slower than ever.

“How was it?” Zeta asks, despite her obvious disinterest.

“Uninspiring,” is Cass’ reply.

The other nods and doesn’t force her to elaborate. “I wish I knew what Perseus intended for us with this… chore list.”

“It’s not important, we just do it.” 

Herc is always a steady presence, but even he is starting to sound annoyed with repeating himself. Zeta, of course, can’t leave well enough alone.

“If we just knew what he wanted us to do or say we could do it and go back to how we were before.”

Cass snaps. “Maybe you should stop complaining and make an effort for once.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The car erupts into a heated four-way argument. Only Hercules resolutely abstains from comment, though his hands tighten into fists on the steering wheel. The fight doesn’t end in resolution so much as exhaustion. Everyone’s too miserable to keep hurling accusations and insults for the next hundred miles, and at length they lapse back into tense silence.

Zeta rests her head against the window, taking the arythmic rattle into herself, breathing it out in silent, frenetic melodies. She dislikes fighting with her siblings, no matter what they might claim to the contrary. It doesn’t happen often, or didn’t, but things have been different since Percy left home. The littlest star-child had a natural soothing presence to him, one that she’d long taken for granted. Earth is so noisy, she thinks. She strains to listen but she can’t hear a trace of him anywhere.

She tries to imagine what he’d say, if he were here.

“What are we even doing?” 

Probably not that, but she already has everyone’s attention now so she figures she might as well keep going.

“I mean, we’re still behind schedule, we can’t stop bickering, Andromeda can’t even eat right apparently, and I’m pretty sure half of us didn’t even look at Cassiopeia’s brief.”

“Are you getting to a point?” Cass asks irritably.

“I’m just saying we’re all… bitches.”

“Zeta!”

“Get comfortable with it! We’re all bad at this. Me, you, all of us. So can we just stop blaming each other and have a truce in the interest of getting this over with?”

Cass opens her mouth, then lets it fall shut, sinking back into her seat. For a moment it seems they’re heading for another long awkward silence, when Andromeda sits up and points out the window with a sudden urgency.

“Look!”

Herc slows down and they see a billboard lit up in eerie green neon light, directing them to the next off-ramp.

Must see attraction! Visit the one of a kind Ancient Aliens Exhibit! 

The star-folk look at one another.

“Is this what they call a tourist trap?”

“It seems likely.”

Andromeda is glowing-- in a very literal sense-- with excitement. “It’s an exhibit about us.”

“‘Ancient’? Speak for yourself, I’m still only in my six-thousands.”

Needless to say, they do stop at the roadside museum. Cass takes pictures aplenty and, to her surprise, actually enjoys it. Andromeda is disappointed to find there isn’t actually a display dedicated to their kind. Instead there are a lot of grainy photos of some squat, bug-eyed species called “greys” and diagrams of the Egyptian pyramids for some reason. He gets over it by the time they get to the gift shop.

By unanimous decision, they do not buy anymore snacks, though Zeta’s eye does linger on a cooler in the corner advertising “the ice cream of the future!”. Herc does however buy a number of souvenirs. (Rather, he convinces the automated register to record a purchase that didn’t technically take place, and bumps up the number in the bank account of one very nice tour guide while he’s at it.) 

They leave with a mood ring, a handful of polished stones in a small velvet bag, a “gravity defying” purple yo-yo shaped like a UFO, and Camelopardalis sheepishly lays claim to a friendly looking martian figurine with bendable limbs. Overall, spirits are much higher by the time they make it back to the van.

“Hercules,” his meek younger sibling ventures. “Could I try driving? I’ve been curious about it.”

Feeling generous and more than a little tired of staring out at the road for hours at a time, he agrees. He shows Camelopardalis the basics and makes sure they know how not to veer off the road or into other drivers and then he climbs into the middle backseat and stretches out his arms so the siblings on either side of him can tuck in against him and rest. Eventually even the diligent navigator Cassiopeia begins to doze. It’s been a long day and none of them are quite accustomed to the burden of having earthbound bodies.

When Andromeda wakes up the first thing he registers is that it’s getting dark, the day reduced to a slim red band sinking over the horizon. The second thing is the yelling.

“What do you mean you don’t know!”

“I thought I could read the map myself--”

“What about you, navigator? What were you doing?”

“--didn’t mean to--”

“As if you’re one to talk! I can’t believe--”

“--and you were the one who--”

“Shut up!”

Hercules’ normally subdued baritone booms through the van. The windshield wipers begin swinging as if in indignation, while the passengers wince and cover their ears. Andromeda can’t remember a time when his brother’s frequency had felt so violent. The shivering resonance it leaves behind makes his teeth ache.

There’s a pregnant pause, then Cass slams open the door and begins to pace.

“Shit!” she yells at the empty air. They’re parked in a field somewhere, no sign of life save for the buzzing of insects and the rumble of a train somewhere off in the distance. Cass kicks at the ground and screams again. “Shit fuck bitch hell! We are so fucking lost! And so fucking late!”

Andromeda winces again and gets out to try and calm her. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It is not! We’re probably missing the ceremony right now. Percy will never forgive me for this.”

“It wasn’t your fault…”

“I’m supposed to be the navigator!”

“Well, yes, but…” The words come out strangled. He touches his chest and realizes he’s breathing rapidly. His eyes are beginning to water as well. “I should’ve… I didn’t…”

Zeta hurries over to him. “What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick again?”

Without warning he doubles over and begins bawling. 

“Hercules, do something! Something’s wrong with him!”

“Don’t… don’t… don’t…” he gasps and stammers.

Herc clutches his brother. “Don’t what? Talk to me.”

“Don’t fight,” he finally chokes out. “I don’t want to lose anybody else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Percy,” he sniffles miserably. “He doesn’t care about us anymore. He has earth now, and all his new earth friends, and we can’t even do this one thing for him. It’s my fault. I knew he hated when I called him a dissonant note and made fun of his earth music but I did it anyway. Now he probably hates me and all of us and this whole thing has been for nothing.”

The eldest braces his arms on Andromeda’s slumped shoulders. “Percy doesn’t hate us. He invited us here because he wanted to see us.”

“Herc’s right, Andromeda. Percy doesn’t have it in him to hate anyone.”

“It’s not easy, but he chose this. He chose earth. We have to respect that.”

Zeta grumbles, “And just what is so special about this stupid planet anyway?”

“It has cats,” Cassiopeia says quietly. Her sister glares but she stays firm. “Well it does. And… people.”

“Strange, silly earth people,” Camelopardalis adds, nervously fussing with their hair. “Confusing and contradictory and fascinating.”

“People who hurt each other for no good reason.”

“People who are kind for no good reason too.”

Andromeda wipes phosphorous tears from his eyes and takes out the rumpled gas-station paperback. “In this book Austin leaves his job as a big city lawyer to follow the cowboy he’s in love with.”

“You think Perseus traveled to earth for cowboy love?”

“It’s a possibility!”

Cass scoffs. “I honestly don’t think he was thinking that far ahead. You know Percy. He probably crash-landed without any plan whatsoever. Or, he probably thought he knew what he was doing, and then when he actually got there he was terrified. And then he probably didn’t want to say anything because he was afraid his siblings would think less of him once they realized he was actually just as clueless about earth stuff as they were. That would probably be really, really stressful for him.”

“Are we still talking about Percy?”

She makes a wordless noise of frustration and kicks up another patch of grass.

Andromeda puts an arm around her. “If… Percy was worried about that, I’d tell her-- him! I’d tell him that he shouldn’t be, because there’s nothing he could do that would make us stop believing in him.”

She exhales. “Thanks.”

“I was talking about you, Cass,” he whispers. “It’s you I believe in.”

“Thank you, I got that.”

“I just… miss him, I guess.”

Herc hums in agreement. “Barely a millennium old and he’s already grown up and gone completely terrestrial. This past century has been the longest of my existence.”

“Hercules, it’s only been ten years.”

That news causes him to make such a face that Zeta starts laughing. It’s the first time she’s so much as cracked a smile the entire trip.

“So… what do we do now?” Camelopardalis asks.

After a moment, Cass grabs the map off the dashboard and holds it open.

“A little more light please?”

They step up behind her and hold a glowing hand over the paper. Her brow creases in concentration.

“Alright, I think we’re somewhere around here,” She gestures. “And we need to be here. There’s no way we’re going to show up on time, but we can still show up. We owe him that much.”

They get in their seats, Herc back at the helm, and begin trying to reclaim the distance they lost with the unplanned detour. Cass breathes a sigh of relief when road signs start to reappear. A driver honks at them as they pick up speed and Herc steers closer and makes their radio start playing at top volume. Zeta opens the window and a cool night breeze tickles her skin. The stars are bright and beautiful above them, and looking up, suddenly home doesn’t feel so far away.

All at once they slow to a near stop.

“What’s going on? Why are we stopping?”

“Traffic,” Herc says like it’s a curse. “Looks like there was an accident.”

“Take this exit,” Cass commands. “We can cut through the next town and get ahead of it.”

So he does and soon they find themselves driving through the quiet streets of Kismet, Nevada. That is, quiet until Zeta catches sight of something out the window and yells, “Pull over!”

“What! What is it now!”

She points, and they see. The sign ahead reads, “Diane’s Diner: Home of the World’s Best Pie”. They pull in so fast they nearly end up colliding with a stout aproned woman who’s pushing a teetering hand cart across the lot.

“What do you maniacs think you’re doing?” she demands as they clambour out of the van.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” Cass says in a rush. “It is just very important to my siblings and I that we get to this establishment.”

The woman huffs. “You’re a mite late then, I’m afraid. We’re closing up early tonight. Got a big catering order I have to deliver.”

Herc asks, “Are you Diane, of the diner?”

She laughs. “Close. I’m Maddie Finkle of the diner. Diane’s my mother’s name. It’s a family business. But what brings you folks here looking for Diane at this time of night? I don’t think I’ve seen your faces around town before, and I always remember a customer.”

“Do you remember a customer named Percy? It would’ve been years ago, but this place was very important to him. He’s our brother.”

Maddie’s eyes light up. “Why didn’t you say so! Of course I know Percy. And if you rowdy lot are his siblings, then I’ve got a message for you.”

“A message?” Percy hadn’t said anything to them about a message. Maybe this was his way of ensuring they actually made it to the last stop on his list.

“Well, sort of. Come, come, help me load up all this grub and I’ll tell you everything.”

Herc and Zeta go to either side of her and help push the wobbly cart to a truck with the diner’s logo emblazoned on the side. As they load the boxes, Maddie speaks.

“I first met your Percy when I was just a waitress, mama still working the kitchen. One day this kid walks in, looking as lost as can be, comes straight up to the counter and tells me he’s just fallen from outer space and could use some assistance.” She barks a laugh. ���I didn’t go for the whole alien thing but that second part was a lot more believable. He looked a mess. I asked if he needed something to eat but he just said he needed a safe place to rest for a moment. He’d been on his feet all day, walking and hitchhiking his way clear across the desert.

“Of course I wanted to know where he was going that was so important, but he said he didn’t know for sure yet. Said he was following a melody, a song he’d heard from very far away that had drawn him to this place. I told him I couldn’t help him there. The only music we had in the diner was this old stereo system mama had put in when she first opened the place and it was long broken. Mama was too sentimental to get rid of the old thing and the repairman couldn’t do anything for it so broken it stayed. 

“He asked me to show him so I did, figuring it couldn’t hurt anything. Then that kid walked up to the busted speaker and just like that it started playing again like it was new. I told him, ‘For that, I owe you more than a place to rest your legs. Stay in town for a while, let us put you up and get you back on your feet, or at least let me drive you to the train station so you can get where you’re going.’ But he refused, and before long he was gone again.

“Then, not a couple days later, spaceboy comes back traveling with this other kid, heading in the opposite direction. I ask him what happened and he says he was going one way but he changed his mind and turned around. He leans in like he’s sharing a great big secret, like we’ve been friends all our lives, and says, ‘I found it, Maddie. I found the song.’ Weirdest kid I’ve ever met! But they make a cute couple, him and that boy, and they’re some of my best customers to this day.”

They finish packing up the truck, Maddie leaning leisurely against the fender as she reminisces. Herc frowns, confused.

“Was that the message?”

“Yup.” She pops the P. “He just told me to tell you the story. Not sure why. I mean, it’s a good story, I think. But you already know all about it, right? You’re his family after all.”

“No, he never told us,” he admits softly.

“Huh. Weird. But then, he’s kind of a weird kid, yeah? I always wondered, is it all you aliens who talk in riddles like that, or just him?”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe his claims.”

“I didn’t the first time, but if your Percy’s one thing it’s… Perc-istent.” When no one laughs, she pushes onward. “Well, that’s all of it. We’d better get a move on, huh?”

“‘We’?”  

“Sure, aren’t you folks on your way to Percy’s place too? I figured you’d be staying over, and I gotta get everything set up for the wedding tomorrow.”

A palpable shock ripples through the star-folk. “Tomorrow?”

“‘Course, what did you think all this was for?” She pats the truck. “I wanted to get everything ready ahead of time so we’re good to go in the morning. It’s not easy being the caterer and providing my lovely self as a guest on the same day, but I couldn’t let those sweet boys down.”

Andromeda slumps over, leaning on Herc for support. “Percy told us the wedding was tonight.”

The chef raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone’s been having a little fun with you. Nah, they’re doing some sort of get-together tonight since neither one of the bachelors wanted a bachelor party, but the actual wedding ceremony’s definitely not until tomorrow.”

“I’m going to end him,” Cass mutters under her breath.

“Hurry up now,” she says. “I’m sure the groom-to-be’s expecting you.”

The five follow Maddie’s truck away from the main drags, away from the buildings, the scenery becoming gradually greener as the road turns from asphalt to gravel. At last they find themselves pulling up in front of the house that Percy has come to call home. It’s a raised ranch, flanked by evergreens and patchwork plots of small white and yellow flowers that Percy’s fiance must have planted, and a tower of plastic chairs and tables covered by a tarp. 

It’s a nice place, large and somewhat secluded, set apart from the noise of traffic or threat of nosy human neighbors. Percy’s sensitive to loud noise and, after all, still an alien living in secret amongst humanity. Yet as they get out and follow the caterer where she’s cutting around back through the garden, they’re struck by the sounds of laughter and music and lively chatter.

A group of earthers are gathered on the patio, smiling faces lit by a string of twinkling lights. A man with a guitar strums along with the music coming from inside.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Andromeda whispers. 

“You think there’s a second Perseus Nine about to be married in this town?” Cass shoots back.

Zeta hisses, “Quiet, I can hear him.”

To his surprise, Herc can too. Above the noise, laced into everything he touches, there is a resonance, his baby brother’s unique personal frequency. To describe it as sound alone would perhaps be inaccurate; it’s a vibration, an echo. Percy is everywhere in this place: his whispers and his shouts, his twinkling laugh, but also the part of him that no human being can detect, the part of him that is still, and will always be, of the stars.

He must sense them too, because in that moment he appears standing in the doorway, bathed in its yellow light. His face breaks out in a glowing grin and he runs to greet them, bolting like a comet being pulled into his siblings’ orbit.

“You made it!” he exclaims.

Zeta snorts and allows him to throw his arms around her. “No thanks to you and your list of demands.”

“You brat,” Cass accuses. “You told us the ceremony was tonight.”

Percy tilts his head to look at her, his expression not half as guilty as it should be. For a moment she reels at the sight of him; the body he’s constructed for himself has aged since the last time they crossed paths. It’s subtle, the way his dimples have deepened into true laugh lines, and his hair has grown ever longer, though it also isn’t as tangled as she remembers. He is still himself, underneath, the light of his true being faintly visible beneath the skin. 

“I was worried if I told you the real date you wouldn’t make it in time. You’re not used to traveling the human way. It can be messy.”

She grimaces. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’re actually here way earlier than I thought you’d be.” His smile falters, only slightly. “This is… everyone?”

Herc swallows. “The others…” he begins, but quickly finds he doesn’t have the words that should follow.

“Well, it’s not like I had enough chairs for all two-hundred-ninety-seven of them anyway.” He reaches out and squeezes his brothers tightly. “Hercules, Andromeda, It’s so wonderful to see you. Camelopardalis, Cassiopeia, it means so much to me that you came. I know it probably wasn’t easy. Zeta…”

She scoffs. “The only hard part was putting up with these bitches.”

Hercules interjects, “We shouldn’t keep you from your party. Go on, I need to get some things from the van.”

“You didn’t bring presents, did you?”

“It’s customary for weddings, is it not?”

Percy grins. “You’re becoming a real expert on earth customs.”

He shrugs and looks at Cass. “I just read the brief.”

Percy invites his family in, along with Maddie, who is perfectly tickled by the siblings’ awkward affection. After helping her bring in the food, Percy beckons over the man with the guitar.

“Adam!”

The man looks up. He has a boyish, freckled face and a head of dark curls that spill over his brow. He sets down the instrument and comes to slot himself against Percy’s side, thoughtlessly, as if that was always where he was meant to be.

“I’d like to formally introduce you to my fiance, Adam. And Adam, this is my family.”

His smile broadens. “Hey, great to finally really meet you guys. Percy talks about you all the time. Did you have a long trip?”

They look at one another for a moment until finally Herc shrugs and says, “Only about twenty-five trillion miles, give or take.”

The happy couple linger for a moment longer, sharing stories and talking about honeymoon plans. Adam is especially thrilled when Andromeda and Zeta begin to co-narrate an embarrassing tale from Percy’s childhood in the Alpha Persei Cluster. Eventually though the pair wander off together, leaving the star-folk to their most harrowing challenge yet: mingling.

“Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Camelopardalis.”

The guest, one of the couple’s mutual friends, goes a bit bug-eyed. “Wow, okay, that’s really cool. Kind of a mouthful though. Got a nickname?”

“Nick… name?”

“Like, something that your friends call you for short. My friends call me Dee, but my highschool nickname was Dent.” They point to a scar on the side of their head, just above their left ear. Their fair hair is buzzed short, making it easy to see. “Long story. What if for now I called you ‘Cam’?”

They consider it. “I think I’d like that.”

“Cool, nice to meet you, Cam.”

“Nice to meet you, Dee.” They hesitate. “Would you say you’re a man or a woman?”

Dee frowns.

“Nevermind! I’m so sorry, I just don’t understand the earth gender binary at all. Everything about it just seems so arbitrary and senseless.”

Oddly enough, their new friend perks back up at this. 

“Honestly, same,” they laugh.

Andromeda joins shortly, having struck up a conversation with Dee’s partner who is deeply intrigued by his review of “The Chest from The West”. The three of them spend a while swapping book recommendations. Meanwhile, Zeta gets hit on by a slightly intoxicated young woman with an undercut and an eyebrow ring, although the star-dweller vastly misinterprets her none-too-subtle questioning about alien biology. Cass meets Adam and Percy’s pet dog, Chowder, and deems him as good a companion as the convenience store cat.

Herc catches Percy alone in the kitchen and the two have a long overdue talk. It’s clumsy but earnest, and when Herc mumbles something out about possible future family visits, Percy throws himself into his brother with such vigor that he momentarily forgets about gravity and starts to float off the ground.

“I’m sorry too, by the way, for the whole thing with the list,” he sighs. “It probably seems pretty stupid, I just kind of hoped I could get you to see this world the way I see it. Full of life and love and adventure.”

“And music,” he finishes, catching the way his gaze flits back to the patio. To Adam, singing softly and dancing with one of their friends.

He nods. “I thought maybe then you’d understand why this is so important to me.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to see earth the way you do,” Hercules confesses. “But I don’t think it was stupid of you to try either, and I don’t think it was for nothing.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mood ring. The friendly prismatic face of a cartoon alien glints up at him. Perseus takes the gift with an understanding chuckle and slips it onto his pinky finger.

“No, not for nothing.”

Tomorrow, there will be a wedding. Percy and Adam will stand in front of their friends and family and exchange their vows. Adam’s mother will complain about them not booking a proper venue for just short of an annoying amount of time, Maddie will bring out a ridiculously tall tier cake that will taste almost as good as one of her mother’s pies, and for once Percy will not be the worst one on the dance floor. 

Tomorrow, there will be a bright silver band around Percy’s fourth finger, neighbored by a smaller ring in the shape of an inside joke, and with all the weight of a promise.